With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer

by J. R. Hamantaschen

  He never drank alone; that was the tell-tale sign of a problem. He didn’t really drink at all, really. He had to fight his urge to invest everything with a meaning that wasn’t there; after having a child, everything seemed pregnant with importance. But he could have one drink. No reason to be alarmist.

  He limited himself to only two drinks, two tasty stouts. He was nestled in the corner, gave the fetching bartender two bucks per drink as a tip and enjoyed her bubbly response even if it was no doubt honed and calibrated.

  It was approximately 7:30 p.m. He texted Miranda that he loved her, perhaps out of guilt of making harmless eyes at the bartender. He just liked her looks of approbation; whether they were genuine or not, he was hardwired to feel good from them.

  A feminine hand appeared out of view and tilted his empty beer glass. The woman next to him lifted up the glass, to her eye, like it was an oversized magnifying glass. She turned to look at him, viewing him through the bottom of the empty glass.

  “Looks like this is empty! We can’t have that. What were you drinking? Let’s get another. Barkeep!” She put the glass up and spoke through it like it was a megaphone.

  “Someone’s had enough,” he said, which was a stupid thing to say.

  “Nope, only had one. You’re alone, I’m alone, let’s be alone together. Whatcha drinking?”

  He turned and looked at her. She was beautiful in an alluring, unpracticed way, dimples and skin-tone that was vaguely ethnic. If someone put a gun to his head, he’d guess half-Filipino. She looked to be in her early or mid-twenties. She was a couple inches shorter than him, thin and well-proportioned, cropped short hair and a sizable bust obvious under her brightly-colored T-shirt.

  “Hah, as enticing as that sounds” — wrong word — “I’m just killing time. I got to go back, my wife is making dinner.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that, you. I’m just being a friendly goofball. Don’t you want to make friends with a friendly goofball?” She lowered her chin and looked up at him, batting her eyes in such an overemphasized way that it had to be self-aware.

  “Well, you will have to pack in all the friendship-making in about, thirty minutes or an hour or so.”

  She ordered two stouts — the same stout he’d been imbibing — and paid in cash. “Don’t worry, tell the wifey you’ll be home soon. I got an hour to kill and a friend to make.”

  They talked about her — she graduated a couple years ago from the University of Chicago, which opened up a whole rich mine of conversation; she was new to California and loved the weather, which allowed her to wear T-shirts all the time (at which point she pointed at herself excitedly and jiggled); he had been sort of right about her ethnicity: she was half-Swiss, a quarter-Filipino and a quarter-Chilean; she was currently working as an executive assistant for a fashion company but was really big into improv and comedy and was hoping to break into that.

  He told her about himself, and, as they were becoming friends, he revealed a fair deal about himself: his marriage, his young’un, work gripes and new parenthood fears. When he told her he was a new father, she talked about how “real” that was — “whoa, what an adult” — and he said, “I know, don’t remind me” and they laughed because that’s the popular banality.

  She asked him to guess what she thought about when she thought of having children? “Tell me,” he said, and she made the shrieky noise and stabbing motions from Psycho.

  “So, if your child is sick, why aren’t you home with him?”

  “Hmmm,” he said, pushing his emptied third beer away from him. He waved the comely bartender away. No more drinks.

  He explained that, well, everyone said it was just a temporary thing, young children got sick. He made it evident that her comment killed the good-natured flow of the conversation.

  “I don’t know about that. Vomiting is always a bad sign.”

  He had a lot to say in response to that, but he felt groggy and there was no point. This was stupid, he didn’t need to convince some flake.

  “Miles, what are you going to do about your job, too? Aren’t you nervous about getting fired? Sounds like it’s a possibility. Sounds like a terrible time for you guys to lose health insurance.”

  Miles turned to her, intentionally amplifying his deserved look of bewilderment.

  “I’ll figure it out,” he said harshly. “It was great meeting you, best of luck on your … comedy thing.” He started getting up.

  “You probably shouldn’t drive home. Maybe call your wife, tell her to pick you up. From the bar. Responsibility isn’t for everyone.”

  “Excuse me!” For him to publicly stand-up to anyone — especially an attractive lady — was an anomaly. He always felt like everyone assumed he’d be in the wrong, especially if fighting with a woman. “I don’t know where you get off on telling me this—”

  “I was just saying. You don’t seem like someone who likes being married or having a child or responsibility. I meant that as a compliment. But sounds like you are stuck with it. So it goes.”

  Before he responded, she continued:

  “You seem really unhappy, honestly. I can understand why. You said you never planned on having a child, a family. And now you’re stuck with it.”

  This was stupid, this conversation was over. “Thanks for the drink,” is all he said. “But you don’t know anything about me or my situation.”

  “I know you want to kill yourself. You should. That’s the only solution you have. You aren’t cut out for this. You made a huge mistake and you should off yourself before you become a huge burden to your family.”

  He turned, to whom he wasn’t sure. Maybe the comely bartender. For an instant he really, truly believed he might take the empty beer glass by the handle and smash it against her skull. He perspicaciously could imagine the bulk of the glass, her wide-eyed expression as the glass hit her head, even the angle of the shattered glass and her face-plant descent to the floor. He didn’t do it, of course, instead looked around for someone, as if someone could confirm she really just said something so fucking hurtful and outrageous.

  He turned around and she was gone. There was no empty barstool, even. It was occupied by the same middle-aged man in the light blue button-down, the same man who’d been having drinks with his two coworkers when Miles had first entered the bar. There was no empty beer stein in front of him.

  He signaled to the pretty bartender. The male bartender came instead, and he asked to get her attention. He did so. The lag time, the normal inconveniences and frustrations of the bar experience felt atypical given the strangeness of this sensation. Unexplainable visitations, mental breakdowns, and still, having to deal with the usual quotidian hassles.

  He made eyes at her and she came over.

  “Change your mind? Want another?”

  “No, ugh, can I pay out? Receipt.”

  “I’d love to take your money twice, but you already paid for your drinks.”

  “I want to pay for the third. Did you see the girl sitting next to me before?”

  Her expression was hard to read, perhaps a hint of confusion, impatience, rounded out with a bit of embarrassment whenever a man, by himself, asks about a disappeared girl.

  “No, sorry. All I know is your drinks are paid out. Two Young’s Double Chocolates. Trust me, if they weren’t paid out, you’d know. Enjoy your night.”

  “Okay.” The moderately busy bar wasn’t the time and place for an argument.

  As he assembled himself, he asked the man next to him, did you see that girl who was sitting here before? The man had no idea, they’d been sitting there for several hours. Ok.

  He texted his wife, an abstractly apologetic sort of text, and told her he was on his way home.

  >< >< ><

  She greeted him, and he greeted both her and their son lovingly and gratefully. He made expressions of being overjoyed with their compani
onship and love. He complimented her cooking effusively, to the point that even she, ever receptive to culinary praise, thought it a bit much.

  Traces of Craig’s unusual stances were apparent whenever Miles focused on it, when he tried to look. For the most part, he didn’t, and let his wife lead. She didn’t mention it to him, so he didn’t bring it up. I’m sure it’s fine. The surgeon said it was fine, if it persists we will take him to another specialist in a week or so, it’s fine.

  After putting Craig to bed, he had some alone time with his wife on the couch. They watched television together, his left arm limply around her midsection, until she adjusted to cover herself with the afghan. They watched an interesting but depressing documentary on a boom town in the Midwest.

  Afterward, he was checking his emails and she was at the counter, doing something that involved the sink.

  A soaring guitar melody came out of the laptop speakers, and then stopped dramatically. He smirked lasciviously at her and acted as if he was a lounge singer, the laptop his piano, Miranda the object of his seduction.

  “There was a beauty living on the edge of town, she always put the top up and the hammer down, and she taught me everything I’ll ever know about the mystery and the muscle of love,” he sang in his best warbling Meat Loaf impression.

  “Aww baby.”

  He continued singing, matching the operatic intensity of the song’s build-up, continued his impassioned singing to the part of the song where the instruments dropped out and it was just him and Meat Loaf, belting over the staccato, pounding drum line:

  “I’ll probably never know where she disappeared

  But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now

  Just like an angel rising up from a tomb.”

  He continued his quavering singing. “Oh baby, you’re so good,” she said, somewhat sullenly. He sung the refrain dramatically: “Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are.....”

  “Oh baby,” she said softly. She had mixed feelings about his singing. He had a nice voice and definite passion. His commitment at times was meant as a lark, but the emotion behind it was too sad for her sometimes. He seemed too crestfallen, too empathetic to the words, too overtaken by the power of art, almost disappointed when the experience was over and he was no longer singing and he was back to reality.

  They held each other at night. He kissed the back of her head and told her he loved her. He didn’t hear a response. He kissed the back of her head and meant to say something but it came out almost as a sneeze, a wet blubbering gasping. She felt the spit-up on the back of her head, used a hand to streak it out. “Baby!” she yelled, startled.

  “I’m sorry,” he covered his mouth. He was crying, it seemed.

  “I said I loved you, silly. Didn’t you hear me?” She held his hand.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he looked down, the hot tears coming from seemingly nowhere.

  “Oh honey, it’s ok, it’s ok. Here let me get you a tissue.” And she reached over and retrieved a tissue, nestling it on his face as she turned toward him.

  “It’s ok, I just, I just feel so overburdened, so overburdened, I can’t deal with it.”

  “Ok,” she said, and turned over back to her side. The doting was gone, the coaxing was gone. She took his comment as a shot against her parenting and contributions. Saying he “can’t deal with it” was just the sort of exaggeration he’d say to get her sympathies. They were like tilt-a-whirls, each vying to see which could be the most off-balance.

  “Baby,” he pleaded. He wanted her to coax him, caress him, supplicate him, take care of him. Her babying voice was usually grating but now he wanted that security more than anything.

  “Go to sleep, you will feel better in the morning, ok?”

  He kept his hand on her back and rubbed it slightly, until her lack of response led him to roll over on his side. He cried softly into his pillow, perhaps out of exhaustion, desperation, confusion, or the thought of facing another day and all the portending fear. He sobbed with enough passion to rouse her to comfort him, to kiss and apologize, but she wasn’t sure if that was the pragmatic thing to do. A marriage, a life together, is an organization as much as it is an emotional union, and things had to run smoothly. She couldn’t placate him every time he got upset.

  He couldn’t express everything he felt — that he couldn’t explain what happened at the bar, that perhaps he was having a nervous breakdown, that he was rudderless and adrift, had no right to think he could bring life into this world, totally unequipped for the task, a task he didn’t ask for or want.

  There were worse people in the world than him. He was good, he tried, he was here, he consoled himself.

  He slept.

  >< >< ><

  His phone rang at work, just before a scheduled meeting.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” came the response, a male voice, deeper than his, familiar yet aloof. He couldn’t place it. He looked at the phone display but it was blank. “You should honestly kill yourself. It’ll make everyone in your family happier. It’s been a long time coming, you know?”

  He focused himself, narrowed all his senses into themselves. Living in the moment. He took note of his breathing, the blood rushing in his ears and head, the sweaty slick grip of the phone in his hand, the slight discomfort of his inner thigh in the way he sat. He focused on all of this, to know this was real, to know this was reality, to catalog as many experiences as he could to make sure they all could not be part of one trans-sensory delusion.

  “Who is this?”

  The phone went dead.

  He needed to take a medical leave, he decided. Of course, it seemed suspicious, right in the midst of his lackluster work performance. Miles felt ashamed, hated to let down his boss, hated to let anyone down, for them to think he was conniving or scheming or incompetent, even when he was. Maybe his obvious issues at work would bolster his claim that he needed some time off. Things were getting to him, you know? Issues at home, maybe.

  He’d talk it over with Miranda that night, see how it might actually work, the nuts-and-bolts of it. He felt rejuvenated already, the prospect of escape, time-off, waking up later and rekindling his love, his bonds with his family, just the three of them, the days of possibility unfolding before then.

  All you need is love.

  After another unproductive day at work — he was acting as if he’d already been given the time off — he called Henry. Henry was his best friend, he figured. Of course, Miranda was his “best friend,” his life partner, but Henry was his true best friend. At some point when two people decide to form a family unit, some topics of conversation get sidelined to preserve the union. Usually, topics of conversation that would serve to puncture illusions.

  He had told her, ad nauseam, all throughout their years together, that he was depressed and felt worthless. Of course he wasn’t worthless, she’d told him, he was the sweetest, most loving guy. Sometimes she’d invert it, tell him that the depression he suffered from was what made him who he was, what made him such a good father, such an understanding, compassionate figure, such a loyal friend, always there to help people. And he did help people: he always kept in contact with friends, pitched in more than he needed to, followed up. Such a good person. It was when he wasn’t involved, when activity wasn’t overtaking him, when he could reflect upon himself; that was when he began to despair.

  He’d told her a million times, but it only seemed to strengthen her love for him. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a stage in his life that he’d get over, he told everyone who would listen; but at some point, he decided he’d grown up and couldn’t burden everyone with his problems.

  Oh remember this, remember that: a phase, a thing everyone goes through.

  Everyone goes through.

  Everyone goes through.

  Everyone goe
s through.

  Of course people struggle inwardly. But you move on, you persevere through.

  He called Henry and talked and talked, wanting Henry to tell him what to do. Henry refused, it wasn’t his place. Henry suggested not taking time off: didn’t want to compromise the job and make a bad impression, and Miles’ heart sank. He wanted to be told he could flee, seek refuge, and convince himself it was actually the right thing to do. He didn’t want to stay and suffer and be outed as a failure.

  “Do you ever — do you ever think that sometimes some people just shouldn’t exist? I feel like, I feel like I’m not right for this world. I shouldn’t exist. I’m defective. The world is, like, telling me I’m defective.

  “I should fade out. Some people are just defective, and they get strained out of the gene pool. There’s been an error here, and it’s like, sometimes I feel like the world is weighted against me. Straining me out. I’m defective and I need to be erased There’s this lyric I think of sometimes: ‘addiction and depression are just swimming in my cum.’ That’s me. I’m just defective like that.”

  That was too much. There wasn’t any humor there to leaven the sadness. He overshot his mark. Kvetching worked when it was just dribs and drabs, just a susurrus, a pinhole release of accumulated despair.

  Henry remained silent for too long. He admitted he was out of his depth here, and that Miles needed to talk to Miranda about this, or a health professional, seriously.

  Miles didn’t want to hear it, laughed it off as knowingly self-aggrandizing and self-important. Of course he was just being stupid.

  He just had to get out of the office. He could work from home, sure. He emailed the relevant parties and didn’t wait for a response.

  >< >< ><

  Was Miranda not home? There was no indication she was here, odd. He called out for her and there was no response. He checked his phone to see if there were any messages from her, but no, there weren’t.

  He heard gurgling upstairs. The house wasn’t very big, just one short flight up and around the corner to Craig’s room, but he shouldn’t be able to hear him unless he was listening to the baby monitor. When Craig was asleep, the door was closed. Craig was never left alone, also. Why would Craig be here if Miranda wasn’t?