He pays and sits, sips his scalding coffee for a while, watches people with places to go rush in and out and envies their apparent industriousness.
He only drinks half the mug and places what’s left in a black bin near the door. He takes a long way back to the Lakeside. Dean is not in his chair, but a lone cigarette stands on the tabletop on its filter end, slowly burning down.
Once in the room he realizes he forgot to eat.
He thinks of showering again and putting on fresh clothes.
He notes that he needs to go to the laundromat.
He thinks of walking again to get breakfast.
He weighs the pros and cons of walking for breakfast versus driving for breakfast.
Then he realizes he’s stalling.
He takes out his yellow pad and sits on the side of his bed near the phone. He dials the number for DynaTech Solutions and a woman answers.
“This is Myrna Mays. How may I help you?” She sounds like a young go-getter.
“Myrna. Ms. Mays. Hello. This is Flip Mellis. I received a message that DynaTech Solutions would be interested in setting up a time for an interview—”
“Oh, Mr. Mellis, so good to hear from you. I was expecting your call. I have your file on my desk somewhere. Here it is. Are you available for an interview this week?” She sounds genuinely excited.
“Yes.” He loudly turns the pages of his legal pad to give the impression he’s looking over his calendar. “I think I can find time in my schedule.” His throat constricts and squeaks slightly with involuntary feelings of enthusiasm and anxiety. He holds the phone away and clears his throat. “I’m just getting over a cold,” he explains. “Excuse me if my voice is a little tired. What day is good for you?” he enunciates with exaggerated calm.
“Well. Let me see.” She seems to change her mind. “Actually, Mr. Mellis, let me give you a little background. We have already interviewed two other candidates for this position. And including you, we will interview three more this week. The response to the Director of Internal Communications posting has been amazing. We received over eighty highly qualified applications for the position. And well over a hundred and twenty total. That’s triple the normal volume of response we’ve had for similar job openings over the past few years. Of course, with unemployment so high, we expected a substantial response. But this was far beyond our expectations.”
“How many candidates do you intend to interview?” Flip is busily scratching out notes on his legal pad, trying to glean as much information as possible.
“We invited six people to interview. One of those applicants has accepted another position and just moved to the East Coast. Given that, the total will be five, including you.”
“Yes. Great. I’m very excited about the position. I feel like my skill set would be a good match for DynaTech’s needs. From what I know about your corporate culture, I would feel very much at home there,” he says. It’s a complete fabrication, but sounds pretty convincing as it comes out of his mouth. He thinks again about Kristin, wonders if he should call her after all. It would be the smart thing to do. But as needy as he feels right now, as emotionally spent, he might not be able to resist her advances if she chose to make them. Although, honestly, given the shape he’s in, not even a desperate, lonely woman with unresolved daddy issues would be interested. Unless she were blind too.
“Oh really? What have you heard?” Myrna asks.
“Excuse me?”
“What have you heard about DynaTech’s corporate culture?”
Shit. He drops his pen on the floor. He was sidetracked and hadn’t anticipated a follow-up question to his bullshit.
“The usual,” he says to buy some time. “I’m sure you are aware of DynaTech’s reputation,” also a bluff.
“Well yes. We are a growing company in the U.S. market. I’ve been here for four years. In that time this office has tripled in size. My perspective is as an insider. I’m really curious about your impressions,” Myrna prods him politely.
“Okay.” He tosses the pad of paper beside him, stands and starts to pace. He once read, in a book on public speaking, that if you stood and moved around it would make you sound lighter and more assertive. “I understand the environment is professional, but not cold. While DynaTech employees are qualified and skilled experts, it is not a competitive culture. Instead there is a sense of support among peers and a healthy striving for excellence that helps lift all boats.” When he’s done, he isn’t sure what he said or if it even made sense. He wants to ask Myrna if it formed a complete thought, if it was just gibberish. But he holds his breath and waits. The pause is excruciatingly long.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Mellis. That’s good to hear. I would like to think that’s an accurate assessment,” Myrna says. She sounds distracted as if she’s taking notes of their conversation. He imagines she’s holding a file with his name on it. The file has his application and resume, and now some version of the story he just generated.
“Have you already heard from the references I provided?” he asks.
“Yes. Yes. I have them right here. All very good.”
“That’s great to hear.” He is careful not to sound surprised. Why should I be surprised? I was good at my job, worked hard, and was well liked. I think.
“So what day works for you, Mr. Mellis?” He sits back on the bed and snatches up his pad, scoops his pen from the floor. “I will make time in my schedule. Whatever is most convenient for you is fine with me. I will make it work. I’m a problem solver who gets things done. So, I will make it work. This opportunity is my top priority.”
“Great to hear. How about tomorrow at ten thirty?”
Oh my God. Too soon. I’m not ready for this. He wants to say no, but he says, “Yes. Fine. That should be just fine. I have a few things to rearrange. But, I’m happy to do it. I look forward to it. The sooner the better.”
“They will have your name at the security desk. Just let them know you have an appointment with me, Myrna Mays, in HR. They will call me when you arrive. You can expect the interview to take a couple of hours. First, we will take care of some paperwork, you’ll get a tour, at least of the Communications Department, and we’ll get you in with some of the senior executives. I know Mr. Krueger will want to meet with you. He’s the one who makes the final decision, very hands-on. Any questions?”
“Yes. Actually, I am curious about the other two candidates yet to be interviewed. Have they contacted you already?”
“Yes. They will be coming in this afternoon.”
Flip is happy about that. He would rather be first or last. Either set the bar or have the last impression. Interviewing in the middle of a pack is just a recipe for getting lost in the shuffle. As he thinks this, he realizes he really doesn’t know that to be true. It’s just something else he read in a self-help book once, probably something Lynn bought for him, likely it’s now lying in a landfill reeking of Samuel Adams. But the notion sounded right to him, so he adopted it as fact.
His nerves get the best of him and he adds, “Saving the best for last?” Stupid.
“Yes. Well. See you then, Mr. Mellis. Please bring a picture ID.” Myrna Mays hangs up.
Flip holds the pen tip over the legal pad and attempts to recall everything from the exchange. His mind keeps turning to Lynn.
There’s a scenario playing in his mind: he’s back in their house, in the kitchen. The remains of a family meal are scattered across the table between them. He sips the last of his wine. The house smells like baking cookies. Dyl is on the floor rolling Matchbox cars over the linoleum and making engine sounds with his lips. Sara cleans plates and loads the dishwasher. Flip clears his throat and proclaims, “I’ve been offered a job.” Lynn looks at him with pride. Dyl jumps around with five-year-old enthusiasm, but with no real concept of the implications. Sara leaves the water running at the sink to hug him around the neck from behind, her cheek pressed to his. It’s all he can think of for many long minutes.
Hateful Peopl
e Are Hateful
Flip kicks off his shoes and peels off his rain-wet socks. He strips an oversized pillowcase from the bed and stuffs it full of dirty clothes. His dry-sock feet go back in wet shoes that he leaves unlaced. He throws the sack over his shoulder like Santa Claus and lugs it out the door.
The Passat’s shattered driver’s side window is still down, the driver’s seat and door panel are soaked. Flip is on a mission, so he is unperturbed. He pitches the dirty clothes in the trunk and heads back inside.
He throws a couple of dry towels over his shoulder, grabs all his dress watches, and locates his cell phone. He dries off the car’s interior the best he can, folds a towel as a cushion to keep his rump dry, and sits sideways in the seat, his feet still on the asphalt. He hears the car’s suspension squeak as it shifts under his weight.
When he reaches around the steering wheel to turn the ignition, the orange light shines on the side of his face and the bell chimes. He opens his phone and dials home.
“Hello,” his mother-in-law says.
“It’s Flip.”
“I know that.”
“Is Lynn in?”
“Of course she isn’t. She’s at work. She works for a living. To keep bread on the table and a roof over her children’s head.” Flip can hear the TV in the background. He knows his mother-in-law is sitting in the den, watching her soaps and drinking hot tea as she lectures him.
“Can you leave a message for her?” No response. “Please?”
“Yes. I suppose I will do that. What is it?”
“I have a job interview. I was able to schedule it for tomorrow. Can you tell her that, and ask her to call me when she can? I will have my phone with me.”
“Well, bully for you.”
“Can you just leave the message?”
“I said I would.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” then before he can hang up she adds, “Oh, don’t expect a call today, though. She’s going straight from work to an appointment of sorts. Kind of like a date. Seems to me she is getting on with her life. Maybe you should just do the same.”
“What do you mean, a date?” he asks. His mother-in-law hangs up. He calls back, but it goes to the machine. Mean old bitch. He hangs up without leaving a message.
Of course, he knows she’s just making trouble. Probably.
He dials Lynn’s work number. Ring. He isn’t supposed to ever call her at work. Ring. She worries about it. Ring. Her boss gets irate when people take personal calls on the clock. Ring. But he needs to hear her. Just for a moment. Ring. An automated voice service answers.
“It’s me. I wanted to let you know I have a job interview set for tomorrow. If you could call me sometime, I can give you the details.” He wants to say more, to ask about her evening plans. He doesn’t, though. He says, “Bye,” and disconnects the call.
He pulls his legs in the car and closes the door a little too hard. He worries he’s made the window worse. It wouldn’t take much for it to come completely apart.
It takes him long minutes to decide what to do next. His fingers clench and release the cold steering wheel. The conversation with the ancient she-devil, Coleen, bothers him. First, he doesn’t know why she’s such a venomous, deceitful wench, and second, he’s afraid she’s telling the truth. He thinks of Lynn in her new, low-cut blouse, shapely skirt, and heels for the appointment with Dr. Hawkins. The doctor certainly seemed to notice. An image of Lynn wrapped in a sheet on the doctor’s bed jumps unbidden to mind. The doctor sits naked and damp from sex on the edge of the bed, a phone to his ear. On the other end of the phone, Flip obliviously yammers on about his insipid life.
Flip smashes his fist into his car horn repeatedly. Fuck. That. Can’t. Be. True.
His hand smarts. He shakes it out and counts his breaths. Larry opens his door and pokes his head out. He sees Flip in his car and gives a hard look. Flip shrugs and makes a show of looking around for whoever was honking a horn. Larry looks around the lot too. Then he pulls his head in and closes his door. Flip realizes his car is just eating gas, so he puts it in drive and goes.
The Quickie Mart’s pumps are open and Flip stops to fill up. While the car’s tank fills, he tries to calculate how much money he has in his account, but he doesn’t have a head for numbers and he can’t seem to focus. He’s sure it’s not much. Inside, a dark, round young woman takes his card.
“Will it jus be da gas for you today, din?” She asks with a Pacific Islands accent. She smiles, and her whole face shows it.
“I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”
“Oh. Well you have ta have someting for breakfast. Let’s get you off ta a good start today.” She turns a little to her left and points to a basket of fruit and individually wrapped muffins. She has a head full of long dreadlocks pulled into a high ponytail. It makes her head look like an exclamation mark. He likes that; it makes everything she says seem exciting.
He hustles over and grabs a mushy Red Delicious and a nearly green banana. While she rings up the fruit, he looks at her chest to find her nametag. She catches his gaze.
“Fix your eyes on my tits, why don’t cha?” she says. “You git yourself a good look?” She lifts her bosom with both hands and shakes it. “Is dat what you are aftah?”
He shakes his head, eyes wide, and takes a step back from the fleshy spectacle. She finishes the transaction and flicks the debit card at Flip’s head. He bats it away reflexively, then retrieves it from the floor.
“No,” he says. He grabs his fruit.
“Go on, you dog. Git out ah here,” she makes a shooing gesture.
“I was looking for your name. I was just looking—” He tries to explain as he backs toward the door, his fruit cradled in his arms.
“Yeah. You were lookin’ all right. I saw ya sure enough.” She reaches her hand into the nearest display. “Have a good look at dis now,” she says, and hurls a stick of beef jerky at him.
He dodges away from the dried meat projectile and stumbles out of the door, dropping his fruit and stepping on his banana.
He can see her still, behind the counter, her mouth moving and arms waving in an animated rant, with herself or with him he doesn’t know. But she keeps talking and gesturing as he peels the banana from the cement and drops it in a can by the door. She makes more shooing signs as he examines his horribly misshapen apple, soft white meat bursting from its split red skin, all around the point of impact.
He moves to dispose of it too, but the volatile islander is rounding the counter and reaching into another display, still talking. He clutches the apple and runs to his car, looking back over his shoulder. He trips on his untied shoes, falls hard, and skins his hands and knees. His nose stops inches from the front bumper of his car.
“Serves ya right, you mangy dog,” the woman yells. Something small and hard hits the back of his arm as he gets to his feet. He keeps hunched over in case she throws something else and gets his keys from his pocket. He looks back at the Quickie Mart and sees the woman go back behind the counter and put a phone to her ear. She points at him, still talking.
Before getting in the car he brushes the grit from his palms. He sees a brand new, purple, disposable lighter on the ground between his feet. He rubs the back of his arm, takes the free lighter and his damaged apple, and goes.
The X Press One Hour Dry Cleaner is attached to the X Press Laundromat. Flip parks, grabs his mashed apple, gets out, and hoists his pillowcase full of clothes. The laundromat is bright, clean, and nearly empty. The sterile interior and strong scent of detergent remind him of the hospital. His fingernails find his wrist, but he stops himself from clawing. His roughed palms itch from the gravel, and they look chewed up, but not bloody.
A man with a fifty-year-old face and shaved head is at the back table folding towels. He wears a black leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts. When he sees Flip he makes the tiniest nod of acknowledgment, then pulls more hot towels from his wire basket.
Flip dum
ps his clothes at a table near the door and sorts them into three piles. He remembered to bring the twenty he got from the cashier at Bull’s Eye and uses the change machine mounted to the wall to get quarters. He loads three washers, buys detergent from a dispenser, sprinkles it over his clothes, and drops the lids. He places seven quarters in the appropriate slots of each machine. He checks the load-size knobs and the temperature-setting knobs, then shoves the coins home. All three machines start to fill with water. He does his best to find some eatable portions of his apple while he waits for the clothes to begin their wash cycle. One at a time, the washers stop making water-running sounds and start making clothes-oscillating sounds. He discards what’s left of his apple in the trash outside, grabs his ticket stub from the car’s visor before going next door to the dry cleaner.
There’s a woman, with a blond-headed boy pulling on her skirt, already in line.
“Momma? Momma? Momma? Mommm Mahhh!” the little boy is saying.
“I’m sorry,” the mom says to the woman at the counter. She places her hand on her son’s head and strokes him. It isn’t a loving gesture exactly, but it is intimate and it seems to soothe the child. “He wants to know if he can have a lollipop,” she explains.
“Oh yes. Sure. What kind does he like?” The counterwoman, the same one who took his suit the previous day, pulls a plastic screw-top container with a wide mouth from under the counter. It’s filled to the top with colorful, individually wrapped lollipops. Flip thinks they look pretty good. He might ask for one himself.
“We have green apple. We have red cherry. We have blue flavor. What kind you like?” She comes around the counter and kneels down next to the child as she speaks. She tips the container in his direction.
The boy looks up to his mother for reassurance. The mother smiles and nods and makes a “go ahead” gesture. He looks at the counter lady. She smiles and nods too, holds the container a little closer to the boy. His face is wet with tears and the space between his nose and upper lip is slick with green-tinged snot. He uses the back of his hand to smear it around, and then plunges the same hand into the lollipops, starts feeling around as if the ones on the bottom might be superior to the ones right on top. Flip decides against asking for a lollipop.
Good for Nothing Page 18
