As a boy, he had mused about it, imagining if no one knew he was born, he might simply evaporate like fog in a breeze, a harmless specter or a half-recalled memory. That way of thinking had been natural as a child. But he had grown out of it.
When Hank called him up to the office, he’d thought it might be a ruse to allow his coworkers to finally throw him one of those pathetic office parties he was so jealous of. During the elevator ride he visualized how his coworkers would yell, “Surprise!” and clap while singing some variation of the birthday song. He would act surprised and shake everyone’s hands or hug them, depending on a combination of personal associations and rank within the corporate hierarchy. They might make him wear a bright, pointy hat with an elastic chin string, or blindfold him and spin him and make him whack a SpongeBob piñata with a dangerously long handle unscrewed from the push broom in the utility closet. There would be stale cake, or stale cupcakes, decorated with black icing and white letters that read “Over the Hill.” He might be asked to give a speech. Or, if he was really popular, and maybe he was, he wasn’t a good judge of such things, they would buy an ice cream cake and have a karaoke machine. He wished the machine would have a Leo Sayer selection; that would be a crowd pleaser. “Lovin’ You” by Minnie Riperton would be hilarious, and he could totally nail it. That would make up for all the years of being overlooked.
As he neared the top floor, he’d checked his reflection in the polished interior of the elevator’s door. He looked youngish and fitish. He could see in himself someone who was well liked by his coworkers, loved by his wife, and adored by his children. He was in a comfortable groove in his life’s journey. Christmas vacation had been such a nice break. He had reconnected with his family and was ready to get back to work. He was certain all this was observable in his easy stance, his casual confidence, and his ready, boyish smile. He wore dark slacks, freshly shined shoes, and a crisp white dress shirt and blue tie. The elevator stopped, the doors split open, and he strode out.
As he moved down the long hall toward the executive administrator’s desk, he decided to roll up his sleeves. Since he’d taken off his jacket and forgotten to grab it on the way out of his office, he might as well embrace this informal look. Perhaps he’d give the impression of having been hard at work. He considered loosening his tie, undoing the top button, but dismissed it.
Flip presses his feet flat against the end of the tub. His toenails are too long. Maybe he should trim them. He knows he has clippers in his travel bag, but he’s not willing to commit to the effort at the moment. The water doesn’t feel as hot now. He wonders if it’s running out, thinks perhaps he should hurry and get clean. His Chinese food will arrive before too long. He should have brought a watch to the bathroom, or his cell phone. The rum’s cap has plugged the drain and the water level is beginning to rise. He should get a move on, but he can’t work up the energy to move. He drinks more rum and pushes the shower curtain aside a bit, stretches his arm, and dangles the bottle over the floor.
On that day, Hank’s assistant had shown him right in. She was even friendly about it, which was unusual because everyone agreed she was a bitch on wheels. He should have known something was up. Before entering the room, Flip paused and took a calming breath, then gave a cursory rap on the door and pushed into the enormous corner office.
“Flip,” Hank said, not without enthusiasm.
“Hank. Good to see you. How was the holiday?”
“It was trying.” Hank gestured to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Alexis invited her newest boyfriend to come open gifts with us. I don’t know how easy it is to find a broke, inarticulate, tattooed, and pierced starving artist at Yale. But she has a real gift for it. This is the third one in a row. A painter. Which somehow I find even less acceptable than the sculptor or the print maker.” He was leaning back in his high-backed chair. Not really talking to Flip so much as performing. But that was his way. He was a little man with thin blond hair, which he wore slick to his skull. It was unclear if he was balding or if he simply had hair that was nearly the same color as his scalp.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Flip said.
“Why do they call it print making anyway? They all make art. They don’t call painters painting makers or sculptors sculpture makers. Shouldn’t they be called printers? I think they should. I find the whole field confusing. The whole event was a misery.”
“Daughters have a way of doing that to a father. Trust me. I know,” Flip said knowingly. He judged it was always a smart move to intimate that he shared common ground with Hank.
“I just wish she would come home with someone who understands the rules of football. Or who plays golf. Or even someone who can actually do something useful with their hands, like fix a car, network a computer, do the books. A CPA would thrill me to no end. I would write a check for the wedding immediately. Someone who does something honest. Artists are mostly charlatans, in my estimation. But what do I know?”
Flip didn’t know what to say. So he said, “You’re right.” Which always seemed like a safe bet when talking to Hank. There was a long silence. Hank looked at his manicured fingers, which he had folded on his desktop. Flip looked at Hank’s fingers too. After a long pause, Hank unfolded his hands.
Flip’s back is starting to hurt and the water is definitely cooling down. He rolls his torso forward into a splayed-knee sitting position. He looks like an unpigmented cave frog, if a cave frog could sit on his ass, grow fur, and nurture a gigantic Buddha belly. He lets his chin fall forward to his chest. The folds of meat around his throat might cause him to suffocate if he presses hard enough, but when he tries it, he finds he can breathe about as well as usual. Though his sinuses are a bit stuffy.
He uses his right forearm to cradle his gut like a giant baby. He can’t believe the size of the thing. He takes his left forearm and presses down on the misshapen mass of his midsection from the top, trapping it in a scissor move and squeezing it like a massive zit. It’s truly disgusting. This is what it feels like to be old.
He pulls his legs up and pushes with ample force to unwedge his ass cheeks from the walls of the porcelain tub. Tepid water sloshes around his ankles. He works himself into a standing position, taking his time with straightening his lower back. He finishes his rum, leans out, and tosses the bottle toward the little plastic trashcan next to the toilet. It doesn’t land in the can, but it doesn’t break when it hits the vinyl floor either. Could have been worse. The water spraying from the low-flow showerhead is turning cold now. He grabs a tiny bar of soap and goes to work on his pits.
“You want a drink, Flip?” Hank had shoved back his rolling chair, crossed to an antique barrister’s bookcase, and raised its frosted glass front.
Flip had looked at his newest watch. It read eleven ten. He had never seen the bookcase opened before. He had always assumed it had books in it, not crystal decanters filled with amber liquids. Hank had never offered him a drink. Maybe he was stalling, perhaps his surprise birthday party was supposed to start at eleven thirty. Flip wasn’t much of a drinker, but what the hell. If the boss offers you a drink, you should probably accept it.
“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you’re having.”
Hank turned his back to Flip. There were tiny silver tongs used and the sound of ice clinking on glass. He saw Hank reach for a decanter, and then a silver pitcher. A long silver swizzle appeared. More clinking. Then Hank turned with a glass in each hand.
“How long have you worked for me, Flip?” he asked. Flip stood and took the tumbler.
“Going on eighteen years now,” he said. He touched his glass against Hank’s.
“Here’s mud in your eye,” Hank said. Then he pitched back an entire tumbler of Scotch and water. So much for stalling. Maybe the party was at eleven fifteen. Flip sipped at his drink. It was pretty smooth, but too strong for him.
“Nice,” he said.
“Flip,” Hank said very matter-of-fact. This is it, Flip thought. A rush of people busting in
Hank’s office and yelling “Surprise!” at the top of their lungs.
“I’m so sorry. We’re going to have to let you go. We are doing some belt-tightening around here. And you just have too much experience for us to keep you.”
Flip looked down at Hank’s flesh-colored hair. Hank wouldn’t look back; his head looked absurdly tiny between his suit jacket’s enormous shoulder pads. Flip drank his Scotch and tried to absorb what was happening, what Hank had said to him. He walked over, poured himself another Scotch with no water, and slammed it. He couldn’t make sense of the internal logic of Hank’s statement. It didn’t make any kind of sense. He poured a third tumbler of Scotch, this one all the way to the rim, and stood sipping it until it was gone.
“It’s my birthday today,” he explained to Hank, thinking perhaps this was all an elaborate birthday prank. And if not, somehow it would be too unseemly to fire a man on his birthday.
Hank joined him and put his hand on Flip’s shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Now go home and spend it with your family.” Hank guided Flip to the door. “I will have security escort you from the building.” It was the last thing Hank had said before closing his door behind Flip.
Flip lathers his whole body; the bar of soap makes wet squelching noises as he scrubs. The water is getting very cold now. He uses fruity-smelling shampoo from a tiny bottle and scours his scalp. The water is so cold now he’s getting a headache. He makes another turn in the deepening water. His ass catches on the shower curtain and pulls it open. He shuts off the water and steps out. He leans back in and fishes the rum cap from the drain.
There’s a knock on the door to Number Three.
“One second,” Flip calls. He briskly dries himself. His dirty clothes drag against his moist body when he pulls them back on. More knocking.
“One second,” he calls again. He buttons his shirt, feeling mildly frustrated by the missing button, and walks to the door. He pulls the door open. “Come on in,” he says without looking. “Let me get my money.”
“Thank you.” A trim little man with white hair enters the room and stands just inside the door watching Flip scrounge through his empty pockets.
“Um . . . I think . . . there might be a misunderstanding,” the older gentleman says.
Flip looks at him. He’s not carrying a bag of Chinese food. He’s carrying a bottle of red wine. He holds it out to Flip. Flip thinks the man looks like a butler. He has always wanted a butler.
“Welcome to the Lakeside. I’m Dean.” He indicates himself by patting his own chest. “I live next door.” He gestures with his thumb to the wall on his left.
“The candle,” Flip says.
“That’s me,” Dean says, with a warm smile and an affirmative nod. “The tiki candle.”
“Oh. I’m Flip,” Flip says. “I was expecting someone else.” He takes the wine and appraises the label as if he knows something about wine. “Nice,” he says. “Thoughtful. Thank you.” He shakes Dean’s hand. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. I just like to make people feel welcome. Are you gay or divorced?” he says as he takes in the room.
“What?” Flip responds, confused.
“Gay,” Dean indicates himself again, “or divorced?” He gestures to the right wall of Number Three. “You see, the men who move into the Lakeside are either gay or divorced. I am gay.” Again patting his chest. “I moved in over two years ago. Larry,” indicates the right wall, “lives next door. He is divorced. He’s been there for a few weeks. He’s looking for a townhouse. He is depressed about the divorce and doesn’t know what to do with himself. I keep hoping he will snap out of it a bit. But, so far, no such luck. But I shall not relent.” Dean walks back toward the door. “Well?” he asks. “Which is it?” He puts his hands on his hips and waits. The silence is easy, not confrontational or challenging.
Flip processes the question.
“Neither.” Flip says. “I am neither gay nor divorced.”
“Wow. I would have guessed divorced,” Dean says. He sounds genuinely surprised. “But I thought gay might be a possibility. Either way, I like for people to feel welcome. I, just so you know, am not offended by your sexual preferences. I am very open-minded that way. If you want some company, I’ll be out on the ‘veranda’ smoking and avoiding mosquitoes.” He makes very precise air quotes as he says veranda. “I bet you have a story to tell. I would love to hear it. We could break open that wine.” He points at the bottle, then he turns and closes the door behind him. Almost immediately Flip hears a car drive up, sees headlights against his closed curtains.
Flip sets the wine on the counter in the kitchenette, finds his debit card, a couple of paper coasters, and a wad of crumpled cash on the floor near the bathroom. Another knock at the door, more insistent than Dean had been. He opens it and pays the deliveryman. It’s a new guy. He’s about Flip’s age, balding and dressed in black running shorts with a red Good China T-shirt. Behind him the delivery car sits, the door standing open, headlights on and engine idling.
“Here’s your change,” the man says, passing over a dollar and thirty-five cents.
“You can keep it,” Flip says.
“All for me?” the man replies with mild mockery. He doesn’t wait for a response or a larger tip. He just leaves.
“See you around. I’ll catch you up next time,” Flip calls.
“That’s fine,” the man says. He slips into the red vinyl seat of the Good China Chevy Citation and crunches gravel on his way out of the lot.
Flip hefts the bag of Chinese food he’s clutching in his hand. It’s heavy, a lot of food for a third dinner. I have to make some changes.
He leans out of his door and sees Dean sitting at his table, legs crossed, left knee over right, looking into the night as if he has an ocean view, and smoking a skinny brown cigarette. Flip looks out into the parking lot too, convinced by Dean there might be something out there. But there isn’t.
“You still up for a visitor?” Flip asks.
Dean turns his head in a lazy way, smiles, and nods. “I’d be happy for some company. Join me on Veranda de Dean,” he says.
“You want an egg roll?”
“I doubt my wine choice will complement the Asian flavors particularly well. But, I’m really not that hard to please.”
“Give me a minute,” Flip says.
“I’ll be here,” Dean replies, while lifting his cigarette in a silent salute; swirls of smoky tendrils mimic his gesture.
Flip kicks the door closed behind him.
Sara was right. He does need to start acting like a grown-up. He needs to take responsibility for his actions. No one has forced him to eat junk food every night. No one has made him start drinking and popping pills. He has enough time on his hands to work out, to make healthier choices.
He unpacks the takeout cartons from the bag and wedges everything except the egg rolls into the mini-fridge. When he takes the egg rolls out, they’re cold, so he sets them on the rack of the countertop oven and twists the knob to toast. Then he searches the cabinets for cups and a plate.
Lynn was right too. He might not have an income, but he could have helped more with housework, with the kids, with homework. He’d always known it took cash to run a family, and that had been his primary contribution. Because he had no cash to contribute recently, he’d let himself believe he had nothing to contribute. But now he sees it differently, for the first time really. Family takes another commodity: time. Cash and time. He is short on cash but long on time. He should have helped more. I’m pathetic. Lynn had been right about that too.
He finds a stack of hard plastic plates and clear plastic tumblers. He rummages through the drawers and finds a corkscrew. He carefully uses a paring knife to cut the foil from the top of the wine bottle and goes to work on the cork.
Truth is, he’d never been good with the kids when they were babies. He was afraid he would break Sara. She was so tiny. He couldn’t change a diaper to save his
life. Maybe if she would have stayed still. But she never stopped peddling her fat little legs. It had irked Lynn and delighted Flip that Sara’s first word had, inexplicably, been Dada.
He had come home and nearly knocked her over as he entered through the mud room door. She was crawling after the cat, trying to eat its tail. He had scooped her up carefully. It had been a hard day at work. It felt good to see her silly toothless grin, all wet, pink gums. She had pulled on his ears and slobbered on his nose. Then she had said “Dada.” She had looked at him and patted him as if to say, I realize that you are my Dada. At least that’s how he had related it to Lynn.
Lynn had been such a natural with the kids. He’d tried at first, but slowly bowed out of the parenting responsibilities with baby Sara.
Dylan was another story. He had been born premature, had finally come home after weeks in the hospital, and had been sickly. Lynn was really protective of him, pushed everyone else away. It was all about Dyl, as far as Lynn was concerned, for a long time. Years. In those years, Sara was on her own. She went from an only child with two doting parents to a first child with absentee parents. Flip had seen it clearly. The kids were born nearly ten years apart, and Sara was becoming more interested in socializing with her friends than hanging around her baby brother anyway. But Flip had stayed out of it. He saw that she needed some attention, and he didn’t do anything, didn’t know where to start. He worked longer hours, made more money, and became a stranger in his own home. And now it’s too late. At least that’s how it feels.
The bell dings on the toaster oven. Flip pulls the egg rolls out and cuts them on an angle, as he’s seen in restaurants. He finds a shot glass in one of the drawers and fills it with packets of duck sauce, then nestles it among the lengths of egg roll. He pours wine into the tumblers, balances everything the best he can, and walks to the door. He can’t open it, so he kicks it a few times. A moment later Dean lets him out.
Good for Nothing Page 9
