Tagged: short stories
Part 6
His hands never did grow back. Of all the possible reminders of this fact, from eating to drinking, to driving, to making love, the one that bothered him most was hitting the snooze button on his morning alarm. It had been three years since losing Tara and his hands and he figured he’d had to reset that damn clock four hundred times. And while he could still use his nubs to navigate a smart phone or tablet holding one was another issue. For Jim the little things always added up to big things.
The sound of tires rubbing against cement accompanied his turn out of the garage as he backed out onto the dimly lit street before sunrise. After six months the neighbors began to openly question why he visited her grave every day. Leaving before they woke up was his solution. But he knew that they knew he still went.
For a while he tried to explain why he went, but no one would listen. Most people claimed ignorance about such things. They didn’t want to hear words like guilt and shame. Guilt and shame are what drove him to the cemetery though. Guilt for knowing he could’ve saved her. Shame for not saving her because of office politics or some such shit.
They hadn’t any children, so daily visits were the only way he could think to pay his respects and atone for his weaknesses. And the visits worked for the first half of every day. Three minutes into every lunch break, as he finally folded back the flaps of his brown paper lunch sack, though, he could only feel an intense desire to trade places with her. Or join her.
A Dinner Scene
“Speaking of people sounding black or white, I just watched this thing on back-up singers-,” the family matriarch began, steering the conversation in a new direction.
“Yeah, one of my friends mentioned that that is just a fantastic film,” the no-good smart-ass disrespectful-though-very-funny adult middle-child added.
“It really was!” she said earnestly, taking back the floor. “And the surprising part was that a lot of the singers were black and got their start in churches as little girls.”
“Ha. That’s exactly what my friend shared about the film. Funny.”
“Well, what I was going to say was that there was one scene where the girl said that she was singing back-up for Ray Charles. And she told a story about a time when Ray Charles stopped the concert and just played one note over and over again telling her that that was the note to sing. That note,” she said, repeatedly pressing her finger into the table with her eyes open wide in a reenactment of the scene. Laughing, she continued, “And the singer said that after that moment she never missed a note ever again. It was so embarrassing.”
“Crazy,” said the middle-child, voicing the sentiment he felt was expected.
“I mean just think of it. With all that noise and the sound of the crowd he was still able to pick out her voice,” she said, letting a natural pause emphasize her child-like wonder of the skill involved in such a feat.
He lived for moments like this one. Unable to withstand the opportunity, he timed the punchline perfectly as he inhaled with about-to-speak force and added with a tone of disbelief, “And he was deaf!”
“Blind!” the son-in-law corrected forcefully, coming to her defense.
“Blind!” the mother rejoined, happy to be defended but wishing she was faster to correct the constantly instigating know-it-all smart-alec.
Not only quicker on the draw, the son-in-law was also the first to shake his head and leave the table mad at himself for ever believing his brother-in-law had anything of value to say. Everyone else just laughed and laughed. The middle-child just smiled.
As for our storyteller? Her face red as a beet she laughed until she could not laugh anymore as she wondered what she ever did to be treated this way. She would have thrown something at him if everything in the room wasn’t so darn nice.
The Morning That She Didn’t Put Up A Fight
They had finished bathing the baby. She was asleep in the pack-n-play. The dog’s constant pacing made the temporary apartment feel smaller than it was. Not that it mattered now. The seller had accepted their latest offer on the house, so only a month remained until they closed and would be reunited with their own stuff.
“I care about you,” she began to answer. He couldn’t remember what question he had asked. “But I don’t like you,” she concluded.
She wore the same resigned look he had grown tired of seeing for the past two years. Ever since the stripper.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this information,” he said. “Why would I want to live with someone who doesn’t like me? I’m glad you care about me, but to me that’s not as noble as you just made it sound. I’m taking the dog to pee. Is the trash full?”
Without their separate beds he let her have the covers and slept in his sleeping bag. Sleeping bags added a level of fun to any night so he didn’t mind. He was all out of fight himself as well, especially over something as trivial as sheets.
The closing was uneventful. He tried to stay positive about the new job that didn’t pay as much as they hoped. She tried to not stress about shift work on the weekends. With each passing day his walk to the bar seemed shorter; her options, fewer.
She went out with a co-worker after he returned from happy hour with a friend. Waking by himself at two-thirty he figured she was on her way. At three his worry hardened into a decision. He was never going to feel knots like those in his stomach again. Never. Four am will forever sound to him like a door handle, the bathroom fan, and the plop of vomit into toilet water.
After the baby went to sleep the next night they were finally alone. He raged. She sat as he lectured. With each non-response he raised his volume.
The following morning she behaved as if the fight was over. For her, the cycle was complete. For him, the marriage was. Some cycles should never be repeated.
She followed him out of the house for a few steps after he said divorce. He answered the phone thirty minutes later. She told him her parents had two attorneys ready to schedule a consultation.
He now lies to himself that the hurt has decreased since that morning–the morning that she didn’t even put up a fight.
A Woman Distracted
“It’s true,” he told himself, “she could be more beautiful. But then that more beautiful female would no longer be the woman sitting across the table now, the one called Noa-.”
“Noa-,” Pete said, as he noticed their hands almost bump while reaching for a chip, “if our hands touch while grabbing a chip, you know that I’m going to read into that, don’t you?”
If only for a moment, Noa- shook her head and cast her eyes about. She was smitten. She then found the strength to rebuff Pete’s subtle, though ingenious play and said, “Pete, there’s never going to be anything to read into.”
Laughing heartily, Pete soon noticed the jaded, slightly-too-terse, and preferring-a-thousand-yard-stare-to-eye-contact server walking towards the trio’s table, meals in hand.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” George said as piping hot fajitas along with the fixin’s were lowered to him.
Feeling the pressure to finish the complimentary chips and salsa before they were gone for good, Pete snuck in a few last bites before reaching out to receive his chimichanga. “Thank you,” he mumbled, unable to hide that his mouth was full.
Finally, the lady lowered Noa- her plate. Noa- didn’t notice. Like a student pretending to be reading her textbook in her lap, or perhaps just behaving like an adult with an office job, Noa- clearly was attempting to hide her addiction.
“Noa-,” Pete said, smiling. “I can’t believe you. You’re sitting across from two of the most eligible bachelors in,” he hesitated, clearly searching for the proper radius, “in America, and rather than enjoy the company, you’re on your phone. This is what’s wrong with the world.” Turning to George, he knew he had nailed it.
“America, eh?” George asked. “I thought you were going to say Denver, but I can’t argue with America.”
Noa- smiled at the attention, but still couldn’t quite pull herself away from the device.
“My question,” George began, turning towards Pete and filling the conversation’s lapse, “is who could be more eligible?” Upon uttering the inquiry, his countenance reached an uncommon gravity, which led to a rephrasing of the question. George asked again, “Or rather, how could I be more eligible?”
“Yeah,” Pete chuckled, his belief in his hastily developed though now affirmed sentiment strengthening with every passing second, “how exactly are we not the most eligible?”
Schoen
The German word’s English meaning can be “nice one”, “beautiful”, “lovely”, even the simple, yet elegant, “good”. “Fish-hooker”, however, is nowhere on the Google Translate list of twenty-two words/concepts. Then again, he doesn’t go by Schoen these days. It’s too difficult to pronounce, he says.
I still prefer Schoen (pronounced “Shane”) though. You see, for me, Schoen was a senior in the fraternity that I was certain I’d never join. And Schoen ended up being my tag-team wrestling partner against a heavyweight Brent and lightweight Climer. Of course, while freshmen might be bold enough to challenge seniors, no senior would ever risk losing to a freshman, so despite the unpredictable nature of tag-team wrestling, I wrestled Climer and Schoen took on Brent. The match-up was more even than expected, Climer’s gangliness undoing much of my strength, and Brent’s weight putting to test much of Schoen’s.
The rectangular room had newer carpet, not plush, but fuller than the thin stuff commonly found in high traffic areas. Blue folding chairs lined the walls. The lighting was excellent. Anytime a wrestler’s energy or motivation began to fade his partner would tag in. Consequently, the other partner tagged in. My confidence in Schoen never faltered. One can imagine my surprise, then, as Brent managed (likely a surprise to himself) to maneuver Schoen into a nasty headlock. Wriggling like a python’s prey at first, Schoen quickly realized the futility of purposeless movement. Instead, he opted for a move that is illegal in every version of sanctioned combat across the globe: the fish hook.
For the ladies, the fish-hook is a tactic where one combatant curves his index finger into the shape of a “fish-hook” and places it into his enemies mouth. Obviously, this act alone would cause no advantage. What does cause an advantage is when this finger pulls against the cheek of the enemy. So picture the scene with me. Brent was standing a full head higher than Schoen, holding him in a head lock. They were spinning in circles. They were spinning in circles because Schoen, on his knees, was reaching up with one free hand and fish-hooking Brent’s right cheek. Eventually (moments like these do not last) I heard I tear. I guessed that Schoen had torn Brent’s cheek. Raising my guess to the level of certainty, Brent immediately tapped out, and as Schoen removed his finger, ran to the restroom.
Thick. The anticipation was thick. Breathing heavy, but relieved to be out of the headlock, Schoen lowered his chin towards his chest while he raised his eyebrows and stared at me. It was a knowing nod, a victor’s nod.
The restroom door handle’s jiggle announced Brent’s reappearance.
“Dude, I just vomited,” said Brent.
Apparently, Schoen’s finger had touched a nerve, so to speak. I know I was hooked.
Hoping She Was Asleep
A pair of pink sandals, a pink stuffed penguin named Pingu, and a pink, doll-sized tutu (which H- had used on her polka-dotted stuffed puppy as a bathing suit all day) made it clear that the two men were not alone in the house. This particular Friday night’s late hour ensured the girl-child was deep asleep in her room. It also ensured that any interested onlookers, the likes of which James Fenimore Cooper’s noble Chingachgook would label “blackguards in the grain”, would not be surprised to see George and Pete staring at two respective laptop screens as they intermittently stated their latest life observations. Those screens, naturally, were filled with images of women supposedly interested in dating. Well, at least George was viewing a proper dating site. Pete found himself fighting the good fight, that is, deciding how inappropriate it would be if he friend-ed a woman on LinkedIn because she was a smoke-show.
“Pete, just do it. It’s not a crime,” said George.
“I know that it’s not a crime,” Pete said with a touch of exasperation, “I just think that it’d be tasteless. Plus, this chick has 500+ connections. Apparently it stops counting at 500. I can already tell that there’s no promise there.”
“What does the number of her connections have to do with anything?”
“Look, I really want to believe Rudi’s advice and just try to find a woman with whom I enjoy spending time. But I’m just saying let’s look at reality for a second. She is gorgeous, posts videos on youtube of her singing with her sister, and has over 500 connections on LinkedIn. Whereas I don’t really like people, am pretty sure that I don’t even know 500 people, and I certainly don’t want to be dragged to events where everyone spends all their energy pretending that they’re not pretending, blah, blah, blah,” he said, running out of air. “Plus, it appears that she enjoys her job. And that means she’s not interested in kids, raising a family, etc.”
“Fine. You’re right,” George conceded facetiously, “don’t click connect.”
“You know what guys in the Air Force used to say?” Pete asked, his tone somewhere between frustrated and bitter. “Poverty is the greatest aphrodisiac.”
Opening his eyes wide, as was often the case when he liked what he heard, George nodded and said, “I’ve been trying to find a poor woman for forever. Or at least one who grew up without much. That type of woman would know how to budget, not be comfortable spending a lot of money, be happy just to have a steak every once in a while-”
Laughing, Pete asked, “Ha. You’re serious? I thought you were joking at first when you agreed.”
“-I’m totally serious. Especially since reading Anna Karenina and all those scenes of the simple life of farming.”
“I told you man. That’s what Tolstoy did at the end of his life. He practically gave up his nobility to work out in the fields,” Pete added, “and he had 13 kids.” He then paused just long enough to form a point. “The trouble is, I have no idea where or how to even start to look for a woman like that.”
“All I know is that a big step in problem solving is voicing the problem.”
“My mom asked if I’ve ever considered a deaf woman.”
Wide Effing Open
Lance wore sunglasses inside. That was the first thing I noticed about him. Second, he had the ability to achieve perfect clarity in directions. He destroyed meetings. Management guru Peter Drucker would’ve been proud. Who hasn’t been in meetings whose end is marked by the sound of shuffling fabric accompanied by whispers containing sentiments like, “So, what are we doing now?” Lance was a meeting destroyer. It really was something to behold.
He was also a man who loved to laugh. I’m talking about joy here people! When the man wasn’t modeling the art of focusing a group of men on a singular action, behind those sunglasses Lance was just itching to break out in laughter. He embodied these qualities in a way that was generally reserved for the most likable characters in great novels.
Now, history is full of men who have tried to categorize men like Lance, their point being to take away or re-allocate the credit. Their efforts proceed to pigeonhole men like Lance into being nothing more than the result of their circumstances, but I refuse to believe it. There was only one source, one natural spring from whence flowed the strength and skill, the judgement and wisdom that Lance displayed day-in and day-out. That source, of course, was Lance. The casual observer had no claim on Lance. Lance was the one who had to wake up every morning. He was the one who sat for a moment on the edge of a bed and stared out at the same equal-parts-bleak-and-bright world as he pulled his pants on one leg at a time. He was the one who reached for his boots as he decided what kind of man he wanted to be; what kind of father, what kind of leader. He was the one who everyone looked to for direction during the meeting before work began, and rather than buckling under the pressure or taking the road more traveled, which is paved with pride and foolhardiness, he was the one who on cue said, “Guys, today we’re going to run waa’d effin’ op’n.” He was the one whose example ensured the work got done. He was Lance.
Shower Panic
The recent Lego castle and its associated left-over blocks were lying messily on the bottom shelf of the end table. They walked right past it as they brought in the remaining camping gear. It was 2:30pm.
“I’m sorry we had to come back early H-,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said H-. “You know, if we go hiking,” her eyes widened, “and there’s a thunderstorm,” another pause, “we might die.”
Chuckling at her summation of his endeavor to rationalize the trip’s early termination, he took a moment to clarify the lesson. “It’s not likely we’d die, I just wanted you to know that our safety, yours and mine, is what cancelled the trip. I was having a lot of fun with you, even in the rain.”
“Me too. I love camping.”
“In any case, I have to shower,” he started, “so can you play out here for a minute?”
“Sure,” she answered.
Then he remembered that he told the realtor they’d be gone for a few days, so there was no need to confirm that the house was open for showings. Attempting to prepare H- for any doors opening unexpectedly, he said, “Oh, and remember that people may be coming to the house. If anyone opens the door while I’m still in the shower, just tell them that your daddy’s showering, and he’ll be out in a moment.”
“Okay daddy!” she yelled as he turned on the water. “I’m just looking at the instructions for the castle!”
Like every time before, he left the door to the bathroom cracked just enough to be able to hear if she needed help.
Midway through the shower his heart leapt as he heard her voice. “What’s that H-?” he loudly inquired.
The shower’s noise again obscured her response.
“You’re going to have to talk louder H-!”
She couldn’t have more closely matched her previous volume if she tried.
“Look H-! I can’t hear you. Come to the door if its important,” he said, mad more at himself than her. Finally he cut the water and reaching for a towel, asked again, “What were you saying?”
“I said,” she labored, taking a breath, “TWO horses and ONE dragon!?”
“Lego’s crack marketing team strikes again,” he thought to himself, relieved. “Yes H-, there is another castle for sale that has two horses and a dragon, instead of the one you have, which has just one horse and no dragons,” Pete said dejectedly. “Maybe someday, if you’re lucky.”
Some Say It Was A Miracle
So there he was. Like the eleven preceding days, he woke up at 5:05am, drank some V8 and a protein shake, and ate a cup of oatmeal. Grabbing his salami sandwich, he headed from camp to the change shack where he put on a pair of coveralls, which even after washing strained the definition of clean. After a brief safety meeting he grabbed a pair of gloves and headed outside. Taking in one last moment of stillness, he rolled one ear plug at a time between his left forefinger and thumb and then placed them into his ears. Finally, he picked up a case of bottled water and began the climb up the three flights of stairs which led to the rig floor. It was his thirty-third birthday.
The day proceeded no differently from any other. That’s the beauty of the work. Suddenly, however, in an act which some might label a miracle, he looked down to the ground and saw a co-worker carrying three familiarly brown and orange cardboard pizza boxes. It seemed someone up above was smiling down on him.
The hot-n-ready’s made their way up to where he was, and he happily indulged in a slice the first moment he could. What the reader doesn’t know was that sitting on the same table, brought up to the rig floor only moments earlier, was a bag of McDoubles. Remember, now, that he had his salami sandwich waiting. So while everyone who knew him knew that the McDouble was his favorite fast food burger in the whole wide world, he had vowed that he’d stick with his sandwich that day. But now, on his birthday of all days, he was staring at his favorite burger and pizza–free for the taking. The packaging alone had him salivating like a French mastiff. And now that he had committed to the pizza, he said the hell with it. Though it remained seated fairly high on his bucket list despite its nominal price, he had never before eaten a slice of Little C’s followed by a McDouble. Unable to stand there and stare for forever, he quickly grabbed the burger and headed back outside. Within a minute he found himself gasping for air and wondering if he really was going to die choking on a McDouble. Lucky for all of us, he stayed calm, swallowed hard, and smiled a smile that rivaled the Pacific’s width. And to think he was getting paid.
A Jaw-Dropping Woman
“Welcome back George. How was it?” Pete asked, strictly observing the custom of not giving George time to settle in upon returning from his trip before beginning the questions.
George’s eyes had the look of a man searching for an appropriate opening to the story that he knows will be well worth telling. “It was good. Seattle has some good weather and good scenery,” he said.
“Yeah, but that’s just in the summer, right?” Pete asked.
“Right. The point is, I don’t think I could live there unless some company paid me a lot of money,” George said, repeating “a lot” for effect. “Oh, and Pete, I have to tell you about the girl,” he excitedly recalled.
“That’s right. You actually got to meet her. Though you had essentially made up your mind before the trip that she wasn’t the one for you, right?”
“Yeah, she’s definitely not for me. She was hot, but she kept reminding me of my ex-” said George.
“Probably never a good thing.”
“-and besides a bunch of little things, you should’ve seen the place she lived in!” George recalled, his animation for the story growing exponentially now. “I don’t know where they got the figure from, but it was a downtown apartment and everyone in it kept saying it cost six hundred thousand dollars,” George said, cutting himself off there with a stare that is usually followed by a stroke or heart attack. Thankfully a burst of laughter which most would categorize as the sound of a man going insane ended Pete’s concern and preceded, “Oh, and you won’t believe this. She had some nice bookshelves. So I took a look-”
“Bad books, right?” Pete guessed.
“-no,” George said, his eye-lids still completely out of sight. “No Pete. Not bad books, fake books.”
“Whaaat?!”
Now nodding, George continued, “Yeah, I saw a book that I didn’t recognize, so I pulled it off the shelf.” Then flipping the pages of an imaginary book, he said, “When I opened it, the pages were blank.”
“Get outta here!”
“She had decorative books Pete,” George concluded. “Pete, the woman had books on bookshelves purely for decoration.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Of course, she did have a big TV though,” George said.
The two single men would have laughed themselves to death if it wasn’t for the eerie silence that accompanied each necessary breath. The silence that these two knew ought to be filled with the sound of crying babies, children’s laughter, lids rattling on a hot stove, the clothes dryer buzzing for the fourth time in as many hours, bad piano playing, lousy excuse giving, and sometimes–just sometimes–the sound of a loving wife’s voice as she mockingly whispers, “Isn’t this everything we hoped for and more?” with an inner strength and resolve that have, as of yet, avoided language’s shackle.
Captain’s Log 