She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

by Frank G Schafer

  ©2019 Frank G. Schafer

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-838-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-839-1

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This short story collection and/or novelette is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, quotations, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in these stories are the product of the author’s imagination.

  For the lovely Linda.

  For my children, Becky, Teri and Frank

  For my grandchildren, Nicki, Seanna, Sebastien

  and especially, in this case, Coryn, who created the art for the fabulous front cover of this book.

  Thank you Coryn

  She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

  Somehow, I forced my eyes open. Laying there on my bed, I tried to gather my senses. Slowly I realized where I was, like a fog lifting or something. I was in my bed in the Step-ford like town of Happyfield. I remembered the night before. I got up to use the bathroom. As I stepped onto the short hardwood hall that was adjacent to the stairway, I slipped and went tumbling down the hard-oak steps, smashing my head on the plaster wall at the bottom. So, how did I get back up here? I know I was alone last night because I live alone now, a very lonely, alone

  My life had become wretched, a joke actually. I was about to turn sixty-nine, and although I was reasonably fit, had a full head of hair, and a working libido, my personal life was in ruins. My girlfriend of eight years found her pickleball instructor a tad more interesting than me. It was a quick separation. She came into the house and just blurted it out. “Remember how you were always jokingly accusing me of running off to be with my pickleball instructor. Well, today I decided to take you up on it.” She saw the tears in my eyes. She had none. I was devastated to see her being this cold. Not my Catherine. Not my Cat, as I called her, she was the sweetest kindest person I had ever met.

  She ran upstairs and rustled around for about five minutes, while I laid on the couch sobbing. When she came down, she stood there for a moment with her big suitcase in her hand. She was a bit red in the face with a few beads of sweat on her forehead. Even like that, she was a beauty for sure. Short dark hair, perfect Hedy Lamarr face still quite a figure for a fifty-six-year-old woman.

  I sprang to my feet and held her sobbing, “Please don’t leave me like this. This is not you. Please tell me it’s a dream.” By this time Harriett joined us, which was her custom. She wouldn’t let us hug without jumping up to join in with us. A three-way we called this. Little did she know this would be her last three-way.

  “It’s no dream. I’m leaving you for the pickleball guy. Get used to the idea. And don’t worry, remember how you’re always saying, ‘the next ones always better’. You’ll find someone, I’m sure. Now pull yourself together. I’ll collect the rest of my stuff in a few days.” And with that, she put the leash on Harriet, and they walked out on me.

  When she first started playing this pickle ball, she bugged me to join in. I very well may have if not for my second knee replacement surgery that didn’t go as well as the first. I remember fretting over my condition because I had always been an athlete. Fifty years a runner, thirty years of racket ball. I so wanted to play this pickleball thing with Cat, who was twelve years my junior.

  When I met her, we were on an equal footing, physically that is. I was still running, and whacking that racquetball, which was my favorite sport to play. I only had slight pain in my right knee in those days. Now, both of my knees have been replaced. I’ve gone from working physically in my own Home Improvement company. These days I’m a part-time handyman. Maybe I should have pushed myself harder. Maybe the whole thing is my fault. Now all I have are the memories.

  The way we met was peculiar, to say the least. It was on my only daughter’s graduation night. June the eighteenth to be exact. I had joined this local writer’s group, in order to get some much-needed help with my new writing career. A joke, actually, as I was really just a novice at writing, having only ever written poorly spelled contracts and proposals up to this point in my life. Such is the life of a Home Remodeling Contractor with only two years of college. But there I was trying to learn.

  Trying to learn as I was, I had decided this group was not right for me. Too many of them. There were about twenty people in this particular group, all vying to be heard, and to read their stuff. A discussion after each one would ensue, and almost never, did the group get to hear from everyone.

  It wasn’t going to work for me. I’m a guy in a hurry. A driven kinda guy. I push myself in all endeavors.

  My daughter’s graduation was great. She was the one who pushed the wheelchair up to the front, for the physically disabled kid. A natural for her, as she also went to the prom with the Down Syndrome boy who had become a good friend of hers in high school. I was sure proud of her. I should say we were proud of her. Her mom showed up of course and we seemed to get along quite well that night for a change.

  As I was lying there on my bed reminiscing, I glanced over at my ancient red lead alarm clock. It was after 7:00 a.m., late for me. I would have to skip my morning Starbucks coffee klatch, a ritual I felt compelled to endure every morning at 6:00 a.m., seven days a week, rain snow or shine.

  Once there, and in the main room, I would take my place and my pecking order chair, along with twelve or so other narcissists, whose average age was about seventy. I was not narcissistic enough to have a padded chair, of which there were only three. That might come later if there is a die-off or a mass shooting.

  For some reason, this group allowed me to join in with them about ten years ago. We meet every morning to solve all the world’s problems, and to talk trash about anyone who might be missing on that particular day. All in all, an eclectic group of ego-driven, supercilious, homo sapiens, who I affectionately refer to as The Room of Broken Toys.

  They’ll just have to talk junk about me on this day. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

  To my utter amazement, I didn’t wake up again until about 4:00 p.m. It must be the bump on my head. I had never slept so much in all my life. I was hungry as hell though. I figured I’d take a shower and head out to a Happy Hour somewhere.

  After the shower, a shave, and a dab of hair gel, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. What I saw before me an aging white male. My hair was receding, getting a bit thin, but no bald spots. My neck was good for my age. My arms were still muscular, and I had managed to avoid man breasts. A bit of a pot, but way less than most of the men in The Room of Broken Toys.

  I decided it would be Happy Hour at Titos, an Italian restaurant chain that had a good assortment of appetizers and a certain beer on tap that I was fond of. I checked my watch again for the time, it said 4:50 p.m., but amazingly the date said it was July 30, 2018. I checked my cell phone, the same thing. I walked into my home office which is a converted bedroom to check the time and date on my computer. Sure enough, it had the same time and date as my watch and phone. Something was mighty fishy. This date, July Thirtieth is my birthday, but yesterday was July twentieth. How could I be missing ten days? Was it the nasty fall, and the bump on the head? Come to think of it, I don’t even remember going to the hospital.

  I ran downstairs to check the mail and the newspaper. There were just some junk mail and jus
t one newspaper. I pulled it out from the plastic bag and read the date. July. 30, 2018. I must be losing my mind.

  I felt a little dizzy. Maybe I have a concussion. Maybe I should go to urgent care.

  I opted for Titos.

  I drove on over there and managed to get lucky and grab a parking space close to the entrance. The clouds above were ominous. Thunderstorms for sure I thought to myself. I entered through the revolving door as I had so many times before. This place has been here for about ten years now. Cat and I managed to go here for happy hour at least once a month. We know the bartender or barmaid as my generation refers to them. Briana is her name. She’s a hard worker, cheerful and always treated us well. In return, I tipped her well. I always over tip bartenders. Something my dad taught me. “Tip them well.” He would say, they’ll remember you and give you a special service.

  As I entered the bar area which was shaped like an elongated octagon. The long sides of which, were about twenty feet long. One side of the bar had sliding glass windows that could be opened to the outside in nice weather. They were closed now due to the threat of rain. So, no one was sitting outside which made the remaining interior space all the more crowded. All the bar tables were full, not that we ever really sat at them, Cat was a bar girl. I looked up and down the bar and there was only one spot left. I sat down. On my left was an elderly couple who seemed to be arguing over something. On my right was this pretty young girl who looked about twenty and vaguely familiar. She seemed to be alone.

  I looked to the left and right for Briana. I knew she would ask me where Cat was, and I wasn’t sure how, or if, I should tell her that she had just walked out on me. I could use some sympathy, and I was sure she would give me some. To my surprise, she was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was this short guy with a big gut, looking mighty flustered as he struggled to keep up. It took him about five minutes to get around to me. Finally, he did, and said, “what’ll it be?”

  “Blue Moon on tap, small glass,” I answered.

  That’s when she spoke up, “He’s really out of it this guy. I think he’s on coke or something.” I looked at her full frontal for the first time. She was pretty for sure, and the reason she looked familiar to me was that she looked a lot like Cat, but younger. “I wonder where Briana is? I hope she didn’t quit or get fired or something?” I said, assuming this girl would know who I was talking about.

  “So, who’s Briana?” she said wide-eyed.

  “You know, the regular bartender.”

  “I’m not from here, I’m from Kansas.”

  “Let me guess, your name isn’t Dorothy is it?”

  “Actually, yes, it is, but I hate that name and I hate Dot as well. My friends call me Tac.”

  “Tac?”

  Yes, like, you know, tick, tac, toe? I was an orphan, raised in a foster family. There were three of us, all girls. I was in the middle. My foster dad referred to us as Tic, Tac, and Toe. I was always glad I was not the youngest or the oldest.” At this point, she was laughing out loud and gave me a little punch on the arm, as she said, “what’s your name?”

  “G.” I said, So, Tac what are you doing here all the way from Kansas, and where is Toto?” About two weeks ago, Cat and I had watched Wizard of Oz, for the zillionth time, this was just so coincidental.

  “G? what does the stand for grandpop?” She said laughing again, then continued, “I’m headed to grad school at Temple, majoring in Aboriginal Studies. I have always had a keen interest in indigenous people. We, the colonialists, have fucked them over from the beginning to the end, excuse my French.”

  “You are excused. G stands for my middle name God, I said laughing back at her. As for them, I have always felt their pain, indigenist people that is, ever since I read Michener’s book Hawaii.”

  “Exactly, a good example. Try to find a true blooded Hawaiian these days?”

  As we are talking, I seemed to be smelling something familiar coming from her direction. I just couldn’t place it.

  “So, Tac, where are you staying, I mean, are you in a dorm at Temple or something.?”

  “Nope, I’m staying at your place, with you.” She said with a raised eyebrow, laughing heartily again. I laughed along with her, not knowing what else to do.

  Right after that exchange, the barkeep finally got around to us just as Happy hour was about to end and asked us what we were having to eat. We had already perused the Happy Hour menus.

  “I’ll have the Shrimp and Eggplant,” she said.

  “I’ll have the same,” I heard myself say. I usually get the Beef Carpaccio, as I am not too fond of eggplant, but I figure this day is already bonkers, I might as well go with it.

  I’m beginning to wonder why this pretty young girl is bothering to talk to me at all. Not that I’m complaining mind you, seeing’s how I’m faking my way through a major depression.

  As we are eating, we are bantering back and forth. Surprisingly, I’m liking the eggplant a lot, and the girls face is so expressive, and cheerful, I’m not faking through my depression as much as earlier. At one point I asked her if she had ever heard any of the Head jokes?

  “Head jokes? Hey, wait a minute, where is this going?” She said, scrunching her face up in mock concern.

  “No, no, not what you think. There’s a series of jokes, sick, I’ll admit, about a guy who was born as nothing more than just a head. No neck, no body whatsoever, just a head, it’s ridiculous, I know, but bear with me, as I only know one of these head jokes. Here it is:

  The head, coming in from outside, bounces into the bar. This is how he ambulates. He bounces a few times and ends up on the bar top. The bartender comes over barely acknowledging that something is strange about this, and says to the head, ‘what’ll it be?’ The head says, ‘give me a shot of Jack.’ This the bartender does and pauses a moment to observe how the head might knock it down. The head bounces three times on the bar causing enough vibration that the shot flips up in the air. The head flicks his tongue out just in the nick of time to catch the shot glass in his mouth, gulping it down in one fell swoop.

  ‘Pretty tricky’. the barkeep says. After a little small talk, the head looks around the room and says, ‘hey, I see you have a dartboard on the wall over there, I’m pretty good at darts you know?’ The head says with a straight face. The bartender says, ‘yeah right.’

  ‘No, really,’ the head says. ‘I can prove it to you, go over there and get me one of those darts.’ The bartender brings back the dart and watches as the head manipulates the dart in his mouth, staring at the dartboard as he moves it back and forth. ‘Okay I’m ready. Now go over there and fire the dartboard at my face.’

  There’s a pause for a moment and then Tac is almost falling off the stool laughing. She’s laughing so hard that she’s burying her head on my shoulder bouncing up and down on her stool and for all intents and purposes, overreacting to that stupid joke like you wouldn’t believe. “Oh my God that is so funny, I needed a good laugh, thank you so much.”

  I’m getting the impression that this is a very touchy-feely girl, and she seems to genuinely like me, and that smell coming from her has me curious enough to just flat out ask her.

  “I’m glad you liked the joke, although I can’t for the life of me figure out why, and I’m curious about something? The cologne or perfume your wearing smells wonderful and familiar at the same time. What is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Well the joke was hilarious, I saw this image as you’re telling it. You know, it’s an image joke. Just too funny. As for my perfume, it’s sassafras, or as the Choctaw tribe call it, Kombo. I prefer Kombo. Think about it, you know what your smelling, it’s root beer.”

  “Root beer, yes exactly, I love that smell, never smelled it on a person though. What’s the brand name, some fancy French name no doubt?”

  “Nope, oil of sassafras. You can’t even buy it in a store, I don
’t think. I get it online. In fact, I’m almost out. I’ll be ordering it soon and having it shipped to your address.”

  “My address eh?”

  “Yep, you will let me stay at your place for a few days, wontcha?” She has a very sincere matter-of-fact look on her face as she goes on to say, not tonight, but tomorrow night for sure. I’ll meet you here, tomorrow, at happy hour, I’ll have my bag with me and you can just drive us home. You’re okay with that aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes, yes, for sure,” I said, beginning to get the joke. “We will have such a great life together.”

  “Not a life, just about thirty days or less, certainly no longer than that. And I have to go now my Uber is out there. I have to be somewhere, and I can’t be late. You have the check, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” With that, she gave me a peck on the cheek and practically ran out of the bar. I could barely see her through the window as it was suddenly pouring rain. She got into a dark car and they sped off.

  After she left, I decided to have one more Blue Moon. The bartender finally got around to me. I ordered my beer and engaged him in a short conversation. “So, where’s Briana tonight,” I said.

  “Briana? I don’t think I’m following you?”

  “You know, Briana the barmaid?’

  “I don’t believe I know her. Is she new here? Another shift probably.” He said as he walked away, apparently not wanting to continue the conversation. I really don’t like this guy, I thought to myself.

  As I drank my beer, my mind went straight to Cat. How did I fuck that up? I never loved anyone more. She was like a dream come true. When I first introduced her to the Buckers, (one of the names for my morning Starbucks, Coffee clashing friends) I said, “Y’all, I want you to meet Cat, AKA, The Acorn.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean”, one of them said.

  I said, “Well, you know I’m The Blind Squirrel, right, and even a blind squirrel gets a nut now and then.” As lame as that joke sounded to me, I got a pretty good laugh from them.