Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  The radio crackled and sputtered with static, the song bursting through intermittently as they started across the bridge. When it succumbed completely to the interference, Baker shut it off. Disappointed, Micki leaned back and focused on the view flashing through the bridge girders: Manhattan skyscrapers proudly showing off their lights against a smoky black backdrop. Glittering and glowing, reflected in the water below, they presented themselves with even more spectacle than from the streets of her neighborhood. But she was fighting to keep her eyes open.

  “We’ll be there pretty soon,” he said, “but you can take a catnap if you want.”

  Yeah, sure, she thought. Mr. Nice Guy. “I’m all right,” she said.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  DELICATELY PATTERNED CARPET SWALLOWED the sound of their feet as they walked down the hall of the East Side high-rise.

  “Don’t do anything to embarrass Cynthia,” Baker said.

  “Uh-huh,” Micki responded dully.

  He glanced over. Even in the soft light cast by the glass-shaded sconces, her eyes appeared sunken and half closed. He made no remark.

  Cynthia herself opened the door when Baker knocked, and before she could stop herself, Micki said, “God!” The aspiring actress looked more stunning in person than in the photo on Baker’s desk. Wearing a white satin jumpsuit that accentuated the sleek curves of her body, she’d swept her blond hair up into a fancy French knot. It highlighted her graceful neck and showed off the diamond studs sparkling in her ears. Her height had also taken Micki by surprise: three-inch platform shoes made her a mere three inches shorter than Baker.

  Cynthia smiled. “You must be Micki. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

  Voice so low it seemed she didn’t want anyone to actually hear her, Micki said, “Hi.”

  Cynthia and Baker shared amused looks before Cynthia led the way to the kitchen, saying, “I’m afraid it’s really a disaster in there.”

  As they walked through the apartment, Micki took in not only the beautiful surroundings, but also the “beautiful people” who’d graced the party with their presence—colorful clothes, wild hair, and strange jewelry loudly proclaiming they were “artists.” A few glanced back, looking equally curious, but Baker hurried her through the swinging door.

  “Jesus!” Micki said.

  Dirty dishes and serving trays were piled every which way on every bit of available counter space. In the middle of it all was a waitress in a modified French-maid’s uniform, an oven mitt on one hand, hot hors d’oeuvres—just out of the oven—steaming on a cookie sheet on top of the stove. Taking off the mitt and wringing it, the young woman said, “There are no more dessert plates. There are no more plates at all.”

  Micki slipped out of her jacket and put it over the back of a chair, eyes lighting up when they landed on the appliance next to the sink. “You have an automatic dishwasher!”

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to use that for much,” Cynthia said. “The glasses are too fragile, and this is my best china—the sterling-silver trim would get ruined.”

  Micki examined the fancy stemware and fine china: a fucking nightmare. She looked around the sink, then glanced in the cabinets below: no dishwashing gloves. Instead, she discovered the garbage pail, crammed full. After several hefty tugs, she managed to pull the plastic bag out of the container, tie it up, and replace it with a fresh one. Seeing that everyone was watching her, she said, “Go on, I’ll take care of everything.”

  But as soon as they left, she found herself leaning over the edge of the counter, taking slow, deliberate breaths and staring at the chaotic towers of carelessly piled plates and utensils. This was her life; this was what she was good for: cleaning up after people. In fact, this was all she was good for. Thursday she’d taken the New York State Regents Scholarship Exam, an all-day affair with six full hours of testing, not including instructions and lunch. And for what? The guidance counselor had already told her that, without a high school transcript, she’d have to wait to apply to colleges. But where would she be a year from now?

  Eyes heavy, she stared at the dishes, all jumbled on top of each other, the uneaten food stuck in between. Like little children, they’d left the mess for someone else. The garbage was full, so they didn’t bother scraping the plates anymore; too much trouble for them to take the fucking garbage out. It was easy to imagine that waitress saying it wasn’t her job. But no one felt it was too much trouble for Micki. Never too much for her. She thought about smashing some of the damned precious china on the floor, but the feeling she was being watched crept over her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Baker standing in the doorway. She straightened up and turned on the water.

  “Cynthia wanted me to tell you,” he said, “that you can help yourself to whatever you want.” But he’d caught the despair in her eyes. And if it weren’t for the fact that he’d be driving again in a couple of hours, he would’ve washed away that image with as many drinks as it took.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE KITCHEN WAS IMMACULATE. Baker was duly impressed, though not surprised. One thing was certain, you couldn’t call the kid lazy. Unable to locate her, he felt a tiny rush of adrenaline until he spied her sneakers sticking out from behind the open door. Legs splayed out before her, head resting in the corner, she was sitting on the floor, sleeping. He stepped further into the room and let go of the door so it could swing shut.

  “Micki,” he said quietly. “Micki!” And he gently shook her shoulder.

  “Huh?” Her eyes flew open while her head banged against the wall. “Fuck!” She rubbed the back of her scalp.

  “Just watch the language,” Baker said quietly.

  Holding onto the counter, she stood up and scanned the room.

  “You’re in Cynthia’s kitchen,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  “You’re in my girlfriend’s kitchen. She was in a jam and you agreed to help her out.”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  He studied her. “Have you ever woken up and not known who you were again?”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “Well, have you ever remembered anything?—y’know, about your past?”

  She tucked her shirt more neatly into her jeans. “No. And I don’t want to anymore, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because: if I had some good kind of life before, I’d just feel bad that I lost it. And if it was bad, well, I’d just as soon not know.” She walked over to the sink, where several dirty dishes had been newly deposited. But when she turned on the water, Baker came up behind her and shut it off.

  “It’s enough,” he said.

  “But these dishes—”

  “It’s enough,” he repeated.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” Cynthia looked around the kitchen. “What an incredible job. I don’t know how to thank you.” She pressed something into Micki’s hand.

  Micki shrugged, then eyed the money unfolding in her palm. Forehead deeply creased, she looked at Baker.

  “Keep it,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you you’d get paid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh …”

  “Thanks,” Micki said to Cynthia.

  “Thank you.” And Cynthia leaned over to give her a hug. But Micki stiffened at the embrace, and Cynthia shot Baker a look full of concern.

  He glanced away.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  MICKI WAS SURE SHE smelled the acrid odor of weed as she trailed behind Baker through the smoke-filled apartment. Even out in the hall, it was noticeable. But they took a silent ride down in the elevator, the doorman politely wishing them a good night while holding the door for them as they left.

  “How much did she give you?” Baker asked when they’d reached his car.

  “Fifteen bucks�
��almost as much as two whole nights at Bel.”

  “Cynthia’s very generous.”

  Micki mumbled some vague response, already thinking about the black leather vest she’d seen at the motorcycle store. The denim one she wore was too bulky under her jacket. Not to mention that it was blue. And though she didn’t exactly need the vest, she still wanted it, wanted to buy it while she could.

  They rode in silence through the streets of Manhattan and onto the Queensboro Bridge. Halfway across, they came to a grinding halt. Up ahead, emergency vehicles’ lights were flashing.

  Baker slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn it! It’s two fifteen in the morning and look at this!” He glanced over at Micki, who was trying to blink back the drowsiness, a guilty expression on her face, as if this were somehow her fault. He said, “It looks like we’re going to be here for a while, so you might as well close your eyes and sleep a little. You can put the seat back if you want.”

  Eyes focused out the windshield, she said, “I’m fine like this.”

  “But you’ll be more comfortable with the seat back.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine?” He snorted. “What’s the matter, you don’t trust me?”

  “I just don’t wanna sleep right now.”

  He stared back at the stalled traffic. Granted, he was a real bastard to her, but as far as he was concerned, this was a totally different issue. It bothered him that she didn’t trust him. And it bothered him that it bothered him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE NEXT EVENING, WHEN Baker walked through Micki’s door, she was at her desk, about to begin her homework. Gripping the back of her chair, she twisted around to see him. Dressed in work boots, his grey sleeveless sweatshirt, and a very faded pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees, he was sporting stubble from a skipped shave. Her blood started pumping faster.

  But with nothing more than a careless glance in her direction, he dropped a green metal toolbox on the kitchen table and went to the closet, where he took out the packages of curtains and rods she’d bought. Lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, he opened the toolbox, grabbed a level and a ruler, and began measuring and marking various points on the molding above the fire escape window. He double-checked his work, then plugged in his drill.

  Harsh and high-pitched, the noise seemed especially loud in the little room, but Micki moved closer. She liked the definition of his muscles as he pressed the power tool into the thin sheet of metal under the wood. Just as he was about to start at another point, she asked, “Would you teach me how to use that?”

  Without looking at her, he responded, “No,” the drill’s piercing sound punctuating the reply.

  Her gaze fell. Then she went over to the table and looked in the open toolbox. There were all kinds of neat-looking things in it: regular and ratchet wrenches, different-sized screwdrivers, a couple of hammers, boxes of nails, toggle bolts … She picked up a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

  “Did I tell you you could touch that?” he asked.

  She replaced the item she was holding.

  “I asked you something.”

  “I was just lookin’ at it.”

  “Keep your hands off my things unless I tell you otherwise.”

  She grabbed her jacket from the closet and left the apartment, slamming the door behind her. Running down the steps and out of the building, she decided she didn’t care if he finished what he was doing or not. After all, she’d managed just fine till now without the fucking curtains. She hated him. Hated him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER HUNG HIS HEAD and closed his eyes. When he heard the downstairs door bang shut, too, he took a deep breath, then went over to the table and crushed what was left of his cigarette into the saucer. From the upper tray of the open toolbox, the needle-nosed pliers silently rebuked him. He combed his fingers through his hair: there were still three more windows to go.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BURIED UNDER CIGARETTE BUTTS, the misused saucer could barely be seen. Next to it were three beer bottles, two of which were empty and one nearly so. Baker was sitting at the table, a copy of Newsweek open in front of him. When Micki came through the door, he glanced at his watch. “One more minute and you would’ve broken curfew.”

  “But I didn’t, did I.” She walked over to the closet and hung up her jacket. “I was hoping you’d be gone by now.”

  “But I’m not, am I.”

  She spun around to face him, the look in her eyes causing his chest to constrict.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “At Rick’s.”

  “Were his parents home?”

  Her voice stiffened. “We were alone.”

  Baker was aware of how adept she’d become at avoiding straight yes-or-no answers. “Let me guess what the two of you were doing for the past two hours.”

  “You said that was my business.”

  He sat back and took a drink of beer.

  “What’s it to you anyway?” she asked.

  “You don’t question me. Understand?”

  She looked away. All she wanted was for him to leave. The last two hours with Rick hadn’t been fun at all. Just thinking about it made her want to jump in the shower and scrub her skin raw. She didn’t even like Rick anymore. And yet she wanted to have sex. What she couldn’t understand was why she still wanted to have it with someone like him. At least it bothered the shit out of Baker.

  “Did you finish your homework?” he asked.

  “I’ll finish it now.”

  “You’ll finish it now? It’s ten o’clock. You should be going to bed. Instead, you’re going to stay up late and then fall asleep in all your classes tomorrow. Like you usually do.” He caught the surprise that flickered across her face. “Yeah, Micki, I know all about it. A couple of your teachers mentioned it quite a while ago, but they said you were doing so well they weren’t too concerned. Then last Friday, I got notes from three of them saying it’s become excessive. I should’ve brought it up then, but I’d had just about enough of you for one week. But we’re going to straighten this out now.”

  “What do you think’s gonna happen when you take away the only time I have to catch up on sleep? Last week you had me cleaning your apartment; this week it was your girlfriend’s mess.”

  “You should be getting enough sleep during the week. You shouldn’t be so wiped out that you need the weekend to recover.”

  “Oh, please. Get real. There’s no way I can get enough sleep during the week. I’m usually working till at least ten thirty, and then I first have to start my homework.”

  “You should be doing some of that homework before you go to work.”

  “Maybe, maybe—and that’s only if the subway isn’t having a friggin’ meltdown—I have an hour between getting home from school and going to work; that’s if someone we both know isn’t making me sit around the security office for something.”

  “That’s your own fault.”

  “Everything’s my own fault.”

  “You said it; not me.”

  He was always so fucking smug. “Yeah, well, even so; it’s hard to get much done between school and work. I get tired, y’know.”

  He didn’t respond right away, and she wondered if he was actually considering what she’d said.

  “So when do you go to bed?” he asked.

  “About twelve thirty or one, I guess.”

  “And when do you get up?”

  “My alarm’s set for six.”

  “So that’s about five, or five and a half, hours. And you’re young. You may not feel great, but you should still be able to get by without falling asleep in class every day.”

  “But I’m not actually sleeping the whole time.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re
talking about, isn’t it? You’re staying up and fucking your brains out instead.”

  “I’m not fuckin’ my brains out. Y’know, I’ve only been with Rick a big three times so far.”

  “You watch your mouth, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “You said it first.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I say.”

  She looked away.

  Meanwhile, the revelation about Rick had startled him. “So why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked.

  “I dunno, I just can’t sleep.”

  “What do you mean: ‘you just can’t sleep’?”

  “ ‘I can’t sleep’ means I can’t sleep. Whatta y’mean: ‘what do I mean?’ ”

  He pressed his lips together to stop the smile that was threatening the corners of his mouth. “You can’t fall asleep, you can’t stay asleep, you wake up early … what?”

  “All of those.”

  “All of those,” he repeated. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “So why is it you have trouble sleeping?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “I’m sure we can rule out a guilty conscience.”

  “This is all so funny to you, isn’t it.”

  With one long swig, he polished off the third beer, closed the magazine, and stood up. “I suggest you start that homework now.” He cleared the table, took the remainder of his six-pack from the refrigerator, and retrieved the toolbox from where he’d left it on the floor. Pausing in the doorway, he said, “And don’t be late tomorrow.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  EVEN THOUGH HE WAS gone, his presence still filled the room, as if he were just outside the door, waiting in the hallway. And what the hell did that mean: “We’ll see.”? She took one of the dinette chairs and tried to wedge it underneath the doorknob. But the back wasn’t really high enough, and the rounded metal feet slid out too easily anyway. The desk chair, however, made of wood and with a taller back, worked pretty well. It probably wouldn’t hold up to too much force, but it would buy a little time. It would certainly make enough noise to wake her.