I’m trying to keep it all straight in my head.
James drives an El Camino, and it’s green with a white racing stripe. Alvin is the bartender at Simon’s, and he’s taken it upon himself to learn my drink. I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. My mother has been dead for seven years. She died on my thirteenth birthday. I am twenty-two years old. Somehow that last part doesn’t add up.
Last I checked I was definitely in the United States, yet it appears everyone is driving on the left side of the road. Their steering wheels are still on the left side of the car. I stare down at my feet. Which one goes first? I feel like either will do, yet I really want to be sure. Left, right? Right, left? I’m going to try left, right and assume I’ll eventually take so many steps I won’t remember where I began. It’s not the best solution, but it’s a solution. What was the problem again?
I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH.” How does one push again? I pull on the door handle at Simon’s. A large sign next to the handle says “PUSH”. I’m stuck. I stand, staring at the handle and its accompanying sign for a few seconds before the door swings inward. A patron exits the establishment. Weren’t they just pulling? Isn’t that what I was doing? Or was that a push? Was I right, and is the door broken or is the sign mistaken? I decide to slip in before the door notices I haven’t provided the proper input.
“Welcome back, chief” James says from behind the bar. There is a picture of a white El Camino with a green racing stripe on the wall. Isn’t the bartender Alvin? I think so, but this is definitely James. Or is it Alvin? I certainly can’t use his name, because I’m not exactly sure what his name is. It’s either Alvin or it’s James. Still, there’s a large margin of error.
“Makers and coke, right chief?” Alvin or James says, scooping ice into a highball glass. Makers and coke? What the hell is Makers? I’m pretty sure that’s not my drink. This must be James, because Alvin took the time to learn my drink. I can’t remember what my drink is, but Alvin learned it, and it’s not Makers and coke.
“Boy, I swear you drink more of those than any man your age should in his entire lifetime!” a bar patron says as they eye me from their swiveling barstool. Is that Alvin? Is that James? Maybe that is my drink. I apparently drink a lot of them. I approach the bar to pay for my drink. I go with right, left this time, but it takes my brain a second to catch up.
“Sorry for the hassle, chief, but I need to see your ID. For the security cameras, you know. The PD has been really riding us about it, threatening to take away our licenses and what not.” The PD? Doesn’t the FD handle those kinds of things? Which is the one that handles crime? I reach into my front pocket for my wallet. It’s not there.
My heart races. Or does it slow down? Which is the one that means you’re panicking? I pat myself down and feel a bulge in my back pocket. My wallet is there. Don’t I usually keep it in my front pocket? Don’t people usually keep their wallets in their front pockets? Is this my wallet? This wallet is brown. My wallet is green.
I open the wallet in my possession. A picture of me is inserted in the front plastic sleeve. I guess this is my wallet. I withdraw my ID and stop cold. My address is listed as “312 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 4279.” I live at 4279 Ralston Terrace, Apartment 312. It’s technically on the fourth floor. Apartment 4279 would be technically on the fifth floor. Do I live on the technical fifth floor?
“It’s nice of you to do that little song and dance for the police, Ethan,” the bar patron says to the bartender. Ethan? Who the hell is Ethan?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Like a Damn Child
“It's not that you can't have it, it's just that....I don't want you to have it. Does that sound bad?” Kelly did her best to look as though the answer mattered.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
“Hell yes, it sounds bad! Look, Kelly, I'm a grown man, and I can eat whatever I want.” Joe once again picked up the apple fritter that he'd generously slathered with a pat of butter (capped with a heaping glob of marmalade as the cherry on top) and prepared to indulge. Kelly placed her hand on his arm.
“Oh yes. You are a grown man, at least according to your age, height, salary, and especially that waistline of yours. I was under the impression, and of course I could be wrong, that grown men knew how to take care of themselves, and sometimes I think if I just disappeared you'd be dead within' the week.” She felt her face muscles contracting to show the early onset of heartbreak as Joe sank his teeth into the pastry.
Joe laughed. “I'm not going to die eating an apple fritter, Kelly-”
“Topped with butter and marmalade, no less.”
“Topped with whatever the hell I want to top it with, yes. It's just one apple fritter. You want I chase it with an actual apple?”
Kelly sighed. “I just wish you understood that I love you, and I'm going to be really angry at you if you leave me because you couldn't control yourself with those damn sweets, that's all.”
Joe thrust the apple fritter down onto the plate in disgust. “Dammit, Kelly, now I can't even enjoy it. I swear you treat me like a child. Like a damn child. It's just not fair, you know that? Everybody else gets to eat whatever they want, whenever they want, and here you got me eating asparagus and arugula and whatever other god-forsaken 'A' vegetables you can get your hands on, and the only 'A' I want right now is a god damn apple fritter!”
Kelly's eyes narrowed and she spoke clearly and deliberately. “I treat you like a damn child because you're acting like a damn child. Just listen to yourself.”
“I don't care. That's the beauty. I don't have to care. Right now I want to eat this because it tastes good, and in the grand scheme of things, what is it going to matter? It's just one apple fritter.”
“You're right, Joe. It is just one apple fritter. It's just one apple fritter to go with the Moon Pie wrappers I found under your seat to go with the entire package of Double Stuffed Oreos that disappeared from the freezer last week (although that's partially my fault for having them around in the first place). Oh, and I hope you've at least had the sense to sign up for the rewards program at the Shake Shack, because the beauty of a joint checking account is that I now know you are among their best and most frequent customers! So yes, it's just one apple fritter. Otherwise, you're a damn saint.”
Joe avoided Kelly's eyes. He stared down at the table and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Kelly asked.
“Like a damn child,” Joe muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table.
“You poor, misunderstood man,” Kelly replied as she ran her hands through his hair. She always found his retreats strangely endearing. “Let's go, tough guy. It's about time to check your blood pressure, anyway.”
Joe used the metal, three pronged cane to steady himself as he eased up from the table. Kelly had, on multiple occasions, appealed to him to get used to relying on both legs to get him where he needed to go, but all the same he continued to favor the one with the fleshy appendage at its end to the one capped in plastic. His bad leg made him feel “like a damn robot,” he was fond of saying. Joe fancied himself a calls-it-like-he-sees-it type, but when it came to himself he was anything but.
The Picture House
“I thought it was just great.”
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
“Of course you did,” Bert said. He couldn't remember the last time Ethel hadn't liked a movie. The theater opened in 1925, back when your standard movie house had one screen and one showing a week. The McClintocks owned it then, the McClintocks owned it now, and it still only had one screen.
“This popcorn machine stinks,” Joshua said, as he continued to search for the perfect ratio of kernels to oil that didn't threaten to burn the building down. He'd worked at the theater for the better part of his senior year now and, for the most part, being there just depressed him.
“Take it outside, Pistol,” Gerald McClintock said with a point, avoiding eye contact as he descended from the projection booth.
“Aw, dammit,” Pistol said, as he squished a lit Marlboro Red into the overstuffed ashtray Joshua hadn't emptied in over a week. The theater used to allow smoking inside, but hadn't done so for decades now, and Pistol, claiming victim of his growing dementia, made it his daily ritual to try to sneak one in. Gerald would have none of it.
Bert and Ethel gave a nod to Joshua as they shuffled out of the dim lobby. Bert carried a paper bag from the local Stop & Save.
“You went grocery shopping before the movie?” Joshua asked. The scent of burnt kernels permeated the air.
“Naturally,” Ethel said, “Otherwise we'd have to backtrack.” The Stop & Save had a long standing deal with the McClintock's to offer discounts on movie tickets with grocery purchases on the day of the show. The discount remained firmly at ten cents, and Bert & Ethel were, to the best of anyone's knowledge, the only two theater patrons who took advantage.
“Can I borrow this?” Jake asked as he stood at the counter and reached for the pen next to the register.
“Seriously? You know we gotta buy those, and when you borrow them, we don't get them back.” Jake had a habit of loaning out his already borrowed pens to his schoolmates, creating a complicated supply train of which few returned.
“I need it for school. Hey, you know it smells in here?”
“Just take it and go.” Joshua knew he'd probably never see the pen again.
Gerald McClintock sat at his desk, which was wedged in the space not occupied by the mop and mop-bucket near the back of the storage room. He knew that when the theater opened it cost a nickel to get in, and as it stood the price had inflated all the way to just under a dollar. He was forced to contemplate a price increase. He crunched the numbers with his always finely sharpened number two.
The phone rang. “You gonna get that?” he called out to Joshua.
“You know it's for you.”
“Just get it.”
He heard Joshua's muffled voice mumble a greeting into the phone. “It's for you.”
Gerald picked up the receiver on his end. Joshua dumped the scorched popcorn into the trash bag. He opened a new bag of kernels and a new bottle of oil and prepared again to attempt popcorn perfection.
Gerald wandered into the lobby. “We're getting a new picture.”
“Finally. What's it gonna be?”
“Rush Hour 3.” The theater had never shown the first two.
The Long Way Home
“And that's exactly why we moved away from Pleasanton. Like my mom always says, 'Pleasanton will always be Pleasanton!', and you know what? She's right. When my first husband and I got divorced and I moved back in with her, mother had some grand idea to set me up with Stevie Detweiller who used to live down the street when we were kids. 'Little Stevie Detweiller is all grown up and handsome as can be, according to Ruth Detweiller, and I told her how beautiful you were, and according to the two of us it's just about a match made in heaven!' According to Ruth Detweiller, her son was about as handsome as he could be, and I guess that was right: he certainly wasn't getting any handsomer. Ha! Can you believe that? Short, bald, beer gut, and some seriously iffy hygiene. But Pleasanton would always be Pleasanton, and to be honest, dear, the pickings were slim, so I married him too.”
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
Jesus Christ, how long has she been talking? Chris had just happened to sit next to her on the bus, he'd just happened to respond when she'd mentioned what a lovely day it was, and even though he didn't particularly agree, he didn't want to be rude and in acknowledging her presence had locked himself in a conversation, nay, a lecture with someone with no apparent ability to read social cues. He also found it rather suspicious that she got off at the same stop, even though she didn't seem in a particular hurry to go anywhere at all. Was this even her stop?
He'd already learned more about this person than he could ever want to know. That threshold was reached at around the five minute mark, but here they were, minute forty-five, and the hits just kept on coming. He now felt himself qualified to write a multiple volume biography on this person, except for the fact that he knew everything about her but her name. She'd given it, sure, but he assumed their interactions would terminate almost immediately, so he hadn't chosen to remember it. Now that they were slowly but surely creeping in to her transition to middle age, it was far too late to ask.
“So Stevie came home one day and just said, 'I quit.' And I said, 'You quit?' He says, 'I quit.' Now I'm thinkin', what'd he quit? Is he quitting us? His job? His gym membership. Ha, gym membership. The man was positively allergic to exercise. Of course he was talking about his job. He used to come home everyday and bitch and moan about this thing and that thing, and I'd just sit there and say, 'Yes, dear.' 'I'm sorry, dear.' 'Maybe you should tell them, dear.' But no, his solution was just to turn heel and run away from it. I said, 'What are we gonna do for money?' and he just said, 'We'll figure it out.' Wouldn't you know, it wasn't more than a week later I find him layin' on the couch, deader than a doornail. Of course he'd die after he quit his job, so there goes the life insurance money, and there go I, movin' back in with mother.”
Chris was starting to panic. Her story was less a survey of her life and more of a re-creation, and he could just tell that they weren't even close to the end yet. He didn't even know what time it was, and though his instincts told him not to look at his watch for fear of being rude, maybe it was time to be rude. He tuned out her story momentarily and mentally prepared himself to lift the watch to his eyes. Maybe this would give her the signal that he'd had his fill of her life, and it was time for them to part ways forever. It had to work, didn't it? He slowly raised his left arm towards his face, giving plenty of time for Chatty Cathy to notice, but as he did she began to stare off into space, waxing philosophical about her life so far.
“I says to mother, 'How did I get here? How did my life come to this?' I've been good to people. I've always tried to be nice to people. I was a good wife. Thrice I was a good wife. Oh, we haven't even gotten to Hank yet. We'll get there, but suffice it to say I've been good to all my husbands. Anyway, mother says we can't always control the things to happen to us, and she says she just gotta believe everything happens for a reason, and I guess I agree with that, but boy...I sure wish life were easier sometimes.”
She'd completely missed the watch gesture. He'd even let it linger there for a few seconds, but after a while it looked pretty inorganic and he just felt stupid, so he lowered it down. Almost on cue her eyes shifted back to him, and he knew she had no intention of slowing down. He became frustrated, and then he became angry, and suddenly he blurted out, “Well, it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go!”
She stared at him, startled. He'd interrupted her mid-sentence. “Well, ok, but aren't you going this way?” She pointed in the direction they'd walked when they first got off the bus.
“Well, yes, but....no, I'm not.” He turned and walked away. He could feel her eyes following him as his pace quickened. He hated taking the long way home.
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