The taxi driver who brought you here, an African immigrant with deeply black skin and worried yellow eyes, had been curious about you and asked you some questions so as to understand your place in the world.
"But the agency does not open for several hours," he had said.
"That's all right," you told him. "Distance from the scene of the crime is what's important now."
"Scene of the crime," he repeated. His eyes flashed at you in the rear-view mirror.
"I tipped poorly though I knew it was wrong," you explained. "I spoke closely and with bad breath. I drank recklessly, without remorse. I spoke excessively about myself with no regard for truth or the boredom of others." You scratched your face and nodded, agreeing with yourself. "I slept badly but I've lived to tell the tale."
"You are making a joke I think," said the taxi driver.
"I don't know."
"You are unhappy?"
"I have been unhappy," you told him.
"But now is vacation time?" he said hopefully.
"You're a nice man," you said, and he shrugged.
The pockmarked counter man is not so nice, and worse, he remembers you from the last time you were here. His outlook, which was previously poor, seems to have worsened and so you can only assume that his life has worsened. It is sad to think of the daily workings of this ugly, unhappy man, and your head is hurting but you have no aspirin to ease your pain. You ask the counter man for aspirin and he says he has none; somehow you know he is lying to you. So here is the final trial, the renting of a vehicle from a man who does not like you and who will never like you, but whom you must deal with in an efficient manner lest you remain without transportation, which would allow you the freedom to roam and escape, but to where you have not yet decided.
"What's the quickest route out of California?" you ask.
"What?" he asks, tapping the keys of his keyboard. "What?"
"I want a fast car this time," you say. "Forget about the leg-room. I want the fastest, most dangerous car you've got on the lot."
The man leans over and sniffs forthrightly. He asks that you prepare yourself a cup of complimentary coffee, which he has just brewed, and you do, and it tastes terrible. You stand near the brochure display and listen in on the counter man's telephone conversation. He is speaking once more with his regional manager, and once more he is hoping to render you carless, and he speaks of your unpleasant odor and your desire to escape the state of California, and once more the regional manager sides with you, and you understand through the comments made by the counter man that his boss is similarly disinclined toward the Golden State: "Smog, I know, sir. Traffic, yes. Yes, the pollution. Yes, I understand, sir. But this guy ..."
It is no use, and the counter man is forced to rent you the car. By the end of your transaction the man is slamming down pens and handling the paperwork with unconcealed malice and you watch him going hatefully through the motions and you feel a distinct pity and sadness for this man, and just after he hands you the key to your new sports car, which you plan to demolish through misuse and overuse, you say to him, "It's none of my business, but I think it might be time for you to switch professions."
The man's face is cold and thoughtless. "It's none of your business," he agrees.
"It's none of my business," you say, "but I think it might be time for you to quit working altogether."
"Quit working and do what?"
"Try to be happy?" you say.
The man is looking into your eyes. You hoped to offer him an alternative to his present, obviously unsatisfactory lifestyle but your words sounded silly and childish, and though you had his attention for a moment you have now lost it and he returns to tap at his keyboard, shaking his head at your foolishness.
"Thank you," you say, and as you walk to the door, to your sports car waiting at the curb, the tapping of the keys trails off and you believe he is watching you and thinking about you and wondering about what you have said to him. And as you drive away from Los Angeles you think of this man tapping and worrying and hating, and you think of the kindhearted taxi driver and all of his probable problems and backaches and heartaches, and you think of Simon, presently unconscious on the putrid carpeted floor of the bar, his face dirtied with ashes and blood and mustard, and you think of yourself and of the six years you spent with your skeleton arms shivering in the cold brown water of the bar sinks and you are repulsed with yourself for allowing your unhappiness to continue for so long a time, and you promise yourself that you will never be stuck in such a position as this again, that you will try to be happy, as you said to the counter man, childish or silly or otherwise, it makes no difference. I will try to be happy, you think, and your heart and chest feel a plummeting, as in the case of the hurtling rollercoaster, and your heart wants to cry and sob, but you, not wanting to cry, hit yourself hard in the center of your chest and it hurts so much but you drive on, your face dry and remaining dry, though it had been a close call, after all.
Time passes and you shake your head. "Work will drive you crazy if you let it," you say. You do not speak for a long time after this.
* * *
Acknowledgments
Leslie Napoles
Gustavo Valentine deWitt
Susan deWitt
Mike deWitt
Nick deWitt
Peter McGuigan
Hannah Gordon Brown
Stephanie Abou
Foundry Literary
Jenna Johnson
Tina Pohlman
Laurence Cooper
Dennis Cooper
Matt Sweeney
D. V. DeVincentis
Hunter Kennedy
Andy Hunter
Carson Mell
Azazel Jacobs
Gabriel Liebeskind
* * *
Ablutions Page 15
