“This is nice,” Dean says, a few minutes later. “The wine is not as offensive as I would have imagined.”
“It’s nice,” Flip agrees.
“You are a handsome man, if you don’t mind me saying so, Flip.”
“I don’t mind,” Flip says, feeling uncomfortable. “But I think you’re full of it.”
Dean laughs and sips his wine. “No. I mean it. I have spent a lifetime observing the relative attributes of men, and I can say, with the eye of a professional, that you are lovely. You could use a haircut and a shave. But you are lovely.”
Flip feels his face with his hand. His whiskers are getting long. They feel like they’re nearing beard length. He can’t remember the last time he shaved, maybe a week earlier. Probably not that long, but a while. Flip sips more wine and picks at a few crumbs from the egg roll plate.
“Well, thanks,” Flip says. “You are very put together.”
“Kind of you to say. I do my best.”
“So. I’m not gay,” Flip says. “I mean, what you said earlier about being gay or divorced. I am not gay. I’m not divorced. But, I guess I could be, unless things turn around soon. Divorced I mean. Not gay. We are separated, my wife and I. Lynn and I. Well, not legally. But we’re not living together for a little while, to try and work some things out. I wanted you to know. I didn’t want to mislead you about my situation.”
“Oh. I figured it was something like that,” Dean says. “I hope things work out. In my experience, they always do.” Dean finishes his wine and looks back over the parking lot. The tiki candle begins guttering and the flame winks warm light over the left side of Dean’s face.
“I hope you’re right about that, Dean. I need things to work out. I need a break. I’ve had a rough time of it lately.” Flip stares out into the night too. He can’t see the Lakeside’s sign from where he sits, but he can see the way it illuminates the night for yards in every direction. They sit together in the comfortable silence and let the time pass. Dean takes a last swallow of wine.
“Do you want more wine? I can go in and get the bottle if you want more,” Flip offers.
“No. I think I will retire for the evening. This was nice, though, Flip. It’s good to meet you. And if you want a haircut or a shave, just drop by. I will take care of you, no charge. Consider it part of my welcome wagon service.” He stands and pats Flip on the arm. Then he blows out the tiki.
“That’s a kind offer, Dean. Maybe I will take you up on it sometime.” Flip stands too and gathers his things to go in.
The phone has an oversized plastic bulb growing out of its face like a tumor and it is flashing red when Flip enters the room. He drops the dishes in the sink. The clock next to the phone reads nine twenty-three. It has to be a message from Lynn. He worries the kids are hurt, there’s been an accident. He should have called to say good night. He may have promised to do that, but he isn’t sure. He reads the instructions for retrieving a message off the plastic sticker on the front of the phone, running his finger under the words as he goes. He pushes the appropriate buttons and waits with the phone to his ear.
“Flip,” the recording says in Lynn’s voice. “Just a few minutes after you left today you got a call from a company called DynaTech Solutions. They wanted you to confirm a time for Monday or Tuesday of next week for an interview.” She gives the contact information and other particulars. “I left two messages on your cell phone. But you didn’t pick up. I expected you to call to say good night to the kids. Dyl asked about you. Maybe you could give a call tomorrow. Don’t call tonight. I’m beat. I’m going to bed early. Congratulations on the interview. Flip, give them a call. Okay? And let me know how it goes.” The recording ends.
Flip searches his workbag until he finds a legal pad and pen. He replays the message and copies down the contact information. Then he plays the message once more. He loves the sound of Lynn’s voice. He should be with her right now. He can hear the tiniest hint of hope in her voice and also, perhaps, a kind of resolution that a job interview is not the same as a job, and a job doesn’t solve all their problems. He doesn’t erase the message. He might listen to it again in the morning. He considers texting Lynn. But if her phone wakes her, she’ll be angry.
Wow. Things can change so fast. If he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he didn’t really like his previous job, his career choice. He’d been comfortable with his role, with the pay and benefits. But the work was drudgery. He’d been exceptionally good at it, and that was rewarding in its own way. But how he feels or what he wants doesn’t figure into the situation much anymore. Thinking about DynaTech, he doesn’t remember exactly what he applied for, but he doesn’t care.
He can’t sit still; he paces back and forth. He gets down on the floor and does five pushups. He’s breathing heavily, sweat gathers on his brow. He turns and flops back on the matted carpet.
He had told Dr. Hawkins he would prove how hopeless his life was. He could still do that. He has a week. In one week he will either get permission from the doctor to kill himself, or he will get his act together and turn things around. He just has to push for one more week. Then things will change. Permanently.
He puts his hands behind his head and attempts fifteen sit-ups. He finishes nine. That’s enough for now. Don’t want to overdo it. Might pull a muscle. He’s excited.
He goes to the mini-fridge and digs out a crab Rangoon. Just one. He pushes his suitcase and bags onto the floor, sprawls out on the bed, and flips channels in the dark. He cracks the crab Rangoon open and sucks the cream cheese and speck of fake crab out of the first half. He isn’t hungry, but he eats anyway. He wants to stop, but it’s just one crab Rangoon, so he finishes it. He falls asleep after watching Steven Seagal pitch someone through a plate glass window.
Poked Viciously by Crazy Person
Saturday morning starts harshly, with the radio blasting “Walking on Sunshine” at six forty-five. Flip hadn’t set the alarm the night before, but neither had he turned it off. These facts do not enter his groggy mind immediately though, as the sound of the chorus slipping into static has him distracted.
He’d slept face-down and with his body crosswise. He opens the eye that isn’t pressed into the polyester quilt. Turning his head, he stares at an unfamiliar headboard. He’s sore, hung-over, and disoriented. Katrina and the Waves, he decides, is the worst possible band to be listening to when one feels this way. He’s embarrassed he knows the name of the band, yet can’t name more than three of the presiding Supreme Court justices. He peels his cheek off the quilt and rubs the drool from the corner of his mouth. His whiskers are long, his face feels raw, and he can smell his own foul breath. Wine, rum, and egg rolls are a poor combination.
He hauls his body across the bed, lunges at the side table, and slaps buttons and twists knobs until the clock radio is silent. It’s too bright in the room; the TV is muted, but still on. He rubs his eyes and watches a breakfast commercial: browned and glistening sausage patties somersault and tumble gracefully through the air to land gingerly on a toasted English muffin. Damn. Flip isn’t a breakfast eater, but it looks good. He checks around on the bed and finds only crumbs from his crab Rangoon the previous night. He crunches the largest morsel between his front teeth while considering his day.
He has an interview. He won’t know when exactly until he can call the HR contact for DynaTech Solutions on Monday morning, but there are things he can do to prepare. He hangs his feet over the edge of the bed and shoves himself up. His knees throb and he pauses to take inventory of his aching joints and various internal ailments. He wants to scratch at his irritated wrist and side, but he is turning over a new leaf. Today he stops being a victim and stops playing the fool. Today he will be all grown-up and do man-sized work. He leans his girth forward and gets busy.
After his early morning bathroom needs are met, he flops to the floor and does twenty awkward sit-ups, then pants as if he had lost a Fight Club–style clandestine brawl. He’s scared and he blames
his dad.
He never had a role model for how to be a father, or a grown man. He only knows what not to do: don’t leave your kids and abandon your wife. Based on those criteria, he’s been doing admirably. But it isn’t enough, not anymore. This feels like uncharted territory. He had taken a job after college, married, fathered children, and never really thought more about it.
He rolls onto his gut in preparation for some pushups. The thought alone makes him exhausted. He decides to postpone until the afternoon, and starts getting ready.
Forty minutes later, he throws his workbag over his shoulder, locks the door behind him, and drops the room key in his pocket. He’s dressed in a dark, monochrome, Cuban-style guayabera shirt and khaki shorts. Though he’s been assured dark colors are slimming, he doubts it applies to his XXXL box-shaped man-blouse. It’s another purchase Lynn made, and he doesn’t feel like himself in it. Though to be fair, he doesn’t feel like himself in his own body. He imagines he will remind people of a drug kingpin as seen on every episode of Miami Vice. God, I’m old.
“Well, good morning, starshine,” Dean says from his chair as he refills his coffee from a pot with a plunger on top. The mug sits on one of the paper coasters Flip left out the night before. “You’re up and at ’em, aren’t you? Very industrious for a Saturday morning.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Flip says.
“You want some coffee?” Dean offers, indicating the pot, with a Vanna White hand gesture.
“No no. I’m good right now. What do you have there? A French press?”
Dean turns and shows Flip his profile. He taps his lip thoughtfully. “Do you know what the Chinese call Chinese food?” he asks, a slight curl to his lip.
“They call it food,” Flip replies.
“And what do the French call French doors?”
“Doors?”
“Correct. And so what do you suppose the French call a French press?”
“A coffee press.”
“Ha,” Dean says and claps his hands gleefully. “No. They call it a cafetière.” He touches the plunger on the top of the coffee press. “Excuse my little joke. You sure I can’t tempt you?”
“I’m sure. Maybe later.”
“Or perhaps a ride somewhere? I’m free for chauffeuring services as soon as I finish my second cigarette and my second cup of coffee.”
“No, thanks. That’s my car,” Flip says while pointing into the lot. “I need to find somewhere with free Internet, though,” he explains. “I have some work to do.” He pats his workbag.
“Ah,” Dean says, then puffs at his skinny brown cigarette, an air of exquisite rapture on his face. Flip is mesmerized by the ritualistic quality of Dean’s movements—like tai chi, but with more nicotine. After a moment, thick tendrils of white smoke seep from between Dean’s lips. He inhales deeply and the billowy mass seems to crawl into his nostrils. It’s a cool trick and it makes Flip wish he were a smoker. Never too late to start. When Dean releases the smoke, luxuriating in the moment, the spell is broken.
“I was thinking of hoofing it up to the strip mall where that coffee joint is. You think they have Internet?”
“Ah,” Dean says again. “I really could drive you, unless you’d prefer to walk. It isn’t a very pretty walk.”
“No, thanks. I need the exercise. I have a job interview early next week.”
“Congratulations. You have to let me cut your hair and shave you. It would take years off.” Flip considers the offer. He discovers he’s more frugal than he is uncomfortable about letting a stranger give him a free haircut. For reasons beyond Dean’s easy manner and generous spirit, Flip is growing fond of the old man.
“Okay,” Flip says. “Thank you.”
“I have time tonight.”
“Great. I’ll see you then,” Flip says. “Internet? Do you know?”
“I don’t know about Internet. Sorry. I still write letters by hand, on actual paper. I find it so much more human than digitized bits flying about. But then again, I am of a slightly older generation.” Flip opens his mouth to point out that Dean is actually more than “slightly older,” but Dean gives him a warning look. Flip closes his mouth with an audible clop.
“I think,” Dean goes on thoughtfully, “I would miss the haptic experience of unfolding the page with my own hands if I switched to digital correspondence. I love the soft feel of good paper with high rag content. It feels civilized, if you see what I mean. Turning a page or unfolding a letter is like opening a new present. It’s a surprise. Also, I even file personal correspondence in shoeboxes, sorted by date. I suppose I’m getting sentimental in my old age.”
“Yes. Not to the old part. To the sentimental part,” he says, though he has no idea what Dean is going on about. “I agree completely. See you tonight.” Then he heads across the parking lot toward the road, kicking up deteriorated asphalt with his trainers as he goes.
The Drum Roaster is farther than he remembered, and by the time Flip walks in, he’s feeling spent and has a tension headache in his neck. He steps inside, lets the door suck closed behind him, and is relieved by the low, cool, cave-like café. If he weren’t so exhausted, he might feel embarrassed about standing at the entrance, panting with his hands on his knees. But he’s too fat and too tired to care.
It takes his eyes a moment to adjust after leaving the morning glare behind. He unslings his workbag and sets it in the nearest wooden chair. A guy with salt-and-pepper hair, thin on top and curly at his neck, nods to him over the morning paper. Flip nods back and walks toward the counter near the back.
The kid at the counter partakes of the nebulous fresh-out-of-high-school look, complete with Justin Bieber hair brushed around his face, tattooed forearms, and a soul patch that grows a little too long and scraggly down onto his chin. He’s tugging at the tuft of whiskers, twisting it like a neo–Snidely Whiplash, as Flip walks up.
“Water,” Flip rasps as if he’d been crossing a desert.
Henry High School turns and scoops ice into a glass. Then he runs water and slides it to Flip. Flip stands there and drinks until it’s gone. He slides the glass back.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Sure thing,” Henry says. “Can I get you anything else?” He seems unconcerned, not pushy or insulted. Just doing his job. Flip likes the kid. He’s only a few years older than Sara. He considers asking if Henry knows her, if they are in school together, if they’ve been in the same classes. You know Sara Mellis of the ever-changing hair color? She’s my daughter. But he hesitates. He’s afraid of where it might lead.
“Huh?” he says, stalling while he rewinds his brain to replay Henry’s last words. “Yes. I want coffee. What’s good?” he asks after a pause.
“The Nutty Professor is our most popular espresso drink. It’s a hazelnut-mocha with an extra shot of espresso. Very good.”
Flip is mildly bewildered by the explanation, but too spent to inquire further. He slept reasonably well last night. But woke badly, and it’s been ages since he’s done so much this early on a Saturday.
“Okay. Sounds perfect. I’ll have that.”
“What size?”
“Normal size.”
Henry punches buttons on a cheap cash register, the kind you can buy at an office supply store.
“Anything else?” Henry asks.
“Something to eat. Do you have fruit? I need some fruit.”
“We don’t sell fruit, just biscotti and muffins.” Henry points at a countertop plastic display case.
Flip looks over the choices. He doesn’t like biscotti or muffins. The choices are arranged in labeled rows that read: Chocolate Chip, Cinnamon Apple, Coffeecake, Pumpkin Spice with Cream Cheese Filling.
“Are they moist?” Flip asks.
“Usually,” Henry says.
Old Flip would have ordered something, just because he was bored. But today he is Fresh-Start Flip. “I’ll skip it,” he decides.
“Listen, I keep a bag of apples in the back. I’ll give you one if you
want,” Henry offers.
“Very nice. Thanks. That’s it then. Just the Nutty Professor. I feel silly saying that.”
“You’re telling me,” Henry says. Flip pays and the drawer on the register pops open. Flip pitches his change in an oversized mug on the counter. Henry moves over to a giant bank of knobs, spigots, and shiny metal wands, starts grinding beans, pounding things against the counter, wiping various surfaces with a damp tea towel, and pouring milk into a metal pitcher. Flip walks down to the far end of the espresso machine to wait.
Other than himself and the paper reader, there’s a middle-aged couple with a baby in a stroller. The baby is very young, maybe six weeks old, and sleeping. The couple sit very close to each other, holding hands, knees touching, staring at their child lovingly and whispering to one another.
“Do you have Internet?” Flip asks Henry across the counter.
“What?”
“Internet?” Flip asks louder, over a painful squealing noise emanating from the pitcher of milk.
“Yes,” Henry says. The squealing stops, the milk is poured, espresso is added, canisters are expressed, and shakers are shaken. In short order, a drink is on the counter. “There you go,” Henry says. “Let me know how you like it.”
Henry slides the mug and saucer to him. It smells earthy and rich and looks like a liquid frosted cupcake barely contained in the oversized mug. He blows the foam, whipped cream, and chocolate curls aside and takes a sip. It’s strong, bitter, and hot, with a silky texture and a sweet finish.
“It’s just like heaven in a cup,” Flip says, rubbing a bit of whipped cream from the tip of his nose. Henry smiles and starts wiping the machine again.
Flip carefully walks his drink to a café table and settles in. He’s wearing one of his watches and he checks it. Still early, not even nine o’clock yet. He decides he can afford to enjoy his coffee before getting to work.
The couple with the baby are still canoodling in the corner across from him. He surreptitiously watches them between sips of his caffeinated hot chocolate. The woman is beautiful: statuesque, smartly dressed, lean, and athletic looking. Too fit, really, to have just delivered a baby so young. He glances again at the baby, maybe as young as a month. He looks at the woman again, looks at her body, which is easy enough because her clothes are close-fitting. Her breasts do look swollen, full, and overlarge for her frame, so maybe she’s nursing. She is lovely in the same way that Lynn is lovely. He feels warmly toward the couple, remembers how it was when Sara was first born, the combination of complete exhaustion mixed with a sense of absolute contentment. He has the urge to reach in his pocket and bring out his photos, to share them with the couple, to reminisce. He slurps his sweet coffee.
Good for Nothing Page 10
