a novel by
Jason
Squire
Fluck
Fredonia, NY
Jon Fixx © 2014 by Jason Squire Fluck
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any
means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopy,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Published in 2014 in the United States by
Quercus Publishing
Fredonia, NY 14063
www.quercuspublishing.com
www.jonfixxthenovel.com
Cover design by László Zakariás
Printed in the United States
First Edition
EISBN: 978-0-9864456-1-3
Specially dedicated to Miriam, Zion,
and the Little-One-On-The-Way.
You make it all worth it.
Contents
1 October–Early November – Los Angeles
2 Early September – Los Angeles
3 Early November – Los Angeles
4 College – Pennsylvania
5 Early September – New York – 1st Trip
6 Early September – New York – 1st Trip
7 Early November – Los Angeles
8 Late September – New York – 2nd Trip
9 Early November – Los Angeles
10 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip
11 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip
12 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip
13 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip
14 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip
Acknowledgements
Author
1 October–Early November – Los Angeles
Don’t judge me.
I needed to hear her voice like I needed water.
I avoided calling those first days after the breakup, but eventually the pull was too great. I needed contact. My mobile was private. She couldn’t be sure it was me. I felt a cheap thrill when she answered the phone, her irritation a balm to my wounded soul.
“Hello.”
Silence.
“Hello!”
This was my fourth night in a row.
“Look, Jon, I’ve had it.” Damn! How could she be so sure it was me? I never spoke. “I’m sick of these calls! You’re obviously not dealing well with our decision.”
Our decision?
“It’s 3 a.m.! You’re behaving like a juvenile.” Pause, silence, maybe a regretful moment, I hoped. “Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us, but that’s reality. You need to move on. I have. Goodbye, Jon.”
Click.
I stared at my PDA, a picture of the woman who’d just hung up staring back, her ice-blue eyes mocking me. There was no way I was going to let her off that easy. She’d turned my life upside down, turned me into a sleepless wreck. Since the breakup, I’d been unable to do any work, so forgive me if I felt entitled to a few late night phone calls. If I can’t sleep, why should she?
After that night, Sara found a way to block calls from my mobile, so I was robbed of the convenience of calling her at will from my newly acquired, post-break-up shoebox of an apartment. Not one to easily accept defeat, feeling there was a deeper psychological goal to be won here, I started making phone calls from the pay phone at a local minimart a block from my apartment building. No slouch herself, Sara quickly caught on, placing a block on that pay phone as well. So began my nocturnal jaunts in ever widening geographical circles from my apartment, looking for new pay phones from which to harass my still loved ex-lover. Within a few weeks, I was beginning to tire of the game, feeling the emptiness and futility of what I was doing, no longer sure of the why or wherefore. At first, I just craved the cadence of her voice in my ear, but later on I enjoyed her fully expressed anger. To my chagrin, though, my nightly excursions came to an abrupt halt in a manner that I never could have anticipated.
My last call was made one night at the beginning of November. I open here because I consider it to be the true beginning of the story I’m about to tell, even though much of the action started well before. On this fateful night, I hit my emotional rock bottom, the despair sucking the last bits of hope from my soul, leaving me with the shell of a body but no feelings to fill it. I felt my life was over, that I would never recover from this breakup, that I had become a walking, loveless zombie of a man. Little did I know, or recognize, once I hit bottom, I couldn’t fall any lower. I’d reached my emotional ground zero, which meant there was only one way for me to go. I didn’t have the slightest idea of what a wild ride was in store for me because I was too wrapped up in my own misery.
As the light slowly faded from the day, an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia gripped me, manifesting itself in shortened breath and a rising panic. This was new. I tried to ignore it. The panic warped my sense of time, making five minutes feel like fifty. I sat frozen in my only chair, counting the seconds, wanting them to move faster. Unable to shake the feeling, I took action. I jumped up, grabbed my car keys, and left my tiny apartment. By the time I climbed into my car, I felt a little better, the feeling of claustrophobia receding. Not sure where I was going, I stuck the key in the ignition of my ’82 Buick, backed out of my space, and jumped onto Moorpark. As soon as I put some distance between my apartment and me, the feelings of claustrophobia disappeared altogether. I found myself on the 101, heading south. Though just past midnight, the freeway was filled with cars, bright headlights bouncing off the side mirrors, overloading my senses. I floored the gas pedal to keep up with the nighttime flow, joining the defining bloodline all members of the Los Angeles community shared—the freeway. My Regal reacted instantly, jumping forward. I cleared Hollywood in minutes, drove past the set of L.A. high-rises that passed for downtown, then merged onto the 10, heading east toward Las Vegas. A large sign off to my right told me I had two hundred and seventy miles to go. Five hours, probably less at this time of night. I figured, why not?
As the miles slid by, the sprawl of Los Angeles began to thin out. Night settled in around me, a sense of peace. I was escaping, driving away from my life, hoping the farther I traveled from Los Angeles—from Sara—the better I would feel, hoping for just a little while I could forget about her. After two hours on the freeway, I spotted a sign for a Howard Johnson’s Rest Stop and ubiquitous Starbucks. A sense of vague familiarity washed over me. Automatically, without thinking, my hands steered the Regal toward the exit ramp, through the extended parking lot, past the gas pumps, up to the front entrance. I put the car in park, listening to the quiet hum of the Regal’s well-tuned engine. Through the glass doors of the entrance, I could partially see the interior, the Starbucks sign just inside pointing directly back, the restaurant off to the right. An arrow for the restrooms hung below the Starbucks sign. Suddenly, I realized I’d been here before. With her. On our first trip to Vegas together. I closed my eyes, trying to push her image out of my mind, but with little success. The realization there was no escape from my mind—Sara was implanted there like a microchip, her face, her memories—made me feel helpless. Even now, without knowing it, without realizing what I was doing, I’d followed her here. I dropped my head in defeat, and then opened my eyes, my vision centering on the restroom sign. Knowing the pull was too great, I gave in to the urge. I turned the car off, climbed out, pocketed my keys, and walked through the doors of the Howard Johnson’s back
into my past.
I found myself standing in the lobby, the restaurant to my right, staring down the hallway at the door leading into the women’s restroom. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, noticing as I did so a large family sitting in the back corner devouring what I could only assume to be their late night dinner. Even in my heightened state of agitation, I couldn’t help but stare. The father must have weighed at least four hundred pounds, his jowls jiggling as he stuffed a fork filled with pancakes, dripping syrup and butter, into his mouth. No slouch herself, the wife out-weighed her husband by fifty-plus, though she wasn’t eating anything. I wondered how she could be that big and not be eating constantly. Their son weighed somewhere in the mid-two’s, though I was sure he couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Plates of pancakes and French toast before him on the table, he was holding a fork in each hand, his right descending for another helping of French toast while his left was on the way up with a large serving of pancakes. He ate with a fever as if this might be his last time. While the father and son stuffed their faces, the mother stared off into space. Suddenly, the son looked up from his plate, locking eyes with me, his look voracious and feral, as if when he finished his pancakes and French toast, I’d be next. I shuddered, then blinked. When I looked again, the boy’s eyes were glazed over and dull, his gaze quickly returning to his plate.
Shaking my head to clear it, I turned away from the family and focused on the task at hand. I stepped toward the restrooms, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. With a quick look over my shoulder, I stepped through the door. Once inside, I listened for the rustling of feet and clothing, but heard only the hum of the exhaust fan in the ceiling. The restroom was extra clean and looked odd to me, like something was missing, when suddenly I remembered urinals were not necessary in the women’s restroom. I passed the first three stalls, pushing the door open to the fourth, the big one set up at the end of the row for handicapped people. It had more room than the others, Sara’s choice. I stepped inside, bolting the door behind me. The toilet paper roll was almost empty. I was glad I didn’t have to go to the bathroom. I sat in the only place I could, lifted my feet off the ground so no one could see my masculine boots, and then willed my memory to bring my past into the present, even if only for a few moments.
Back on that first trip to Las Vegas, we’d been together a few months, a time in our relationship where faults were overlooked, fights dissipated like the wind, and our kisses carried a passion charged with a storm-like intensity. Sara had checked the restroom to make sure it was empty, then pulled me inside and dragged me to the back stall. At first, I was self-conscious of where I was, but Sara seemed completely unconcerned. We fumbled our pants down low enough for easy access. Out of necessity, taking into consideration the logistics of the small space, Sara turned around, offering herself up to me. As the memory gained traction, it took over my entire body. I could almost feel her touch on my skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, wanting to hang on to the memory as long as I could. She’d been so excited that night. I could feel her hands reaching behind, grabbing hold of my waist, her body pressed against mine, her—
“—Excuse me. What are you doing?”
My eyelids shot open. A muscular, black security guard was standing on the tips of his toes staring over the stall door at me. A large red keloid scar, running the breadth of his forehead, made him look even more imposing and threatening than he already was. I glanced down at myself, sitting on the toilet, my knees pulled up to my chest, tears streaming down my cheeks. I appeared utterly ridiculous, I realized a little too late.
“Could you open this door? Please.”
I stepped off the toilet seat lid and planted my feet on the ground, opening the door but unable to move past the large, muscular obstruction before me.
“Now, could you get the hell out of here.” He took a step back giving me just enough room to pass.
Without a word, I quickly sidestepped the guard and double timed my way out of the restroom, the giant on my heels. With my head down, I ran directly into the oversized mother who’d been staring into space, standing directly before me, a look of disgust on her face. I bounced back a foot, apologizing as I did so.
“Pervert!”
My head dropped another two inches in shame and, without looking back, I ran straight out the front exit. Moving toward my car, I noticed a line of pay phones off to one side of the parking lot. I barely missed a step, as I turned in mid-stride away from my car toward the phones. I was crying again. By the time I picked up the receiver, I was a teary, blubbering idiot. I heard a voice in the distance getting closer and louder.
Don’t do it! Do you hear me?
Quickly I turned, first one way, then the other. I couldn’t see anyone. The parking lot was empty. Then I realized it was the Voice in my head who visited me from time to time, the Voice of Reason that stopped me—or at least tried to—from doing the most idiotic things in life. This was the Voice that warned me away from dangerous situations, when to keep my mouth shut in social situations, what women to stay away from—enough said. My Voice was often wrong, so I paid no mind. I grabbed the phone.
You moron, do not make that phone call!
Shut up, damn it!
Idiot, that’s what you are. She’s finished with you and nothing you do is going to change that fact. At least save us some respect. You know she’s getting it on long and hard with the French guy you saw—
I slammed my head against the side of the phone booth as hard as I could. I had been avoiding this for weeks, but knew sooner or later I would have to deal with these thoughts. At the moment though, it was more than I could bear. I figured a good whack to the head would silence my Voice. I felt a lump forming on my forehead, blood rushing to the bruised area.
What, you think a little pain is going to shut me up? You’re wrong, Jon. I’m just here to help you get through this, but at the moment, you seem to want to do everything except forget about her. She’s over, gone, caput. Do I need to spell—
I slammed my forehead against the side of the phone booth again. It didn’t hurt as much this time, so I did it again, but I got carried away and before I knew it was banging my head over and over against the metal siding, the pent-up anger and frustration and hurt flowing out of my body. I stopped when I felt blood dripping down my forehead. I stood still a moment. Silence. Nothing. My Voice was gone. I glanced around the parking lot. The large family was staring at me.
“What? Haven’t you ever seen a person mutilate himself in the name of love before?” I yelled at them. I turned my back on them and grabbed the phone receiver.
This is what you call love? True love flows in both directions, Jon. Sara doesn’t love you any longer. She loves the new guy. You see what I’m saying? Don’t you have any pride? Doesn’t that make you want to—
I slammed my head so hard against the phone booth that—
I was gone a couple of minutes at most, I think. Next thing I knew, the black security guard was standing over me with the marathon eaters flanking him on either side, all of them staring at me with a look of frightened fascination.
“You okay, my man?” the guard said, his voice not unfriendly.
“I think so,” I muttered as he helped me up. Vertical, my head did a one-eighty. I lost balance, but the guard held my shoulders and kept me upright. I felt like a doll with his gigantic bear-sized paws holding me. My head was ringing.
“You got a good lump.”
My fingers skimmed the top of my forehead, a large lump formed above my right eye.
The son pointed at me. “Mommy, what’s wrong with him?”
The mother leaned over to her son. “He’s a pervert.”
The guard turned around. “All right, folks, let’s get along. There’s nothing more to see.” With some indignant glares and a few grunts, the family backed off and headed for their car. The guard turned to me. “She must ha
ve done a number on you.”
I nodded, so happy to have a sympathetic ear. “Yeah, she did.”
“My name’s Donovan.”
“Jon. Jon Fixx.”
“Nice to meet you, Jon Fixx.” He guided me over to a bench and helped me sit.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Donovan looked over my face. “Listen, man, any woman makes you do this to yourself ain’t worth it. If she was worth it, you’d still be with her. Know what I’m saying?”
“Sorry for causing a ruckus.” I took a deep breath, looking off into the distance.
“What are you talking about? Working night shift out here can get real slow. Watching you bang your head against the phone booth was better than going to the movies.” He laughed with a deep, hearty guffaw, but I didn’t feel like he was laughing at me, rather that he was laughing with me, sharing in my pain. Across the parking lot, I watched the marathon eaters climb into a Volkswagen Beetle. I could have sworn I heard the car groan as the father settled into the driver’s seat. Donovan followed my gaze.
“Be glad you’re not them. They stop here once a month on the way to Vegas. They never talk when they come in, just order the same food, eat, and leave.” He paused, still staring at them. I thought he was going to say more about them, but he turned back to me. “Here.” He placed some quarters in my hand. “I know that look. You got the fix. Once you get the urge, you gotta take the hit, whether it’s good for you or not.” I stared at him. “Make the call.” He laid a crooked smile on me.
I noticed his left front tooth was chipped. The scar on his forehead seemed to be glowing. I bet this guy could mix it up. Maybe I could hire him to take out the new guy.
“I have to get back inside, make sure everything’s going fine in there.” He turned for the restaurant doors. Over his shoulder, he looked back at me. “Next time you’re heading to Vegas, make sure to stop in. I work the nights.” He waved to me before he stepped inside the restaurant. “Good luck to you, Jon Fixx.”
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