Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  Flip doesn’t get time to think much about Lynn’s message because another woman begins to speak.

  “Why Flip Mellis. Long time no see.” Flip can’t place the voice. “I got your message. I would be happy to talk with you about DynaTech.” It’s Kristin. “Just give me a call. Or we could meet over lunch. I’m free to grab something most days. Or dinner would be good too. You still running? I’m training for a marathon, my first. Just a few weeks away now. I could use some pointers. Talk to you soon.”

  A prerecorded voice gives him options and he deletes the messages, including the one from the previous night. Immediately he wishes he’d listened to Lynn once more. He misses her. His eyes are heavy. He wants to sleep. He looks at his watch. It isn’t even eight. Why is he so tired?

  Right: he woke up early and accomplished more today than he’d done during the previous month. Also, he had taken a nap, and that always makes him feel sleepy. He heaves himself to a standing position.

  He strips down to his boxers and scratches the back of his meaty, shaved neck. He feels his sinister facial hair. If DynaTech is looking to hire a tyrant from the future, I’ve got it in the bag. He shakes his head and hustles his balls while he walks into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  In the bathroom he uses his palms to rub brisk circles on the sides of his prickly head. His hands come away coated with bits of hair. He should shower again, but he doesn’t. He feels a painful zit forming in the center of his forehead. He examines it without glancing too hard at the rest of his reflection. A unicorn horn is about to burst from his angry flesh. He wonders if that means he gets to make a wish. I wish for a good job.

  While he’s thinking about it, he pulls open the folding door on the closet and unzips his suit bag. He takes out the largest suit, the only one that might still fit. He slips into the pants. They are voluminous, but as he pulls them up, they become snug. He leaves the pants open at the front and slips into a white dress shirt. He concentrates on gingerly working the tiny plastic buttons. He stretches his arms, and the shirt pulls taut across his massive back. It’s definitely tight, but passable.

  He attempts to suck in his gut, tucking in his shirttail and buttoning the pants; the button barely meets the buttonhole. But the pants hold. He zips his fly and fixes his front pockets. He finds the belt and guides it around the belt loops until the buckle meets the tail. Try as he might, it doesn’t quite reach. He whips the belt loose and lets it drop to the floor, defeated.

  Lastly, he slips into the suit jacket to test the fit. He buttons it across his front: small, but not embarrassingly so. He braves a quick glance in the mirror, decides the suit will have to do, and shucks the uncomfortable get-up off, returning it to the closet.

  The whole episode makes him depressed; depression makes him hungry. He thinks of the jellied sweet and sour sauce in the mini-fridge. He musters his will and decides to skip it.

  He sits back on the side of the bed and looks over his Saturday list, one last time. He had a productive day. He starts a list for Sunday, and makes a note to listen to his cell phone. Then crosses it out and listens to his cell phone.

  “Hi, Dad,” Dyl says. “I miss you.” Heavy breathing. “Grandma bought me a new bike with Transformers on it and those parts that stick out for doing tricks.” Flip is not pleased. Dylan’s old bike is still big enough, and he hasn’t had much success without the training wheels. Coleen is buying Dylan’s love, again.

  In the background Lynn supplies the words, “Foot pegs.”

  Dylan says, “Feet pigs, for doing tricks, like when you stand on the seat and jump over a ramp.” More heavy breathing.

  “But you are not going to do that,” Lynn’s faraway voice says.

  “Right,” Dyl says. “I am not going to do that, until I practice.”

  Then Lynn is on the phone. “Just wanted to check in.” Dyl’s voice, some distance away, continues describing, in great detail, his strategy for building a stunt ramp off which he clearly plans to jump his bike. It involves pieces of cardboard. Lynn doesn’t seem to hear him at all. “Couldn’t make any forward progress today because I spent every free minute cleaning up after the kids. Mom went to a tea with some ladies from church. Which was a mixed blessing. I will try the room phone. Bye.” When the message ends he plays it again and is careful not to delete it.

  Next he pulls the phone book from the side table and looks up a number.

  “Hello,” a gruff, suspicious voice answers.

  “Hi, Dad,” Flip says.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “It’s Flip. Your son.”

  “What the hell are you doing calling me? It’s late. I’m about to get in bed.”

  “I want to buy you dinner. You have time to get together sometime soon?”

  “You said you are buying. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Tomorrow night will be fine. I like the food over at the Country Sizzle Buffet. Five o’clock on the dot. Try to be punctual. You were never very punctual. If I don’t eat by five-thirty I get grumpy.”

  The words “Unlike now” slip out before Flip can stop them. He regrets the comment immediately. Not because his father doesn’t deserve it. But instead because he knows there’s no point. Byron is as Byron has always been and is far too old to change now. Flip will either have to deal with him as he is or not at all. He would prefer not at all. There is, however, a comforting familiarity to his father’s consistency.

  “What did you say?” Byron asks, a threatening tone rising to the surface.

  “I said five will be fine, Dad. That’s fine. See you then. Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “We’ll see,” Byron says and hangs up on Flip.

  Flip puts the phone in its cradle and lets his fat back and freshly trimmed head flop across the bed. His eyes want to close and he lets them.

  A moment later he’s joined by several women. Lynn is there, but not Lynn now. Lynn that he lived in sin with, before-marriage Lynn; before-children, young-and-happy Lynn, who laughs at his jokes and spends long stretches of time wearing no clothes at all. His travel companion and conspirator. Her face fills his field of vision.

  “I hate that we have to work,” she is saying. “I just want to stay in bed with you all day.” She lounges lazily with her naked upper body pressed against his. She’s absently tracing circles on his young, hairless chest with sparkly blue nails. “When I’m at work, I think about you all day. Do you think about me?” The truth is he thinks about work when he’s at work. But he’s always happy to get home. Planning the upcoming wedding is the most stressful thing they’ve had to contend with as a couple. He’s sick of wedding magazines, but looking into her face makes every inconvenience worth it.

  “I think about you always,” he says.

  Vanessa is there too, half covered in a white sheet beside him. Her hair is out of its sensible ponytail and spread across the pillow behind her. The sheet contrasts with her rich skin tone. His head fills with the warm smell of her, and, again, his mouth waters.

  “I will be back to see you on Tuesday,” she says with feeling. But when he looks at her face, he sees Aubrey’s pale, freckled, sun-kissed cheekbones. He’s surprised to see Kev’s girlfriend there. But she smiles at him, and giggles a high girly giggle, her tiny tummy fluttering under the sheet, one thin hand reaches to cover her grin as if embarrassed. He doesn’t know why, but she seems happy to be there. One of Vanessa’s long legs sticks from under the sheet and rubs against the side of his. Her toes flex against his ankle as if she is trying to pinch him playfully with her toes.

  Lynn presses her weight down onto his hip girdle and grinds against him. He catches a movement behind her, leans his head around Lynn’s face, and peeks through her sea-scented hair. He can see another woman sitting with her naked ass between his feet at the foot of the bed. Her back is shapely, her skin creamy, and, as she turns her profile to him, her silky hair sweeps across her shoulders. Her breasts are engorged with milk to the point of loo
king hard and painful, and she cradles a nude child to her chest, its mouth latched and suckling at her left tit. The woman from the coffee shop smiles sweetly and invitingly to him. She holds his gaze for a long moment, then gets angry and storms away, switching her round rump and swaying her curvaceous hips as she disappears into the deeper shadows of the room. He wonders how a woman can change from flirtation to vindictive outrage in the blink of an eye.

  He seeks comfort by touching Lynn’s hair. She still strokes his chest and smiles that familiar smile for him while gently and rhythmically pounding him deeper into the mattress. It’s not young Lynn though. It’s Lynn from Thanksgiving, from the day of their nature walk. But she looks distant, as if viewed through the lens of a camera. She poses and puts on her best smile, gestures at the spread of food on the dining room table, illuminated in an island of light to his right. He wonders what he’s done to deserve the kind of love in her eyes? He fears it’s all an act for the camera, for the sake of performance, for history and familial fiction that their progeny can cling to a generation from now. Once the moment’s documented, she’ll scowl and turn away.

  Someone is touching his scalp. He looks through the tops of his eyes and finds his head is resting in Dean’s lap. Dean is shirtless, has an upper body like an adolescent. He wears pressed khaki slacks. Chills run down Flip’s back and he can hear Dean’s carefully enunciated whispers of support.

  “Stop it,” he says. “Hush now. You are a handsome man. Gay, divorced, or both?” he asks. He stops stroking Flip’s hair and waits for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” Flip says. “Not gay. I’m sorry. But not divorced, either. Not yet.”

  “Oh just shush,” Dean says, smacking Flip lightly on the forehead. “Sometimes what one perceives as a curse might actually be a great blessing.”

  Flip nods his head in agreement. Dean’s voice fades as another sound rises. He finds himself listening to his dead mother. She hums a tune while standing at the sink doing dishes, her yellow gloves dripping with white suds. In the dark of the room, he hums along. He can smell baked macaroni and cheese and the lemony scent of Mr. Clean. He can hear the sizzle of chicken frying in a cast iron skillet. The creamy-smooth chocolate taste of Jell-O brand stove top pudding rolls around inside his mouth.

  He rocks his head on his stiff neck and lets his eyes come open again. Sara and Kristin are there side by side, their bodies in an identical pose, knees tucked up under them and so close they are locking arms. They’re both dressed in flannel pajamas, like it’s a junior high sleepover.

  “Your father is very sweet. He was always helpful to me at work. Especially when I first started, I was in over my head. He helped me through and stuck up for me,” Kristin says, looking at Sara. They don’t acknowledge Flip. Their hair is done up in big curlers that bob as they talk.

  “That’s nice,” Sara says. “Good for you. But where is he when I need him? I am going through some shit.” She abruptly crosses her arms petulantly and turns her head away, curlers flailing.

  “I got drunk at a conference and hit on Mr. Mellis, your father,” Kristin confides. Flip shakes his head in the negative. He doesn’t want her to tell that story, but the words don’t form in his mouth, the breath doesn’t gather in his lungs. Lynn is still pounding him against the mattress, and it’s making it hard for him to take a breath.

  Kristin nods her head in the affirmative, curlers drop from her hair, leaving long twists of luxurious, satin waves. “I hit on him hard. I threw myself at him and hung all over him. I touched him too much and was very obvious. I talked about my sex life. I may have told him I was lonely. I know I told him I was very good at keeping secrets and that I was on birth control. I played with my throat and fingered my blouse, when I was sure his eyes were on me, I unbuttoned another button, claiming it was getting hot at the bar. I asked him to my room, and he was such a gentleman. He helped me to my room, made sure I was safe, took my shoes off, and set a trash can next to my bed in case I got sick. He said he was in love with one woman and that that was more than enough. But, he didn’t leave. He sat on the edge of the bed for long, tense minutes. Silent. I held my breath so long it hurt. Then, he let himself out.” Her amber-flecked brown eyes lock with Flip’s.

  Young Lynn is back and smiling on his chest. “You are sweet,” she agrees with Kristin.

  “Good for you and Flip,” Sara says. She doesn’t say, “Dad.” She knows this bothers him. Then she slides off the bed. When her feet hit the floor, she’s tiny, preschool age with bouncy pigtails. She marches her footy-pajamas over to the bathroom and slams the door. It doesn’t shake the room as a good door should.

  Flip can see Kristin, Dean, and Vanessa all shaking their heads in a combination of empathy and mild disapproval, as if to say, That one is going to be trouble. Kristin is now in a too-small baby doll tee. Flip is embarrassed by this and looks to Lynn. She has pulled away from his bloated and furry torso. She is dressed in a series of shapeless layers that keep her body secreted away from his gaze. She’s shaking her head too, but there is no empathy in her expression, just the hard line of a mouth and cold, distant eyes. It feels like they bore a hole right through his face and out the back of his head.

  He misses the other Lynn. Not the teen Lynn he fell in love with, happy to waste hours simply passing time and feeling in love. He doesn’t have the patience for her. But the Lynn from months ago, the Lynn he built a life with, attended his mother’s funeral with, friends’ weddings, and parent-teacher conferences. He misses that Lynn so much he aches in the center of his chest. His fat hand comes to rest over his heart to ward off further abuse, and everyone in the room slowly deserts him.

  Breakfast and Shoplifting

  Though Flip had frantically manipulated the alarm clock the previous morning, he had failed to turn it off or change the time. So on Sunday he wakes to a barely perceptible chirping that has slowly wormed its way into his mind. The chirping is preferable to a happy wake-up serenade, but not by much.

  He feels full. He thinks back over how little food he consumed yesterday and marvels that he isn’t famished. He has an urge, however, for cheese grits. He hasn’t had grits since he was a boy, hasn’t even thought of them.

  He shifts to a sitting position and listens to his body’s interior architecture pop into place. Then he stands on his feet and gets moving. In the bathroom he’s shocked when he catches his reflection. The facial hair is just crazy. But it might actually make his face look a little leaner. He considers shaving it, but doesn’t want to insult Dean. He’ll leave it for the day. The zit in the center of his forehead is truly gruesome. He squeezes the goo out for half a minute. That’s attractive.

  He steps into the tub and starts the shower. Tiny dark hair bits stick to the white porcelain sides. He catches water in his cupped hands and splashes it around to rinse the hair down the drain.

  He does three sets of pushups to exhaustion, with sets of sit-ups in between. He lies on the floor until his body cools. He gets dressed in the same khakis from the previous night and a too-bright-yellow, pineapple-themed Hawaiian shirt.

  He slept plenty but needs coffee. He wonders if the Drum Roaster is open. He dismisses the idea. He knows a place he can go to take care of all of his errands at once.

  He tears his to-do list from his legal pad, makes certain he’s gathered all his dirty boxers in a pile and placed wet towels in the closet hamper, and throws his suit bag over his shoulder. He locks the door behind him.

  Outside, the tiki candle has caved in and melted into a dark puddle of hard wax across the tabletop. Larry’s tiny hearse is backed into its spot. Flip gets in his car, deposits his suit bag, and, as he turns the ignition, a dinging bell sounds and an amber light flashes. He’s almost out of gas again. He drives toward Bull’s Eye, the most perfect one-stop, big-box department store known to man.

  He can see the iconic blue building with its oversized concentric white circle logo from several blocks away, and though it’s early on a Sunday, when Fl
ip pulls in, he finds the lot full. He parks pretty far back and walks it. He’s lightly winded when he arrives. Thank goodness the door automatically opens for him.

  He hangs a right and grabs a tray at the café. They don’t sell cheese grits. He orders coffee and oatmeal and grabs a cup of melon cubes. He doesn’t like melon much, but he feels that he’s on a healthy roll and doesn’t want to jinx it.

  The girl at the counter is named Tyrone, according to the nametag on her apron. She has no eyebrows and wears a cheap wig.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asks. He wants to figure out the eyebrow/wig issue. His first guess is that she is going through chemotherapy. But, she has a pleasant smile, high energy, and doesn’t look or sound ill.

  “No. I think that’s it, Tyrone.”

  She touches her nametag, tucks her chin to look at it, and laughs. “Forgot to wash my apron again,” she explains.

  Flip smiles and hands over his card.

  “Debit or credit?”

  “Debit.”

  “Would you like cash back?”

  “No,” he says. “Can you check my balance?”

  “Only if you get cash back.”

  “Make it so,” he says, in his best Jean-Luc Picard. No reaction. “Make it twenty, please.”

  She punches some buttons and he enters his PIN. She hands him a receipt and a twenty.

  “Thank you, Tyrone. I like your hair,” he says in parting.

  “Oh. Thank you.” She strokes her wig with an exaggerated caress. “I like your beard,” she says and points toward his face.

  “Really?” He feels his bizarre, high-concept stubble, shakes his head, and carries his tray to a built-in table.

  He pockets his cash and scans his receipt for an account balance. Only a hundred and sixty bucks remain in the account, and he needs to buy supplies to get ready for the interview, buy dinner for him and his dad, gas up the car, and get his suit pressed, among other things.