The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Ever met an Italian named Wilson?”

  “Her mother’s maiden name might have been Spaghetti or Rigatoni, or something.” He finished his beer and grabbed another from the cooler. “You never know.”

  “Can we give this a rest?” I asked.

  “Not much else to talk about,” he said. “Talking about the virus pisses you off.”

  “There’s plenty to talk about,” I argued.

  “Let’s talk about the Rourke legacy. You’re my only child, and it’ll die with you if you don’t get busy and have some kids. Whether it happens in my lifetime or after I’m long gone, it needs to happen.”

  I spit beer across the porch. “I’m not having kids with my neighbor.”

  “She’s the only one I can think of since your ex-wife that you’ve had sex with more than once.” He grinned a cheesy smile. “She sounds like a prime candidate. You said she owns her own car dealership, so she’s got—”

  “She tricked me,” I replied. “The second time. I wasn’t planning on—”

  He burst out into a laughing fit. “She duped you into having sex?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Nobody’s ever tricked you into anything. Not even once,” he argued. “Give that some serious thought before you try to argue it.”

  I couldn’t argue it.

  He was absolutely right.

  Anna

  Elbow deep in a bag of Chex Mix and halfway finished with my second bottle of champagne, I watched intently as the governor gave a televised statement as to why ninety percent the state’s many golf courses were closed.

  I hoped that one day I would be able to get out of bed and not watch the news. I desperately needed to find a way to move forward with living my life—even if I had to make changes while I was still sheltering in place.

  I had an unhealthy obsession with knowing what was happening regarding everything that was COVID-19 related.

  There had to be a way to find a balance. At the moment, nothing in my life was balanced. I was living a life of extremes. Overdrinking, gorging myself with junk food, and sleeping less than I had since college wasn’t healthy, and I knew it.

  Change, however, was not coming easily.

  I stared blankly at the television after the press conference was over, wondering what the next news highlight was going to be. They hadn’t updated the death total for the United States yet, nor had they shared the new total for infected residents in the state of California.

  I wondered how things could ever get back to normal. They were now saying that a second infectious wave would hit the United States in 8 or 9 months. According to the CDC, the vaccine for COVID-19 wouldn’t be available for use on humans for another 18 months. By that time, it was probable that they would need another vaccine, altogether.

  I feared my life would continue the same pattern of deterioration until I was in so deep that I could never dig my way out. Like the dirty dishwater draining from the kitchen sink after a holiday family feast, the Cheetos, empty champagne bottles, and my tired sunken eyes would eventually be sucked into downwardly spiraling vortex. I’d, of course, go right along with them, never to be seen again.

  All that would be required to set the event in motion was for someone to pull the plug.

  I needed to develop a new routine. A schedule that included exercise, eating properly, and keeping my mind occupied with work would be a good start. For now, my only chance at a normal slice of life would be my daily meetings with Marge. Not that shouting halfway up the block at a stranger was normal.

  Maybe it was the new normal.

  Nearly comatose from my early morning news intake, I finished the bag of Cheetos and washed it down with the bottle of champagne. While I considered getting up from the sunken couch cushion, my phone pinged.

  I had no idea where it was.

  Following a frantic 10-minute long search, I found it in the kitchen amidst the previous night’s Milano cookie wrappers and a weeks’ worth of empty orange juice cartons.

  A message from Braxton illuminated the screen. Beyond frustrated with him, but eager to see what he had to say, I tapped the text with the tip of my finger and opened it.

  Sorry about how things unfolded the other night. I’d like to extend an olive branch. No games. No BS. Only a heartfelt apology. Let me know.

  I quickly typed my response. Before I pressed send, I read the message to make sure I didn’t sound like an asshole.

  I’m not opposed to an in-person heartfelt apology, but I’ll only accept it after you’ve been home for 14 days. I can’t take any chances on being infected. I doubt you’ll be up for that, considering that you come and go like nothing’s going on. lmk

  I changed “lmk” to “let me know” and pressed send.

  Satisfied that I’d made my point about my beliefs regarding his lack of compliance with the stay at home order, I clutched my phone and paced the floor. After an hour passed with no reply, I took a shower.

  The next two hours passed at the pace of a foreign language documentary.

  I checked my watch every five minutes, for an hour. Then, every ten minutes or so for the following hour.

  The remaining thirty minutes passed one moment at a time, with me staring mindlessly at my phone as the seconds ticked away. Finally, four o’clock arrived.

  Well, almost.

  To prevent myself from going completely bonkers, I stepped outside at ten minutes before the hour.

  I walked to the middle of the drive and peered across the street. Marge was down on her hands and knees, digging beside an Agave. Dressed in a pair of lime green pants and a short sleeved white blouse, she looked better than she did the day before.

  I was dressed in sweatpants, an old tee shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. My sweats were clean, but it was obvious that I needed to step up my late afternoon outfit game if I was going to compete with Marge.

  “Good afternoon,” I shouted.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Upon seeing me, she stood. “Good afternoon.” She gestured toward the cactus with the small shovel she held. “I was just killing some time. This agave needed some attention.”

  “This place is so weird,” I said. “Nobody has grass in their yards. Only rocks and cactus.”

  “Grass won’t grow,” she said with a laugh. “It needs rain.” She gazed up at the cloudless sky. “It never rains here.”

  “My mother said this place is the land of drought and dreams.”

  She smiled. “In other words, sunshine and happiness.”

  Although it was late afternoon, the sun felt brutal. I shielded my eyes from it and peered at Marge. “How long have you been out here?”

  She looked at her watch. “Oh, I don’t know.” She removed her gloves and tucked them into her armpit. “Maybe an hour.”

  I felt cheated. It was an hour that I could have had some resemblance of normalcy in my life. Talking to someone—anyone—was the only thing that was going to keep me sane throughout the pandemic.

  I was convinced of it.

  “An hour?” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Oh. I’ve been…” I paused, not knowing whether to reveal the entire truth of what I did with my time or give an abbreviated not-so-true version. I decided the truth wasn’t anything I wanted to share. “I’ve been picking up the house,” I said, smiling as I spoke. “The afternoon almost got away from me. It was just by a stroke of luck that I happened to notice what time it was.”

  “It seems that time stands still anymore.” She walked to the end of her yard and stepped into the edge of the street. “It’s not that I did all that much before any of this started, but now all I do is watch the news. I can’t stop.”

  I was relieved that I wasn’t alone.

  “I can’t, either,” I admitted. “Everything they say is frustrating, but I’m fascinated with it at the same time.”

  “I don’t think I’m fascinated too awful muc
h.” She lowered herself to the curb and sat down. “I feel like I need to know everything they know. I’m afraid they don’t know too much, though. At least not yet. They sure seem to contradict themselves a lot.”

  “I don’t think they know, either,” I said in agreement. “One day it’s this, the next day it’s that.”

  She gazed in my direction, not seeming to focus on much of anything. I wondered if she heard me. I walked across my yard, paused, and then sauntered the width of Braxton’s lot. I sat down at the near edge of his drive. Instead of being two hundred feet apart, we were now within talking distance.

  “I like your outfit,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded in my direction. “Yours looks comfortable.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you have family here?”

  “No,” I replied. “My parents came here on a whim after my father retired. We lived in Oklahoma.”

  “You’re married? Or, no?”

  “No.”

  “Do you work? Back home?”

  “I own a car dealership,” I replied in a pride-filled tone. “It’s a small one, but it’s all mine. I really like it.”

  “That sounds like fun. Was your father a car guy? Raymond was.” She grinned. “Corvettes.”

  “My father loved cars. He rebuilt them. He owned a body shop. He loved to make old cars look new again. Better than new. That’s what he always said.”

  She smiled. “That’s fascinating.”

  “I always thought so.”

  She nodded toward Braxton’s home, which was right behind me. “Have you met him yet? Braxton?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said very little.

  I forced a smile. “I have.”

  “He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

  I laughed just a little. “He is.”

  “He works with the movie stars. Did he tell you that?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up. “I’d sure like to see him end up with someone nice. A nice loyal woman.”

  I almost laughed out loud at the irony of her statement. I didn’t want to say anything to change her opinion of Braxton, so I refrained from making snide comments about loyalty.

  “I think he’s married to his work,” I said, giving Braxton the benefit of the doubt. “He probably doesn’t have time for a woman in his life.”

  She inched along the curb, stopping when she reached her driveway. “Did he tell you about that awful woman he was married to?” she asked. “It’s no wonder he hasn’t remarried.”

  I didn’t know about Braxton’s ex-wife, but I sure wanted to. I glanced over my shoulder, toward his front door. After seeing no movement inside the home, I looked at Marge.

  “No,” I said. “Well, not anything specific. Why?”

  “While he was away in the war, she got pregnant.” She glanced at his home and then at me. “It wasn’t his,” she whispered. “She was having an affair.”

  “Oh. My Gosh,” I gasped. “His wife got pregnant and it wasn’t his?”

  “She was quite the trollop. They argued about it each time he came home. He was over there for years and years, you know? When Raymond was away, in Korea, we wrote letters back and forth. That was enough, but I loved Raymond with all my heart. I don’t think a woman can do those things if she truly loves a man, do you?”

  Braxton’s lack of willingness to commit made a little more sense. “No,” I replied. “I don’t.”

  She checked her watch and then looked up. “Did he tell you about his brother?”

  He hadn’t mentioned any siblings. I shook my head. “I guess not.”

  “When Mister Rourke was in his military training, his brother died. An overdose. I suppose no one will ever know for sure if it was an accident or intentional, but it sounds like it might have been intentional. I can’t imagine how he continued after losing his only sibling and then his wife. He was committed to protecting this nation, that’s for sure.” She brushed the dirt from her gloves and then looked up. “He’s got more war medals than my Raymond. They compared them one day after dinner.”

  “Medals?”

  “From the war,” she said. “Mister Rourke’s quite the decorated veteran. That’s what brought him and Raymond so close. Them both being veterans, and all. Raymond in Korea, and Braxton in the Middle East. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? The war in the Middle East?”

  My opinion of Braxton hadn’t changed, but I couldn’t help but feel compassionate toward him for the losses he endured.

  “I think so,” I replied.

  “Do you have any siblings?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  “Two. Mary’s three years younger than me, and Mark is two years younger than Mary—according to him. It’s actually a little more than a year, but he says it’s two. Mary’s in Santa Monica, and Mark is down south, in Escondido. Raymond and I weren’t ever graced with children, though.” Her face grew long. “It wasn’t in our cards, I guess.”

  It was sad to hear that she didn’t have children. To mask my sorrow for her not having children, I expressed tremendous joy in her siblings. “So, your brother and sister are in California? Or no?”

  She laughed a little. “I forgot that you’re not from here. Escondido’s two hours south if there’s no traffic, and Santa Monica’s twenty minutes away, on the coast.”

  “Oh. That’s nice that they’re close.”

  “It is.” She checked her watch. “We don’t see each other as much as we should, but we talk often. When you get older, you’ll realize the value in having someone to talk to.”

  “I realize it now,” I said. “Right now.”

  “This is nice,” she said with a smile.

  “Is it dinnertime?” I asked.

  She brushed off the thighs of her pants. “It is.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Okay. Me, too.”

  “You should write Braxton a note and fold it into a paper airplane.” She made a motion with her hand as if throwing something. “Throw it on his porch. You don’t want to get too close to him, he’s still coming and going like he’s on a mission.”

  “I might do that,” I said.

  “Let me know if you do,” she said with a smile. “In case you can’t tell, I’m kind of a gossip.”

  “Whatever you’ve said stays with me,” I said. “I can assure you of that.”

  She chuckled. “I wish I could say the same.”

  Braxton

  I paced the kitchen floor. “Well, how many do we have left?”

  “Twenty-three,” Pratt replied. “Guy wants fifty. I can ship him the twenty-three, but I was thinking if we’re not going to be able to get any more, I might want to make a new ad and raise the price of the last bunch of ‘em. I could tell him we’re sold out, and then raise the price. What do you think?”

  “Twenty-three?” I asked. “That’s all we’ve got left? I thought we had about eighty of them yesterday when I left.”

  “Guy in New Jersey bought fifty last night,” he said. “He’s opening some kind of support shop, making masks for the hospitals up there. Setting up a production shop, basically.”

  “Sell him the machines at the price on the ad. If they’re listed for that price, we’re already committed.”

  In anticipation of a protective mask shortage—and the necessity to make an equivalent by hand—Pratt and I had purchased every inexpensive sewing machine we could get our hands on. We started with over 500 of them and were down to 23, in roughly two weeks. At $175 markup on each $90 machine, we’d made nearly $90,000 in profit.

  “Get your ass over here when you can,” he said. “I need to get a couple of wooden crates made of some sort.”

  “Ship the machines individually.”

  “We’ll get a break on freight if they’re packaged together in a crate.”

  “We figured individual shippi
ng, just ship them separately. It’ll be less hassle to haul them to UPS.”

  “Less hassle, but more in shipping costs,” he argued. “More shipping cost means less money in our pockets.”

  “I’ve got to get down to San Diego, I don’t have time to run and meet you right now.”

  “What’s in San Diego?”

  “Hap. He’s of the opinion that he’s sick. This is the third time. His taste buds weren’t working. His equilibrium was off. Now, he says he feels flush. It’s a new symptom every day.”

  “Why doesn’t he go get checked out?”

  “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital if there’s nothing wrong. So far, there’s been nothing wrong. All I need to do is go have a beer with him and tell him he’s fine.”

  “Were you there on Sunday?”

  “Just like always.”

  “Was he okay when you were there?” he asked.

  “He was.”

  “He just wants some company. He’s fine.”

  Pratt was right but arguing with my father was impossible. I needed to see him, reassure him he was fine, and have lunch with him.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “I need to satisfy him, though. Ship the machines individually.”

  “Tell the old prick I said hi. Oh, and tell him he cost us about $500 in profit.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  * * *

  I turned the lock and pushed open the door. “What the fuck are you doing, Old Man?”

  The living room was empty. I glanced toward the kitchen. “Where you at, Old Man?”

  His Cadillac was beneath the awning when I pulled into the driveway, so I knew he hadn’t gone anywhere.

  Unless someone gave him a ride.

  “Old Man?!” I shouted, making my way into the hallway. “You fall asleep?”

  I hoped that he didn’t get one of the men from the VFW to take him to the doctor. Short of my father, none of them could see well enough to tell a traffic signal’s color until they were in the middle of the intersection.

  I pushed open his bedroom door. “You fall asleep, Old—"