The Leisure Seeker

by Michael Zadoorian

  “Oh John, could you give me the keys?” I say sweetly. Without discussing the matter, John hands them over.

  When I stump into the office with my cane, the old man behind the counter just stands there staring at me as I walk up. He frowns and snorts, as if to say “This one’s ready for the glue factory.”

  I should tell you, I have no tolerance for staring, particularly with people my age, who love to act like the whole world is their television. It grinds me, especially since most of us spent our best years telling our children that it’s impolite to stare. I don’t know where this one gets off. He’s no prize, believe you me: greasy fishing hat, a forehead mole you could hang a hat on, and a face that looks like he’s been sniffing Limburger cheese for the past dozen or so years.

  I stare right back at him.

  “Hello,” he finally says, blinking. I guess I win.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, after a long pause. “We need a campsite for the night.”

  “All right,” he says, a low Texas growl to his voice. “We’re pretty open today. Anywhere in particular?”

  From what I could see, all the spaces look the same, a few trees here and there, but mostly flat and dry.

  “Near a shower facility would be good,” I tell him. I give him a twenty. He fills out a card, tears off part of that, and hands it to me with my change. Then he starts eyeballing me again.

  “Pardon me? Is there something wrong?” I say to him, huffy now, raring for it.

  “Are you ready?” he says, his voice gentler now.

  “Ready for what?” My hand tightens on the grip of my cane.

  “Ready to accept Jesus as your personal savior?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I say, too tired for this. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Never too late, you know.”

  “I know,” I say, making a break for the door, fast as I can haul myself.

  Once we find the site and I get John out of the van, he’s a little better. He can still set up the electricity. I watch him closely because I’m not sure when I’ll have to do it. If he gets worse as the trip wears on, it’ll be up to me. That is, unless I accept Jesus as my personal savior, then maybe He can do it.

  We are so pooped by the time we get settled that we both just conk out—John on the bed, me at the table after taking my meds. (I’m more comfortable sitting up sleeping these days. Lying down seems more of a commitment, fraught with responsibilities and forebodings.) It’s only 4:15 but it feels like it’s about 10:00 P.M. I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I do remember to turn a light on so we don’t wake up in the dark like last time.

  When I wake up, the air in the van is hot and still. I’m not in the dark, but I am alone. John is gone. I grab my cane, get myself up, and head outside, but he’s not sitting at the picnic table. He’s nowhere around. I start to panic.

  A few trailers are parked nearby, yet no one seems to be around. We’re only a short ways from the restrooms, so I head over there.

  “Is anyone in there?” I yell at the men’s room entrance. Nothing. I hobble on in. The place is deserted. Just concrete and wads of paper towel and the sour tang of urine.

  I head for the office, but it’s a good half block away. Along the way, every bad thing that could happen runs through my head—John walking along the highway getting hit by a car; John lost in the woods never to be found again; disoriented John picked up by strangers.

  I shuffle along until I get to the check-in office. I am already exhausted and ready to weep. Luckily, the Jesus fellow is behind the counter and while he does give me the stare again, he is at least civil.

  “Hello,” he says. His low-pitched voice now gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I have to be nice because he’s my only chance.

  “I was wondering if you’ve seen my husband pass by? He’s about six feet tall, a little hunched over, with a green shirt and a tan golf cap on?”

  Old Jesus just looks at me for a second. I think he’s going to give me his spiel again, but he doesn’t. “A man that fits that description passed by a short while ago.”

  “He did? How long?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes ago,” he says, his voice gaining a little speed now, sounding more human to me, which gives me a teaspoon of hope.

  “That’s him. Look, could you help me? He occasionally has little spells where he doesn’t know where he is. I’m afraid he’s going to get lost or hurt.”

  “Should I call the police?”

  “Let’s not do that yet.” I’ve had enough of the police for today. “Do you have a car? Maybe we could just drive around. He’s probably not far away.”

  Old Jesus looks highly alarmed at this idea.

  “I’m sure it won’t take long,” I say.

  “I can’t leave my post here. Can’t you just drive your camper?”

  I’m really starting to get scared now. “I can’t drive that thing. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  He thinks for a moment, and it looks like hard work for him. I want to smack him one, but he’s got to be the one to help me. There’s really no one else around. He’s silent for a good thirty seconds.

  “Please,” I say.

  Finally, he speaks. “I could see if Terry could drive you. He’s our groundskeeper. He’s got a truck.”

  “That would be fine. Please hurry.”

  Another bout of hard thinking. Finally, he picks up a phone and methodically punches in the numbers. Meanwhile, I’m picturing John walking around in traffic, horns blaring. I don’t think he’d be crazy enough to do that, but I just don’t know anymore. I watch Old Jesus’ face as he listens to the phone ring. It’s like staring through a screen door at an empty house. I hear someone answer at the other end.

  “Terry? It’s Chet at the office. There’s a lady here who needs some help. We were wondering—”

  He stops for a moment and listens. I can tell Terry is not cooperating.

  “I know. She says she needs help. I can’t leave the desk.”

  More talking. Finally, I pipe up. “May I speak to him, please?”

  Chet looks appalled at the idea. The phone has suddenly become like the desk. He can’t abandon it. Finally, I just grab it from him. “Hello, Terry?”

  There is a long pause and I think I’ve stumbled onto a cult of dim-witted Christians, but when Terry speaks, he sounds fairly normal. “Who is this?” he says.

  “Terry, I’m the woman who needs the help. This is an emergency. My husband is lost, and I’m afraid he’s going to be hurt. He has spells where he’s disoriented. Could you just please come here? I just need you to drive me around the area. I’ll be happy to pay for your gas and time.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute or so, ma’am.”

  Sure enough, within a minute, a little maroon pickup truck with gold hubcaps rumbles up to the door of the office and honks. I hear a deep whomp-whomp rhythm vibrating from the radio.

  “Thank you very much,” I say to Chet, who is now gazing off into space. Actually, I’m hoping he’ll say something spiritually encouraging right now because I could use it, but he obviously doesn’t have it in him. He just turns and stares at me.

  The music cuts off. I head outside expecting to have to raise myself into the passenger side of the pickup truck, but it is actually quite low. As I twist myself in, I realize I’m getting in a truck with a complete stranger. I look at who’s driving and decide that this is probably where most abduction witness testimonies begin. She never should’ve gotten into that truck with that man.

  Terry, I should say here, scares the living hell out of me. He’s around twenty years old, the last remnants of acne across his jutting cheekbones, with long dishwater brown hair streaming out from under a black watch cap that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a month of Sundays. His T-shirt is black, his baggy pants are black (with chains hanging from them), the fingerless glove on his right hand is black—everything he’s wearing is black. The front of his shirt has a greenish photograph
of a downright evil-looking man with long puke-colored hair and a powder white face with a bloody X scratched into his forehead. Underneath the picture, it says:

  100% HARDCORE

  FLESH-EATING

  BLOOD-DRINKING

  LIFE-SUCKING

  ZOMBIE

  HELLBILLY!

  Yet once I get past all that, I give him a better look and I can’t help but be reminded of my Kevin when he was that age: trying so hard to look tough, but betrayed by the gentleness of his eyes. The truck smells of cigarettes and perspiration and the artificial strawberry scent from the flaming pentagram air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

  “I’m Terry,” he says, holding out his gloved hand to shake mine. I notice his other hand has a word tattooed just below the knuckles. It says “O F F!”

  “Ella.” I shake his hand and try to smile. This is no time for me to be choosy. If Satan has decided to help me as opposed to what was back at the office, then so be it. Though I think both would be well advised to reconsider their role models.

  “You’re sweating,” Terry says to me. It’s a strange thing to say.

  I touch my forehead and see that he is absolutely correct about this. “I’m worried about my husband.”

  “Sounds like Chester in there wasn’t so much help,” he says, pulling at the random straggly hairs on his chin.

  I look at this child. “No, I can’t say that he was,” I say sharply. “Are you going to be any help?”

  He purses his lips together in an exaggerated manner and nods. “We’ll find the old dude,” he says, as we pull out onto I-40.

  Like I haven’t seen enough of this goddamned road today. A half mile up, we see someone in a beige jacket walking on the shoulder.

  “Is that him?” says Terry, pointing.

  “No,” I say. “John’s got a green shirt on.” I can see through the knuckle holes on his glove that Terry has something or other tattooed on his right hand. It occurs to me that if Terry ever wants to get another job, having things tattooed on his hands is not going to be considered an asset by most employers.

  I sigh and I’m afraid I do it a bit louder than I mean to. Terry looks at me, and I’m surprised by the concern in his voice. “We’ll find him. I’m telling you. It’s okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  It’s quiet in the truck for a minute. Terry turns to me and says, “My grammy had it, too.”

  “Had what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, half shrugging. “Whatever they call it. That dude’s name. The disease. She used to go walking around the neighborhood. She had to go into a nursing home. She was dead in a year.” Terry softly exhales. “She was the only one in my family worth a shit.” He looks into the rearview mirror, then at me. “Sorry.”

  This young man obviously has me mixed up with some old lady who doesn’t cuss like a longshoreman. I look at him and try to smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “It’s an emergency.”

  I scan the side of the road. There are a few little stores scattered here and there. He could be at any of them. We pass an old Standard gas station, then a bright-painted sign shaped like an ice cream cone that says DAIRY IGLOO. Off the road, a big penguin waves to us from the side of a white-painted cinder-block hut. People are gathered around it, either waiting in line or eating ice cream cones. A little farther from the place is a cluster of picnic tables. That’s where I see John. He’s sitting and eating a chocolate frozen custard.

  “There he is!” I yell. “Pull over.”

  “Where?”

  I point frantically to the right. “The ice cream place. Over there!”

  Terry steers us into the parking lot and we pull up almost right next to John. He looks at me. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize me since I’m in this strange little truck. I open the door and pull myself out.

  “John.” I walk as fast as I can over to him and throw my arms around him. “Jesus Christ, John.” I’m ready to start bawling right there at the Dairy Igloo. I squeeze John as hard as I can.

  “Ella?”

  I hold on to him for dear life. “I need you right now. I need you to stay with me. We don’t have that much time, John.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Ella.”

  I pull back from him and look him straight in the eyes. “Honey, you scared the dickens out of me.” People from the front of the Dairy Igloo are starting to look over at us now. I lower my voice.

  John licks at his cone, looks at me like this is no big thing at all. “I just decided to go for a walk.”

  “Oh, you just decided to go for a walk?” I am trying not to get mad now. I don’t want to yell in front of all these people. “John, do you have any idea how to get back from here? Do you know where you’re going at all?”

  He points back the way we came. “Back that way.”

  “Give me that thing,” I say, snatching the ice cream cone from his hand. I give it a lick. It’s sweet and cold and tastes wonderful and it makes me start to cry. I sit down on the bench and can’t seem to stop crying.

  John puts his arm around me, gathers me close. “What are you crying for?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Just then, Terry steps from his truck and approaches us.

  “Who’s this?” says John, suspiciously.

  It takes me a moment to compose myself. I hand John back his ice cream cone. Snuffling, I pull a tissue from my sleeve, blow my nose. “This is Terry, the young man who helped me find you.”

  “Hmph,” grunts John. He gives Terry a look like he might give a convicted felon, which Terry may be, but I doubt it.

  I blow my nose again. “Terry,” I say, my voice cracking, “may we buy you an ice cream?”

  He nods timidly. I pull out a twenty from my purse. “Could you get me one, too?”

  Terry flashes a sad smile at me, far too sad for someone his age. I sit there next to John, my arm around his waist.

  A few minutes later, Terry comes back with two chocolate-vanilla swirls and a handful of my change. I take my cone, then close his hand around the bills and coins.

  The glove is off now and I can finally read the tattoo on his right hand. It says “F U C K.” Now I understand what’s on his other hand.

  I know just what he means.

  That night, we go to bed early—no cocktail hour, no slide show, no TV. I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, then give us each a Valium. I hate those things, but tonight I need to be sure that John is going to sleep. I force myself to stay up until I can hear him snoring, then I lock the door and bolt it shut. I lie down next to him so he’ll have a harder time getting up without waking me up. Tonight I’m taking no chances.

  When I finally allow myself to relax, I’m not tired anymore. I start thinking about the kids. I meant to give Cindy a call today, but forgot in all the excitement. I think about Cindy’s job at Meijer’s Thrifty Acres and how hard she works, how these big stores take advantage of their employees. So many extra hours and no extra pay. I think of how tired I know she is, getting up at 4:00 A.M. every day. Then I start thinking about my old job, the one I had when we first got married. It was just a salesgirl position at Winkleman’s, but I liked being around people all day, loved the fashions, and we sure needed the money. When Cindy came along, I quit, thinking that some day I’d go back, but it never happened. John wouldn’t have gotten on his high horse about having a “working wife,” but it was assumed that I would be there to raise the kids and that was fine with me.

  As the years passed, I would think about going back to work now and then, but there was always plenty to do around the house. I remember seriously considering it one day when Kevin was a toddler and being an absolute terror around the house. (He would eat everything in sight—bugs, cleaning supplies, plants, medicine—whatever it was, it went into his mouth. The poison control center knew me by name.) That child ran me ragged. And no sooner would I get him settled than Cindy would come home from school to get him all riled up again. Hav
ing a job would have been nice around that time.

  I never meant to bury my talent in a napkin. The fact was, I never really knew if I had a talent for anything, except for being a wife and mother. I do know I loved doing the displays at the store. Sometimes I’d even get a chance to do a window. I always had a flair for that sort of thing—putting colors together, fabrics, textures, all of it. At the store, everyone was always pleased with what I did. Mr. Biliti, the manager, a thin man with a moustache and a little dandruff problem, always told me what a good job I had done. I remember his disappointment when I announced I was pregnant. He smiled and congratulated me, and immediately began to ignore me. Before long, it was like I didn’t even exist. He knew what would happen. He worked in a women’s store, after all.

  To be truthful, I rarely thought about any of them after I left. I was happy to be where I was, happy to be a mom, with a house and a husband. And John was a good husband. We made a good home for our children. We both came from homes ruled by tyrants and adulterers and martyrs, where we lived with constant arguments and beatings, so we decided that whatever our parents did, we would do the opposite. All in all, it was a pretty good plan.

  We always looked at our marriage as a team. Neither one of us is more important. I never waited on John hand and foot, like some women. If he wanted a sandwich, he could jolly well get up and make it himself. We have always been very modern that way. This is marriage, not indentured servitude.

  Which is why his remarks lately about the house being “his house” and everything else being purchased with “his money” have hurt me so. I know it’s the disease talking, that people like him start getting that way about money and such. Still, it used to be that he would never say anything like that to me.

  I’m not even sure he remembers that we’ve had two houses, one in Detroit before the one in Madison Heights. We, like most everyone else like us, moved out of Detroit a few years after the ’67 riots. It broke my heart to leave that house. We lived there almost twenty years. But things changed, neighborhoods changed. White people were scared, moving out by the swarm. There was blockbusting, real estate people knocking on your door telling you that “they” were moving into your neighborhood, spreading stories about break-ins and robberies. All that talk. That talk made me scared to walk around my own neighborhood.