Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  “What?” she asked Mr. Joe, who sat watching her. “It usually does the trick. At least 50 percent of the time. Of course, I usually hate my landlord, so . . .” She shrugged as she walked past Mr. Joe. “He did say call if I needed anything.”

  Amber found his number neatly typed on a piece of paper on the counter. She tapped her fingers against the Formica, looking at the small clock on her wall. It was already after 9 p.m. “It’s late. It’s raining. That would be kind of mean for me to make him get out and . . .” She laughed as she walked past the cat again. “We both know it. I’m calling him.”

  Amber picked up the phone, dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Amber.”

  Silence.

  “The one upstairs, stress boy.”

  “Yes, of course. Yes.”

  “My stove isn’t working.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Amber hung up the phone and stared at Mr. Joe. “Do you think he’s going to be all . . . ?” She waved her hands. “You know, do that rigid thing and act all cold but warm?” There were hardly words to describe it. She started pacing. “And then he does that thing with his hand through his hair, gets all messy. Messier. And just when I think he’s not paying attention, he goes smiley on me.” She stopped, hands on her hips. “Very confusing signals, I will tell you that. It’s like he’s speaking four different body languages.”

  She sighed, plopping down on her couch, thinking out loud. “When he’s scratching his face and staring at the ground, I don’t know what he’s saying. ‘You’ve got the plague’ or ‘Ask me out’?”

  She glanced toward the window, hoping to see circular truck lights bouncing off the glass. No sign of him yet. Mr. Joe crawled into her lap.

  “Tell me the truth, Mr. Joe. Is it me? I mean, I know I bring out the weird in people. And we both know I’ve got a long and sordid history of bringing out the worst in men.”

  Light beams.

  Then she heard gentle footsteps coming up to the apartment. She took a breath and opened the door.

  Clay stood there holding an umbrella, a toolbox, and a blanket. The rain was gentle and cold and was the only noise between them for a moment. Then she opened the screen door and stepped aside.

  “Are you coming?” She gestured. Maybe that’s what he was waiting for.

  But he didn’t move.

  “You’re kidding.”

  He only smiled, held out the umbrella and the blanket to her. Amber pressed her lips together. This guy was for real. At first she’d thought maybe this “theory” was his idea of some bad pickup lines. But he was actually not coming into the apartment with her alone.

  She stepped out onto the stoop and he handed her the umbrella. Then handed her the blanket. She put it around her shoulders, awkwardly juggling the umbrella too. Mr. Joe stared Clay down as he walked in, and he returned the favor. The screen door swung shut. And there she stood, on the outside stoop of her apartment, in the rain, watching stress boy fix her stove.

  He slid out the stove and got to work. The rain continued to pour, but strangely she wasn’t cold or damp. She felt . . . safe.

  He worked quietly, like he enjoyed the task of trying to figure out what was wrong and how to fix it. Apparently he wasn’t a big talker either.

  Amber moved a bit closer to the screen, still clutching the umbrella. “No offense,” she said, “but I think I could resist you.”

  “I’m sure you could.” She heard a smile in his voice.

  “Ah. But you couldn’t resist me—is that it?”

  He glanced back at her but didn’t say anything.

  “So,” she continued, “this theory of yours. I’m curious.”

  “You’re bored.”

  Amber scowled. “Don’t tell me what I am.” The stupid talk-radio dude and his proclamations about bored women came racing back to her mind. She crossed her arms.

  Clay looked at her, seemingly genuinely contrite.

  She gestured her blessing. “Forgiven.”

  “You religious?” he asked as he continued to work.

  “Spiritual.” How to explain this? “I believe in God. But it’s not like I believe everything that’s in the Bible or anything.”

  “What parts of it do you believe exactly?”

  She didn’t want to get into a religious debate. She wanted to get to . . . him. “Your theory. Spill it. I want to know.”

  He grabbed a wrench and looked suspicious.

  “Make me ask again and I’m coming in there, theory or no theory.” And to drive home the point, she grabbed the handle.

  “Okay, okay.” He chuckled.

  “Start talking.” She turned the handle.

  “Open that door and I raise your rent.”

  Her hand retreated, but she gave him the best stink eye she could muster. “I told you what I did to my last landlord. I will smack you down.”

  For the first time she heard him give a full laugh. And it was a good, solid, sweet laugh. It made her laugh too.

  “So you won’t be alone with a woman.”

  “That’s the plan,” he said, returning to his work.

  “Anywhere?”

  “Within reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Out in the open, that’s okay. In public. I don’t take it too far, like not being alone together in a car or an elevator or places like that.” He did that little scratch to his face, that little thing with his hair. “It’s only a small part of my theory.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t believe that dating trains us to be good husbands or wives, you know?”

  She didn’t really. But it seemed he’d thought long and hard about it.

  He continued. “It trains us to be good dates. That’s it. Trains us to be skilled in the superficial.”

  “Who talks like that?”

  “I do.” He smiled slightly. Confidently.

  “Dating is fun. Seeing the smile you bring to another face. Holding hands for the first time. Learning new things—”

  “But what do we learn? We learn how to be witty. Charming. Romantic.”

  “Yes! Yes, yes, yes.” Strangely he was making her point for her.

  “It’s all icing. No cake. It’s not enough. Commitment should come first, not the other way around.”

  “Sounds more like you’re training to be a monk.”

  He set his wrench down and turned a little more toward her. “Do you want to get married?”

  She smirked. “Gosh, it’s all happening so fast. I don’t know. I need—”

  “Funny. To someone. Someday.”

  “Sure.”

  “Describe your perfect husband. What would he be like?”

  “Faithful, honest, good with children. Good with money. Tender. Forgiving. . . . And witty, charming, and romantic.”

  “What happens when the tough times come? And they will. Most people go into marriage with no clue how to make it last. So most don’t last. And I never want to be divorced.” Inside those dreamy blue eyes, even from where she stood, she could see something catch the sparkle and swallow it right up. He blinked, then grabbed another wrench. “No one gets good at anything without practice. Everything I do now is preparing me for the kind of husband I’ll be one day. God willing.”

  Amber sighed. This guy certainly knew how to trap and kill a romantic moment.

  “Nothing magical happens when you walk down the aisle.” He was still talking, almost like the stove might be the only thing listening. “Like it or not, what we do when we’re single is what we’ll do when we’re married.”

  “What about sex?” She smiled. She kind of wanted to see him flinch at the word.

  He didn’t. “What about it?”

  “That takes practice too.”

  “No comment.”

  Amber cracked open the screen door just so he could hear her loud and clear. “Not having sex does not make you a good husband, you
know.”

  “But learning to control myself might. Over half of all marriages experience infidelity.”

  She closed the door again. She had to admit, she was intrigued. Like a bad accident you can’t look away from, but intrigued nevertheless. “So do you mean sex-sex only or any . . . other . . .” What would be an appropriate word for a guy like this? “Stuff?”

  “I’m an all-or-nothing guy. Your body is a temple.”

  “You noticed.”

  He laughed again but didn’t say a word.

  “Not even a little kissy-kissy?” This was getting kind of fun.

  He tapped his cheek. “Just right there till the wedding bells.”

  Wow. This guy was no joke. She tried to imagine it. Only being kissed on the cheek. Never being alone together. It seemed so . . . strange. She’d met a lot of people over the years, but none so . . . convicted as this guy.

  “How long have you had this theory?” she asked.

  “Nine years.”

  Nine years? “Yikes. That’s not normal.”

  He was reaching behind the stove now, his body stretched out awkwardly like there might be a pulled muscle in his future.

  “So let’s just have arranged marriages,” she protested.

  “Couldn’t be much worse,” he said, though she still couldn’t really see his face.

  “You don’t believe there’s a right person out there for each of us? A soul mate?”

  Clay finished whatever it was he was doing and shoved the stove back into place. He knelt at his toolbox, starting to put his tools away. “I don’t believe our job is the looking. It’s the becoming. Once we are the right person, when we’re ready—”

  “But if you don’t ever date, how will you know?”

  Clay stood and turned a knob on the stove. A pretty blue flame ignited.

  Amber clapped and cheered.

  “I make fire,” he said in a caveman voice.

  “My hero.”

  Then he sneezed. Three times in a row. He grabbed his toolbox and came to the door. Sneezed.

  “You okay?”

  Another sneeze. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway,” he said, still on the other side of the screen door, “that’s my theory. You asked for it.”

  He opened the door and they awkwardly tried to swap places, her handing him the umbrella and blanket, their fingers brushing ever so slightly. Other than that, somehow, they made the switch without touching. Now Amber stood inside the screen door and he stood in the cold rain with his umbrella.

  “Thanks for the enlightenment.”

  His expression turned gentle. “I know how weird it sounds. I know making you stand in the cold and the rain seems ridiculous. But a lot of the boundaries that used to be common, that we’ve thrown away, were there to protect us. We don’t have to go around using each other, hurting each other. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  For half a second, as fast as a lightning flash, what he said made sense. But as soon as she blinked, it was all very confusing again.

  “Good night,” he said.

  “Good night.”

  And then, as softly as he came, he left, taking the steps one at a time. And right as she shut the door, Amber heard him sneeze again.

  “FIRST YOU WANT to strip off the excess foliage. Of course you need to fill the bucket or vase with water to keep the flowers fresh. Next trim the flower stems at an angle, about two inches from the bottom. Take two irises and then two roses. Arrange them in a square. See how the formation is clockwise? Iris, rose, iris, rose. That’s the center. Now, Trish, if you’ll hold this, I will add more irises around the square. You want to make a dome shape like this. Now bind the stems with the tape, cut the ribbon three times as long as the flower stems, tuck one end into the floral tape, and wind it down the stem. Use the other end to decorate. I’m a fan of bows myself.” Amber held up the bouquet. “Beautiful! Like a Greek goddess.”

  The woman who owned the shop, Carol, said, “We normally just plop them in a vase, so yeah, you’re hired.”

  “Yay! Thank you!” Amber squeaked with excitement. She’d always wanted to work in a floral shop.

  “We typically keep the squealing to a minimum. People mistake us for a slaughterhouse. Also, it doesn’t jibe well with my hangovers, which I try to keep to Thursdays and Saturdays. But you know, things happen.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Amber smiled at Carol, somewhere north of fifty, her well-worn face wrinkled from too much sun, smoking, and boozing. Her hair, white and brittle, had seen its share of bleaching over the years. But her eyes were youthful and her smile was kind. Amber couldn’t help it. She reached out for a hug.

  “Okay, okay,” Carol said, awkwardly tapping Amber on the back. “Good. Listen, Amber, I need to tell you, I’ve gone through five girls in six months at this store. I can’t afford to lose another. You’re planning to stick around for a while, right?”

  Amber swallowed. It wasn’t her strongest suit, but Carol did look desperate. “I won’t leave you hanging. If I have to leave, I’ll make sure you have someone to take my place first.”

  Carol eyed her. “Hmm. So you’re one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  But Carol didn’t answer. Instead she said, “I’m going out for a smoke. Trish, show Amber what she needs to know, will you?”

  Trish, the other girl in the shop, looked to be in her early twenties, with short, dark-honey hair, cut cute and pixie-like. She had the smile to go with it too.

  Trish finished tying off a helium balloon, then grinned at Amber as Carol left. “So you don’t stick around long from one place to another?”

  “Some longer than others.”

  “Wow. I wish I could do that. I’m one of those unfortunate rooters, you know? I’m anchored so deep that if the town blew away, I’d still be here. It must be fun to pick up and go whenever you want.”

  “Not always whenever I want. Sometimes when I need to. But certain parameters need to be met, namely enough gas money to even get out of town.”

  Trish sighed. “Money. It ruins everything. Well, I’m glad you’re here, for as long as you are.”

  “Me too.”

  “Awesome. Tonight we party then, yes?”

  Amber laughed. “Sure. I could use some company.”

  “Don’t know anyone in town?”

  “Getting to know a few. Well, one. My landlord. But he’s . . .”

  “Landlord. That by itself suggests the power distribution isn’t in one person’s favor.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be like that. He’s . . . different.”

  Trish looked worried. “Jeffrey Dahmer different?”

  “No, no. Just . . . gosh, what’s the word for it? I don’t think there’s a word for it.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to show you around town tonight! We will have fun.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “You in a relationship, some long-distance kind of thing?”

  “No. Not now.”

  “Trust me—there are plenty of boys to be had in our little town,” Trish said, wiggling her eyebrows. She nodded toward the cast. “You okay to work with that?”

  “Sure. It doesn’t get in my way.”

  “Interesting story behind why it’s there?”

  Amber looked at it. “No. Not really. I’m just clumsy.”

  “Nice! We’ll get along perfectly. I’ve dropped like ten vases since working here.”

  Amber laughed.

  “So we’ll take you to the Brewhouse tonight. Usually the best place to be on a Thursday. Half-price drinks. Free chicken wings. The men come in droves for the chicken wings. I’m not kidding. I don’t know what it is about those little bitty wings, but they’re like guy magnets. I’m thinking about getting a dress made out of ’em.”

  “Sounds spicy.”

  “Okay, I gotta go sort balloons in the back. We’ve got a shipment of roses coming in at noon. We usually grab lunch at the deli and ea
t here in the shop. We got orders stacked ten high, so take one and roll with it. You’ll meet Eddie later. He’s the one who runs the flowers all over town. Any questions?”

  “I’m good.”

  Trish pointed to the bouquet in her hands. “Yes, you are. And don’t you forget it. Any woman that calls down Greek mythology to inspire a flower arrangement has a gift.”

  Trish disappeared to the back, and Amber twirled the flowers in her hand, touching their soft petals. The smell was outrageous. Just a sniff and she was transported to some dreamy scene with some dreamy guy in some dreamy perfume commercial.

  It had been a long time since anybody had sent her flowers.

  Beside her lay the order pad. She picked it up and wrote herself a ticket. With lots of irises.

  For the first time since Amber had moved in, Clay couldn’t hear her footsteps. And her car was gone. His shop had always been a safe haven for him, quiet and peaceful. But now, strangely, it felt lonely for no other reason than his tenant wasn’t home.

  The front bell rang. He imagined it was Lisa, here to show off Cosie’s new Chinese vocabulary, but he braced himself for the toddler’s resentment. She had numerous ways to do it, too, including lying on the ground and screaming or giving everyone the silent treatment. She’d also been known to break things, but that hadn’t happened in his shop. He and Cosie seemed to have an understanding. If he laughed at her mischief, she promised not to harm any of his things. It was working well so far.

  Clay walked to the front. The guest turned out to be the old man who’d dropped off the rocker to repair. He hadn’t left his name or anything, had just asked that it be fixed up.

  “Hi. It’s all finished. Let me get it for you.” Clay hurried to the back and returned with the rocker, eager to see his reaction. The work was well worth it. The old man’s face lit up when he set eyes on the chair. Clay put it down in the middle of the shop, and the man bent over it, running his fingers around the top and through the slats. He picked it up, turned it over, his eyes searching every part of it. Then he set it down and rocked it gently back and forth.

  Clay stood a few feet away, hopeful it was everything he wanted it to be. As the man straightened, he smiled and shook Clay’s hand. “Looks great, son.”