You Can Never Spit It All Out

by Moore, Ralph Robert

  Kebab rose up off the straw, blowing blood out of his mouth. Coughing up bits and pieces of his insides, onto his lips, his chin.

  Fell asleep.

  When he came to, a little girl was standing over him.

  She held, in both tiny hands, a yellow bowl. Steam rising.

  His eyes tracked up to her eyes.

  "Mister, this is hot water that potatoes was cooked in. You want?"

  He discovered he was so ravenous he didn't even wait for the water to cool. Drank it with steam still rising from the bowl. Burning the inside of his mouth. His throat.

  But it felt so good to have something in his stomach again.

  Until he leaned over in the straw, vomiting. Really violent retching, where you can't catch your breath before your stomach climbs up into your mouth again.

  Once the convulsions went away, he rolled over on his side. Blew his wet nose on his fingers. Were his insides going to be okay?

  The next time he woke, the little girl was standing above him. Both small hands holding a blue bowl. No steam rising. How long had she waited for him to wake?

  "What is it?"

  Her childish lips. "Water that broccoli been cooked in. You want?"

  He did.

  Gulped it down. This time, kept it down. Maybe a good sign? He was healing inside?

  Fell back asleep.

  And never woke again.

  Died during the night, from massive internal injuries, loss of blood.

  "He was a lonely man who was never alone." So said Francoise at his funeral, attended by a lot of the island's locals (after all, he was a freak nearly everyone noticed.) No headstone, because that was too expensive, but at least a grave. Which Francoise and Bernard dug.

  But of course, that's only one version of the Legend of Kebab Bob.

  In another version, he lived past that night.

  Spent a few more days on the hay, then rose up, went into town. Just as the sun was setting. Orange and peach marmalade, smeared over the ripples of green ocean.

  But to me, him arriving in town just as the sun is setting? Sounds a little sentimental. Fake. Added on, for dramatic effect.

  Found out two weeks had passed since he was set free from The One on the Right, The One on the Left, The Other One on the Left.

  Wandered down to the noisy docks. Smell of dead fish, sea brine. Came across the One on the Right, who was begging for money.

  "Remember me?"

  So strange to see That One's eyes directly in front of him, instead of alongside him.

  That One looked Kebab up and down. Beheld his hands out, palms up. Look at what you've accomplished! You are you!

  Kebab bought him a hot dog.

  As That One accepted the dog, he raised it in his hand. Spoke phonetically. "Thank you, Bruckhouser!"

  Kebab was touched. But as they each ate their dog, bite by bite, each bite increased the awkwardness, because what would they do once all the bites were gone? Both clearly wanted to go back to their business. Kebab walked away from what had been part of himself.

  He rented a room. Had trouble sleeping. Shadows on the ceiling. Tossing and turning. Left profile on the pillow. Right profile on the pillow. Finally had to go out, down into the darkened streets. Found some dogs, getting their front paws on top of each other's tails down by the gutters. Lured them by patting the outside of his thigh. Coaxed them up the stairs. Multiple cloppings of a centipede, past midnight. After their tail-raised excitement and orientation in his room, had them sleep on either side of him in the bed. He fell under in minutes, warmth against either hip, multiple snores that were not his in the bedroom.

  The next morning, he went to a barber. Had his face shaved. Stainless steel blade flicking away white foam. Haircut. Snipping behind his ears. Round mirror held up at the finish, in front of his nose. This is your new face. And actually? It was rather handsome. This is your new life.

  Kebab went back to the Cracked Coconut bar.

  Sat this time at a small round table on the edge of the dance floor.

  He wasn't recognized, even by the waitress who always served him, because he was by himself.

  Bernard and Genevieve were at the bar.

  They seemed to be arguing. Bernard shrugging his broad shoulders. What's the big deal? Shaking his head. Genevieve touching his striped shirt sleeve. Trying to connect. But looking lost.

  Bob ate a hot dog, waiting for them to slide off their bar stools.

  Followed them. Crossing the street twenty paces behind, watching Genevieve push away Bernard's bulk. His upraised hand at one point, like, I oughta…

  But he didn't.

  Followed them to a street level apartment he knew wasn't Bernard's.

  Her small right hand unlocking the door. Bob back down the street, by a closed storefront, beachwear in its shadows.

  For two hours he stood there. Counted all the polka dots on the bikinis. Many times.

  The apartment door reopened. Yellow interior light falling on the dark sidewalk.

  Bernard exiting. No sign of Genevieve.

  Bob waited until Bernard had walked around the corner.

  Went to the door. Knocked. Tongue sliding across his lips. Clearing his throat.

  He had it all figured out. They'd date a few days, he'd propose, she'd accept, move into his apartment, he'd write a book about his experience, make a lot of money, they'd move to Manhattan, and instead of children they'd have dogs.

  The door swung inwards. Genevieve in a nightgown. "Oh!"

  Bob was flustered.

  She kept her hand on the edge of the door, in case she had to shut it quickly. "May I help you?"

  "It's me."

  "Who?"

  He didn't expect it to be awkward. "It's Bob. Kebab. Remember? I rescued you at the bar?"

  He waited patiently as she studied his face, looked on either side of him. "You're not Kebab." Started closing the door.

  "I am! I had an operation. I got rid of the others."

  It could have gone either way. But after leaning her eyes closer to his face, she broke out in a broad grin. "It is you!"

  "Yeah! I had an operation." Realized this is how it happens. One of those rare conversations out of all the conversations you have in life where your life will go one way or the other, forever, depending on how this conversation goes.

  "Wow."

  "Can I come in?"

  "How do you know where I live?"

  "I happened to see you go in here, with Bernard."

  "Yeah, but that was a couple of hours ago."

  "I wanted to see you. Alone."

  Her hand still on the door. "Yeah? Why?"

  "To court you. Yeah."

  "To court me? I'm dating Bernard."

  "But you don't seem that happy with him."

  "How would you know that?"

  "Just from what I've observed. May I come in?"

  Her long face looked unhappy.

  Bob feeling the air go out. Couldn't stop it. How do you stop it? "Will you give me a chance?"

  "Kebab, listen, I really appreciate you helped me that time, and I'm glad to see you've had an operation, but I love Bernard. I'm his girl. You know?"

  "What happened to your nose?"

  She fluttered her right hand. "Bernard and I had a fight. I hit his beer bottle with my nose."

  "Why'd you do that?"

  "I don't know. I guess I'm stupid."

  "Maybe you could love me?" Regretted it as soon as he said it.

  "It's really late. I have work tomorrow. And I have a piece on exotic Caribbean fish I still have to finish tonight. Okay? Maybe Bernard and I will see you at the bar sometime? Buy you a drink to celebrate? Okay, Kebab? It's late."

  And standing there, facing her, all by himself, dark street, brand new haircut, brand new clothes, he realized how stupid he had been. How he had seen romance, when there was really only pity.

  Door shutting in his face. Politely.

  Alone on the moonlit street. Palm trees. The ocea
n.

  He sat on the curb and cried.

  But then, after a while, he didn't feel that bad. If not her, maybe some other girl? Now that he was free? Love hides everywhere. Even when a doctor is building up to tell you there's no hope, there's just been too much internal damage, standing in front of you in his white jacket, you notice that the stethoscope in the doctor's ears, its twin hoops leading down to the listening cup hanging in front of his chest, forms a heart.

  But right at that moment, of course, sitting on the curb in front of the door she shut on him, he felt alone in the world.

  And that's a terrible feeling.

  He turned to his left. But there was no one there. Turned to the right. But there was no one there.

  DURING THE TIME I WAS OUT

  Pablo stopped for lunch on his way back.

  The diner had wide front windows. He'd be able to see, from where he sat inside, the reconditioned Ford engine strapped down in the bed of the company's pick-up. Wouldn't do to have the engine stolen, his first week on the job. His boss would say he arranged for the theft.

  The front door had a silver bell at its top. The bell jangled when he walked inside. Startled him.

  A couple of men sitting at the square tables looked up from their food.

  Big as he was, he still felt uncomfortable being in an enclosed space with people he didn't know. Who knew what they were thinking? What set them off?

  The place smelled good.

  He nodded at the owner standing by the cash register, conscious of the eyes on him as he made his way to a blue stool at the counter. Chose a stool as far away as he could get from the other occupied stools.

  Big brown hands on the green Formica counter, reaching out to the salt shaker just to have something to hold.

  His waitress came over with her pad from the other side of the counter. One of those little brunettes who don't have a lot of money, but know how to flirt for tips.

  Six weeks out, he had his guard up. Didn't want no complications. Do your job, go home to your wife. Eat dinner after two beers.

  She poised her pen over her slanted order pad. Looked at him with those dark eyes that pretend to be dead. She knows he wants to fuck her, because every man wants to fuck her. Face wasn't that pretty, a little too bony for his taste, lips a bit too wet, but confident. "What are we going to eat today?"

  He kept his head down like a good boy, a thirty year old broad-shouldered man with a scar on his left cheek. Tall silver napkin dispenser between her and him, upright coffin, latest white napkin, triangles folded within, ready to be tugged out. "I guess I'll have the cheeseburger and fries."

  "How exciting. Want a beer? Just a joke. We don't have a liquor license. Want a Coke?"

  "Sure."

  "I'm gonna take good care of you, babe." Tapped the tip of her pen in front of his big hands.

  He stared straight ahead while he waited, hands folded, resisting the urge, as she walked through the rear to the kitchen, to look at her legs. Although he was sure her white skirt was probably rolled-up to mid-thigh.

  Ten minutes later, she came back with a white plate. Set it in front of him. Cheeseburger with a modest pile of yellow French fries towards the back of the plate.

  She stayed standing on the other side of the counter, staring at him, while he self-consciously picked up the plastic squeeze container of ketchup. Compressed its middle, creating a woman's shape, to squirt a modest red puddle on one side of his fries. So the fries themselves would still be crisp. Is she gonna keep staring at me? But the last thing he wanted was a scene.

  Set the container down.

  Picked up his warm burger.

  She lifted the ketchup container off the counter. Inverted it. Squeezed wavy red lines all over his pile of French fries. That was going to make them soggy.

  He hesitated, burger halfway to his teeth.

  She picked up one of his ketchup-drenched fries, popped it between those wet lips. "I love French fries." Her fingers, he had to admit, were delicate. So unlike a man's hand. Her voice, melodious.

  Picked another of his fries up off his plate. Its length bent in half, steam rising.

  He ignored her, bit into his burger. Chewing, looking away. Tasty, but he wasn't enjoying it.

  She leaned her elbows down on the counter, so her face lowered to right in front of his. "Burger okay?"

  He avoided her eyes. "Yeah."

  Lifted another fry to her lips, staring right at him. This time, he raised his eyes to hers. Watched as her small jaw moved up and down. Smear of ketchup on her lips. Her lively little girl's tongue pinkly licking off that sweetness. Eyes daring him to protest.

  He didn't.

  "I get off at three. Wow. Look at your wrist. Not too far off. You could order a piece of pie after this, and by the time you eat it, if you eat it slow, apple chunk by apple chunk, we're almost there. Want to see my apartment? I got a birthday cake in my bathtub. I'll let you eat some of it with your hands. You like sugar?"

  Couldn't tear his eyes away from hers. Never should have looked up. Big mistake. "I can't do this. I got a wife."

  "Yeah? Where do you and your mom live?"

  Put down his burger. "Sorry."

  She stood on the other side of the counter, knowing she had his full attention. Smirked. "Who'd you rather fuck tonight? Your mom?" She backed away from the green Formica counter with an arms by her sides laziness, dark eyes confident, so he could see her body. "Or this?"

  Dressed in her white waitress uniform. Tight fabric. Young breasts that still pointed straight ahead. Belly that was so flat the white of her uniform wrinkled inwards. Slim hips any man would want to hold.

  Raised both her woman's hands. Couldn't say what it was about them, but they were incredibly sexy. Naked, bird-boned, strong. "I'll dig these little thumbs up into your armpits. Won't be too comfortable at first, but after five minutes, you won't want me to stop. You won't want me to ever stop."

  He left the rest of the burger on his plate. That's a sad thing to do. Scrabbled up his bill. Pulled out his wallet. Peeled off a big tip. Shouldn't have, but she had excited him like he hadn't been excited in a long time. Not since the showers, that second day. Walked to the front like a mama's boy, to the man behind the cash register, the man who had figured out all too well who he was, one hand resting on either side of the cash tray.

  The waitress inside clearing his place, staring at his departure, looking, despite his big tip, annoyed.

  "No way I would pay that much for a blouse."

  They were wandering around inside an upscale women's wear shop, lazy Saturday before lunch, piano music on the speakers, lavender walls, salesgirls with gray skirts pretending to rearrange clothes at the various kiosks, but really keeping a close eye on the customers.

  Making him uncomfortable. Which he never discussed with Joyce, because he was afraid the confession would cause her to think less of him, but he always had a sense that everyone was keeping an eye on him, everywhere he went, waiting for him to do something wrong. A lot of guys who had been out, but wound up back in, complained about the same thing.

  A salesgirl came over to them, the third so far. Shot a look at Pablo's height, then lifted a pink and green blouse off the rack, held it by its hanger against Joyce's upper body, startling his wife. "This is you! Yeah."

  Joyce backed up, blinking. "Well, I'm just window-shopping."

  "Try it on!"

  Joyce tried to think of something polite to say.

  "Matilda! What do you think?"

  The second salesgirl swung her hips over, another ant climbing up on the caught bee. Lifted her eyebrows. "Try it on!"

  "No, really…"

  Third salesgirl pretending to sort clothes two kiosks away. "It's free to try it on. What have you got to lose? Sure your boyfriend would like to see you in a new top. You want the best for your sweetie, right, hon?"

  That was the thing about Joyce. She was smart. She was tall. She could see through just about any bullshit. But she was
shy. When they made love, she'd close her lids, go into this private world he knew nothing about. Jerk up her hips after a quiet, shut-eyed struggle with herself, lips blowing out a tiny noise. That shyness was always her downfall, all the time he'd known her.

  As he watched, the ants got their legs up on top of her, holding her wings down to the ground. Eventually, as he knew she would, she gave him a sheepish grin, allowed herself to be escorted to the dressing rooms. He knew from past experience once they got her in there, all the short, bullying salesgirls wouldn't let her out, so she wouldn't have the advantage of consulting with him, until she nodded her head behind the dressing alcove's curtain and agreed to buy whatever it was they wanted her to buy. Another reason he hated window shopping, though she always looked forward to it. Later tonight, back in their apartment, both their heads full of marijuana and wine, shared white plate between them holding only one last toast triangle darkly glistening with blueberry jam, she'd pull the blouse out of the white bag festooned with the shop's discreet font, disappear into their bedroom, come out like a bare-legged doe with the blouse on, eyes rueful below her blonde bangs. "Look what those girls made me buy." Another blouse or dress or skirt or scarf hanging in her closet she'd never wear, because she didn't like bright colors.

  He held the bag by its corded handles as they left the shop, back out on the sunny sidewalk.

  Her cheeks were flushed. "Want to eat?"

  He nodded. "Sure."

  "Want to go to Greenie's?"

  Popular sidewalk café, on the corner of the block. He could see from where they stood it was crowded. "Sure."

  Joyce was vegetarian. Or vegan. It varied.

  You went inside the café, ordered what you wanted from the large chalkboard by the front of the line, selections handwritten against the black in violet and pink, lots of exclamation points. By the time you wound with the line around the interior, to the cash register at the far left, your meals were ready. Of course, given that most of the meals were raw, it probably wasn't much of an accomplishment.

  Joyce had the Big Smiles salad, tofu with tossed greens and fruit sections. He went, as he usually did, with the Umami Burger, chopped portabella mushrooms, walnuts, and some kind of paste holding it all together, served on a whole wheat bun with radish sprouts and tomato slices.