Cold Plate Special

by Rob Widdicombe

  “He really needs this break. Not just for the getting sobe. He needs a change, needs to get over Summer and—”

  “What! Get over Summer?”

  “Oh, yeah. He took that one hard.”

  “Took what hard?”

  “They were together for, I guess about a year. You didn’t pick up on that?”

  “Jeez.” I felt my heart drop to the bottom of my left sock.

  “Boy’s not afraid to jump out of a moving object and fall a million feet through the sky, but when it comes to women he’s just a sack of wet noodles.”

  “So that’s why he hated me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Jarvis.”

  “Yes, he does. He threw his crutches at me.”

  “He throws his crutches at me all the time. Wow—I’m really not gonna miss that.”

  I chuckled.

  “So, dude, check it,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You got a job up there?”

  “No. Remember? I thought I told—”

  “How about that girlfriend of yours?”

  “We broke up. I know I told you about that.”

  “She was asking about you the other day.”

  “Who was?”

  “Your girlfriend. Summer.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Why’s that so surprising? She likes you, cuz-bro.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “A lot.”

  My heart started making its way back up from my sock and into its rightful place in my throat.

  “I like her too. Also a lot.”

  Then there a long silence. Really long. I got the feeling that he was doing it on purpose.

  “What?” I said.

  “You gotta move down here, C.B.”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “C.B. For ‘cuz-bro.’ You can have Kenny’s room.”

  “Naw. No way. I can’t do that.”

  “You totally can. He’s moving back in with his folks in Northern Virginia after he gets out of the drunk tank.”

  “No, I mean I can’t just up and move down there. That’d be crazy.”

  “There are worse things than crazy.”

  “No. No way.” I chuckled, but I had no idea why.

  “I thought you liked it here. Aside from all the shit at the Ditch and whatnot.”

  “I just…I got too much going on up here, you know?”

  “Like your great job and awesome girlfriend? Come on, Jarvis. Life’s too short. You gotta grab the bull by the nuts or the bull will bite your face off.”

  “Never quite thought about it in those terms.”

  “You can get a fresh start. Rent’s only four hundred each.”

  “That’s pretty good. I don’t know, Shred.” I sucked in about a gallon of air through my teeth. “It sounds great, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but, um…you’re a drinker, a partier. I can’t really be around that.”

  “I’m not drinking at all right now. I’m on new meds and not doing anything. No weed, no nothing.”

  “For real?”

  “A thousand percent for realsies.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you a thousand percent. It’s a tough road. I would know.”

  “I can’t do anything while I’m on these meds. Drinking fucks it up.”

  “Are you gonna stay on the medication?”

  “Absolutely. I feel great, man. And we’d be awesome roommates. Someone else who’s sober. Someone I can trust.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Huh,” I laughed.

  “What?”

  “No, just, all those friends you have down there and you trust me. That’s just…I’m a little surprised.”

  “Well, they’re not exactly a bunch of super-saints.”

  “Hey—I got something to tell you.”

  “What’s that, C.B.?”

  “I took your advice and quit drinking coffee and my stomach thing went away.”

  “That’s turbo, man. Awesome. Told ya.”

  “I thought it was nerves or like, from stress, but you were right. It was the endless gallons of coffee and tea.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About moving down here. Jeez!”

  “I dunno…I just…I dunno. I appreciate the offer, for sure. I dunno.”

  “Think it over. I can get you a job. Catering to start. It’s good money and good food. I can probably help you get a paralegal gig at one of the law firms if you want.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know a bunch of the managing partners. I serve them savory cheese breads and yummy crab dip. They love the crap out of me.”

  “That’s actually making me really hungry.”

  “So, tell me, Jarvis Henders. What is it you want to do with your life, anyway?”

  “Not really sure right now. Be a meteorite hunter?”

  “Turbo!”

  “What about the neighbor kids who smashed my face?”

  “Just don’t let off any of those fear vibes and they won’t bother you at all.”

  “Really? That’s a tough one to get my mind around.”

  “Just think about it, okay? No pressure. Richmond’s a great place to chill out and figure out what you want to do with your life.”

  “What do you want to do with your life, Evan Henders?”

  “Uh—never be called ‘Evan’ again for one thing.”

  “Sorry, Shred. What else?”

  “I’m already doing it.”

  “You mean the painting and the music and everything?”

  “And the serial killing. I’ve really been getting into being a serial killer lately. It’s so sweet.”

  “You’re living the dream.”

  “I’m actually late for my eight o’clock murder. Look man, you think it over and let me know, cool? You got my number.”

  “All right, Shred. Thanks. I’ll let you know either way.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Later.”

  “Later.”

  I hung up thinking how good it was to feel wanted for once. But that warm glow started to fade pretty quickly into the sterile beige medicine cloud that was my life. Of course I couldn’t move to Richmond. It was out of the question. I just didn’t have a reason as to why it was out of the question.

  Thus began a game of mind tennis. Why was the idea so crazy? It was. It wasn’t. Was. Wasn’t. Should. Shouldn’t. And what was so bad about crazy? There was good crazy and bad crazy, but I didn’t know which category this idea fell under. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Did. Didn’t. Shred. Evan. Jarvis. Ceeb. Death. Not death. I smelled cinnamon. Stuck my head in the freezer. Didn’t really want to, it was just out of habit. Like living in Beigeburg—a bad habit. My nervous stomach was gone, but now I wanted to puke. Nerves vs. nausea. Badminton tournaments in pink sweaters vs. ultimate fighting on crystal meth. God vs. Satan. Cowboys vs. Redskins. Edgar Allen Poe vs. his grandmother. Napoleon baking cupcakes in a giant shoe house vs. Hitler singing death metal songs in a hot bubble bath.

  I was pretty fucking confused.

  After about three days of thinking like this, I decided to move.

  And it was so easy, the whole thing flowed like butter, velvety rivulets of yes. All I had to do was arrange some crap and roll. The first thing I did was sub-let my apartment to Clint, our buddy from paint-ball. Gave him all my crappy furniture too. He was so happy to finally move out of his parent’s basement he even paid the back-rent for all of August. I think his parents gave it to him, just to get him the hell out.

  I couldn’t wait to see Summer and smell all the exotic smells and live a different life and get my ass kicked by the rumbling of the earth. Go to thrift stores and zany rock shows and the diner. After I had embraced the decision to move, I couldn’t even see why I’d had an
internal debate. I’d been playing it way too safe. Now it all made perfect sense. I could smell it.

  Mom and Aunt Pat were so excited about me and Shred being roommates that I could feel a golden glow of family togetherness being crammed through my cell phone ear hole. So golden that Mom sent me three hundred bucks for moving expenses. This was indeed killer.

  I packed my car with as much crap as I could fit and gave everything else to Clint. The whole fresh start thing was really starting to soak in. Should I become a lawyer or a meteorite hunter? Or maybe just a normal person who has some interests. Maybe if I collect tidbits found in alleyways and gutters I’ll be inspired to glue them onto a piece of board in an aesthetically composed fashion. Maybe I’ll get a skull tattoo on my neck. Perhaps, in time. Baby steps.

  I was all ready to go. The car was packed and full of gas, oil checked, tires full. Clint was due to move in tomorrow. Everything was on forward overdrive for busting through the beige and entering the new reality. There was just one thing I had to do before I left.

  And that was to make a phone call.

  “Reinhaus, Thompkins & Watts.”

  “Steve Reinhaus, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Jarvis Henders.”

  “Please hold, Mr. Henderson.”

  “It’s Henders.”

  She put me on hold. Reinhaus finally came on after forever.

  “Yep,” he said.

  “Steve, this is Jarvis Henders.”

  “I’m aware of that.” He had that strain of high-stress professional asshole ripping through his voice.

  “Congratulations, Steve-bo. Look—your little warrant-in-debt for the Citizen Search bill? Need you to cancel it immediately, or I am going to start informing your clients of the illegal over-billing I witnessed while I was there.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “And if that’s not enough for you, I’m gonna call your wife and tell her about your schtupping Rhonda in the rolling stacks.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Listen up: I’m prepared to call Voyager, Cerrano-Parkbridge, The Thorson Group, all the big clients, get me?”

  “You can’t do that. Are you crazy?”

  “Yeah—I’m Captain Colonel Fucking Crazy-Pants and I’m calling all of them.”

  “You wanna got to jail, you little prick? That’s illegal.”

  “Jail?”

  “Yeah—jail. And I’m recording this phone call.”

  “A: not afraid of jail. B: you’re not getting any money from me either way. And C: calling you a low-life scum sucking weasel would be an insult to weasels.”

  “That judgment is going on your permanent record. Good luck getting into law school.”

  “Well, your affair with Rhonda is going on your permanent record with your wife, you fucking fourth-class douche-wipe!”

  He had hung up. What a classic, piping cold death zinger! Man—I nailed him! I wondered if he heard the whole thing before he hung up, though. Damn. Anyway, fine, I thought: if he doesn’t let me off the hook for the dough, I’ll work some extra catering shifts in Richmond and pay it back. I wasn’t gonna let that jerk-off ruin my credit. Wasn’t going to call his clients or wife, either. I only knew for sure that he openly flirted with Rhonda. No evidence of an affair, but flirting on your wife is still pretty trashy. As for the over-billing, I was pretty sure about that but still couldn’t prove it. Anyways, I hope I scared him or ruined his lunch or something. Serves him right for firing me. Then again, getting fired from that job was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I should send him a fruit basket.

  27

  The day I left for Richmond, birds crapped all over my windshield. It was as though they had hovered over the car and coordinated their aimed poops in a dark conspiracy to discourage my ass. Had to be a sign. A sign to give up. Or a sign to not give up. The windshield wipers just smeared it around and I strained to see through the gray smear. At least the zushing sound the car had been making wasn’t as bad. The repeated pattern of trees along 95 started passing by in slow motion. I imagined a giant, more heroic version of myself skipping along the treetops in unison with the car. His name was Frank. I don’t know why. Everything was going to be awesome and perfect for me and for Frank. I was ninety percent sure of this. Sure with every stitch and thread of my existence, minus that ten percent. My personal electricity was going to bust the voltmeter. Eventually, Frank disappeared. He was taking another route. I figured I’d catch up with him down there. Frank was cool.

  Looking out at the slow motion trees, I had this sudden notion that if anyone could see into my deepest, most secret thoughts and feelings, they’d put me in prison. I was jealous of other perv victims. That alone could do it. Having a giant imaginary friend named Frank who’s really me was probably just a misdemeanor. Protecting a perv and apologizing to him—who the fuck does that? And fantasizing about killing people, that was bad. I actually hadn’t thought about killing people lately, so maybe I would get time off for good behavior. Now when I thought of Motorcar, the picture of him getting sexually assaulted by Mrs. Greenstreet was the vision I saw. Or his face as I bitch-slapped it. I recalled the stink-down I put on his limo and how the putrid aroma of victory was mine. Oh well, I vowed to just forget the whole thing about being jealous of his other victims and how it bothered me that Uncle Pie picked Shred for abuse and not me. I shrugged, in my mind. People are just fucking crazy and I guess I’m one of them. Then again, there’s good crazy and there’s bad crazy. My tent must have been set up somewhere in the demilitarized zone between the two and I didn’t enjoy the benefit of a map. So maybe now that this whole Motorcar thing was settled I could go on another grand quest to figure out why I was fucking nuts. Of course I could simply trace it all back to what Motorcar did to me fifteen years ago, but that seemed so passé at this point. I needed something new to quest after.

  I pulled into Oregon Hill at five after six. Shred said he’d be there at six, so I was psyched I had made it, bird crap and all. I was hoping Summer would be there too. Even Klavin and Farns. I wasn’t expecting a welcoming party but in the back of my mind I kind of was. Hoping for it, anyway.

  The gang of Hillites was spilled out into the street on the corner of Laurel and Spring. Their white tee-shirts and shaved heads seemed a familiar and normal sight. Comforting almost. I had to slow down to edge around them, but I showed no fear, so they had nothing to smell. And now they were my neighbors. Hopefully we would all peace off together. But I’d be carrying my corkscrew around with me just in case.

  I parked the car and went up to the front door and it was locked. I knocked and got no answer. Where was Shred and my greeting committee? I decided to go around back and see if the kitchen door was open, but no chance. I peered in through the window and could just see through the kitchen and into the living room.

  That’s when I saw them.

  Beer cans.

  On the table.

  Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  Shred’s brand.

  A bunch of them.

  No Shred here to greet me. His fucking beer cans are inside but I’m not. He wanted someone sober for a roommate, huh? Someone he could trust, huh? Now he’s gonna have to trust me not to shove those beer cans down his throat. I sat down on the back steps and let out a big, nasty sigh. I couldn’t live with him if he was drinking. No way. I should have known. But who was I to judge, anyway? He has the same problems I do, the poor bastard.

  I decided to stay optimistic. I’d figure something out. No way I’m going back to the beige suburbs.

  I had to find Summer. Tell her about the beer cans. Say hi to her. And tell her I loved her. No that would have to wait. Deep breath. I drove by her house but her car was gone. Then I went by the Ditch and then Avalon and then Second Street Diner but she wasn’t in any of those places either. Where was she? Not with Klavin, I hope. Not with some other guy I don’t know about! This wasn’t going well so far. I sat a
t a stop light and rubbed my hands on the steering wheel. Was I being a stalker? I am not a stalker! But I just spent the last twenty-five minutes driving around like a mad man looking for a girl. And I stalked Carly. I stalked Motorcar. Sooner or later somebody was going to take out a damn restraining order on my ass.

  Maybe I should take one out on myself.

  I went back to Shred’s and he still wasn’t home. I sat on the front porch and looked at the weeds. It was early twilight. The yellow streetlight was flickering, trying to turn on. I felt completely insane. And now here among the crazies, the artistes, the freakazoids, the punk-necks, Hillites, the weirdos, I was in good company. I wondered what that perv-bag Motorcar was doing right now. I bet he wouldn’t be opening his front door for anyone for a while. Maybe another one of my fellow victims will come by and serve him up a cold plate special with extra gravy. Maybe one day Motorcar will get shot, and not with a flare gun. I actually didn’t want him to be killed. Living his own small, gross life was at least some form of punishment. He can get sexually assaulted by a mannequin over and over in his nightmares and that’ll be hunky-dory with me.

  After a while I walked over to Summer’s and saw her car out front. I felt like I’d won the lottery. As I got to her door, I had a terrible thought: what if she hates my guts? What if she has a new boyfriend and he has tattoos and plays in a punk band and sculpts gargoyles out of asphalt chunks and super glue? What if I was just an out-of-town fling but now that I actually live here, I’m just a boring sack of corn meal? This was a lot of terrible thoughts. I stopped on the sidewalk. Maybe I should play it cool and just be friends with her and give this whole stalker thing a rest. Then again, all I really wanted was to take Summer and fold her up and put her in my little pocket and do a spontaneous jig of resounding triumph. The twisted maniacal joy of complete and total possession. I heard a dog bark. Its pure simplicity—a single bar from a single dog—seemed like some kind of cosmic communication: Chill out, Jarvis. Quit thinking these heavy-ass thoughts and chillax.

  I knocked and all of the dogs barked. A sublime chorus of woofs. My knees were shivering. She opened the door.

  “Jarvis!” And I got a big excited hug and kiss on the cheek. It was fucking heaven. “Are you here now? For good?”