Kumquat

by Jeff Strand

  "Mickey. Fuckin' mouse name."

  "Maybe he was named after Mick Jagger," I say, fully aware that my words are failing to move the conversation forward.

  "He's too old to be named after Mick Jagger," Eddie tells me. Then he face falls. "At least I think he is. Jesus, that's all I need: Denise getting boned by somebody young enough to have been named after Mick Jagger."

  "You don't have to be very young at all to be named after--"

  "Anyway," says Amy, interrupting me, "you're not a piece of crap."

  "Prove it."

  Amy hesitates. "I can't actually prove it. But everyone falls on hard times."

  "Have you ever had to take your pregnant daughter to live with your ex-wife and her rich husband?"

  "No."

  Eddie looks at me. "Have you?"

  "No."

  Eddie seems disappointed by my answer.

  "I know this is rough," says Amy, "but you'll get through this. You need to focus on your daughter and her needs. This isn't about you."

  The cockroach is still trying to right itself. I guess the bartender is waiting for it to starve to death.

  "If you take me with you, I'll sit in the back the whole time," Eddie insists. "I won't say a word. I won't make fun of anybody's name. I'll ride in the trunk."

  "If this is about your pride, I don't see how riding in our trunk would help your situation," I say.

  Eddie gestures to the bartender, who pours him another shot of whiskey. Eddie downs it. "Just take me to a hotel, then."

  "Do you have money for a hotel?"

  "I'll sleep in the goddamn Dumpster behind the hotel. I don't care. I'll use a trash bag filled with used hypodermic needles as a pillow. I'll tear out my hair to use as a blanket."

  "This is getting kind of dark," I say.

  "Really, this isn't about you," Amy tells him. "It's about your new grandchild. You have to stop focusing on yourself and do what's right for your family. Riding in our trunk won't help anybody."

  Eddie picks up his shot glass. He licks out the last drop of whiskey from the bottom, then places the glass over the roach. "You're right. I know you're right. And I think I'm drunk enough to do the right thing now."

  "I'm glad to hear that," says Amy. "We'll take you back."

  Eddie nods. "Let me take a piss first."

  "Okay," I say. "You take that piss, and we'll be waiting."

  Eddie slides off the barstool, then stumbles over to the restroom.

  "He went into the ladies' room," Amy notes.

  "He'll be okay."

  Amy finishes the last swallow of her wine cooler. "Why is your drink doing that?" she asks.

  I glance down at my root beer. "I think that's the carbonation."

  "It looks like a bubbling tar pit."

  "I know."

  "Don't drink it."

  "I haven't been."

  "What's that floating in it?"

  "I don't know. I think it's some kind of bone but I just don't know." I push my drink aside. "Does it make us bad people that we're not bringing him with us?"

  "He's got a grandkid on the way. It would make us bad people if we did bring him."

  "Yeah, you're right. I just feel guilty. He's really upset."

  "He's lucky that Bonnie has such a nice place to stay. I get that it's embarrassing for him, but he could have much worse problems. What if they were out on the street? What if they didn't have somebody to take care of her? He should be grateful that his ex-wife is being boned by Mick."

  "I agree. He just looks like he wants to kill himself."

  We both sit there silently for a moment.

  "Okay, which one of us goes to make sure he's not killing himself?" Amy asks.

  "He's in the ladies' room and you're probably better at talking people out of suicide," I say, sliding off the barstool, "but if you see his penis, that may be what pushes him over the edge. I'll go."

  I hurry over to the restrooms. With a man's life at stake, I feel terrible for my momentary thought of I can't go into the ladies' room! That's madness! but I get over it and push open the door.

  Eddie is standing at the sink, the hook up to his throat.

  There's no time to talk him out of this. I have to move quickly. The only option that immediately occurs to me is to tackle him.

  He's in his sixties and I'm in my thirties, so in theory the physical advantage should be mine. But he's a Vietnam veteran and I type on a computer all day, so it actually doesn't surprise me all that much when I find myself careening toward the door of the restroom stall. I bash into it and fall to the floor.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Eddie asks.

  "You were going to kill yourself!"

  "I was not!"

  "Yes, you were! You were going to slit your throat with the hook!"

  "This thing isn't a razor, you idiot! I couldn't slit my throat with it!"

  "I didn't actually mean slit your throat! I meant jam it into your throat! You were going to jam it into your throat!"

  "I was not! It's not sharp at all! Do you know how hard I'd have to slam this thing into my neck to break the skin?"

  "Why was it up by your neck?"

  "Because I was scratching my chin! People do that! Chins itch sometimes! What's the matter with you?"

  I'm feeling very sheepish again. "Well...you acted like you might kill yourself."

  "I said I had to take a piss! This is where people go to take a piss!"

  Suddenly the stall door opens and a woman runs out. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me," she pleads, dashing for the exit. We let her go.

  I push myself back up to my feet. "Okay. I may have made a mistake. But you're in the ladies' room, so we've both made mistakes."

  "Are we?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh. Shit. No wonder there wasn't a urinal."

  We leave the restroom and return to the bar. "He wasn't going to kill himself with his hook," I tell Amy.

  "Well, I never thought he was going to do it with his hook," says Amy. "That's really messed up."

  "Can we just go?" I ask. I notice that the shot glass is still upside-down on the counter but the roach is gone. I don't want to know. The three of us head for the exit.

  * * *

  We pull back into Denise's driveway and get out of the car. When I reach out to shake Eddie's hand, I worry that he'll drop to the ground and latch onto my leg, but he doesn't.

  "I think this is going to be okay," he says. "I appreciate the ride, and I appreciate your unnecessary suicide intervention."

  "No problem. I hope everything works out."

  Amy gives him a hug. Eddie winks at us, and then walks over to the front door.

  I won't say that we necessarily rush back into the car, but we don't amble, either. And, yes, I glance in the rearview mirror a couple of times before we round the corner.

  * * *

  I'm exhausted. Amy got much less sleep than I did, so she's got to be exhausted, too. We really should just get a hotel for the night, but I don't want to be the one to suggest such a thing. I'm hoping that she'll suggest it. Maybe we've got a deep enough connection that--

  "I'm totally fried," Amy says. "Let's just stop at a motel and get a fresh start in the morning."

  * * *

  We don't discuss the issue of separate rooms. It seems like a silly waste of money. Surely it's fine for us to share a room. You can share a room and not violate the no-sex rule. Siblings do that all the time.

  We stop at the first motel that does not proudly advertise "Color TV" as an amenity. There is not a single cockroach, rat, or rabid dog in the lobby, so that's a good sign.

  "King or two doubles?" asks the guy at the front desk.

  I do not glance over at Amy for confirmation, because to do so would imply that I think there could be a different answer. "Two doubles."

  Amy pays for the room. We're on the second floor. We discuss our mutual aversion to people who take the elevator up a single floor, but after a few minutes of being unab
le to find the stairs, we become exactly the kind of lazy losers we have ridiculed.

  The room is actually pretty nice for such an affordable place. If there was a ghastly triple-murder, the housekeeping crew did a good job cleaning up after it.

  "Rock paper scissors for first shower?" asks Amy.

  "Nope. You can have it."

  "Thanks!" She takes her bag with her and retreats into the bathroom. I sit down on my bed and turn on the television. There's an ad for pay-per-view porn, which I very much doubt we will be watching. I switch to the National Geographic channel.

  I hear her turn on the shower.

  She's naked in there.

  Jesus, what am I, a hormonal fourteen-year-old boy? I've had sexual intercourse before. I should be able to handle the idea of Amy taking a shower without going all horndog.

  She takes a very long shower.

  Finally, the water turns off, and a few moments later, the door opens. Steam billows out. Amy emerges.

  Her nightgown was clearly not intended for seduction. It's plain, worn, frayed, and kind of baggy. She still looks absolutely gorgeous.

  She smiles at me. "Your turn."

  The hot shower feels fantastic. My thumb cut stings when the water hits it, but otherwise, it's pure bliss. I didn't even get all that grimy, but I think I perspired a lot today. I lather up.

  I notice that a specific region of my body is receiving a much more thorough soaping-up than if I were, say, showering for a day at work. Not that my usual bathing process is lacking, but there's typically only one round of lathering.

  It doesn't hurt to be extra-clean, just in case.

  Nothing is going to happen.

  We've already discussed that nothing is going to happen. I'm certainly not going to make a move. Our adventure thus far has largely been one catastrophe after another, so she's probably completely non-horny. This extra soaping effort is all for naught.

  Maybe I don't even want this to happen yet. What if she's disappointed? Though I am an attentive and grateful lover, I do have ongoing issues with my motor skills. I like to believe that I am reasonably competent, but I also know that we won't be going at it with such godlike bravura that the people in the next room ask us to teach classes.

  Honestly, I'm still kind of scarred from my last experience.

  (Mentally scarred. Physically scarred would be much more impressive.)

  * * *

  Karen was on top, moving slowly. We'd been doing this for a couple of minutes when she looked down at me and said, "I'm bored."

  "Bored with our relationship?"

  "No. Bored now."

  "Now?"

  She nodded.

  "Oh. Uh, okay. Should we...I mean, uh, do you want to pick up the pace?"

  Karen shrugged. "I've been setting the pace the whole time. I think that part's okay."

  "Do you want me to play with your breasts?"

  "Yeah. Try that."

  I did. Her breasts were large and firm, but with nipples that never seemed willing to fully commit. I could quickly tell that even with both thumbs working, this wasn't doing the trick.

  "Sorry, but I'm just really bored," she said. "I'm not trying to be mean or anything. We've always said that we should be completely honest with each other, and honestly, I'm bored."

  "No, no, honesty is good."

  "Let's just watch some TV."

  "What if I rolled you over?"

  "I guess we could try it."

  Karen dismounted and rolled onto her stomach. I don't know how it works for other guys, but for me, being told "I'm bored" has a direct negative impact on my erection. At least it did that one time. Perhaps I'd eventually get used to it.

  I tried to forge onward, but I quickly realized that since she found the whole experience rather dull while I was actually inside of her, waiting around for me to achieve re-entry was not going to boost her interest level.

  "What do you want to watch?" I asked, picking up the remote control.

  "Is The Colbert Report on?"

  "I think so."

  "Let's watch that."

  I turned on the television. "So we're breaking up, right?"

  "I don't know. Yeah, I guess we probably should."

  "Okay."

  "Do we have to make a big production out of it? Could you maybe just go home, and then maybe just not call me anymore?"

  "I can do that."

  I felt like I wanted to get in some sort of mean-spirited dig, like "You weren't exactly a hellcat yourself," but...no. That's not what I do.

  And so I left.

  * * *

  I'm almost positive that my experience with Amy wouldn't be like that, but it does make me think that we should wait until she's more invested in me.

  Honestly, the smart thing to do would be to masturbate. Get it out of my system.

  But what if I step out of the bathroom and she greets me in the nude? I'd regret having just masturbated. Her feelings would be hurt when I couldn't get hard right away, and I'd have to tell her the reason, and then she'd think I was some deviant who couldn't stop himself from whacking it in the shower.

  I'm a mature adult. I can handle the sexual tension.

  I'll sleep much better without it, though.

  She is not going to greet me in the nude. This is not a pay-per-view movie. Nothing is going to happen between us tonight.

  If that's the case, then some sort of release is a fine idea.

  To jerk off or not to jerk off?

  I'm so turned on right now that I could probably go for a second round in record time, in which case she might not even notice that I'm in recovery mode.

  But what if she wants to go at it multiple times? I'll be one short. If we're going to run a marathon, I don't want to have already run a hundred meter dash.

  It's very possible that I'm overthinking this.

  Okay, here's what I'll do: I will not take this opportunity to masturbate. If I discover later that my case of blue balls is interfering with my ability to fall asleep, then I'll return to the bathroom and discreetly finish myself off.

  Perfect. Masturbation plan acquired.

  I rinse off and put on my pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. I brush my teeth, swish some mouthwash, make sure my hair looks nice, and then walk out of the bathroom.

  Amy is in her own bed, asleep.

  I turn off the television. She's snoring, but it's a very soft, adorable snore. I want to kiss her on the forehead. I won't, though, because she might open her eyes just in time to see me hovering over her and scream.

  I get into my own bed, and I quickly fall asleep as well.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "That's one hell of a salmon."

  --Exit Red, Season 2, Episode 11

  (also Season 4, Episode 7)

  Somehow we are able to get through our free continental breakfast without any mishaps or wacky hijinks. We each have a non-descript bagel, some non-descript scrambled eggs, and some non-descript toast and then we're back on the road. We have less than five hours to drive until we reach Providence.

  "It feels good to have my brain working again," says Amy.

  "Yep. And I think today will--" I stop talking as my cell phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket, keeping my eyes on the road, and check the display.

  Aw, crap.

  "Dude, what the fuck?" asks Craig when I answer.

  "I am so sorry. It's been crazy."

  "So crazy you can't give your fucking roommate a little peace of mind? Do you think I like sitting up all night worrying about you? Do you think it's a hobby of mine? Couldn't even send a fucking text message, huh? One fucking tiny fucking little fucking text fucking message. Do you know how many characters it would have taken to send me a text message to let me know that everything was fine? Two. Two fucking characters. 'O' and 'K.' That's it. 'OK.' You could be chased by dinosaurs through a burning forest and still have time to text 'OK.'"

  "If that were happening, I wouldn't be okay."

  "Is this a fuck
ing joke to you?"

  "No. I'm sorry."

  "It's like you have no regard for my feelings. I kept you calm when you thought you were having a stroke, and this is the way you treat me."

  "You know, if you texted me first, I'd reply."

  "That's not the fucking point. I shouldn't have to remind you."

  "Okay. It won't happen again."

  "Uh-huh. Sure. Are you having fun?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. I've gotta go."

  "I promise I'll call you tonight," I say.

  "Oh, by the way, Margaret is living with us now. Her kids have your room."

  "What?"

  Craig hangs up.

  "Angry roommate again?" Amy asks.

  "Yeah." I decide that the issue of Margaret and her kids is one that can wait until I get back.

  I give Gigi a call and am relieved to get her voice mail. I leave her a message saying that everything is okay, then I tuck the phone back into my pocket. I wait a moment, thinking that she'll call me right back and I'll further entangle myself in the web of deception, but my phone remains silent.

  "And now our adventure can resume," I tell Amy.

  She smiles. "So let's talk. Tell me about your parents."

  "Well, they're still together, believe it or not. They live in Vermont. My dad sells electronics and my mom's a pharmacist."

  "Do you talk to them often?"

  "Yeah, pretty often," I say. Although maybe I don't. I guess I only talk to them on the phone every month or so and see them at Christmas. Am I the kind of guy who takes his parents for granted? Dammit. I hope Amy doesn't delve into this issue further.

  "So...once a week?"

  She's delving. Argh.

  "Not quite that often."

  "You don't have to share if this is a touchy subject."

  "No, no, it's not touchy at all. It's actually just kind of uninteresting. I mean, not that my parents are uninteresting, I'm not trying to say anything like that, they're actually very interesting people in their own way, and in other people's way too, they're definitely not boring, it's just that I'm in Florida and they're all the way over in Vermont and we don't see each other that much, or, you know, talk on the phone that much, even though that, you know, kind of makes distance irrelevant. I call them about once a month."