“I think…”
“Yeah?” Bernie deposited his duffle bag on the floor.
“I think…”
“Spit it out before you choke on it.”
“I think this might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”
Bernie scratched his calf; he was wearing black socks with sandals. “It’s not that nice. You’re my most valuable client, mostly because you’re my only client.”
Aaron felt a tickle in the back of his throat. He’d like to say more but wasn’t skilled at demonstrating his feelings. Dusty, on the other hand, had no such reservations; he was getting a bit too friendly with Bernie’s leg.
Aaron pried the dog away. “I’m sorry. He’s been doing that lately. I think he misses Laurie.”
“Maybe, but I also notice your little guy still has his balls. Take him in for a snip-snip, and he’ll quit romancing people’s extremities.”
Aaron nodded. “I’ll call the vet in the morning.”
That night Bernie slept on the futon and snored quite loudly—he sounded like a clogged DustBuster—but Aaron didn’t mind. He’d never had a male buddy before. As a school boy he was always somewhat of a loner, mostly because his father discouraged him from having friends over to the house.
By the time he got to college he was in the habit of keeping to himself. In grad school he met Emma and male companionship seemed unnecessary, especially since he didn’t have the typical manly interests such as football, cars, blood sports and binge drinking.
Thus his interactions with Bernie were novel, and he was enjoying the male perspective. Bernie liked sports bars, and over the next few days they visited several in the Atlanta area. In a show of solidarity, Aaron occasionally shouted at the television when Bernie’s teams scored.
One night they were at a sports bar called the Arena. Earlier Aaron had tried to order a Pink Lady (he was feeling lonesome for Laurie) and Bernie said to the bartender, “He’s joking! Give him something that will turn his balls to steel. A hearty stout maybe or a shot of Jagermeister.”
Bernie drained the last bit of beer from his mug and signaled the bartender for another. He grabbed a fried onion from a bristling concoction called a Blooming Onion. Aaron didn’t partake; his appetite had dwindled ever since the breakup.
“So the chapters you were sending me,” Bernie said, chewing with his mouth open. “Obviously about R.K. Harris, right?”
Aaron nodded. “I apologize. I temporarily lost my mind. That’s never happened before.”
Bernie clapped him on the back. “No apology necessary. Sometimes it’s healthy to go a little psycho. And who can blame you? Your girlfriend ran off with a pretty boy multimillionaire who writes love stories for a living. Doesn’t get much worse than that.”
“I worry that he’s a womanizer. He had a number of girlfriends in graduate school.”
“Guys like that are always womanizers. Hell, if I looked like him, I’d be a womanizer too. Lucky for my wife, I look like a Brillo pad with legs and a moustache.”
“Not only is he a womanizer, he’s a schlock writer,” Aaron said.
“Then they’re two of a kind, aren’t they? And I don’t know about Laurie, but I’m sure R.K. sees the relationship as a savvy business move. Great publicity to hook up with a fellow romance writer who, according to Vanity Fair, gives new meaning to the words ‘Hot Type.’ My guess is he’s envisioning dozens of photo ops and profile pieces, which means more book sales, and I’m sure that’s the only thing he cares about.”
“You think he’s using her?”
“Could be. Or it might be a mutual arrangement. People like Laurie and Ross are different than you and me. They don’t live the examined life because they don’t have to. They’re like water bugs, skimming the surface of a pond, never getting too wet. Guys like us? We’re living on the floor of it with the muck and the bottom dwellers. “
“Maybe Ross, but not Laurie. She’s not that way.”
Bernie wiped beer foam and bits of onion from his moustache. “Gorgeous girl like that? Naturally you’re hoping she has depth. But most gorgeous girls are like beautifully wrapped presents. When you open them up, all you get is packing peanuts.”
“I’m not sure I can take another simile,” Aaron said. “At least not on an empty stomach.”
“Gotcha. I should leave the writing to you. Don’t sweat this disappointment too much. I guarantee you, one day you’ll get over Laurie and you’ll find the girl for you, just like I found my Mookie.”
Aaron knew all about Mookie. Every night Bernie called his wife and talked to her for at least a half hour. Mookie’s name was actually Dolores. Mookie was her nickname, but oddly it was also Bernie’s nickname. Every night Bernie would say, “You’re the best Mookie…No. I’m not the best Mookie, you’re the best Mookie.”
They had the same exchange every night about who was the best Mookie. The dilemma was never resolved.
“How did you know Mookie was the one?” Aaron said.
“What are you? Some kind of moron?”
Bernie was hollering at the TV, not Aaron. When they were in a sports bar it was a three-way conversation between Aaron, Bernie, and the big screen.
“The thing about Mookie is…Hey, dipshit! You need to get glasses…On my own I’m kind of a schlemiel, but when I’m around Mookie…Christ! Did you see that?”
“Yes?” Aaron said, waiting.
“She makes me want to be a better man. I try harder around her.”
In some ways that was true with Laurie. When Aaron was around her he felt like an enhanced HD version of himself. But perhaps he wasn’t enhanced enough. Otherwise she wouldn’t have banished him from her life.
That night Aaron drank more than he should, and Bernie held his elbow as he stumbled into his room. Dusty hopped up from his doggie bed and greeted Aaron at the threshold. Aaron scooped him up, and Dusty licked his face.
“That dog loves you like you’re made of liverwurst,” Bernie said. “Funny thing is I wouldn’t have figured you as a dog person.”
“I wasn’t. My father never allowed me pets, and after I was old enough to live on my own, I was so devoted to writing I didn’t feel like I had time for one.”
“So how did this hairy guy come into your life?”
Aaron slumped on the sofa with Dusty on his lap, and told Bernie the story.
When he got to the part about seeing Dusty all alone by the dumpster and trembling in the storm, he said, “I looked at that frightened little puppy, and I saw myself.”
“Don’t tell me you were abandoned in a dumpster.”
“No.” He told Bernie the story of his mother’s death and when he was done, Bernie let out a low whistle.
“I’m sorry, cowboy. That is one of the hell of a sad story.”
“There’s one part I left out.” Aaron could hear the slur in his voice. “A part I’ve never told anyone. Not even Laurie.”
“Are you sure you want to tell me?”
“I do.” Aaron paused for a moment. “I was responsible for my mother’s death.”
“What? How you figure that?”
“I’d taken the batteries from the radio and put them in my dump truck. If I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t have gone upstairs early and she’d still be alive.”
Bernie shook his head. “I can understand why you might think like that, but you’re wrong. This world’s mysterious. It’s hard to understand why people come in and out of it.”
Aaron sighed heavily. “I realize I didn’t mean to cause her death, but after that, I always felt tainted. Like I didn’t deserve anything good in my life. Whenever I’m happy I know it’s never going to last, and it never does.”
“Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy to me. Maybe it’s time to start changing your
expectations.”
“Maybe,” Aaron said.
But he had no idea how to begin. For so many years he’d always expected the worse.
Aaron took Bernie to the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in the morning and when they reached the Delta terminal, Bernie said, “Thanks for the ride. It saved me scheckles on a cab.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Take care, cowboy, and keep on writing.” He mimed a pencil traveling across paper. “Daddy needs to buy himself a new pair of Docksiders.”
“One more thing before you leave.” A car horn blared, and Aaron raised his voice. “Why do you always call me cowboy?”
“Do you know a lot about cowboys?”
“Not really.”
“Cowboys inspire me. They’re out there on the range, day after day, isolated, singing their cowboy songs. They’re almost an anachronism but they don’t care. They have a way of life to defend, kind of the way you defend Craft. It’s a noble pursuit.”
“Thank you,” Aaron said, although he couldn’t say he deserved the compliment. During his first year in the MFA program he may have been more like a cowboy, singing the praises of Craft for the sheer joy of it. But that feeling of jubilation eventually faded, and he’d become increasingly jaded and judgmental. Laurie might not be the best writer in the world, but she had the jubilation part down pat. Aaron hoped he hadn’t taken that away from her.
He and Bernie stood awkwardly facing each other, not speaking. Doors slammed; travelers passed by trailing wheeled bags that squeaked over the pavement. Exhaust curled from the backs of cars, and the heat from the sidewalk penetrated the thin soles of Aaron’s shoes. It occurred to him that maybe a hug was in order, but he was afraid of offending Bernie’s masculine sensibilities so instead he extended his hand.
Bernie ignored it and gave him an embrace that felt like a mauling. He said, “Aaron, deep down I think you’re one of the good guys. I get you, and I also understand what you’re defending. That girlfriend of yours didn’t. You were over her head, cowboy.”
He trod to the terminal, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Aaron was sorry to see him leave as he had enjoyed their interactions. He also felt badly that he wasn’t completely honest with his friend. Bernie wouldn’t be getting new Docksiders anytime soon—at least not from the sale of Aaron’s future novels. He’d decided to give up writing for a while. It was just one more thing in his life that had soured on him. It was time to get practical and focus on a back-up career. He was going to follow his father’s wishes and put all his energy into a PhD program.
Eighteen
Aaron couldn’t stand his own company for one more second. Earlier in the day, at Bernie’s advice, he took Dusty to the vet to get him fixed. After the procedure, the vet wanted to keep him overnight because of a complication. “Just a precaution,” she said. “Nothing to fret about.” But Aaron couldn’t stop worrying. He decided to go out to a sports bar to escape his thoughts, his lonely room and Dusty’s empty dog bed.
Without Bernie, he felt like an imposter entering Player’s Grill. He almost expected a bouncer to pull him aside and quiz him about which team won last year’s Super Bowl. There was no room at the bar, so Aaron took a seat at one of the small tables beneath a neon Harley Davidson sign. A waitress wearing a plaid shirt and an abbreviated pair of blue jean shorts approached.
Aaron ordered Bernie’s beverage of choice, a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He called it a “PBR” instead of using the entire name, which made him feel more like an insider.
Once his order was placed, he glanced up at one of the many large-screen TVs affixed to the wall behind the bar. The sport du jour was soccer. The beer arrived, and it was watery and nearly tasteless. He pretended to watch the game—or was it a match?—but his mind was elsewhere.
“Is this a mirage or what? Aaron Mite in a sports bar? Drinking a beer?”
Emma stood by his table. Instead of wearing her usual cross expression she was smiling. She grabbed his beer—she never had any food or drink boundaries—and sipped it.
Her nose wrinkled. “If you’re going to start drinking beer, I better teach you what kind of beer to drink.”
She sat across from him and snapped her fingers to get the waitress’s attention. When the waitress arrived, Emma said, “Take away this swill and bring us something decent.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Aaron said.
“I’m here under duress. See that guy over there?” She waved at a balding man a few tables away sitting underneath a NASCAR poster. He waved back and smiled. “That’s my date. A blind date, I might add.”
“I should let you get back to him.”
“He’s not a quart of milk, he’ll keep. What are you doing here? Drowning your sorrows?”
“Sorrows don’t drown; they briefly submerge only to float to the surface with greater fierceness.”
“Who said that?” Emma said.
“Aaron Mite. Or rather, a character in Aaron Mite’s unpublished novel.”
“I thought it sounded familiar. I suppose this sorrow is all about the loss of the bottle blonde?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m assuming since you’re here alone.”
Aaron reached for his beer but remembered it was no longer there, just a watery spot where it once sat sweating. “Yes. Laurie and I are no longer a couple. She’s now with another writer, and I use that term loosely. R.K. Harris.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You know of him?”
“I met him once at a booksellers convention and read one of his books. Talk about your sentimental clap trap.”
The beers arrived, and they chatted about the usual things: novels they’d read, movies she’d seen, a new coffee shop that opened. He told her about the cancellation of his book contract.
Emma pouted. The expression seemed affected, as if she was attempting to be a coquette, and it was more disturbing than alluring. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to add your book to my signed shelf.”
In her den Emma kept a collection of signed books that took up three shelves.
“You said you hated my book.”
She elbowed him in the ribs, more gently than usual. “You know I didn’t mean it.”
A half hour into their conversation, Emma’s date, a round-faced man in a spotless white polo shirt, approached the table. “Hi, Emma...The movie we’re supposed to see starts in fifteen minutes. Maybe we should get going?” He tapped his watch, a complicated device with several gears.
“You’re still here?” Emma said. “I thought it was clear from my behavior that our date is over.”
He nervously jangled the change in the pockets of his khakis. They looked like they’d been carefully pressed for the occasion. “Was it something I said? I thought we were getting along fine.”
Aaron felt sorry him. He could tell the man was no match for Emma.
Emma waved her hand at him as if he was a housefly. “Scat…Vamoose…Don’t make me sic my friend on you. He has a black belt in jiu-jitsu.”
Her date hurriedly headed for the door, looking over his shoulder a couple of times as if worried Aaron would jump him. A laughable notion. Aaron had never laid a hand on anyone in his life, and the only black belt he had was the one that tied his bathrobe together.
“Now where were we?” Emma said.
Aaron yawned. “I suppose we should call it a night.” He stood, preparing to leave.
“Not so fast, mister. You need to take me home. Remember I ditched my date?”
“That’s right.”
“Aaron Mite. Absentminded as ever!”
It was a typical Emma comment and would usually be delivered with a pinch that was a shade too hard. But no pinch came. She simply smiled and linked arms with him.
He drove Emma to her house and she said, “Are you coming in?”
He briefly considered it, but no. Emma was not what he needed right now. When he turned her down, he expected her to make a scathing remark, but instead she patted his arm and said, “Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where I live.”
Aaron went to the vet to pick up Dusty, and while he waited for a staff member to bring him out, he studied a poster on the lifecycle of the heartworm. It was much more complex than he might have imagined. Luckily Dusty took a monthly pill to prevent an infestation.
Someone touched his hand, and Aaron turned around. It was the vet. She was a redhead in her late thirties and wore a smock decorated with fire hydrants. “Mr. Mite? Dusty’s owner?”
“Yes.” Aaron didn’t care for the term “owner.” Dusty was so much more than a possession. He was a beloved companion, and at the moment, he was Aaron’s only companion.
“I’m afraid I have some upsetting news,” she said. Her voice was solemn, her eyes large and conciliatory.
Aaron shook his head. He knew what she was about to say, but he couldn’t bear to hear it.
“This kind of complication is so rare—”
“No,” he said, backing out the door. If he left before she gave him the news, it wouldn’t be true.
“We did everything we could. Dusty was such a sweet, dear little—”
“No.”
“Again, I am so very sorry. He must have had a weak heart because—”
“No,” Aaron said softly. “His heart was strong; it was biggest and strongest heart I’ve ever known.”
The vet nodded sympathetically. “I don’t know what you want to do with his remains. We can always take care of them for you, if that’s what you—”
“No,” Aaron said. This time it was not a “no” of denial but a statement. He took a long inhale of air and his entire body shuddered. “I’ll take Dusty with me. He belongs with his Da.”
Love Literary Style Page 17