So he says, “I felt so pathetic I wanted to die.” He’s pleased to see his words aren’t slurred. Though he does have to concentrate and speak slowly.
“Good,” says the doctor. “Go on.”
Flip goes on, “I felt pathetic because my body is out of control, because I can’t help my family, I lost my job, don’t make a living, can’t support my kids, and that is the only thing I was ever any good for. Now what the fuck am I good for? I’m good for nothing.”
“Good, Mr. Mellis.” The doctor’s eyes are wide. He drinks more beer and a little dribbles down his whiskers. He wipes his chin with a napkin. “Please, go on.”
“All I know is, a man should provide for his family and be there. Just be there. Always. And now I’m not there and I am not providing.” He leans back hard and the bench barks loudly.
“You feel very strongly about your role as a husband and father,” Dr. Hawkins says.
“Yes. Of course.”
“What was your own father’s role in your life, growing up?” Dr. Hawkins asks.
“There was no role. He left when I was six,” Flip says quietly. He doesn’t look at the doctor.
“Nailed it,” the doctor says triumphantly. “Let’s continue with that, Mr. Mellis. Tell me about why your father left.”
“No. Let’s not,” says Flip. “One thing has nothing to do with the other. I’m done talking about that old bastard. He doesn’t have anything to do with this. End of story. And I mean it. I’m done.” Flip crosses his arms petulantly.
“Okay, Mr. Mellis,” the doctor says.
Kelli sashays over with a pint of beer. She whips out a single coaster and tosses it among the others. She places the beer in front of Dr. Hawkins while glaring disapprovingly at Flip.
“I’m good,” Flip says. “I have to drive in a while. I think I’ll stop now. Just the check.”
Kelli lays a padded, faux-leather folder on the table. It has the remnants of a gold-embossed logo, but it’s too worn to read. Flip opens it and notices all his beer and food printed on the bill. None of Dr. Hawkins’ charges are listed. He slaps it closed and nudges it onto the doctor’s half of the table.
Kelli leans in, like she’s going to share a secret with the doctor. “The dart league is leaving, so I’ve been cut,” she says in a breathy whisper. She touches his arm and lets her nails trail along his sleeve as she goes.
The doctor checks his watch and drinks more beer. He looks over toward the bar, where Kelli is tipping out the bald bartender. The bartender nods real cool to Dr. Hawkins, who nods cool back, then turns to Flip.
“Mr. Mellis, I think your feelings for your father could be at the heart of this,” the doctor says. Flip starts to protest. The doctor continues quickly. “But we can get into that later. Right now I need to know you’re not going to hurt yourself again.”
“I won’t. Not tonight.”
“I need a little more assurance than that.”
“I am a man of my word, Doc. I am. If I say I won’t do something, you can believe it.”
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Mellis. Earlier today, at my office, you said you thought things were really turning around. I wonder if you were just saying that to appease your wife and me? Or did you mean it?”
“I meant it,” Flip lies. He doesn’t even remember saying it, but Flip senses the doctor is about to use his own words against him and he doesn’t want that. He intends to outflank him.
“So what specifically did you mean? What things are turning around and in what ways are they turning?”
Flip stares at the doctor’s nearly empty pint glass, at the striations coating the inside of the clear walls, like sea foam. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Dr. Hawkins picks up the glass and puts away the last swallow of beer.
Flip says, “I got nothing. I don’t know what I was saying. I forget what I meant.” He looks up at the doctor’s serious face.
“You realize that killing yourself is not the answer. Don’t you, Mr. Mellis? Although you don’t see a way forward, you know death is no answer.”
“How do you feel about assisted suicide, Doc? Euthanasia? Right? How do you feel about it?” Flip waits and watches the doctor process the question. Flip feels he’s gained the upper hand. Dr. Hawkins is anxious to get out of here and hook up with Kelli, plus he’s getting drunk and probably needs to piss. So Flip just waits. After a long moment the doctor clears his throat.
“I think there are times when someone is in so much pain and has no chance of recovery and is likely to die slowly and painfully. And on those rare occasions, perhaps, there is a moral argument to be made that euthanasia is more humane than allowing the person to continue to suffer.” The doctor looks defeated. He props his scruffy cheek against one fist like a stubborn kid. Flip wonders how old he is. He thinks he might have been in high school or even in college by the time the doctor was born. I wish Kelli hadn’t cleared the nachos.
“Well, I think some lives are so emotionally painful for the people living them, that that person has a logical reason to end his own life,” Flip says.
“That’s not the answer I need to hear,” the doctor says.
“I’m not going to take it back. It makes all kinds of sense to me. But, I give you my word I won’t try to kill myself for a few days, not until we meet again,” Flip swears solemnly.
“One week from today. I have you written down for a week from today. Morning appointment, same as today. Okay? You promise me you won’t try to end your life for one week. Then we will talk again. We will go from there.”
“Deal,” says Flip. They shake a good firm shake on it. “But I promise you, if you hear me out, I’ll be able to convince you my life is so pathetic I would be better off dead. It’s hard for you to understand, Doc. You’re young, handsome, with a good job and lucky to boot. But some people, their lives are different from that.”
“I know that, Mr. Mellis. But I doubt your life is so dire we can’t find a way to make it better. I understand it feels that way to you. And I can help you, Mr. Mellis. It’s what I’m trained for. And, I might add, I’m pretty successful at it. I have your word? No suicide for a week?”
“I already told you, Doc. And we shook on it, didn’t we? My word is my bond.”
“And Mr. Mellis,” the doctor says. “My life has its challenges too. Trust me.”
Flip doesn’t believe him, but he nods anyway, as if Dyl just told Flip, “I have stress.”
“Mr. Mellis,” the doctor says. “I’ve got to go.” He glances back to Kelli at the bar. She’s rolling silverware in black cloth napkins and stacking them into a pyramid. “But I have a couple more quick points to make.”
Flip was starting to unpack himself from the booth. He stops mid-motion and settles heavily. He suddenly wants to sleep.
“Mr. Mellis. What things would you like to turn around? No: one thing. Name one thing you would like to turn around.” The doctor holds up one finger in a “number one” gesture.
“I need a job.”
“A job is the result of a process. Do you have your resume out? You could start with that. Is your resume ready to go out?”
“Yes. It’s out. It’s out everywhere. It is rewritten, reorganized. It’s a magnificent document. I should have a job by now. But I don’t.”
“Okay. Let’s find something you can do, starting in the morning. What is a way you can exercise some control over your life, starting tomorrow?”
“Get a job.”
“No. Something small. Start small: a simple, achievable goal. How about stop drinking? I think you should take a break. I don’t think you’re an alcoholic, but you’re using alcohol as a way of avoiding your problems. Does that sound right to you?”
“You’re the doc.”
“Great. No more drinking. Don’t drink until I see you next week. Deal?”
Flip shrugs his shoulders noncommittally and scoots out of the booth. As he brushes his arms over the table, several paper coasters fall to the floor and into
the seat he has vacated. For no reason he gathers a few from the bench and sticks them in his pocket. The ones on the floor are a long way down, so he lets them lie. He stands over the doctor and tries not to sway.
“But still. What is one of the things you would like to turn around, that you could start on right now?” Dr. Hawkins persists.
“I don’t know, Doc. I have to piss again, though. Thanks for your help. I’ll give it some thought,” he says.
“Give it some thought.”
“I will. I’ll do that.” He raps his knuckles on the table in farewell and marches off in as straight a line as he can manage.
“Mr. Mellis,” the doctor says. He’s standing and handing something to Flip. “This is my card,” he says. “It has all my numbers. Call me if you need to, if you need someone to talk to.”
“Thanks,” Flip says, looking at the card, unable to make his eyes focus.
“Two more things,” the doctor says. “One, you need to reach out to someone and ask for help. Promise you will call someone. Call a friend and talk. Someone who will be supportive, someone who doesn’t know you tried to kill yourself. You have to admit what you did to someone who will care, someone besides Lynn.”
Flip nods tightly.
“Two, you have a place to go tonight, right? Someplace safe?”
“Yes,” Flip says. “It’s all sorted out. My bags are in the car.”
“Call me tomorrow on the office number and leave contact information. That way I can check in. Deal?”
“Deal,” Flip says.
“And you are fine to drive?”
“I am as sober as a judge,” he replies without waiting for approval. He walks out the door, crosses the street, and stomps into the dark lot where his car is parked. He wishes he had thought to order flowers from the shop when it was still open. He could have written a nice note to Lynn and sent a bouquet. He just wasn’t thinking. He finds a spot at the side of the building and pees.
He can’t find his keys. Then he sees them dangling in the ignition, starts looking around for something to shatter the window with, finds a chunk of asphalt the size of a softball, and throws it at his driver’s side window. It bounces off. That’s a quality window. He tugs the door handle. It’s unlocked. He gets in and drives two blocks before remembering his headlights. He snaps them on and aims his car toward his new home.
Petty Crime Committed
Flip rolls the windows down and lets the cold night air blast his hot, fat face. The beer and pills are still working on him, and he has to focus hard to keep the car in the road. Every couple of minutes he sticks his head out the window and lets the wind inflate his cheeks and dry his teeth and eyes. He turns up the radio and blasts some tunes. All I need is to wreck this car or get arrested for DUI.
The car’s headlights illuminate dark looming shapes that surge forward and recede at the edges of the road. He considers veering into a telephone pole or a tree. Maybe with enough speed he could just be done with it. That would be a relief. But he swore an oath to Dr.-Dan-the-head-shrinkin’-man. And if Flip Mellis is nothing else, he’s still a man of his word. As a matter of fact, he is one of the most dependable people he knows of. At McCorkle-Smithe, when there was a problem that needed solving, he was the go-to guy. No drama, just results. That was his modus operandi. Maybe it was his downfall too. Not enough butt kissing, not enough scrambling for credit. Too willing to stick his neck out and give his real opinion instead of hanging back. He feels his eyes getting heavy, so he smacks himself in the face a few times. It hurts, a lot. He decides not to do that again.
He’s been driving too long. He looks at the clock, it reads 8:30, but he can’t remember what time he left Shooter’s. Also, he knows the clock is off by an hour, but he doesn’t know if it’s fast or slow. His car makes an obnoxious dinging sound and the cab fills with a rhythmic orange flashing; the little gas-pump-shaped idiot light is blinking on his instrument cluster.
“Shit,” he says.
Since Flip isn’t sure where he is or exactly how long he’s been driving, he determines it would be prudent to get some gas, ask for directions, and hopefully make it to the motel in time to call the kids and tell them good night. As his car tops the next hill he sees a building glowing in the night. When he gets close, he turns into the Quickie Mart.
He cruises past the pumps, because he can see they’re padlocked, and drives up to the building. There’s a dark Crown Victoria parked crossways in the middle two of four parking spaces. Flip parks to the right of the sedan, rolls up his window, and starts to slide out. He can’t get his door open all the way because of the stupid parking job of the other car. His paunch presses hard against his car door as he sucks in his gut. One of his shirt buttons pops off, just as he makes it out.
“Fucking hell,” he says. This was the best of the Hawaiian-style shirts Lynn had bought him. He sticks his finger through the gap and prods his exposed belly. This button incident strikes him as a profound loss. He slams his car door and it crunches into the seatbelt buckle that failed to retract. The door rattles and stands ajar. He reaches in, tosses the buckle across the seat, and grabs the door with both hands. Instead of slamming it shut, he opens it hard against the body of the Ford, repeatedly and with emotion.
“It. Is. Rude. To. Park. Like. A. Selfish. Asshole,” he says, punctuating each word with another whack against the side of the sedan.
After the fact, he thinks to look up and see if anyone is watching. A greasy teen clerk is on a stool behind the counter of the convenience store, but doesn’t stop browsing through his magazine. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the store. Flip closes his car door gently, with a muffled click.
He runs his hand across the mark he left on the Crown Victoria; his fingers probe the line of a sizable dent and some minor paint damage. He can see chips of pale primer in the light cast through the store’s plate glass windows. His fingernails dig and scrub the indentation a bit more to scour off any silver paint that might have transferred from the edge of his door.
He moves toward the Quickie Mart, winded and wiping at his moist brow. A blast of cool air hits him as he passes through the big glass doors. He feels his pupils squeeze shut from the sudden brightness; it gives him a headache.
The kid at the counter lifts his face and his lank hair parts like an unwashed curtain to reveal a pale, pointy weasel face. He looks Flip up and down.
“Your car break down?” he asks. He has a high nasal voice.
“No,” Flip says. “Just dropped by for some gas.”
“Pumps are closed,” the kid says.
“Can you open ’em up? Sell me some gas? I’m almost on empty.” Flip crosses to the counter.
“Why are you all sweaty, man? You sure your car isn’t broke down? ’Cause my uncle has a tow truck, and he can be here in like fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“It’s still hot out,” Flip says. “I just need some gas, not a tow.”
“Gotcha,” the kid says. “Sorry. I can’t help you out. Pumps are locked until the morning.” The kid tucks his dirty blond hair behind his ears. “Maybe Officer Steve has some gas on him. They usually carry a can to help people who run out and stuff.” He flicks his nose toward the washroom in the back.
Flip looks toward the washroom. Then he looks out the plate glass window to the dark Crown Victoria. Through the glare and the reflected store interior, he can make out the county plates and the giant chrome spotlight mounted next to the driver’s side door. He looks back toward the washroom and thinks he hears a hand blower snap on. Flip is suddenly sober. He turns back around, and the kid is eyeballing him closely. Behind the kid is a shelf of booze, cigarettes, and skin mags.
“I’ll take a pint of the Captain,” Flip says. What Dr. Dan doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “And can you tell me how to get to the Lakeside Motor Court?” He brings out his debit card. Snapshots of his family tumble and litter the floor around his feet. He snatches them up and can’t avoid noticing the one from two summ
ers ago: Sara is tan, her hair is short, slick with water from the hose, and light brown from the sun. Her long legs are covered in bits of grass and she’s belly down on the Slip ’N Slide, body arced slightly up like a seal, with Dylan sitting on her back preparing to ride her down the tiny hill in the backyard. Flip stacks the snapshot with the other photos and stuffs it away.
“Sure,” the kid is saying. “You want the pint, right?”
“Yes,” Flip agrees.
“You want the traditional, the Tattoo, or the Lime Bite?” His back is to Flip and he indicates each of the choices as he speaks. A door opens behind Flip and he catches movement in a convex security mirror off to his right, the reflection of a uniformed man at the back of the store.
“Traditional,” he says fast and overloud.
“Sure thing.” The kid pulls down the bottle, drops it in a paper bag, and slides it across the counter. “Anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
The kid tells him what he owes and takes Flip’s card to swipe it. Flip watches the cop come down the candy aisle, check to make sure his fly is up, and try to decide which variety of sweets to purchase. Flip grabs his card and rum and turns to leave.
“Oh. Hold on, man,” says the kid. “I gotta card you. It’s the law,” he adds.
The cop’s distorted reflection looks toward the front and waves a yellow bag of peanut M&M’s.
“For Christ’s sake,” Flip says. “Are you kidding me?” he whispers. But he’s pulling his driver’s license from his pocket, careful not to dislodge the photos again.
The kid takes the card, tips it toward the light, and holds it close to his needle nose. He looks at the picture, looks at Flip’s face, looks back at the card, then back at Flip.
“I guess this is you,” he says. “Looks like you’ve put on some poundage.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Flip says.
He grabs up his stuff and makes for the door.
“Hey, Steve,” the kid calls to the cop. “This guy wants directions to the Motor Court.”
Good for Nothing Page 7
