In the bathroom he showers, just to calm his mind. He takes out his toiletries. He clips and files his fingernails and toenails. He trims some hair growing out of his ears and nose. He examines his eyebrows and looks at his hair. He thinks he can see his own cheekbones. If he tips his head in the light, he looks rather good. He uses the tooth-whitening trio again, careful to dry his teeth before pressing the film into place.
In the kitchen, he pulls the leftovers from the mini-fridge and dumps them in the trash. He takes his snapshots and sits on the edge of the bed. He sets the alarm on the radio clock. He checks the time against his remaining wristwatch. He makes certain the clock is set on P.M. and his alarm is set for A.M. Then he finds his cell phone and sets its alarm too, just to be safe.
He looks at a picture of Dyl in his peewee league baseball uniform. He is such a happy kid, so fearless, so enthusiastic. Flip feels bad he hasn’t been more encouraging. Sara in her robot Halloween costume she made herself from cardboard boxes, aluminum foil, and dryer vent tubes. She still looked soft and round like a kid less than a year ago. But lately it was as if someone had flipped a switch. She’s a teenager, long and leggy and showing a few curves. A lot like Lynn had looked when he first laid eyes on her. He can’t bear to look at Lynn right now, so he puts the pictures down.
He turns off the lights, slides between the sheets, and, surprisingly, feels sleepy immediately. The sensation of his legs against the cool sheets causes him to think about how clean and trimmed he is. And that makes him think of Lynn; in the past she always let him know how much she appreciated it when he took care of himself. What a shame to let all that grooming go to waste. God I miss her.
Her body: skin soft and warm and perfect; legs, long and shapely and moving along his. And her neck: graceful, smooth, and arching to the side, gently tempting his mouth to taste its curves. Her scent, when his face presses against her, is enough for him to live on. A steady diet of her limbs tangled with his could sustain him like nothing else ever could. Good God in heaven, I’m lonely.
For a moment he entertains the idea that she really is on a date. He imagines her, at that exact moment, laughing with some office mate, some young intern who plays water polo and is on a raw food diet. Someone employed.
In the dark of room Number Three at the Lakeside Motor Court, he can see her smile flash for his imaginary young rival. He can see the poor kid doesn’t stand a chance. She lays a hand on his shoulder, leans her chest forward to speak over the din of the party. If she wants him, there is no way to resist her, and who would want to?
His cell phone is within arm’s reach. He could stretch his arm through the dark room and call her now. Perhaps interrupt whatever it is she’s doing. Maybe interject the notion of the time they’ve shared, of the life they’ve built, of the challenges they’ve met and the children they’ve made and raised. But he doesn’t call. Either he’s aware his imagination is getting the best of him, or he feels it’s too late to change things. He doesn’t know which.
He notes his own thought processes. This tendency toward considering the outcomes of his actions is not a new habit, but it’s been a while. He hopes it’s a sign of progress. He rattles his head against the pillow to clear it. He shakes his head until his neck hurts and squeezes his eyes until he sees stars. He breathes and focuses on counting through his inhale, then holding and counting through his exhale. He has little control of his life, but for now he can control the simple act of filling his lungs, of letting them empty. It relaxes him and weariness comes on fast.
The angry brown woman with the exclamatory hairdo is there with him. As he stood at the counter, trying to pay for his gas, he really hadn’t noticed her breasts until she lifted them and shook them at him. He honestly hadn’t been staring at her chest, had only been trying to read her name because he believes in calling people by their name and shaking their hand when appropriate—common courtesy, good manners. He doesn’t believe one person is inherently more important than the next. He’s no better than someone who works across a counter. He got that from his dad.
“You judge a man by his actions, not by his clothes or what he has to say,” Byron tells him. Little Flip has rolled from his bed to pee in the twilight hours. He finds his daddy in the hall, one hand hoisting a suitcase, the other hand clutching his work boots. Byron hadn’t said goodbye. But he’d stopped long enough to give some manly advice before leaving Flip to sort the rest out for himself.
“You git yourself a good look?” Again, she lifts her bosom with both hands and shakes. “Is dat what you are aftah?” This time, his eyes linger, he doesn’t turn away or try to explain himself or make excuses. He leers openly. There is no need for a man to explain to a grown woman the expression he wears on his face.
Now, in the privacy of Number Three, as if he is seventeen and making love in a bed for the very first time, he openly gazes on her full breasts and he feels them in his hands, hefts them and squeezes them and feels his face against them. His lips kiss the soft skin, his tongue seeks out a firm tip, and he takes the nipple in his mouth. His dick is hard and insistent under the sheet. He works it with his hand and continues to explore the strange woman’s body.
Minutes later he wakes from the dream as he climaxes. He feels immediately miserable and messy and knows deep in his soul he will never be loved again.
He needs his rest, but knows he will never sleep. He thinks that thought for several minutes; he thinks it until he sleeps.
A Personal Reckoning
A digital bleating from his cell phone wakes him at seven A.M. His sheet is stuck to his lower torso, and it rips at his body hair when he pulls it away. He rolls over and punches buttons on his phone until there’s silence and knocks the phone to the carpeted floor as he tries returning it to the side table.
Seven in the morning, he thinks. Three and a half hours before Magic Time. He forces himself to his feet, leans down to swipe the phone from the floor, startles at the sound of his clock radio blaring a grating hair-band anthem. His back torques as he involuntarily jerks away from the sudden noise.
He leaves the cell phone where it is and gingerly straightens his back: painful, yet functional. He probes the sore area along his lower spine with the tips of his fingers. It’s tender to the touch. Pills, he thinks, I need my pills. He turns off the music. Unbidden, the name Great White Snake comes to mind. He doesn’t know if that’s the name of the band, but he thinks it’s close. He takes stiff, small, shuffling steps around the room until he finds his prescription bottle.
He pours all the pills into his beefy palm. Would twenty pills kill him? He used to have a weak stomach when it came to pills. As a kid, he could barely even swallow them; if he got one down he’d throw it right up. His mother would crush them into powder with the back of a spoon and fold them into applesauce or mashed potatoes so he could keep them down.
His body has a visceral reaction to the idea of tossing back all those pale blue pills. His stomach churns and he burps sour air. The psychosomatic response, a reaction to his recent and unpleasant experience at the emergency room. He’s careful to shield himself from acknowledging any personal responsibility for the series of events that led to that trip to the ER. He closes his fingers over the pills and rattles them like dice. Not yet, he tells himself and puts the pills back in the bottle.
He thinks about his choices over the past week. So many of the foolish things he’d done occurred when he was on either booze or pills, or both. He twists the cap back on the bottle. If he’s going to have a chance of giving a good interview, he needs to avoid the pills. He needs to get ready, see if his back loosens up. If not, a pill or two might be needed.
The previous night, his intention was to wake early, get in a short walk, do some pushups and sit-ups, and then get cleaned up. Now, he decides to get straight in a hot shower and see if he can get his body working right.
After the shower he feels better. The towel won’t wrap around his middle, so he stands with his naked body in the cold
air, leaning toward the mirror as he shaves. He removes the tuft of whiskers under his lip, then dries his face. He drags the whitening strips from his mouth and flicks them in the trash.
On closer inspection, he sees his face is clean and smooth, his hair looks nice, his teeth may be marginally whiter, he has no offensive hair growth visible, his eyebrows are under control and clearly two separate and distinct strips of hair. I may be a pudgy behemoth, he thinks. But at the very least I’m well groomed, with reasonable facial proportions.
His eyes are not too far apart and not too close, his ears are proportional to his head, and his nose is attractive, perhaps his very best feature. He’s gratified it hasn’t started to turn down and elongate, like Byron’s. Though Lynn used to say his ass was his best feature, he chooses not to take a peek in the mirror.
He nods to himself and practices his smile. He smacks the meat under his chin with the backs of his fingers. His eyes crease at the corners when he grins too big, so he takes the grin down a notch: less crinkling. A fat face doesn’t hide all signs of age.
He uses his fingers to rake his damp hair into place. He sees the dry scab left from the magic pimple in the center of his forehead. He gambles and picks at the crusty bit of skin. It flakes off to reveal healthy skin underneath.
“Yes,” he says, genuinely enthused. He takes his victories where he can get them.
He moisturizes his face and neck, applies Sport Scent deodorant, and licks his thumbs before smoothing his eyebrows. He opens the new puck of hair goop and is very careful to use the minimum amount needed. He rubs it vigorously on his fingers and applies it carefully to his salt-and-pepper hair. He gives his sideburns a final stroke to smooth their tendency toward curliness. Byron’s momma, Granny Mellis, once told little Flip curly hair was a mark of a sinful soul, which, he now realizes, may have been a subtly racist remark. Odd that she should employ such nuance when she was openly bigoted most other times.
One last look in the mirror as he steps back tells him that everything above his shoulders is fairly inoffensive. If only I didn’t have to transport it on the lumpy monstrosity it’s attached to.
In front of the closet he slips into silken, maroon boxer shorts, because everyone likes to feel pretty. He checks the time on the clock: too early to put his clothes on. He pulls a crisp white T-shirt over his head.
The cell phone is still on the floor next to the bed. He refuses to let it defeat him, not today. He walks toward it, paying attention to the way his back feels. He spreads his stance, bends a little at the knees, and scoops the phone right up.
“Yes,” he says again. It’s a forced enthusiasm, but he’s trying to get his spirits up for the interview.
Slowly he lifts his feet through a clean pair of khaki shorts and slips his feet into his trainers without worrying about socks or laces. He finds his door key and marches out into the morning air for a brisk constitutional. By the time he makes it across the parking lot he knows he’s making a mistake; his lower back throbs and his muscles clench in a tight knot like a fist.
He makes a few slow circuits of the Lakeside, careful not to take long strides or step too high. When he approaches his door for the third time, he thinks the knot in his back may have relaxed a bit; but he wouldn’t swear to it. He goes back inside.
He feels hungry. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, he reasons. But there’s no food to be had, except a packet of saltine crackers he discovers in a drawer under a badly burnt potholder. As he eats all four crackers at once, he decides it’s time to suit up.
He takes out his white dress shirt. It doesn’t have a starched look, but it isn’t wrinkled either, so he throws it on and buttons it, forgoing the ironing board. Next, he wanders into the bathroom and finds the black elastic hair bands he’d retrieved from the row where Yoga Pants had been holding court with her ilk.
He slips his slacks from their hanger and leans one hand against the wall as he slides into them. He tucks his capacious shirttail into the waist of his pants, carefully arranges and folds the excess material, then tugs up his zipper. The pants fit. Actually fit. He can latch them in front and they feel comfortable. Not boxer-shorts comfortable or khaki-shorts comfortable. But they are definitely suit-pants comfortable.
“Right the fuck on!” He unintentionally mimics Kev.
He’d intended to use one of the elastic hair bands to make an extension for the waistband by looping and hooking it through the buttonhole. But now, it isn’t needed. He triumphantly pitches the unopened package on the bed. He sits to test the pants. Snug yet acceptable.
Flip retrieves his watch from the counter next to the bathroom sink and secures it to his wrist. He runs the belt around his middle and is able to use the second hole. To his delight he finds it has enough of a tail to tuck properly away. On the corner of the bed he leans down and pulls his slick socks up to mid-calf, slips his feet in his clean shoes, and ties the laces into neat bows. When he stands again, his back moves smoothly.
In the bathroom mirror he watches his hands work a tasteful blue tie into a perfect knot, first try. The tie was a birthday gift from Sara.
A longing for his family, for his home, wells unbidden and threatens to overwhelm him. His eyes fill with tears, his legs feel weak, and he wants to sit on the toilet lid and cry. But he can’t. Not now.
He rubs his face with his hands. They’re very rough, still skinned from his fall at the gas station. He searches out moisturizer and applies it liberally, works his palms together until the greasiness seeps in. Now, his hands smell like Lynn. He holds them over his nose in the shape of a surgeon’s mask and breathes deeply.
He pushes his family from his mind, before the profound sense of loss can take root. He must stay present and focused. Being distracted by a pining desire for human intimacy will only make the interview harder. Longing to know the unknowable outcome of his personal drama will only distract from the one thing he can control, his odds of getting a job.
He focuses on his tie. It’s a nice tie. He likes it. It brings out his eyes, is approachable and professional. He pulls the upturned collar down and pushes the knot all the way against his throat. The tie length is good, the tip just at his belt buckle.
He loosens the tie for now, leaves the top button undone. He digs one finger in his collar at the back of his neck and scratches. Itchy. He brings the finger out and inspects it. Hair. There are several tiny bits of hair stuck to the end of his finger. He remembers, with a sinking feeling, that he’d tried on the dress shirt after Dean cut his hair. Now the inside of his collar is peppered with irritating bits.
“Damn.”
He takes a damp washcloth and delicately swabs around the back of his neck. When he draws the cloth away, he can see he’s removed some portion of the offending detritus. He turns the cloth and tries once more with similar results. He decides it will have to do.
Back at the closet, he puts on the vest and buttons it, tucks the tie inside. He slips his arms into the substantial suit jacket and tries to assess himself honestly in the bathroom mirror. He is a well-dressed man, of middle years, with salt-and-pepper hair and at least seventy extra pounds. Not hideous. Not attractive, but passable. Passable is the most he had dared to hope for. He forces himself to say, “Yes,” with a weak fist pump.
He gathers some papers, his cell phone, and his notepad into his workbag. He takes an extra jacket hanger from the closet, double-checks that he has everything, and starts to leave. As he reaches for the door, his back twinges a bit. He returns to the counter and grabs his pills. He takes two pills from the bottle and screws the lid back on. The pills go in his pants pocket, the bottle he throws onto the rumpled bedcover, and he closes the door behind him. Before locking up, he goes back in and taps his snapshots into a tight pile, inserts them in his front pocket, and walks away. For luck.
At the car he hangs his suit jacket over the hanger and hooks it in the back seat. He removes the remaining towel from the seat and throws it into the back where it jo
ins the cookie jar. The seat feels dry to the touch. He straightens himself the best he can, decides against the seat belt so as not to wrinkle his ensemble more than necessary. The morning is already warm, so he starts the car and turns on the air conditioning. A pale mist seeps from the vents and warm air blows at him.
By the time he parks at the Drum Roaster he’s come to accept the harsh fact that the car’s air conditioner needs coolant. Shit. Or the compressor is out again. Double shit.
As he slowly rolls down the shattered window he notices several cars pulling into spots near him. He rushes, and when the window slides into the door there is a definite sound of glass grinding against glass. He gets out and closes the car door very carefully behind him before hustling into the coffee shop ahead of the other customers.
A line forms behind him as he arrives at the counter.
“Hello Thi,” Flip says.
Thi does an exaggerated double take and pretends to rub his eyes while making a “squeak squeak” sound in his throat.
“Is that you, Flip? Look at you. You look great, man. Downright respectable. I love the tie and vest look. Makes you seem knowledgeable. For real, all you need is a pipe and a monocle, then I would believe anything you had to say.”
“Oh,” Flip says. “This old thing. It was all I had clean.” He smiles big and genuine, remembers his crow’s feet, and modulates his grin. He likes the attention.
“Okay,” Thi says knowingly.
“Just kidding. Big job interview today.” The man behind Flip clears his throat to announce his presence in the line.
“What can I get you, Flip?” Thi asks.
“I will have one of those drinks from last time. Nutty Professor, right? I’ll have that. To go, please.”
Good for Nothing Page 21
