by Gregory Hill
I will not describe the activity itself, other than to say that while I was in the midst of the movement, I tilted my head backward to look to the sky. Up, up and straight above me was a white winged creature, so far away I could not make out its features. But I knew what it was: my one-legged seagull. Oh, tender solace of the lame bird who glides the wind.
I can see and I can think. Food goes in, waste goes out. I can survive this.
I returned to the Palace and ate a hamburger. I put the burger on one of the toasted buns and ate it. The food was warm. Once it was in my mouth, it chewed easy. I needed water. I turned on the faucets and nothing came out, of course. There is a glass-doored fridge behind the counter, filled with cans of pop and bottled water. I chose water. I had to cut a plastic bottle open with a steak knife. The knife worked against the plastic. I’m not going to explain every sensation. The knife worked. I peeled away the plastic and the water hung, glob-like, in front of my face. I leaned forward and nibbled. It was like eating a warm, water-flavored ice-cream cone that melted the instant it entered my mouth. It sated my thirst. Sated. I’m writing for posterity.
Fries were boiling in the fryer. I brought my hand to the oil. The air above was warm. The oil itself was hot, hot, hot. I know this because I touched it and thereby blistered the tip of my right index finger.
From the dinnertime magazines of my youth, I know that there’s a thing called hard sci-fi. In hard sci-fi, all the crap that happens (wormholes, gravity inside spaceships, interspecies procreation) needs to seem plausible, if not possible. Otherwise, nerds will complain.
Nerds, could you please complain to someone on my behalf?
6
I’m wearing pants, socks, shoes, underwear, and a collared shirt. Because they aren’t me, the clothes don’t like to move. It makes ambulation a little less comfortable. If this goes on long enough, I expect I will discard them altogether. For now, I wish to remain decent. I do not want to be caught in my skin should the world suddenly reawake.
I do wish to change my clothes. The world is still warm and I still sweat. My garments don’t absorb the sweat and it’s been accumulating as a scum on top of my skin and I feel icky. And I have a moral aversion to wearing the same pair of underwear for too long. Fortunately, in the back seat of my car, there’s a suitcase which contains two pairs of undies, each of which only has one day of use.
Adjacent to the front door of this diner is a cork bulletin board. Upon it are several notices suspended by red thumbtacks.
“Free” kittens: Tigers, blacks, calicos.
Babysitting: 12 years old, experience. $6/hour.
For sale: Winchester 30-30. Good shape. $175.
Yard work help needed. Must speak good English.
Not-quite-free pets, youthful capitalists, affordable guns, and clumsily coded racial insensitivity. The bedrock of any great country.
For the record, Veronica’s parents don’t speak good English. Veronica speaks good English and bueno Spanish.
I’m not under the illusion that dating a chica Mexicana absolves me from my youthful misstep with the black man on the bus. I’m not convinced it was a misstep, exactly. It was just a stupid thing I did, for which I feel guilty. I’m sure he’s more over it than me. That one incident, at least.
I turned the knob and pulled the door open to the world. Curse this silence, a hinge should squeak, wind should whisper, birds should chirp. I didn’t mind the silence when I was in the back alley, taking my crap. Noise tends to distract me from peristaltic activity. But when you open a front door, silence doesn’t cut it. Front doors should welcome you to the general hum of the outside world.
I looked back at Veronica, sitting there looking. Let’s be frank, with her half-closed eye and that French fry approaching her gaping mouth, she looked like an idiot.
Leaving the door ajar, I approached my almost-fiancée. Very carefully, as careful as a surgeon, I put my finger against her right eyelid, the half-closed one, and pushed it shut. I did the same with her left eyelid. Her eyes aren’t entirely closed—there’s still a little white peeking out—but it’s an improvement.
I put a finger under her chin and gently lifted her lower jaw. Rather than shut her mouth, the action caused her head to tilt backward. I put one hand on her forehead, and the other hand under her chin and tried again. This closed her mouth, but now her cheeks had sagged into a hound dog frown. I tried to massage her face into a shape that recalled true Veronical beauty. Had I succeeded, the act would have been tender. Instead, I managed only to make her resemble the slackened face of her aunt’s corpse in the open coffin in St. Louis. I abandoned the project before I made her look any more ridiculous. A face just ain’t a face unless everything’s working together underneath it. No third parties allowed.
I did lean forward and kiss her. Her lips were warm, but they didn’t kiss me back.
I’m standing on the artificial turf on the step in front of Cookie’s Palace Diner, looking out at the dirt parking lot. My car is parked semi-askew. Remember when Veronica and I sat in that car, just a few moments ago, sweating?
Old Timer’s pickup is backed into its spot, professionally. One intuits that Old Timer is an expert driver of all sorts of conveyances. One suspects that he drives down the highway in reverse just because he can.
Two other cars: A yellow, mid-seventies Mustang II, from the misguided fuel-efficient Pinto era, and a mid-eighties blue Econoline love-van with tinted teardrop window ports, from the misguided fuel-inefficient era. Remember when there were eras?
I’d wager my watch that the Mustang belongs to Flo and the van belongs to Cookie.
Half a mile away on Route 36, a semi is approaching from the west. Kenworth, Peterbilt, whatever. My primary exposure to eighteen-wheelers came at a young age via the truck race scene at the beginning of Smokey and the Bandit II, a film otherwise notable only for the fact that when we first encounter the Bandit he has traded away his Trans Am for a large quantity of beer.
The semi’s headlights aren’t on. They really should be, seeing as dusk is approaching. Several miles beyond the semi, the hellfire storm, clouds abubble in black cauldrony wrath withheld, prepares to unleash its power, just as soon as someone figures out how to re-start the world’s clock.
To the west and beneath the storm, the sun glows orange. It hurts to look at it, so I look away. Here in Holliday, on the other side of Route 36, is a gas station that appears to have closed down sometime between the manufacture of Sandy’s Mustang and Cookie’s Econoline. Also in the Holliday compound: houses, a church, nonfunctional cars, lawns, American flags hanging stiff like the one Neil Armstrong planted on the moon. An elm tree, tiny branches bent by the weight of small birds.
And far above, my one-legged seagull floats like a white scratch in the sky.
I face west and allow the sun to glow upon me. I turn around and watch my shadow slide over the dirt. The shadow and I wave at each other. He is much taller than I am. Shadows cast by the low sun. Shadowcast is a good name for a late-night radio show. My shadow offers a thumbs-up in agreement.
Although the leaves on the trees remain green, we’re on the cusp of autumn, this cuspiness being reinforced by the perpetual sunset, trapped twixt today and tonight, twixt what has happened and what may never happen.
As time continues to not move, I expect this perpetual sunset will lend a sense of melancholy to the situation. For now, I am more taken by the world itself, so open and empty.
It’s a bit much to absorb. I cross the lot to my car and extract my suitcase from the back seat. I extract Veronica’s suitcase as well. I’m a light packer, bare minimum. Veronica is even barer and more minimal. Another reason why I love her. Very little baggage, emotional or otherwise.
I imagine that you’re rolling your eyes at my references to my darling. If so, it’s because I haven’t adequately described her. She’s not just an umbrella. Nor is she just a beehived fountain of unfunny wisecracks. She’s a foundation of truth. She digs me and all
my officiantatious nonsense. She’s the one thing in the world that wouldn’t benefit from my adjudication. I would not change a thing about her. In sum, she is the reason I have thus far refrained from swallowing my own tongue.
7
I re-entered the Palace and emptied my suitcase onto one of the unoccupied tables. Six socks in a total of four different colors, two green button-up shirts as well as the short-sleeved white dress shirt I’d worn at the funeral. Two pair of pants. A toothbrush, an empty can of anti-perspirant, and a disposable razor. I will at some point need to decide whether to let my beard grow or have a go at shaving.
Also in the suitcase, a copy of the latest Mad Magazine (#501, the Hard Times Survival Issue), which I had thrice read in its entirety. And my pajamas, prison-striped, a gift from Veronica. She said they made me look like a horizontal referee. And two pairs of slightly-used paisley boxer shorts.
I went to the men’s room and changed my undies and put on my funeral clothes. White shirt, black pants, and, for dignity, the clip-on tie. Footwear: officially-sanctioned black referee sneakers, appropriate for any occasion.
Dinnertime. I tossed a handful of Cookie’s tomatoes and lettuce and croutons into the air, where they paused like a work of psychedelic art. I nipped at them. For desert, half of a world-famous pecan pie. Veronica would have said, “It’s famous for being completely average.”
I can’t suck the Palace’s teat for much longer. Water, water everywhere and no more burgers to eat. Unless I bust apart a frozen patty and let the raw chunks thaw in my mouth. No need for that. I have options. It’s seven twenty-three PM. There’s food on a stove somewhere. Good Housekeeping recipes abound.
8
Another day in Boringsville. Hi, Vero. Howdy, Old Timer. Mornin’, Flo. Heehaw, Cookie. Let’s get to know each other. I lifted Old Timer’s wallet and learned his name was, seriously, Axel Buster. Further pawing turned up a half-smoked joint in Axel’s shirt-pocket. I set it aside for later, after I’ve learned to start a fire.
Sandy had been hunched over when she’d started pouring the coffee. The pose looked horribly uncomfortable. I repositioned her so she wasn’t hunched over so much. Grab shoulders, tug. Torso-and-limb manipulation was much more effective than trying to mold Vero’s face. It was not rigor mortis, more like a life-sized action figure.
As a reward for granting Sandy some posture relief, I peeked under her skirt. I peeked. She had on white underwear. If I were a superhero, I’d be called The Voyeur. I see all, I know all.
Moving on, let’s crack open Veronica’s suitcase. She and I are practically married after all. Gaze, if you will, upon the sleepy onion ring stuck to the floor there, a tribute to our one true love. Cleo and Patra. Veronica and me. Consummated but never legitimated.
I extracted panties and sniffed, no scent. I’m not normally a panty sniffer. All rules don’t apply. There was a box of tampons in the suitcase. We hadn’t engaged in sexual activities on this trip. I had assumed it was because she was in mourning.
I opened every zipper in her suitcase. It had been ordered from an online specialty shop. Pockets for everything, including one specifically for a diary.
Which explains why I’m drunk.
The diary begins some months ago, shortly after Veronica had returned my umbrella. I will not quote directly, as I do not wish to compromise her privacy.
The first page of the diary is headlined:
An Accounting of My Time with The Ref
The Ref is me, Narwhal W. Slotterfield.
The diary commences with a recounting of the bus stop-and-umbrella incident. She describes me as “a bit of a goof,” and remains respectfully demure on the accounting of our lovemaking.
Receiving great attention was our trip to a Greek diner on Colfax for her recent birthday. She wrote, and I quote directly, “Never trust a Greek named Pete. All Greeks are named Pete. The Ref picked up the bill. He loves gyros, I love souvlaki. I love him enough.” My heart leaps. We have never audibly pronounced that word “love” to one another. “Enough” is enough for me.
She seems obsessed with my obsessions, which I didn’t know I had. The typical business about the toothbrush, window shades, placement of forks in the dishwasher, style of lacing one’s shoes, disposal of used fingernail trimmings. Atypically, she doesn’t seem particularly annoyed with these obsessions. My “quirks,” she calls them, more as observation than as judgment. Could a guy be any luckier? I’m imperfect, she’s perfect. She tolerates me, I worship her.
Even her handwriting delights me. It’s barely legible. Half cursive, half print. She doesn’t put smiley faces on her i’s, but she does put umlauts on her u’s. Correct transcription of the previous extract:
Never trüst a Greek named Pete. All Greeks are named Pete. The Ref picked üp the bill. He loves gyros, I love soüvlaki. I love him enoügh.
Two pages later, the terror:
Sorry I haven’t written. The Blad called. Hadn’t heard from him since spring of 2006, after the thing. He invited me for coffee. My schedüle was open. I figüred it’d be entertaining, if nothing else. I mean, he meant a lot to me for those three weeks.
I know exactly who The Blad is. His name is Bradley Ludermeyer. I’ve only met him once, at a dinner party very early in my relationship with Veronica. I immediately sussed that he was an ass. He had a Denver Broncos lapel pin on his fake Armani suit and he refused to take up the hostess’s offer of a bong hit on the grounds that his employer (the esteemed and rapidly deteriorating Pat Bowlen) randomly subjects his employees to piss tests. What a dick. The Blad, not Bowlen.
I’m not a major pot-user myself, as evidenced by the fact that I still haven’t tried to smoke that half-a-joint I stole from Axel Buster. But I would never, ever be so disrespectful as to decline a bong hit from someone gracious enough to invite me to a dinner party.
Due to his self-confident dickhead voice, which intruded upon conversations he wasn’t even involved in, I learned that The Blad works at a place called Dove Valley, the home of the Denver Broncos. One of his duties there is to enforce the appearance clause in the cheerleaders’ contracts. As he explained to one drunk and/or stoned party guest after another, said clause requires all cheerleaders to weigh less than a peanut, wear makeup at all times, never say anything more controversial than, “Go Broncos!” and work seventy hours a week while getting paid a sub-minimum wage.
He liked to conclude the descriptions of his duties with, “I’m paid to tell beautiful women how to be even more beautiful. It’s the greatest job in the great green world!”
Why in the name of all things decent and good would a turd like Bradley Ludermeyer appeal to the personified perfection of Veronica Vasquez? Read on, but don’t expect answers.
Coffee türned into a walk downtown, then dinner. The Ref was working a kiddie toürnament, so I had a few hoürs. It was safe, walking with The Blad down Sixteenth Street. Ünlike The Ref, The Blad doesn’t get spooked by teenagers.
Am I starting to detect judgmentalism, Veronica?
The Blad apologized for how things ended. I rewarded him with a non-committal wink. He said he’d matüred a lot since the DÜI.
We ended üp at his place downtown, rode the elevator to his floor. What’s a girl to do? The Ref hasn’t been very fün lately. Here are some things he’s complained aboüt in the last few days: parents, coaches, players, a düsty gym floor, television, women’s hairstyles (bangs, in particülar), his next-door neighbors, his üpstairs neighbors, his landlord, the new president, the old president, and his overbite.
This is making me uncomfortable.
For the record, he never complains aboüt me.
So I’m not a complete fuck up.
I finished with The Blad in time to meet The Ref for a few drinks at the Tapered End. And, yoü know, The Ref was in a great mood! He was enthüsiastic aboüt life. He paid the bill. He even held my hand on the walk home. I love walking hand-in-hand with The Ref.
“Love” again, but so what? Turn t
he page.
It’s tomorrow now. Yesterday happened. I’m not exactly proüd of what The Blad and I did. Büt I’m not exactly ashamed. It’s more of a relief. I’d always wondered, yoü know, what woüld it be like if we türned it on again? Türns oüt The Blad’s an annoying, sports-obsessed, he-man jackass. I güess that shoüld have been obvioüs from the get-go.
Anyway, after yesterday I no longer need to wonder what coüld have happened between üs. The handsome lünk who showed me how to do beer bongs and shoplift candy from the süpermarket is firmly planted in my yesterdays. And, yoü know, he wasn’t as good in bed as I recalled.
There it was. While I had been at work, Vero had ridden in an elevator with The Blad, and then they’d gone to his bullshit apartment—which I guarantee you is decorated with nothing but Denver Broncos footballs and Denver Broncos jerseys and Denver Broncos helmets, all of which are signed with fake autographs—and they drank some shitty champagne and he sat next to her on his white leather couch and put his hand on her knee and they did some beer bongs and Vero said, “I want to ride your cock,” and he said, “Saddle up,” and then he put on his fake-autographed Jake Plummer helmet and Vero pulled on a fake-autographed Randy Gradishar jersey and they banged each other for many long, sweaty, screaming hours, in nothing but football-related sexual positions:
the tight end
the buttonhook
the crackback block
the double coverage
the front seven
the lateral
the neutral zone infraction
the point spread
the pooch kick
the pump fake