“I don’t think those are, like, official signs. ‘Condemned’ isn’t even spelled right.”
He smiles a little and tosses his cigarette out into the road. “Whooo!” he calls. “The boys are up to their hijinks again. I think they got me this time.”
“I better get back to the house before my ride gets there.”
“I’ll see if I can’t get someone to look at your car for you.”
“That’s all right. I can’t pay anybody for a while.”
“I’ll take care of it. For last night.” He looks back at the house and shakes his head in a they-really-got-me way. “Hopefully I won’t be needin it again.”
“If so then thanks in advance. If not, it’s really no big deal. See ya.”
I turn and head back home.
Diane Marbles pulls up a few minutes later. She seems even more depressed than usual.
She gets out of the car. I’m confused.
“You’re driving,” she says.
I don’t argue. I don’t have any money to pay her today and hope she’ll let it slide.
I get behind the wheel.
She flops down on the back seat and soon there are three or maybe even four cats on her and I’m pulling out on my street and she’s laughing like a lunatic and by the time we get to work she says the day’s too beautiful to work and she’s just going to sit in the car and play with her cats and eat her sandwich.
I shrug and go to work.
She asks if I’ll bring her two Cokes from under her chair.
24
Not A Party Person
“Who are all these people?” I ask Gus.
“Friends,” he says. “People I’ve met at the bar and around town.”
“Remember a few weeks ago when I was your only friend?”
He smiles and playfully jabs at my shoulder. “You’re still my best friend, man.”
We’re standing by a table covered in food. I’m currently holding a stack of cheese, crackers, and some kind of smoked meat in my hand, mechanically feeding it into my mouth because I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to eat this well again. There’s booze here too so I’m planning on hitting that pretty hard. Rarely has blacking out been an objective of mine but, at this point, almost anything is better than going home.
“It’s funny, man,” Gus says. “I always thought I never had any friends because I hated people. But it just turns out that I never really had the time or money to make friends.”
I’m looking around at the room of strangers, drinking free booze and eating free food, and wonder if Gus has made friends or bought them.
“Where’s Alice?” Gus asks.
“We broke up.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Shit, man. You should have called or something.”
“It’s all right. I broke up with her. She still lives there.”
“Well, man, I gotta go mingle.” Gus rolls his eyes. “Gotta play the good host, ya know?”
Actually, I don’t know. Don’t have any idea. I would struggle to think of a time I had more than four people in any place I’ve ever lived.
“We still on for Monday?”
He claps me on the shoulder, “I’ll be there, man.”
“Think you could pick me up for work too. I’ve been riding in with Diane Marbles and—”
But he’s already walking away, into the roomful of people. I’m pretty sure me and Gus are the oldest people in the room. Of course, if the same water feeding into Dr. Jolly’s well is the same water the people of Twin Springs drink, it’s entirely possible they’ve just found some fountain of youth.
I find the beer. There are a few kegs from the local brewery and I fill my plastic cup up several times, taking it to go stand in a corner and people watch. My people watching includes ogling a number of girls. It’s warm outside and it seems like a lot of them aren’t wearing very many clothes. The state of my penis removes the enjoyment I derive from this act. I fill my cup again. I’ve lost count how many beers this makes but I’m definitely starting to feel it, so it’s been more than a few. I find Gus to bum a cigarette and take it out to his backyard.
Mason Becker, Callie’s co-worker at Thing Books, is out there. So maybe me and Gus aren’t the oldest people here. It takes me just a second to verify that it is Mason. He’s thinner than I remember. Even though he’s balding, he now has his hair pulled back into a ridiculous man bun. Maybe he won’t try talking to me if I don’t approach him. I know what he’s going to want to talk about. Either writing or Callie, both of which are painful.
I light the cigarette and breathe it in, focus on the evening insect sounds and the laughter and faint music coming from inside the house.
“Ryan?”
Shit. Mason’s now standing next to me. I think about doing the dick thing where I pretend not to remember his name but decide not to.
“Hey, Mason,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if that was you or not.”
“It’s been, what? Two years?”
“Bout that.”
“Still writing?”
“Nope.”
“Me either. Fuck it, right? Ever hear from Callie?”
It didn’t take him long to get there at all.
I take a drag from the cigarette before answering him. Along with the smoke, nausea hits me like a truck and I flick the cigarette out into the backyard and drop to my knees, heaving up everything into the grass.
While I’m vomiting, I’m pretty sure Mason is still talking to me like nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
“She’s coming around pretty soon. This girl I know started touring with them. I still stalk her MyFace page even though I hate the social networking thing. They’re playing in Dayton soon, I think. Or maybe it’s Cincinnati. I don’t know. I guess I could check my phone but I’m too lazy right now. Well, good to see you, man.”
It’s been a while since I’ve thrown up from drinking and I haven’t really drunk that much, so maybe that’s not it. Maybe the party food sat out too long or had been touched by too many questionable people. Sometimes vomiting makes me feel better, but not this time. I feel completely enervated.
I crawl through my puke, deeper into the backyard, away from the lights of the house.
I roll over onto my stomach and lay my head on my arm.
I’m passing out way earlier than I thought I would, completely overshooting my modest goal of a good blackout.
Rather than try to fight it, I just submit.
It feels oddly relaxing.
25
A Brief Vacation
The morning sunlight is intense. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s morning. I’m really disoriented. I realize I’m outside and last night comes back to me with a burst of clarity. I smile and fight the urge to laugh a little. I guess this is one way of getting out of a party. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time.
9:37
There are no texts.
I briefly panic until I remember today is Saturday and I don’t have to sit on my front porch and wait for Diane Marbles to pick me up for work.
I feel like shit because I always feel like shit but, on the whole, I feel way better than I thought I would. Almost refreshed.
I do not smell very good, though. Probably because of the vomit crusted in my beard.
I sit up and survey the backyard. It’s a nice backyard, surrounded by a wooden privacy fence that has all of its boards. This makes me feel a lot less embarrassed.
For a second I panic and wonder how I’m going to get home and then decide not to worry about it. What do I need to get home for? I fight the urge to text Alice and tell her I’m never coming back but ultimately stop myself when I realize that would be an egotistical act and nothing more. She probably would not even notice—much less care—if I didn’t come home.
I stand up and wander to the garden hose attached to the back of the house. I survey my surroundings and, since no one is actively staring at me, quickly
remove my clothes. I unspool the hose and turn the water on. I spray some hose water into my mouth and swish it around, remembering how much I loved to drink hose water as a child. Might explain why I’m brain damaged now. I rinse my beard thoroughly and spray off the rest of my body, paying particular attention to my balls and my asshole. My t-shirt seems fine and puke free. My jeans, not so much. I spray them with the hose and wring them out. My button-down shirt seems to have gotten the brunt of the puke. It’s a lost cause. I turn it inside out and use it as a towel to dry off with. I put my socks, jeans, and t-shirt back on, ball up the button-down and my underwear, find the trashcan and throw them away.
I check my bank account to make sure I got paid yesterday.
I did. Even though Dr. Jolly seems to be doing well, I still wait for some future time when he can’t manage to pay anyone or, more likely, just forgets. The drinking and the boxing has to lead to some form of mental trauma eventually.
It’s a beautiful morning so I wander into town and get coffee and breakfast from the market since all the restaurants are overcrowded. I eat the breakfast on a bench, watching groups of mostly happy people. I throw my trash away and administer a furious scratchdown. A couple of the patches burst open and begin bleeding. I go back into the grocery store to buy a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes. Bill Chappeau is in front of me, also buying a pack of cigarettes. I imagine him saying, “Give me all the cigarettes! I’m rich, bee-yotch!” but he only buys one pack before darting out of the store before anyone can stop him to tell him what a big fan they are and how much they like him. He’s mastered the art of avoiding the paparazzi by living somewhere that doesn’t have the paparazzi. The common sense is staggering.
I take my water and smokes and head to the trails of the nature reserve. I always think this seems like a good idea but after about a half hour of walking I’m reminded of how out of shape and lazy I am and end up sitting on various rocks and benches watching people who are far more driven and athletic than me. I imagine everyone with bright red rashes and bald patches and it makes it more entertaining.
A storm comes up in the afternoon and I make my way back to Gus’s. He isn’t there so I sit on his porch. When he and Tarot and another girl who looks like she just escaped from a cult show up, I convince him I should just stay here tonight and tomorrow so he doesn’t have to come all the way to Dayton to pick me up on Monday morning.
The next two nights are reasonably blissful compared to my agoraphobic hate-filled existence in Dayton. The only real irritant is the girl, whose name is Fee, who has, in fact, recently escaped from a cult. She seems twitchy and overly chatty, like she’s just ecstatic to be in the presence of people who do not want to take control of her mind before using her for breeding purposes, i.e. fucking her.
Preparing for a shower that Sunday night, I strip down and look in the mirror, taking stock of the rash.
It’s really bad.
I decide to experiment with something I haven’t used in a very long time, possibly forever—positive thinking.
It’s entirely possible the rash could be gone tomorrow if Gus’s and my plan is executed properly.
No. I stop myself. Not ‘if.’ ‘When.’ When Gus’s and my plan is executed properly.
And it’s not ‘entirely possible’ the rash will be gone.
The rash will be gone.
I’ll be a new man.
Tomorrow.
I take a deep breath and hate stare at the creature in the mirror.
The failure.
The Failure.
“This is your last day on earth,” I mutter.
Taking my shower, I think about that guy in the mirror.
I already kind of miss him.
26
A Failure’s Baptism
“What if he doesn’t want to?” Gus says.
“Are you kidding?” I say. “He’ll think just the way you look is an attempt to establish male dominance. I’m going to say he challenges you within five minutes.”
“What if I don’t win? I’m not much of a fighter.”
I let this hang in the air of the truck before we both start laughing.
“What if you don’t win . . .” I say sarcastically. “C’mon now.”
I point to the gas gauge of his truck. It’s below empty.
“I mean, do you even remember the last time you put gas in this thing?”
He pretends to think for a minute and says, “Before.”
It’s all he needs to say. When Gus looks back on his life, there are only going to be two periods. Before and After. Like Christ.
I tap the glass of his rear window, another recent development.
“And when did you pay to get the bag replaced?”
“It just . . . happened.”
“And how much are you paying in rent?”
He’s quiet.
“C’mon. How much? It’s a nice place in a really desirable area.”
“Nothing. I just have to, you know, mow grass and do basic maintenance and stuff.”
“And do you think you’re ever going to have to do that?”
He sighs. “Probably not.”
“Face it. You’ve won some kind of karmic lottery. And, furthermore, you have the ability to make the most of it. Some people might freak out about it.”
“Are you gonna freak out about it?”
I fight the urge to say, “It’s never going to work for me.”
Think positive.
“No,” I say. “I’m ready.”
“Okay then. Let’s do this shit.”
We walk into the office and then the filling room.
Diane Marbles swivels in her chair, plucks her old wire headphones from her head, and says, “I knew it was going to be a great day.” She’s smiling, something I’ve never seen her do when not in the presence of her cats. She looks psychotic. “I made three sandwiches. I haven’t had a three sandwich day in . . . gosh, I don’t know if I’ve ever had a three sandwich day.” She looks at Gus the entire time, not even acknowledging me, her rideshare buddy.
I look at the desk behind her. There they are. Three sad sandwiches individually wrapped in foil resting atop a self-help paperback: Failure As a Way of Life. With my new positive mindset, I think this sounds horribly defeatist.
I sit down at my faucet, put in my earbuds, and get to work.
Gus sits down at his faucet, covered in dust, fills one bottle, says, “Mind numbing,” and gets up to go wander through the office.
I try not to think about anything. I set about filling the bottles with great rapidity, inserting the E-Z Cork and placing them in the case to my left. I feel amazingly light and at ease. I’m not even going to turn around to check on Gus’s progress or to see if Dr. Jolly is in the building. I’ll know if it happens. I’ll feel it.
And here it is.
I check my phone.
So it’s been a little longer than five minutes. Maybe I would have lost that bet.
The collective wave of excitement reaches into me and, for the first time, I actually feel it. The excitement. Normally I just feel irritated and put out that I have to stand up and walk outside to watch two idiots punch each other. But, other than the overall feel of the office after such an event, I’ve never really had much of a stake in this.
Today, however, the stakes are very high.
My future depends on what happens in the parking lot.
I follow my co-workers out. Diane Marbles has a sandwich in her hand. Early lunch.
Gus and Dr. Jolly square off in the parking lot.
We all gather around them.
Jolly strips off his shirt and bounces from Converse to Converse.
Gus just kind of stands there, squinting.
Jolly bounds toward Gus and Gus says, “I’m so sorry,” before leveling him with a right to the chin.
Gus hangs his head.
Bims stands over Jolly’s prone body and counts to ten. Everyone erupts in claps and cheers. This has never happened
before. Jolly has been knocked out before—although probably never with one blow—but no one has ever cheered when he’s been defeated. Usually, there’s the feeling the rest of the office might turn feral and pounce upon the victor, ripping him to pieces.
People approach Gus, clapping him on the back and ruffling his hair like some of his magic will rub off on them. Or maybe it’s just to feel those golden, silky tresses.
Gus affably accepts their congratulations but, after a few minutes, says, “Okay, everybody can go back in. I’ll take care of him.”
Dutifully, our co-workers retreat back toward the hut, each of them casting one last longing look back at Gus before entering the building.
Gus bends down and lifts Jolly, slinging him over his shoulder effortlessly.
We begin walking toward the Well of Purity.
“Did you ever think to just ask him to throw you in the well?” Gus says.
“No. You know how he is about that thing. He never would have done it.”
“I mean because, you know, technically, he’s still not really throwing you into the well. If anything, you’re throwing him into the well and going along for the ride. So, I guess what I’m saying is, what if the well still doesn’t let you in?”
“Back to the drawing board. I’m trying to think positive. You’re shitting on it.”
“I just don’t want you getting your hopes up. Have you gone to the doctor about the rash?”
“No.”
“They could probably find out what’s wrong with you.”
“It’s not about the rash. The rash is just a manifestation of everything else.”
“Okay. I’m just saying . . . maybe it would be a start.”
“This is where it starts.” I point to the well ahead of us. “And finishes.”
I want a Before and After like Gus. I want a Before and After where the After is better than the Before, not just an even shittier, more desperate version of the Before.
We reach the well.
“Well,” Gus says, “here we are. Here we are, well. How do you wanna go about doing this?”
“I’ll sit on the ledge. You can put him on my lap.”
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