Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  “Yes. Of course, Mr. Mellis.”

  “You may call me Flip, if you’d like. Since we know one another. Unless that would be unprofessional?”

  “No. No. Flip,” he tests out Flip’s name. Then he takes it for a test drive. “Flip, between you and me,” he says in a hush, “Jeffery wants to be a cop. His dad’s a cop. So he takes all this very seriously, Flip. He is very by the book. I think he wishes you were a real perverted creep, so he could turn you over to the police, Flip. But Flip, if your story sounds legit, then we will just let you go. No big deal, Flip.”

  “That’s a relief, D.”

  “To tell the truth, we know this lady already. She has lost her daughter twice in the store. So Flip, if you work that kind of thing into your statement, I’m sure Jeffery will just file it and that will be that, Flip.” D smiles.

  Jeffery comes back in the room and returns Flip’s ID. He hooks his thumbs into his belt in a stance that looks familiar, but Flip can’t quite place it.

  “Did you take his statement yet?”

  “Just getting going,” D answers.

  “Let’s get it rolling. Remember, you just need to paraphrase the important information.”

  “I remember,” D says.

  “Mr. Mellis, please explain your interaction with the little girl in question,” Jeffery says. The shadows change again.

  “Caroline,” Flip says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The little girl. Her mother called her Caroline.”

  “Okay,” D says. “I’ll make a note.”

  Flip tells what he remembers. He punches up the parts about the mother not seeming very attentive. He emphasizes that he did not actually touch the girl, but only tried to shake her hand and give her five. He explains that he found her wandering alone in the card aisle and hung around until her mother found her. When he’s done, he says, “I’m a father who used to have a little girl like that. I just wanted to look out for her, because I miss having a little girl, but not in a creepy way.” D’s pen continues tapping on the form, he turns the form over, and scratches another paragraph.

  “Sorry,” Flip says. “Did I go too fast?”

  “You’re fine,” Jeffery says on D’s behalf.

  When D is done, Jeffery grabs the form, puts it with some others, and draws a stapler from somewhere. He loudly cracks the stapler and drops the paperwork in a slot marked outbox.

  “I’m going to get back out there,” Jeffery says, like a shift commander on a cop drama. “Mr. Mellis, you are free to go. But don’t leave town.” He sounds so threatening when he says it, Flip nods agreement.

  “Can I take my break?” D asks.

  “Yes. Take your fifteen.” Jeffery looks at his watch, then pulls open the door and exits with purpose, clearly intent on making another big bust.

  “Come on, Flip,” D says. “I’ll walk you out.” He picks up Flip’s plastic bags but doesn’t hand them over.

  Outside, Flip points toward the back of the parking lot. “I’m over there,” he says and shakes D’s hand. The boy looks suddenly ill, his hand is clammy and cold, his face has gone blotchy and slick. Flip sees D isn’t smiling anymore. When Flip tries to take his bag, D pulls it away.

  “Flip, I’d like to walk you to your car. Make sure you get there okay.”

  Flip tries for the bag again. Again, D pulls back.

  “I really can make it to the car by myself. I’m not that old,” Flip says. D laughs without humor and smiles a nauseous smile. “Well, okay. Why don’t you just walk me to the car,” he says. “And carry my bag.” He angles toward his Passat, D follows.

  It’s a long walk, and D isn’t talking, so Flip says, “Oh. Thanks for your help getting the room ready to paint. I hope Lynn paid you for all your hard work.”

  “Yes. She insisted. No problem. I mean, I was really glad to help. Made me feel like part of the family. Flip, I told Mrs. Mellis she didn’t need to pay me, but she insisted.”

  “Okay,” Flip says. They stop as a car backs out, apparently oblivious to the pedestrians they nearly hit. D looks at his shoes while Flip looks at D.

  “This is me,” Flip says when they reach his car. He takes his keys out and again reaches for his bag. Again, D pulls the bag back. “What the hell, D?”

  “Sorry, Flip. Mr. Mellis. I mean Flip Mellis. Of course this is your bag. You can have the bag. It’s yours.” He passes the bag over. “I just had something I wanted to say, something to tell you. That’s all. In private.” D looks up at the sky and squints. He looks around the lot. He looks back at his feet.

  Flip makes a show of checking the time on his watch.

  “Okay, Flip. I really like Sara, Flip. As you know, Flip, your daughter and I have been dating a little while now. Nearly a year. And we are serious. I really care for her. I love her.” He looks Flip in the face now. “Nice beard, by the way, Flip.”

  “Thank you. What are you getting at?”

  D takes in a lot of air and lets it out in a rush of words. “I love Sara and I think she loves me. I want to ask your permission to marry your daughter. I think it would be the right thing to do.”

  Flip doesn’t respond to D directly. He says, “This is a serious issue,” and he says, “I appreciate that you came to me. Very mature. I respect that.” And he says, “I need to give this my full consideration and get back to you.” Then he climbs in the car, his idiot light mocks him, the bell sounds, and he drives away.

  Regrettable Attempt at Second Breakfast

  As Flip rips out of the Bull’s Eye parking lot, a familiar vertigo surges through him, a sense of balancing precariously on the edge of chaos, his toes just gripping the edge, his body swaying over a bottomless precipice.

  Buying a gun from a preacher’s kid seems like such a very good idea right now. The emotional seesaw is more than he can handle. One moment he’s up, the next he’s down. One moment he’s excited about being a petty criminal, the next he thinks he’s going to jail. He’s getting away scot-free; he’s pulled into a disturbing vortex of parental concern that he simply isn’t equipped to handle. What does D mean anyway? “. . . it would be the right thing to do.”

  He passes a fast-food joint with a giant banner declaring Home of the Breakfast Burger next to a giant glistening, full-color, human-sized image of a burger topped with bacon and a fried egg. He impulsively makes an illegal U-turn in the sparse morning traffic. This earns him a honk and red-faced cursing from a family of four. From the back seat a ten-year-old boy with spiky red hair and a yellow sweater vest uses a Bible to hide a covert middle-finger salute. For a split second this enrages Flip beyond all reason and he considers following the car and ramming it or performing the PIT maneuver, as seen on Cops. Instead he pokes into the Maximum Burger drive-through lane and waits his turn.

  There are several cars ahead of him in line. His face is hot, his eyes water, and there is a pressure behind them. He massages his sinuses and wonders what glaucoma feels like. He pulls his car up one spot.

  His heart is racing. He rubs his chest with his fingertips. His muscles are sore from the combination of pushups and physical assault. Or I need a pacemaker. He takes a deep breath, holds it, counts in his head, and releases it. He pulls up another spot.

  He thinks about seeing his father for dinner. He doesn’t want to. Canceling wouldn’t be so bad. Or maybe just not go, stand his dad up, as his dad had done to him his whole damn life. That would be poetic. But he can’t. He likes to keep his word, and he said he’d be there. He told Dr. Hawkins he’d meet with someone too. Though the criterion was someone who would be supportive, and God knows, no matter how much Flip might want it, his father would never offer any kind of support. The car behind him honks its horn.

  Flip sees he can pull ahead, but the honking was unnecessary, so he takes his time. He adjusts the Passat’s rearview to glare at the car behind him; it’s a guy in a super duty work truck. Flip starts to pull up, but his car hesitates, eliciting another long blast from the truck’s horn.
Flip gives the car more gas and it lurches ahead.

  The work truck pulls close. Its giant grill takes up the entirety of his rearview mirror. The truck’s diesel engine revs impatiently.

  Good, Flip thinks. “Get pissed off. I don’t care. You have to wait your turn. I was here first,” he says into the interior of his car. The minivan in front of Flip eases around the corner. The truck revs. Flip gooses his car’s accelerator and he lurches up to the order board.

  “Welcome to Maximum Burger. Home of the Breakfast Burger,” a very loud and peppy woman says. “Would you like to try our Breakfast Burger Special?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like soda, coffee, juice, or milk?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Today only, we are offering our special Glazed Donut Breakfast Shake for only a dollar more.” The shake sounds simultaneously like a horrible monstrosity and the very best idea he has ever heard. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Sir? If you would like me to add the breakfast shake for only a dollar, I would be more than happy.”

  “I think not. But it was a tough decision.”

  “That will be five oh two with tax. Please pull around.”

  Flip stomps the pedal. The car hesitates and stalls. He shifts into park and turns the key. The starter clicks, the engine turns slowly. Behind him the truck’s engine races and its horn blasts. Flip twists the ignition so hard he thinks the key is bending. The starter keeps clicking but the engine won’t catch. He pumps the accelerator over and over. The idiot light seems to be flashing brighter than normal. The trucker is now leaning on his horn without cease. Flip throws up his hands in exasperation.

  In his driver’s side mirror, Flip can see the truck’s door swing open and slam closed. The trucker walks back along the muddy bed of his truck and reaches in, his hand comes out with a claw hammer. The hammer starts moving in Flip’s direction. Flip shoves the button to roll his window up. He rocks his bulk to get it moving and tries to climb over his console into the passenger seat. His seatbelt is still buckled, so he’s stopped short.

  The trucker edges between Flip’s car and the Maximum Burger order board. A number of car horns blare from behind the truck. Flip thinks they are honks of support for the threatening trucker. He catches a glance of the hammer being drawn back and leans away from the blow. Though he knew it was coming, the sudden sound of impact makes him yelp like a startled puppy. His driver’s side window holds its shape, but is covered in a network of cracks.

  “Wise ass,” is all the trucker says. He tromps toward his truck, then comes back to punch Flip’s trunk lid and smack a brake light with the hammer. “Wise ass,” he yells again.

  Work boots step in the truck cab and crush the pedal to the dirty floorboard. Flip braces for impact, but the truck manages to miss his rear bumper. When the truck is gone, Flip thinks about trying to record the truck’s plate number. All he can recall is the truck sported a my-child-is-an-honor-student bumper sticker.

  The next car in line pulls up behind Flip and parks. A silver-haired man gets out and walks to Flip’s passenger side window. Flip doesn’t see a bludgeon, so he straightens himself and rolls down the window. The Grandpa Man leans his face down and tells Flip to put his car in neutral. Flip does. The old man hunkers down behind Flip’s car and slowly shoves Flip into the nearest empty parking spot. Flip gets out and shakes the man’s hand.

  “Thanks. Sorry about that. I’m grateful for the assist.”

  “It was no problem. People have lost all sense of civility these days, like wild animals. When there’s plenty to go around, everyone gets along. When resources get tight, conflict arises. That’s all it is. This economy. It has people on edge. You need me to pull up and run some jumper cables?”

  “No. No thank you. I think I ran out of gas.”

  This earns a mildly disapproving shake of the head. But all the man says is, “I guess you’re gonna be okay then.” They stand there a few beats. He looks over his shoulder to where he has left his car.

  “I guess you better get back,” Flip says. “I’m Flip, by the way.”

  “Windle.”

  A teen, whose every fiber exudes misery and dejection, slouches his way out of Maximum Burger in a maroon button-down and a burger-logo apron. He hands Flip his order in a greasy waxed bag and a Styrofoam cup. “Manager says you can have this. But please get your car out of our lot.” The kid jabs his hand in his baggy pants and grumps away.

  Cars have started bypassing Windle’s car in the drive-through. Flip hands the bag and coffee over to the old man.

  “Why don’t you take this? Thanks for the help.”

  “All right then,” Windle says.

  The walk to the gas station is short but unpleasant. There is no sidewalk, and the ground is uneven. Flip’s ankles ache. He buys a gallon container and fills it with gas. He regrets the expense and is painfully ashamed that his shortsighted decision-making has led to yet another financially costly mistake. He considers, not for the first time, going back to McCorkle-Smithe and begging for his job back, offering to take a substantial pay cut. I’d rather be dead.

  On the return trip, his shoulders and hands ache from the sloshing and shifting liquid weight of the gas can. The sun is high and the day humid, as if rain is coming. Fortunately, once the car has gas it starts right up.

  Flip isn’t hungry for a second breakfast anymore. He takes a moment to look at his list and carefully backs out and hits the road.

  Although he’s blasting the air conditioning, he rolls down the fractured side window so he can better pretend he wasn’t assaulted by a psychotic redneck. A few miles away he parks and takes his suit to be pressed at the X Press One Hour Dry Cleaner.

  “Ready tomorrow morning by ten,” the woman tells him.

  “I thought I could get it in an hour.”

  “Sunday is only drop off, pick up. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Wait. Yes. Hold on a second.”

  He steps outside, removes the vest from the Bull’s Eye bag, and snaps the tags off. Inside, the woman takes the vest and tosses it into the pile.

  “Just need this pressed, please. No need to clean it.”

  She gives him half of a perforated ticket. In the car he slips the ticket in his visor and heads home.

  At the Lakeside, Larry’s car is still backed into its spot and his curtains are drawn. Dean’s curtains are wide open, but the space with his car is empty. The puddle of tiki wax has been removed from the veranda table.

  Flip works the key to Number Three. He fills out the greeting card: Thanks for your kindness, Dean. It is rare to make new friends at my age. Then he sets the card on Dean’s table and uses the new tiki candle as a paperweight. Flip is wistful at the thought of leaving Dean at the end of the week. But he doesn’t intend to be around much longer, one way or another.

  He wonders if the motor lodge will refund the second week’s rent to Lynn once he’s dead? He decides they won’t.

  Standing in the mouth of the closet, he removes his stolen belt and hooks it over an empty wire hanger. He sees his dress shoes and remembers he intended to buy shoe polish. Shit. It was on his list, which he left in the blue seat of his shopping cart. Again, I say shit.

  In the bathroom he unpacks his shaving supplies and lets the water run. He lathers and plays at shaving his facial hair in different configurations. Eventually his wide face is clean-shaven except for a bit he leaves under his mouth, a nearly unnoticeable tuft hidden in the cast shadow from his lower lip.

  He dries his face and applies lotion. He uses his teeth whitening toothpaste and mouthwash. He tries to dry his teeth and apply the teeth whitening strips.

  He finds his back pills and pours his palm full. He gets a rough count and swallows two without water. He sets the alarm for three and tries to sleep.

  It takes some time to calm his nerves, slow his brain, and drift off. When he’s completely asleep the phone starts to ring. He sits up.

  “Hello,” h
e says, very groggy.

  “Mr. Mellis? This is Chad. Thi gave me your number.”

  “Yes,” Flip says. The names make sense, sound familiar, but his brain hasn’t woken yet. Then he remembers. “Oh, Yes. Hello.” As he talks the slimy strip of whitening film slips slowly off his top teeth and he spits it out on the carpet.

  “Do you still want to meet?”

  “Yes,” Flip says. Though he isn’t as committed to the idea as he had been earlier. “I thought Thi said you couldn’t meet on Sundays.”

  “That’s right. I have nursery duty today during the service. Wanted to see if four thirty tomorrow would be okay? I have marching band after school, have to show up, but I can cut out early.”

  Not at the community college. “Yes, four thirty is fine.”

  “Cool. Do you know where the Food Time Diner is?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll have on a Gamecocks baseball cap. Bring a hundred and fifty dollars, cash. Four thirty.”

  “Wait. I can’t afford that.”

  “What can you afford?” Chad asks, clearly annoyed.

  “Seventy-five?”

  After a long pause, during which Flip thinks he might be off the hook, Chad says, “Fine.” His tone of voice says it’s not really fine.

  Chad hangs up. Flip falls back into the bed, rolls onto his side, and bunches his pillow. He knows he won’t sleep.

  The phone rings. Flip starts awake again. The corner of his mouth is wet. When he wipes it away he finds the remaining whitening strip has washed from his mouth in a stream of drool. More ringing. He slowly rolls toward the sound, is closer to the edge than he realized, and tumbles painfully onto the hard floor. More ringing. If he had to make an educated guess, he would say the Lakeside did not splurge on carpet padding during the last remodel. The ringing stops.

  Flip rotates his mass onto all fours and looks down at his drooping gut. His hip is going to bruise and his knees are achy. He gets one foot under him and puts a hand on his raised knee, gathering his energy before pushing into a standing position. His lower back doesn’t straighten. He forces a fist into the tight knot of muscles close to his spine and unfolds slowly until his back is erect. The light on his phone begins to flash.