Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  “That’s fair,” he says. But he doesn’t mean it.

  Accused of Perversion

  Flip arrives ten minutes late for his rescheduled appointment with Dr. Hawkins. He pulls into the lot and drags himself out of the car. His eyes burn from crying, his nose is raw from wiping, and his head aches. He fishes in his pocket and finds the bottle of pills. He thinks they might be high-dose Tylenol, but maybe they’re muscle relaxants. He’s not sure.

  He knows it’s not good to take medication on an empty stomach, so he leans against the front fender of the car, unpacks a bag of fast food, and shoves two burgers and a large order of fries into his face as quick as he can. He’s proud that he planned ahead. The line at the drive-through slowed him up a bit. But I needed some sustenance. He drips mustard on his shirt. The stain is mostly lost in the busy pattern. He sucks down a coffee-flavored shake along with several pills, then heads up the creaking stairs to see Dr. Scruffy Face.

  When Flip reaches the landing, Dr. Hawkins is backing out of his office and locking up for the night.

  “I’m not that late, am I?” Flip says, looking at his wrist as if it had a watch on it.

  “Oh,” says Dr. Hawkins. “There you are, Mr. Mellis. I thought you were skipping out. I was already anticipating the need to contact the authorities.” He chuckles and scruffs his miracle never-grow beard. “And yes. You are late. There are not degrees of late when it comes to an appointment with me. Either you are present when the appointment is scheduled to begin, or you are late. You were not there at the appointed time, and so, officially late.” The doctor slings a bike messenger bag across his torso.

  Flip can’t believe he’s hearing this shit. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit,” he says.

  “Well, Mr. Mellis, believe it.” Dr. Hawkins brushes by Flip and bounds down the stairs. Flip follows less jauntily.

  “Come on, Dick. I mean Doc,” Flip pants. His knees ache. His brow and cheeks are producing a damp, oily sheen. “This has been one of the worst days of my life. You can’t just bail out on me.”

  Dr. Hawkins slows in the parking lot. “Well I admit that, relatively speaking, you are not that late, Mr. Mellis. But you did technically miss your appointment.” He uses his handsome face like a prop, stroking his beard thoughtfully, pursing his full lips, and tapping his chin. “I haven’t eaten yet. You hungry?”

  Although Flip has just eaten, he is never not hungry and always ready to eat. So he says, “Famished.”

  “I’m headed across the street to grab a beer and a burger. I guess it would be fine to meet in an informal setting. If you want to talk, I’m willing to listen. You are still my patient. I am still your doctor, and all the normal rules apply. But, I’m going to make a note that you missed your appointment. Fair?”

  “Fair,” Flip replies and starts to gauge the traffic pattern so he can cross the small boulevard.

  “Oh,” Dr. Hawkins says, stopping at the curb, “and Mr. Mellis, don’t call me a dick again. I might take it personally.” Then he darts across the street.

  Shooter’s is a sprawling cave of a sports bar: low ceilings, brown wood paneling, brown wooden chairs, tables, stools, booths, and bar. It’s packed with a mix of drunken idiots playing in the local darts league, college kids eating spicy buffalo wings and guzzling pitchers of beer, and neighborhood guys lined up along the bar watching sports and nibbling salty bar snacks.

  The pair take a booth as far away from the commotion as possible and order food and beers from the safety of a back corner. Dr. Hawkins flirts with the waitress and orders a Royal Grolsch. Flip has to work to get the girl’s attention before she leaves and orders a Guinness. Flip and the doctor make small talk and play with their beer coasters. The waitress, Kelli, comes over with a tray full of drinks on her shoulder. She shifts the tray onto the table and produces more coasters from her apron pocket. She tosses them on the table and then, inexplicably, sets the damp glasses directly on the tabletop.

  “There you are,” she says. She cocks her hip, turns in the doctor’s direction, and smiles at him. She pushes some hair out of her face. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks. Flip takes note: She does not say, “Can I get you two anything else?” She just says, “you,” and she says it in a way that excludes Flip altogether. It also seems to exclude the kind of “anything” that might be on the menu.

  “I’m just fine for now,” Dr. Hawkins says.

  “Well, y’all let me know,” Kelli drawls with a slight Southern twang that hadn’t been there previously. Then she hoists the tray of remaining drinks and wiggles away.

  “I’m fine for now too,” Flip calls. He makes an exasperated little breath, shakes his head, and looks to the doctor for some understanding. The doctor gives him a blank look and slurps the foam off his beer.

  Flip’s burgers and fries from the drive-through were pretty salty and the shake just didn’t help his thirst at all. So he’s happy to take a long pull on his dark beer. It’s nice and cold.

  “Ahhh. Good stuff,” he says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Yes,” says the doctor.

  “If I knew I was going to knock back a few beers during our session, I would have tried harder to make it on time,” Flip jokes.

  “Yes. About that, Mr. Mellis. I feel suddenly uncomfortable about this arrangement. I fear this is horribly inappropriate. I have the impression from Lynn that you are self-medicating in order to avoid facing your situation. Maybe we should just call this off.”

  “No. No. It’s okay. I don’t think a beer is self-medicating. It’s just a civil way for two adult men to end a hard day. That’s all. It’s fine. I’ll take it easy. Promise. And you have to admit, I had a hard day.”

  “And we are already here,” Dr. Hawkins capitulates.

  “Plus, I know I have a busy week ahead. I’m sure your week is busy. You are a busy guy. You can’t just keep rescheduling me. Right? Like you said, we are already here. Might as well. Besides, beer might be the key to some good progress. Right?”

  “Perhaps,” the doctor says, doubtfully. Flip realizes he’s not helping his case, so he shuts his yap.

  They sit quietly looking at the table and sipping beer. The doctor is waiting for Flip to start the conversation, some kind of Psych 101 power play. Flip wants to wait, force the doctor to speak first, just to be spiteful, so he stubbornly keeps mum; but so does the doctor. To fill the silence, Flip watches the action at the dartboards.

  There are about six teams of four players each congregated around two electronic dart machines. It looks like they’re having a cricket tournament.

  A couple of the teams wear matching shirts. One set of orange bowling-style shirts reads Lucky Strike in black across the back. Another team’s black pocket tees read The F.U.s with the subtitle This means you, Lucky Strike. Flip decides he’s rooting for the F.U.s.

  Kelli comes back around and sets plates of food down. She leaves ketchup and a second round of beer. She tosses more coasters, then sets a plate of nachos with cheese and jalapenos on the table.

  “Oh,” Flip says. “I don’t think these are ours.”

  She looks at Dr. Hawkins when she says, “Those are on me.” That’s all she says. Then she tucks the tray under her arm and leaves again.

  Dr. Hawkins looks smug as he helps himself to a nacho with a jalapeno stuck to it.

  “Stuff like that never happens to me,” Flip says.

  “Well,” the doctor replies. “You have to be open to the things the world presents to you. You might be surprised how many opportunities are right there in front of you.” He licks the salt and grease from his fingers and goes to work on his burger.

  “I call bullshit,” Flip says, and doesn’t feel compelled to explain further. The doctor lets the comment go. Flip drinks down his second Guinness, belches, and pops his neck. He’s feeling pretty full, but he decides there’s always room for a bacon-and-’shroom quarter pounder and a heaping pile of fresh-cut cheese fries, so he eats.


  After a while he sees Kelli looking over and lifts his empty glass. She doesn’t seem to notice. He waves the glass in the air to gain her attention and the damp pint glass squirts from his greasy grip, plummets through the air and shatters across the floor. Kelli gives him a tired look.

  “Now it’s a party,” Flip says.

  Dr. Hawkins looks unimpressed and goes back to his burger. Some kid comes around with a broom and mop and hunkers down next to the booth to start picking up chunks of glass.

  “Sorry about that,” Flip says. “It just slipped.”

  “Happens all the time,” the kid says. Flip considers asking him to hurry it up because his bladder is about to burst, but he just keeps quiet. Instead, he covertly undoes the button of his shorts to relieve the pressure.

  The doctor pushes his plate back with most of his fries and a portion of his burger untouched. The kid finishes cleaning and leaves. Kelli comes over before Flip can slide out of the booth. She tosses coasters like Frisbees and sets down another round, again avoiding the multitude of coasters.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I’m sorry,” says the doctor. “I think I’ve had enough.” He pats his flat belly. “I need to watch my girlish figure.”

  “If I’m any judge,” Kelli says, “your figure could take another round with no problem.”

  “You think?” he asks in mock surprise.

  Ass. Flip starts drinking his beer with sloppy swigs as fast as he can.

  “Yes, I do,” she replies.

  Flip finishes off his pint and slides to the edge of the seat, clears his throat loudly, but no one takes note. He bumps Kelli a bit with his hip to get her to move; again, she ignores him.

  “It’s on me,” she adds.

  “If you insist,” the doctor says.

  “I sure ’nuff do,” she replies, all Southern again.

  “Will you excuse me?” Flip asks. She ignores him some more, so he shoves out of the booth, forcing Kelli aside. He leaves the doctor and the waitress to continue adoring one another’s coyness. On the way to the bathroom, Flip hears a triumphant roar from the dart league. The F.U.s look dejected. Flip sees a big bald bastard give him a disapproving glance from behind the bar as he stumbles by.

  “What?” he asks. The guy wipes at the bar with a towel and keeps staring.

  Flip’s gaze returns to the dart league. The Lucky Strikes are hugging and gloating. Flip stumbles a bit and nearly knocks some dude off his barstool. The guy says, “Fat drunken douche.” But Flip has to piss so bad he keeps moving.

  He unzips his shorts as he turns down the hall to the men’s room. A busty blonde co-ed in a baby doll tee comes out of the women’s room and looks down at the front of Flip’s shorts. She sees his zipper is down and his shorts are open. She gives him a disgusted look and backs into the women’s room.

  Flip wants to explain, but the women’s room door closes as he starts to speak. He pushes the men’s room door open and barely makes it to the urinal in time. He pisses a long time. The bathroom smells like an ashtray, among other things, and smoke hangs in the air. He sneezes, coughs, and pisses on his foot a little.

  He’s washing his hands when he notices that the bald bartender and the kid who cleaned up the glass are standing just inside the bathroom door, glaring at him.

  “I should have known it was you. You think it’s cool to waggle your old dick at young girls,” the bartender says. He doesn’t ask it, he states it. Flip tries making a raspberry sound with his lips but it comes out wet and he gets slobber on his chin. His lips feel numb. He shakes his hands over the sink, just as he showed Dyl earlier in the day. He doesn’t see any paper towels, so he dries his hands on the front of his shirt and turns to face his accuser.

  “I just had to pee very bad,” he says. He waves at the bartender for emphasis with a gesture that looks like swatting flies. Also, he realizes the word “very” has come out mushy, like the word “fairy.” The bartender sports a tight white T-shirt and a set of silver hoop earrings. Flip can’t stop himself from blurting, “You have a very shiny head, like Mr. Clean. Do you wax it?” He punches the V in “very” this time, just to be clear.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says the bartender. “I heard all this shit before, tough guy.”

  “I’m not a tough guy,” Flip says. He tries to sound very laid back, like Kev. “Right on,” he says. Then he makes to bump fists with Mr. Clean, but Mr. Clean leaves him hanging. Not cool.

  Flip takes a pace back, his ass presses against the sink, and tries to explain himself. “It’s all just a silly accident. I had to pee. Then I broke a glass. I couldn’t get out of the booth until this one was done with his cleaning.” He points at the kid. His movements are too loose. “Then the waitress whose name is Kelli was in my way too.” He points in the direction he thinks Kelli should be standing. “Then I finally got here and that girl saw me.” He waves his finger in a “eureka” gesture. “My dick wasn’t even out of my pants,” he says triumphantly. “I was trying to undo my zipper is all I was trying to do. But I was just trying to pee, not show some girl my pecker. I just needed to go pee and so I was trying to undo my pants.” Flip lurches forward and hugs the bartender for support. The bartender shrugs him off and pushes him back on his feet. While Flip focuses on standing steady, the boy and the bartender have a conference.

  Flip’s legs are wavy and he thinks hard about that. He pats his shorts and digs out the bottle of pills. He holds it up. “Right the fuck on,” he says in his best Kev impersonation. “This is why things are so wuzzely in my body, man. I took some of my pills for my back. And I forgot about not drinking, is what I did. You know what I mean?”

  The two watch him. The busboy is doing the whispering right now.

  “Don’t listen to him,” says Flip. “What does he know? Nothin’ is what he knows.” Someone tries to push into the bathroom.

  “Occupied,” says the bartender, wedging his foot against the door. Then to Flip he says, “Toby was backing your story about the glass and Kelli.” He says it pretty sarcastic. “You really think I shouldn’t listen to him?”

  “No no,” says Flip. “Listen to Toby. Toby is good people. He knows what he’s saying and is a fine citizen. Proceed. I always did like Toby. Toby was my mother’s name.”

  He tries to put his hands in his pockets, but can only find one. He keeps slipping his hand across his left hip, trying to locate the missing pocket. He looks down to see and turns in a circle like a dog after his own tail. The bartender and Toby stop talking and watch him. He gives up on the pocket. Now he really feels dizzy. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.

  “I was about to call the cops,” says the bartender. “But I think you’re telling the truth. You’re totally messed up. And a world-class asshole. But, you’re here with Dr. Dan, and he is cool as shit. So if you go back to the table, and don’t make any more trouble, we’ll let this go. But I’m cutting you off. No more to drink. I’m telling Kelli you’re cut off. And you best take a taxi home. Got it?”

  “Right on,” Flip says, a little defeated at being chastised by a walking, talking ad campaign for cleaning products.

  Someone slaps on the bathroom door. The bartender and Toby leave. Two guys in Lucky Strike shirts come in, laughing it up big time.

  Flip puts his hand on the door to leave, pauses, and clears his throat to get the Lucky Strikers’ attention. “You are not so wonderful at darts,” Flip says very seriously. Then he walks as cautiously as he can back to the table.

  Dr. Hawkins has his phone out and is scrolling through his e-mail. “Where did you go for so long?” he asks. Flip shoves the table too much as he tries to get his ass over the wooden arm of the pew-like bench. The doctor grabs his fresh Grolsch before it can spill.

  “Very shmooth,” Flip says. Then he feels his numb lips with his fat tongue. He touches his mouth with his fingertips. “Very smooth,” he articulates slowly. “That move getting in the booth was very smooth. Not.” Then he
explains, “I was just in the bathroom. That is all. There was a line.”

  “Okay,” says Dr. Hawkins. He shakes his fancy watch on his wrist and checks the time. “We need to wrap this up. I have a date.” Flip knows the date is Kelli. The doctor is clearly proud of himself. Asshole.

  “Yes indeed,” says Flip. “The metaphorical ball is in your metaphorical court.”

  “Well I’m sorry Lynn was so upset at our meeting earlier. I had hoped to have more time to speak with you. To be honest, you have some legitimate issues. You’ve had a hard year. And now with Lynn asking you for a separation . . . well, anyone would feel a bit overwhelmed. You just need to exercise good coping strategies.” The doctor sips a bit more beer. “Because right now I don’t think you have the skills to deal with this amount of stress. That’s why you’re depressed. Your lack of coping skills is exacerbating the situation.”

  “I think you’re right, Dr. Dan,” Flip says. He’s flooded with emotion, his eyes begin to water, and his face feels warm. This guy really knows his shit. He has the urge to lean across the table and hug the doctor. But he thinks better of it.

  “Earlier today, in my office, I handled that whole situation badly. It went sideways on me,” Dr. Hawkins says. Then he drinks more beer, leans his forearms heavily on the tabletop, and picks up one of the paper coasters and gives it a flick toward the back corner opposite the booth. The doc is pretty blitzed.

  Dr. Hawkins drinks more beer. “I like you, Mr. Mellis. You are honest. There’s no bullshit with you.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” he says a little weepily, and blows his nose loudly on a cloth napkin.

  “But, as your doctor, I have to know what the hell you were thinking when you put your head in a noose, and I have to know you won’t do it again. If you can explain it to me, and make me believe you aren’t going to try it again, then I can feel I did my job. Understand?”

  Flip looks hard at Dr. Hawkins. His head feels heavy, his chin wants to tip toward his chest, and his mouth wants to hang open. But he keeps his head up, his eyes forward, and he sees in the doctor a man who wants it straight.