Flip freezes with one hand on the door. The cop saunters up, drops his candy on the counter, and hooks his thumbs behind the broad buckle of his utility belt. He looks like a high school athlete who hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in twenty years.
“No no,” Flip says. “I got it. I remember now. I just got turned around. But I remember now. I got it. Thanks. I’m fine.” He gives a farewell wave toward the officer and keeps moving.
“You sure?” says the officer.
“Mmmhmm. Yes. I’m sure. I got it.” Flip turns halfway to Officer Steve as he speaks.
“Because I’m about to drive right past it, if you want to follow me. It’s no problem.”
“No no. No need. I know right where I’m going. Thanks, though. Have a good night.”
Flip’s throat is starting to close up. His heart is swelling in his chest, he can’t catch his breath, and his face feels flush. His oily perspiration smells like Guinness. He could be having a series of small heart attacks. He’s heard of it happening. He thinks perhaps pain is radiating up his arm and into the base of his skull. He absently juggles his hooch so he can scratch at his wrist and side.
“Okay,” says Officer Steve. “If you’re sure. But it’s no problem.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I got it. Have a good evening,” Flip says, turning to the exit.
“Steve,” the clerk chirps up. “Do you carry a can of gas in your cruiser? ’Cause this guy is almost out of gas, and Brad locks the pumps at night.”
“Yeah. I can spare a little gas to get you where you’re going,” says Steve. “Just sit tight while I pay for my bad habit.” He pats the bag of M&M’s where they lie on the counter and smiles affably. The clerk rings him up.
Flip has his hands on the door pull. He cracks open the door and peers out toward the Crown Victoria. Moths and gnats beat against the glass door and warm, humid air seeps in. He has the urge to run for it, start his car, and peel out. But he just rests his damp forehead against the glass, closes his eyes, and tries to breathe. Each breath fills his head with the sweet, clean smell of processed sugar, which makes Flip hungry.
He hears the clerk shove the cash register drawer closed, hears Steve and the clerk exchange goodbyes, and the sound of the officer’s shoes click across the worn linoleum floor, then deaden as they cross onto the rug Flip is standing on.
“All set,” says Officer Steve from right behind Flip. He claps his hand on Flip’s shoulder. Flip starts. His eyes snap open.
“Let’s head out,” the cop says. Flip pushes out into the night and holds the door for the cop.
“You know,” says the officer, walking ahead. “If you just go out on this road, it Ts right into Lakeside Drive.”
“Yes,” Flip lies. “I remember.”
“So when you hit the T-junction, hang a right.”
“Yep. Got it. Thanks. I got it.”
The cop doesn’t reply and that makes Flip nervous, so he explains, “I don’t usually make this drive at night. I’m a family man. Kids and a wife at home. School age kids at home. So, usually I’m at home at this time of night. Not out. Wrapped in the bosom of my family. Home and hearth. That’s me. I guess you could call me a homebody these days. A real family man. Kind of boring, I know.”
“So you’re from around here?”
“Yes. That’s right. From right around the way.”
“If you have a family around here, why are you looking for the Lakeside?” He asks it lightly. But when he steps off the curb next to his cruiser, he stops, waiting for Flip’s answer. Flip senses this is a tipping point; he has to make this lie count.
“My wife took the kids to her mom’s house for a few days. A last hoorah before school starts in earnest. And I spent the day reglazing our bathtubs. The whole house reeks. Epoxy fumes are the worst. And I can’t bathe for forty-eight hours because the epoxy has to set. So I decided to get a room out at the Lakeside.” He forces a smile he hopes appears casual instead of anguished. “The tubs used to be hideous—aqua in one bathroom and pink in another. Very dated. Very ugly.”
“I know how it is,” says Officer Steve. He walks to the back of the Crown Victoria and pops the trunk. From where Flip stands he can see the radio and laptop in the front seat, and he can see a shotgun in the trunk. He notices Officer Steve has a safety-yellow Taser in a holster at the back of his belt.
He wonders if the officer will lose his temper when he sees the side of his cruiser, and if that could lead to violence. What does it feel like to get shot with a Taser? He worries he will piss his pants. Would that make the electric current more painful? Or will the abrupt shock give me a heart attack? What if it kills me, then revives me in the same moment? Stupid. It will just kill me.
That would be a solution, though. He would be dead. Lynn and the kids would get some life insurance money, and maybe they could even sue the county. But Flip knows that’s just a pipe dream.
“Okay,” says Officer Steve. “Point me at your gas tank.”
Flip points to the far side of his car. He follows the officer, who is now carrying a big red metal gas can with a long rubber spout screwed on its top. They move right past Flip’s driver’s side, past the damage he’s done to the cruiser.
Officer Steve hinges open the little door and uncaps the gas tank. He hoists the heavy can easily and tips some gas in. “I run a full-service establishment,” says Steve with another smile. He seems genuinely happy to help. Flip tries to imagine what that would feel like, to be content with one’s life, to like one’s job, to have a calling. But he can’t quite get there.
Flip casually tries to glance around by pretending he is stretching his neck. The dent in the cruiser isn’t visible from where Flip stands.
Steve finishes with the gas, screws in the cap, and closes the little door. He turns to shake Flip’s hand. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
“I am named Dr. Dan,” he replies very stiff. “I am Dr. Daniel Hawkins and I am a psychologist. But you can call me Doc.”
“Okay. I’m Officer Hartman,” he says. Then he amends, “Steven Hartman. Nice to meet you.”
“You too. I better get going,” Flip says, and takes the keys out of his shorts. He heads to his driver’s side, opens the door slowly, the edge of his door meets the crease in the cruiser’s fender perfectly.
“You sure you’re okay? You seem a little off, Doc.” The officer picks up his can of gas and walks it back to his trunk.
“Fumes,” Flip says. “Fumes from the reglazing. Has me a little lightheaded.” He is so proud of himself. He’s really an accomplished liar. Also, he is going to get away with jacking up a cop’s ride. He feels cool, Steve McQueen–cool.
The officer sets the gas can in his trunk. Flip slides into his seat and slips the key into the ignition. He makes sure to buckle in. He snaps on his lights, adjusts his mirrors, and starts his engine. The radio blasts out a roaring top forty, guitar-driven neo-punk anthem, and he fumbles the knobs until it stops. He puts the car in reverse, checks his mirrors, and backs out slowly. His headlights glide across the scar on the police cruiser. Officer Steve slams his trunk closed, steps over, and knuckle wraps on Flip’s window. Flip punches his brakes too hard.
When Flip looks over, he can’t see Steve’s head, just his body from the chest to his belt, full of weapons and cuffs. Steve makes a generic cranking motion that means Flip needs to roll down his window. Flip dry heaves. Two times. Then he toggles the lever that lowers the window. Officer Steve puts one hand on Flip’s roof and leans over to face level.
“Sorry,” he says. “I parked kinda crazy there. I really had to get to the bathroom.”
“Oh,” says Flip. “I didn’t even notice.” His voice shakes a bit. His armpits are damp. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
Steve stands and pats the roof of Flip’s car before stepping back. “You have a good night now,” he says.
“Will do,” says Flip. And he concentrates on not speeding.
A Home Away from Home<
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Flip’s silver Passat rolls into the lot of the Lakeside Motor Court and comes to rest near the office. He snaps off the engine; the silence is shocking. He can hear the blood surging in his head. He looks in his rearview mirror for Officer Steve, but all he sees is the weathered sign for the motel, lit up by only two of the five visible lamps. He opens the paper bag, unscrews the Captain Morgan, and takes a long pull. It burns sharp and sudden in his sinuses. He hacks and loses half a mouthful of rum all over the dash and down the front of his shirt. He screws the cap back on, pitches the booze in the passenger’s seat, and shuffles into the motel office.
Inside, exposed fluorescent tubes strobe cool light across Flip’s cheekbones and shoulders. It may not be the source of his sudden need for Dramamine, but it isn’t helping either. On the counter sits an ancient, metal oscillating fan, its wire grill caked in fuzzy gray dust. He puts his face in front of it, lets the air rough his hair and dry the booze from his shirt; he thinks it might help to clear his head. He breathes a deep, calming breath, inhales slowly for a count of four, holds it for a count of four, and finally exhales slowly for a count of six. It’s a trick he used to use before giving a presentation at work, when he had a job.
On the exhale he sneezes loudly, three times, with such force he has to check to be sure he didn’t rip a nostril. He moves away from the fan. There’s a silver-plated tap bell next to a houseplant that desperately needs to be watered. He smacks the bell in a shave-and-a-haircut rhythm. The bell doesn’t ring so much as thump. Peeking beneath the bell, he sees someone has twisted a Band-Aid around the clapper.
A dusty curtain behind the counter splits and a grandma lady in a housedress comes out.
“You’ll be needing a room then,” she says. Her voice is deep and rich like a blues singer.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I mean no, ma’am. I am Flip Mellis. I have an efficiency reserved. My wife called for me.” Under the gaze of the woman’s milky eyes, he feels a little self-conscious. He can smell himself, a sharp blend of body odor, fried food, and rum, with a little secondhand smoke thrown in. He wonders if the old lady’s sense of smell has improved to compensate for her cataracts, or if her senses have simply diminished with age, along with her posture.
The woman stares as if she didn’t hear what he said. He draws a breath to repeat himself more loudly. She jumps a bit as if her brain has popped into gear and says, “Oh, yes. Mr. Mellis. Mmmhmm. You are in room three, over on the other side of the motel there, paid in advance, fourteen nights.”
She slips him a brass-colored key on a big brown diamond-shaped key fob. It has a worn gold “3” on it. “Vanessa got it set for you today, so it should be all ready to go.” She turns a registry book toward him and taps at it with a finger like a pale, gnarled tuber. He jots his name in a loose scrawl.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Now, the price of the room includes laundry service for towels and bedding only. Towels and bedding only. Vanessa will come by and let herself in to change things out a couple times a week. Just use the hamper in the closet for the towels. Towels only. Okay? Also, there is a clock radio for an alarm. I know the phone has instructions for a wake-up call, but that hasn’t worked for years. Just use the clock. If the red light on the phone is blinking, that means you have a message. Have a good night, Mr. Mellis,” the grandma lady says real flat, like she’s asleep on her feet, or like she finds Flip incredibly uninteresting. Or both.
“Good night,” he says. “Sorry I’m here so late.”
“You get here when you get here. Makes no difference to me,” she says. She turns and waves a hand before passing back through the curtain. He doesn’t know if she was waving bye or dismissing him. Either way, he takes his key and goes.
He drives the car around the back of the motel without turning on the headlights and parks in a spot hidden from the street, just as he’d done decades earlier with Lynn sitting as close as the bucket seats of his ramshackle ’66 Mustang had allowed.
He shucks the pint from its bag, wedges the flat rum bottle in his front shirt pocket, and hauls his belongings out of the trunk. He steps up on to the cement walk that runs in front of the units. Each one exhibits an identical rattling window air conditioner poking out the front. To the left, Number Two has the curtains open, lights on, music playing, and two wire patio chairs and a matching metal table arranged in front, complete with a small tiki-style candle and a tall cocktail glass with ice slowly melting. To the right, Number Four is unadorned, with the curtains drawn. A periodic blue flicker around the edges of the window tells him that someone is watching TV in the dark.
Flip maneuvers the key into the lock and nudges the door open with his foot. He flaps the switch by the door with his elbow, which turns on the lamp beside the bed. Number Three is freezing cold, but smells pretty good. Better than he does. It’s so tidy and fresh he instantly wants to shower. He pitches his bags on the bed, retrieves his key from the door, locks it behind him, walks out of his shoes, shorts, socks, and underwear and stands in the bathroom, scratching his naked ass. He’s developed an aversion to being completely nude, so he leaves on his tent-sized, crazy-patterned shirt.
The bathroom is basic, but clean, with new taps and shower curtain. He gets the water going, jerks the plunger to start the shower, and closes the curtain. The curtain hooks screech against the rod and make the skin on the back of his neck go bumpy.
He takes the rum out of his shirt pocket and sets it on the sink next to a complimentary bottle of blue mouthwash. He stands and watches as steam billows slowly through the tiny room to fog the mirror. Just as well. Flip hates his own reflection.
The place is too quiet. He moves back into the main room, glances briefly at the kitchenette, and punches the power on the TV remote. A loud, gregarious hipster is stuffing food in his face and talking with his mouth full, his jowls smeared with a creamy, pale sauce. The guy seems pleased with himself and Flip is disgusted. But it also makes him hungry. He scrolls through the channels and ends up back where he started. He turns the set off, walks over to the control panel on the air conditioner, and twists the dial to low.
He sits his bare butt on the bedcover and opens the drawer under the phone. He finds a typed page that lists all the restaurants that deliver to the motel. He picks one he knows and orders.
“Okay, Mr. Mellis. That will be an order of beef lo mein and two orders of crab Rangoon,” the Korean kid on the other end says. Flip has not told him his name; the kid just recognizes his voice. “That should be there in twenty minutes.” The kid hangs up. Flip calls back.
“Hello. Thank you for calling Good China. Please hold.”
“Wait, I—” Flip is on hold. There’s no Muzak, only dead air. Flip spends a couple of minutes fiddling the tuner of the analog flip-clock on the bedside table. Each time he thinks he’s found a station, it slips into crackling static. When he gets tired of that, he switches the phone to his other ear and claws absently at his balls while staring at the floor.
“This is Good China. Thank you for waiting. May I take your order?”
“This is Mr. Mellis. I just placed a delivery order,” he begins to explain.
“Yes, Mr. Mellis. Did you forget something? You want an order of egg roll. No problem.”
“No. No. I just need to change the delivery location. I’m not at my house right now.” Saying it out loud makes Flip feel horrible.
“Very good. Shoot. Give me an address where you would like food delivered,” the kid says.
Flip thinks shoot is a good idea. If he’d owned a handgun, or a shotgun even, then he’d be dead right now. A shotgun would be cumbersome and messy, but still, it seems preferable to this.
“I’m at the Lakeside Motor Court. Number Three. Okay?”
“Yes. Got it. Very good.”
“Also, go ahead and add those egg rolls.”
“Okay. Probably thirty minutes on that, Mr. Mellis.” The kid hangs up again.
Flip looks over at the clock: it
reads seven fifty-six. The minute flap ratchets over with a crisp snap: seven fifty-seven. He wonders if it’s accurate. It feels later than that. He considers checking one of the watches he packed, but that seems like a lot of work. Assuming the clock is right, Dyl will be getting ready for bed. He thinks about calling his family. If he calls and Lynn is putting Dyl to bed, his mother-in-law might answer the phone. No good. He takes note that the phone isn’t flashing. No one could be bothered to call me. Instead of calling home, he walks to the bathroom.
On the way he spots his snapshots on the floor next to his shorts, rifles through them, and lingers over one from the day they spent at the nature trail last Thanksgiving. It’s four smiling faces poking out of scarves and caps. Sara’s cheeks are red, Dyl is wearing that silly fuzzy coat with bear ears sewn into the hood, and Lynn looks genuinely content. Flip sees his own goofy face as he holds the camera out at arm’s length to snap the picture. He looks young, healthy, and happy, as if he was doing just what he was made for.
He lays the photos on the counter and unbuttons his floral shirt. He takes the rum with him into the shower. The water is alarmingly hot, almost enough to scald him. He tips his face up and lets the sharp, forceful drops scour his cheeks, his scalp, and his throat. He turns his back to the water to shield his booze, unscrews the bottle, and swigs a bit. He fumbles the cap; it drops through the rising cloud and rolls down next to the drain. He covers the bottle’s mouth with his left hand and douses his face in the water again. The cut on his hand tingles when it passes over the mouth of the bottle.
A year ago he ran in a half marathon. He was sucking air when he finished, but he finished. Now, he feels too taxed to remain standing. He lowers himself into the tub and lets the shower beat against his fat knees and enormous belly. He hasn’t looked at his middle from this angle in months. He jabs at it with two fingers; it’s like a Hefty bag full of oatmeal. He drinks more rum.
Flip had been fired from McCorkle-Smithe on his birthday. His whole life he’d had the dubious distinction of having a birthday that was very close to Christmas; his birthday was often the day vacation ended, so people usually forgot to acknowledge his birth altogether.
Good for Nothing Page 8
