Cheapskate in Love

by Booth, Skittle

  After parking the car, Bill collected his briefcase, overnight bag, the bouquet, and the box of chocolates. As he walked slowly to the apartment building’s entrance in a subdued state of mind, he wondered where the evening had gone wrong. Was there something he could have said or done differently to change the course of events? A bottle of perfume would have been better than a box of chocolates, he thought, but that probably would have been expensive, much more than fifteen dollars, probably more like thirty dollars in a department store, unless he found a real deal somewhere. Vendors on the sidewalk sometimes sold boxed perfumes for twenty dollars, he remembered. Maybe he could talk their price down.

  He was still crossing the parking lot, planning his strategy for next time, when he saw Helen, another resident, a widow who was the same age as him, drive her car into the lot and quickly park. Her assigned spot was nearer the apartment building’s entrance than his. Bill began to walk faster to avoid talking with her, but she was the greater athlete. Neatly dressed in a pale blue blouse and tailored grey pants, she caught up with him as he stepped onto the long sidewalk leading to the front doors. Helen’s trim, erect figure contrasted sharply with Bill’s expanding, slouching form.

  “Bill, you sure walk fast,” Helen said, a big smile on her face, because she had walked faster. There was a slight flush in her complexion from her quick pace, which gave her good looks a more youthful appearance than usual.

  Bill turned toward her slightly and opened his eyes a minute amount more, as if he had not seen her drive into the lot, nor been trying to outwalk her. “Oh. Hi, Helen,” he said. “I didn’t see you. What a surprise.” His voice was flat without any lilt of welcoming recognition.

  “Just coming home from a business trip?” she asked with lively interest, ignoring his attempt to avoid her. While she was driving her car to her parking space, she had perceived Bill’s despondent state of mind and had guessed the reason for it. Since he was carrying a box of chocolates and a bouquet, there was only one possible explanation, but she wanted to see if he would tell her.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  “An executive retreat at a fancy resort?” she wondered, hoping that such a question might flatter him into talking.

  “No.”

  “What are the flowers for?” she asked, as innocently as she could.

  Bill was walking as fast as his flabby legs permitted, eager to get away from Helen and her prying questions, but maybe because Linda had rejected his gifts, maybe because she had been so hostile, maybe because he was unconsciously grateful for someone showing interest in him, he said without thinking, “Oh, these. Do you want them?”

  Surprised that he would offer them to her, Helen accepted the flowers enthusiastically. “I would love them. They are so pretty,” she gushed.

  “Here. You can have them,” he said.

  Without any romantic flourish, he handed the roses to Helen, like someone handing out pamphlets on a sidewalk or sample sizes of soap in a store.

  “Are you sure you don’t want them? Or need them for someone?” she asked slyly, looking from the flowers with delight at Bill.

  “No. I don’t need them,” he responded with glum resignation.

  “Bill, you are so sweet. Thank you,” she said, without any feigning. “I haven’t received roses from someone in a long while.”

  “It’s nothing really. Glad someone wants them,” he said.

  At that moment, they reached the entrance to the apartment building. Although he was depressed and tired, instinctively Bill held the door open for Helen, who responded with thanks and another smile. She walked quickly into the sparsely decorated lobby, which seemed more welcoming than usual, although the front desk attendant only looked up briefly before lowering his head again to concentrate on a cell phone game.

  Since the door was behind them, Bill felt no more need to exercise gentlemanly behavior. As fast as he could, he tried to leave Helen, while she tried to detain him as long as possible.

  “Goodnight,” Bill said, striking out toward his apartment, which lay in the opposite direction from Helen’s.

  “Bill, have you gone swing dancing lately?” Helen exclaimed. “It was so much fun when George was around to go out dancing on a double date. Who was that woman you were dating? A...A...Alicia? Alexandra? Do you ever see her anymore?”

  “Anita was her name. No, I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Bill said, stopping and turning around.

  “Why don’t we go to that place again and see if we can still dance?” Helen asked. “We had such good times there.”

  “I don’t have any time,” Bill replied.

  “We could invite a few friends to come along and be really rowdy,” she said. “We’ll shake that place up.”

  “No, I’m too busy,” Bill said, leaning away.

  “It would be a lot of fun. A friendly outing for old time’s sake,” she persuaded.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” he said, walking away to his apartment.

  “Will I see you at church Sunday?” she cried out. “At the usual time?”

  Stopping and turning back again, he said, “Maybe. My plans aren’t settled yet.” This evasion was in reality a lie, because he rarely missed attending church at the same time every Sunday, and she knew it.

  “Would you like to go to brunch afterwards?” she asked. “There’s a new place that opened near church. Maybe you saw it. People say the food is very good.”

  “No, no,” Bill said, trying to think. “I’m...I’m going to my sister’s place after church. She’s making dinner.”

  “I thought she didn’t like to cook,” Helen replied. There was a heavy hint of disbelief in her voice. In the past, he had said his sister was a connoisseur of take-out, who preferred to starve rather than cook something herself. Every grocery store near her would have to run out of prepared, canned, and frozen foods, and restaurants would have to be closed as well, before she would see the necessity of venturing into her kitchen to do more than heat up food.

  “She’s been watching a lot of cooking shows,” Bill said, inventing a scenario rapidly. “She wants to try some new recipes. There’ll be a lot to taste. Something might even be good. That’s what she says.”

  Seeing there was no way to convince him, Helen remarked, “Sounds like an adventure. Enjoy. If you change your mind about brunch, you know where I live.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Bill said, with his back to her, already moving away.

  “Goodnight,” she said, raising her voice. “Thanks for the flowers. They’re lovely.”

  “Night,” was the only response from Bill, as he nodded to the desk attendant and speedily receded down the corridor toward his apartment.

  Helen watched him go, smiling at his lie about his sister. She smelled the roses, but couldn’t detect any scent. They were a little faded. Yet still she decided they were nice enough, worth the ten or fifteen dollars Bill had handed over for them. She knew he wasn’t a big spender. That was the last thing anyone could ever accuse him of, she thought.

  Walking up to Jonathan, the desk attendant, whose fingers were scrambling over the screen of his cell phone, trying to beat his highest score, Linda asked, “Do you know, is Bill still seeing Linda?”

  After a few seconds of intense play, Jonathan looked up. “I’m not sure. He seems to break up with her every other week. But I didn’t hear him brag that he was going out with her again. He usually tells me that.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have time,” Helen conjectured. “Maybe it was a last-minute make-up.”

  “Probably,” said Jonathan. “He showed me a picture of her once. She’s pretty, really pretty. But they don’t seem to have anything in common. She seems crazy, yelling about things like him boiling too much water for tea. Or leaving a bar of soap in the wrong place in the bathroom. I don’t know why he sees her.”

  “She’s young,” Helen said, surprising Jonathan who knew that was the reason, but didn’t want to say so. In their casual guy talk, Bill had told him m
any times how young Linda was, and how he was only interested in young women, and how his interest increased the younger they were. Of course, they had to be eighteen years old, he insisted, or at least say they were, because he didn’t want to occupy a jail cell. Repeatedly, Bill had explained to Jonathan exactly what kind of interest he had in young women. If one of the young, attractive, adult female residents in the building walked by while they were talking, Bill would watch her pass, staring in full appreciation at her appealing traits, until she was gone. Then he would judiciously observe that he wouldn’t mind at all, if she sat on his face. Jonathan didn’t think any of this worth mentioning to Helen, in case she might perceive some sleight about her age, or Bill’s lack of desire in having her sit on him, so he stared vacantly into space with a silly look, as if he didn’t understand what she meant.

  Not entirely ignorant of all the sensitive matters Jonathan was contemplating, and therefore unwilling to pry into his thoughts, Helen said, “What I want to know is what Linda sees in him, on the occasions when she actually does want to see him.”

  Neither Jonathan nor Helen had an answer or even a good guess about what Linda might have seen or might once again see in Bill. It was a thorough mystery to them both. Shortly thereafter, exchanging wishes for a good night, Helen went to her apartment and Jonathan returned to his game.

  Dear reader, lest you be on the brink of deleting this book or, perhaps, hurling it out of a window, please have a little more patience. You may be completely disgusted at the outrageous suggestion that a good-natured and attractive woman like Helen might have an interest in such a man as Bill. That is understandable, based on what has been told so far. Although Bill wasn’t ugly or mean, he had no strong positive qualities, unless being a shabby tightwad is a virtue. However, there are additional circumstances to consider.

  First, it must be stated in Helen’s defense—hopefully to no reader’s disappointment—that she was not a zombie without control over her actions and propelled toward Bill by some dreadful curse, destined to rip his limbs off methodically one by one. Nor was she a witch capable of casting enchantments upon Bill and having him eat out of her hand and drink out of her shoe, who was waiting for the proper moment to say the magic words. She wasn’t even a vampire, with the normal diet of those creatures, who would be having nighttime snacks of Bill, getting her enjoyment out of him, whether he liked it or not. No, although all such imaginative identities might have made a better story and pleased more readers, with the additional benefit of giving Bill what he truly deserved, none were true.

  Moreover, Helen didn’t have the seemingly bipolar behavior of Linda to explain why she appeared to lose her mind and ask Bill to go dancing or eat brunch together. The off-and-on attentions of Linda for Bill, on the other hand, are easily accounted for. Although Linda thought that a man would be a desirable addition to her life, as a successful, self-made, hardworking immigrant she wasn’t yet ready to enter into any partnership in her private life and change or compromise. All of her dating—even with the men before Bill—had seesawed between the extremes of wanting companionship and refusing to accept any differences.

  Helen was more broad-minded and tolerant than this. She had had a long, happy marriage with George, her deceased husband. Together they had weathered the difficulties that arose with respect and love for each other. He had died a couple of years ago before turning sixty, leaving her a widow without children in easy financial circumstances—she wasn’t wealthy, but she didn’t have to work if she lived wisely—and she had deeply mourned his unexpected death. But with the passage of time she began to feel lonely. She had sold the house where they had lived together for years and moved to the apartment building, thinking she would be around others more and less conscious of being alone. But that move had turned out to be a mistake. Although she lived in closer proximity to others now, she felt even more isolated. People living in apartments, she discovered, were more reserved than house owners. Psychologically, she was ready to meet a new partner in life.

  She wasn’t dating, though. She wasn’t even comfortable with the concept of dating. The meaning of the word “dating” appeared to have changed drastically since she was growing up. Whenever she heard or read about young people going on a date, they seemed to be saying they were going to bed together, without much of a detour. The purpose of a date seemed to have become physical recreation for two bodies, without knowledge of or affection for the other. Is that what dating now is, wondered Helen, remembering dates from her youth and their simple, social pleasures. The story that she overheard one day about a young woman who went home willingly with a strange man, both of whom were slightly drunk, shocked her. Without asking, the man squeezed the woman’s windpipe during sexual intercourse, choking her, thinking that such attentive care would heighten her pleasure. The woman, however, thought otherwise. Helen was overcome with revulsion by this story. Dating appears to have become incompatible with a sense of decency and self-respect, she thought. At that moment, she missed George deeply and felt he could never be replaced. “The world has changed too much,” she said, when her grief was greatest, “and I prefer to be left behind.”

  But that moment passed. Helen was too optimistic to dwell among memories. Perhaps, her optimism and hope was the result of living as close as she always had to New York City and being a frequent visitor to that ever-changing metropolis. Perhaps, she had been touched with its energy, constant change, and forward momentum. Whatever the cause, she had gradually become open to change in her personal life. And she knew that the first step toward change is to take a chance. Without attempting something new, she told herself, there can be no change.

  But trying to have a closer social relationship with Bill, which was all she was trying to do at the moment, was not a big risk for Helen. In fact, she didn’t consider it a risk at all, although it would be a change, if it happened. She had known him for many years. Ever since Bill had moved to town after his divorce, they had gone to the same church. After she and George saw Bill and his date at a dancing club once, they had all gone out swing dancing together on multiple occasions. Bill had even been a good friend of George’s, although their characters differed to a considerable degree. Since George’s death, social interactions between Helen and Bill had ceased, but Helen still felt a high degree of comfort with him and thought she understood him well. She didn’t admire him, but she thought he had enough good qualities to justify a relationship. A woman who had unreasonable expectations of the other sex was a woman, she felt, who wanted to be alone; George had not been a saint, and she thought that all men retained too much of the boy in them. Despite Bill’s obvious attempts to avoid her and keep her at a distance, a tiny, tiny thought in Helen’s head whispered every now and then that with time and effort Bill could be the new George.

  What a wonderful thing thinking can be! How freely we can diminish and dismiss obstacles from our minds and arrange everything to our mental satisfaction. If only others would think like we do, there would be no discord.

  Chapter 3

  By the time he reached his apartment, Bill had already forgotten Helen and her questions about going dancing or having brunch. As he closed and locked his apartment door, he was remembering the failure of the evening with Linda. His train of thought inevitably reached back to all the other failures and unhappy relationships that he had had before. This night, as on almost every other night he spent in his apartment, Bill wallowed in reflections of his miserable personal past. There had been so many women, and the string of them had grown so confused and tangled in his head. Most of the time he could not recall with certainty what had happened with what woman, or how long he had been with whom, or even the names of them all. His mind drifted aimlessly amidst the disappointments, like someone hopelessly lost. From time to time, he would flinch with the memory of the humiliations and hurts he had received.

  His bachelor pad was the perfect setting for such reveries. The good-sized studio was dirty, littered with junk, cheapl
y furnished, and dominated by a queen-sized bed, which was rarely ever made. It had been a long time since a woman had put a foot in his den.

  On top of a beat-up Formica desk against one wall, there was an outdated desktop computer that worked sometimes. Bill occasionally thought of replacing it, until he calculated the cost. Near the desk, a sagging pleather sofa sunk toward the floor, opposite a faux wood console cabinet. On top of that piece of plastic sat an old television set that gave any program, even a news show with live coverage, the appearance of a documentary, because the screen quality was so poor. The fanciest furniture in the apartment was a dining set, a table with four chairs, which was a gift from his ex-wife, because she hated it and wanted it out of her home. Bill never used the dining set for eating, since he ate sitting on the couch. The table and chairs were covered with papers, unopened mail, pens, pencils, scissors, dirty laundry, things he had bought which had yet to be put away, and many other miscellaneous items of dubious value. Near the bed was a rickety wood dresser, another gift from his ex-wife. Its top was a general storage area for the overflow from the dining table, and its drawers were never fully closed. Clothing was bunched, scrunched, shoved into drawers, and hung over edges, as if it were trying to escape and flee the apartment.