by Richard Cox
I take my drink, walk into the hallway and around a corner, headed for the front door. I round another corner and through the windows I see someone standing on the porch. A man. Big fellow. For some reason I can’t really make out his features, or anything about him other than his shape. He’s a silhouette, a shadow. He’s wearing a sort of cowboy hat. A Stetson hat.
Haven’t I seen this guy somewhere before? I’m pretty sure I have, and I’m even more certain I didn’t like him.
My first instinct is to turn around and go back to the kitchen. So that’s what I do. I’m almost there when I realize something else creepy: The doorbell never rang. The only reason I even saw the guy at all is because I heard traffic on my street.
I walk back to the corner and peer around it. Now the porch is empty. I approach the door and inspect the entryway through the windows, but there’s no one out there now. No cars on the street, either.
And yet still I hear traffic roaring by.
“Phillips!” I hear someone say. “Give me your hand.”
I wheel around, sure that the man is standing behind me, that he somehow snuck into the house another way, but no one is there.
“Phillips!” someone cries. “What are you doing?”
Fear crawls up and down my spine like ants. Where is that voice coming from?
And why do I keep hearing the sound of highway traffic?
I march through the house again, look through all the rooms again, the closets again. I find the 6-iron buried in the wall above the ironing board, where I left it, where I swung at the nonexistent intruder.
Not good. Not good.
Back in the kitchen I make another drink. Gulp it down in three swallows. I stand there and try not to think about whoever is watching me. I remember I’m supposed to call Sophia about the WB pilot. But I don’t want to talk to her right now. I think maybe we talk too much (and by too much I mean we talk pretty much every day). Oh, it started out innocently enough a few months ago, when I asked for her number on Facebook email so I could wish her a happy birthday over the phone. Our first conversation was so natural we ended up chatting for more than three hours, and afterwards the frequency picked up quickly. But do I really have any business talking so often to a woman who isn’t my wife? I mean we’re just friends. Although if you want to know the truth it’s nice to have a new friend. I don’t have many of them anymore. Since college most have either moved away or become ensnared by fatherhood, and once they are fathers, I’ve realized, they like to hang out with other fathers.
But still, I never mention anything about Sophia to Gloria, and that’s what makes it wrong. I don’t know why I haven’t said anything to her. Maybe because I’m jealous of Jack?
I suppose you want to know more about Jack. I already told you he dated Gloria before I did. He was one of those activist college dudes with a passion about any cause you can think of, and he had way too much time on his hands. Gloria never spoke much about him, other than to tell me she loved him, but it was easy to see theirs was a tempestuous relationship. All that passion probably made him an excellent lover. But after Gloria left him, she claimed she was happy to have the drama behind her. She liked that I was stable. She liked sitting on the floor of my apartment playing SimCity with me. But it took a long time to get to that point.
The night of the fraternity party, after I watched her disappear into her apartment, I went home and tried to figure out where I had gone wrong. Could I have said something to change the outcome? I wondered if I should have kissed her. If I should have refused to let her go. But obviously, since she was already in love with someone else, the right thing to do was honor that relationship. Right?
Many times over the next few days I considered going back to her apartment. One evening after a couple of beers I even drove over there, but as soon as I reached the parking lot I changed my mind. It was so hard to know what to do. After all we’d known each other for just one night. She’d probably already forgotten about me. Her dude was probably there making love to her. Or maybe she was waiting for me to come back and make a grand romantic gesture, like stand outside and sing beneath her window. I was doing the honorable thing by leaving her alone. I was backing off too easily. I was being a stand-up guy. I was being too weak.
Then the second round of summer classes started up, and I took a course on database theory, and I saw Gloria in the computer lab. Talk about coincidence.
The funny thing is I initially didn’t see her. It was a big room, maybe thirty-five computer stations, and she was sitting in the far corner. I hadn’t even bothered to look because you didn’t often find hot women in the computer lab. But when I logged into ICQ, the chat window, I saw the name GloriaK in the list of online users. ICQ, if you never used it, was one of the first popular chat programs. Not everyone had it at home, but it was always on in the computer lab. Even back then people were using computers to distract themselves from real work.
I looked around, but from where I was sitting I couldn’t see her. I had never asked her last name. There were more than forty thousand students on campus, and even during summer there were surely scores of Glorias enrolled in class. But somehow I knew this one was her.
So I wrote:
Is this fate?
A long time passed before she answered. A really long time. She was wondering how I had found her. I was sure of it. What I wasn’t sure of was how she might respond.
GloriaK: It is unless you stalked me. Are you here in the computer lab or did you track me down on the Internet?
ThomasP: I’m here.
GloriaK: Stand up, then.
I stood up and looked around. There she was in the corner. The smile on her face was priceless.
GloriaK: Wow. What class are you taking?
ThomasP: Database theory
GloriaK: Nerd.
ThomasP: Whatever. How about you?
GloriaK: Introduction to Microsoft Office. It’s like WordPerfect and Lotus rolled into one.
ThomasP: You’re studying to be a secretary?
GloriaK: Shut up, you.
ThomasP: Well, anyway, I guess you were right. You said if this was meant to happen, it would.
GloriaK: I did say that. But I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. I still have a boyfriend.
Just to be clear, this account of the conversation may not be verbatim. I’m pulling the exchange from memory. But I have relived it many times over, and I would bet it’s a ninety percent match for the exact words.
ThomasP: Why wasn’t the boyfriend at the party?
GloriaK: He’s at home with his parents. But he’s coming in this weekend for another party.
ThomasP: What party?
GloriaK: The same fraternity house. It’s their 50-year anniversary or something. They got Eric Lampton to play. I bet a thousand people will be there.
ThomasP: Who’s Eric Lampton?
GloriaK: Hahaha. Anyway, you should come. I love music. Do you play an instrument?
Her boyfriend was coming to town, going to the party, but she wanted me to be there. I was confused. Wouldn’t you be? But nevertheless I agreed to go.
We chatted a bit more on ICQ and later spoke briefly outside. She was nervous. She was late for class and blamed me. We laughed and hugged and then she ran off to class.
She was wearing a light blue T-shirt and a white skirt. White flip flops. Smooth, tan legs. I had that feeling again, regret at letting her go, but it wasn’t quite as intense. This time I knew I would see her again. She had asked to see me. At that point I figured it was only a matter of time before she would come to her senses and let go of her boyfriend. I was wrong about that, very wrong, but right then I was supremely confident.
Back in the present I make myself another drink. Is this number four? Does it matter?
Eventually I return to the study and the Ant Farm game. My head is full of cotton candy, fuzzy fuzzy. Before I can sit down, my cell phone begins to vibrate. I fish it out of my back pocket and find William’s name
on the display. For a moment I stare at the letters that make up his name. The letters themselves mean nothing, but together, with order, they become words that do convey meaning. And…right.
The phone is still vibrating. Why the hell is he calling me? He fired me!
I push a button to admit William’s call, and into the microphone I yell, “Why don’t you stick your Google report up your ass, you pedantic ladder climber?”
Silence pours out of the phone. Sweet, beautiful silence.
Then William says (I think), “I was calling to see if you wanted a copy of your personal files from the work computer burned to a disc. Never mind. And Thomas, get yourself some help.”
I tell William to go fuck himself, and sit back down in front of the computer. And damned if I can’t hear that British woman again reciting her numbers.
4…0…2…9…0…pause…4…0…2…9…0…pause…4…0…2…9…0…
I don’t remember the numbers repeating themselves before. Maybe I missed it. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were like a book or a movie and you could flip back the pages or rewind the disc to know for sure? It—
Wait.
Wait!
These numbers are not playing in my head.
They are coming from my computer speakers.
On the bottom right corner of the screen, in the soundtrack information box, the song title is “Ready Ready” and the band is The Moscow Coup Attempt.
Just to be sure, I reach forward and slowly turn down the volume on the speakers.
And just as slowly, the numbers and associated melody become quieter and finally disappear altogether.
Numbers in my head, numbers in the game—it’s obviously another signal, another symbol. A hint. Right?
This is exciting.
I carry my glass back into the kitchen and make another cocktail, drunk with accomplishment. Before I can stop myself I pour a huge shot of rum, so much there’s barely room for even a splash of soda. But that’s okay. I’ll drink it slow. In fact it’s better this way, because I won’t have to get up to make another drink for a while.
On the way back to the study I think about what Dick said to me, his voice so monotone he could have been in a coma.
You want to know how it works? he asked.
I hardly knew what to expect, but now his answer makes perfect sense. Like I should have known all along.
Numbers, he said. The truth is in numbers.
On the screen, the cockpit chart beckons.
THIRTEEN
Someone is screaming.
A familiar voice…frightened or desperate or…angry?
Gloria?
Not screaming but yelling.
“Thomas!”
Coming from behind me.
I realize my head is on the desk. I’ve been asleep. I raise up and turn around quickly, pivoting in the chair, and the room spins too fast. My peripheral vision narrows, like a tunnel, blurriness everywhere, and the only thing I can make out is Gloria standing in the doorway. Staring at me. Clearly upset.
“What are you doing?” she screams.
I can barely hear her over the wailing, thundering sound of the Ant Farm soundtrack.
“Will you please turn that down?”
I pivot back to the computer and reach for the volume. During the turn my knee slams into the desk, so hard it sounds like a hammer blow, which absolutely should hurt but doesn’t. My head is cobwebs. My ears buzz. The room is overbright and surreal, as if lit with an array of powerful fluorescent bulbs.
“Baby, what are you doing?”
An answer does not immediately form on my lips. I realize vaguely I’ve made another mistake, a big one, because the last thing I needed right now was for Gloria to see me in a state like this.
“I’m playing thish new game,” I finally say. And yes, I can totally hear myself slurring, but what can I do about it? I’m in another world. I was asleep. Passed out. I’m so drunk I might vomit.
“What’s that music?”
“It’s the soundtrack to the game.”
“It sounds like a nightmare.”
All I can do is nod. I’m an idiot. I hate myself.
She asks me, incredibly, “Are you drunk?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I had a bad day.”
“So you decided to get hammered? On a Monday?”
“I only have—had—a couple of drinks.”
“Uh-huh. Two drinks and you can barely talk?”
“Well, maybe it was three. And there is Monday Night Footballs this evening, you know.”
The look in Gloria’s eyes, the slight upwards roll, only worsens my self-loathing. I wish I could go back to this morning and start over. I already lost my job. I can’t lose Gloria, too. She shouldn’t be seeing me like this.
“So what happened?” she asks. “Something at work?”
I’m barely able to speak. I can’t possibly admit the truth. Not yet. Not now.
“It’s William. He is such a pedantic jerk.”
“Baby, you’ve never liked William. Did something different happen today?”
I can’t tell her the truth until I’m sober and able to explain myself. So I lie.
“He moved up the deadline on one of my projects, and he acted like I hadn’t even started, like I’m a child or something.”
“So you had started?”
I hate this. Every time I complain about William, Gloria tries to make it seem as if the guy is perfectly normal.
“He said he wanted it done by Friday.”
“So you hadn’t started on it?”
“He said he wanted to interface with me about the report. Why can’t he just say talk? ‘Thomas, I want to talk to you about the report.’”
Gloria doesn’t seem impressed by my description of the problem. I can’t remember her ever looking at me with such clinical distance before, not ever.
“Look,” I say, trying to enunciate clearly without sounding as if I’m trying, “I know I’m a mess right now. I got off work a little early and I dint—didn’t—have much to eat today. I shoon—shouldn’t—had so much to drink. I’ll take a shower and get my head clear and we can have some dinner, k?”
“Okay, baby,” she answers. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”
She stands there looking at me, a little more compassionately now, but I still feel like a science experiment.
“Thomas, are you feeling all right?”
Why does everyone keep asking me that? Yes, I know my mind is all funky right now but that’s going on inside my head. They can’t see that. Can they?
“Yeah, I’m fine. Of course.”
“Well, I only ask because it’s a Monday and you’re drunk out of your mind, upset about something at work, sitting in front of the computer listening to scary music. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine. I just made a decision…I mean a bad decision. You know how it is when you start drinking and you don’t realize how much. Right?”
“Right,” she sighs. “So what do you want for dinner?”
“Dinner sounds great. How about spaghetti?”
“Sure,” Gloria says. “Let me go change and I’ll get right on it.”
I glance back at the computer monitor as I stand up, and the difference in perspective nearly causes me to fall backwards into the desk. Gloria must hear the scuffle of my feet against the carpet, because she looks back into the room and notices me struggling to maintain my balance. I pretend like nothing happened and stride confidently out of the room.
But really I wish I could go back. The last thing I saw on the monitor before I turned away was prayers piling up on the screen. Prayers I cannot answer because it’s time for dinner.
FOURTEEN
A little while later, Gloria and I sit down in front of the television and eat while we watch a situational comedy. I try to act like I’m sober, but my appetite overwhelms me. I wolf down an entire plate of spaghetti while Gloria just picks at hers. We’re not saying much. Dur
ing a commercial I go into the kitchen for another helping of dinner, and because the bar is not visible from the living room, I decide to down a quick shot of rum to reinforce my buzz.
The Ant Farm game is still running, of course. I’m insanely curious to go back in the study and check on my simulated world, but I have to figure out a way to smooth things over with Gloria.
“How was work today?” I ask.
“Oh, it was fine.”
“Is Mary still dealing with that creep who peers around the wall at her?”
“Yeah. Today he said ‘Good morning, good evening, and good night!’”
“He quoted The Truman Show?”
“Apparently.”
Then nothing. The thundercloud of silence boils toward the sky, cottony white at the top, roiling black at the bottom. I imagine her easy conversations with Jack, the way they keep thinking of reasons to stop by each other’s office. And since I am shitcanned, I imagine them closing the door and laying waste to a desk, papers and folders pushed toward the ground. This alternately makes me hate myself for being weak and resent Gloria for being so predictable.
He pulls her hair.
She whispers his name.
Their passion for each other is so intense they don’t even care if someone outside the office hears them. Maybe they even want people to hear them.
I open my mouth and blurt, “You want to go to lunch tomorrow?”
“Lunch? You hate going to lunch.”
“Well, that’s because I like to leave work at four. But tomorrow I’ll just stay till the normal time.”
