Old Fashioned

by Rene Gutteridge

  “What?”

  “I know. It’s all moving very fast. Page 19 has the questions to prepare you.”

  “Your family? Here?”

  She nudged him. “Don’t worry. Only one of them bites, and I’m almost certain she’s had her rabies shot.” She stood and walked up the stairs to the apartment, then called back, “You need to change into something more . . . less . . . Think date.”

  Clay looked down at his sweatshirt. “But I—”

  “You’ll figure it out. I’ll see you at seven.”

  Amber closed the door and Clay closed his workbook. He trotted to his truck, wondering about whom he would meet tonight, wondering what shirt qualified, wondering how in the world he was ever going to tell her what he used to be.

  At home, in front of the mirror, as he buttoned up his shirt and his resolve, he knew he would have to tell her soon. But how? And how could he explain Brad? Everyone wanted to hate him. Blame him. But Brad was a product of a culture that revered him. He’d been swallowed up by it just like everyone else.

  Of course, Brad would never agree to this theory. Clay knew that for certain. He’d talked to him about it on several occasions. There was one night in particular, out on the back deck of a restaurant, when Clay thought he might’ve had a breakthrough. Brad had fallen hard for a girl. He thought it might be true love. But Clay just couldn’t get through to him.

  He still couldn’t. But he wouldn’t stop trying. The guilt of taking Brad with him down his own dark spiral, back in the day when Brad would’ve followed Clay off a cliff, kept Brad on speed dial in Clay’s heart.

  It was in the basement of a wild house party that Clay had first suggested to Brad the idea of making DVDs. And this idea had come to him while he was licking his own wounds, knee-deep in the disintegration of a relationship that had ended by his own hands, by his own sin. The soaring success of their show planted the first seeds of a harvest that would reap nothing but destruction.

  Clay picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Brad, it’s me.”

  “Clay? Hey, man! What are you doing?”

  “Just wanted to see how things are going out there for you.”

  “I’ve only made it halfway through the hot blondes, but by next Saturday I think I’m going to be able to start on the brunettes. Of course, there are always the half-hot blondes, which I’m not opposed to if they’ve got good bodies.”

  Clay clutched the phone, listened to himself breathe.

  “Look, man,” Brad said, “it’s not the same without you guys. Not at all. Who am I going to beat in basketball?”

  Clay laughed. “Trust me. My game is slipping by the hour.”

  “It’s because you don’t have sex, Clay. Sex makes even the smallest man leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

  Clay blew out a tense sigh. He wondered if he had anything left with Brad. Anything in common anymore. But he couldn’t give up. He’d try to sow better seeds every chance he got. Maybe one day, as they had for him, they’d take root. It just didn’t seem like it was going to be today.

  “Well, listen, I better—”

  “Wait, man. Sorry,” Brad said. “I just like seeing you sweat, but I can’t even see you, so it’s lost its fun. What are you doing? What are you up to?”

  Clay looked down at himself. “Currently, I’m trying to pick out a shirt.”

  “Man, things are really falling apart there. First you can’t pick out a woman. Now you can’t pick out a shirt.”

  “I can’t pick out a shirt . . . for a woman.”

  Silence. Clay grinned. It wasn’t often he could make Brad speechless.

  “You have a . . . ?”

  “Date.”

  Clay tensed, expecting Brad’s crass advice to roll out. But instead, there was more silence, then, “Go with white.”

  “White?”

  “Yeah. White button-up. Jeans. Irresistible to women. White does something to women. That whole purity thing. And in your case, also signals they’re dealing with the priesthood.”

  “Okay then. White.”

  In the background, two giggly girls were shouting Brad’s name.

  “I gotta—”

  “I know. I just wanted to check up on you. Make sure you were staying in trouble. Listened to you today on the radio.”

  “You . . . did?”

  “I’ll see you soon. David’s wedding, right?”

  “Funeral. But yes, I’ll see you then. The bachelor party should be fun.”

  Clay hung up and turned toward his closet. He reached for a white shirt, but just as quickly his hand retreated. White . . .

  Amber touched his shoulder as they took seats around a high-top table at the Brewhouse. “Nice job on the shirt. I like it. Black looks good on you.”

  “Brings out the dark cloud hanging over his head,” Carol whispered to Trish.

  Apparently they all worked together. Carol was the owner. Trish was the freeloader. Amber had introduced them ten minutes ago and already this was starting. He knew one thing about himself these days: he rarely made a good first impression.

  Amber shot Carol a look.

  Trish’s lips were in a tight smile. “Amber tells us you’re reliable.”

  Amber lifted her hands innocently. “You are. I said more things too.”

  “And handy,” Carol added.

  Amber sighed, her eyes all of a sudden kind of sorrowful.

  “Your family is awesome.” He winked at her but at the same time felt a twinge of sadness, realizing what a gypsy kind of life she must’ve lived, bouncing from place to place, finding family in floral shops or wherever she could. At least he had Aunt Zella.

  “So, Clay,” Trish said, “what do you do for fun?”

  “Workbooks.” Carol flashed the shortest smile in recorded history.

  Then they looked at him like they were waiting for a serious answer. “Well, I really enjoy woodworking and restoring antiques. This guy the other day brought in an old children’s rocker. It was his brother’s, and they were in this tent and . . .” Their eyes were glazing over. He really was boring. “I also like fixing appliances that mysteriously break.”

  Amber laughed.

  “You two are soooo weird,” Trish said. She grabbed Amber’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get a refill on drinks.”

  Clay’s heart swelled with apprehension as they left, because Carol looked like she might lean over and eat him alive.

  “What?” he finally asked.

  “I know who you are,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  Clay looked down. How could she possibly know that?

  “What are your intentions here?” she asked.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Who I was,” Clay said, but he barely heard himself say it, “it’s not who I am.”

  The crowd noise filled the pause between them, but it still felt like a heavy silence.

  “She is one sweet girl, and you better have intentions.”

  “My intentions are good.”

  “Yeah? Well, your good intentions might end up shattering her heart.” She took a long drink, then continued. “You’re as quirky as a veggie burger, I’ll give you that. I’ve been married three times plus an annulment. I married a guy named Cupcake. So I get quirky. I get the appeal. I really do. It’s fun for a while. Something different. You think to yourself, This guy isn’t like the rest. But the truth is, they’re all alike. You’re all alike.”

  Clay shook his head.

  “She likes you. You get that, right?”

  He glanced over to Amber at the bar, laughing with Trish.

  “So help me, if you break her heart, I am coming after you and bringing Cupcake with me. That girl has had enough in her life. She doesn’t need another disappointment.”

  Clay met Carol’s eyes. “I’m doing right by her.”

  “Sometimes doing right is more than not doing wrong.”

 
Amber and Trish returned. Amber slid next to him and Trish got Carol engaged in a conversation about two guys in the corner, one of whom was apparently asking about Carol.

  Amber tapped his arm. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine.” Clay glanced at Trish and Carol. “But definitely yellow.”

  AFTER DRINKS, he didn’t want to say good night. It was a little chilly for a walk, but Clay liked walks. He’d learned how much he liked them after his life had taken such a dramatic turn. With few friends left and a lot of questions to answer for himself, he’d started walking. Sometimes for two or three hours, with nowhere to go, really. He’d follow train tracks and running tracks. Bike paths. Wilderness. Lakeshores. And the more he walked, with no music and nothing but air and space, the more he began feeling that tug on his heart, the inexplicable whisper that said so much without uttering a single word. It was most often, aside from his workroom in the back of the antique shop, where he found peace.

  And now, with Amber beside him, as darkness settled over their town, it was exactly where he wanted to be. And who he wanted with him. She was such a marvel to watch, dancing to no music, singing off-key, struck by the way a star twinkled. Over the past nine years, he’d been looking into himself so much that he’d rarely looked up and out. He didn’t notice the trees changing or the blazing spray of color at dusk.

  Or in this case, how the streetlamps cast a warm aura over the cold concrete sidewalk in the town square. She was kind of like his own personal streetlamp.

  She’d wrapped her arms around herself as the wind picked up. He took his coat off and helped her slip into it. He noticed the way her body curved as she pulled her arms through the sleeves. He noticed how he kept his hands on her shoulders longer than necessary.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “My pleasure.” They continued to walk.

  He watched as she stuck her hands in the pockets of the coat, scavenging like a little mouse. She pulled out a small plastic shopping bag. “What’s this?”

  “I got you something, my lady.”

  Amber stopped, looking genuinely shocked. “You did?” She held up the bag. “Wrap it yourself?”

  “No, I paid extra for that.”

  He watched her dig into the sack. First she pulled out the magnifying glass. She peered through it, her eye enlarging as she tilted it up to him. “I’m completely blown away by how hot your pores look.” He laughed as she examined the magnifier with a questioning expression. “Um . . . thank you?”

  “There’s more.”

  She reached in and pulled out the CD. “Mastering the Spanish Language.”

  “To help you focus. Comprende?”

  “Comprende. And gracias. Very thoughtful.”

  “It’s a start.”

  She stepped closer to him, the way she always wanted to test the boundaries—the way she always melted his heart, even with a cold wind beating against his back.

  “It is,” she said. “Keep trying.”

  Another step closer. He stared into her eyes and it took everything in him to turn and start walking again.

  Within a step or two, she was right by his side, so close he could smell her perfume. “Where are we going, anyway?” she asked.

  “I wanted you to meet someone.” He pointed ahead. “There it is.”

  Her face lit. “Oooh! A diner! I love diners!”

  He shook his head, chuckling. “Only you could get excited about a diner.”

  “You meet some of the most interesting people at diners. It’s always late. And you’re drinking coffee. And you’re talking. Come on!” She started running and he tried to keep up. He managed to beat her to at least open the door.

  Inside, he guided her to his favorite booth. Betty looked up, noticed Amber, and gave a kind wave and a knowing smile. “Be right there. French fries and gravy?”

  “Sound good?” he asked Amber.

  “Right on,” she said.

  “Want me to take the coat?”

  She shook her head. “I kind of like it. It’s warm. And it smells like you.”

  “Sawdust with a hint of varnish and top notes of paint stripper?”

  She smiled coyly at him as Betty arrived with two baskets of fries and one bowl of gravy. “It’s fresh from the skillet. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “Betty, this is Amber.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. You kids holler if you need anything. I’ll bring you some coffee as soon as it’s brewed.” Betty gave an affectionate wink as she walked away.

  Clay started to reach for his workbook and realized they hadn’t brought them. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

  “I guess we’re going to have to explore each other without them,” Amber said, an eyebrow raised.

  “You know me well,” he laughed.

  “Let’s see how well.” She grabbed three fries and dunked them straight into the gravy. He realized at that point that it might be true love. “How old were you when they split up?”

  Clay leaned back, not expecting that question. Had not even known he could possibly be that transparent. How did she know him this well?

  “Eight.” Then he realized it. Of course she knew. It was her story too. “You?”

  “Thirteen. Bad time for a girl to lose her daddy.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Thoughts surfaced, clouding her eyes. “I don’t really know. My mom died years ago. And someone told me Dad did too, somewhere in Mexico on an oil rig, but I don’t know. He was dead to me way before that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s weird, but still, sometimes . . . I miss our old house. My room. My place at the dinner table.”

  Yeah. Clay could still see his. Star Trek sheets. LEGO boxes in his closet. He never got rid of those. He wondered what became of them. The light above his bed flickered every third night for no apparent reason. Out his second-story window, there was a field that he watched sometimes, imagining a lion lived there, its tail blending into the golden wheat just like in The Ghost and the Darkness.

  At dinner, he sat next to his mom. Dad was at the head of the table. Neither seemed to be in charge, though. The ice in the dinner glasses was always almost melted, thin like a wafer, hardly cold to the touch.

  The first time he heard them fight, he’d been jolted awake in the dead middle of the night by a bloodcurdling scream. He hid under the covers, suffocating in the heat of his own panting breath. He trembled so hard that the bed shook, knocking against the wall but barely audible compared to the noise in the next room.

  And then, like debris from a ship smashed against a rock, the pieces of their family slowly drifted apart. The divorce was quick. His dad got remarried six months later, started a new family, moved to Washington State. The birthday cards were sporadic for years, then stopped when Clay turned eighteen. Somewhere, so he’d been told, he had four half siblings.

  His mom had some sort of nervous breakdown, lost her job, started drinking, recovered, started drinking again, and never recovered. Not really. Last he’d heard she was living with a guy on a boat somewhere off the coast of the Florida Keys. But that was four years ago.

  “This coat sure has a lot of pockets to explore.” Amber grinned at him. “Like someone else I know.” She fished around. “Hmmm. What else you got in here? Anything interesting?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “A pen and . . .” She pulled something out. “What’s this?”

  Clay tensed. The place mat. He tried to reach for it. “I forgot about that.”

  “Can I see?”

  “No.”

  As usual, she didn’t listen and opened it anyway. Clay sighed and slouched in his seat.

  “Seems to be a checklist.” She eyed him. “Nothing gets romance flowing like a checklist.”

  “Just . . . please, just—”

  “‘Magnifying glass.’ Check. ‘Spanish CD.’ Check. Check. Check. Check.”

  Clay looked away, trying to hide his embarrassment. Here it was,
right out in front of her, everything that made him the dullest guy to ever walk the earth.

  She paused, then read, “‘Respect her emotions as well as her body.’”

  A thin layer of sweat began to coat his face. He was about to attempt some sort of profuse apology when she smiled gently and folded the paper, slipping it back into the pocket.

  “Check.” She leaned into the table, her hands tucked in her lap. “How is it that you’re not already married?”

  Sometimes she was truly baffling. The checklist had not turned her off in the least bit. “I could ask you the same question.”

  Betty arrived with the coffee and two mugs. “You two look like you just stepped outta that movie Sleepless in Seattle with all the lovey-dovey looks passing back and forth here. You make a cute couple, I’ll give you that.” She poured as she glanced between them. “What else can I do for ya?”

  Clay smiled tensely. “We’re fine, Betty. And also, thanks for creating a perfectly awkward moment. Awkward in Ohio.”

  Amber cracked up laughing.

  “You’re welcome. It’s a gift of mine.”

  Amber watched Betty walk away. “Well, it’s true. We are pretty cute together.”

  “I think you’re the cute part,” Clay said, “and I’m there by proxy.”

  “Stop. You’re adorable. And I love Sleepless in Seattle.”

  “Figures.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “So?”

  “Bill Pullman was the nice guy. Kind. Reliable. But because he happens to itch and get puffy red eyes and sneeze all over the place, it’s okay for Meg Ryan to run off with Tom Hanks. The boring guy with the allergies always gets dumped in the movies, and it’s not right. It must be stopped.” He cocked his head to the side. “Am I boring?”

  She paused, looking thoughtfully at him. “The Bill Pullmans of the world don’t always get dumped. Case in point: While You Were Sleeping. Sandra Bullock falls for the smoking-hot brother who ends up in the coma. But isn’t it the boring, stiff, idiosyncratic younger brother, the one who searches for the most truth, who gets the girl in the end?”

  “Okay. Good point.”

  “And for the record, I always thought Bill Pullman was hot.”