The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  I watched and waited, hoping to catch her attention.

  She set the shears aside and gathered her trimmings in a bag. She took a step back and put her hands on her hips. Seeming satisfied with her work, she picked up the shears and turned toward the driveway.

  I waved. Then, I waved again.

  She was halfway up the drive, looking the other direction.

  “Hi!” I shouted.

  She glanced around. Upon seeing me, she smiled and waved.

  “I’m Anna,” I said. “How are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” she replied. “I’m Margaret. Marge.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marge.”

  She set everything down before turning to face me completely. “Likewise.”

  “Crazy, isn’t it?”

  She cupped her palm beside her right ear. “Pardon?”

  “This is crazy,” I shouted. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it sure is,” she said. “Reminds me of what happened with polio, in 1952. I was 11 at the time. Scared to death, to say the least. A few years later they had a vaccine. We all let out a sigh of relief.”

  I walked to the middle of the drive. “They’re saying it might be 18 months before they have one for this.”

  She looked up one side of the street, and then the other. “Hopefully, we’ll all still be here when the time comes.”

  “I sure hope so,” I replied. “Are you staying home?”

  She shuffled to the end of her driveway. “I don’t have a choice. My asthma’s terrible. I doubt I’d last a week if I got it.”

  “I’m not taking chances, either,” I said. “I’m staying here until this is over.”

  “Were they your parents?” she asked, nodding in my direction. “The former owners?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “They were.”

  She lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I said, nearly choking on my reply.

  “When this is all over,” she said. “You’ll have to come for dinner.”

  I’d been alone, eating Little Debbie’s snacks, Cheetos, and sliced Swiss cheese for the past 9 days. Human interaction sounded like a wonderful idea, especially if there was a homecooked meal involved.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said with a smile.

  “I better go in.” She gestured toward the door. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

  I hated to ask but I had to know. I cleared my throat. “Are you married?”

  She didn’t immediately reply. I wished I would have asked differently, or not bothered to ask at all.

  “I’m widowed,” she replied after a moment of thought. “It’s been three years. He was two inches shorter than me and seven years older. He was always happy, but he got feisty if he didn’t eat at five. I’m maintaining the tradition.”

  “What was his name?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Raymond.”

  “I won’t keep you from your dinner,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Marge.”

  “Maybe see you again tomorrow?” She reached for her things. “I’ll be out here about four o’clock. I am every day.”

  My heart filled with warmth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Braxton

  I talked to my father every Sunday. When deployed, I either spoke to him via satellite phone or in the form of a letter. One way or another we communicated once a week, in person if possible. He was much more than a father.

  An onlooker wouldn’t know it from listening to us argue, but he was and had always been my best friend.

  Following my military career, our Sunday time together was quite predictable. Like clockwork, he meandered to the front porch with a cooler full of beer just after noon. He sat there until sundown, drinking beer with me, his neighbor, and whoever else might show up. The group discussed whatever subjects my father chose to speak of, most of which were entertaining to say the least.

  Typically, he chose issues that he knew would get a rise out of whoever it was he was antagonizing. For the foreseeable future, that person would be me.

  The neighbor, a former member of an outlaw motorcycle club, was a close friend of ours. Over the years my father had provided advice, watched the young man mature, and eventually attended his wedding.

  Much to my father’s chagrin, every member of the neighbor’s now defunct motorcycle club was in San Diego spending their “shelter in place” time together at a former member’s beach house. Although my father was invited, he reluctantly declined. In his eyes, the possibility of infection was far too great.

  The change in his Sunday routine, the lockdown of the entire state, and the fear of infection had him on edge.

  I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. He was sitting on his porch of his two-bedroom ranch home drinking a beer, alone. Upon seeing me he raised his bottle of beer in toast of my arrival.

  His face was long, and his trademark snow-white crew cut was in bad need of a trim.

  I pushed the car door open and stepped into the warm mid-day sunshine. “How’s it going, Old Man?”

  “Slow and steady,” he replied. “Did you stop anywhere?”

  “No. I did not.”

  Wearing a look of uncertainty, he sipped his beer. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not like you,” I replied. “I don’t forget shit. I’m sure. No stops.”

  He tilted the neck of his beer bottle toward me. “Is that suit fresh, or is it some recycled shit from yesterday?”

  “My clothes are clean.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I cleared my throat. “Today’s the first day I’ve worn these clothes since they were dry cleaned.”

  “Leave the shoes in the drive,” he demanded. “They said that shit can live on the soles for a goddamned week. I don’t need you tracking COVID-19 dust all over my clean porch.”

  Pratt warned me on a daily basis of all things COVID-19 related. According to him, I needed to disrobe at the door and walk straight to the shower upon returning home. Infectious shoe bottoms was a new one, though.

  “A week on my shoe bottoms?” I laughed. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Leave ‘em in the drive, Son.”

  A former Marine and a Vietnam War veteran, my father was cantankerous, opinionated, and argumentative. Winning an argument against him, however, was impossible. Although I disagreed with his opinion about my shoes, I knew not to express my opinion in the form of defiance.

  I kicked them off at the edge of the drive. “How’s that?”

  He stood and looked me over. “Other than those ugly socks, I suppose you’re fine.”

  I glanced at my feet. “What’s wrong with the socks?”

  “Your suit’s black,” he said. “Ought to be wearing black socks. Those blue fuckers stand out like a turd floating in a punch bowl.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He shrugged and took his heat. “They look like shit.”

  Unwilling to be lured into a discussion about fashion with an old man who wore khaki pants and a white tee shirt regardless of his surroundings, I meandered across the yard and stepped onto the porch. He sat in the first of four chairs that were evenly spaced along the length of the covered deck. A beer cooler was situated beside him.

  He removed a bottle of beer and blindly tossed it into the air. “Heads up, Dipshit”

  I caught the bottle and twisted off the cap. I flipped it into his lap. “Thanks, Old Man.”

  He dropped the beer cap into a half-filled gallon jar that sat beside his chair. “Kid sent me a text message,” he said, referring to the missing neighbor. “Said him and the crew are living it up. Goose is cooking fresh seafood and steaks and they’re having parties on the roof. Sounds like they’re not bothered by this much.”

  I lowered myself into the chair beside him. “I think everyone’s about as bothered as they’ll allow themselves to be.”

  “It doesn’t bother me mu
ch, other than fucking up my Sunday routine.” He pulled the cooler from beside his chair and pushed it in front of him. He propped his feet onto it. “Retired life has its benefits, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Speaking of benefits.” He glanced in my direction. “How’s that curly-headed neighbor of yours?”

  A week prior, I’d explained the situation with Mica, and how she’d barged in on Anna and me during sex. I’d previously shared the parking lot sex story with him as well. He assumed, based solely on the fact that we’d had sex twice, that I was interested in her beyond sex.

  “Haven’t spoken to her since the last time I was here,” I said.

  “It’s been, what? Two weeks?”

  “Since she and I talked?” I shrugged. “Twelve days, give or take.”

  “Twelve isn’t a ‘give or take’ number, Son. Twelve’s a definite.”

  I scowled. “What?”

  “You can’t say, ‘Twelve days, give or take.’ That’s like saying ‘roughly thirteen.’”

  I glared. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “You said, ‘twelve days, give or take.’ That makes you look stupid. Twelve’s not a ‘give or take’ number. You can say ‘ten, give or take’, or you could say ‘twenty, give or take.’ Not twelve. That’s like saying ‘nine, give or take’ or ‘three, give or take.’ You sound like a damned fool. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s been exactly twelve fucking days since I spoke with her, Old Man,” I said snidely. “Twelve. Exactly twelve. No more, no less. How’s that?”

  “That’s better,” he said. “Why’d you add the give or take part?’”

  I couldn’t win with him. I let out a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know.”

  He looked me over dramatically. “You sure you’re not infected? Seems like your brain’s pickled. It happens with adults when they get a high fever. Turns their brains to mush.”

  “Fuck you,” I said jokingly.

  He took a long drink of beer. When he lowered the bottle, he grinned. “Speaking of fucking, I’m guessing you fucked that neighbor gal for the last time. Screwed thar deal up like all the others.”

  He’d never see me in a relationship, and we both knew it. I was the only one who accepted it as being reality. He was right about one thing. I had fucked Anna for the last time. Knowing my opinion of women, I was curious as to why he mentioned it.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Been thinking about that since last Sunday when you brought it up. By my guess, she’s angrier than a sack of wet cats about now. I can’t say that I blame her. If someone opened the door on me when I was goin’ at it, I’d be mad, too. Not as mad as if my partner took off running down the street afterward.” He gave me a dismissive look. “That was a fool’s move, Son.”

  “We weren’t partners.”

  He rested his forearms against his knees and turned his head to the side. “What were you?” He arched one of his wiry gray brows. “Lovers?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. If you’re not lovers, then you were partners.” He sipped his beer. “You were fucking, so you were one or the other.”

  “We weren’t fucking. We fucked. I painted my kitchen. It doesn’t make me a painter. We weren’t partners. I’m not going to argue about it.”

  “Well, you didn’t just poke your cock through a hole in the wall and have some random stranger comply with your sexual desires. You went to your neighbor’s house, who, might I remind you, you had already been intimate with. One thing led to another, and—”

  “I was there, Old Man. I know what happened.”

  “The two of you were sexual partners,” he said sternly. He chuckled a dry laugh. “Now, she’s moved on to bigger and better things. Just like all the others.”

  “She hasn’t moved on to anything or anyone.”

  “I thought you hadn’t spoken to her?”

  “I haven’t. She hasn’t gone anywhere since the stay at home order was given. If she hasn’t left, she hasn’t moved on.”

  His brows pinched together. “How the hell would you know what she’s doing unless you’re being a creepy neighbor?”

  “I’m attentive.”

  “When I was being attentive with that dipshit that lives across the street, you said I was a creepy neighbor.”

  I chuckled. “You were sitting inside with a pair of binoculars, peering across the street through the corner of the window with the drapes pulled aside.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have seen through the damned things,” he said. “I had to pull ‘em aside.”

  “You know what I mean, Old Man.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re just as creepy as me,” he scoffed.

  “She gets groceries delivered every other day,” I explained. “She never leaves. There’s nothing creepy about noticing that. Hell, it’s hard not to notice. I’m home most of the day.”

  “Most of the day?” He seemed surprised. “Where the hell are you going, other than coming here?”

  “Pratt and I have a few business ventures we’re trying out.”

  His posture straightened. “Business venture?” He faced me and scowled. “What in the fuck needs to be done while we’re knee deep in a pandemic? You don’t need money.”

  “Settle down, Old Man.” I set my empty beer bottle beside my chair and raised my open hand. “Everything will be just fine.”

  He glared at me for a moment before tossing me another beer. “How can you be so sure? If you’re coming in contact with people, you could be a carrier of this disease. From what they said, you might not even—”

  “They’re full of shit, Pop. Believe me. This is no different than the common flu. I don’t want to argue about it.”

  “Neither do I.” He sipped his beer. He looked at the bottle like something was wrong with it. “This fucker tastes funny. In fact, it tastes like nothing. They say that’s a sign of the virus. Taste buds go to hell.”

  “Everything’s a sign of the virus.” I rolled my eyes. “They want everyone to think they’re infected. If their numbers of infected citizens go up, it validates everything to the general population. At least the everyone that’s buying into this shit.”

  “Still think it’s a government conspiracy, huh?” He asked in a sarcastic tone. “You still trying to sell that story?”

  “You don’t have to agree with me, but this is a political move. I’m telling you. It is.”

  He gave me a look. “The Center for Disease Control, the World Health Organization, and every hospital in the free world that’s got an ICU filled with dying souls are all in on it together, huh?”

  I raised my index finger in protest. “I said I’m not going to argue about it.”

  “Neither am I. I’ll just go on the record as saying if you make me sick from your travels, I’ll smack you in the head with a hammer.”

  “You’re going to hit me with a hammer?”

  “Yep. Right between the running lights,” he said with a nod. “For being an idiot.”

  “Whatever, Old Man. This’ll be over as soon as they get the economy on the downturn. That’s all they’re after.”

  “Let’s change the subject back to the curly-headed gal next door.”

  “No.”

  “We can talk corona or curls, you pick.”

  I didn’t want to talk about either subject. I peered at the home across the street. Normally, there was activity in and out all day. There was no indication of human life, whatsoever. Frustrated with the entire situation, I stared blankly at the front door.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no vote.” He finished his beer and grabbed another. “There’s a possibility that the curly-headed gal is still interested. She’s just waiting for you to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” I shot him a glare. “For what?”

  “For taking off after the producer’s daughter.”

  “What else was I supposed to do? That was my re
putation—and a hundred grand—running down the street.”

  “I’m not saying what you did is wrong. I’m saying you need to apologize.”

  “If I didn’t do anything wrong, why would I apologize?”

  “Because, that’s what it takes to keep a woman happy. I was married to your mother for 50 years. During that time, I apologized more times than I can count. For the sake of this conversation, let’s call that number…” He sipped his beer for a moment. “18,000 times. Of those 18,000 times—”

  “What?” I glared. “18,000?!”

  He nodded. “Once a day for 50 years. That’s probably accurate. Anyway, of those 18,000, maybe a dozen of them were heartfelt apologies.”

  “A dozen out of 18,000?”

  “That’s just a guess, but I’m saying it’s pretty damned accurate.”

  “Why’d you apologize the other 17,988 times?”

  “Because that’s what it took to keep her happy. When a woman loves a man, and he does something that she takes exception to, it ignites a fire within her that can’t be extinguished by anything other than an apology.”

  “When a woman loves a man,” I said. “That theory doesn’t apply to me.”

  “It’s not a theory,” he said in a snide tone. “It’s a fact, and it applies, believe me.”

  “How so?”

  “You poked your dick in her, that’s how so. You can’t go poking your cock in a woman—especially your neighbor—and expect that she’s not going to develop feelings. Screwing a single woman is like feeding a stray cat a bowl of milk. They’ll keep coming back until the milk’s gone. Your milk will never be gone, because you live next door.”

  “I’m not interested in her beyond what’s already happened.”

  “Maybe you ought to be.”

  “She’s hot-headed.”

  He raised his hand to his chin and pondered my response before meeting my gaze. “Might be part Italian,” he said straight-faced. “Italian gals are like Mexicans. They’ve got tempers like drunken sailors.”

  “She’s not Italian.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Her name’s Anna Wilson.”