by Kim Cayer
“When? Next year?” I retorted. “And why can’t you get Jody to cut it?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but Jody and Dad aren’t really getting along.”
I sucked in my breath. Shannon and Jody had a tough time of it as it was. In their world, they were as near normal as could be (without ‘going all the way’). In everybody else’s eyes, they were 2016’s version of The Odd Couple. When I was at home, Shannon had me to talk to about the bullying and snide remarks, or the progress being made. While I was away, I’d hoped Ben would continue the parental support. Please, let it be over something minor…like Ben caught Jody playing his video game (thus perhaps destroying his ‘rank’?). “Was there an incident or was Dad just being his usual self?” I asked.
“Little of both.” Shannon sighed. “Actually, it happened when Jody came over to mow the lawn. It was hot and he was wearing shorts, which you know he rarely does. Dad started teasing him about how hairy his legs are.”
“Big deal. He’s a guy. Guys have hairy legs,” I stated.
“And Dad’s legs are even hairier,” Shannon declared. “But Jody’s hair is so black, it really shows. Dad just wouldn’t stop talking about it.”
“And that was it?” I asked.
“And he’s been making other weird comments and stuff,” Shannon confessed. “A couple days after that, when Jody was leaving the house, I gave him a kiss goodbye, just a little peck. Dad saw and made these actions like he was going to throw up.”
“Well, that was rude! But maybe it was just because it was you kissing,” I suggested.
“Maybe…I don’t know. But ever since then, Jody said he doesn’t feel comfortable around Dad,” she lamented. “So I’ve been spending even more time away from home.”
I moved on to another topic. “And what’s with all the beer bottles on the front porch? That looks real classy.”
“Oh yeah, that and the front door,” Shannon snorted. “Don’t think Dad has turned into a drunk, it’s not like that. But I guess he had a little party on the weekend.”
A stun gun would have had less effect on me. Shannon knew it and waited for me to speak. “Your…father…had a party?” I managed to get out. “In all our years of marriage, we maybe went out socially five times. I even attended the Magee family get-togethers without Mr. Magee. And you’re saying he actually threw a party?”
“Oh, I don’t think he planned to have a party!” she said in his defence. “But he went out to the bar and came home with a bunch of people on Saturday night. They got pretty rowdy…somebody broke the screen door…Mr. Gonzoli from across the street came over to complain about four in the morning…”
“Oh my God, you’re gonna have the cops there! Were you home for this party?” I asked her. Somebody needed to chaperone.
“Yes, Mother, but I had to leave at 5:30. I have to be at Cora’s by six to help open.” She reminded me of her weekend job at Cora’s Restaurant. Almost every waking hour was devoted to her many part-time jobs, all going to pay for her university education. Momma was too busy trying to pay for her freedom.
“So, were they all gone when you left?” I asked.
“Most of them were…the loud obnoxious ones anyway. There were maybe six people sitting around when I left,” she said. I could tell something was being left out.
“People? What kind of people?”
“Just people. Not like bikers or the Klu Klux Klan, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. I don’t know what I was. “But were there…uh…boy people as well as girl people?”
“Yeah, there were men and women at this party, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she replied. “But when I got back later in the afternoon, they were all gone. Dad slept for a solid day after that.”
“Well,” I choked out. “I’m gonna let you go.”
“Mom, wait!” she delayed me. “We have to meet up! You have important school papers to sign. Super important, they have to be signed in the next couple days! Don’t forget, in four weeks I start school. In four years, I start my career!”
I took a deep breath to stop the roiling rage I felt brewing inside me. “I’ll be in the area tomorrow. Do you have time for lunch?”
I could feel her brighten over the phone line, daughterly love being sent my way. “It’s a date! Say 11:45, Gabriel’s?” She chose my favourite restaurant as well as my preferred beat-the-lunchtime-rush meeting time.
I tried to send the same loving vibes back her way. “Great,” I snapped out. “See you then.” I pressed END and threw my phone onto the seat.
DAMN YOU, Ben! Now you’ve moved on to a social life? Fine, I guess it was to be expected. And you’re having women over? Maybe you’re sleeping with one, maybe not. For a certainty, he wasn’t sleeping with me and never would again, so I guess moving on was his prerogative. Act social, have people over, be normal.
But what was my normal? Could I date? Get all gussied up in a Shell gas station, have to meet my date at a pre-arranged location so he couldn’t see my car and afterwards? Could he come to my place? Uh…no. Any scenario just played out awkwardly.
Suddenly the idea of living in my car seemed ludicrous. Before, I justified it in so many ways. It was for the best…it was a temporary situation…it wasn’t so bad…I was making it work…I was adapting…an answer would present itself soon… But now? It just all seemed so pathetic.
One of those big crying jags seemed to be in order. Either that or a big shopping spree. And seeing as how I was still $70,000 short of my goal, the tears would have to do. But not on my old street, with kids skateboarding by and dogs being walked and neighbours chitchatting across their immaculate lawns.
I knew I had a clown singing-telegram the next day, in the airport area. This was a fairly important gig – to the people booking the show and to my ethics. It had been booked a month before by a sick little girl’s grandparents. The kid was flying to Houston, Texas to see a brain specialist. I was to meet them at the airport and do my foolish act; anything to make her forget, even for an instant, the scary surgery awaiting her.
So I headed in that direction. It was only twenty minutes away and I didn’t have a lot of gas in Suzi Suzuki. But as I drove around, looking for a place to ‘Park n’ Cry’, I berated my bad memory. In the last few years, all the airport hotels started to charge for parking in their lots. Unless I was staying there, which was a joke unto itself.
I found myself cruising down Silver Dart Drive and recalled taking Shannon there as a toddler. We would grab a coffee for me and a donut and juice for her, and park our car on Silver Dart Drive. From there we would watch the planes fly into the airport, so close you felt you could almost throw a baseball at it.
There were a few cars pulled to the side, probably doing the same thing I’d done years ago. I saw an SUV with ‘Baby on Board’ stickers and one car with a stroller folded into the front seat. I decided to pull over as well, a few cars back so nobody would stare at the overladen vehicle. I was sure the sounds of incoming planes would help drown out my sorrowful cries.
For the next two hours, I howled louder than a Boeing 707. At first I wept in anger at Ben, but then realized I wasn’t mad at him. He was simply moving on with his life. So then I cried at my situation. I wasn’t able to do anything but subsist moment to moment. I was in limbo…in a holding pattern…just living in my 2004 Suzuki Swift. Life wasn’t fair and I felt like a total loser.
Of course, after a big cry, a big sleep was in order. Reduced to those hiccups that remind you of the pain yet feel so satisfying, I rearranged my car as best as I could so I could grab a nap. Perhaps I should cry more often, because I slept soundly for hours. The only reason I woke up was because of that stupid seatbelt. For the 9,340th time, I tried to squeeze it down and make for a level sleeping area, but it was of no use.
I sat up, buckled myself in and was about to start the car when a thought hit me. Where was I going? Unti
l I showed signs of having to use a washroom, I may as well sit there and watch the planes come in.
Twilight was just settling in and hunger pangs filtered through to my brain. I realized it had been about eight hours since I last ate, which was that very tasty steak sandwich. And speaking of that, I still had half of it left on my passenger seat! It may be cold, but it was so fine at lunch that it was bound to still be delicious.
The truth was, the sandwich was dry and the cold fried onions had a slight addition of congealed fat to them. As I scraped off the onions, I watched the last remaining vehicle pull away from the roadside. They pulled a U-turn and of course had to stare at the lone occupant of the overstuffed car. I took a sip of my water to wash down the bite I had just taken.
The driver of the van stopped and rolled down his window. “You okay?” he called out. “I notice you been parked here awhile.”
“I’m…I’m fine,” I croaked out. My throat felt raspy from trying to swallow that last bite. I returned the water bottle to my lips and drained it.
“K, just thought I’d ask,” the kindly man said. “You have a good night then.”
I waved goodbye and rolled my window up. I looked at my sandwich and debated finishing it. However, the GAME PLAN had to be adhered to! Save money every which way you can! That meant the remainder of the steak sandwich must be my next meal.
I didn’t plan on it being my last meal.
With an air of resignation, I took a big bite. Don’t have to savour it, Maggie, it’s just fuel for your body at this point. I chewed, and chewed, maybe 200 times I chewed, before I finally forced myself to swallow it. I could feel the mushed-up meat and bun lurch down my throat, but it only made it to the halfway point before it chugged to a stop.
Oh, oh, I thought, as my throat started to try swallowing a few times by reflex. Nothing happened. On the contrary, it seemed to only help make it more stuck. I quickly reached for a bottle of water; I always had a bunch of waters in my car. But oh yeah, the car was such a mess, every time I wanted a fresh bottle, I’d have to move costumes or bags to find one. Of course none was handy.
OH, OH, I thought again. Funny how I could come up with nothing more interesting to say. Maybe a prayer to God, or a swear word.
Coughing it up didn’t work. I swirled my head around quickly, hoping another plane-watcher had shown up. The entire length of Silver Dart Drive was empty. I briefly considered driving for help but at this point, my vision was blurred by bright white shooting stars. These weren’t in the sky, they were right in front of my eyes.
For a moment, my being seemed to split into two. There was the physical being, who was being wracked by a choking fit. Poor pitiful Maggie, almost banging her head on the steering wheel as she tried to dislodge the meat that had set up camp in her throat.
Then there was the soul part, who was probably already packing its bags. I’m a goner, was the first thought to cross my mind. In a flash, I saw my coffin, and knew that Shannon had spared no expense. I wanted to thank her for that, because I knew I’d be able to stretch out completely, no gas pedals or floor mats to stunt my sleep. Resting in peace never sounded so apt.
And though it’s cliché, cliché is often the truth. The truth was that odd snippets seemed to microburst through what remained of my vision. I saw myself again with Shannon, on this very street, her eyes wide with the sight of the ferocious planes descending. The same look on her face going through a car wash. The time she slid into home base, winning the game. The loitering ticket cut in, followed by my mom’s face looking sad. I didn’t want her to look sad; she’d always been so proud of me!
I saw the last dog I owned. My house the first day I saw it. Shannon getting the award at her graduation. Her beau, Jody, caulking my tub. For some reason, Bruce Willis. My bank account statement, showing $31,233. My two best friends made a quick appearance, first laughing and then turning a disapproving look on me. Don’t judge me, I wanted to say, but too late now.
Then Ben’s image flew by, reversed and stayed frozen on the screen of my mind. And that’s when I prayed to God. “Oh, God, don’t let me die with his face being the last thing I see!”
All of this seemed to take a few minutes, but it was more likely seconds. And as Ben’s usual unsatisfied look presented itself, I seemed to hear the one good piece of advice he always gave out. “Never panic.” He could elaborate on various scenarios and go on and on about this topic, but it boiled down to one thing. When in trouble, panic will only get you into more trouble.
With that, body and soul reconnected. Taking a quick breath (impossible) to calm down, I surveyed my situation – pretty close to dead at this point. I almost decided to say, “Screw it, go back to panic mode.” Instead, I threw open the car door and jumped outside.
The plane that was coming in for a landing roared its arrival. I’m quite positive the little heads I saw in the windows could see the weird sight below. A shabbily dressed woman, jumping up and down, ramming her hand down her throat….
“Give up,” a voice whispered. “Accept it. We all gotta go sometime…” And besides, I was getting so tired of trying to take a breath and just hearing that awful squawk of a sound emit from my eroding voice box.
Then, as if she were standing right next to me, I heard Shannon’s voice. “Mom, I NEED you to sign those university papers for me. It’s important!”
OK, Shannon, for you, one last effort. The ol’ college try, ha ha!
Another look around for anybody, but I was alone. THINK!!! What to do with choking victims?? Uh…uh…you HEIMLICH MANEUVER them! But how to do it alone? I feebly tried punching myself in the stomach but, already weak, my jabs had no effect.
I hung onto the open car door, ready to call it a day, my glazed eyes staring dumbly into the lit interior. Fuck you, loitering ticket, was my last thought. But I wanted to change it so I tried Fuck you, Ben. That didn’t feel right though; I didn’t want to leave this earth with hard feelings between us. The last of my vision rested on that hated seatbelt connector. Yes, a worthy last thought. Fuck you, seatbelt connector, or whatever your name is!
That connector seemed to defy me. The light from the little roof bulb seemed to shine directly on it. The connector stood up strong, tall and erect. Even in the throes of my death, that seatbelt contraption tormented me.
But wait…was it tormenting me or was it offering salvation? The word ‘Heimlich’ seemed to teletype itself in twinkly bluebirds when I blinked my eyes. Without even thinking about it, I reached down for the lever that lowers the front seat. The seatbelt connector became even more prominent.
I knew I had about six seconds left before my brain shut down. I closed my eyes, thought, This is for you, Shannon, and then, with the little breath I had left, I opened my eyes and whispered to the seatbelt connector, “You owe me.”
With that, I threw myself down onto my nemesis.
You could tell the seatbelt connector and I had become quite intimate by this time. With deadly aim, I rocketed, free-fell you could say, right onto that connector and boy, did we connect. That thing spiked right into my solar plexus. The left side of my brain felt the intense pain (did it hit my spinal cord as well?) while the right side of my brain allowed me to absorb the end result. The meat, as well as spots of mashed-up bread and droplets of blood, shot out of my mouth, hit my still-unpacked Marilyn Monroe dress, ricocheted off that and came to rest in the rear cup holder.
There was no drama after this. I simply rolled onto my seat and gulped in a few breaths of life-enhancing Toronto smog. After a moment, I reached onto the passenger seat floor, picked up the container of Clorox Wipes and scrubbed the mess away as best as I could. Using the last wipe, I picked up the regurgitated steak and threw it out the window.
There was one thought in my mind. Marilyn needed cleaning. That blood needs to come out immediately. She’s my main source of income. I need a washing machine and I need it now. And the one I had in mind washed whites just like the ads said it would. That machine was loc
ated in my house. MY house!
My mind briefly dwelled on the images I’d received. I had a momentary guilt trip when I realized, had I died, that poor little girl waiting for the clown at the airport would only have had another blow dealt her way. Then, just like a movie, I saw a flashback where I had to press rewind.
The bank statement. Little over $3l,000. Not even close to the $100,000 that I’d been working towards for the past six months. And those six months? Felt more like six years that I’d been living in my car. I loved my little Suzuki but at this point, give me a toilet to scrub. Give me meals to cook, a daughter to coddle, a lawn to mow.
I started the car and for the hell of it, picked up the GPS. “OK, Miss USA,” I told my current best friend. “Here’s one you haven’t tried, from the golden oldies list. It’s called ‘Home’.” I smiled at the thought of seeing my daughter. Maybe I wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed but the couch seemed a purely wonderful alternative. With a widening grin, I patted the dashboard of my car.
“I got money in the bank, my pet,” I lovingly told my constant sidekick for the past half-year. “Enough to take care of that soul-sucking loitering ticket and plenty left over to get out of my marriage. I love you, sweet Suzi, but fuck this shit. I’m getting a lawyer.”
At Roundfire we publish great stories. We lean towards the spiritual and thought-provoking. But whether it’s literary or popular, a gentle tale or a pulsating thriller, the connecting theme in all Roundfire fiction titles is that once you pick them up you won’t want to put them down.