by H. M. Mann
“What did I ever see in you?” Gloria asked.
“You saw a—”
“It was a rhetorical question, you idiot,” Gloria interrupted. “I must have been really drunk that night.” She pressed her hand harder, stepped back, and pointed to his car. “Get off my porch, Paul.”
Paul blinked rapidly. “But I must protest—”
“Visitation hours are over, Paul,” Gloria interrupted. “And don’t call. If you do, I’ll block all your numbers. And don’t visit. If you do, I’ll get a restraining order. I’m sure your new employers would love to hear that their star professor has been stalking the mother of his child.” She narrowed her eyes. “This is how this is going to work. I will let Angel decide if she wants to see you again. If it were up to me, you would never see her again. If she decides to see you, we’ll work something out. If she doesn’t, don’t make trouble or I will.” Gloria removed her hand from Paul’s chest.
“You have no right—”
“One more thing, Paul, and then you can go,” Gloria interrupted. “If I make just one phone call to the right person, the United States government will not allow you to leave the country because you owe me so much back child support. They will take your passport. Until you pay, you can’t go play in the dirt.”
Paul’s eyes widened.
“You want me to make that call, Paul?” Gloria asked.
“You … you are bluffing.”
Gloria smiled. “I never bluff.”
Paul shook his head. “When will you call me?”
Gloria smiled. “It isn’t up to me, right?”
Paul nodded. “May I at least say goodbye to Angel?”
Gloria nodded. “I doubt she wants to say goodbye to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know my child.” Gloria looked up. “Mama and Angel were upstairs airing out her room. Angel’s room faces the front yard. She heard everything you just said.”
Paul looked up at the porch ceiling. “She could not have heard everything.”
“It’s a small house, and Minnick women have excellent hearing,” Gloria said. “You want to say goodbye or not?”
Paul stood, opened the door, and almost ran into Angel, who stood with her hands by her sides just inside the door, her lips a straight line. “I must go now, Angel.”
Angel only nodded.
“Did you hear … were you listening to what I said?” Paul asked.
Angel nodded.
Paul closed his eyes. “I am sorry you heard what I said.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “I was angry. I just want to spend more time with you.”
Angel nodded and stuck out her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Leffel.” She shook Paul’s hand once. “We will have to talk about archaeology again sometime.”
Oh, baby, Gloria thought. You are such a rock, but my heart is breaking for you!
“I am sorry, Angel,” Paul said. “Please call me. Anytime.”
“Goodbye,” Angel said.
Paul backed out with his head down.
Angel shut the door and returned to her puzzle.
Gloria wiped a tear then sat on the loveseat watching her amazing daughter. She didn’t even cry. I know I’d be bawling my eyes out. “Are you okay, Angel?”
Angel nodded.
“You sure?”
Angel nodded.
“Your daddy isn’t a bad person, Angel,” Gloria said. “I’m sure if he had known about you from the start, he would have been around.” Maybe.
Angel sighed and nodded. “Is he really my daddy?”
“Yes, Angel.”
She placed a puzzle piece in Canada. “He wasn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone shorter with shorter hair.” Angel looked out the front window. “Someone like Johnny, except without the beard.” She placed another piece in Canada. “Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Is Johnny coming back?”
I don’t know. “I hope so, baby.”
“I hope so, too.” Angel said. “He owes me another chapter of my story.”
36
Johnny had pulled down the street and cut off the engine with a loud clank-clank-bang. He hadn’t known why he had stopped, only that he was supposed to stop. That’s what he-men in romance novels do. They walk out, count to fifty, and then return to whisk their women off their feet while factory employees cry and cheer—
Wait a minute. That was from An Officer and a Gentleman. Richard Gere gets all the girls.
Since Johnny was neither an officer nor a gentleman—nor even remotely Richard Gere-like—he had simply watched Gloria and Paul talking on Gloria’s porch through his right side mirror. After Paul’s Prius hummed by twenty minutes later, Johnny dropped his head onto the steering wheel.
I’m done, he thought. I’m through, I’m done, I’m through, I’m toast, I’m heel toast …
And once again, Johnny was dead wrong, ignoring the little words on the mirror: “Objects in mirror appear closer than they actually are.”
They seemed awfully cozy and at home up on that porch, he thought mournfully. Paul was sitting in that uncomfortable chair like he was a king, a regular Louis XVI, and Gloria was practically bowing down to him like she was a regular Marie Antoinette. She has obviously lost her head, preferring the man with the French-fried hair over …
A guy wearing a doofy pizza uniform in a ’74 Vega.
She put her hand on his chest and kept it there. That means something. She never did that with me unless she was pushing me away from her or trying to get me to be serious for a change. And that little mini-drama where they both looked up at the ceiling at the same time was pure “aren’t we two shy people who don’t know what to say” ridiculousness. I ought to know. I’ve looked at many ceilings, counters, and floors just like that. So this is how they begin … and I end. In with a bang, and out with a whimper.
Johnny started and pushed the Vega to the limit—about thirty miles per hour—on his way back to Señor Pizza, and the Vega wasn’t responding very well, nearly stalling out at several stoplights, groaning and grunting up even the slightest grade.
Is the hero allowed to be angry with the heroine? I mean, what kind of a romance is this? The boy gets the girl, the boy doesn’t get the girl, then the boy might have gotten the girl because the girl still seemed to be somewhat interested in the boy, and then the boy has no chance of getting the girl because there’s a rich Frenchman from her tortured past who shows up just in time to royally mess things up.
No one would ever believe that story.
Okay, okay. I should have answered my phone. If I had just answered the phone … I probably would have moved into Gloria’s basement the next day because of that stupid toilet … and clogged up their toilet … and been kicked out by Marion … But now …
But now …
He left the Vega chugging in the parking lot and went inside.
“You are back?” Hector said, his eyebrows nearly one bushy line.
“Yes,” Johnny huffed. “What about it?”
“But you are sick, and I do not want you to drive tonight.” He pointed to the order slips flapping above the make table. “I am going to set a record!”
Johnny eyed one of the slips. “This one is for delivery.” He looked down the row. “Most of these are for delivery.”
Hector shrugged. “My cousin, he is visiting, and he will use my car to—”
“No,” Johnny interrupted. “I’ve got ‘em.”
“You are this close to being fired,” Hector said, making an inch with his thumb and forefinger. “This close.”
“Fired for what?” Johnny asked. “For doing my job?” You don’t want any part of me tonight, Hector, Johnny thought. Not after the ridiculousness I’ve been through.
“You hear me, Johnny?” Hector shouted. “This close.”
And I’m that close, Johnny thought, from quitting this ridiculous job.
Johnny dropped his
previous receipts, checks, and money near the register. Then he cut the delivery pizzas as soon as Hector slid them into the box. After stacking his deliveries, he left without a word.
His first delivery just happened to be Randy.
Life has a way of staying interestingly crappy, Johnny thought. At least I’m not bored.
Randy came to the door wearing only a purple bath towel this time, his scrawny chest and single chest hair still wet and curled into a backwards C. In one hand, Randy held a bottle of champagne, its contents bubbling onto the porch. “I just got out of the shower, Hector,” Randy cooed, “but I’m sure we can find something hot and steamy to get into.”
This foolishness is over. Right now. “Have some self-respect, man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Johnny, not Hector. Do I even sound or look Spanish?”
“Well, I—”
“And I’m not gay,” Johnny interrupted. “I’m not randy. I will never be gay or randy.”
“I just thought—”
“You thought wrong, man,” Johnny interrupted. “Put some freaking clothes on and don’t drink so much. You’re not a very pretty man when you’re drunk.”
Randy’s mouth opened wide. “You have no—”
“I’m not done, Randy,” Johnny interrupted. “If you come to the door without big boy clothes on from now on, I will walk away, and I won’t spin around once. And FYI, Randy—I’m twice the man you’ll ever be, and I don’t need to wear Speedos to prove it.” He smiled. “Thirteen-fifty.” He offered the pizza to Randy.
“I want my change this time,” Randy said, beginning to remove the towel.
“Nah, man.” Johnny dropped the pizza box onto the welcome mat. Oh yes, your cheese will taste like cardboard now. “Keep your money. It’s on me.” He turned to go and stopped. “Oh yeah.” He faced Randy, who was fumbling with his towel. “Here’s a nice big tip for you. Get counseling, you freak!”
Two ordinary deliveries later, Johnny had composed a new Christmas song. This, of course, made no sense whatsoever since Christmas was as long gone as his relationship with Gloria. Johnny shrugged his entire mind. Just making up for the lost diarrheic weeks of author Johnny Holiday. I could call it my “Poo Period.”
Deck the halls with business bailouts
Fa la la la la la la la la
‘Tis the season Congress punks out
Fa la la la la la la la la
Go we now into recession
Fa la la la la la la la la
Soon we’ll have a great depression
Fa la la la la la la la la
Then Johnny found himself in the cavernous kitchen inside the house of a bazillion bricks watching Bobby picking his nose.
This, too, must come to an end. “Quit picking your nose, kid,” Johnny said. “It’s nasty, gross, unsanitary, and could lead to a life in politics.”
Bobby’s eyes wobbled momentarily, and then he stuck out his tongue. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Johnny smiled. “I am so glad of that, kid. If I were your boss, you’d be fired for gross misconduct.”
Bobby picked a whopper and moved his finger closer and closer to the box.
“Don’t do it, kid.”
Bobby smeared the booger onto the box. “Whatcha gonna do now, Pizza Man?”
Johnny bent down and whispered, “I’m not going to do anything because there’s a special place in hell for little boys like you who pick and smear their boogers on pizza boxes, and the Devil himself will be the boss of you for … ev … er.”
Bobby screamed loudly and ran out of the kitchen.
Maybe I should teach kindergarten, Johnny thought. I have a disarming yet effective way of disciplining children.
Bobby’s mama rushed into the kitchen cavern holding another sock full of change. “Why was Bobby screaming?”
Johnny pointed to the booger smear on the box. “Your son finger-picked a whopper and spread it on the box after I told him not to do so.”
Bobby’s mama flinched. “What is that?”
“A booger, ma’am. Bobby likes to paste them on the box to upset me. He does this every time I come into your castle. Is he getting counseling for his nasal fetish?”
“His what?” Bobby’s mama asked.
Better not push it. Rich ladies have a way of ruining poor men’s lives. “Never mind.”
Bobby’s mama leaned closer. “But I’ve seen that … gunk on my pizza. I thought it was a new spice.”
I’m sure it was spicy, but Bobby must hate your rich, snobby tail, too. Y’all need family counseling. “It’s not an ingredient we use at Señor Pizza, ma’am, I assure you.” Hector would only order cheap, Chinese snot anyway.
Bobby’s mama pulled the sock away. “Well, I don’t want it now!”
“Of course you don’t,” Johnny said, “but you’re stuck with it. It’s yours. Pay me or not, I don’t care.”
“Take that … that out of here!”
Johnny shook his head. “Your kid boogers it, you buy it. And if I ever deliver here again, do not give me another sock. Write me a check. Give me a twenty. Give me twenty ones. Just don’t ever give me your change in a sock again. It’s demeaning to me, and it makes you look stupid.”
“I, I, I—”
“And buy some Kleenex for your son. You can afford it. Heck, buy him the gold foil kind. He likes digging for gold.”
On his way from his last delivery for the run, Johnny looked across the city skyline at the lit-up, multi-million-dollar houses on Mill Mountain. What a waste of electricity on that mountain! How can we have a starlit night with those beacons drowning out the night? I guess it’s okay. Our homeless will be able to see better down here because of their waste.
Johnny stopped by Quick-E Mart, entered, and slapped a ten on the counter in front of Gladys and ahead of three other customers. “Ten on pump number three.”
“Wait yer turn,” Gladys said.
Johnny shook his head. “No. Turn on the pump, Gladys.”
“Listen at him,” Gladys said to the other customers. “He thinks he can tell me what to do.” She looked down. “Ooh, a ten.” She turned to the other customers. “He usually only spends five cuz he’s so cheap. One squirt of the pump and he’s done.” She faced Johnny. “You don’t own the place, buster. Now get in line.”
Johnny stared hard at the other customers, cracking his neck twice for emphasis. “Y’all don’t mind if I jump in line, do you?”
Three shaking heads.
“I’m first in line now, Gladys. Ten on pump number three.”
Gladys leaned closer, her cigarette smoke swirling around her face. “Get to the end of the line. Now.”
Johnny sighed. Gloria has told me all about your criminal behavior, Gladys. I was going to put your stupidity in my book, but now I’m going to share it with the world. I hope all the cameras are running. “You ever have a kid come in here to get beer and some smokes, Gladys?”
Gladys blinked.
“You know, the teenaged kid who uses a fake ID and comes in to buy some controlled substances and tells you to keep the change from a twenty. Then you pocket about eight bucks a night for illegally selling beer and tobacco to a minor.”
The other customers turned their heads toward Gladys.
Humans are so fickle, Johnny thought.
Johnny pointed at several cameras dangling from the ceiling. “See those cameras, Gladys? They record everything, Gladys. Everything. Unfortunately, unless there’s a robbery or the register comes up short, no one ever checks the tapes. But what will happen if your district manager looks closely at those tapes of you and that kid after I make one innocent phone call? Huh?”
Gladys’s cigarette had almost burned down to the filter, the ash looking like the snake tattoos on Gladys’ neck.
“Ten on pump number three, Gladys. Now.”
Gladys turned on the pump.
“And get those tattoos removed from your neck, Gladys,” Johnny said. �
�They make you look as if you don’t bathe.” He sniffed the air. “I take that back. You don’t bathe. It makes you look as if you’re full of tapeworms.”
Gladys stubbed out her cigarette.
“You have any applications back there, Gladys?” Johnny asked. “I think I want to work here.” Not.
Gladys quickly found one and slid it across the counter. “Will there be anything else, um, sir?”
Johnny browsed the application, looking for the “Check here if you are stupid, tattooed, and a cow” box. Nope. Quick-E-Mart must be desperate. He shook his head. “I’d probably quit if I were you, Gladys, you know, before you’re arrested.”
Johnny tipped his hat to the other customers, went outside, and pumped his gas. While he waited, he decided to call Gloria using a payphone, its black metal surface scored with dozens of names, numbers, and curses.
Now how would Gunn play this? Would he still try to win his woman back after what he had seen? No. He would act as if nothing happened for a while and then he’d bust her out.
He dropped in several quarters and pushed the numbers.
“Hello, Minnick residence,” Marion said.
“It’s Johnny, Marion. I’m on a payphone. Let me speak to Gloria.”
After a few moments, Gloria said, “Busy night?”
“Crazy night,” Johnny said, casually. “Um, I think Gladys is about to quit.”
“How do you know?”
“I think she suddenly found a conscience. I, um, busted her out about selling beer and cigarettes to kids in front of some of your customers.”
“Oh, Johnny, why’d you do that? I wanted to fire her.”
“Sorry. My way was quicker. Firing her obese self would have taken at least a week.”
Gloria laughed.
Keep leading me on with that laugh. Johnny looked up at the stars. “Paul still there?”
“No. He left not too long after you did.”
Yeah. I saw him go after twenty minutes of him schmoozing with you and you feeling on his European chest. “Have a nice conversation?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when you come by later.”
Later? Why would I come by later? I’m nobody’s consolation prize. I know enough now about you and Paul, thank you, and I do not intend to come by—ever. “How’s Angel?”