Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  Tanya shook her head slowly, almost robotically, refusing the money. Her eyes darted toward the wall and then back at him, at the floor and then back at him. “Not sure how it works in your world, Mr. Palmer, but I can’t take gifts or tips from a customer. It would cost me my job—which I can’t afford to lose, not in this crumbling economy. Besides, I’ve gotta say, without apologizing for my choice of words here: I feel kind of insulted, cheapened, even, by your proposal.”

  Bryant’s eyes rounded as the tension escalated. “My deepest apologies, Tanya. I meant no disrespect, I assure you. I just can’t believe—forgive me for crossing a line here—that someone as friendly and pretty and well spoken as you could settle for a job as seemingly mindless and unfulfilling—and low paying, I presume—as this. For Christ’s sake, it’s like having a young Jaclyn Smith fixing my drain. Doesn’t fit.”

  Tanya listened to his explanation without interrupting, her face showing neither frustration nor irritation at his clumsy flattery. She combed back her hair with her fingers, remaining demure. “Well, Mr. Palmer, it seems to me you have a distorted perception of what a modern woman should be. Not all of us want to live the life of pampered, self-indulgent needy girls or corporate yes-men. Speaking for myself, I’d prefer to feel that I’ve really worked for my money. Really sweated. Got my hands dirty and didn’t have to be repeatedly checking myself in the mirror, appeasing some suit. Trying to perfect imperfection is pointless.”

  Bryant laughed. “I think you’re oversimplifying how men think of women, how the world thinks of them.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Palmer, because I’ve got to go. Your faucet is fixed. While I appreciate the stimulating conversation,” she said, “I have several stops to make before day’s end.”

  While Tanya gathered her supplies, Bryant undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and became fidgety; his hands couldn’t stop touching his cuff-links, his shirt collar, or his lapels. “Listen, Ms. Tanya, I—”

  “Please, Mr. Palmer, my name is Tanya,” she said, moving down the hall on the way out. “It’s Saturday. I’d like to get home before dark, and my pager just went off again.”

  Bryant came up alongside her and impeded her path. “Please, Tanya, I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I was just hoping to establish a dialogue with you and went about it the wrong way. Actually I admire your career choice. I’m obviously attracted to you and I’ve done more harm than good in presenting myself. Your beauty, your aura, has knocked my self-assuredness off balance. I’m really a decent guy, you know, on the brink of divorce or not.”

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Palmer,” she said, slipping past him. “Make no mistake, I’m not interested. Not in the slightest. I have a serious boyfriend who’s no doubt twice the man you are. As I said, my friend taught me everything I know. He was very handy. I had my own place for a while and he always passed along useful tips. Somehow it turned into my profession. Working as a plumber has shown me how to be self-sufficient and intelligent in other ways, in ways that matter most—and how not to be dependent on men, or anybody else for that matter.”

  Seemingly impressed by Tanya and by the way she was carrying herself, Bryant smiled and continued listening. “My friend’s wife, before she died, was someone to admire. Someone that could dazzle in a dress yet change a tire without flinching, without thinking it beneath her, without being prissy. In your world, Mr. Palmer, with that goddess of a wife walking around—she’s damn near perfect, you should be worshipping the ground she treads—ladies with strong minds and a sense of individuality will always be nothing more than trophies, inferiors. Toys, if you will.”

  Bryant Palmer had been rendered speechless, listening to this woman calmly, astutely, incisively displaying poise, character, unprecedented guts. On the surface she was a sexy woman without manicured fingernails, overly styled hair, lipstick, or other enhancements. But as regarded brains, intellect, useful knowledge and sheer articulation, she was not to be underestimated, which apparently Bryant Palmer, whether he would admit it or not, had done at the outset. “Well, Tanya, I must say I’m in awe. I wish you worked for me. You would work circles around my secretary.”

  “You stand corrected, Mr. Palmer,” Tanya retorted, her voice rising a notch. “You see, already you think of me as a secretary, a mindless clerk. The truth is: I could run your company. You know, you men have always done all in your power to subjugate us women. To keep us from shattering your expectations. As I see it, there has always been this dense, suffocating wall of vapor between men and women. The only way to break through it, or attempt to break it down, is to demonstrate on our own what womanhood can be, rather than end up as some empty-headed cupcake.”

  “I think you’ve made your point,” Bryant said in a monotone, and becoming somewhat irascible, “though you’re barking up the wrong tree. I never thought of you in the manner you’ve suggested. I never passed judgment. I merely found it interesting—peculiar, if you will—to have come across a woman so content, so comfortable with not being a conventional woman.”

  Tanya went through the doorway and stood on the front step, where, placing her toolbox on the ground, she breathed easy, relaxing. “Parting thoughts for you, Mr. Palmer. If you don’t mind. I’ve already gone against the rules of conduct so I may as well follow through.”

  “By all means,” Bryant said, leaning against the door frame, sweat darkening his white button-down shirt.

  “When you opened the door to let me in earlier I saw the look on your face, the thoughts your eyes were conveying, your body language, the way you swallowed as you gazed at me, and how red your face became. I believed then, as I do now, that you were smitten. While most women would be flattered to be admired so overtly, I got the sense that you have given almost every pretty woman that look, and that that, by your standards, is enough to charm them, win them—own them. Your apparent wealth probably softens their inner shell, I bet. Anyway…”

  Bryant was squinting, listening, and fingering the ring on his middle finger, occasionally touching his earlobe—nervous gestures, no doubt. Tanya kept going. “My point is, if every day you had looked at your soon- to-be ex-wife like that, she wouldn’t have filed for divorce. I mean, a woman like that—any man would do all in his power to have her and to keep her—to cherish her. But not you, Mr. Palmer. Why is that?”

  Bryant crossed his arms again. “How presumptuous, Tanya, to suggest that the separation is my fault.”

  “Tell me, then, Mr. Palmer, what happened?”

  “Well,” he mumbled. “Well, it’s complicated. More than you know.” “

  The court has adjourned,” Tanya said, starting to leave.

  Bryant Palmer watched her walking away. A few minutes later he grabbed his cell phone and dialed the stored number. “Yes, hello, this is Bryant Mills. I’d like a girl for tonight.”

  A pause as he listened to the person on the phone. “Yes, I know, I typically ask for blondes, but I’m entitled to switch-up from time to time, aren’t I? I’m the client, my man. Make it a brunette with long, wavy hair; long legs; shapely figure (strong-looking); D-cup; no heels, work boots instead. Shoot for eight o’clock. Hundred-dollar bonus if she gets here at least thirty minutes early.”

  Miranda came out of the bedroom. She was fully clothed, made-up immaculately. She saw Bryant standing with his phone clutched in his hand, his arms resting at his sides, his back to her. “Why you make your situation more difficult, Bryant, I’ll never understand. You should be following the doctor’s orders. Whether we separate or not. What you’re doing solves nothing.”

  She noticed Bryant squeezing the phone in his hand, applying pressure, staring at the floor, as if drained of life. “You’re better off staying out of it at this point,” he mumbled, without turning to face her. “Damage is done.”

  “How many times must you be told that supplements can help, if you would only give it a chance? What’re you so afraid of?”

  Bryant looked up at the ceiling. “Nothing. I fear nothing
, you pain in the... I’m just not surrendering my manhood to some pill, some experimental therapy. Too bad you can’t accept that, not even try at least.”

  “I can accept anything, Bryant. Anything except for your being obstinate, infantile, ignorant. I certainly do not agree with the ridiculous lengths you’ve been going to, all to avoid reality. Forcing me to leave you. And I’m sure you can’t perform with other women either. I can’t imagine what goes on, since you can’t get it up. Though what should I care, it’s too late to mend our wounds.”

  Bryant placed his phone on a nearby table and turned around, his face pale, withdrawn, glistening with perspiration. “Damn it, Miranda, I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, I really am. But for the first time in a long time…I started to function again. I felt it. Don’t spoil it for me.”

  Miranda was taken aback. “Spoil it?” she said, her higher tone somewhat raspy. “What nerve! You took the supplements, I guess?”

  “No, Miranda. Not in a million years. Get off it, will ya? Never bring it up again. Are you going to hound your next husband this much?”

  Miranda shook her head in disgust, in utter mortification, as she pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket. “So, tell me, then, what have you done differently than before?”

  “Well… A liar I’m not. A liar I’ll never be. The truth is: Her name is Tanya.”

  Miranda wiped her moist eyes. “You slept with this Tanya?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. She wasn’t interested in me. But all I had to do was look at her. Watch her. Talk with her. And like I said…I… I felt it get hard.”

  As Bryant and Miranda stood facing each other, sunlight streaming through the windows and spreading about the room, silence permeated everything like an all-enveloping, never-dissipating vapor.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A versatile and diversified writer, David Boyle has written three short story collections, published by independent presses. His most recent compilation is Truth Hurts (Adelaide Books, 2018). Five of his stories have been adapted to film. In 2014 four stories from his book Abandoned in the Dark (Dark Ink, an imprint of AM Ink Publishing, 2012) were made into a feature-length anthology film of the same name. Though he earned his readership by writing reality-based dark fiction, Boyle has gained a reputation for literary stories, essays, articles, aphorisms, reviews, interviews, analyses, travel writing, reportage, and poems, a good number of which have appeared in both print and online magazines as well as in anthologies. Discover David Boyle: www.facebook.com/authordavidboyle.