The Neighbor

by Joseph Souza

  My entire body is shivering as I let the engine idle. An Aerosmith song comes over the radio: “Dream On.” I put on my sunglasses and pull the knit cap over my scalp. It takes me a few minutes before I work up the courage to shut off the engine. I take a couple of deep breaths. It takes me another five minutes before I get out of the Prius. The street is quiet, the neighborhood depressing and run down. A lone dog barks savagely in the distance. I make my way up the stairs until I find myself standing at the front door. The sound of rushing water fills my ears, reminding me that my heart is like an overflowing creek. I reach up and ring the doorbell. A minute passes before the door opens and the harried face of a woman appears in the crack, her head wrapped in a grimy white towel.

  CLAY

  Thursday, October 22, 10:34 a.m.

  EVERYTHING FEELS RIGHT IN THE WORLD ONCE I’M BACK AT THE brewery, busy with the day’s activities. It feels more like home than my actual home. Keeping busy eases my mind and allows me to forget all that I’ve done.

  I try not to dwell on that disastrous dinner last night and the events that followed in the bedroom. What was I thinking? Yes, I was drunk and angry. But hurting Leah in that manner is the last thing I want to do. She’s essentially a good woman. And for once she was trying to make me happy. Unfortunately, she triggered a response that I couldn’t control.

  I scoop grains into the plastic bucket, thinking about Zack and Zadie, and how I’ve wronged them. They seem almost foreign to me since moving here. It’s as if our brief separation has irrevocably altered the parent-child balance of power. Zack is becoming more estranged, isolating himself in his room most nights and reading his weird books. I worry about him. I worry so much about him that I end up spending twenty hours a day at the brewery—worrying.

  Once eleven o’clock rolls around, Ben prepares our coffee in the French press. But it’s not coffee I want. My yearnings have shifted and not for the better. I crossed a line with alcohol and now it seems as if I can’t walk it back. From morning to night I have this powerful urge to drink. Drink, drink, drink. It temporarily fills some deep vacuum in my wretched soul. I watch as Ben pours me a piping hot cup of black coffee. I drink it with urgency as Ben sits across from me and looks on. The coffee tastes good and strong and momentarily quells my need for alcohol. But sooner or later it will return—and when it does, it will do so with a vengeance.

  What the hell was up with that dinner last night? It felt like I was starring in some awful B movie with the evil couple from next door. The woman didn’t seem so bad. In fact, she seemed rather pleasant. Attractive too, although I could never admit that to Leah. I sensed at the time that she was flirting with me, however gently. Her husband was a bona fide asshole, though, and I wanted to rip his head off when he grabbed Leah’s hand and held it in a suggestive manner. But when he went on about slavery and reparations—that was when I really lost it.

  Leah is acting strange as of late, stranger than she usually acts. I wonder if she has any idea about me. I know I’m being paranoid, because if Leah harbored any notion of my infidelity, there’d be hell to pay. She’d have left me long ago and taken the kids with her. Sometimes I think that splitting up with her wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Hell, I’m not even sure she loves me anymore. She says the right things, plays the role of the perfect housewife, tries to make everyone happy. But it’s mostly for the kids’ sake. Aside from the other night, she rarely wants to have sex. A lot of wives throw up the white flag when it comes to sex. But I need it more than ever. I need intimacy and affection and adventurous excitement. I yearn for more sex.

  Just not in the middle of the day when I should be working. Scheduled, boring lovemaking that occurs in the dark is never any fun. Merely seeing it scrawled on the calendar takes me completely out of the mood.

  It’s hard to believe that Mycah still occupies a good deal of my waking thoughts. She’s ignited something inside me that I never thought existed. And now that she’s gone, I know with absolute certainty that I will never again experience that kind of heightened sexuality.

  * * *

  Mycah and I drove down to Boston one day and stayed at the Park Plaza Hotel. After strolling around downtown, we passed through the Boston Common until we arrived at the Public Garden. The duck boats were cruising around the pond, so we stopped to watch. Only a few passengers were out for a ride that day. It was nice to be out with this beautiful young girl on my arm, the sun shining, a radiating glow filling me with a joy one could only experience in the moment. Skyscrapers glistened in the backdrop. Old brick architecture appeared everywhere. Ye olde pubs beckoned us to stop in and quaff a beer by a warm fire. We walked around openly, no fear of being seen by anyone we knew. No fear of being judged or gawked at. We didn’t need to worry about age or racial disparity as we walked hand in hand through downtown Boston.

  After watching the duck boats for a few minutes, Mycah dragged me by the hand to the periphery of the park, laughing in hysterics. I had no idea what she was doing, but I allowed myself to go wherever she wanted. In broad daylight, she pulled me into a bramble of thick bushes, unzipped me, and dropped to her knees. The notion terrified me and I couldn’t believe what she was doing in the light of day. People were everywhere, walking along the streets and through the park. Fearful we might be seen, I made sure to keep my eyes glued to the duck boats paddling through the pond.

  The first of August arrived and there were only a few weeks before Leah and the kids were set to arrive in Maine. Mycah and I were supposed to meet up at a hotel outside Dearborn, but she sent me a brief text canceling our meeting. There’d been no explanation or reason why. At the time, I’d been trying to work up the courage to tell Leah about the affair and ask for a divorce.

  Mycah’s father had not yet cut the brewery a check, but she assured me that he was still committed to investing in the brewery, especially after I’d coughed up six grand for Knicks tickets. She even said that her father, after looking at the brewery’s numbers, might be willing to invest more money for an additional ten-percent stake. It was a lot to give up, but the extra money would allow me to significantly increase production—and I’d still be calling all the shots.

  But then a few days passed and I didn’t hear from her. I texted and called but heard nothing. It wasn’t like her not to return my calls—or what little I knew of her in the four months we’d been seeing each other.

  I parked in front of her apartment and waited for her to arrive. After an hour passed with no sign of her, I returned to the brewery. I was way behind schedule and planned to work late into the evening. Ben usually stayed late if I asked him, but then I had to pay him overtime, which I really couldn’t afford.

  My cell phone rang around ten that night. It was Mycah. She wanted to meet me at some Podunk bar on the outskirts of town. I pulled up to it forty minutes later and sat in the parking lot, listening to a live concert on the college radio station. The squat, windowless bar supported a neon sign on the roof that said Rodeo Red’s. A dozen choppers sat in front of the building, which in normal times would have been enough to keep me motoring down the road.

  I went inside and sat at the bar. A song by some country rebel was playing over the overhead speakers. I looked around the dimly lit joint and saw a small stage and two pool tables off to the side. A few of the bikers—real hard-ass types—sat across from me, staring sullenly into their drinks. Draped over the far wall was a huge Confederate flag.

  This was the last place I ever expected to meet Mycah, but then again she’d proved to be adventurous and unpredictable. I ordered a draft beer, which tasted like shit. Dive bars rarely clean their beer lines and the lines eventually start to collect yeast and sugars, which kill the taste of the beer. I finished it and ordered a rum and Coke instead.

  Laughter went up and all heads turned as soon as Mycah walked in. I could have sworn a few of the bikers were snorting coke behind one of the pool tables. She removed her leather pocketbook from her shoulder and sat down next to m
e. She was dressed casual chic, but the cumulative effect was, as usual, stunning. She looked totally out of place in this shitty juke joint. Every head in the bar glanced up from their muddy cocktail or stale beer to take her in. Were they staring at her because she was hot or because she was black? Or both?

  “Would you rather sit at a table?” I asked.

  “No, the bar is fine.” She ordered a Sea Breeze and the grizzly-looking bartender laughed.

  “What the hell is a Sea Breeze?”

  “For God’s sake, just give me what he’s having,” she said.

  “One rum and Coke coming right up for the little lady.”

  “Why’d you pick this dump?” I asked.

  “I find rednecks entertaining. There’s not many bars like this where I come from.”

  “Seems a little dicey choosing this place.”

  “These inbreeds don’t scare me.” She laughed in a weird manner. “Why? They scare a big guy like you?”

  “A little.” I laughed and sipped my awful drink, gazing at all the hard eyes staring in our direction. One bad-ass wore a leather vest and a red bandanna and had a long scar running across his cleft chin, making it look like a cross.

  “Don’t be such a pussy, Clay. A big strong brewer like you could probably kick all their asses.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I asked you here for a reason. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Forget to bring your whip today?” I gently tickled her stomach and she backed away.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Okay.” I lifted the straw to my lips.

  “The loan from my father is not going to happen.”

  “What?” Her words stunned me. “Why?”

  “I advised him against it.”

  “Why the hell’d you do that?” A few of the bikers noticed my reaction and began to wander in our direction.

  “Don’t make a scene.”

  “What the hell do you mean you advised him against it?” I grabbed her shoulders and squared her to me. “Goddamnit, Mycah, what are you doing?”

  “We can’t be together anymore, Clay. I think it’s a bad idea to go into business with someone who you are absolutely crazy about.”

  Her words floored me. All I could taste was that god-awful rum poisoning my taste buds. Not getting the loan seemed pale in comparison to losing her, especially after admitting that she was crazy about me. I knew the end of our affair was coming, but the sudden reality of it hit me hard. Why was she breaking up with me? I’d thrown everything away to be with her, and now she was tossing me aside like a wet rag. I sat on that stool, heartbroken and at a loss for words.

  “Please, Mycah, give me another chance.”

  “This is what you wanted, Clay. Now it’s over between us. We were two people having a little fun and then it turned serious.” She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and stood to leave. I moved in front of her, blocking her exit.

  “Tell me why?”

  “We have no future—you said so yourself.”

  “Tell me you don’t love me.”

  “I don’t need to tell you shit. Now, get out of my way.”

  “Please, Mycah, I’m begging you to rethink your decision.”

  “Don’t be an asshole about this, Clay. We both knew it was going to end sooner than later.”

  “I’m not moving until you give me a reason.”

  She pummeled my chest and face, and I staggered back in shock at her ferocity. “Loser. Go back to your skinny-ass wife.”

  I grabbed her hands and pushed her back on the stool. She screamed as I restrained her. One of the bikers, a scrawny guy with wavy blond hair and a diamond earring, approached while the others looked on. Mycah struggled to escape my grasp, but I squeezed her wrists so tight that I could tell it hurt. I didn’t care. I seethed with indignation at the thought of her leaving me. In that moment, all I wanted to do was to wrap my arms around her and tell her how much I loved her.

  “Get your hands off me, motherfucker.”

  “Damn you, Mycah. You can’t just play with my emotions like that.”

  “Take that shit outside,” the bartender barked.

  “Mind your goddamn business,” I snapped, pushing Mycah back against the bar.

  “Maybe I’ll tell your wife about what we’ve been doing,” Mycah shouted. “Bet she’d like to know how good you are with a whip.”

  “You better shut your mouth.”

  I felt something tapping against my shoulder and realized that the blond biker had his hand on me. I let go of Mycah and stepped back, taking in the biker’s amused expression. He was at least six inches smaller than me, but he looked as if he’d gone through a ten-year gang war with the Bandidos. His thinning blond hair swept back over his scarred scalp, making him look like a model for the Aryan Nation.

  “This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” the blue-eyed biker said as he grabbed me by the throat.

  “Mind your own fucking business, hillbilly,” Mycah shouted, punching the man in the shoulder. The blond man laughed as the other bikers surrounded us.

  “Hear how that bitch spoke to you, Drifter?” one of the bikers said.

  “Sure are ungrateful.” Drifter eyed her warily. “But goddamn, you’re a fine piece of ass.”

  “We don’t want any trouble.” I raised my hands as he squeezed my throat.

  “Shut up, Gomer.”

  “Get your filthy hands off him,” Mycah said, punching the man in the arm. The compact biker backhanded her across the face with a lightning-quick flick of his wrist, and Mycah went sprawling against the bar.

  “Look, sir, we apologize if we got carried away,” I said, eyeing the long knife attached to his belt. “Please, just let us go our way and we won’t bother you again.”

  “But you already done bothered me, boy,” the man said, moving his face closer to me. His eyes were Bermuda blue and penetrating. “Problem is you don’t know how to deal with your woman.”

  “I’m not his woman, asshole,” Mycah shouted.

  “Shut up, nigger.” He turned to Mycah. “What’s a welfare queen like you doing in this honky-tonk joint anyway? Trading your EBT card for booze?” The other bikers laughed.

  Mycah cleared her throat and spit in his face. While still gripping my neck, the biker wiped the spit off his cheek. Then he jabbed a straight right into Mycah’s face. Her head snapped back and she grunted. Blood trickled from her nose as her knees buckled. She reached over the bar and grabbed a napkin to staunch the flow.

  “Come on, Drifter, let these two assholes go,” the bartender said. “Not like you never fought with your old lady before.”

  “Watch your mouth, Rusty. You the one let these two come in here and offend our sensibilities.” He leaned over the stool and glared at her while gripping my neck. “This here ain’t the ghetto, girl. Your homeboys ain’t gonna drive by and save your pretty ass tonight.”

  Mycah unhooked the strap from her shoulder and rested her pocketbook on her lap.

  “What do you know about the ghetto?”

  “I grew up worse than you monkeys ever did, so don’t tell me about how hard your fucking life was collecting welfare checks, drinking forties, and smoking crack on the street. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

  “You grew up with a privilege denied to me,” she said. “Your greedy ancestors enslaved my people and profited from them.”

  “This,” he says, letting go of my neck and holding up his knife, “is all the privilege I need in my life. It’s how I protected myself in prison against all those homeboys.”

  “Dumb-ass redneck. Didn’t your white-trash momma teach you to never bring a knife to a gunfight?”

  “Can you believe the balls on this one?” Drifter said, laughing.

  Mycah reached into her purse, pulled out a handgun, and pointed it at the biker’s head. My heart churned as I stood in stunned silence, wondering what this crazy girl was capable of doing. She jumped down off the stool, ignoring her bloodied nose,
and pressed the barrel into Drifter’s vein-riddled forehead. The man smiled and held up his wiry arms as if to mock her.

  “Hands up, don’t shoot.”

  “You disgust me.”

  “You gonna shoot me, hon? Come on, let’s see if you’re brave enough.”

  “You gonna stand there and let him talk to me like that, Clay? You gonna let these rednecks push me around?”

  “Jesus, Mycah, put the gun away and stop acting so crazy,” I said.

  “I want so badly to shoot this inbreed.” She moved close to Drifter until her face was mere inches from his. He was smiling from ear to ear, clearly enjoying this encounter.

  “Be a good little monkey, babe, and pull the trigger,” the biker said. “That way Uncle Drifter won’t oppress you in the back room with his enormous white privilege.”

  She stepped back, lowering the gun until she was aiming it at his crotch.

  “How about I blow this off instead?”

  “You want to blow off my dick?” Drifter looked around at his associates before breaking out into a fit of laughter. “Why don’t you get down on your knees and blow it off instead.”

  “Suck this.” She kneed him in the balls, and Drifter crumpled to the floor. Mycah pointed the gun at the other bikers. “Any of you other hillbillies want a piece of me?”

  Mycah grabbed my hand and walked us backward toward the door. Once we reached our vehicles, she turned to me.

  “You’re not a real man, Clay Daniels. You’re just a useless faggot like all the others out there.”

  “Mycah?”

  “Stay away from me from now on. Go back to your pale wife and kids, and don’t ever call me again.”

  She jumped in her car and sped off down the road. As I climbed into my truck, I saw a few of the bikers straggling out the door and into the overhead light. I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I stepped on the gas and got out of there as soon as possible, kicking up dust and dirt in my wake.