by J. M. Lanham
That was before he took his sleeping pill.
The Ocula prescription was an older one, and he wasn’t the type to take a pill every night. Kerry, on the other hand, had quite the nightly regimen, and often encouraged her reluctant husband to jump on board. Everyone needs a little help now and then, she would always say. Hearing her voice in his head made Arlo laugh, then wince, every little movement a pain-inducing endeavor. Would’ve been better off just getting drunk.
No point in getting bent out of shape though. When Kerry had suggested the sleeping pill she was only trying to help, and even Arlo had hoped Ocula would do the trick, sending him straight to dreamland with time to spare.
Instead, the pill seemed to do the opposite. Thirty minutes after taking it, Arlo was tossing and turning under the covers. An hour later, he was hugging the toilet as round after round of vomiting quickly turned into fruitless dry heaves. He sat on the bathroom floor most of the night, wedged between a toilet and a tub, sweating and shaking and thoroughly exhausted.
Tomorrow’s gonna be awful. Just plain awful.
And it was awful. He splashed water on his face and toweled off, thankful the worst of his headache had receded but worried about his appearance. His mid-morning bank appointment was slowly creeping up and there wasn’t much he could do about the way he looked. No amount of face washing or teeth brushing could hide the weariness on poor old Arlo’s face.
Kerry heard the water running and walked in to check on her husband. “Up most the night?” she asked.
Arlo nodded. “Don’t know what happened,” he said. “Everything was fine before I took that damned pill. Wasn’t long after I was hugging the toilet.”
“You’ve taken Ocula before, Arlo,” she said as she checked her own look in the mirror. “Think it may have been something else? I’ve seen what you take to lunch with you most days, and it isn’t pretty.”
“Maybe,” he said, pondering yesterday’s meal. “That ham sandwich did seem a little funky at the time.”
“I keep telling you to check the expiration date on that nasty sandwich meat you seem to love so much.” She felt his forehead with the back of her hand. No temperature. “Probably just something you ate. How are you feeling now?”
“Better, but tired. I don’t know how I’m going to carry on through the day like this.”
“Well, you better suck it up because your bank appointment’s in two hours.”
Arlo forced a smile and asked, “Is the coffee on?”
“You know it is,” Kerry said.
The two continued their morning routine of fighting for space in a cramped bathroom (Kerry was typically getting ready for the day about the time Arlo was returning from work), then they made their way to the kitchen. Arlo poured a cup of coffee, black, then sat down to sip on the hot elixir in the hopes it would take the edge off the dying pangs of last night’s headache. Kerry fixed her own cup, then sat beside him.
“Everything ready for your meeting with the bank this morning?”
Arlo nodded toward the briefcase propped by the door. “It’s all in there. Honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m having to go back through this mess. They should’ve either given me an answer yesterday, or called this morning. But they insisted we wrap it up at the bank.”
“Maybe they want to give you the good news in person.”
“Possible, but with our luck, who knows.” He was about to reminisce on a series of nonspecific unfortunate events when suddenly it hit him:
The dream.
It must have been early, perhaps two or three in the morning, shortly after his headache had begun to ease off a bit. That’s when he had fallen asleep by the tub, slipping away from reality and into the most lucid dream of his life. He remembered sitting in front of the loan officer at First National Bank of Savannah and checking the time.
Almost five o’clock again. Again?
He watched as the hallucination of Mr. Webber flipped through a stack of papers, eyes down, quietly muttering a melody of uh-huhs as he checked off page after page, taking sips from a “Come See Savannah” coffee mug in between. The stack towered above Arlo as he sat in his lowly chair—no way Webber would ever make it through the three-meter-high stack of papers.
He’d never get a loan like this, not with Webber wasting his damn time again. He would have jumped up to smack the bowtie off the pompous lender’s neck if he hadn’t felt bound to his chair, almost paralyzed, forced to watch the scene play out without being able to get up and shake some sense into the man.
Arlo’s body was frozen in place in a kind of sleep paralysis, but at least his mouth still worked. Impatiently, “Jesus, son. Since when does it take this long to figure out whether or not someone deserves a loan?” He counted his points out on his fingers. “You know I work, you know my income, you know how successful every business on River Street is . . . Why the hell can’t you just sign the money over? You know I’m good for it! Every damn time I try and—”
The rant was cut short by something hard rattling around in Arlo’s mouth. Startled, he moved the rigid object from the back of his cheek with his tongue. Then he spit in his hand.
A tooth. Molar, to be exact. Root and all. Good Lord, what’s happening to me?
Two rosy cheeks and a pair of sweating palms made it impossible for Arlo to hide his embarrassment. He tried to hide the tooth, but the hope that Webber wouldn’t noticed was dashed the moment the pearly white was purged from his lips.
The lender stopped flipping pages, eyes now fixed on the blood-stained tooth Arlo held in the palm of his hand. Webber stared at the tooth for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, he asked, “How much do you need, Mr. Vaughan?”
Arlo cocked his head, not quite sure how to answer. He had originally asked for $50,000—that’s what was on the loan form. Didn’t Webber know that? Had he forgotten?
Arlo pointed to the form. “Isn’t it right there on the front page?”
The lender adjusted his glasses. “Yes. I see. $50,000.” He looked up at Arlo and asked, “Do you think that will be enough to cover everything?”
“I reckon. I mean, that’s the number me and Kerry came up with.”
The lender shook his head. “Running a restaurant isn’t cheap, Mr. Vaughan. You need more.”
“I do?”
Webber reached under his desk and pulled out a leather suitcase. He laid it in front of Arlo and unsnapped the latches. Inside were stacks of cash, hundreds packed neatly in $10,000 bundles.
“Oh, my,” Arlo said, raising his hand to his mouth. He stuttered as he searched for the words before finally asking, “H-How much is in here?”
“$100,000. That should be enough to get you started.”
Arlo reached for the briefcase but stopped halfway. This was simply too good to be true; this kind of good fortune had never happened to him. Not once. He couldn’t even remember the last time he won a free lotto ticket on a scratch-off. Something was up.
“This is double what we asked,” Arlo said. “Just why are you doing this for me?”
The lender stood and referenced the tooth in Arlo’s hand. “You’re worried, Arlo. Worried about getting older, worried about doing something good with the rest of your life. You’ve been through the ringer, Mr. Vaughan, but today’s your lucky day. Simple as that.”
Suddenly the office erupted in a series of cheers. Arlo turned to see a huge crowd packing the bank lobby behind him, dusted in the confetti that was falling from the ceiling, smiling and clapping and congratulating him as if he were the winning contestant on a game show. He slowly raised his hand to say thanks when the faces in the crowd faded and blurred like images behind a frosted pane of glass—
“You all right, honey?” Kerry placed her hand on top of Arlo’s.
“Yeah,” he said, snapping out of his daze. “Just thinking about the dream I had last night.”
“Was it a good one?”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled.
“Wanna tell
me what it was about?”
“Ah, just the meeting with the bank today.”
“You got the loan?” Kerry said, smiling and nudging her husband’s shoulder.
“We got the loan. But yeah. I had a dream about getting the loan. More than we asked for, actually. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
“Something? Where’s your faith, Arlo? A dream like that is a good sign!”
“It was just a dream, Kerry.”
“Maybe. But dreams have a way of telling us things we just can’t believe when we’re awake. You remember my Aunt Ruth’s witchy feeling she’d get when there was a death in the family? She’d get that feeling early in the morning, fresh off a bad dream. She’d refuse to leave the house for the day, and sure enough, by dinnertime the phone would be ringing with the bad news.”
“Best I recall, your Aunt Ruth would also get that witchy feeling every time she was running low on port.”
“Well, say what you want, Arlo. But if you ask me, I think that’s a good omen for today.” She stood up and walked to the fridge, pulling out eggs and bacon before lighting the stove. “And if it’s not meant to be, then it’s just not meant to be.”
Arlo nodded in agreement, but the statement did little to comfort him. He got up and went over to Kerry, wrapping his arms around her from behind and craning his head around to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Que sera, sera, huh, Kerry?”
“Something like that,” she said, and kissed him back.
***
Daniel Webber’s office had been brighter in Arlo’s dream. In reality, the loan office was dim, uninviting, even downright depressing. Maybe that’s the point, Arlo thought. Keep folks from getting their hopes up.
A brass lamp sat on the right corner of Webber’s desk and cast long shadows of books and office clutter on the wall to Arlo’s left. Blinds were drawn over the only window in the room to Webber’s back as he sat behind his desk in deep concentration, flipping through papers and crossing T’s and dotting I’s.
Arlo noticed Webber squinting down at the paperwork and spoke up. “You think maybe we should turn on the overhead—”
“No. Absolutely not,” Webber snapped, then composed himself. “That is, if you don’t mind.” He rubbed his temples and Arlo took the hint.
“Headache?”
Webber nodded.
“I had one of those last night, too. Strange really. Hardly ever get ’em. Guess we were both worried ’bout wrapping this thing up today.”
Webber forced a smile and continued his paperwork. Arlo gave the spiral-bound notebook in his lap another firm two-handed twist. Things were not working out as he had planned.
No, thought Arlo, That’s not an honest assumption.
A more accurate statement would have been that things weren’t working out the way they had in his dream the night before. In reality, Arlo had never expected to get the loan. Kerry was the dreamer; the better half who always pushed her husband to think positive thoughts and hope for the best. But that just wasn’t how Arlo was built. Too many experiences over a lifetime of disappointments had long ago taught the man the only mantra he could ever rely on: hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. And in this case, the worst was not getting the loan.
Arlo could already see the answer in Webber’s bloodshot eyes. The lender was in no mood to be there, cringing with every rustling paper, scowling every time a phone rang from another office or an eighteen-wheeler roared down 8th Street just a few yards from the only window in the office.
The scene that played out was nothing like the dream. No glowing faces and positive vibes. No cheerful loan officer offering up double what the humble borrower had asked for. And no tickertape parade waiting outside the door to congratulate the new owner of the finest creole restaurant on River Street. Arlo turned around to look over his shoulder toward the door, double-checking that last notion just one more time. Nothing but stained oak.
Perhaps dreams didn’t come true, but there was one thing Arlo did recognize: that stupid “Come See Savannah” mug sitting on Webber’s desk. Sure, Savannah was a popular tourist destination, with mugs and T-shirts and postcards featuring every hot spot from the bars on River Street to the historic-district mansions in full, vibrant color. But why on earth would someone have a mug like that from the town they lived in? Wouldn’t it make more sense to see some cheesy mug from Hawaii, or Paris, or wherever the hell bankers went to get away from the stress of turning people down for loans forty hours a week?
Arlo didn’t have time to finish the thought. Webber shuffled the papers together, gave the stack three quick taps on the desk, and laid them neatly to the side.
“Well, Mr. Vaughan. It’s with great regret I have to inform you that after reviewing your loan application—”
“Spare me the time, son.”
“Excuse me?”
Arlo stood up and buttoned his coat. “You’ve been dragging your feet, jumping through the hoops, making a show, with no intention of ever approving this loan.”
“Mr. Vaughan—”
“Now, I ain’t mad. Honestly, I was expecting this. I’m just done wasting time talking about it, that’s all. So why don’t you spare us both the formalities and let me be on my way. If I’m not opening a restaurant, I’ll need to be getting back to work.”
Webber sighed as his head dropped, unable to make eye contact with the man standing over his desk. “Fair enough, Mr. Vaughan.” He stood to shake hands, but Arlo was already halfway to the exit.
That’s when the door swung open from the other side. A secretary stood in Arlo’s way, holding a stack of papers.
Webber’s arm went up to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light flooding the room. “Jesus, Susan. Don’t you know how to knock?”
“Sorry, sir. But it’s your son.”
Webber’s face morphed from disgust to distress in half a second. “My son?”
“The school just called. They’re saying your son got in a fight.”
“Is he hurt?”
Susan sighed, then said, “It’s nothing detrimental, but he is at Lakeside Hospital. Apparently he’s missing a few teeth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two, to be exact. At least that’s what the vice principal told me. He’s been going at it with Frankie Finch for the entire school year, fighting over the affections of Erin Page.”
Webber stared inquisitively.
“Anyway,” Susan continued, “things came to a head on the playground during sixth-grade recess. Words were spoken, feelings were hurt, and fists started to fly.”
Webber wasn’t impressed with Susan’s apparent fervor in telling the story. He stood quickly to grab his coat and hurried toward the door, breezing by Arlo along the way.
That’s when he stopped.
It was as if the space on the floor in front of Arlo were an unseen patch of quicksand, with Webber knee-deep in the muck and no way to put the other foot forward. Vivid images of blood and teeth besieged his mind’s eye, bringing with them a despairing sense of impending doom. His chest tightened and his pulse raced. Feelings of angst and guilt grew thick and heavy with every attempt to move closer to the door, as if some invisible, unanswered compulsion was holding him back. Then a voice, powerful and direct, asked—no, demanded—something from Webber.
And it wasn’t going away. Webber was stuck, with only one way out. He had to answer. He turned to Arlo to speak. Solemnly, “About the loan, Arlo.”
“Yes, Mr. Webber?”
“How much was it again, $50,000?” the banker asked as he briskly walked back to his desk.
“Yes. That’s right.”
“That’s not enough,” Webber said. He flipped back through the stack of loan papers, searching for every occurrence of the amount. Arlo watched over his shoulder as Webber crossed out and replaced each $50,000 with a cool $100,000, writing the new figure out to the side.
“Mr. Webber, I’m not sure I understand—”
“Of course, this fig
ure is unofficial, as we’ll need to draft new paperwork”—Webber initialed each line item while he spoke—“But, this is just for your reference. We’ll get everything finalized when I get back, if that’s convenient for you.”
Webber marked one last item, tossed the pen on his desk, and made for the door, light-footed and relieved of the unseen burden.
Arlo spoke up as the banker raced off to check on the chivalrous boy sitting with a mouthful of gauze at Lakeside Hospital. “Just why are you doing this?”
Webber turned. “What can I say, Mr. Vaughan? Today’s your lucky day.”
Chapter 14:
Back on the Bottle
Diesels roared and jake brakes squealed as eighteen wheelers geared down to turn off the highway and into the Happy Jack Truck Stop in Cheyenne, the last place for long-haulers to fill up their tanks and stock up on smokes and Cokes for the next hundred miles. A new day was breaking as the first rays of burnt-orange sunlight peaked above the eastern horizon and spread across the golden Midwest plains, reflecting off every piece of chrome in the parking lot and creating a minefield of potential headache triggers for anyone caught amongst the sea of semi-trucks without sunglasses or a wide-brim hat. Paul had neither, but did his best to shield his eyes with his cup of coffee while keeping his head down as he walked from the gas station back to the car.
He hopped in the idling car and handed Michelle her coffee. She thanked her husband with a halfhearted nod, then looked away. The silence continues, he thought. Par for the course. He turned the key and pulled back onto I-80, eager to get back on the road and out of Nebraska.
The drive from northwest California hadn’t been a bad one, but the ride through Nebraska was proving to be a boring stretch of highway. California redwoods and skyscraping Rockies were soon replaced with fruited plains and long straightaways, parting harvested fields and endless fences. At least the Pacific Northwest had provided winding roads and crisp mountain air to keep Paul awake on the journey back south. Nebraska, however, was about to put him to sleep.
