Swing
By Zach Leeman
Text copyright @ Zachary J Leeman
To Maggie for all of your love and support
Table of Contents
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
I.
“God damn it.” The ice cold water pinched Tom’s cheeks as he brought his bloodshot eyes up to the rusting bathroom mirror. “God damn it,” he said again.
There was no precise reason for the word usage. Sometimes specific words were just called for in certain moments. These were “God damn it” moments in Tom's inebriated mind.
Tom looked in the mirror and saw the eyes of an old man attached to the face and body of a mere middle aged one. He looked past his green eyes deep into his dilated pupils, trying to see something he'd never discovered before in his God damn it moments. He hoped to see something that might explain himself or his life or what the fuck exactly happened--how the hell he ended up in this exact moment, this God damn moment. Alas, he saw nothing. Nothing of significance, anyway: just the eyes of a man who once dreamed, but now only fantasized. The eyes of a man giving up on life far too soon.
Tom looked away from the mirror and back to the sink that his hands tightly clung to. He felt like he was going to puke. His stomach hardened and softened at random moments, and his brain felt as though it were swishing around inside his head. Everything, every noise and movement around him, was an annoyance of some kind. The bourbon may have been a mistake. Bourbon usually was. Tom pushed away from the sink and attempted to steady himself.
Tom felt like he might topple over at any second. He thought he should perhaps leave a little early. No one would notice; it wouldn't be the first time. As Tom began to reach into his coat pocket to pull out what remained of his Jim Beam bourbon, the door to the bathroom swung open and a group of girls took a few steps in. They were all wearing short skirts and far too much makeup, and their hair was curled.
The one in the middle, a blonde, noticed Tom first and stopped dead in her tracks, her smile quickly disappearing into a mixture of worry and uneasiness.“Mr. Straum?”
Tom looked over at the girls. The bourbon made them slightly blurry, and he couldn’t count how many there were. He wished he could remember the blonde girl's name, but he was terrible with names. He was semi-famous for it amongst the students and their parents. Tom could think of nothing to say, so he simply stood there trying to make out exactly how many girls there were.
“What are you doing in here?” This voice was another girl's. Tom thought it was the one to the blonde's right, but he wasn't sure.
Tom tried to think on his feet, but his mind was working too slowly. He was trying to figure out why these girls had barged into the Men's bathroom. Were they planning on smoking pot or drinking? Maybe Tom could “confiscate” it. Tom quickly identified that idea as the booze talking. He knew he needed to leave the bathroom before anything bad happened.
“Shouldn't you girls be dancing?” It was all Tom could think to say. He regretted the words once they left his mouth; they merely inspired confusion on the girls' faces. The girls all looked at one another and waited for Tom to say something else—to dissolve the situation or leave. He was the adult, after all—at least to them.
Tom turned and looked at them for a few more moments until he decided the best thing to do would be to just walk out. He stumbled slowly to the door. He couldn't quite walk straight, but he did his best, putting one foot in front of the other putting careful precision into each movement. The girls watched him every step of the way.
Finally, Tom reached the door and swung it open. It felt heavier than it actually was and took some muscle, but Tom got it open. Immediately, his eyes and ears were assaulted as he entered the non-solitude of the world outside his bathroom solace. He took a few steps away from the door and was in the darkened hallway that led to the gymnasium where the annual spring dance was being held for the students of Preston Hills High. From the open doors of the gymnasium, the hallway became illuminated with bright colors that changed from red to purple to orange every few seconds. Music blasted from speakers and hit Tom's head, worsening his headache. He hated today's music—synthesized crap with electronic voices mashed together. It was all the same, like nails on a chalkboard. He wondered why the fuck he had even volunteered to chaperone this dance. Then he remembered he didn't volunteer. He was told by Principal Shanks that he would chaperone if he hoped to avoid further disciplinary action for missing too much school.
Tom stumbled down the empty hallway towards the ever-changing lights that made him want to vomit if he looked at them for too long. He grabbed onto the brick walls every few moments until he finally remembered the bourbon still in his pocket. He reached into his coat, pulled out his potion, raised the small bottle to his mouth, and inhaled what was left of the bottle. As soon as the bitter liquid touched his tongue and teased his throat, Tom wanted to spit it back up, but he forced it down with all his might and felt the familiar smoothness as it made its way down his throat and settled into his body.
Tom looked at the empty bottle, and in a moment of impulsiveness simply chucked it onto the floor. Tom stumbled the rest of the way into the gymnasium, figuring the janitors would just find the bottle in the morning and figure it was the fucking brats.
Tom entered the gymnasium and immediately felt discombobulated. The place was crowded. Sweaty teens rubbed against each other while a DJ played crap music from a laptop. Tom needed to leave. He knew if that he walked straight he would make it to the exit and then to his car, but looking at the half-dressed teens that starred as his fine pupils during the week, that may have been easier said than done.
Tom managed as he always did. He headed straight for the back wall of the gymnasium and pushed his hands against it. He would use the wall to guide him to the exit door. Tom began walking and keeping his eyes to the ground and trying to drown out the noise as best he could. The place was so crowded that even being against the back wall didn't get Tom away from his damn students. They were constantly bumping into him as he walked. He kept going, undeterred. Some of the students said sorry, and he recognized them saying his name. When he didn't respond and the teen noticed how awful and pathetic he looked, they would simply stare in bewilderment. Was this their English and Creative Writing teacher?
Tom kept walking and walking, knowing he was making progress. He looked out occasionally at the crowd and noticed a few of his other chaperones talking sternly to students or trying to separate overzealous couples. Tom finally made it to the end of the back wall, turned the corner and saw the door with the bright Exit sign above it.
Before he could open the door, he heard his name. It wasn't a student. In fact, he knew exactly who it was the moment he heard the voice. He turned, his right hand still reaching for the exit, to see Mr. Turble. Turble was a science teacher who always felt a need to speak to Tom as if they were friends. Turble was middle aged, with a large belly, balding head, and bad teeth—everything Tom feared he might one day be.
Turble had his typical stupid grin pasted on his face as he moved his fat body quickly across the gymnasium floor. It made Tom want to puke even more. He turned quickly, opened the door, and left the hell that was the Preston Hill High School Spring Dance.
Tom closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a few moments. He hoped Turble wouldn't follow him outside. Tom breathed in the fresh air and it felt good. Outside there were no kids—which was a surprise, but not a bad one.
Tom pushed himself off the door and headed for the overflowing parking lot. He stumbled a few times but felt fine about it since no one was watching. He fumbled around in his pocket searching for his
keys. Tom passed Cadillacs, Hondas, and loads of other foreign cars belonging to students as he made his way to his sad, beat-up Ford Taurus. It was sitting in the very back of the parking lot where it belonged. Tom stopped in front of his car with his keys and took one final look at the rest of the lot. God damn it, he thought as he felt his insides moving and leaned over to puke a few swigs of alcohol out.
Tom picked himself up and felt slightly better, but worse at the same time. He stepped over the puke to the driver side door of his car and on about the fourth try got his keys in the door and unlocked it. He opened the door, dropped himself haphazardly inside and closed the door.
Tom looked out the window at the dark sky and the blackened forest to his right, and he wondered how the fuck he was going to drive home in this condition. He began to drift off into a heavy sleep. Before he did, Tom managed to roll the window down a bit to let some fresh air in. He liked the fresh air, he thought as his eyes closed.
Silence. Complete silence. Tom awoke in his car to nothingness. He opened the door to expel the remains of the previous night’s fun. Beyond that, there was nothing. He looked around the parking lot to see complete emptiness. It was the early morning. He could tell because a fog hung in the air and the grass was still dewy. Tom kept his door open and tried to breath in some fresh air, but the fog made it difficult. He was still wearing his khaki pants, loafers, blazer and blue button-up from the night before. The shirt was completely soaked in sweat, and his feet hurt. He looked at his suit and wondered why the hell he had worn such a ridiculous get-up. Then he remembered it was school policy when chaperoning a dance that one must dress “appropriately” according to Principal Shanks.
Tom spit up phlegm from his throat and readied himself to head home. Home wasn't the right word, thought Tom. Home was too romantic. He was merely going to drive back to the house he lived in with his wife. Tom picked his keys up from the floor, started his beat up car, closed his door, and felt a shiver run up his spine. He felt like puking again but he knew there was nothing left. This was a hangover, and the only thing he could do was wait it out. He felt tired, but wouldn't be able to sleep; hungry, but he wouldn't be able to eat; sick, but he wouldn't be able to vomit.
His head pounded slightly but it wasn't as bad of a hangover as he deserved. He knew that. In fact, it was mild compared to what he had expected. Tom merely didn't have the tolerance because he didn't drink much. Only when he really hated life. Then he remembered that he often really hated life. Then he remembered that he actually drank too much. Hence the expertise in hangovers.
As Tom attempted to keep his vehicle straight and avoid the pains in his stomach and head, he thought something to himself that almost made him want to not head back to his house: Hillary was going to be pissed.
II.
Tom hated the weekends. It was when he was truly alone with his thoughts. And Hillary. He had come home to an empty house. Hillary was most likely off with her friends cruising around town. Tom didn't mind. He wanted the peace and quiet for as long as he could get it. He showered, put on some clean clothes and headed to what he pathetically and privately referred to as his office.
Every Saturday morning brought the same routine: Tom would head to his office, which was clustered with school papers and old books, and sit in front of his computer. He wouldn't write. That was the intention of his visit to his office, but nothing ever came. He would just sit there and drink his coffee. Sometimes he would try to push out words, but nothing meaningful would ever come. This morning was no different. Tom sat in front of his computer, which sat on his cluttered desk, and stared out the window, sipping his coffee. He thought about the night before and whether he would get any grief from nosy teachers or strange looks on Monday morning. He sipped his coffee and thought. He enjoyed the peace and quiet. He looked over to his blank computer screen and his cluttered office. He remembered why he hated weekends.
Hillary arrived around noon with shopping bags in hand and a smile on her face. Tom sat half-watching the television and half asleep. She didn't acknowledge him when she came through the door. She simply headed upstairs, presumably to put her new items away. She was acting chipper, and Tom knew that was not a good thing.
Tom followed her upstairs to their bedroom and stood in the doorway. He watched her as she folded clothes and put them away. She didn't look his way or even acknowledge his presence. She hummed some unknown tune to herself.
Tom didn't know what to say, so he simply stared at her. After over ten years of marriage he still admired her slim figure. She was tall with long legs, but not too skinny. Her eyes were piercing and beautiful like something out of an old Hollywood movie. She worked out incessantly and still carried the body of her youth. Tom was still sexually attracted to her even though they hadn’t had sex in the last six months. Tom told himself it was normal for a marriage.
He watched her fold clothes and admired her red lips and her long, curly blonde hair. She was an Australian beauty. Tom and Hillary had met years ago while they were both still in their exciting youth. Tom was backpacking across Australia full of stories and big ideas when he came across the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. They fell madly in love. Their first year together was like something out of a romantic novel. Then they came back to America where Tom had dreams of writing and winning awards and fame and fortune and taking care of Hillary. Things hadn't turned out like he planned. They were what happened after the happy ending settles in and the smiles fade away.
“Are you going to talk to me?” Tom said from the doorway.
Hillary did not respond. She just kept on folding and humming.
Tom exhaled and wished he knew what to say. For a man claiming to be a writer, he was not so good with words. “I'm sorry. The dance ran a little late. I slept in my car because I was exhausted.”
Hillary stopped dead in her tracks. She ceased the humming and the folding. Her smile faded and she looked over to her husband. Her powerfully beautiful eyes turned to anger. “You slept in your car because you drank too much. Don't lie to me.”
The words pierced Tom's chest. She read him like an open book. She kept her icy stare locked in on him, and Tom was truly fearful of what would happen next. “I'm sorry,” he said again.
Hillary stared for a few moments longer and said, “It's fine.” She went back to folding. This time she didn't hum.
Tom walked back downstairs. He figured it was better to let her cool off. His presence would only annoy her now. He went back to the couch and lay down to watch the television again. His eyes were heavy and he still felt a little sick from last night. He closed his eyes. He hated weekends.
When Tom awoke it was getting dark out. He felt groggy and slimy like he always did when he slept the day away. He sat up and rubbed his brow. He felt a headache settling in. The TV was turned off and he had a blanket covering him. The house was dark save for the dining room. Tom could hear voices from there. Hillary was speaking on the phone, he guessed. Tom tried to listen in but couldn't figure out who she was talking to. He heard Hillary not laughing, but giggling and trying to keep her voice down.
He heard her say “no” a few times only to giggle some more a few moments later. Tom hadn't heard her make noises like that in years. He began walking towards the living room. He walked slowly and with caution so as to keep himself unknown to her. Who the hell was she talking to?
Tom kept walking towards the light, hearing Hillary giggle and laugh and say no and giggle some more. He got closer and closer and more and more curious. Finally he was standing in the doorway of the dining room. He saw Hillary sitting at the table with her cell phone in hand twirling her necklace around with her other hand.
Tom's presence was not unknown for long. Hillary turned around in her chair, dropped the necklace and said into the phone looking away from Tom, “I have to go. Yeah. Ok. You too. I will. Bye.” She smiled and hung up and looked up at Tom, still groggy from his deep sleep. “How was your nap?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Good.” She seemed nervous, like she wanted to say something but didn't know how. She looked around the room for answers while Tom stared straight at her. Finally she got up from the chair, pushed it in and said to Tom in her lovely Australian accent, “Want to go out to dinner tonight?”
Tom looked back at her, perplexed. The only time they went out to dinner was when it was with friends or a special occasion...or Hillary wanted something and knew Tom would not approve. But he could not think of anything she could possibly want that he would have the credibility to take a stand against.
Tom weighed his options in his mind. He was curious what this whole thing was about but didn't want to ask. In fact, he thought it better to just go with the flow and see how things turned out. Especially after last night.
“Ok,” he responded.
Hillary smiled. “Great!” She rushed upstairs presumably to get ready and yelled back, “Be ready in a half hour.”
Tom looked back to the table where Hillary had been sitting. She had left her cell phone there. Tom thought for a moment about looking inside and seeing the number of the person she had been speaking to. Perhaps even redialing it. He almost did. But then Tom decided it was probably nothing. He turned around and headed upstairs to get ready for dinner.
III.
It was a nice restaurant. Nicer than where they usually went. Hillary had dressed up. She was wearing a long black dress that showed off her smooth back. Tom had found a blue button-up and some khaki pants hiding in the closet. The place was crowded and well lit and waiters were dressed in suits. It was the kind of place where you needed a reservation. Tom wondered if Hillary had made one before asking him out.
They were seated, and both Tom and Hillary were looking around, dazzled by the size and feel of the place. After taking enough in, Tom looked back to Hillary, wondering exactly what this was about. She had asked him out and even insisted on driving and paying. Something was up. He just didn't know what.
Swing Page 1