“You got my money?” Kev asks. “Or do you want to pay me later?”
“What?”
“I was saying, do you want to pay me now or later?”
“I’m not going to pay you, Kev. I lied to you. I just needed my dad’s watch back.”
“What the fuck, man,” Kev says mildly. “That’s not cool.”
“You know what’s not cool, Kev? Do you want to know? Getting underage girls pregnant. Not taking responsibility for it. Cheating on your girlfriend. That’s not cool. Not cool at all. That is what the fuck is up. Man. Right on? You know what I mean, neighbor?”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Kev says. “Now your girl was the aggressor, man. I tried to stop her. But—”
Flip balls his fist around the gun’s grip and whacks Kev square in his mouth. Kev’s bottom lip splits wide open and he goes down on his narrow ass with a hard thunk. Sitting on the floor, he cups one hand under his chin to catch the blood and drool, but his howling causes red, slimy strings to dangle onto the carpet.
“Whah tha fush, man?” Kev asks, his eyes have gone all wild with worry. “My parens will shue your ash.”
“When you talk to them, be sure and tell them the good news: you’re going to be a daddy. And ask them what kind of jail time you can expect to serve for statutory rape. Then have them give me a call.”
Kev lets out another mewling cry, blood bubbles from his nostrils.
Shit. Kev’s face is really messed up.
Flip hustles up the stairs, adrenaline driving his legs like fat pistons pumping in a diesel engine. Upstairs, he runs through the butler’s pantry and grabs the vodka bottle on his way through the kitchen, sliding the door so hard he can hear it bounce back open behind him. But he doesn’t stop.
He gets to his car and starts the engine. He’s winded and thirsty and his hand hurts. He drops the gun in the seat next to him and chugs down more lukewarm vodka. It doesn’t satisfy his thirst, but he starts to feel better anyway. I’m in so much trouble. He worries he’ll be too drunk to drive. His underarms are soaked.
After a few moments and a few more sips, he starts laughing, just because he’s a stupid motherfucker. But he also feels relieved because he won’t have to worry about it much longer.
He takes up the gun. He can’t remember how the safety works, and he’ll need to know pretty soon. He toggles the switch back and forth with his thumb, looking for a red dot, but there is no red dot. He tests the trigger.
He feels the concussive effect of the explosion as the flash of light and the smell of smoke make him wince and yelp. The violent and unexpected force wrenches the pistol painfully from his casual grip, and he thinks his thumb is broken. He puts his hands over his ears and works his jaw. Moments pass, a breeze from the blasted driver’s side window chases some of the smell from the car’s interior. His ears start to ring more quietly. He’s awed by the sudden absence of window. There’s nothing left but glass crumbs piled along the window opening and on the driveway outside. He brushes most of the crumbs out and waves his hand in front of his face to clear the sharp smell of gunpowder. He glances cautiously at the gun. So when the switch is toggled down, the safety is off.
As he backs out, he can hear glass crunchies grinding to dust under his tires.
Everything Works Out
Adrenaline, having passed through his system, has left him exhausted and sleepy. He considers curling up in a ball in the corner of Dr. Hawkins’ waiting room and sleeping, using his workbag as a pillow.
He looks at the yellowed face of his dad’s watch, tracking the second hand as it treks past the twelve again. It’s seven minutes past the time his appointment is supposed to start. After all the shit the doc gave me about being late for my last appointment. I need to piss.
He stands to leave as Dr. Hawkins swings the door into his waiting room and invites Flip to enter. Flip lugs his workbag past the doctor, nodding a silent greeting. In his soothing office Flip takes a seat across from the doctor. He notices with mild satisfaction that his hips glide easily between the arms of the pretentious chair. Flip finds his legal pad, turns it to his first page of notes, and waits.
It takes several moments for Dr. Hawkins to get settled and look over Flip’s file. The low lights, calming colors, and near silence begin to work on Flip. He could nod off.
“Mr. Mellis,” Dr. Hawkins says smooth-jazz style.
Flip’s head snaps up. “Just resting my eyes,” he says.
The doctor smirks. Flip liked him better when he was drinking. The doctor still has about four days’ worth of beard growth, is still dressed in earth tones, and still has a slightly superior voice. He asks, “How was your week?”
“Do you have a bathroom I could use?”
“No. Mr. Mellis. There is one downstairs at the flower shop. Now let’s stay focused, shall we?”
“You’re telling me you don’t have a bathroom up here?”
“That’s what I am telling you. Now, how was your week?”
Flip shifts around in his chair, takes some of the pressure off his bladder. He asks, “Is your middle name Chad?” as he reaches into his bag.
“No. It’s Christopher. Why do you ask?” he says with a puzzled look on his face.
“No reason really. You just seem like a Chad to me. Forget it, we should stay focused. Right? I made a list,” Flip starts to explain, presenting his legal pad.
Dr. Hawkins holds up his hand. “Wait on that, please. Let’s just talk.”
“I have something I need to do, Doc. Can we just get on with this?” He calculates how much time it should take for Kev to call his mommy and daddy, who will in turn call the cops, how long for them to respond. After that, how long to get his name out over the radio. He half expects a SWAT team to come in through the door before he has a chance to get back to his gun and put himself out of his misery, once and for all.
“Mr. Mellis, you convinced me to make a questionable and highly unusual deal with you. I was more lax with keeping tabs on you than was strictly professional. The least you could do is bear with me for a few moments. That seems like a reasonable exchange, don’t you think?” He speaks to Flip as if he were a simpleton.
Smacking Kev in the face with the side of a gun is not something Flip feels really proud of. But, for a split second, he longs to sucker punch Dr. Hawkins too. Just to see his expression transition from clinically superior to disbelieving shock and then rolling, unceasing pain. Probably good I left the gun in the car. He notes how often the doc admits he isn’t doing a great job and is making questionable professional choices. But he needs to keep things moving. So he says, “Yes,” with his lips tight.
“So, go ahead. Let’s talk about your week. How was it?”
“Very bad. I have the proof right here.” Flip pats his notes.
“Yes. No doubt you do, Mr. Mellis. There had to be some high points too. You were called in for a job interview . . . ,” he says leadingly.
“I was,” Flip concedes.
“That seems like progress. How do you feel it went?”
“Good for a while. Then very bad.”
“How bad could it have been?”
“I stripped naked in the parking lot while the whole building watched,” he replies dryly, feeling comfortable with exaggeration to prove a point. “Then I flipped them the bird and drove across their walking trail.”
This gives Dr. Dan a momentary pause. He uses his fancy pen to take notes, he straightens his shirt and smooths his slacks. “Well. That does sound bad,” he admits. “Maybe you should just start at the beginning.”
“That’s what I tried to tell you,” Flip replies.
“Yes. You did, Mr. Mellis. Please proceed.”
“I would like to start by saying I lost my job for being too qualified. Then—”
Dr. Hawkins puts his hand up again. “Let me stop you there, Mr. Mellis. Let’s focus on this past week. The time between the last appointment and this. I want to hear all about the past too. But that will have to wai
t for the next session.”
Flip turns a yellow page of his legal pad and finds where he wants to start. “Did you know that at Shooter’s some girl accused me of flashing her?”
“Actually, I did know. Kelli said something about it.” Flip watches the doctor play with his stubble in a feeble attempt to hide an arrogant grin. It was Kelli speaking in the background that time on the phone. I knew it.
Flip checks the next thing on his list. “On the way home that night, a policeman was parked crazy when I stopped to get gas and I scratched his car with my door,” Flip explains. Then he slowly goes through a long and expansive list of ridiculous episodes that constitute the past week of his life. He tells about being questioned by D, about his pregnant daughter, the trucker taking a hammer to his car, and about the mean old man at the laundromat. He tells about his back pain and his stolen pills, his lying mother, his cancerous father, Dylan’s accident, and his mother-in-law’s poisonous insinuations about Lynn’s social life. He omits his friendship with Dean, the help given by Windle, his growing affection for his father, his gradual weight loss, and the assault on his neighbor, or the German automatic purchased illegally from a high schooler. He also doesn’t mention the pleasant sexual ambush and subsequent emotional beating he suffered from his wife, just because it’s none of the doc’s fucking business.
Although he doesn’t share the details that might weaken his position or force the doctor to call the authorities, he does roll them around in his head. Admittedly, there has been some good mixed with the bad.
To his credit, Dr. Hawkins mostly listens. He asks some questions about Flip’s feelings related to his father and mother, he makes a concerned face at the news of Dylan’s injuries, and he asks what Sara’s plans are related to the pregnancy. He suggests the name of a center that offers support services for teen moms. But he primarily takes notes for fifty minutes and then looks at his watch as if bored when Flip has read through his list.
“Clearly, you’ve had a bad run. Though you must admit some of it could have been prevented with better impulse control. I could work with you to develop winning strategies for managing your stress, coping with life, and better decision-making. You must admit you could use some guidance, you must see that?”
“Must I?” Flip asks.
“You seem agitated. And if I’m not mistaken, you might be a little drunk.”
“I haven’t been drinking,” Flip lies, while throwing up a two-fingered Boy Scout salute to the edge of his brow.
“Your level of sobriety is immaterial to the subject at hand,” the doc says, putting the issue to rest. “What does matter is if you’ve convinced me that your life is worth giving up on. And to that, the answer is clearly No. You are definitely a work in progress. You have a great deal of potential for personal growth, and I simply will not give you my go-ahead to end your life.” He folds his hands on his knee in preparation for Flip’s inevitable rebuttal.
“Isn’t potential for growth,”—he makes air quotes and hates himself for it—“a euphemism for saying I’m starting at the bottom?”
“You understand what I said, don’t you, Mr. Mellis?” He ignores Flip completely.
“Okay, Doc. You’re the boss. Whatever you say goes.”
“So you will promise not to hurt yourself?”
Flip puts his fingers to the edge of his brow again. “I so promise,” he says, very serious and official. He doesn’t bother to tell Dr. Hawkins that he was never a Boy Scout, so the promise is invalid. In fact, he always suspected Boy Scouts were jackasses. He knows Eagle Scouts are.
“Good,” the doctor says, glancing at his notes. “And the abruptly changing moods? The aggressive behavior? How are they?”
“I’m level. Very centered. I’m beginning to come to terms with the shape of things, thanks to you. Time heals and all that.”
“Good. Good to hear,” the doctor says, clearly not interested. “Our time is up. But I think it would be best to see you twice a week on an ongoing basis. I checked, and your insurance will allow it. We can re-evaluate in six months. Is that agreeable? You need treatment. I will file the appropriate papers with the court and with your insurance, of course.”
“Whatever you think is best. You’re the professional,” Flip says, attempting to keep the facetiousness from his voice.
Sitting in his car, in the parking lot, Flip pulls the gun from his lap and rests it on his knee. It’s heavy and some trace memory causes him to jog his knee to give the firearm a horsey ride. When Dylan was smaller, he would hop on Flip’s leg every time he sat down and would cackle like a maniac at the slightest motion.
He regrets not being allowed to take a leak in Dr. Hawkins’ office. No bathroom, my ass. He’s afraid he’ll piss when he shoots himself, as the shrapnel passes through his brainpan. That would be embarrassing. It’s a bright day out, and he doesn’t think he should pee on the side of the flower shop.
The handle of the gun feels good to him, comforting. He doesn’t want to move. He thinks he’s like a samurai; he shouldn’t lift his weapon unless he intends to kill. He weighs the pros and cons of pressing the barrel to his temple and scrambling his gray matter horizontally versus shoving it up under his jaw and blowing the top of his head off. The thought of putting the metal near his trachea makes him gag a bit. So, given the lack of more thorough research on the subject, he decides the temple is the winner. It’s time.
He looks in all of his mirrors to be certain no one can observe what he’s doing, and possibly try to stop him. All clear. Traffic sounds from the boulevard behind him come in through the missing window on a warm breeze. He drinks more vodka.
He lifts the gun. It’s taken on mass since he pulled it from the glove box. A glance toward the open compartment shows him it’s stuffed full of paper, mostly maps, and packets of ketchup. He sets the gun down again and pushes the glove box shut. The scrap paper makes him remember that he needs to leave a note.
His yellow pad is there, in the passenger’s seat, but he can’t find anything to write with. His pen is still missing. Plus, he finds he doesn’t know what to say now any more than he did when he was standing on a bookcase with a noose around his neck.
Realistically, when they find him dead, with a gun in his hand, sitting in a car loaded with all of his possessions, the situation will tell its own story. He thinks of Buck and Dottie’s decrepit van, has to admit he’s well on his way to a similar fate, if he allows things to continue along the same path. No time like the present.
He takes up the gun and sets the barrel to the side of his head. He angles the barrel so the blast will hit as much brain as possible. He inhales. He holds it for a count of four. He begins a slow, calming exhale, careful to keep the barrel of the German-made gun steady. He’s scared. The devastating violence that erupted when he applied the slightest pressure to the trigger earlier has left a scar on his psyche. Something hard presses between the finger pad and the trigger, a rough bit of skin or a speck of gravel from his spill in the parking lot. He passes the hard bit back and forth along the crescent-shaped hook, in effect, gently caressing the trigger. He can’t hear it scratch with his ears, but can feel it in his body. Then his cell phone rings from the cup holder at his elbow.
He nearly ends up pissing and shooting himself simultaneously. The phone rings again, rattling violently next to his empty paper coffee cup. He puts the gun down, carefully. The phone keeps ringing.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Mellis?” a peppy little voice pipes up.
“Yes.”
“Hello, Mr. Mellis. This is Myrna Mays from DynaTech Solutions. Do you have a minute?”
“I was kind of in the middle of something.”
“Oh,” she says, a little dejected.
He hates to make people feel sad, so he says, “But I have a quick moment.”
“Great,” she says, instantly peppy again. “Mr. Krueger has come to a decision about the position of Director of Internal Communications, and he has asked that I
let you know we would like you to come in at your earliest convenience to discuss the terms.”
“I don’t understand,” Flip says.
“I should have been more clear. Mr. Krueger would like to make you a job offer. You really left an impression on him, on the whole team. You need to come in to discuss the terms of the offer.”
Flip looks over at the gun, he touches the place on his head where the barrel had rested. Then he says, “Myrna. That’s good news. I think. I’ll have to call you back later to make arrangements. I’m on the road right now, and need to get off the phone. Traffic. You understand.”
She says she understands, and they hang up.
He leaves the car with no destination in mind, except farther from the gun, and finds himself stepping into the flower shop. He mills about, not really looking at anything, just letting his heart and his mind slow down.
“Excuse me,” Flip says to a woman arranging assorted flowers at a worktable behind the counter. “Is there a bathroom I could use?”
“I wish. It’s out of order. A pipe’s busted or something. It needs a plumber, but the owner keeps putting it off. Money,” she explains. She turns and sets the bouquet next to the cash register.
“I’ll take that arrangement. It’s nice,” he says. He can feel his nose starting to itch. She gives him the damage and he pays with his debit card. Again it goes through.
Outside, he buckles the square vase into the passenger’s seat, just as he’d done with Dean’s tiki. He will have to call Dean, let him know the good news, ask him about his love life. Maybe he will swing by later. He buckles himself too. Can’t be too careful. He drives slow and steady all the way to his house.
Good for Nothing Page 29
