Good People

by Robert Lopez

  The two are in the car together.

  The one in the passenger seat says, I’ll say. He rolls the window down a little.

  The one driving did not formally propose marriage to his wife. After several months of misinterpreted conversations and endearing gestures, they found themselves in front of an ordained minister and two paid-for witnesses. The ceremony was simple and brief, as there was a line out in the corridor waiting to do likewise.

  The bridal night included a mutual decision to forgo the threshold ceremony but was otherwise traditional. Once inside their room, the ersatz honeymoon suite, she spent a solid hour in the bathroom while he examined his genitals under the covers. He was hoping they would go twice, once she came out, if she came out. He wondered what would happen if she didn’t. Wondered what he’d do if she had done something to herself in there, maybe with pills or a razor. He waited. He thought about them going twice again. They’d gone twice only a couple of times before, once during a memorable evening that involved take-out Chinese. He was hoping she would come out wearing something special, something he hadn’t seen before. That is, if she were to come out at all. If she didn’t come out, he’d have to go in after her, break down the door, find her like that, dead in the tub. He’d have to call the police and explain the whole thing, the wedding, the witnesses, the threshold. For the rest of his life, he’d be the one whose wife committed suicide on their wedding night. He’d have that story to tell over and over to all kinds of people, all kinds of empathetic women. Eventually she did come out, and when she did, she wasn’t wearing anything special. She came out naked and said something like Are you ready for me? He was, as anyone might expect, devastated.

  Afterward there was the standard back and forth, give and take, push and pull.

  All of which has led the one driving here, a block or so away from the restaurant. He is looking for an indication from the other one, something that would telegraph his intentions. He wonders if he is about to be blackmailed. He wonders how it would work, if he’d pay. Maybe the one in the passenger seat would demand sexual favors. There is no way of knowing. He likes to think that he could kill the one in the passenger seat instead, if it comes down to it.

  The radio news is on and they are about to do the sports and weather. He turns the volume up so he can hear the scores. He cannot account for what has happened in his life, how he’s gotten to this point. He remembers playing football with his father once. His father had a rocket for a throwing arm, which surprised him. He didn’t think his father would be much of an athlete. He was almost always gone, the father, only showing up once in a while, maybe every five years or so, when he needed money. And now he is married and about to eat lunch at a bad restaurant, hoping to dodge food poisoning, this new assignment, and the forthcoming blackmail.

  This morning, he told his wife he wasn’t sure about having children yet. He told her he didn’t think he was ready, that he wasn’t sure about the prospect, how he would fare. He said they didn’t have enough saved, that he needed his sleep, that he didn’t have much of an arm. He said they were young, that they had plenty of time. His wife didn’t respond to any of this. Instead, she went downstairs, into the bathroom, maybe to fix something, otherwise to kill herself.

  The weather this day goes unnoticed. Neither of the good people looks up at the sky or catches that a light rain has started.

  The one driving turns into the restaurant’s empty parking lot and parks the car close to the entrance. The one in the passenger seat unfastens his safety belt and makes a sound with his mouth. The sound probably means something, but the one driving doesn’t hear it. The one driving is busy turning off the ignition and says, This is where you’re wrong, man.

  Getting out of the car, he says, This is where you’re dead wrong.

  The Human Cost

  SOMEONE’S COAT IS IN THE MIDDLE of the floor, which indicates the owner is probably dead by now. We think it’s a woman’s coat, as it is small and formfitting, or rather, it looks small and formfitting. We haven’t picked the coat up off the floor and we aren’t planning to, either. The coat is evidence and shouldn’t be disturbed. We aren’t sure why the coat shouldn’t be disturbed, but this is what we’ve been told. It probably has to do with the investigation and future criminal prosecution. We don’t want anyone to get off on a technicality, that much we do know. We also know the coat’s owner is probably dead by now, this much seems certain, though everything else remains a question. We think it’s a woman’s coat due to the size and style, but it could easily be a man’s coat. We’ve all seen men dressed in small formfitting coats, so it is not unusual, and because of this we are not assuming it’s a woman that has been killed for her coat, because it could easily be a man, particularly the kind of man who would wear this kind of small formfitting coat. This is not to say that a man who wears this kind of small formfitting coat deserved what happened to him or had it coming. This man didn’t have it coming any more than the rest of us do. But it stands to reason that the kind of man who might wear this kind of small formfitting coat would be targeted for such and an easy mark. Case in point, there are no indications of a struggle. Everything seems exactly as it should be and there are no blood-stains or splatters, nothing is broken. We have had a thorough look around and have been careful so as not to disturb anything. For instance, no one has picked the coat up off the floor and tried it on for size to determine just how small and formfitting this coat is. We aren’t doing this so as not to hinder the investigation. We’ve been told that we must never tamper with evidence. We keep this in mind whenever we happen upon a crime scene, which is about four or five times a week now. So what’s important isn’t the coat or who owned it, if it was a man or a woman or what. It’s not even important that we apprehend whoever it was that perpetrated this particular crime or bring this criminal to justice. Now we must remember the victim. This was a human person who lived in the world like the rest of us. Someone who ate food and drank water and breathed air and showered daily, maintained personal relationships, exercised regularly, voted in most elections, both local and national. We cannot lose sight of this part of it, the human cost, the loss of life. We remind each other of this as often as possible. We say we have to do better next time, and while we are resolute and determined, it seems we are always too late and for this we are sorry.

  Now I Am Doubled Over

  ALLOW ME TO SAY a few words, he says, and then he says, People think backward. I say to the person next to me, I can’t believe we’ve allowed this to go on, and the person next to me says, I don’t know what you mean. At this point I’m livid, I am beside myself. I think about starting a fire or setting off an explosive, but I don’t because that’s not a nice thing to do on a Sunday morning and I don’t have matches on me or kindling or anything that even resembles dynamite, so I remain seated beside myself. And it feels especially true, because at this point it’s as if I’m both the one who said I can’t believe we’ve allowed this to go on and the one who said I don’t know what you mean. It is exactly like me to be disbelieving and confused at the same time. So this is when I feel the disbelief and confusion at the base of my skull working its way up toward the top of my head and down my spinal column and all the way around into my guts. I can feel it spreading through my pelvic floor, seeping into organs and blood vessels. Now I am doubled over. Now I am on the ground, writhing, and I think, Why is this happening again. I think about how many times this has happened and in front of how many people. I can hear the people saying, This poor fellow, or I can’t stand to see him like this, or I think we should go home now. Once on the floor like this, writhing, making a spectacle, I realize I might also be the one who said, Allow me to say a few words, in the first place, which was clearly a mistake and probably how this whole mess got started.

  The Sky Was Everywhere Like Water

  THERE’S A WOMAN with her lip split open and it’s not my fault. People assume it’s my fault, but the truth is the splitting happened on a Thursday
in front of strangers and dogs while on a boat. What I’m saying is, there were witnesses. It probably doesn’t matter it happened on a Thursday, but that’s when it happened. When things happen are usually important, though, so maybe I’m wrong about this part not mattering. It doesn’t matter what I think matters or not. What does matter is that I’m the one who had it happen this way, on a Thursday, in front of those strangers and dogs, in the middle of that boat, it was me, the one who split her lip open for her, though it wasn’t my fault, despite what people assume. I asked her first, I said, Do you want me to split your lip open for you? She could’ve said no, could’ve said I’d rather you didn’t, or Now isn’t a good time, but instead she said something about my mother. At this point, the strangers and dogs were on the opposite side of the boat, but that probably doesn’t matter, either. Then she called me names, some of them filthy, and I did what I usually do when she calls me filthy names, which is I look her straight in the eye like we’re playing poker and I’ve got a full house. She doesn’t like it when I have anything higher than two pair. This is when she called me a gentleman, said something about it being only Thursday. I asked her if she brushed her teeth with that mouth and she took a swing at me. Some of the strangers and dogs started paying attention to us while this was happening. We could hear them murmuring, see them pointing fingers. She turned toward them and made a crude gesture, one involving her breasts, which are sizable. This is how she conducts herself in mixed company so you can’t blame anyone for any particular behavior around her. When I say anyone I mean me in this case, you can’t blame me for what happened, not when it comes to someone like her, not when it happens on a boat on a Thursday in front of strangers and dogs. I’m not sure whose boat it was or how we came to be on it. We were always someplace surrounded by people and there was no accounting for any of it. Like how we met at a poker game. I didn’t even know how to play poker back then, but that didn’t matter apparently and it didn’t matter on the boat, either. Although I do believe we were on the boat to play poker. At least that was our intention, to play poker on a boat. We never did actually get to play on the boat, but that was our own fault. I remember the sea’s being rough, if we were on the sea, which I don’t think we were. It may’ve been a lake or a river or a river that flows out of a lake into the sea. I don’t know anything about boating, about rivers, lakes, oceans. The woman with her lip split open, she doesn’t know anything about this, either. I think this is an important part of what happened, though, maybe even why it happened. That we weren’t on solid ground, couldn’t keep our footing. People aren’t meant to sway, I don’t think. It affects them, people I’m talking about, us in particular. Something about the inner ear, which is too close to the brain, which controls this kind of behavior. The sky was everywhere that day, like water. I know more about the sky than I do the water, which is to say that I’ve been walking under the sky my whole life and only once or twice have I been out on the water. I think she said something about this right before her lip got split open. She said to look at the sky, she said it was everywhere today. I think I took this as something like a final straw, something we couldn’t get past. So by now, everyone, the strangers and dogs included, was hoping I’d split that lip wide open and so this is what I did. It’s the bottom lip that got split, close to the middle, but a shade to the starboard side. I learned about the starboard side from the captain when he told everyone where to sit and stand while the boat was in motion. But how I learned the word starboard doesn’t matter, out of all the things that don’t matter, this is the most or the least or however it should go. Some of the strangers laughed when her lip got split, others cheered, like I’d won a big pot and the lip had lost her entire stack. The dogs all barked and kept on barking while she was bleeding all over the boat like that. The captain went belowdecks to get ice so she could press it to her lip, to keep it from swelling up too bad, to stop the bleeding. Someone handed me a beer at the same time the captain handed her an ice pack. After that everyone went back to what they were doing before the splitting, which was drinking, talking, swaying. As for the woman who got her lip split open, she’s got stitches in there now. The stitches are supposed to dissolve at some point, but they haven’t yet. Though maybe she has to go back to the hospital to get them removed. I’m not sure what she said about the stitches. I’m not sure what people assume, either, but I’m sure it’s the worst. You can’t blame people for assuming the worst, and when I say you, I mean me most often. I don’t blame anyone for anything. What’s important is this is how she walks around the world now, under the everywhere sky, with her lip split open. I’m sure we’ll laugh about this someday, I’m sure this is something we can tell our grandchildren or tell people at parties on boats. We’ll be sure to tell them about the strangers and dogs, the captain, the splitting and all that. We’ll probably forget that it happened on a Thursday, which will be unfortunate, I think. It seems important, like it’s almost unimaginable for this to happen on a Monday, for instance. I’m sure someone will ask about the boat, but if we don’t know whom the boat belonged to now or how we came to be on it together, I’m sure we won’t know any better then.

  I Want to Kiss Myself, Good God

  I’M NOT TANYA’S IDEA of a handsome man. She hasn’t told me this herself, but I’ve heard it from other people, people we have in common, including my Sofia.

  The people we have in common are horrible because of who they are and where they come from and how they were raised. There are other reasons, too, but these are the most important.

  I remember the night my Sofia told me I wasn’t Tanya’s idea of a handsome man. Everything about it was awful and I mostly blame God, but certainly Tanya and my Sofia shoulder some responsibility, too.

  Also, Teddy the cripple, who played a part in all of this and who once upon a time was my best friend, if you can believe that.

  I sometimes think of Teddy and Tanya and my Sofia as an unholy trinity, but I don’t know which is the father, who’s the son, or what the unholy ghost.

  I’m not at all religious, which is why I don’t know who should be what.

  But this was long ago, before all of these horrible people, including my Sofia, told me that I wasn’t Tanya’s idea of a handsome man, though I’m sure nothing’s changed.

  When I say nothing, I mean Tanya’s ideas more than anything else.

  Otherwise, everything in the world has changed and not for the better.

  Some of these people, the horrible ones, do believe I am, in fact, a handsome man, but that is both of no surprise and no consolation.

  One of these is my Sofia, wherever she may be, all over the crippled world.

  Even still, I wake like most people, in the morning and every day, after a long, brutal night and fitful sleep, and I stumble into the bathroom and think about the people, including Tanya and my Sofia, who I know are horrible and my headache pounds and the cold tile shocks and my erection sags and I empty my bladder and think another day and for what purpose and to what end and this is when I open the medicine cabinet and consider swallowing all of the painkillers and sleeping pills, but then I look into the mirror and I want to kiss myself, good God.

  I take in my features all at once, though it is better to concentrate on certain aspects one at a time. Otherwise, the whole of it can be overwhelming.

  There is the color and shape of my eyes, the perfect brows framing them just so. The forehead, which bears only the slightest hints of age and faded scars from a childish bout with chicken pox. The full lips with that charming birthmark edging toward the right corner, the dimpled chin obscured by a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, the line moving from the top of my ears in a perfect L shape to the rim of my mouth.

  There is a glow.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with Tanya and her ideas, why she couldn’t see what was always right in front of her, though I’ve spent many a long night trying to figure out what the problem was and how it might’ve been fixed.

  I try not
to think about Teddy, because by rights he should be dead by now.

  It pains me that the horrible people are horrible, including my Sofia and including Tanya, and I think what can I do. I am a man, after all, and I am surrounded on all sides, helpless, and all I can do is keep to myself, which I do most of the time because were I to say this out loud for anyone to hear, for anyone to take the wrong way, misinterpret, because that’s what horrible people do the world over, in big cities and small towns and quiet villages and hamlets and rural prairie places with all of the grain waving and grandstanding, then what will become of me then?

  I often think about what will become of me.

  I think about what will become of my Sofia, too, wherever she may be, who is, or rather was, when I knew her, as anyone might imagine, horrible.

  I do not think about what will become of Tanya because of her misguided ideas.