Twilight Breakout

by Robert Bonomo

  I parked and listened to a discussion on NPR, a group led by a young woman who had gone West to live as hunter-gatherers, no planting. Only grubbing and killing, she said it was man’s natural state. Couldn’t be much worse than this, not a joke or a laugh, this was serious stuff. They needed to go on Letterman. Keep the jacket on, they’ll treat you better, it’s for a life insurance policy.

  The glass slid back, an angry fat face gave me a clipboard, at least she didn’t ask what it was for. “Fill this out, please.” Why should I expect a smile? I wa-vered to have myself tested for everything, but why, only more money. I didn’t care about the rest, across the lobby sat a teenager, seventeen maybe, terribly obese. The plaid shirt was ironed, the enormous khaki pants with clean docksiders. A real spiffy getup for a junior in high school, the back arched, the passive ex-pression into nowhere, a blistering wave of pity crashed over me. His mother loved him, thank god, but who else. I imagined unknown depths of loneliness, not my kind, the wicked type; as much as I tried I couldn’t get rid of it. I couldn’t say fuck him. I felt like trying to be his friend, but the hopelessness was without end. I stood up with difficulty, staring into his face, his eyes down, once on my feet he looked up giving me a friendly grin, a wink came from nowhere as I continued to the receptionist. “The nurse will call you.”

  I thought about everything except what I was do-ing. I thought about the Marlin’s pitching staff, what I would do for dinner, first an hour in the book store, then some rib’s, it would be a fine night. Crisp, clear thoughts to take me far and away. The teenager was now repulsing, long gone was the compassion, hoping he would be called, relieved when he was. A quick smile as he walked out of the lobby and into the un-known.

  “Mr. Lynch.” A robust black body with braided strands falling on the aqua uniform rich with fertile muscle and an earthy aroma. She pointed to a thick white chair, “Take off your jacket and role up the sleeve on your left arm.” A nervous glimpse, the word still not mentioned. “Let’s see if we can find a good vein.” Her tone was friendly. I couldn’t say anything, watching the rise and fall of her breasts to the rhythm of deep breaths. Pain was not an issue, for the first time I watched the needle enter, the deep burgundy liquid fill-ing the plastic tube, the needle sliding out of the cotton ball, her tender hand bending my elbow. “That’s it.” An untrusting voice asked when the results would be back. “Come in on Tuesday.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It didn’t hit me till I reached the door. I had gone there as if I were going to McDonald’s. The door fought me as I immediately picked up the antiseptic, air-conditioned smell of the lobby. By the time I reached the glass I was aware of what was happening. It mercilessly slid back, the face expressionless. “I’m here to pick up some results, my name’s John Lynch.”

  “Please sit down for a moment.” The eye betrayed her, not with kindness nor pity, but with disdain. I knew it. The wait was entirely hopeless. An enormous black woman opened the door, her face round and sad.

  “Please follow me.” A picture of a jogger with some senseless cliché below the outrageous obesity of the women. “I suppose you know what I have to tell you.” It was anticlimactic. “Your cell counts seem good, which means the virus hasn’t begun to effect your immune system, do you have insurance?”

  “I’ve got a plan with the company.” It came out mechanically, as if I were disconnected from my body.

  “You need to get in touch with your doctor and have a complete check up and begin treatment, the quicker you begin the better off you’ll be. OK, I know this must be difficult. Your going to have to contact the people you have had relations with or have shared needles with, this is vital to not allowing more people to get infected, please follow through on that.” How many times had she done this, how many, how many had passed through this office. I wanted the moment to last and last, but it burned fast. “I hope things work out for you, and please get in touch with your doctor as soon as possible.”

  I left the office clean and light, almost a skip in my step, the pressure of the sales meeting vanished. A ter-rifying freedom, a new trip, it wouldn’t happen tomorrow. I’d have to tell Kerry, that was almost the worst. I’d tell her I got a call from a girl in Spain I had been with, that I’d just found out. I prayed she was OK, this was not for her, as if it were for me. But it seemed much more appropriate in my case. I packed the shirts, an extra suit, the overcoat on my arm, how different it seemed. Nothing could have happened to me that day. I couldn’t have an accident. I couldn’t get into a bar fight; I was letting out a smell that let the tribe know I was on auto and not to fuck with me. A full hour and half at the Ft. Lauderdale/Hollywood Air-port. I had a long way to get drunk, the moment seemed safe, a haven against the onslaught of the fu-ture. I had always been in a hurry, and now I appreciated the slow percussion of time, its movement shed its skin, becoming something other than a line in space. A serious man in a gray suit picked up his brief-case and left the bar, shoulders hunched, thin hair back pulling at the squinted eyes, the big briefcase pulling him down. He not only moved forward, something moved against him, a breeze. I tried to stay as still as possible, not wanting to walk up the escalator of time, hoping it would take longer to get to the top.

  The cigarette I had just lit, a deep drag and it burned, still seeming long, I left it in the ashtray, one habit I wouldn’t have to give up. Time in cigarettes seemed like a long time, how many cigarettes were in a year, a month.

  The cold on the curb waiting for the bus to the ho-tel, the northern light was comforting, almost dusk, and more authentic. From the curb to a picnic table full of crabs, Maryland style crabs, thrown on to the table atop newspapers. The hypnotic banging and cracking, the small morsels of pleasure, the spray, the hard and moist cracks of the shell, the long, tempting, and anxious road to satiety. My eyes glanced across the table, men and women from across the country, their distance and time converging on the table that became an unanchored moment, neither down nor up, windowless and obscure.

  My Tuesday morning occurred but I couldn’t make it fit into the evening. I was launched on a journey to a definite destination. The crabs that littered the table below reminded me how far they had come, from the Chesapeake Bay to my table. I was comforted by the transcendent quality of what was beginning, the fear of death only stimulating the scene, the relative aspect to my life had never seemed more clear. I could enjoy the moment, the crabs, the cold beer knowing that in other moments soon to arrive the vision would be a much more vulgar bundle of fear.

  The party moved to the hotel bar where we were all more comfortable; a common ground for a team of travelers. People who spent three nights a week in ho-tels, as the alcohol flowed, space and time became irrelevant. We were as much in Kansas as we were in Portland or Houston, Louisville or Maine. It was 8:O0PM and it was 6:00PM and it was 4:30PM, we were coming and going, arriving and departing, drink-ing before dinner and afterwards on company money and our own. All of this could have been stopped in the snap of a finger, in an instant the flock could be brought home, but who dared to be the shepherd?

  Laughing with Todd Harris, his small face and thinning hair electric behind the southern drawl. The words passed through me, my body was still and yet I felt close to Todd’s Southern road stories. Lips high in an intentionally inauthentic smile, Harry Irvin moved between the two of us, our common boss.

  “Ha Harry, haa you doing?” Harry focused his at-tention on me even though he looked and spoke with Todd. Todd he understood, but he worried about me, was I going to work out? Had I been a mistake? There was nothing social about this drink together, it was to see where we were, he had a excellent nose and he wanted a good first whiff.

  “How are things in Florida, John?” The annoying ‘a’s and ‘o’s of the Indiana accent, the Midwestern movements. If it were only as important as he thought it was, how simple it could all be.

  “Harry, every
thing is great, I’m really starting to enjoy my job. I think you’ll like the results you’re going to see.” Tod looked wide eyed, Harry didn’t change his expression. I worried I had gone to far, but I didn’t force it. “The trip to Spain was really good. I think we’ve made some progress on a lot of fronts.”

  “Great John, I hope you can elaborate on that in your presentation.”

  “Absolutely.” Our eyes met too directly, he was searching and I was provoking, not sure what I wanted to provoke, more time in the company or a conflict with Harry.

  “I’ll see you at breakfast, good night boys.” He strode out of the room, all the boss.

  “You are so full of shit, John.”

  *

  “One of our largest customers, King Foods, has spent years attempting to get FDA approval for ‘Kapit’, what ‘Kapit’ does, for those of you who aren’t aware…” Skip Burgess pulled at his thick mustache, his round body seemed strong in spite of the soft bulg-es. The thick hair didn’t seem real above the western PA accent, the reality of his world of spices, potato chips and ketchup seasonings eased through the words. A geometry teacher talking about lines going on into infinity, a farmer talking about the rain. But instead of planes or crops we were in the world of ‘Kapit’, two story mills running twenty four hours a day, black pep-per and cinnamon forever grinding away beside us. The aroma very present for those of us not accustomed to being at the plant. The ancient desire for spices, treas-ure, power. But instead of sounding like the colonel describing his first battle Skip sounded like an infomer-cial. “…is to encapsulate the fat in snack foods allowing it to pass through the digestive system without being absorbed, creating a truly no fat product, zero fat. We have already developed many snack seasonings with ‘Kapit’ which we’ll have ready for Snackxpo. The only draw back being the obligatory ‘This product may cause gas.’ which is unfortunate but King Foods is hard at work having it changed.” Our Senators will be spending informative weekends at Golf resorts being convinced that some fat slob shouldn’t be advised that if he spends ten hours eating ‘Doritos’ with ‘Kapit’ he will have gas.

  *

  Numbers, margins, percentages, net, gross…all af-ter a potato salad and roast beef sandwich lunch. Dave Stillman, our fearless leader, accountant to his very core. “Turnover is good, we have a lot of turnover but that’s OK, were going to have more.” We should all be shaking now, for whom will the ax fall, who will be deprived of spreading the glory of ‘Kapit’ through the free world. Was it always such a waste of time, did someone get something out of the salesman’s reviews of their territories, the gossip, the speeches, the drunken nights, the bitter mornings. “America is changing. People don’t have time to prepare meals, the products they buy continue to be more elaborated, not to mention the increasing amount of meals purchased ‘prepared’.” He emphasized the quotations with his fingers. He was becoming inspired. “Our market, especially in season-ings, remember, seasonings is were our profits lie, our market will grow with the country. We are part of a larger trend, if you as salespeople can capture the pic-ture, and go for it your future as well as ours will be bright. Have a safe trip home and keep working hard.”

  Tuesday had become Thursday night in a BWI bar waiting for a flight to Atlanta. One by one they left, flights to Dallas, to Chicago, to make connections West. They passed through Todd and me, drink by drink. “You really think Harry bought that shit about you loving your job?”

  “I don’t know, I think he liked it though, makes him feel good, like talking about Kenny Rogers Roast-ers new Bourbon BBQ sauce. I think he did.”

  “You’re drunk! I have no idea what the hell you are talking about.”

  “Harry likes things that are clear, generic, up front, and that’s what I gave him. He knows it can’t be all that way but he’d rather I said that than I told him I’m having some kind of personal crisis. I just want to keep him going, not forever, just a little while longer.”

  “Be careful, you can’t bullshit them forever, they’re gonna find out if your fucking around or not.”

  “I know, I just want to keep them going for a few more months.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to work? Do the fucking job and that’s it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I’m sorry John, but From my boxers to a bathing suit with a mug of coffee in my hand, a brisk winter day in South Florida, the low seventies at 10:30AM. I anxiously checked for messages on the phone from which I had long since disconnected the ringer, nothing. The voice mail, the female voice that spoke to half of America everyday spoke fine words to me, ‘no messages’. I was free till after lunch. Work had be-come a ball to keep kicking until I decided what to do. To continue doing the necessary to prolong my peaceful mission, live a comfortable life accumulating debt until the end, or give it up.

  The black top stung my feet as I leapt across the parking lot. The pool had become my peace and my shelter. Long necked egrets strutting threw the bushes behind lizards, a big thighed women parting the water to carry herself across the pool until she moved on to the sauna. The warm water was mine for the moment, it felt like a bath as I plunged to the bottom looking for my goggles which I had thrown in before me. I mean-dered from one end to the other trying for a rhythm that would take me through a consistent swim. I kicked hard against the side of the pool and launched myself toward the other end under water, not beginning to stroke until halfway there. The current I had created beat against my cheeks, my mind anxiously reliving recent memories, ecstatic, dancing through the water. I grasped for breath at the other end, weary from the people in my mind, unable to separate Harry from Ste-phen’s wife, Begoña from Kerry, work from the peace of the ducks, the calm of my apartment with the grind-ing of the mills or the ringing of phones.

  Back under, a wicked kick, the goggles almost coming loose, another week with Harry, another sales meeting, for what? How could I eat with Kerry know-ing what I would have to tell her, and when would I do it, and what would she think of me afterwards, regard-less of the outcome. She had better be negative, for my sake. Another kick, tell Kerry, tell her today. Another kick, and with the water over my head went my job, and my condo and my car, they raced away through my hair and out into the chlorinated warm water. I’d fin-ished chasing down truck load sales of black pepper or developing a new Burgher King seasoning. Lump to-gether some money and take off, end it in Spain. When hope was gone and the pain had begun I would find a way to end it.

  It all bled off me into the pool, everything. I was absolutely free. What would be was fine with me but there would be no wasting away in this miserable exist-ence until there was no existence at all. From the sauna I peered into the expressionless faces of the ducks as they shit on the rail like middle-aged women farting at dinner parties. My spirits rose and rose. I went from peaceful to exuberant. I was fearless and alive, even death, momentarily, had been vanquished.

  On the way back my new energy allowed my to check the mail, more than a week untouched. No bills and four new credit cards with checks, with more on the way. I’d begun to fill out every credit card application that came in the mail, and they started arriving with a synchronicity I found alarmingly supportive of my new plan. I made the call to Kerry, a drink at six. The ecstasy quickly abated to a near panic, but I knew it had to be done. I quick report on the computer, the nerves were building, there was now no pressure to work, and I relished the work to end my work, the idea of tying it all up, of lying on the reports not to gain time but to reach the moment to quit.

  Up shot the solitaire out of the menu. I felt I shouldn’t continue to test the fates, it was blasphemous, yet I couldn’t resist. The first game of solitaire, some difficult spots, but it worked out. I stared at the cards falling upon one another, another game. I knew I shouldn’t have, it was desperate and pornographic, but it worked. I saw the combinations fall together I began to breath again, another check of the messages.
I was free from their anchors.

  I called in to confirm the new credit cards, opening up $16,000 dollars of credit in one day, and ordering more checks to later help me on my fantastic voyage. To spend, to forget, to give up all the responsibilities and obligations and to be free, the buying orgy would begin. A light lunch in a bistro in an upscale mall, no charging masses here, these folks at least tried to keep the rhythm within respectable parameters. Light wool pants that fell delicately through every contour, expen-sive cotton shirts, designer sports coats and a new casual suit, a few ties to match and two pair of very comfortable and stylish shoes; a few grand. Two new pair of Ray & Bans, one the hard look the other a little softer, now the watch.

  To light a cigarette with a Dupon lighter while turning the leather band of a Patek Phillipe to show its face to whoever may be looking, or at the sheer noth-ingness, a beautiful sight with or without beholder. I packed the loot into my trunk like a criminal, which I suppose I was and drove away as if I had just killed my business partner.

  The high of buying kept Kerry in the distance, so far I was afraid to return, a super bookstore on the right. I would bring some books with me, at least the ones I hadn’t read. The final Mishima Trilogy, The Mahfouz Cairo Trilogy, I wanted stories that would go on and on, a John Coltrane CD and some Portishead. Getting home would be like Christmas, one last stop, the liquor store, Bourbon, beer and cigarettes.

  I looked for possible thieves as I unloaded the car, the calculations came to $14, 350 give or take $100, relieved to have it all in my clean and finished apart-ment. I should have been thinking about the future, about not working, but the things I bought that day have always given me a feeling of beauty and elegance that I would never have traded for more cash. I justified it by knowing a few more credit card applications would soon appear, make today vanish into the financial twilight zone. Except for what needed to be tailored, everything was put away as if it had always been apart of my repertoire. I poured the Makers Mark with the watch on and lit a cigarette with the Dupon, alone, surrounded by beauty, loneliness, fraud, hysteria on the horizon and Portishead on the CD. It was sublime.