They were quiet.
“No, listen,” Bob said wearily, “I’m the one who should be sorry, snapping at you like that. It’s just . . . well, I feel like you’ve got real possibilities, Todd. The makings of a serious person. It just has to be drawn out, that’s all. Or dragged out.”
“Could we listen to the radio for a while, you think?”
“Hey, Todd, look at that old red barn out there, will ya? See it out there? Isn’t that a beautiful thing? Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can picture an old, gaunt-looking farmer going out to that barn at four thirty in the morning to milk the cows, can’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Meanwhile his wife is in the kitchen fixing breakfast, a quiet dignified woman named Sarah.” He shook his head. “Take a real good look at that barn, Todd, because the next time you see it? The next time around? I guarantee, that old red barn will be an upscale furniture and gift shop. And you know what they’ll call it? The sons-a-bitches, you know what they’ll call that goddamn furniture and gift shop? ‘The Old Red Barn.’”
They drove along.
Todd asked again if they could listen to the radio.
“Nah. You want some music? Here you go. Remember this one?” He sang, “Where have all the flowers gone, long time pa-assing . . . Sing along, Todd, come on. Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago . . .”
Todd wasn’t singing.
Bob looked at him. “Aw, Jesus, you’re not crying, are you?”
Todd turned away, to his window.
“Listen, do me a favor,” Bob said. “I got a pack of Camel Filters in the glove box. Get ’em for me, will you? Can you do that for me, please?”
Todd opened the glove box, cried “Ahh!” and slammed it shut.
“What’s the matter? You okay?”
Todd sat there staring straight ahead, breathing fast and shallow.
“Oh, hey, listen,” said Bob, “I’m sorry, I forgot that was in there. Now, don’t start getting all worked up the way you do. I know what you’re thinking: the murder weapon. Right? Tell the truth, Todd. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
Todd nodded.
Bob said to him quietly, seriously, “You know what this is, Todd, don’t you? This is what your Indian friends would call a moment of truth.”
“Please let me out? Please, Bob? Robert I mean.”
“Now, listen to me, Todd. Listen carefully. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say I really did kill my wife, with that very gun. Shot her three times, right through her silly fucking heart, then cut her up into a dozen pieces, each in its own plastic bag, put all twelve bags into separate shoe boxes, and placed them in the trunk with all the other shoe boxes. Let’s say I’m that kind of a guy. That would put you in serious jeopardy right now, wouldn’t it.” He waited. “Todd? Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but here’s the thing. That leaves three more bullets in the gun, Todd. For either one of us.”
“I promise, I swear to God I won’t ever—”
“Tell anyone?”
“I swear to God.”
“Todd, you’re missing the point. Stay focused. This is important.”
“I want to go home.”
“I thought you were fed up. Thought you were going allll the way.”
“That was just . . . I was only . . .”
“Pretending. I know. But listen to me. Remember what I said earlier? About turning things around? About getting serious? Even with a name like Todd? Well, here it is, buddy. Here’s your chance. Don’t blow it.”
“Can’t we just . . . can’t we just . . . ?”
“Look. I know you’re scared. Believe me, I know all about it. Right now you’ve got this cold, hollow spot in the pit of your tummy and your heart is beating like a little bunny rabbit’s—but think about it, Todd. You’re in the driver’s seat—so to speak. Just open the glove box, grab the gun and shoot me, steer the car into the breakdown lane, apply the brakes, and put it in park, simple as that. What is it Nike says? ‘Just do it.’”
“Please? Can’t we just—”
“Shut up. Now listen to me, you fucking dweeb, I’m going to kill you, do you realize that? I’m gonna shoot you dead with that gun unless you stop me.” He began slowly leaning over in front of Todd, keeping one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road. “Here I am, Todd,” he said in a singsong, “reaching for the glove box . . .”
Todd sat there covering his face, rocking.
“Reaching for the gun,” Bob sang, “so I can shoot you, then stuff you in the trunk with Betty . . .”
“Can’t we just listen to the radio?”
Bob sat up straight again. He pulled off into the breakdown lane and came to a stop. “Get out of my car,” he said quietly, staring straight ahead.
Todd got out very quickly with his duffel bag and closed the door.
The car pulled away.
Todd watched it becoming just another car among all the others. Then, at a large enough break in the traffic both ways, he hurried all the way across, set down his duffel bag, and held out his thumb.
MADE FOR EACH OTHER
“Do you like my outfit, Ken?”
Barbie was wearing a yellow chiffon evening dress with lavender heels, long white gloves, and a sun hat.
“You look nice.”
“Oh, Ken, that’s so sweet.”
“What about my outfit?” he asked, dressed for a safari.
“You look handsome in a helmet.”
“Thanks. Go for a walk?”
“I would love to.”
They hopped along the carpet together.
“What nice weather we’re having,” Barbie remarked. “Don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh.”
Marcia told Randy, “No, have him say, ‘It’s always nice when you’re around.’”
“All right. Say again about the weather.”
“What nice weather we’re having, don’t you think?”
“It’s always nice when you’re around.”
“Oh, Ken, that’s so sweet.”
“Care to dance?”
“I would love to.”
They hopped in place, facing each other, tilting this way and that, Marcia humming a bouncy tune.
“You’re a good dancer, Barbie.”
“Oh, Ken, that’s so sweet.”
“You say that a lot.”
Barbie stopped dancing. “So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Don’t get mad.”
“Stop dancing, Ken.”
He stopped.
Barbie hopped up closer to him. “Will you tell me something, please?”
“What.”
“Do you love me or not?”
Ken turned this way and that.
“Well?” she said.
“Oh no, a tornado!” he cried, and was thrown to the ceiling. He landed on his back and lay there moaning.
“I asked you a question, Ken.”
“I think my back is broken.”
“Stop changing the subject. Do you love me or not?”
Ken managed to get to his feet. He looked at her. “Not,” he said.
Barbie stood there a moment. Then she said, “Oh . . . Ken,” and threw herself down on the carpet.
Ken leaned over her. “Barbie, listen . . .”
“You broke . . . my . . . heart,” she said through her tears.
“No, listen, you’re a doll, Barbie. You’re a doll, okay?”
Barbie stood up, sniffling. “Oh, Ken, that’s so sweet.”
“No, I mean you’re a doll, you’re made out of plastic, and so am I. We’re both just a couple of stupid little—”
Marcia swung Barbie at Ken so hard he flew out of Randy’s hand.
Randy looked at Marcia, who was kneeling there holding up Barbie like a weapon.
“You can’t do that, Randy.”
He carefully reached behind and picked up Ken, keeping an eye on Marci
a, who said again, slowly shaking her head, “You can’t do that.”
Randy held up Ken like a weapon. “Wanna bet?”
They knelt there, eyes locked.
Randy faked as if to swing, Marcia flinching. He smiled. She swung and caught him right across the smile with Barbie’s head. He cried out, dropping Ken, and put his hand to his mouth: blood. He showed Marcia his hand.
“Sorry. Would you hand me her hat please? It’s right there by your knee.”
Randy carefully dabbed a fleck of blood onto Ken’s mouth.
“What’re you doing?”
He set Ken on his feet. “You broke my lip, Barbie.”
“Well, you broke my heart,” Barbie replied, Marcia holding her upright on the floor again.
Ken began hopping slowly toward her. “It’s bleeding bad.”
“So is my heart, Ken.”
He kept coming. “I hate you.”
“You don’t mean that, I know you don’t.”
“Yes I do. I hate everything about you.”
“Ken . . .”
“The way you talk, the way you dress, the way you dance. You. Make. Me. Sick.”
“Ken, I’ve never seen you like this. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m going to kill you, Barbie. I’m going to yank your stupid little head off. What do you think of that?”
“Stay away from me.”
He kept coming.
Marcia told Randy, “Make him stop.”
“I’m trying to. Honest. I can’t. He’s alive!”
“Enough, Randy. Enough.”
“Tell him.”
“Ken, stop,” Barbie told him.
He kept coming.
“You’re a doll,” she told him.
“I’m a what?”
“A doll, Ken.”
He stood there, tilting to one side. “Oh, Barbie, that’s so sweet.”
Marcia sat back on her heels and looked at Randy.
“What,” he said.
“I hate you.”
“No, don’t. Come on. Look what you did to my lip.”
“Look what you did to them!”
“What’d I do?”
“Nothing, you just ruined everything, that’s all, the whole romance, it’s over!” She flung Barbie across the room, then covered her face and cried.
“Don’t, will you? Marcia? I’m sorry. Please?”
She kept on.
“I was jealous,” he told her, “Okay? Okay?”
Marcia slid her hands from her wet face and looked at him.
He looked down at the carpet.
“You were jealous?” Marcia said. “Of Ken?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t have to answer this, Randy, okay? But are you in love with Barbie?”
He looked at Marcia. “No.”
“So then . . . you mean . . . ?”
He looked down again.
“Oh,” she said, nodding slowly. “Hmm,” she said. “I see.”
He looked at her. “Can I say something? Promise you won’t laugh?”
Marcia promised.
He said to her, “It’s always nice when you’re around.”
Marcia burst out laughing.
Randy got up and ran from the room. She listened for the back door to open, then close. Poor Randy, she thought. I shouldn’t have laughed at him, that wasn’t nice. Or whacked him quite so hard.
She looked over at Ken. He was lying on his back, in his safari outfit. There was blood on his mouth, but he wasn’t being a baby about it: gazing straight up, smiling bravely.
THE MUMMY
I still haven’t cried. That’s not good.
It’s been snowing since this morning. I’ve closed the blinds, wrapped myself in an afghan, and hunkered down on the floor in front of the television. Boris Karloff is wearing a fez and a long, narrow robe. He doesn’t move his arms when he walks or allow anyone to touch him. When the professor offers his hand to shake, he stands there looking at it.
I called the office earlier and told Rhonda I wouldn’t be in, that I have a “stomach issue.” The truth is, I’m staying home waiting to cry.
Last night Jerry said to me, “Allen, I’ve met someone.”
I didn’t know what he meant. I said, “Oh? Who?”
“His name is Brian.”
We were doing the dishes. He was washing, I was drying.
“Brian,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, and explained what he meant.
Then I did have a stomach issue. I gave him back the plate he had just handed me, hurried to the bathroom, and threw up in the toilet.
Jerry stood in the doorway. “Allen, I am so . . . so . . .”
I stepped over to the door and closed it in his face, locked it, and returned to the toilet. I was honestly wishing I could throw up my heart along with the mac and cheese we’d eaten twenty minutes earlier. When I was through I washed up at the sink. Then I held on to it with both hands, head bowed, and waited for the salty waters to come pouring forth.
I’m still waiting. Jerry’s been gone since last night and I’ve yet to shed a single fucking tear. That’s not good. That’s not healthy.
The movie shows a close-up of Boris Karloff staring into the camera with his mesmerizing eyes.
Oh, go away, you silly man.
Know who would love this movie? Jerry. He would have taken this movie very seriously. Boris Karloff returning from the dead to search for his reincarnated girlfriend—Jerry would have found that incredibly romantic: Think of it, Allen, his love has lasted through thousands of years.
And yours lasted less than three, you shit.
You shit.
The truth is, Jerry was a lot of talk. I’m not saying he was insincere. I’m sure he meant every loving thing he ever said to me, just as I’m sure he means every loving thing he’s telling this Brian person now.
Boris Karloff finally meets Helen. She’s the one. And when he gets her in an ancient Egyptian eye-lock, she recalls in a murky way what they had together twenty-seven hundred years ago. I do a quick calculation: if each of her incarnations lasted an average of seventy years, she’s been through something like forty other lives since she and Boris were an item.
I’m a cost accountant for Whitney Imports.
And yet he still reaches her, through all those other lives, Jerry would be saying. That’s how strong their love was, Allen. That’s how powerful.
And I’d be saying, Jerry, the man wants to turn her into a living mummy like himself—does that sound to you like a healthy relationship?
He would tell me I was absolutely hopeless.
But here’s the thing: we’d be sitting there together on the couch holding hands.
The girl, Helen, has met a fellow from this life, handsome, earnest Frank with a strong chin. I don’t like him. I’m sure he’s absolutely right for her, but I find myself pulling more and more for Boris Karloff. Don’t get me wrong, I think his obsession over this woman, his inability to let go after twenty-seven hundred years, and his horrible intentions for her all add up to a very sick individual. But who ever said love was supposed to be healthy?
Actually, I did.
Jerry was forever making fun of what a level-headed, unromantic person I am. But it never hurt, because I knew he understood—or I thought he understood—that one of us had to keep room in his soul for things like Tuesday being trash day.
The movie ends with Frank and Helen in each other’s arms, Boris Karloff having turned into a pile of twenty-seven-hundred-year-old dust on the floor. I turn it off. I get up and go to the window and raise the blinds. It’s snowing harder now, coming down in big, crisscrossing flakes. I hope it keeps up. I hope it snows and snows until everything finally stops, utterly still, utterly mummified.
But the fucking plows are out. I can hear them.
Tomorrow morning I’ll put out the garbage, then drive to work along the cleared-off roads, mumble good morning to Rhonda on the way to my desk, everything waiti
ng in tidy piles the way I left it Friday, with no idea.
I let my forehead rest against the cold window.
I’ll just go on, that’s all. After a few months, three or four, it will stop hurting, or anyway begin to stop. Another month or so after that and I’ll be fine, I’ll stop loving him and be fine. And that’s the saddest thing of all: I’ll be fine.
Ah, here they come, the tears, here they are.
A MATTER OF CHARACTER
“Talk to me, talk to me . . .”
I don’t know what she wants to hear.
“Talk to me . . .”
We’re having sex but we just met tonight.
“Talk to me, talk to me . . .”
I whisper in her ear, “How ’bout those Cubbies?”
She shoves me off her.
I tell her I’m sorry. I tell her I didn’t know what to say. I tell her the Cubs are only two games out of first.
She calls me a fucking idiot, gets dressed, and leaves.
I heat up some soup, Campbell’s chicken noodle.
Eating it over the sink, I stare at the moon above the 7-Eleven. That was stupid, How ’bout those Cubbies. I don’t even care about the Cubs. In fact I wish they would go back to losing. I used to catch a game now and then—my apartment’s not far—and it was nice there, Wrigley Field is such a pretty place. I’d buy a hot dog. It was like being at a huge picnic. But now everyone’s on their feet screaming for them to win and it’s not as pleasant.
I wash the pan and spoon.
I’m thinking about going back to the bar—it’s not even ten yet—and trying again. I get laid fairly regular, tall and handsome as I am. This girl tonight, Doreen I think her name was, told me I kind of look a little bit like Peter Fonda, from that hippie movie last year, Easy Rider. If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother. There’s no plot going on. Anyway, just to be polite I told this Doreen she kind of looked like Karen Black, Peter Fonda’s girl in the movie. Actually, she looked more like the president’s wife, but I didn’t tell her—the way she was dressed, she probably wanted to look a lot sexier than that.
But I like Pat Nixon. She seems brave, the way she always keeps her smile and good posture. I don’t know about her husband, he seems kind of conniving—but he isn’t Adolf Hitler like the hippies would have you think. He’s just trying to bring a little order into all this. Like my dad says, this country needs someone to crack the whip a little.
But You Scared Me the Most Page 8