Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  “Think of going to jail and never kissing your wife again,” Bob says.

  “I’m a tiger breaking out of my cage with a laser cannon and a top-shelf vendetta.”

  “Think of never spooning her.”

  “I’m a king cobra poised to strike and my fangs have been coated in a tincture of nuclear waste and hot lava.”

  Okay, so his missus isn’t the pressure point that Coffen needs to push. How can he get this game’s character to do what he wants? Last ditch effort: “Think of little Schu. Can you imagine little Schu without you?”

  Suddenly, Schumann’s whole face changes. Trance shattered. His eyes fill with tears, though he’s able to choke them back.

  “Little Schu?” Schumann says, almost in a whisper.

  “Don’t deprive him of your loving guidance.”

  “I never really had a father,” Schumann says.

  “Me neither,” Coffen says.

  “Neither did I,” says Björn from the backseat. “America is full of deadbeat dads. They’re like crabs in our country’s pubes.”

  “Little Schu deserves a papa,” Schumann says, pulling the car over.

  “I’m sorry,” Coffen says to the magician. “Please don’t call the cops.”

  “I went a little crazy when my wife left me, too,” Björn says.

  “Little Schu needs to know all my tricks of the trade. I have to pass on my secrets. Every rookie needs a cagey veteran to show him the ropes.”

  Björn gets out of the SUV and says to Bob, “Look, I’m trying to be understanding. You fell through the ice. You’re obviously having some kind of psychotic break induced by your wheezing marriage. Like I said, I went off the rails when my wife left me. But do me a favor and try to make this the dumbest thing you ever do. And appreciate my incredible empathy. Most men would not be cool about this. The world already has plenty of psychotics. Get your shit together.”

  “I don’t think I’m psychotic,” Coffen says.

  “Would you consider yourself more of a recreational kidnapper?” Björn asks.

  “Okay, okay,” Bob says. “You’re not seeing me at my best. But thank you for your mercy.”

  “I’m going to teach little Schu to throw a spiral tonight,” Schumann says.

  Björn says to Coffen while he points at Schumann, “You shouldn’t spend time with that guy. I can tell you have at least one redeeming quality, maybe two. But that guy’s off his rocker.”

  “Off my pigskin rocker.”

  “Here’s one last trick,” Björn says, “to show I have a heart and won’t kick a man who’s in the middle of a midlife crisis. Look in your jacket pocket.”

  Coffen does as he’s told, and there are two tickets to Björn’s intermediate show on Sunday evening: the night Step 2 is laid out for all in attendance.

  “How did you do that?” Bob asks.

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Why would you help me after what we did?”

  “Please, I did something much worse than you when my wife left me.” Björn shakes his head. “It’s all so fragile, right? I mean, we’re all so fragile.”

  The magician walks away from the SUV and Coffen thinks: We are brittle beings, easily breakable, buried under circumstances. Maybe these circumstances snow down in flurries, except the flakes are made of fluorescent orange, the bright color pocking Bob’s skin so everyone knows how lost he is. He staggers the streets slathered in the stuff, a fluorescent orange monster making things worse.

  Cops and monsters

  It had been a silent ride home, post-Björn. Coffen couldn’t find any words to talk about how disappointed he was in himself so he stewed in self-disgust, every now and again basting every bit of his psyche in the juice of Jane walking out of the ballroom, leaving him alone on their thin ice. Schumann couldn’t do much of anything except drive well under the posted speed limit and periodically peep to himself, “Little Schu … little Schu … little Schu … ”

  Now, he drops Coffen off at home, and Bob’s scourge of a mother-in-law is out on the front steps, waiting for him with her wicked, diabetic smile. She drums her fingers on her knee.

  Erma says to Bob, “It’s my esteemed honor to alert you that you are not welcome here until after Jane goes for the world record. And, maybe, you might not be welcomed back then, either.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “For now, assume you can come back after her record attempt. Probably.”

  “That’s not until Monday.”

  “What’s that thing around your neck?”

  “It’s a dental bib.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story.”

  “We think it’s best for Jane if she’s not burdened with the sights or sounds of you.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me, Jane, and Gotthorm.”

  “You, Jane, and Gotthorm.”

  “Yes, we’re concerned that your being is like an anchor around her neck. You pull her to the bottom of the pool.”

  “I’m not an anchor.”

  “Agree to disagree, Bob.”

  “Can I please talk to her? I’ll leave right after, but I need to talk to her, explain what happened back there at the magic show.”

  “She made it crystal clear that speaking with you is the last itty-bitty thing on earth she wants to do.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Motels are lovely this time of year,” says Erma. “Entire guidebooks are devoted to their panoramic beauty.”

  “Can I get some things first?”

  She hands Coffen a plastic bag with his toothbrush, no toothpaste, nothing else at all.

  “What about clothes?” he whines. “I’m still wet.”

  “I’ll bring a suitcase by your office on Monday, before she goes for the record.”

  “It’s Friday night. What am I supposed to wear?”

  “Don’t raise your voice with me.”

  “Can I at least see the kids?”

  “Of course. They’re obviously asleep now, but you can see them this weekend. Call me first. We think notice is important. We are advocates of respected boundaries.”

  “Listen, I know you don’t unconditionally love me,” says Bob.

  “We do not love you.”

  “But I’m the father of your grandchildren.”

  “Uh-huh,” Erma says, a look on her face like Bob’s asking for directions to a destination that she feels like keeping secret.

  “Yeah, I’m scared she might make me permanently move out of our house.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  Coffen knows he’s not going to win, says, “Can you grab one other thing for me from inside the house?”

  “You’re sure pushing your luck right now.”

  “Sorry, I need it for work. It’s sitting in the downstairs hallway. It’s a kind of clock with an engraving on it.”

  “I saw that.”

  “Can you grab it for me? I need it for this project I’m working on.”

  “Fine,” she says, going in and coming back out of the house in under twenty seconds. She hands the plock to him and says, “We appreciate you stopping by.”

  Coffen puts the plastic bag with his toothbrush in his pocket, clutches the plock, and walks toward his car. Driving with his hurt shoulder isn’t ideal, but it’s better than dealing with Schumann right now—his athletically inspired help would only make Bob feel worse, as would his quiet woeful murmurings, “Little Schu … little Schu … ”

  Besides, Bob needs to talk to somebody who will listen to him and Schumann doesn’t fit that description. Who does in Bob’s life? Jane is the only person he’s confided in since they’ve been married. He has old friends, sure, but nobody he feels comfortable calling up out of the blue. He’s on his own, he guesses. On his own to figure out how to clean all this fluorescent orange off him.

  Bob’s first stop is Taco Shed. It’s after midnight and he’s never been here so late, though this is his favorite fast food, a lunchtime
staple. He turns into the drive-through, only one car in front of him up at the intercom.

  A couple storefronts down in the strip mall, he sees two people polishing a statue of the Buddha out front of a temple that used to be a SportsZone. Why they’re doing this task so late, he’ll never know, but give them credit: Even at this time of night, the shine they’re whipping up on the deity is impressive.

  Waiting patiently …

  But two minutes becomes three …

  Becomes five.

  And five minutes waiting behind one vehicle in a Taco Shed drive-through is unheard of, especially because Bob is steeped in this particular drive-through’s traffic patterns as only a top-notch connoisseur can be. His enthusiasm for Mexican lasagnas makes Coffen conspicuous around Taco Shed—he sometimes goes there more than once a day. He gets self-conscious when he doubles-up his greasy treks, which makes him bashful around the employees, assuming that once he motors off they all gossip about the sad man with a tapeworm that can only be sated on a steady diet of Mexican lasagnas.

  He toots the horn, which gets a whole heap of nothing as a response. He rolls down his window and says, “What are you doing up there?”

  Another horn toot produces zilch, and Coffen sees nary another option but to do some reconnaissance work.

  Throw the car in park.

  Wing open the door.

  Approach the inexplicably idling vehicle.

  Coffen sees a guy in the driver’s seat passed out cold, sleeping with a whiskey bottle wedged in his crotch and $20 bills scattered about. What he hears, however, is a woman’s scratchy voice coming from the drive-through intercom, saying, “Well, Otis, I got my panties down at my ankles and I’m ready to be mounted. Mount me, Otis! Mount me something fierce!”

  Safe to say this stops Coffen dead in his famished tracks.

  More from the scratchy raw lady voice coming sexily from the intercom: “Otis, I like my men to yank my hair a bit when they come up from behind. You gonna yank my hair and drive me crazy, Otis, you old goat?”

  Bob shakes Otis, who isn’t big on answering or moving, but is sleeping soundly with some spittle dripping from his mouth. Shakes him once more for good measure and the scratchy raw lady voice says, “Otis, I’m waiting for your hard taco meat to slide in my wet taco shell!”

  “Hello?” Coffen says to her.

  “Who the hell’s that?” says the lady without much friskiness behind these words.

  “A paying customer who’s hungry.”

  Then the voice pauses, makes some phony computer beeping noises, and finally says in a robot voice, “We are experiencing some technical difficulties with this intercom system. For example, unofficial messages totally unaffiliated with this fine establishment have been mysteriously beamed here from places unknown, maybe outer space, and please keep in mind that the words currently reaching your eardrums from this malfunctioning intercom system have not been approved by any sanctioning body. We hope to have this situation remedied quickly and are so sorry for the inconvenience.”

  More phony computer beeping noises.

  “You’re not fooling anybody,” Coffen says.

  A dramatic exhale from her and then, “Otis, you know the rules. You can’t bring any friends along.”

  “Pardon me,” Coffen says to her. “I can’t order because this drunk is asleep in his car.”

  The scratchy lady voice sighs. “Not again.”

  “Not again?”

  “Hold up a minute,” she says.

  Coffen looks at Otis, poor guy grabbing some shut-eye at the drive-through intercom. Life could be worse, right? At least Bob doesn’t binge-drink and go dead to the world getting intercom hanky-panky at Taco Shed.

  He says to Otis, “Looks like you’re going to have to jerk it the old-fashioned way tonight, my friend.”

  Still nothing from the narcotized Casanova.

  Then the back door opens and a woman with gargantuan muscles spilling from her official uniform storms out. Her nametag says Tilda. Coffen has seen this woman many times before and is always impressed with her many muscles, like a bodybuilder. She’s probably fifty years old and too tanned and Coffen feels thankful not to be Otis yanking Tilda’s hair and mounting her from behind.

  “Hey, I know you,” says Tilda.

  Coffen actually blushes. Jane is doing her best to break the world’s treading-water record and Bob is poised to be the first human to munch one million Mexican lasagnas. “I know you too.”

  “You’re here all the time.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Yeah, you’re the capitán of Mexican lasagnas,” she says with a Spanish flare.

  If it’s possible, Bob blushes even more. “I guess I am.”

  “Capitán, I’d like to apologize,” Tilda says, “for this strange man that I’ve never seen before sitting in his car, obviously inebriated. This is an injustice and on behalf of Taco Shed, I’d like to prepare you a complimentary gourmet meal.” She puts a muscled paw through Otis’s window and gives him a spank on the face, very hard, and Otis stirs awake and stretches with surprise. “Get out of here, you strange stranger,” Tilda says. “Get out of here before I alert the proper authorities to your inebriated state of mind. You are a public nuisance, and I’m aghast by this strange stranger’s actions!”

  A groggy Otis is confused but understands enough to make a quick run for it, moving the sloshing whiskey to the passenger seat and driving off.

  “What do you mean you don’t know him?” Coffen asks her. “You called him by name.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “These days, everyone looks like a cop, and that’s why it’s getting so hard to break the law—used to be the police were all white guys with crew cuts and cheap shoes. You could spot ’em a mile away, but these days, wow, I’m going to need to see some ID.”

  “You want to see ID that says I’m not a cop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do they make those?”

  “They sure as shit should,” says Tilda. Then she seems to lose her drooping gall. “I can’t keep up the charade any longer. You got me, cop. I’ll sign my confession. I’ll waive my right to a speedy trial. The men have to say a secret phrase into the intercom. They have to say, ‘Hark the herald angel likes to watch TV in his birthday suit.’ See what I mean? No one else would come up to the intercom and say that accidentally, so I thought I’d make a little extra dough on the sly and no one would ever know, but this drunken perv is always passing out on me at the intercom and now a damn cop happens to stumble upon our impure exchange.”

  “Will you relax and make me something to eat? I’m not a police officer. I build video games.” Coffen thinks that maybe humor might set her mind at ease. “The capitán of Mexican lasagnas is no friend of the policía.”

  “Typical cop behavior.”

  “I’m really hungry.”

  “This smacks of entrapment.”

  “Your paranoia has paranoia,” Coffen says.

  “You gum as much blotter acid as I did, and you live the rest of your life convinced everyone’s a cop.”

  “I only want a Mexican lasagna.”

  Tilda eyeballs Bob, probably searching for some sort of tell to indicate whether he’s a cop or not, but realizing there’s no way to know for certain. She says, “How about three Mexican lasagnas?”

  “Deal.” Coffen nods and she says she’ll go inside, prep the grub. He walks back to his car and pulls it up to the intercom and says, “And also a Coke, please.”

  “The beverage will be complimentary as well on account of Taco Shed appreciating your patience with our malfunctioning intercom,” Tilda says through the not-malfunctioning intercom. “I’ll deliver them personally to you out back, once it’s all ready.”

  Soon, this strange woman opens the back door again and brings the booty of Mexican lasagnas, then hands Coffen his drink. She has one Mexican lasagna for herself, too. It’s a tortilla filled with refri
ed beans, marinara sauce, and processed cheese. They both get busy chowing down.

  “This can’t be a coincidence,” Bob says.

  “What?”

  “On my way here, I was thinking that I needed somebody to talk to, and you’re like a therapist.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But sort of.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, but therapists aren’t helping their clients pull their pud.”

  Coffen nods, takes another bite of Mexican lasagna. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks. You don’t even want to know how bad I need the money. You don’t wanna hear about my daughter living in her boyfriend’s car, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Ain’t these weird times? Lately, life’s like one gigantic cartoon, and all I see are cops and monsters.”

  “I’ve been thinking that life is pretty much a no-win situation,” he says, done with his first Mexican lasagna and sipping from the Coke.

  “How’s that?”

  “I seem to be in the process of ruining everything.”

  “Are you going to knock it off? The ruining, I mean.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Men love to say that they’re trying. But really, you either do something or you don’t. Trying is for babies learning to walk.”

  In principle, Coffen agrees with what Tilda is saying—trying is the most tired excuse out there. The worst part is that it’s not even true, in Coffen’s case. He’s not trying. If he had been trying, Jane wouldn’t have had to stoop to a magician for marital help.

  “I miss babies,” says Bob. “I loved napping with my daughter asleep on my chest.”

  “How old are yours?”

  “Twelve and nine.”

  “Those ages are still fun,” Tilda says. “Wait until they shack up in Roy’s car with a bun in the oven and a meth habit. Then we’ll talk.”