by Mark McCann
In time, I would go on to petition to have it changed to the Tool Room even though the tools were heavily outnumbered now by miscellaneous items. My argument being that I simply did not mean that kind of tool. And by petitioned I meant stated, and by stated I meant that when I referred to that room I just called it the Tool Room.
Where am I going with this? I’m going past it, around the corner of the laundry room, and through the finished basement to the Stupid Room. The Stupid Room held a small children’s table with two chairs, an easel, a large corner shelf, a book shelf, an overflowing toy box, which kind of lent to the fact that, yes, there were toys all over the floor as well, but, more importantly, there was also a treadmill. The door to the stupid room has been removed, and do not be mistaken, the room was not nearly as large as it sounds.
I was standing in the family room, looking into the Stupid Room at Katie. She was running on the treadmill. She ran on it every day. I came down to say something to her once, and have watched her every day since. She knows I think she is sexy. She knows I think she is beautiful and smart. She’s funny, and I don’t think you can be very funny without being smart. But enough about her brains already. Her bum had… I really wish I could capture the magnitude of that perfect, most glorious bouncing bottom in motion. Granted, I may have not been paying attention elsewhere, but nothing had called out for my attention, nothing said anything relevant, until that bum bounced on that treadmill and demanded I recognize it as the beautiful fine art that it certainly was.
Now I stood and watched her run, completely lost in reverie. She wore headphones. I stood, quiet and still. It was as though her bum wanted to jump up and down on its own, slightly trailing the movements of the rest of her body, up and down, up and down, hard and rhythmic. I was in awe. All of me was silent in every way. Nothing else existed. The kids were tearing through the room, smashing toys into toys, sending those toys flying into other toys. And when something did hit me, it only registered as a near miss. I noticed none of it. In a way, I theorized, by not interrupting the boys, I kept them busy. I saw nothing but that bounce, bounce, bounce. That was my therapy. I knew every day I would be okay if that moment was in there somewhere. It made me thankful. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. I was okay; it was my moment, true and pure. If she stopped running it would be okay. I had been there. I could be there anytime I wanted when I shut my eyes. I was there now, and now and now and now, up and down, again and again. She was running and looking at me through the door, while I stood, staring. I smiled at her, and mouthed the words, “You running on the treadmill counts as foreplay.”
Chapter 5 … The Man Needs Help
“So why didn’t your number show up on my phone yesterday,” I asked looking at Nate, feeling I was done with staring blankly at the road ahead. “I thought you were my dentist calling me back, they always come up private caller. So it was private yesterday, but not today – what’s up with that?” I asked again, just to relate my confusion.
“I forgot to block my number today,” he said like it was obvious.
“Oh. Okay, so let me try to get this part, at least, straight,” I squinted, rightfully so, I felt, “you get a prank call,”
“You don’t know that,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You’re right, sorry, moving on, for the moment, just humour me, okay, you’re threatened, happy? Someone who could be anyone, whether they just met you or have known you forever, maybe even raised you, calls and says, ‘you’re dead’, okay, fine, but then you call me and block your number so it doesn’t come up on my phone? See; I don’t think I get that,” I said slowly in case it may have helped him understand the fact I didn’t understand. “Why the hell would you block your number from me when you were supposedly calling me for help? See how that kind of makes maybe no sense at all? That just, I don’t get it, Nate. I’m trying, I really am, man. But… okay, Nate, it’s that fucking look of astonishment that I am going to punch you in the face over. I am trying, hard, here, to understand what you say along with the things you do, but nothing is coming together for me, at all, like not one sensible thing is within eyesight of another. Do you know what I mean?”
The look on his face told me he didn’t. “This is big, man, this is something, like, I don’t know, but real… it’s really, finally, happening.” He glanced at me, quickly. Evidently driving as erratically as he did required a good amount of concentration.
“Really real – what do you mean, finally?” I asked as yet another shoulder came between me and the main attraction.
“You know,” he said, not knowing just how mistaken he was, “you go through life with no cares and shit, then, boom, something happens, something like this, and you have to, you know, care, I guess. I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t know, I don’t know, um, that sentence didn’t know either. It was all like ‘Hey, where’s my information?’ Man oh man, Nate… buddy,” I looked around at the cars parked outside Raises The Bar. I wondered why we had gone back there of all places and if I really cared or if I just wanted something else to be annoyed at.
Chapter 6 … Gently Weeps A Gentle Weeping Man Baby
The inside of Raises was still the same dark square broken up by the same spots of light that were still trying in vain to reach one another. There were some regulars set at the bar, two of whom looked in our direction, and one even nodded at me like repetition was all it took to enter into alcoholic brotherhood with him. I nodded back as if to say, soon, my friend, soon. And even I wondered what I meant by that.
“Really Nate,” I said as we slid into our seats, “I should have known it was you, it for some reason almost always is. ‘Meet me at Raises,’ ha ha sucker, I’m fucking outta here.” I pretended, poorly, to be him.
He was looking around the room like I wasn’t in it, like I just wasn’t right across the table from him, and hadn’t said a thing. I must have been surprised, for I didn’t know what to make of it. “Hello?” I asked, wondering how it was he had gotten lost inside his tiny head.
“What?” he asked like my first five minutes of saying stuff didn’t count, fart sniff shoe bomb, doesn’t matter; I’ve got four minutes and twenty seconds left on the clock, far-sighted milk pants… bling blap bloop.
I waited till his slow-moving face focused on mine. The dad in me wanted to tilt his head down and try to smooth his hair out; it looked like he’d been holding it just above his head, contemplating pulling it out. I took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go over this again, okay, let’s just figure this shit out,” I said ambitiously, thinking it might help grab hold of his attention.
“How are we going to do that? Someone called me on my cell, private number, they just fucking said, you’re dead, man.” He said each word as though it had been interrupted by the last and like it surprised him there was another word to follow. He collected himself, before adding at a slower pace, “I know, big deal, right, but then there was an insane laugh, like another guy in the background, with this laugh I’d never heard before, but it was that, man, that scared me the most. It just sounded so… insane; you should have heard the guy. It just really… threw me, man; it would have thrown you too. It was insane.”
I looked at him blankly before saying, “I woke up like seventeen different times today, and my face was the alarm clock each time. Okay and now with that said; what the hell are you talking about, and why are you telling me? Oh,” I sighed heavily, “and when were the shots fired?” He turned his head ever so slightly, and I was quite impressed by how much so little could imply. “Seriously though, Nate, have you met our friends, they are us: they are crazy. And then what phone did you call me from? Why’d it come up private?” I thought I would revisit the topic to see if maybe it made more sense now that I was somewhere else and minutes older.
“Star sixty-seven,” he said as though that were all the information I would ever need, for anything.
“Uh, okay, and, again, why would you star sixty-seven me?” I asked.
“Because of the
phone call, man, I had to go stealth mode on everyone’s ass,” he said with confidence as though it truly was a sensible statement.
My face twitched. “Right,” I said, “of course, stealth mode, asses, yeah, man, I hear you, that’s… very clever.” I stared at him, rather impressed with the routes in his head he insisted on taking, hey, look, rocks! “So what about this, uh, call you got, what’s going on with that?” I tried to resume direction, wishing to skip over the painful parts.
He looked at me for a long moment. I began to feel I knew what it was like to actually feel gravity pull at me. He was still just looking at me, and I him.
“Was it you?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I said like I was the epitome of disinterest. “Wait, is that why you got me to wait for you here and not to show up last night?” I asked like it maybe may have made sense had that been the reason.
“No,” Nate said looking away, then back, “I just thought it was you for some reason, but then didn’t, and I knew you’d come and help me, but then I thought again that maybe it was you, and then I just didn’t know and I split. So, was it you?” he asked like he really and seriously did not know.
I looked at him, I was a blank sheet of paper, while Nate here had a mouthful of black ink and was a spitting splattering mess when he talked. “You know what,” I said, sounding considerably calmer than I actually was, “I don’t think you got a phone call at all, I think you believe you did, but that… this is just part of the deception going on in that head of yours, and you’re not even aware of it. You, my friend, sensed the future,” I nodded my head, “I’m it,” I whispered quickly. “Man,” I expelled, “I am not at a loss for words; I just have nothing to say. Does that make sense to you? I say that because you, you are doing the opposite. At first I thought you were off your fucking rocker, but now it’s like… you set something in motion. Here you are saying this stuff about someone wanting to kill you; meanwhile I start to think, hey, I should kill this guy, he’s an idiot who knows he’s an idiot, who wants me to kill him. I think, right now, I could very well be a murderer, a murderous murderer. I never realized it hurt to say that word that many times. Anyway, do you see where I’m going with this? That ‘one plus one,’ do the math – stuff – thing. Sorry, I meant that last part as a question,” I paused to let him not answer and stare at me. “Anyway, yeah, I probably have to kill you now since it was your idea and you are obviously far too insane to be having those,” I said and made some dull stabbing motions toward him.
I looked at him with what I intended to be a strange face but in fact may have turned out to be somewhat funny, as he began to laugh.
“What, what is it?” he asked with a slight and nervous smile.
“What isn’t it?” I shook my head. “Okay,” I said, “have you ever written a word that is so simple and easy, like a word you’ve never really given much thought because there is no need to, and so you once again go to use it, in a regular sentence or wherever, and you suddenly don’t recognize it? Do you know what I mean? See, I think you are one of those words – in people form. At first you make complete sense and I know I know you, but the more I look at you the less familiar you become, and I can’t believe I’m in need of a dictionary for something so simple.” I began to laugh.
“That’s not funny, man” he said like he couldn’t believe I was laughing.
All I could think to say back was, “Your face isn’t funny,” I paused and saw he couldn’t follow a rope if it had been tied to him, and so I added, finally, “Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t me.” I wanted to hit him, hey, look, rocks!
He looked at me, long and hard, and seemed to be deciding which direction to go in.
“Head first,” I said like I knew what he was thinking, “it’s only shallow water and rock bottom, just go for it, like nothing else matters, man up; man up, to the man code, I think we both know you’re going to.” I shook my head, indicating I didn’t know what I was talking about either and then blurted out, “Hey, look; rocks!” I laughed while he glared at me. At least he looked more annoyed at this point than frightened and lost.
“What are you talking about?”
I widened my eyes and looked at him as though he should know, then turned my head left a bit.
“I really don’t know,” I confessed and resumed my beer drinking position, “not a clue. That is how I roll, Natter, when people, people that are you, come and tell me crazy shit, especially a whole lot of it. Yeah, it’s weird, eh; as far back as I can remember I’ve always gotten a little strange around crazy shit. Can’t explain it.” I shook my head while I moved my hands around in the air in front of me, imagining them to be feet walking around piles of stuff they didn’t want to step in.
“How many those you had?” he asked pointing at the beer that had just been set in front of me. He took his directly from the waitress, and began to down the pint while pointing his hand sideways and making a number of circles at the waitress.
“He wants you to cartwheel away,” I said to her and shrugged. He looked at me and then back at her, then stopped his one-man-chugging-contest to say, “I’ll get another.”
I pointed down at my beer and made a circular motion above it like I was stirring it from afar, “Um, not even this one,” I said, looking at him, then it, and then him again, “Many words you no bother speak,” I said.
His face said, Hello, I am unimpressed, and then he ran his arm across his mouth, something I had forgotten he had the habit of doing. Keep the beer and whole chickens coming for my idiot Viking friend, I thought.
“What the fuck are you talking about,” he said into his hands as they slid dramatically down his face now like it was all too much to bear, which, given the circumstances, was something I thought only I should have had the right to do.
With the speaking and then the thinking I wasn’t even sure but then it came back to me, “How many those you had,” I repeated out loud for both of us. “How English you talk, maybe that is why I want to fucking kill you.”
“Does it matter?” he said defensively.
“Do you matter?” I interrupted, annoyed beyond reason. I realized my frustration was hardly helping either of us, and a lack of patience was only speeding me towards greater frustration. “Look, I’m sorry man, forget it, I’m having a … day, a day where, yeah okay, the phone did not ring with someone on the other end threatening my life. I guess that would either have to be funny or frightening or just stupid, right?”
“Frightening, thank you,” he said, once again selectively hearing me, “really scary actually, you see, it’s…” he didn’t know how to describe it or he was just dropping significant words from his sentences again.
“Do you think it’s that girl’s brother?” he asked suddenly.
“Um, well, not knowing what you’re talking about; no, no, I don’t think it’s her brother, not for one second did I think that.”
“Oh good,” he said to my staggering disbelief. “I was going to call her, but just, I don’t know, didn’t, I guess.”
At this point I realized how deeply tired and uninterested I felt about the whole thing. No one, no more: I was done with friends, I thought to myself, and wondered why I didn’t think it to him while I was at it. No indeed; they seemed only to wring the normal from my fabric of being.
I ordered another beer while Nate spoke to himself, perhaps about whom it may have concerned. His eyes were wide, and I saw fear was actually running its course with him. A genuine fear and I didn’t quite understand why – no, I understood why, but couldn’t see the real threat the way he obviously did. Something about it all just didn’t make any sense at all, but I couldn’t figure out just what it was.
“Ever stop to think someone was messing with you?” I took a different angle and tried to be helpful, especially if it meant gaining some distance from the problem. He stopped his external dialogue, which I hadn’t been paying attention to, and looked at me, bewildered, like he believed people did not joke anymore i
n this part of the world. Maybe he was right; I wasn’t sure either, but I knew it wouldn’t have been the first time we’d broken rules regarding behaviour or etiquette. I knew that even without resorting to something flimsy like memory.
“No,” he said quietly, “you should have heard the way he said it,” Nate spoke slowly and… creepily, really. You should have heard the way you just said that, I thought. “They were so angry, so,” he stopped mid-sentence and tried to think of the right word, “so loud and honest, and so,” he stopped again, seemingly at a complete loss for words, and it didn’t matter as I had come to feel sorry for him and deeply confused. This was someone so very far from the Nate I knew and had grown up with. He punched people… routinely even. It occurred to me that I might not have ever seen him fearful of anything until now. I had known him too long not to care, no matter how invalid the cause may have been; invalid being my way of saying, stupid.
It was then that my phone rang, so I picked it up from its place on the table and answered it. To have done anything else would have just been plain weird, however, being in the position of omniscience that I am, I’d wished I’d just bent over and smooshed my face into it. I almost said ‘awkwardly’ there, but, really, could there be any other way? I’m guessing no.
That was when the lid truly came off; from where Nate was sitting, he overheard belligerent and muffled loudness coming out of my phone. Before I could fasten reason to the moment, he had taken it and tossed it in front of him and kicked it sky high.