The woman whispers to her husband, kisses his cheek, nibbles at his earlobe, and nuzzles her forehead against his. Flip decides not to interrupt.
The husband is Flip’s age, with two-tone hair: black on top, gray on the sides. He seems preoccupied with staring at his baby, not really responding to his wife. Abruptly, the husband looks in Flip’s direction, perhaps sensing Flip’s scrutiny. Flip concentrates on his coffee.
The months of Lynn’s first pregnancy were the best of Flip’s life. He was an attentive and genuinely interested father-to-be, and for a long time it was a secret that only he and Lynn shared. She’d had a miscarriage the year before, and they were reluctant to tell anyone about the new pregnancy for fear of having to explain another loss. So for five months they’d kept it to themselves, except for Lynn’s mother, whom they told at the end of the first trimester.
They had been sitting across from one another at the tiny kitchen table in their tiny apartment with the phone, set to speaker, between them.
“That’s great, honey,” her mother’s curt voice projected from the phone. “Just remember, you have to take care of your body, so you don’t lose your looks. Because no man wants an ugly woman.”
“I don’t think she has to worry about that,” Flip said.
“Oh, Flip,” Coleen responded icily. “I didn’t realize you were there. I wish someone had told me.”
“I’m already married, Mom,” Lynn said, holding Flip’s hand. “I snagged a good man already,” she joked. “And now, with a baby on the way, he’s trapped.”
“Well, things change, dear,” Lynn’s mom said, sagely. “Trust me, Lynn. I know from experience. Things change when you least expect it.”
Lynn had mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” and Flip had leaned across the table and kissed her cheek.
The paper reader at the next table stands and carries his empty mug to a gray plastic tub near the front door, tucks the folded paper under his arm, and heads into the daylight. Flip watches him go, then stealthily glances at the couple again. The husband stares back at him. Flip makes a show of looking admiringly at a display of stoneware coffee mugs near the couple.
During Lynn’s second trimester with Sara, Flip had called every day during his lunch break to check on her.
“How are you feeling today? How is the peanut? I love you. Rub your belly for me. And your butt too.”
“Watch your language in front of your child,” she said. “I will rub my belly now. You can rub my butt later.”
“It’s a date.”
“But, could you rub my back for a while first? It’s killing me.”
“Sounds less like a date, but still, count me in.”
At night he would lie on his side in their bed and watch as Lynn undressed. Over the months he witnessed the slow, round swelling of her abdomen, the softening of her features, the growth of her breasts—the subtle, secret changes that they shared. She would catalog them aloud as they revealed themselves. She lifted her breasts and aimed the tips toward Flip.
“The skin around my nipples is getting so much darker,” she said, moving her body toward him so he could see.
“Yes. It does seem darker,” he agreed. “I guess your body is getting ready to put those babies to work.”
“And look. Can you see this?” She raised her arm and ran her fingertips along her side, just at the edge of her armpit.
“No,” he said. “I don’t see anything.”
“Feel,” she said. She took his hand and pulled him to a sitting position on the bed. She guided his blunt fingers, brushed them along her hot, smooth skin. He could just barely detect tiny raised bumps.
“Yes. I feel it. What is it?”
“Skin tags, I think they call it,” she said. “My body has a mind of its own. More than usual, I mean. It’s so crazy to think there’s a little person living in here.” She caressed her belly, and he did too. Then she had straddled him with her long legs and pressed his face between her boobs, so hard it crushed his nose against her breastbone.
The baby in the stroller starts peeping like a yellow chick, punching little fists in the air and pumping his legs inside his blanket. Flip finishes his coffee, considers taking his bag with him to the john, but decides it’s safe to leave. He heads down a hall at the back and finds a unisex restroom.
When he returns, the woman is crossing the café to get something from the condiment bar near Flip’s table. He stops well back, checks to make certain his computer bag is still there, then glances at the baby in the stroller. He assumes the infant is a little boy, but it’s hard to judge because they’ve dressed him in a pale green onesie with a matching green cotton cap, a yellow duck embroidered across the forehead. Flip wants to smell his head and feel his warm, fine hair against his lips. He wants to ask the baby’s name, say how adorable he is, relate stories about his own children. But the husband is lost in adoration for his child and doesn’t seem approachable. And besides, considering the shape of things now, he might not be the best person to distribute unsolicited parenting advice.
When Flip turns toward his table, he’s confronted by an unexpected sight. The woman is bent over slightly, with her butt sticking out and pointed right at him. She smacks her rump playfully and shakes her ass. She slowly looks over her shoulder, smiling at first, until she sees him there. Clearly the display wasn’t intended for him, but instead for her oblivious husband. She’s upset, straightens up, and hustles past him. Flip glances at the husband, who is still lost in thought.
At his table, Flip unsheathes his laptop from its protective sleeve within his workbag and turns it on. He uncurls the computer’s cord and looks for an outlet. He hears the couple’s hissing whispers. Peripherally, he can see the husband cradling his baby, can see him glaring, can see the woman pointing and the man’s handover of the infant as he stands and pushes the stroller aside.
Flip turns his back on the couple and leans down, reaches around the legs of the café table, and plugs in the computer’s cord. When he stands, the husband is there beside him.
“What’s the big idea, fat man?” the husband asks.
Flip extends his hand to shake and introduce himself. The husband slaps it away. It stings. He is a little shorter than Flip, but fit and full of self-righteous, berserker rage. Flip can read it in his face: he wants Flip to make a move so he has an excuse to punch him. Flip looks over at the wife for help. She is reswaddling the baby and packing the baby bag.
“This is a misunderstanding,” Flip starts to say.
“You just can’t take your eyes off my wife, can you?” The husband is so close now, he’s pressing against Flip’s belly, his face tipped up, his breath blowing on Flip’s chin.
“I was just . . . I’m a father. I have a baby. Two. And a wife. I was just happy for you. Seeing you and your wife, it made me happy.”
“Listen, fat man,” the husband says again.
“You really don’t need to keep calling me that. My name is—” Flip tries to shake hands again. The guy slaps his hand and pokes Flip in his pudgy chest.
“I don’t give a damn if gawking at my wife gets you off. You keep your damn eyes in your damn head. Or I might just take your damn head clean off.” Each time he says damn he pokes Flip again. It really hurts. The mean man leans his flat face forward even farther, stares at Flip hard, twists his lips into a sour expression, and shakes his head like he’s deeply disappointed. Then he steps aside, shoves the door, and holds it open for his wife.
“Come on,” he says roughly.
“I’m coming,” the woman says, with evident irritation. She pushes the stroller out of the door without a glance in Flip’s direction. The door closes and Flip lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He rubs his chest. I’m going to have a bruise.
Flip watches the woman strap her androgynous baby in a rear-facing car seat in the back of their Subaru. The husband is using both hands to force the easy-collapse baby stroller to fold in on itself, but is having trouble.
He picks up the stroller and tries to wedge it into the hatchback unfolded. It won’t fit and falls to the ground. The man leaves it and stomps away. The wife retrieves the stroller in one hand, leans into it, and it shrinks and flattens to a third of its original size in a graceful, practiced motion. She lifts it easily and sets it in the storage compartment, then closes the hatch.
The Drum Roaster’s windows are tinted and Flip trusts that no one can see in. But that doesn’t make him feel any less vulnerable when the husband gives a final menacing glare before driving away.
“Sorry about that,” a voice says at Flip’s shoulder. His whole body, recently pumped full of adrenaline, involuntarily twitches when Henry speaks. He puts his hand to his chest, to protect his heart or his pulsing bruise, he doesn’t really know. There’s no logic to the reaction. He registers Henry’s presence, and then his words. He exhales another huge, slow breath that had caught high in his rib cage.
“I’ve been bringing out the worst in people lately. But not usually when I’m sober,” Flip says.
“Yeah,” Henry laughs supportively.
“Those people are crazy,” Henry offers after a moment. “They come in here all the time. They never tip. They argue and make the customers uncomfortable. And they leave a mess. Plus, I think the guy is the one who pisses all over the bathroom. Makes me think his equipment is jacked up. Then, they broke up for a little while. She would come in here by herself. She was a little friendlier on her own. She would always be like, ‘Are you sure this is decaf?’ Did you remember to add one Splenda? This feels too heavy. Could you make it drier?’ You know, just high-maintenance. But I don’t really mind that. Some people just need the attention. Then, she got pregnant and they decided to get married. I would say, there is a one-in-three chance they’ll still be married three years from now. Statistically speaking. I just can’t see that situation lasting long. Those people are just crazy. So don’t feel bad.
“Oh.” After another pause, Henry adds, “I brought your apple.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot. Thanks.” Flip takes the apple and sits. He’s angry about what happened, even to the point of being spitefully joyful about the notion of the guy’s marriage ending badly. But he hates to think about anyone with a child going through divorce. He misses Lynn. He misses Sara and Dyl. If he can’t get things together, it’s over for them. Divorce is right around the corner, and his kids will have to live through some of the same pain he lived through as a child. If that happens, he will fail at the only thing that truly matters to him.
The table was bumped during the altercation. His saucer is full of Nutty Professor and some has splashed around the tabletop. He nearly puts his elbow in it. He’s emotionally drained and more clumsy than usual. He thinks a bag of salty, greasy potato chips might make him feel better. Or a pie.
“Want me to make you another one?” Henry asks, indicating the cup and saucer.
“No. I’m fine.”
Henry lifts the saucer from the table and drains it into the nearest trashcan. He produces a tea towel and wipes down Flip’s table and the bottom of Flip’s mug.
“I’m going to tell my dad about this. Last time I closed, I had to mop the men’s room, and I told my dad we have to tell that guy to take his business elsewhere. But he says, ‘You can’t run a business if you chase off everyone you think is annoying.’” He says it with a youthful arrogance that makes it clear Henry thinks he could run things better than his father.
“You need anything else?” Henry asks.
“No. I just need to get to work here,” Flip says. Though he wants to ask if Henry can produce a fried bologna sandwich on white bread with chips crushed on top, like his mother used to make when he was feeling down.
“This is one of those times when it would be handy to carry a gun,” Henry muses.
Flip watches Henry. He has moved off to tidy the tables and chairs that the paper reader and the couple have deserted. He wears oversized, black Dickies work pants and has a biker-style wallet leashed to his belt with an absurdly long silver chain. The chain sways and knocks against the table’s edge as Henry works.
“You know,” Flip says, “if I had had a gun, I would have shot that man. Knowing my luck, I would have killed him. And if he had a gun, I would be dead. No doubt in my mind. I think it worked out about as good as it could have.”
“Well. It might have been better if you beat his ass,” Henry says.
Flip has never punched anyone in the face, never really been in a fight. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like, but he could see it: the angry man with that sour look on his red face, drawing back his finger to give Flip another poke. Flip, reaching out with his left hand, snatching and bending the finger back until it snaps, his right fist coming over hard and battering the man’s nose even flatter, like he’d been whacked with a ham.
“That might have been okay too,” Flip admits to Henry. He logs onto the Internet and calls up his e-mail account.
Henry sidles back over to Flip. “If you ever need to get your hands on a handgun,” he says, “I have a friend who’s selling one.”
Flip looks up from the screen. “I will keep that in mind,” he says seriously, because he means it.
Flip wastes an hour or so nursing his remaining espresso beverage and scrolling through vapid e-mail traffic. He’s preoccupied with the chest poking and what Henry said about beating the guy’s ass. He imagines a dozen ways it might have gone differently. He thinks about pulling a gun out from under his Cuban shirt and watching the husband apologize. Eventually, he has exorcized the incident from the front of his mind and feels he can concentrate. He pulls out a legal pad and a pen. Time to get serious.
He finds the cover letter and resume he’d sent to DynaTech Solutions. It’s the version that tips toward management and communication skills. The cover letter reads, I am applying for the post of Director of Internal Communications. He scratches blue notes on yellow paper and surfs over to the DynaTech Solutions website. It’s very clean and minimal and corporate.
DynaTech is a company that specializes in computer networking systems and supplying customized programming for specific industries. Their emphasis is in supporting large insurance providers. Kristin Cole, a former colleague who had left for greener pastures, had sent him the lead nearly three months ago. She does something with patient services, ombudsman maybe, at a local hospital, which contracts with DynaTech. When she sent the job posting to him, he considered it a long shot. But he was desperate and willing to take anything that would pay the bills. It would be smart to contact Kristin, maybe get some more information.
He checks his watch, eats his apple, makes a list, and takes another trip to the can. The Drum Roaster is pretty quiet. A few people stroll in to grab coffee to go. A heavyset woman in her late twenties orders a giant blender drink that reminds Flip of a wedding dress, white and pastel with a decadent flourish. She sits straddle-legged at the table across from Flip, tucks her bobbed hair behind her ears, and drinks the twenty-ounce drink in three long pulls on the oversized straw. She licks her lips like a cat that has just finished a tongue bath and leaves. Flip no longer feels hungry.
He imagines that people must feel sickened by him when they see him eat. And when he takes a pizza order through the crack in his door, dressed only in a bathrobe, the driver must take the tip and make an oath to never, ever, turn disgusting like that guy. It’s a sobering thought, and it makes him feel hungry again. I’m not that heavy, though, am I? He tries not to give himself an honest answer.
Outside, the sun has crept high overhead. It’s getting hot out. He’s not looking forward to the return trek back to the Lakeside, so he stalls by meandering up to Henry and returning his cup and saucer. The kid is leaning on the counter, reading an old Gibson cyberpunk novel with a horribly creased spine. Flip read it his senior year of high school.
“Ready for another drink?” Henry asks, setting the book aside.
“No. No thanks. I’m Flip,” he says, extend
ing his hand.
“Mathias,” the kid says. “But you can call me Thi.” He pronounces it thigh.
“Okay, Thi. I better get a move on. I have work to do.” But he doesn’t leave. He presses a fist into an eye socket, in the international sign for a migraine headache, and tries to remember a question he wanted to ask.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just had a question.” He sees the book on the counter and asks, “You like Neuromancer?”
“Yeah. Pretty sick. My dad turned me on to it.” Flip remembers his question.
“This is your dad’s business then?”
“Yeah. He owns it and does the books. But it doesn’t pay enough, so he paints houses too. He wants to move the place to a better location. But rents are still pretty high everywhere. Maybe commercial properties will be cheaper soon, if the local businesses keep closing their doors. But, who knows? There’s this cigar shop that might go under. Good location. So we’re keeping our fingers crossed on that one. Although the stink may never come out of the place. Anyway, he’s saving up, my dad. You know. I work here most of the time. Just until I go to college. I took a couple of years off.”
“I see. Well, do you have a card I could have?”
“You mean a coffee card?” Thi produces a card with little coffee bean images printed in a grid. He stamps over one of the beans with a red X. “There. Every thirteenth drink is on us,” he explains. Flip takes the card.
Good for Nothing Page 11
