I left the club and took a cab to a Greyhound station, took the Greyhound to an Amtrak station, took the train back to Ohio, and called Gus to pick me up from the station.
We never talked about what I did. When we got back to the apartment, I loaded my few meager possessions into Gus’s truck and he drove me to my dad’s house, where I slept in the garage and went to work, where I eventually met Alice.
Other than a few texts from that fateful night asking me where I was, Callie had never contacted me.
I’d never contacted her.
I wondered if Rachel had ever told her what had happened.
I sit at the table and smoke and drink and watch Gus operate his phone like a sorceror. It’s like he sends a text and poof—a whole other group of people shows up. The place is packed in under an hour.
I slide off my chair and struggle to straighten up.
“Let’s go, man,” I say.
“Go?” Gus says, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.”
“You want to leave?”
“Yes.” I’m a little curt. It sounds a little like a hiss.
“I can probably get you back there if you want to see her.”
Part of me does want to see her, just to say I’m sorry. But I don’t want her to see me. And I realize how selfish it was to come to this thing, to think she wants to see me in any way. The way I treated her doesn’t really deserve a second chance. And it would just end in failure anyway. Maybe that’s why my life has always been shit. I’m unable to accept something broken and mended. I have to walk away and find something fresh and new. But the doors I find opening onto new lives are now closing in my face.
“Look at me,” I say. “I’m a fucking disease. She doesn’t want to see me.”
Gus crushes out his cigarette, as close to anger as I’ve seen him in a really long time.
“Okay, man. Where you want to go?”
Translation: “Where do you want me to take you that isn’t my place?”
“Just take me to my dad’s,” I say.
“All right then. Let’s go. I’m coming back. I’m not gonna leave my bros hanging.”
32
Noman’s Land
“So what the heck happened to you?” Dad says.
We’re sitting around the breakfast table. I spent last night in one of their deck chairs because all the lights were off when Gus dropped me off and I didn’t want to knock on the door or ring the bell because I was afraid Malinda would answer it and she makes me kind of nervous.
Dad’s question is so general I don’t answer him right away. Is he asking about the rash? The black eyes? The leaning stoop? Why I ended up on his patio? My entire life up to this point? I decide to go with that one.
“Well,” I say, “first I was born and then . . . it’s all been kind of downhill from there.”
“Don’t be a smartass. That ain’t what I meant. You’re mentally deficient. We get it. It looks like you got beat up.”
“Um, yeah. That was a couple days ago. I got jumped.”
“Why the hell anyone would live in Dayton—especially without owning a gun—is just friggin beyond me.”
“Well, I don’t live there anymore.”
This takes him by surprise. He sets down his piece of toast because if he doesn’t he knows I’ll notice the rage-tremble his hand develops.
He clears his throat. “I hope you don’t think you’re movin back here.”
“Just for a few nights.”
“I guess that girl of yours finally got tired of you, huh?”
I think about answering truthfully and decide he’s not worth the effort.
“You could say that,” I say, and think, So tired of me she died.
Trish, already heavily medicated, takes a sip of her Bloody Mary and says, “I think it’d be great to have you around. I’m sure Malinda would like the company, wouldn’t you?”
It pains me to look at the girl, sitting with her legs pulled up in the chair, her sleeping shorts truncating just below her vagina, a narrow band between her legs, her ripe nipples taut against the fabric of her tank top. She’s not wearing any make-up yet and looks way less trashy than usual. Looking at her in this way just confirms that my brain is rotting.
She rolls her eyes and says, “Whatever.”
And even though I’m a forty-year-old man, I’m now in the same position as this teen girl. Actually a far worse position. She probably has a shred of optimism left in her.
I’m afraid Dad’s gong to grill me about my plans but Trish picks up the remote and turns the TV on. It’s a show about obese hoarders and I realize entertainment hasn’t changed much over the years. We’re still just watching freak shows at the carnival. The show is one of the most depressing things I’ve watched and it makes me feel better about my life. Maybe that’s why these things exist.
I gesture to the TV and say, “What? Couldn’t find a good holocaust documentary.”
Nobody answers me.
After breakfast I spend the next several hours wandering around the house in a depressed stupor and trying not to ogle Malinda. In an effort to stop I go to the bathroom and stream some internet porn on my phone. It hurts to come and the experience leaves my penis stinging and bleeding slightly. I really need to go to the doctor. And it doesn’t help things with Malinda. It makes them worse. Porn is one thing but porn is not an actual female. You can’t touch it. It has no mass, no smell.
I think about rejoining MyFace.
I think about taking a walk.
I think about reading a book or listening to some music on my phone.
Instead I just lie in the middle of the living room floor and stare up at the ceiling until Dad nudges me with his foot and says, “Let’s go down to the shooting range.”
“I’d prefer to just lie here.”
“Come on,” he says, nudging me a little harder. It’s really more like a kick.
I painfully stand up, wincing.
“Want me to get you some Tylenol?” Trish sounds dazed and faraway. “I probably have something stronger.”
“What’s the point?”
I follow Dad to the door of the basement shooting range.
“I don’t want to shoot any guns,” I say.
He turns his head over his shoulder and says in a soft voice I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use, “I know. I just want to talk to you.”
For some reason, this fills me with more dread than the idea of playing with lethal weapons.
The basement is cool and mostly gray. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A paper target hangs at the far end in a way that strikes me as ghoulish. Actually, the whole shooting range seems mind numbingly depressing. Sterile and smelling of machine oil and chemicals, I don’t see how anyone can enjoy spending time down here.
I’m preparing myself for a heart-to-heart conversation with Dad. It’s not something I want to have. It would be the first time ever.
“How much do you need to be gone by tonight?” he says. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are focused longingly on the distant target and I wonder why he doesn’t just write ‘Ryan’ above its head.
I think about naming a price but that makes things too easy for him. I’m a shitty dad and I’ve paid for it practically every day of Charle’s life. Why should my dad get off the hook so easily?
“Money’s not really the problem. I have some. I just . . . I don’t feel great, okay? I thought I could chill out here for a few days.”
He scratches his chin and continues to avoid eye contact.
“That ain’t a good idea,” he says.
“Why? Trish seemed okay with it. Malinda doesn’t seem to care about anything. So what’s the problem?”
“It ain’t up to them. I don’t want you here. You’re the problem.”
I’m slightly stunned and find myself blinking away tears. While I’d always thought this was the case and it should have been refreshing to hear him actually say it, the words sting a lot more than I thought they
would.
“I’ve got a . . . a good thing here. I’ve worked hard for it. I deserve it. You’re gonna mess it up if you stick around. I don’t really know what’s been goin on with you since you been on your own but remember when you was a teenager? You and Jen and Gus always hangin out and havin fun? I feel a little bit like that now. It’s how I want to spend my last years. Havin fun. Not worryin about much. Sometimes Malinda can be a mouthy little bitch, but Trish takes care of that. Malinda ain’t my problem. Never will be my problem. And Trish is always goin to take care of her cause she knows she’s got a good thing here. She respects me. If you stay, you’re my problem. And I’ve gone too long without problems to start dealing with em now. I guess I’ve just never liked you, Ryan. I wanted to. I tried. But I knowed you was different from the time you was little. I knowed we’d never get along. And it was true. Your mom always said it was cause we was too much alike. But that ain’t true at all. We couldn’t be more different. You’re just a whiny spoiled brat who’s never worked a day in his life. You want nice things, think you deserve some great life, but you ain’t never been willin to work for em. You couldn’t provide for Jen. Sure as hell ain’t providin for Charles now. I stopped askin myself when you was gonna grow up. So I guess that’s the lesson for ya. Whether you want to hear it or not. Whether you want it to be true or not. You’re an adult now. Your growed up. I wrote you a check for five thousand dollars. I’ll give you the keys to the old work truck and that’s it from me. I ain’t got nothin else to give ya.”
This is probably as much as I’ve heard my dad say my entire adult life, possibly ever. Like he’d been storing it all up. I want to talk back to him. I want to argue with him but I don’t see a point in it. I’ve worked nearly every day of my adult life. So it wasn’t a factory union job where I made four times as much money. I’d applied for those jobs and no one had hired me. I’d written about five books since getting out of high school and had worked my ass off trying to sell them to publishers or get representation from an agent. That was all in addition to working a day job. And trying to debate being an adult with a grown man who used the word ‘growed’ instead of ‘grown’ and had a twelve-year-old’s fixation with guns seemed completely futile.
I think about saying “I don’t need your money or your truck,” even though it isn’t true.
I don’t want to say anything or maybe I’m too choked up to say anything.
“Wait a minute,” he says, moving closer to me.
I stop.
“I, um, I got cancer. Just found out last week. I ain’t told the girls yet. I just wanted to let you know cause you’ll probably get it too.” He pauses. “I hope you do. Soon.”
I just turn and head back up the stairs, blinking away tears.
On my way through the living room, I cast one leering glance at Malinda, asleep on the couch, and head for the front door.
“You takin off?” Trish calls.
I don’t answer her.
I step out into the humid air and check my phone at the end of the driveway.
I’m going to send Gus a text asking if he can pick me up when I notice I’ve received a text from Jen.
It’s a photo of Charle. A booking photo from a police station. There’s nothing accompanying it. In the photo, Charle is smiling. He’s missing an ear. It’s the first photo she’s sent in about six years.
I text Gus: “Can you pick me up in Milltown? I really need to talk to you.”
I walk aimlessly, guessing I’ll pop into the first restaurant I come to so I can sit down and kill some time. I can’t keep walking. It hurts too much.
I find a diner and take a spot at the counter, order some coffee. I fit in with all the decrepit old people littering the place. I entertain thoughts of my dad dying alone in a hospital and dismiss it. It makes me feel bad to think about him that way. Better not to think of him at all. I pull my phone out and look at the picture of Charle. The coffee comes and I leave it sitting untouched while I think about what I’m going to do. I guess I’ll go to Dr. Jolly’s tomorrow and beg to keep my job. I’ll see if I can rent a room or an apartment in town. There’s a cheap motel at the edge of Twin Springs. I can probably afford to stay there for a few nights. I keep thinking like this until my mind is just a muddied swamp and the thoughts kind of just go away. The waitress behind the counter is nice. She doesn’t hassle me too much. Just periodically asks if she can get me anything and I tell her no thanks, not right now, and I wonder if she knows I’m on the brink of tears and figure she probably does. She sees a hundred faces a day and is probably better at knowing what’s going on behind them than most psychologists.
Three hours later, Gus texts, “Still in Milltown?”
“Yep,” I text, then give him the name of the diner.
“On my way,” he texts back.
33
All Truth Is Painful
We go to Easy J’s. The ride is silent save for the music coming from the truck’s stereo.
It’s nearly dark and we sit in a booth and watch the cars on the highway whip past in the gray dusk. Trucks come and go from the pumps, the entire restaurant trembling with a bass rumble. I have trouble sitting up straight and lean forward with my elbows on the table.
“So I might need to stay with you for a few days. Just a few days.”
Gus takes a sip of his Coke and looks down at the table.
“I’m sorry, man. That’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
His answer is delayed. He plays with the wrapper to his straw.
“Everything okay with you and Tarot?” I ask, just to be saying something.
“Everything’s fine.” He pauses again, possibly trying to think of a lie or whether or not he should tell me the truth. “It’s just . . .”
“I understand if you don’t want me there. I’m a downer. I get it. I can stay at a motel or something. I’ve got a few bucks. Just thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Callie’s there,” he says.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
“What?” I cough out.
“Callie’s there. She came back with us last night. I . . . I think she might move in for a while. Until they go on tour again.”
A number of things streak through my brain. I had wanted to ask Gus about something, trying to convince myself what I wanted to ask him about wasn’t possible. Now I just want to ask him about Callie. If I were a more egotistical person, I’d convince myself she went home with Gus in some roundabout way of getting in contact with me. In reality, I doubt she even asked about me. I imagine Gus approaching her at the show last night. I imagine her marveling at his transformation, suddenly enamored like everyone else. And I imagine him taking full advantage of that.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “We were talking and I gave her a ride and . . . it just happened.”
Again, I realize what he’s saying and the reality of it doesn’t shock me.
“You fucked her.” I try to sound calm.
“It was Tarot’s idea.”
I pull out my phone.
“Jen sent me a picture of Charle,” I say.
Gus seems momentarily confused at the change of subject and says, “Oh yeah? Let’s see it.”
I turn the phone to face him and slide it across the table.
I watch his expression drop.
He slides the phone back to me like it’s about ready to explode.
“He’s a . . . very handsome young man,” Gus says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Looks a little like you. A lot like you, actually.”
Gus takes a sip of his Coke and rubs his perfectly sculpted, glowing face.
I don’t say anything. Just keep watching him. I try to remain visibly calm but my insides are bubbling and popping so much it feels like my already compromised skin might burst open.
“What do you want me to say?” Gus says.
“I don’t know. I don’t think anything can make it better.”
“It happened once,�
�� Gus says. “You were being a shit. We were both drunk and it just happened. We didn’t tell you because we knew it would never happen again.”
“That makes it worse.” I pocket the phone and lean back in the booth. “Well, it looks like once was enough, huh?”
“She never told me,” he says. “I swear. I barely ever even talked to her.” And then, as if reading my mind, he says, “This doesn’t mean I owe you anything, man. You got that?”
Maybelline comes over, looking too exhausted to even stand up straight.
“Everything okay? You boys look tense.”
“Everything’s great,” I say.
“You ready to order?”
We give her our order. I specify that it’s to be separated into two checks and she mutters, “Trouble in paradise.”
Gus and I don’t say anything else to each other.
When he drops me off at the motel, I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again.
34
Later
Dr. Jolly’s campus is only about a half hour’s walk from the Starlighter Motel. I’m only able to afford staying at the motel because I mow the lawn on the weekends and pick up trash in the parking lot and man the front desk when I get back from Dr. Jolly’s. Only Dr. Jolly’s isn’t Dr. Jolly’s anymore. Now it’s just called Godwater. Every day I have to cross picketers brandishing signs reading ‘Keep Big Business Out of Twin Springs.’ I couldn’t agree with them more. I try to look apologetic but never say anything because they would just tell me I’m part of the problem. Which is true.
I go off gluten thinking, Why not? It feels like I’m living some other life anyway. This basically just means giving up all the remaining vaguely affordable things that give me a shred of joy—beer, pizza, junk food. The rash is still there, but it doesn’t seem to itch as badly. Maybe I’m just telling myself that. I live on canned fruits, vegetables, and beans and tell myself it’s healthier. But it’s really just because I’m poor and forced to eat like a hobo.
About a week after moving into the motel, I walk into town, thinking I would go to Gus’s and force some sort of resolution. But maybe it’s just because I’m lonely. I stop on the sidewalk in front of his house because my phone rings.
Failure As a Way of Life Page 12