Cheapskate in Love

by Booth, Skittle

  After he locked the door, Bill dropped his briefcase on the floor, careless of where it landed. He then slung his overnight bag on top of the pile that was on the dining table. On the couch, he gently set down the box of chocolates.

  Going to the one large window, he closed the blinds. His apartment was on the first floor of the two-story building, and it had a view of the swimming pool, which was about three hundred feet away. Bill never went swimming in the pool or sunbathing, although he sometimes thought about doing so, when he saw good-looking, young women out there. At those times, he made sure his blinds were open all the way, so they might see how much admiration he had for them, if they ever looked in his apartment’s direction. No woman ever did. The reputation he had built for himself, talking as freely as he did with some of the staff and tenants, discouraged most women from wishing to make any acquaintance with him.

  After turning on the television, he took off his tie and threw it over a chair on top of other clothes. He tossed his Blackberry on the couch, away from the chocolates. Taking off his jacket, he took a couple of steps toward his closet to hang it up, but the dining chair was closer, so he placed the jacket on that, too. He then went into the short, double-sided galley kitchen, which was as dirty and disorganized as the rest of his apartment, and took out a small tumbler. After a moment’s thought, he put it back and began looking through cupboards, until he found a large glass, which he dropped some ice in. He poured the glass full of scotch and took a swig from the bottle before putting it away.

  Returning with his scotch to the small living section of the apartment, he plopped down on the sagging couch, setting his drink on the floor. He put one of the cheap chocolate morsels in his mouth, changed the television channel, and made himself as comfortable as he could. Because he had to rise early in the morning for his commute, he could only spend a couple of hours trying to dull and deaden his irritating memories by watching TV.

  Unexpectedly, his Blackberry rang. He picked it up from the couch, checked the number of the caller, and muted the television.

  “Hi, Marie,” he said, answering the call.

  Marie, his married sister, the one who was fond of trees and birds, as long as she could see them from her window or car, was calling him from her house in a part of Long Island even further away from Manhattan than where he lived. She was a few years younger than Bill, but in poorer health, because unlike him she had not been able to kick the cigarette habit. Her heavy weight, greater lack of physical exercise, and greyish complexion made her look older. She sat chain-smoking in her kitchen.

  “Can you talk?” she asked with her raspy voice.

  “I have nothing better to do,” he replied. “Linda and I broke up again.”

  “How many times is it now?” she asked in disbelief and exasperation.

  Bill was trying to watch the television show and escape his thoughts more than he was trying to listen to her. He replied distractedly, “Thirty, thirty-four, maybe thirty-five. Some breakups only lasted a few hours. It’s hard to remember.”

  As siblings sometimes do, Marie launched into a full-scale criticism of her brother, without any hesitation. “Why do you date crazy women? Your ex-wife wasn’t one. She knew what she was doing in the divorce. She cleaned you out.”

  “I don’t always date crazy women,” Bill replied, trying to think of one. “Susan wasn’t crazy.”

  “What was she then?” Marie asked, remembering the woman in question.

  “Confused. She couldn’t make up her mind.” Bill could see a clear distinction between Susan’s wavering uncertainty about him and Linda’s harsh rejections.

  “Sounds crazy to me,” Marie stated decisively.

  “If it’s so easy to make up your mind, why don’t you stop smoking? You’ve already had one stroke.”

  Bill spoke without meaning to offend his sister. As the eldest child, he had a habit of passing advice to Marie, even though it was seldom wanted, and he seldom accepted any in return. If he had not been trying to watch the television, perhaps he would have perceived that she was in an unusually nervous, agitated state and been more guarded in what he said. But the honest words were out, and Marie began to cry. She extinguished the cigarette she was smoking in an ashtray, adding to the many cigarette butts already there. As tears trickled from her eyes, she whimpered and quivered like a miniature dog.

  Annoyed that his television time was spoiled by an outburst of tears, Bill was no longer distracted and said gruffly, “OK, OK, we can talk about something else. What did you call for?”

  After wiping her eyes and sniffling, she asked, “Has uncle Joe called you?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from him,” Bill said.

  Marie sniffled again and tried to shake off any lingering tearfulness. “I wonder how he’s doing.”

  “If you’re concerned, call him up. He’s your uncle, too.” After a slight pause, in a more pleasant tone, Bill added, “By the way, I think I’ll come over Sunday for dinner. Is that all right? Linda and I probably won’t be back together again by then.”

  “There won’t be anything special,” she responded, without sounding in the least delighted at his coming. She sat up straighter, brushing away any sign of moisture on her cheeks. She took another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

  “I know,” Bill said. “You’ve probably never watched a cooking show in your life.”

  “I have, too,” Marie insisted. “Every Tuesday at seven o’clock...”

  Before she could recite all the occasions on which she had seen cooking shows and what she had learned, Bill cut in, “Well, I have to go. Have to get up early for my commute. It’s a two-hour trip, you know. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” she said, deciding that she was not going to exert herself at all for the Sunday meal. In fact, she would wait a day and tell him that he had to bring some side dishes, if he wanted anything to go with the baked chicken she would pick up at the grocery store. That would stop him from taking her for granted, she thought.

  Bill put his Blackberry down, relieved to be back in the privacy of his own reflections, as depressed as they were. Why were women so unreasonable, he thought. Why was it so hard for his sister to simply pick up the phone and call their uncle, rather than work herself into an emotional frenzy and call him? And what sense was there in her crying, when she knows she ought to quit smoking? Can’t they think, he wondered. He concluded that they couldn’t. That’s why they can be such nuisances, he said to himself. With that question settled, he unmuted the television’s sound, drank some scotch, and picked out two more chocolates from the box to chomp on. He was sure that he, being a man, could think.

  When the box was picked clean and the scotch finished, Bill drifted away from the blare and blaze of the television, away from the haunting memories of his past, into a troubled sleep, stretched out on the couch. Stirred into consciousness by the television at one point during the night, he turned it off and continued to sleep on the couch, still fully clothed.

  At five in the morning on Friday, when he should have started to dress for work, he was startled awake by the arrival of a text message on his Blackberry. He sat up, groggy from a poor night’s rest on the flimsy couch. Checking the message, he saw it was from Linda. It read: “Lets hike Saturday. Yesterday was bad. Linda.”

  She’s crazy, Bill thought, just like his sister had said. She must have the most severe form of schizophrenia, he swore, to be able to belittle what had happened yesterday, as if she wasn’t responsible. And she must be completely delusional to think that overnight he could forget what she had done to him. Adamantly, he declared that he was surely not going to go hiking with Linda on Saturday, nor any other day. Nothing and no one could convince him to do that. Indeed, he was never going to speak to her again. Never ever was he going to see her. He wasn’t crazy after all.

  With that rousing resolution that ignited every fiber in his body and hardened his will into steel, or at least a more solid substance than his usual, weak fle
sh, Bill was fully prepared to face another day. He deleted Linda’s message. After checking to see if any chocolate remained in the box or any watery scotch lingered in the glass, he went to shower and dress for work.

  Chapter 4

  For lunch that day, Bill met Stan, a friend and former coworker, at an inexpensive Chinese cafeteria in Midtown, which he had recently discovered when he walked on a different street around his office. It was a dingy-looking place from the outside that did not improve in appearance when one entered. A few blurry photos of China and faded Chinese prints decorated the walls. An assortment of used tables and chairs, too many for the space, crowded the dining area. The entire place looked as if it needed a gut renovation, or at least a thorough cleaning, but Bill was utterly delighted at first sight, because a large sign in the window advertised a five-dollar, hot buffet lunch. He smiled, transported with joy, at finding his new, favorite dining spot. The fact that the cafeteria had a mostly Chinese and Chinese-American clientele, which he could discern from outside, only added to his belief that he had found a real deal, a bargain from Beijing buried in the bowels of expensive Manhattan.

  It was only a short walk for both Bill and Stan from their offices to the cafeteria. When they arrived, they shook hands outside the place. As they almost always did when they met, they started trading old barbs about how sick and near death the other looked. Joking and laughing, they hoped in turn that the other would be able to hang on a few more months, even though it didn’t seem likely. “Your tumor has metastasized too much,” they would tell each other. “You look terrible.” Or one of them might say with mock concern, “Buddy, I’m afraid there’s no miracle of medical science to help you now. Whatever your illness is, it’s a killer. It’s been good knowing you.” Their friendship was not of a sensitive, fawning nature.

  Stan was a physically imposing man in his forties, tall and broad-chested, who carried his extra bit of weight well. An executive at a large company, he worked at a higher level than Bill had ever attained and looked as if he did. Although balding, he was well-groomed and well-dressed. He wore a superfine, summer-weight, dark wool suit, white shirt with cuff links, and a luxuriant silk tie. Externally, Stan did not appear to be the sort of man who would maintain a friendship with Bill, who was dressed in a final-sale polo shirt and chinos and toting his worn briefcase, which he thought safer than leaving it in the office. But Stan had come from modest roots and retained an open, generous personality. He enjoyed the frank, joke-filled talks he could have with Bill, although he thought Bill dense and inflexible at times. Stan actually lived near Bill on Long Island and would have liked to travel on the train with him to and from work, but Bill was a creature of habit and would not alter his earlier work routine to join Stan, even though Stan was his closest friend. Since Stan was married with two young children, his weekends were filled with family activities. Consequently, the two saw each other infrequently, usually only when they met for an occasional weekday lunch. Bill demanded that it always be an inexpensive lunch. Stan wasn’t so picky.

  Inside the cafeteria, each picked up a tray and waited in line to be served. Stan did not have to insist much for Bill to go ahead of him. The thought of a five-dollar lunch filled Bill with excitement, and he was eager to get his food. When it was Bill’s turn to select from the buffet choices, he pointed to a pan of food on the steamer and asked the Chinese immigrant behind the counter serving, “What’s that?”

  She replied with a heavy accent, dropping a syllable, “Shiken brokli.”

  “What?” Bill asked louder, confusion taking over his face. He wasn’t prepared to comprehend someone who spoke poor English. His attention was focused on getting his money’s worth.

  “Shiken brokli,” she repeated, in the exact same tone and volume.

  “What did she say?” Bill asked Stan. “Do you understand her?”

  “Chicken and broccoli,” Stan said, in the even voice of an executive accustomed to delivering news without any commentary or explanation. His face remained impassive as a corporate logo.

  “Oh,” Bill said. Pointing at other pans on the steamer, he asked the server, “What’s that and that and that? Are they hot? MA LA TONGUE? I want MA LA TONGUE.” Linda had taught him the Chinese words for hot, spicy soup, when she was in a good mood one day, and he used the term mistakenly for any spicy food.

  Ignoring his questions, the server put a portion of the three dishes he pointed at onto his place, next to a mound of rice. “Mala tang” she said, correcting his pronunciation. “Seese dallas.”

  Bill understood the last part of what she said perfectly well. “Six dollars,” he nearly shouted. “The lunch special is five dollars. The sign outside says five dollars.” Bill gestured repeatedly toward the door and drew the shape of the sign with his two hands in the air. He then counted on his fingers for all to see. “One, two, three, four, five. Five dollars. Not six dollars.” He kept shaking his head no.

  The server thought to herself that capitalists are just like communists, and people like Bill would be properly disposed of in jail if they were in China, but she only said, “All meat. Seese dallas.”

  “No, no, no,” Bill said, raising his voice. “The sign says five dollars. Five dollars.”

  Before East-West tensions could rise any higher, Stan intervened. “She’s right. Five dollars is for two vegetables and a meat dish, and you have three meat dishes. I can pay for you. It hardly costs anything.”

  “No,” Bill said, still huffy that he was denied the special price. “I’ll buy my own. She never told me what they were. She never said they would cost more. All she said was ma la tongue.”

  “Mala tang,” the server corrected him loudly, daring to show the glimmer of a smile. “Seese dallas pleese.”

  Flustered, Bill searched for his wallet, which was in his briefcase.

  “Do you want a drink?” Stan asked him.

  “I brought a bottle of water in my briefcase,” Bill replied. Stan was surprised enough to raise his eyebrows. He knew Bill was a tightwad, but it was a slight shock to see that he might be becoming a miser, someone who wouldn’t even spend money on a drink. Bill finally found his wallet and grudgingly paid the server six dollars. To her cheery “Tank you,” he nodded his head in assent, although his face was dark and gloomy.

  While Stan paid for his lunch special and drink, Bill waited with his tray, looking for an empty table.

  “Let’s sit there,” he said to Stan, pointing to empty seats on the far side of the crowded dining area. On the way to the table, Bill accidentally hit a few customers with his briefcase, which was hanging over his shoulder, because of the lack of space in which to navigate. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Bill left a path of discontent behind him, but as soon as he sat down, he began wolfing down his food, oblivious to anything that had happened since they had come in.

  Without hesitation, Stan also began to eat, since he knew that Bill would finish his food quickly, even if he had a choking fit, as he sometimes did from shoveling food in his mouth too fast. Bill never let a choking fit stand in the way of a plate of food for long. Occasionally, Bill would relax and talk for a while after eating lunch, but usually he was impatient to go. Stan tried to accommodate Bill’s dining quirk as much as he could, but he was only a moderately quick eater.

  It soon became apparent why Bill had chosen the seats they sat in. In between huge scoops of rice and mala meat dishes disappearing down his throat, he said to Stan, “Take a look over there.” Bill pointed toward a good-looking, young, Chinese woman sitting behind Stan. “I’d like to get my hands on that Asian dish,” he said.

  Looking behind, Stan observed, “She’s the most attractive thing in this filthy hole. How did you find this place?”

  “I walked by one day,” Bill replied.

  “And thought it was the imperial palace, I bet,” Stan said.

  “It seemed worth trying,” Bill responded. “Not everyone makes your salary.” Gazing at the Chinese lady, Bill
’s eyes took on a dreamy expression, and his fork stopped moving for several seconds. “She would make me forget all about Linda. She’d be better than any herbal remedy or acupuncture treatment.”

  “Have you ever had one of Linda’s treatments?” Stan asked.

  “That stuff doesn’t work,” Bill scoffed. “There’s no scientific proof. I once showed her a study report on acupuncture in which the treatments had the same effect as placebo, and she started screaming, ‘Shut up or get out.’ She threw the pages back at me.”

  “So you shut up,” Stan concluded.

  “I don’t go to her for medical advice. What do I care what she thinks? She’s always giving me bottles of pills for sleeplessness or low energy or something that she thinks I have. But I never use them. I throw the bottles in a drawer at home. The drawer is full of bottles.”

  “It’s the thought that counts. At least she cares for you,” Stan said.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Bill replied.

  “Why? What is your Chinese dragon doing now?” Stan asked.

  “We broke up again yesterday. I haven’t spoken to her yet. And I’m not going to. This time it’s really over. I’ve had enough. She’s crazy.”

  Stan didn’t believe Bill for one second. Stan had heard him say that he wasn’t going to see Linda many times before, much more persuasively than now. When Bill had first started to see Linda over a year ago, and they began the chain of break-ups and make-ups, Stan really thought that Bill was ending his interest in her when he said so the first few times. He was visibly angry and calling her all sorts of things, none of which were complimentary. But Stan’s credulity had passed completely when it came to Bill and Linda. He was a hardened disbeliever. He didn’t believe what politicians said, and he believed Bill even less when the subject was Linda. He was certain that Bill was going to see her again, probably very soon. Probably they would be making plans that afternoon for a reunion. Bill and Linda, Stan thought, were obviously not made for each other, but they didn’t seem to be compatible with anyone else either. They seemed doomed to be together, since they couldn’t tolerate being alone. Stan knew of other relationships that were sustained by a mutual fear of singleness, but none had the amount of differences and dislike that Linda and Bill had for each other. As Stan often did, he donned the role of devil’s advocate and asked, “Why don’t you look for someone else?”