Exile on Kalamazoo Street

by Michael Loyd Gray

  “How’s the water?” she said a second time, to make sure. “Too warm, not warm enough?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Invigorating. I think this is the best part of a haircut.”

  “My clients always say that. A good shampoo is like a good massage.”

  “You could go house to house and make money,” I said.

  “People would think I was crazy, knocking on doors to offer a shampoo.”

  “Not my best idea, I guess.”

  “You keep thinking,” she said. “Since you’re a writer, you might come up with one yet.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said quietly.

  It was a fairly vulnerable position to be in, my head dangling into a sink, an attractive woman washing my hair and then toweling it dry before running a comb through it and cutting it with crisp snips of the scissors, the wet clumps of hair falling onto the blue smock she had wrapped around me. As she cut and combed, she suggested nonchalantly that I needed to get out of the house more, but she never questioned the concept of exile. I figured that my sister must have filled her in.

  “You really haven’t gone out at all, all winter?” Sherilynn said.

  “Not once.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “It’s comforting. I always know where I’ll be.”

  “But isn’t that boring?” she said.

  “No more than always going to the same place to work every day.”

  “But at a job, you have people around you.”

  “Now people come to me.”

  “I guess you have me there,” she said.

  “No, you have me here,” I said. She laughed and I did, too.

  Sherilynn used a blow dryer, which I never used, and fashioned my still long but more manageable hair into something a bit slicker and flatter than I preferred. I didn’t mind. I knew that it was just for that day, and after a shower the next morning I could let it slip and slide into the shape it liked and it would look more natural, less choreographed. I decided long hair suited me and I wore it well, but that I should remember to look a little less like Jesus.

  Chapter 7: Intermission

  It stopped snowing.

  Days lengthened.

  Evening darkness shrank.

  Morning light hurried.

  Snow melted slowly.

  Moisture seeped silently.

  Ice fell sharply.

  Yards browned haltingly.

  Winds snapped emotionally.

  Tree branches creaked insistently.

  Dogs barked neutrally.

  Horns honked mechanically.

  People emerged tentatively.

  Walked.

  Smoked.

  Gazed.

  Geese and ducks returned eagerly.

  Sparrows sighed compassionately.

  Cardinals chirped joyously.

  Bluebirds cackled aggressively.

  Crows cawed ominously.

  Black Kitty sat in a window sill.

  My hair grew.

  Fate slumbered.

  Chapter 8: The Middle of the Actual Beginning

  Someone was knocking on the side door. The knocking was tentative and at first I wasn’t sure I was hearing it at all. It was more of a pecking sound, like a woodpecker tapping away on a tree. I peeked out a window by the stairs and saw Elsa in her long wool coat, blonde hair cascading across shoulders and nicely framing her oval face. I can’t say I expected her visit, but I wasn’t surprised, either. I had thought of her a few times. Mostly I thought of her naked, her blonde hair hanging over her breasts, her mouth wet and glistening, and without Matt, the ass outlaw in training.

  She placed her red mittens over her nose for a moment to warm it up. Mittens. Elsa wore mittens. I suppose I thought she would be more grown up and wear expensive black leather gloves. Maybe have her hair in a ponytail and be well into the transition to soccer mom. But she had a few years yet before all that. She knocked again and I snapped out of the fantasy. I couldn’t let her freeze.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be home,” she said as she mounted the steps into the kitchen.

  “I’m always home,” I said, already pondering how to explain that. I hung her coat on the rack and automatically filled a teapot. “Tea, Elsa?”

  “I’d love tea … Bryce.” She rubbed her hands together. “Where’s Black Kitty?”

  I turned on a stove burner and opened a cabinet to find tea bags and honey. I could feel her eyes on my back.

  “He’ll turn up all right. He loves company.”

  “I think you need more company.”

  I turned and smiled. She wore a tight navy sweater that emphasized her large breasts. I tried not to drop my gaze to the tight denim vee between her legs.

  “Lately company hasn’t been a problem,” I said. “It’s been Grand Central Station.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I hope we didn’t impose the other day.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. You’re always welcome. But where’s Matt?”

  “Off in Mattland, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose and it was very cute, endearing … and sexy.

  “And where is Mattland?”

  “Not my day to watch the boy,” she said. “But he can be found with his bonehead buddies at Sharkey’s, shooting pool and swilling Bud Light.”

  “Are Matt and the boys all unemployed pool hustlers?”

  “They were student painters, until it got too cold. Now they sit around Sharkey’s playing with their sticks … pool cues.”

  The teapot whistled and I poured us each a cup.

  “Honey?” I said.

  “What?” She looked surprised. “Oh … honey. Sure.”

  “Say when.” I squeezed honey into her cup.

  “Hose me down, I guess,” she said.

  “Sure you’re ready for that?”

  She looked down at the kitchen floor. “Ready for what?”

  “All this honey.”

  She looked up, grinning. “I love honey.”

  “How much?” I said.

  “A lot. I love how it tastes and coats my tongue.”

  “That’s a lot, for sure.”

  “Give me all you got,” she said.

  “And if we run out?”

  “What are the chances?” she said, her grin expanding as she leaned back against a counter.

  “We can always get more, if we need it.”

  “An endless supply?” She pulled hair away from her face and revealed a pink ear.

  “Depends on the source, I guess.” I wondered how far she was willing to take the game.

  “Do you have plenty of honey, Bryce?”

  So, she was a player indeed.

  “We won’t run out today.”

  “Today is all we have,” she said. “Isn’t that a famous saying? Did Gandhi say that?”

  I wondered how often she truly contemplated Mahatma Gandhi. When I hear Gandhi, I don’t think of a famous quotation. I think, Ben Kingsley.

  “It wasn’t Gandhi,” I said. “I believe it was actually Mother Teresa—‘we have only today.’ ”

  “How do you remember all these things, Bryce?”

  I smirked. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe you somehow asked me the only one I could remember.”

  “Like fate?” she said.

  “More like coincidence. But fate might be involved, too.”

  “But you did know the answer,” she said.

  “What if I saw it on TV, on a game show while surfing channels?”

  “It’s still knowledge,” she said.

  “More like trivia. There’s a difference.”

  “Does it matter how you know something, as long as you know it, Bryce?”

  Well-said, I thought.

  “To a purist, maybe.”

  “Are you a purist, Bryce?”

  “Not any fucking more.”

  “Are you a writer?”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Wha
t are you, then?”

  I threw up my hands, but smiled.

  “An exile, Elsa. I’m an exile in my own house.”

  She arched her lovely eyebrows.

  “No way. How are you an exile?”

  “Way. I haven’t been outside of this house all winter. That makes me an exile.”

  “Since when?”

  “Right after Christmas.”

  “Really? How do you get groceries?”

  “My sister brings them.”

  “Why are you doing it?” she said.

  “To stop drinking. But it’s turned into more than that.”

  “Did you drink that much, Bryce?”

  “Yes. I certainly did. Now I can see just how much it was. Many times I had my fill and then somebody else’s fill, I guess. I drank the Whiskey River.”

  She chuckled. “That’s a Willie Nelson song.”

  “I guess it was sort of my theme song for years,” I said.

  “Is it working … exile?”

  “There’s no booze in the house.”

  “But you don’t have the outside world.”

  “I can see it out the window,” I said. “It looks like it’s still there. Still in color and all that. The squirrels are still bushy and brown.”

  “But what about perspective on the outside world, Bryce?”

  She pushed away from the counter toward me.

  “Do I need much perspective, Elsa, if I’m an exile?”

  “Yeah, you do.” She stepped closer.

  Okay, I thought, yeah, that’s probably true.

  “And how do I get it?” I said. “Perspective, that is.”

  She reached for my belt buckle and rested her fingers on it for a few seconds while I watched. Then she grasped the buckle and pulled me toward her.

  “I’m from the outside world,” she said. “I can give you perspective.”

  I thought it sounded very corny, which rhymes with horny, but it also sounded like a very good idea.

  “Lead on,” I said, and she grabbed my hand and led me through the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. Black Kitty was napping on the bed. Dreaming of perspective, no doubt.

  Elsa was behind me, her crotch thrust into my ass, her arms running up and down my chest.

  “Black Kitty will need to find another place to nap,” she said. “He doesn’t need to see what we’re going to do.”

  I reached around behind her and squeezed her ass.

  “Will it hurt?” I said playfully.

  “Only if you want it to.”

  * * *

  My side door, I concluded, was still something of a turnstile. Rev. Mortensen returned one day, his trench coat under his arm like the last time. I wondered why he bothered to lug it around. He wore another magnificent suit, a blue pinstriped number, and a baby blue button-down shirt and a black tie. Maybe he always carried his coat to show off his impressive suits. Or to give the impression he was hale and hearty. He seemed like the hale and hearty type—strenuous, strident. Convinced of his ideology and his mission. No uncertainties, I supposed. Holy Rollers were fueled by conviction. He probably figured that doubt was the hobgoblin of a faulty mind. Or maybe he just didn’t take into account what others might be thinking.

  I noticed he was carrying the copy of my book. Maybe he forgot the Bible. Not likely, I reminded myself. No doubt he had one in his car if he needed it. No doubt he had memorized enough of the Bible to wield it as a weapon, even when a copy was not in his hand.

  In the living room, he sat quietly on the sofa and stirred his tea. He seemed to be composing his thoughts. And I was definitely in no hurry to hear them. For a moment I feared he might lead us in prayer. Otherwise, I was happy just to pet Black Kitty, who lounged in my lap. Had the good reverend suddenly risen and announced a Holy Roller emergency elsewhere else, I would have smiled and nodded and not given it another thought.

  But that’s not how it went.

  Finally he looked up from his contemplation and said, “Bryce … how are you, my friend?”

  So, we were friends. Buddies. Of course, that didn’t spare me from also being a lost lamb in need of a shepherd.

  “Doing well, Reverend, all things considered. And you?”

  “I’m blessed by the Lord’s presence.”

  A hard act to follow, I had to admit.

  “Is he here with us now, Reverend?”

  I resisted the notion of looking round the room. The good reverend nodded approval and rubbed his hands together. He nearly smiled.

  “He is always with us, Bryce.”

  I was tempted to blurt out an insolent remark about remembering to keep the shower door closed in the future, but I suppressed it. Instead, I nodded slightly and avoided a smile or a frown.

  “I see you have my book there, Reverend.”

  “Yes,” he said, holding it up in with both hands, which oddly enough made me remember a picture of Moses holding up a tablet or one of the Commandments—were they the same? My knowledge of the subject was sketchy.

  “Did you read it, Reverend?”

  “I did indeed, Bryce. Quite the experience.”

  Now, “quite the experience,” I had to admit, was actually one of the nicest reviews the book ever got. If more of the reviewers had actually called it “quite an experience,” maybe it would have sold a few copies.

  Maybe I should have titled it, Quite An Experience.

  “There’s all sorts of experiences, of course,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Not your cup of tea, Reverend?”

  He wiggled his lips and looked away a few seconds.

  “I suppose my taste runs to Grisham, or Dan Brown. Or some of the Christian authors I am more familiar with.”

  “I haven’t read Grisham or Brown,” I said. “I did see that Da Vinci movie, though. Tom Hanks was dandy in it.”

  “Indeed he was.”

  “Did you bring the book to give it back, Reverend?”

  That would have been a first—a reader actually tossing the book back to me in person.

  “No, no,” he said. “A gift is a gift. I know you must have offered it in good faith, and I should honor that sentiment.”

  “Good faith” was quite the stretch. But at least he took the high road. And maybe he brought it along because he still couldn’t quite believe it had been written. I could never quite believe it, either. But there it was, in the hands of a good reverend.

  “I can sign it for you, Reverend.” I certainly enjoyed saying it.

  He looked pained for a second or two and quickly switched to a grin, though his cheeks reddened slightly.

  “Well, of course, that’s a plus,” he said. “Certainly having the author’s signature does have an effect. It enhances the book, I suspect. Even bestows value.”

  I thought, if God his-own-self appeared and signed my book, it wouldn’t enhance it at all. But certainly the value would immediately shoot up.

  “Do you have a pen, Reverend?” I could clearly see one sticking up from his breast pocket.

  He hesitated and then plucked the pen from his pocket and handed it along with the book over to me. As I signed, he crossed his legs and pretended to smooth the fabric of his very nice pinstripe trousers. I signed my name and wrote the following inscription:

  “For Rev. Mortensen, who one day knocked on my door when few were knocking.”

  I handed it back and he studied the inscription and nodded, flashing a quick grin and then placed the book—rather gingerly, I felt—on the coffee table. I wondered whether that might be a ploy to leave it behind. I resolved to make sure he left with the book. It was the price of admission the good reverend owed me for the prosecution of his agenda.

  “Thank you, Bryce.”

  “The least I can do.”

  It was actually far from the least I could do. I imagined that at home he would want to keep the book on the highest shelf, if he had bookshelves, so that it went unnoticed, given the sex and profanity and general dissipa
tion the book renders.

  “A memorable story,” he said, a bit absently.

  “Many critics said there’s no story at all, Reverend. I recall my agent telling me that if it sold, it would be because there wasn’t another book quite like it. Turns out there’s a good reason why no other books are quite like it.”

  I smiled sweetly, like I had seen Elsa do. I admired her sweet smile. It was probably genuine.

  “Your agent had faith in you, Bryce. Faith is powerful.”

  He was out of the bullpen now and warming up his fastball.

  “Indeed,” I said, remembering there needed to be a ban on the word.

  “Faith moves mountains,” he said.

  “I’ve heard that one, Reverend.”

  “An old sentiment that’s always true.”

  “As true as true can be,” I said, wondering why I said it, or what that phrase even meant.

  A silence settled in between us and I wished I had made a fire because a fire would have offered crackling and popping noises that would have helped punctuate the silence. I was thinking like a writer again, I supposed. Or maybe just someone full of shit. Maybe I was thinking like a writer full of shit.

  “That’s a fine suit, Reverend.”

  “Thank you, Bryce.” He gave it a quick glance and adjusted his tie.

  I made a mental note to someday explore why men wear ties. To me a tie was slow strangulation.

  “Do you think the suit makes the man,” I said, “or the man makes the suit?”

  “The latter, of course.”

  “True,” I said. “Hitler wore suits. All the time. Stalin, too. But suits didn’t make those guys better men.”

  “Certainly not,” he said.

  “More tea?” I said pleasantly.

  “I’d love some. I do like the honey you put in it, Bryce.”

  “One of my former students dropped by recently, Reverend. She likes my honey, too. Very much.”

  “I’m not surprised. She must be a smart young woman.”

  “Oh, she is,” I said. “I think I must have taught her well. I think I’m still teaching her.”