by J. Thorn
Drew whistled to add emphasis to the observation. “Maybe since college?”
Brian nodded. “Yep. It’s been, what, fifteen, almost twenty years?”
Drew looked around the bar. The faces had all changed, the games had changed, the jukebox had changed. The place had a digital jukebox loaded with thousands of songs and not one full-length recording. He thought about the obscure cuts they would punch into the old jukebox, the ones that only the real fans knew. He had played “Slaves and Bulldozers” far more than “Black Hole Sun.”
“Used to be our Thursday-night hangout, remember that?”
“Some of them,” said Brian, smirking. “The four-dollar pitchers erased a lot of memories.”
“There were never many chicks here. Something about the place didn’t appeal to them.”
“Maybe it was the filthy beer taps, or possibly the jukebox loaded with metal and grunge, or maybe it was the hole in the floor of the bathroom that functioned as the toilet, or possibly the bullet hole above the condom machine.”
“They’ve sure cleaned the place up,” Drew said, looking at the fancy, neon signs decorating the stucco walls. “The pool table might be the last remnant of our old college hangout.”
Brian held his glass up to Drew and invited a toast. Neither man said anything as they tipped the drink back.
“It’s good to have you back, man,” said Brian. “Been kinda worried about you lately. The thing with Vivian, and then Johnson goes AWOL for three days, and you ain’t been right.”
Drew nodded with an apologetic motion. “I was in a funk.”
“I want to help, man. I’m your bro. You gotta let me in sometimes when you really need it.”
Drew nodded before draining the rest of his drink. The thickest, sweetest rum sank to the bottom of the glass. Drew felt the sugary spice march down his throat until the sensation warmed his chest.
“What do you think happened to Viv?” Drew asked.
“She’s always been a crazy broad. God only knows who or what she got mixed up in. I feel like shit about it. It ain’t like we hung much, but still. You know somebody for that long, it hits you when they become a victim. Some dude really had it out for her, hurt her good.”
Drew shook his head and stared at the melting ice cube in his glass. “She didn’t deserve to suffer like that.”
“Damn straight, Drew. Nobody does.”
“Do you remember the times she came here with us?”
“Vaguely. I remember that she had the hots for you but you were too hung up on Molly to take Viv for a ride. I can remember her hanging with us two or three times, but she eventually stopped coming out.”
“There was one time. Don’t think you were here that night. There was one time I knew I could’ve done her. We had our hands moving, nowhere south of the border, but damn close. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve been different if I hadn’t chased Molly out of state, if I had stuck around and given Vivian a chance.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Drew looked at Brian and pushed a sleeve across his eyes.
“Some freak hurt her, cut her up, and left her body in the river. And that’s not your fault.”
“I know, I know. My brain goes in funny ways. Been thinking a lot about Vivian lately. She got really weird after college.”
Brian laughed and slammed his glass on the table. “You sayin’ if she took your schlong she wouldn’t have been such a nutty bitch?”
“Have some respect, bro. She’s dead.”
“I’m not trying to disrespect her, Drew. I’m just sayin’ that you are not responsible for Vivian’s life. We make a million choices a week. Every day we’re deciding things that could dramatically change our lives. You can’t hover over that. You can’t second guess leaving the house a minute later and avoiding a car accident. You can’t control how the universe deals the deck. Man, you have to savor the moment because nothing else exists.”
“Thanks, Buddha.”
“I’m serious, Drew. And you’re way too serious. Quit thinking seven steps backward and seven steps forward. I’m not telling you to forsake your future, throw your 401k money to the casino. What I’m saying is you need to live more in the moment and enjoy it rather than thinking about what it could have been or what it might become.”
“Maybe you’re right. But I’ve always been this way. I’m too metacognitive for my own good.”
“Thanks, Freud. Call it what you want, but you have to stop taking responsibility for the universe.”
Drew nodded his head and looked at the bartender again. He could not help but notice how much more attractive she became with each rum and coke served. She saw the motion and pulled the soda gun and bottle of rum, one in each hand.
“Another?” he asked Brian.
“It’s not like you raped and murdered Vivian with your own hands. It’s not your fault.”
Drew closed his eyes and nodded. “You’re right, man. Not like I stabbed her in the back of the neck.”
Brian squinted and tilted his head sideways. Before he could speak again, the rum and cokes arrived with a healthy dose of sugary intoxication, which bent the conversation back toward the glory days of Soundgarden and the merits of getting Rage Against the Machine back together.
***
Drew pulled into the driveway, the streetlights casting a hazy light on the neighborhood. He fumbled for the keys and caught a glimpse of 2:47 a.m. on the dashboard clock. The illusion of island happiness from the night’s rum put a smile on Drew’s face. He hoped Molly would be waiting up for him.
The refrigerator hummed. Drew dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and kicked his shoes into a corner, where they landed in the shape of sleeping puppies. He opened the fridge. The lone lightbulb blinded Drew as he fumbled for the water pitcher. “Two full glasses and I’ll be good to go tomorrow morning.”
He drained two and a half glasses to be on the safe side. Two aspirin followed. Drew did not bother with a shower, and skipped brushing his teeth as well. Any thoughts of sex with Molly disappeared as his head hit the pillow and Drew succumbed to the power of a rum-induced, dreamless sleep.
***
“Morning.”
Molly shook the sleep from her eyes and followed it with an exaggerated yawn that told Drew she was rested and in a good mood, one of the indicators that married couples use to measure the worth of the day.
“What time did you get home?” she asked, watching him stir scrambled eggs in an iron skillet. The kids sat in the living room, engrossed in the latest cartoon.
“After last call,” he replied. Drew kissed her forehead before reaching into the refrigerator for the cheese.
“Omelets for both?” he shouted into the living room over the rapid-fire laugh of a character on the screen.
“Yes!” the kids yelled back in unison.
“You want one?” Drew asked Molly.
She ignored the question and put her arms around his waist. Drew felt her breasts on his back and shook his head.
“Stop that or I’ll burn these eggs.”
Molly winked and headed back to the bedroom. She let her robe slip open enough to make Drew excited.
“C’mon up when you’re done.”
Drew smiled and finished the omelets for Billy and Sara. He placed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and made sure the stove was off.
“Got some things to do upstairs. You guys okay?” he asked the kids.
They nodded without looking up.
They would sit there through Armageddon if the television still worked, he thought.
He climbed the stairs toward the bedroom, where Molly’s robe hung on the hook.
***
The teapot whistled and demanded attention from its master. The old man sauntered toward the stove like a bride milking the walk down the aisle. His white hair sat in wisps on his shoulders, and his beard stretched to his navel. He gripped the hand-carved cane with his left hand while extending his shaking right hand toward the
pot.
“Let me get that,” said Ravna.
The old man whisked the air from in front of his face and wrinkled his nose as if a foul odor had crept into the room.
“I’m not feeble,” he replied.
“I was not suggesting you are, Mashoka. I was trying to be polite.”
“Then sit down on the couch and allow the master of the house to serve his guest.”
Ravna put both hands in the air to signal his compliance. He walked two paces from the kitchenette to the pillows on the floor, chuckling to himself when he thought of the terms “house” and “guest.” Neither felt accurate, the eternal wordsmithing and curse of the writer.
Mashoka turned the burner off and poured the boiling water into two ancient, porcelain cups. He dropped a hand-filled tea bag into each, instantly releasing the aroma of citrus and mint.
“Peppermint?” Ravna asked.
“Spearmint,” replied Mashoka.
The old man added two spoons, a cradle of organic cane sugar, and two pieces of toasted bread to the tray. He leaned his cane on the wall and lifted the tray. Ravna rushed to his side with his arms extended.
“You have prepared the tea. The least I can do is carry the tray.”
Mashoka relented with a nod. “Fifty years ago I would have carried you carrying the tray.”
“Fifty years ago I was not even a sparkle in my mother’s eye. Relax, Mashoka. I am not here to challenge your authority.”
The old man cracked a smile that sent the lines on his face rearranging at various angles. His soft eyes shone through the narrow slits created by his Japanese ancestry. Mashoka pushed the silken headband up a bit on his forehead and followed Ravna into the seating area.
“How much of the orange grind do you have left?”
“Enough for another batch of leaf, provided the spearmint plant produces again.”
Ravna nodded.
“How is your mother?” the old man asked.
“Fine. I guess.”
“A woman’s mood is not a matter of chance.”
“An Asian proverb?”
“Obi-wan, the new Clone Wars cartoon.”
Ravna laughed and Mashoka did the same. The old man shook his head, trying to hide a genuine smile.
“Do you know why I asked to see you?” Ravna asked.
Mashoka sat still, staring into the younger man’s eyes. “Gaki,” he said to Ravna after taking a sip of his tea.
“It has made it here, to our town, so it would seem.”
“It would seem that way,” replied Mashoka.
“I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Banish it.”
Mashoka shuddered and let his cane fall to the floor. It rattled on the bamboo hardwood and rolled to a stop on the cushion between the two men.
“I am old. Frail.”
“It has killed twice so far, Mashoka.”
“You do not know this for certain.”
“I don’t know for certain that the sun will rise tomorrow, but it will not stop me from greeting the day.”
“Zhuangzi?”
“Fortune cookie, Fire Dragon Chinese, East 8th Avenue and Core Road.”
Mashoka smiled and shook his head at Ravna. “Very well. Let’s call it even.”
Ravna placed his empty cup on the tray and folded his hands. He ignored the other treats and stared deep into the old man’s eyes.
“You know we cannot look away. I will chase it with or without your guidance.”
Mashoka sighed and placed his cup next to Ravna’s on the tray. He no longer had an appetite for the toast or frivolous small talk.
“It has been many years, many decades, since I last fought Gaki. While my body becomes frail and broken, his spirit remains fierce. These old bones cannot triumph.”
“I am not asking for your physical prowess from long ago. I need your wisdom, your knowledge of the creature. I need to know how to banish it again.”
“Gaki will return, finding another hole in the dike that has not been plugged.”
“I can’t worry about that. I can’t be everywhere, all the time. That will need to be another’s crucible.”
Mashoka hunched forward and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “If Gaki is truly here, it will not leave on its own accord. The creature will demand recompense. Are you willing to be the currency in the transaction?”
“I have studied hard, Mashoka. I believe I can banish Gaki without sacrificing human life.”
“By your count, he has already claimed two souls.”
“Which is why we cannot delay. We must start preparing, reading, writing.”
“I have seen several become lost in his spell of consumption, his disease of greed. You must understand the risk of hunting Gaki.”
Ravna pulled his laptop from his bag. “My battery is low. Where can I plug this thing in?”
***
Drew arrived at the office on Monday morning to hidden stares. His colleagues spoke in hushed tones when in the proximity of his desk. Several avoided him completely.
The time spent with Molly made him feel twenty-one again, and he had aches to prove it. She did not bring up their lunchtime confrontation from the previous week, and neither did he. The make-up sex was too good to spoil by rehashing the argument. Drew did not pretend it did not happen, but he resolved the entire situation to a misunderstanding. His overreaction to Molly’s vibrator damaged his male ego, thereby creating a situation that did not exist. After all, he could grapple with the fact that his wife had needs and might seek to have them fulfilled by another man, but he could not admit defeat to a plastic, penis-shaped object. Either way, the ramifications of resurrecting the argument would do nothing but cause unnecessary discomfort for them both. Drew found it easiest to resume his life on Monday morning and push the incident to the deepest recesses of his mind.
“Hey!”
Drew turned in time to see Brian stride past his cubicle, a whirling dervish of slackened tie, splashing coffee, and conditioner on a wet head.
“He’s still AWOL,” Drew said to Brian.
“After the entire weekend?”
Drew nodded as if taking three sick days in a row was akin to armed robbery. Brian set the coffee cup down on his desk, where it began to form a perfect, brown circle of overflow on his desk blotter.
“Maybe the dude killed a hooker while on a bender and is running from Johnny Law?”
“I can’t see Johnson with a hooker, and certainly not a dead one.”
Brian slapped Drew on the back and laughed. He cackled with honesty, unbound and unfettered.
“It wasn’t that funny,” said Drew.
“I’m happy. You’re back. The old you. If I had known it would only take a night of letting you beat me at pool, I would have done that a long time ago.”
Drew’s desk extension rang, the caller ID showing one of several clients that he had shafted during his latest funk.
“Gotta take this. Chiapas for lunch?’
“Served by my sweet mamasita! I’m in.”
Drew shrugged and tossed the receiver to his ear. He cocked his head sideways and tucked his chin down in order to free both hands. He took the call and passed through the rest of his morning with the efficiency of a top-level manager, delegating tasks and wading through the ocean of e-mails sitting in his in-box. One day—or even one afternoon—away from the program could result in a backlog of messages stretching far into the digital horizon. Lunchtime appeared in an instant. Brian ordered a margarita with his fajitas, which fostered even more flirting with the young Latina girl who always worked the lunch crowd. Drew watched as Brian winked at the young woman, who knew little English besides “Coke” and “check please.” He found himself back at his desk with five o’clock creeping ever closer.
Drew managed to slay hundreds of e-mails while reestablishing contact with several clients that had drifted from his attention. Brian slapped him on the back on h
is way out, mumbling something about Happy Hour at Chiapas followed by a night of dancing. Drew shrugged off the comment, knowing full well it would not take Brian long to bed his mamasita, if he had not done so already.
He fumbled through his internet browser, taking a last look at several social-networking sites before finishing up for the day. Although the company did not filter their access, Drew knew the ways of IT, and disciplined himself to dabble socially only near the quitting hour, a time often left unchecked by Big Brother. He clicked low on the screen to bring up his e-mail client one last time for the day.
The “sender” column sat with its usual list of abbreviated last names and squiggly symbols. All except for one. Drew’s heart lurched in his throat and his mouth became dry. The single white space of the column stuck out like a missing tooth, with colors inverted to reveal a white gap against black text. He glanced at the subject line of the anonymous message.
“won’t be ignored”
Drew’s hand shook and he looked over his shoulder, convinced that someone in the office would think he was surfing porn on the company dime. He began mumbling to himself and the hot salsa he had with lunch whispered at the top of his throat.
“Sticking around?”
Drew jumped and minimized the e-mail client. He turned to look at the source of the question, his pupils dilated and his lip curled into a menacing snarl.
“Don’t think it’s any of your business,” he muttered.
The woman shrugged and rolled her eyes before pulling the glass door of the main lobby and heading toward the elevator. Drew did not recognize the woman because they all looked the same. The gaggle of newly turned thirty-somethings with highlighted hair and foundation-filled crow’s feet on their faces never ceased to annoy the shit out of him. He despised their sexual freedom and lack of true responsibility. They could go out on a Tuesday night, drink, fuck, and call off work in the morning. They could spend Saturday mornings watching cartoons and eating double-chocolate-chip ice cream for breakfast. They could “weekend in Vegas.”
Fucking slut.
He waited for the door to swing shut and looked around the office. One man at the far end of the floor stood and grabbed his coat from the rack. At the other end, another waning vixen touched up her mascara in the blackness of a powered-down computer monitor.
