Bring Her Back

by Jeff Strand

  Abigail looked over and saw me. She was already smiling, but her smile widened and she waved.

  After I walked over to her, we had kind of an awkward moment where she went in for a hug at the same time that I reached out for a handshake. She laughed and shook my hand.

  I suddenly realized, because I was so bad at dating, that I'd just assumed that the eight-block walk to the movie theater was okay. I owned a car but rarely used it. It was a hot day. She might have thought I was going to pick her up in an actual automobile. We should have discussed this beforehand.

  "Is it all right to walk?" I asked. "I mean, I can go back and get my car..."

  "I love to walk. Maybe for our next date we'll go on a hike."

  Abigail suddenly looked very uncomfortable with what she'd said. I think it hit her that we were fifteen seconds into our first date and she was already talking about the second. Though I was thrilled with her optimism, I could also understand why she looked horrified. If I'd said "Maybe for our next date" I'd probably have politely excused myself and found a good place to commit suicide.

  "That would be nice," I told her.

  "What movie are we going to see?" she asked.

  "We have a few options. Do you like romantic comedies?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Really? You sell flowers."

  "I know. It's one of many odd things about me."

  "What's your favorite kind of movie?"

  "I love a good horror flick. I also love a bad horror flick."

  I wanted to ask her to marry me. I decided that it wasn't a smart idea, even in jest.

  "Well, I don't know if it's bad or good, but Harken is playing."

  "I've been wanting to see that," said Abigail.

  "Perfect. That was easy."

  We walked to the movie theater. I don't want to suggest that I magically transformed into a debonair, socially magnificent gentleman better suited to a top hat and tails than my current attire, but I did a good job of talking. I occasionally said things that were witty. For eight entire blocks, walking at an average pace, I did not say a single thing that made me cringe. Not one thing. For eight blocks!

  It's okay if you don't believe me. I know what I did.

  Abigail and I didn't talk about anything important during the walk, but it was the best frivolous conversation I'd had in my life. And she seemed to like me. Maybe I wasn't as repulsive as I thought. Or maybe she had an ugly guy fetish. It could've also been that the whole "looks don't matter to some people" thing, often rumored but never confirmed, was true.

  We arrived at the movie theater early, which was fine with me. I hated getting to the movies late, and I hated people who got to the movies late. I didn't want to murder them or anything; I just didn't like them.

  I bought our tickets and we went inside.

  "I wish you hadn't done that," said Abigail, not smiling.

  "Done what?"

  "Paid for the tickets."

  "Why?"

  "It's offensive to women when men insist on paying for everything. It implies that you don't think we're equals. It's extremely disrespectful. I thought you were better than that."

  "Oh my God, I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

  Her smile returned. "I'm kidding."

  "Okay. Good."

  And then her smile disappeared again. "Oh, shit, that wasn't funny, was it? It's too soon for me to be making jokes like that. I made you uncomfortable. Fuck. I'm always doing stuff like that. You asked me out on a date and it's totally appropriate that you'd buy the movie tickets. If I'd asked you out, I would've paid for them. That's how it works. It wasn't funny. Please don't hate me."

  "I wouldn't hate you over a joke."

  "You promise?"

  "Yeah, I promise. It was funny."

  "It wasn't funny."

  "It did scare me. I won't lie."

  "If I do that again, just punch me."

  "I'm not going to punch you," I informed her.

  "Not hard. Don't break my jaw. Just knock out a tooth."

  "I liked your joke. I mean it. You could have kept me going for a lot longer, but you didn't. It lasted the perfect length."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah."

  "Thanks." Her smile finally returned. "You're probably nervous about buying us popcorn, candy, and soda, but I swear I won't do that again."

  "You can if you want."

  Abigail shook her head. "No, what I'd do is wait for you to ask me if I wanted anything, and then get all up in your face and say 'Oh, so you think the fat girl needs candy, huh?'"

  "I'm glad you didn't do that."

  "Me too."

  We stocked up on treats for the movie. Though our taste in candy was not completely identical, there was enough overlap to make me think about how compatible we were. The concession stand had nachos, and I made an extremely witty comment about people who would eat nachos during a movie. I'm not going to include it here because it was kind of a "you had to be there" comment and you'd probably go, "Eh, that wasn't so witty."

  I was slightly less convinced of our compatibility when she said that she usually sat in the front row. Maybe it's because I'm a tall guy, but I never sit up front. It would kill my neck. And you're seeing the movie at a weird angle. Though I would've sat in the front row if that's what Abigail really wanted, fortunately we compromised and sat a few rows back.

  The theater had pre-show stuff playing. Commercials and behind-the-scenes features on upcoming movies that didn't count as actual trailers. This was nice because when our conversation halted for a bit, we could watch the pre-show for a while instead of just sitting awkwardly in a silent auditorium.

  Harken was pretty good. Though she'd said she liked bad movies, for our first date I was relieved that it was good instead of bad. Not that she would've judged me by the movie, but you know what I mean.

  About an hour into the movie, she leaned over to me and whispered, "This is my favorite part." Then the heroine's best friend got her head chopped off. It was a surprising moment. I thought the best friend was going to live, though in retrospect I should've seen it coming.

  (I despise people who talk during the movies, but there was nobody sitting near us and a quick whisper is okay. It wasn't like she spoiled anything.)

  I did think it was kind of strange that she'd apparently already seen the movie, even though she said that she'd been wanting to see it.

  When it was over, we stayed through the end credits—there was nothing after them—and walked out of the theater. "What'd you think?" asked Abigail.

  "I liked it a lot."

  "Me too."

  "Had you already seen it?"

  She seemed to realize that this didn't match up with what she'd said before. "Yeah, yeah, I saw it opening night. I guess I, I don't know, I guess I didn't want to make things complicated when we were picking a movie. I was nervous, you were nervous, and I took the path of least resistance. I'm sorry."

  "You don't have to apologize."

  "If we keep seeing each other, you should know upfront that I'm not as well adjusted as other girls you've dated. I'm not a psycho crazy chick, don't worry about that, but the stuff you've seen from me is pretty much how I am."

  "I like it," I said.

  "You like it, or you'll tolerate it?"

  "I like it."

  "I like you too, Frank."

  We didn't kiss.

  I'd planned to take her out for something to eat after the movie, but we were kind of sick to our stomachs from all of the popcorn and candy we'd consumed, so we settled for coffee instead. We mostly just talked about the movie. Abigail had more intelligent things to say about it than I did, though to be fair, she'd seen it twice.

  I wondered if I missed a perfect opportunity to reveal my father's killing spree. It certainly would've made Abigail feel better about her little fib. I wasn't sure, though, that "I'm not well-adjusted" would balance out "My dad murdered a bunch of people." My confession could wait.

  After coffee
, we went back to her place and had kinky sex.

  No, we didn't. I was just trying out being an unreliable narrator. I walked her back to her apartment complex, and she thanked me for a wonderful afternoon and said that she'd love to do it again sometime soon. I said that I too would love to do it again sometime soon. We both went in for the hug. Then I promised that I'd see her at her flower stand on Monday.

  I walked back to my own apartment, feeling great. I was pretty sure I wasn't hallucinating the sparks between us. If this were an animated film, there would've been chirping birds around me and I would've broken into song.

  Marc was standing around outside when I arrived at my building. He was a few years older than me, maybe twenty-nine or thirty, and had that thing where his arms were so heavily tattooed that he always looked like he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt. He had scraggly facial hair. Even an open-minded person who was always willing to give others the benefit of the doubt would look at him and think, "Drug dealer."

  They'd be right.

  And I guess this is the part of the story where I have to admit to my criminal ties.

  three

  "Yo," said Marc.

  "Yo," I replied. The word "yo" never felt right coming out of my mouth.

  "You up for a job tonight?"

  "Maybe."

  "I could use you."

  "Okay."

  "Ten-thirty?"

  "Sure."

  "Thanks, dude." Marc gave me a fist bump. "See you then."

  I went inside. Let me clarify something: I wasn't a drug dealer. All I did, on rare occasions, was accompany Marc to meetings where he believed that having a tall, creepy-looking guy like me standing next to him might be beneficial. I didn't have to do anything but be present. I didn't have to say anything. I wasn't supposed to say anything. Just stand there and look like me.

  He'd approached me about a month after I moved into his building. Before that, we'd exchanged names and occasional pleasantries but hadn't had anything resembling an actual conversation.

  "I like your look, dude," he'd told me.

  "Thank you."

  "How are things going for you? You doing okay, money-wise? Times are tough around here."

  I shrugged. "Not too bad." This was before my low-paying job at the call center. I was making even less bussing dishes at a diner.

  "You interested in making two hundred bucks? Cash money. Won't even take an hour."

  "What do I have to do?"

  "Not a damn thing. You'll walk behind me, I'll conduct some business, and we'll leave. You might get a pat-down. No big deal."

  "Is it dangerous?"

  Marc shook his head. "No, dude, you're there to keep things safe. You're there to prevent violence. I wouldn't put you in harm's way."

  "I'll have to think about it."

  "The guy we're meeting is totally cool. All you are is a precautionary measure. You're like an extra parachute when you're skydiving. Nobody ever needs that extra parachute, but it's good to know it's there."

  "Two hundred and ten."

  "Done."

  Marc drove us to a crappy hotel, and I went with him into a room littered with beer bottles and empty pizza boxes. I did indeed get a pat-down, though there were several places they didn't check that I could've hidden a weapon. Marc gave a duffel bag to a sweaty guy, got a smaller duffel bag in return, and we left.

  "See?" he said as we got back in his car. "No problem."

  We did it four or five more times. Different hotels but always the same sweaty guy. In and out. Easy. Two hundred and ten bucks each time.

  I felt guilty taking part in this. I didn't even smoke weed, and I was sure the duffel bag was filled with much worse stuff. (I almost asked once, then decided against it.) I'd never done anything like this in any of the other places I'd lived. I justified it to myself by focusing on what Marc had said: that I was there to prevent violence. Without me, people—unsavory people, but human beings nonetheless—could get hurt or killed.

  It was a weak justification. I know that now and I kind of knew it then. If you truly need a motive for my entry into the world of crime, go with "stupidity."

  As I walked up the stairs to my apartment, I wished I'd told Marc no. I almost had a girlfriend now, and I shouldn't be doing this kind of thing anymore. Though I didn't know Abigail very well, I didn't think she would approve of me being involved with these kinds of people.

  I'd tell Marc that tonight was the last one. He'd have to find some other big scary looking bastard to accompany him.

  I met him outside the building at ten-thirty, then we got in his car. "We're meeting somebody different tonight," he said. "New business partner. Name's Wulfe, with a U instead of an O and with an E at the end."

  "Oh."

  "That a problem?"

  "A little. You didn't tell me that before. Are you sure it's safe?"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's totally cool. Same deal as always. We walk in, swap bags, walk out."

  "Two hundred and fifty."

  "Listen to the master negotiator!" Marc laughed. "You know what, that's totally fair. Two hundred and fifty it is. By the way, we've never really talked about it, but there are other opportunities for a guy like you. I could set you up with extra jobs that pay way more."

  "No thanks. This is fine."

  "The offer's on the table. You ever decide you want a new wide-screen TV or something, you just let me know, all right?"

  "I will."

  This time we didn't go to a hotel. We went to a seafood restaurant that was closed for the night. Marc parked behind the restaurant next to the Dumpster, and an unfriendly looking man let us in.

  There were six people in the back room. We'd never done a meeting that had more than a couple. Marc didn't seem surprised or nervous, so I did my job and walked in right behind him.

  Five of the men were standing. One sat on a rolling desk chair, though the actual desk was on the other side of the room. None of these men looked like they should be involved in the food service industry. They looked like people you'd suspect were responsible if your pet went missing. The guy on the chair, who I assumed was Wulfe, appeared especially sleazy. He had long greasy hair, bad teeth, and bad skin, though admittedly his clothes were stylish and clean.

  "C'mon in and join the party!" he said, not getting up. The unfriendly looking man shut the door behind us. "Can I get you anything? Water? Crab legs?"

  "Nah, we're good," said Marc.

  This pat-down was significantly more thorough than the previous ones. Not that it involved a body cavity search or anything, but it was a good thing I wasn't homophobic.

  "They're clean," said the man who'd given me far more action than I got from Abigail.

  "Shit, check the big guy out," said Wulfe, rolling his chair to the left. "He looks like fuckin' Lurch from The Munsters."

  The Lurch comparison was one I'd heard many times. It was, of course, The Addams Family, but I obviously wasn't going to correct him. I just stood there.

  "Doesn't he, though?" Wulfe asked the other men. "He's totally fuckin' Lurch. Say 'You rang?' for me. Go on, say 'You rang?' I wanna hear if you have that same low-ass voice. Damn, I never thought I'd meet Lurch in the fuckin' flesh. Say 'You rang?'"

  I shook my head.

  "I've got that right, don't I? The Munsters? Was it something else?"

  "No, it was The Munsters," said one of the men.

  "Or, no, wait, who was that big fucker in the James Bond movies? Fucker with the teeth. You know who I'm talking about?"

  "Jaws?" asked the man who'd incorrectly confirmed The Munsters.

  "Jaws! That's it! Fucker looks like Jaws. Aw, shit, the good Lord above must've been all like 'Fuck this guy!' when He made you. I'm just playing. You know that. I bet you get mad pussy, don't you?"

  I didn't answer.

  "I was asking a real question. A great big Lurch and Jaws-looking motherfucker like you must get all the pussy. I mean, all of it. The world's population is going down because there
ain't no pussy left for the rest of us. When's the last time you busted a nut?"

  "We should get down to business," said Marc.

  "Is that how it is?" asked Wulfe, sounding genuinely irritated. He rolled his chair forward. "I'm here trying to engage in some friendly banter, and you're going to be rude to me right to my fuckin' face? That ain't how you start a business relationship, my man. You don't come in here, into my goddamn place, and tell me how I should behave. I was being social. Maybe you could learn some fuckin' lessons from me."

  "You're right," said Marc. "I apologize."

  Wulfe mimicked him. "'I apologize.' Fuck yeah you apologize. You've both been nothing but assholes since you stepped in here. When I offer you crab legs, you take the fuckin' crab legs, okay? You do not try to rush me through our meeting like you're just trying to get your rocks off with some whore. Foreplay, man. I'm trying to establish shit here. I want us to be working together for a long time. You want a one-night-stand, you peddle your product elsewhere."

  "I genuinely apologize," said Marc. "Complete misunderstanding. I'm used to people wanting to make these meetings as quick as possible, and I was trying to be respectful of your time."

  Wulfe stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Please don't send Mr. Lurch over there to hurt me."

  I was doing my best not to throw up. If Marc needed an actual bodyguard instead of just somebody to stand here looking intimidating, he was out of luck. I was impressed with my own ability to stay calm, but the second we were out of here, I knew I'd be shaking.

  "I'd love a crab leg," said Marc.

  "You're overcompensating. They've been in the fuckin' pot too long anyway; I shouldn't have offered them to you in the first place. Now I'm going to be respectful of your time and ask you to bring over your bag of goodies."

  Marc walked over to Wulfe, who did not stand up or extend his hand.

  "Do I just set it on your lap or...?"

  "Lap's fine."

  Marc set the duffel bag on Wulfe's lap and then returned to where he'd been standing in front of me.