by M. L. Ryan
“Oh my God! I’ve had crackers that were moister,” she complained as she quickly downed the rest of her coffee. “Too bad they have chocolate in them, or we could have ground them up and given them to the critters to roll around in instead of their usual dust baths.”
I managed to make it through the day without either being forced to sample the baked goods or disparage Chelsea’s well-intentioned misadventures in baking. When it was time to head home, Daniel and Chelsea were still engaged in Margarita comparisons, having at least settled that frozen was better than on the rocks and sin sal was a sin.
I left them to their debate, climbed into my Rav4, and made my way through the evening traffic. I remembered when I was pulling into my carport that I needed to stop at the grocery store, but I decided to just make do with what I had. I made a quick assessment of my dinner options, which were limited to corn flakes or frozen burritos, unless I wanted to go back out again. I opted for a burrito because it just had to be microwaved while the cereal would require the additional steps of getting a bowl and pouring in the milk.
When it was heated, I peeled back the plastic wrapper and ate it like a push-up pop while flipping through the TV channels. I stopped at ESPN and watched a couple of men’s college basketball games until it seemed like a good time to go to sleep. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into my sleep shorts and camisole top, then slipped into bed. Vinnie followed his usual nightly routine, burrowed under the covers, and curled up near my feet. I sighed and flipped off the bedside lamp.
As I lay in the darkness, it occurred to me that I must be the most boring, single, thirty-year-old ever. I didn’t go out much. I ate crappy food. I couldn’t even remember the score of the games I just watched.
This was not how I had imagined myself at this point in my life. Had my marriage not crashed and burned, we probably would have a baby by now. Yeah, and I would still be married to an asstard. He probably would have spawned asstardlets. I just wanted to feel like my life was going somewhere—like I was accomplishing something. I rolled over on my side and vowed to try to get myself together and move forward.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamt I went on my first post-divorce date. The guy took me to a fancy restaurant, ordered lots of food and expensive wine, and then ditched me for the voluptuous hostess. I was presented with the check but lacked any means of paying it. After negotiating a payment plan with the restaurant owner, which involved allowing him to indulge his foot fetish with my pinkie toes and some flavored whipped cream. I left the place and got into my car, which was really weird because my date drove.
There in the parking lot were dine-and-dash and the hostess, groping each other with utter abandon. I revved up the engine, threw the car into drive, and peeled out towards them. The headlights illuminated their stunned faces as I spun the car sharply, rolled down the window, and chucked a lit Molotov cocktail—made from the empty wine bottle from dinner—at them and sped off humming the theme to “The Lion King.”
I woke up thinking I must be making progress. Usually in my dreams, I ran them over after I set them on fire.
~3~
The next day was Friday, and it was splendidly uneventful. As the workday wound down everyone was discussing their plans for the weekend. Chelsea and Daniel were driving up to the White Mountains to ski, and Rachel and Harrison were going to some new foreign film at the Loft Cinema. I intended to do laundry and re-caulk the bathtub. Rachel was particularly displeased with my plans, and spent the entire afternoon trying to coax me to come to the movies with them.
“Come on, it’ll be better than sitting around by yourself,” Rachel pleaded. “Maybe Harrison can get one of his co-workers to join us. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” I blurted out. “Okay, A: the last foreign film you coerced me into seeing was so awful I was tempted to choke myself into unconsciousness to avoid having to subject myself to the torture of watching the second hour. B: I would rather be tied to a horse and dragged by my tongue than be fixed up.”
Rachel glared at me. “No need to be snotty. I’m just worried that you spend too much time alone.”
I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a quick hug. “I appreciate the concern. I really do. I’m just not ready for another relationship yet. Or to wake myself from a French-ciné-induced coma,” I added, smiling.
“Who’s talking about a relationship?” she snapped as she pulled away. “I was thinking more in terms of one date. When was the last time you had one?”
Her accusatory tone stung me. But I knew she had a point. I hadn’t been on a date since my divorce, and that had been almost three years. She seemed to recognize that she had been too harsh because she turned to face me and placed her hands on my shoulders.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m worried about you and I just want you to be happy. But promise you will call me if you want to get together and do something Saturday or Sunday, okay?”
I assured her that if I came up with something interesting, she would be the first to know. She grabbed her purse and headed out while I left some notes for the weekend crew and made certain none of the chinchilla had eluded the end-of-day roundup into the nesting area. Satisfied that everyone was where they should be, I flipped off the lights in the office and locked the doors.
I managed to remember to stop at the grocery store, where I concentrated on loading up on healthier foods. I was pretty proud of myself as I packed my cart with fresh veggies and fruit and avoided the frozen food section completely. I grabbed one of those pre-roasted chickens, a loaf of freshly baked, crusty bread, and a dark chocolate bar. Hey, you can’t change old habits all at once.
When I got home, I noticed a package on the doorstep. I put all the groceries away and went back to pick it up, realizing that it was the Kindle I ordered the morning before. Gotta love that one-day shipping, I thought, as I opened the box. I was amazed at how thin and light it was. I skimmed through the instructions and plugged it in to charge while I fixed dinner. Well, by fix dinner I mean I made a salad and yanked some meat off the chicken—but compared to my usual fare, this was a huge improvement.
After dinner, I cleaned up and carefully read how to set up the Kindle, while I ate the candy bar for dessert. Why people waste calories on milk chocolate, I cannot fathom. Once the little light at the bottom turned green, indicating a full charge, I carefully configured everything for my Wi-Fi and fired it up.
The advertisements were, as advertised, not particularly egregious, but I had some trouble navigating the Kindle Store, so I decided to search for reading material using my laptop. I decided to get one of the many classic books that can be downloaded free as my first ‘purchase’. I clicked on Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and directed it to ‘Hailey’s Kindle’. Moving to said device, I pushed the menu button, clicked ‘turn wireless on’, and then ‘sync and check for new items’.
I could have sworn that right before the ‘download complete’ appeared in the top left corner, I felt a small, tingly sensation from my fingertips that traveled through my body down to my toes. Must be static electricity, I reasoned. I’m always shocking myself at this time of the year. Who wouldn’t when the relative humidity outside in the winter often was below ten percent? Looking back to the screen, sure enough, there was P & P!
I curled up on the sofa and began reading, pleased that what was on the screen looked just like the page of a book. About halfway through the first chapter, I laughed out loud when, instead of clicking the button to advance to text, I moved my hand to flip the nonexistent page. I started feeling sleepy and realized that I had been reading for almost three hours. It seemed the leap to the eBook reader was successful, but the adventures of Lizzie and Mr. Darcy would have to wait until tomorrow. I put the Kindle to sleep as I set about to do the same with myself.
When I awoke the next morning, sunlight was already leaking out around the edges of the mini-blinds in my room. How late was it? I hadn’t slept well. I tossed and turned a lot and, while I couldn’t q
uite remember any details, I knew I had some weird, intense dreams.
I glanced at the time on the clock radio on my nightstand and was surprised to see it was eleven-fifteen a.m.. I never sleep that late. I hope I’m not catching something, I thought as I got out of bed. I did feel a little off, but I didn’t have a scratchy throat or the sniffles, my usual harbingers of an oncoming cold. I decided to take it easy today, and I popped a couple zinc tablets to try to fend off anything that might be brewing inside me.
I made some coffee and some instant oatmeal after I flipped on the radio to listen to what was left of Car Talk. I don’t know anything beyond the make and model of what I currently drive, but the Magliozzi brothers make the program entertaining—whether you were into auto repair or not.
When I finished eating, I got dressed and decided to relax outside on my patio and experience nature while I continued my reading. It was already close to seventy degrees, and even in the winter, the Arizona sun is intense. I moved my padded, zero-gravity chaise into a shady area and grabbed the Kindle from inside. I planned to read some more, but when I reclined in the lounger, I closed my eyes and listened to the low, raspy song of a cactus wren instead.
I like cactus wrens. They are spunky birds that protect their large, elaborate nests by constructing them in the thorny branches of cholla cactus. Smart birds—cholla are shrub-like plants with cylindrical stems made up of numerous, small, segmented pods. It’s easy to inadvertently brush up against one of those pods, which then releases from the cactus when the thorns jam into your flesh. Which, by the way, hurts like hell. The best way to remove them without impaling your fingers is with a fine-toothed comb. Because predators generally don’t have the foresight to carry such implements with them while raiding wren nests, they tend to try to remove the stickers using their mouths. Which I’m sure makes a fine security system for the nestlings.
The next thing I knew, I woke up and the sun was low in the western sky. Fuck. I just slept another four hours, at least. I must be getting something. I was stiff from sleeping in one position for so long, but I still didn’t feel ill exactly. Just… strange. Probably from too much sleep, I reasoned.
I gingerly stood up, stretched, and went inside. I grabbed my cell phone and checked the time—jeez, four-thirty p.m.. Cursing my somnambulant waste of a perfectly good Saturday, I realized I was hungry, and for some reason, I had a taste for beef. I didn’t usually eat much red meat. I wasn’t a vegetarian by any means—I preferred chicken or fish—but every so often, I had a hankerin’ for a big, juicy sirloin. I guess this was one of those rare occasions (no pun intended). Maybe it had something to do with my funk of undetermined origin.
I didn’t really feel like going out, either to a restaurant or to the store to buy a steak, so I settled on ordering from a local pizza joint that delivered. Their foot-long Italian Beef sandwich managed to assuage my cravings and the added green peppers and onions made me feel like I was still keeping to my quest for a healthier diet. I felt a bit more energetic after the meal and I managed to do some much-needed laundry. While the second load was in the dryer, I read a couple more chapters (fifty-eight percent completed!) before I grew weary again.
“Whatever this is, I hope it gets out of my system soon,” I complained to Vinnie, who was curled up asleep on some of the clean clothes I had folded in the laundry basket. He looked up and yawned at me when I spoke, then stood up, reversed his position, and promptly dozed off again. If I wanted sympathy, I certainly wasn’t going to get any from a creature that normally slept twenty hours a day. I picked up the basket with him still inside and moved into the bedroom. This took some effort, because the cat weighs a ton.
“Sorry, beast,” I said as I gently prodded him to move. “You have to get up. I need to get my jammies.”
Vinnie begrudgingly hopped out onto the bed as I grabbed my clean cami and shorts. He spent a few moments casually licking his front paw to indicate that he really didn’t care that he was so unceremoniously booted from his comfortable spot.
I brushed my teeth and changed, then tucked myself into bed, holding up the sheet so Vinnie could assume his usual spot. As he settled next to my feet, I felt another odd, mild jolt, this time just in my torso. It lasted only a fraction of a second and then subsided, but it was still disconcerting.
Vinnie shot out from under the covers, ran over my chest, and out of the room, hissing the whole time. I frowned and stared at the door, waiting for him to return. When he didn’t, I went into the living room, turned on the light, and found him cowering near the front door.
“Here, sweet boy,” I cooed as I crouched down, extending my hands in what should have been a feline comforting gesture. To my dismay, he hissed and then ran under the TV stand. I stood there for a minute, feeling the sting of his rebuff.
I went back to bed and stared into the dark. It was bad enough I was feeling strange, but Vinnie had never acted that way toward me before. Maybe he heard a coyote outside and that freaked him out, I rationalized. It wasn’t unusual for coyotes, or even javelina, a type of wild, skinny pig-like animal, to hang around outside. In fact, for a while last year, a javelina family took up nightly residence on my front porch for a couple of weeks. Vinnie had been agitated at their presence, and spent a lot of time peering out the window at them, but he never acted like he was possessed.
“Great, rejected by my own pet,” I murmured, as sleep overtook me once again.
The next morning I was feeling more like myself. I guess sleeping for a whole day took care of whatever was the problem. Vinnie’s disposition had improved as well. He was still avoiding me, but at least he had stopped hissing.
I went for a hike on the Ventana Canyon Trail for some much-needed exercise and then ate lunch. In the afternoon, I started paying some bills when my cell phone started ringing. Probably Rachel, I thought as I stood to extract it.
I was surprised to see it wasn’t in its usual spot, wedged in the front pocket of my jeans, but rather on the kitchen counter. I didn’t remember taking it out, but I must have when I was eating. I grabbed it and glanced at the screen. It wasn’t Rachel. In fact, I didn’t recognize the number and it wasn’t even a local area code, but I answered it anyway.
My “hello” was followed by silence, and then a rich, baritone male voice on the other end said, “I’m returning a call from this number, and you must have hung up just before I had a chance to answer.”
“You must have the wrong number. I haven’t called anyone,” I responded politely.
“I don’t think so,” he countered. “I hit return missed call.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. It wasn’t me.”
“And no one else might have used your phone?”
I was beginning to get tired of this conversation. “No, no one else used my phone.” I spoke slowly, thinking it might be more comprehensible that way. “You have the wrong number. Bye now.”
I hit the end button, jammed the phone into my pocket, and went back to the bills. About a half hour later, I was interrupted mid-online payment by the phone ringing. Still transfixed by the amount of electricity I apparently used last month, I pulled out the phone without looking to see who it was and answered it.
“You called me again.”
I looked at the number on the screen, and sure enough, it was Wrong Number Guy. I tried to remain courteous, I really did—but my exasperation crept out in my voice despite my good intentions.
“No, I did not. I don’t know what your deal is, but I didn’t call you.”
“Well, someone has.”
“There isn’t anyone else here,” I responded testily. “There must be something wrong with your phone.”
“Perhaps. I’ll look into that. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
I didn’t even bother to say goodbye before I ended the call. I placed the phone next to my laptop and went back to what I was doing. Ironically, I was just finishing up with the phone bill when the phone rang yet again.
I stared
daggers at the now familiar number on the screen and quickly snatched it off the desk. Before I could release the litany of invectives that were forming in my brain, Wrong Number Guy spewed forth a few of his own.
“Look, toots, I suppose someone with your obviously limited intelligence thinks it is amusing to keep phoning me and hanging up, but I find it annoying and extraordinarily rude. What are you, twelve years old or something? Your parents must be very proud,” he fumed.
“Toots?” I spat back. “What are you, one hundred and twelve, or something? I told you twice already, I’m not screwing with you. I AM NOT CALLING YOU! I don’t know why you think I am, but I’m not.”
I continued describing what he could do with his obviously malfunctioning cellular device when he interrupted my tirade with, “What did you just say?”
His tone wasn’t angry—he just sounded seriously confused. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember exactly what I had just said. Trying to recall what may have caused his seemingly odd reaction, I thought I could buy myself some time by hedging with a feeble, but honest, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You said, ‘Sebastian’.”
Now it all made sense. “I probably called you ‘bastard’ and you couldn’t hear correctly because of your piece-of-shit phone.”
“No, you said Sebastian, not bastard. There were clearly three syllables.”
Sebastian—bastard—who cared? “Whatever. I haven’t been calling you. Stop calling me and leave me alone!”
I vaguely heard him saying something else as I was ending the call, but at that point, I was more than ready to be done with him.
“What an asshole,” I said out loud as I tossed the phone on the couch. I stared at it for a moment, then went over, picked it up, and turned off the ringer before flinging it back on the cushions.
***
Given my more or less comatose Saturday, the work week came way too soon. Vinnie was not where he could be seen and I finally found him under my bed. Maybe he’s sick, I worried. Cats often do an excellent job of hiding their illnesses and often one of the first signs is avoidance behaviors. He seemed to be eating okay, though it wouldn’t be surprising if no matter what the malady, diminished eating would be the last symptom to emerge. I made certain that the hummingbird feeder hanging outside the front window was filled with sugar water to entertain him while I was gone. He could sit and stare at those pugnacious little birds flitting about for hours, moving only slightly during the staccato mouth-twitching thing that cats do when they see prey.
