Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  “Twenty-six seventy-three for the first two weeks. Then we’ll run it again, if you don’t get a call, Mr.—uh—Wattery-cliff-ies.”

  Terrance sighed. He said thanks and hung up, not wanting to argue. In three days, he’d check the paper and make sure they spelled his name right.

  “Just give me a good duck, will ya?” he said, aloud.

  He picked up the beer and took a swig. He looked at the television and wondered why this putz, Gregory, was buying a vowel, and an A no less. Anybody in his right mind could see the answer was, Taj Majal.

  Terrance stood up to get another beer. Sometimes, he wished he could eradicate the entire human race.

  *

  Four year ago, when Terrance was living in Minneapolis, he’d walked into a Common Cents store for a Diet 7-up. An un-cola sounded delicious at the time. He was at the counter waiting to pay when a sudden inspiration to gamble came over him. Before the clerk finished ringing up the soda, Terrance chimed in with: “And one ’a them lottery tickets, please.”

  Peeling one at random from the large roll from half a dozen others, the cashier—a short, yellow-skinned man with glasses—dropped the ticket on the counter. Terrance paid, wondering if the man had jaundice, and pocketed his change.

  He put the ticket in his breast pocket and walked out of the store. He forgot about it until he was sitting in front of the television later that night. An advertisement for the local Minneapolis lottery aired. He pulled the ticket out and stared at it as the commercial ran:

  “Minnesota’s newest lottery! Run with Eight. You have grreeeaat chances of winning when you play Run with Eight! Simply scratch the ticket, and if the numbers equal eight, you win! So run run run down to your nearest convenient store and buy a winning lottery ticket!”

  Terrance frowned. He scratched the gray film with a penny until three numbers stared up at him. His brows came together. Something was amiss. His teachers must’ve taught him how to add wrong. Maybe all the tickets equaled eight, he thought. Maybe he’d misheard the commercial.

  The numbers, 6-1-1 stared up him as if to say, “Congratulations, you lucky bastard! What are you gonna do with all that cash?”

  “Cornhole the scarecrow,” Terrance said, in disbelief, and laughed uproariously.

  He was awarded four-hundred-thousand dollars in a cashier’s check. They’d wanted to take his picture, let the entire city of Minneapolis know he’d won, but Terrance declined. His personal fortune awarded him more when he invested half his winnings in Multi-track Advertising. After taxes, he now had 1.5 million.

  Terrance’s life, even to him, always seemed a mystery, but he wasn’t about to let it change who he was.

  Why do you play roles like Big Orange Goofy anyway? he thought.

  Lady Luck loved him, held him, and squeezed him tight. Terrance wasn’t one ignore her kindness. He let Lady Luck nurture him, and Terrance Wattercliffe—being the obedient child he was—suckled like a babe.

  *

  The call came two days after his add hit the paper. Several people had reached him through the course of the week, but this was the call he’d been waiting for. He could feel it.

  The phone came to life, shrilling with obnoxious flair as he was dozing in the chair after a couple of beers. It startled him. Terrance jerked in the chair, arms sailing out in front of him as if he’d been having a bad dream. He must’ve turned the volume up louder than he’d thought. The nap made him cold, gruff, and irritable. After the disappointment of not finding the perfect roommate, he was a trifle uneasy.

  “Hello?” Terrance said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Hello.” The voice seemed miles away, but agreeable—overly pleasant—reminding him of one of his characters. “I was calling about the add in the paper? For a roommate?”

  Terrance sat bolt upright. He was wide-awake now. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Is it still available?”

  “Yes,” Terrance said.

  This was the one, he thought. Something about it, the pleasant invocation, a male voice showing just a smidgen of femininity.

  “Tip-top shape, it’s in,” Terrance said, adding color to his invitation. “Would you like to come by and have a look?”

  “Sure,” the voice said, excitedly. “I think I can make it out there today. Would that be okay?”

  “All right as can be,” Terrance said. “All right for anyone here.”

  “You have more rooms to rent?”

  “Just trying to break the ice,” Terrance explained. “That was a joke.”

  Terrance could virtually see the caller smiling.

  “Ha ha!” the man laughed. “Of course! How about an hour?”

  “An hour is excellent. An hour is splendid. What is your name, sir?”

  “Adler. Norson Adler.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Norson. You a drinking man by chance or nature?”

  “Both,” Norson said, and they both laughed again. “Not a problem, is it?”

  “Not by chance or nature. I’ll have a beer waiting for you.”

  Terrance wished he could read Norson’s mind. He gave the man his address. “Perfect then. I’ll see you some time this afternoon.”

  “Sure thing. Thank you.”

  The line went dead. Sometimes, it was just an easy feeling.

  “See you then,” Terrance said to the empty phone.

  Already, it was a good start, a nice end to a rather boring, lusterless week. Too bad summer was coming to an end.

  “There’s a new kid in town,” Terrance said, wanting to tidy up before his new roommate arrived. “And his name is Norson Adler.”

  Terrance giggled. One more beer before his guest arrived wouldn’t kill him.

  *

  Norson Adler had eyes similar to a liquid blue fantasy. His smile was wide on an extremely handsome face. He had short-cropped, brown, wavy hair. He wore a fashionable brown jacket with a white shirt underneath, tweed pants, and Italian shoes. Norson Adler dressed in style. In the light of an August afternoon, Terrance looked over Norson’s shoulder after he opened the door, and saw a red MG with the top down parked at the curb.

  This is the kind of guy who could be an athlete, a movie star, a GQ boy, Terrance thought. What the hell does he need a room for?

  A tan paw shot out and greeted Terrance. Norson proved to have a firm, bold handshake. It wasn’t clammy or soft. Terrance shook his hand and ushered him inside.

  “Hello, Mr. Adler. Glad you could stop by.”

  Norson nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Watter…”

  “Cliffe. Please call me Terrance.”

  “Sure. And I answer only to Norson.”

  “Fair enough, Norson. Come on in and have a look around. I’ll get you something cold with lots of bubbles.”

  Norson nodded. He smiled as if he heard this sort of thing everyday. He and Norson were of the same ilk, Terrance realized. He came back from the kitchen and handed Norson a beer.

  “Thank you,” Norson said, taking the beer, and looking around. He took a drink.

  “Real nice place you have here,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  Terrance relished the beer after a long pull. “Colorado’s finest,” he said. “Brewed right here in the Rocky Mountains. Cold Coors Light could belong nowhere else, am I right? Why, ever since I moved here, it’s been one, long, beer-filled extravaganza after another.

  “Well, anyway…Let’s show you around the place.”

  Norson followed Terrance up the stairs to the second floor. They surveyed what would be Norson’s room just down the hallway. The house and the room were spacious, affordable, warm, and inviting. Rent was an even $300, including freedom of the house, barbecues, the patio, horseshoes, and cable television.

  “Tidy up the place every now and then, and we’ll get along fine,” Terrance said. “Just a little cleanliness, and we’ll go a long way. I like to come home to a clean house, Norson. That’s the only house rule.”

  “Sounds easy enough to live
by.”

  Terrance shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Norson Adler looked around and nodded in approval at everything he saw. They walked back downstairs and into the dining room.

  “Well,” Norson said. “I don’t have a whole lot. Just a bed and a television, a small dresser. A desk and a computer. Everything else is in storage. I write a lot, travel, find reasonable places to live, and try to jot something fashionable for the magazines that know my name.”

  Terrance raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “No kidding?”

  Norson looked pleased and nodded vigorously. He reminded Terrance of an over-eager child.

  “Girlfriend?” Terrance asked, and before Norson could go on, he said, “Not that I mind if you’re gay. Gay types don’t bother me. You ain’t a switch hitter, a power performer, doing both sides of the spectrum by any chance?” Terrance elbowed Norson and winked.

  Norson blushed under liquid blue eyes. He looked surprised and embarrassed. “No. I have a girlfriend,” he said. “Her name’s Dana. No problem if she stops by every now and then, is it?”

  “You give her all she can handle. It’s a deal then?”

  “You bet,” Norson said. “Can I write you a check?”

  “It’s what I live by,” Terrance said. “Another house rule. Checks are fine.” He was comfortably at peace with this transaction.

  Norson pulled out a checkbook from inside his jacket. He bent over the dining room table and made out the first months’ rent. He handed it to Terrance after ripping it away from the checkbook. Colorful hot air balloons decorated the check. Terrance raised his eyebrows, suddenly wondering if Norson were gay.

  “You need any help moving your things in,” Terrance said, “don’t be afraid to ask. I’d be glad to help.”

  “Thank you,” Norson said. “That’s very kind.”

  “To a partnership between friends!” Terrance said, holding his beer out to Norson.

  “A partnership!” Norson said.

  They clanked bottles, laughing like men unafraid to be children.

  Soon, Terrance saw Norson Adler to the door, and bid his future roommate goodbye.

  *

  It took four whole months before any problems arose. In all that time, Terrance thought he’d acquired the perfect roommate.

  Once Norson settled in, things ran smoothly. The man kept to himself, clicking away on his laptop behind the closed door of his bedroom, not bothering Terrance at all. Sometimes, Terrance could hear classical music coming from the room. Dana, a demure and sensuous blonde, stopped by two, sometimes three days a week to visit Norson.

  When August turned to September, things were still moving along rather smoothly. Terrance was surprised how well they got along, better than expected. Not a single difficulty arose. The perfect roommate? Was such a thing possible?

  When September came, they watched playoff baseball together. A sleek move into autumn announced an obvious drop in temperature. Terrance and Norson continued to get along well, respecting one another’s privacy. It was a roommate match made in heaven.

  October came and they celebrated Halloween, dishing out insane amounts of candy to all the neighborhood goblins, ghouls, cowboys, and princesses. Of course, things did run their course. The inevitable was bound to happen, right? Dana was simply an added bonus.

  October turned to November. They celebrated Thanksgiving, cooking a turkey, making mashed potatoes, rolls, and watched the Lions and Cowboys play. Dana had come by to help with the pumpkin pie. Terrance was surprised how pleasant all this was. He and Norson could hang out together without getting on each another’s nerves. Sometimes, after a hard day’s work, they’d go to the bar and watch an Avalanche game. On Sundays, they watched the Broncos play.

  November turned to December and near the middle of the month, they toasted the publishing success of one of Norson’s magazine articles.

  For four months now, things had been running smoothly between Norson and Terrance. There were no problems at all. Four months, however, seemed to be the limit. You could figure people out in four months, Terrance thought. Four months was usually enough time to decide if someone had to stay or go.

  The snow came, another obvious shift in temperature, and things continued to move along at a steady, unproblematic pace. Terrance was happier than he’d been in a long time. But maybe it was time for a change. After all, Big Orange Goofy couldn’t last forever. He didn’t like always having to take his work home with him.

  *

  “Terrance?”

  On an early morning in late December, Terrance sat in the recliner downstairs watching Saturday morning cartoons. His eyes were still puffy from sleep, blond hair in corkscrews. He was wearing his favorite, frazzled blue robe with a small red rose embroidered over the heart. Spoonful after spoonful of colorful Froot Loops disappeared into his mouth with a loud crunch. Terrance was like a machine shoveling them in. A dribble of milk collected on his chin but failed to fall.

  Norson had come downstairs after a long hot shower, and was now fully dressed. He was standing in the dining room.

  Terrance hadn’t heard Norson address him. He could smell the man’s aftershave, though. He chuckled at the television, pointing at Sylvester and Tweety with his spoon as Froot Loops rolled down his robe.

  “Hey, Terrance,” Norson said, a bit louder. “I was thinking of having a little party over here with Dana on New Year’s Eve. Little festivities, you know? You don’t mind, do you?”

  Terrance tried to speak through a mouthful of cereal:

  “O-tay,” he said. “I ’ave t’work tha’ ni ay-way.”

  Norson frowned. Something about having to go to work that night anyway?

  On the television, Tweety and Sylvester traumatized each another. Tweety was winning with sticks of dynamite, of course, and Terrance was the kind of person who rooted for Sylvester, Tom, on Tom and Jerry, and Wile E. Coyote on the Road Runner cartoons. One of these days, he thought, all three of them were going to get what they wanted, and that goddamn bird, that fucking mouse, and the bastard road runner were going to be shish-ka-bobbed over open flames and dipped in a spicy sauce while Tom, Sylvester, And Wile E. toasted each other on a job well done.

  The crunch of Froot Loops was loud in Terrance’s head. He swallowed the cereal as if something had just occurred to him. Why was Norson being so amiable lately? Hadn’t they talked about this months ago?

  “You don’t have to ask me, Norson,” Terrance said. “We’ve talked about this before. Have fun. Dana seems quite the slender catch.”

  This amicable role was starting to make him ill. When he was home, he forgot he didn’t have to play the role of Big Orange Goofy anymore. That was only for work. Norson must have other characteristics, he thought, besides being such a goddamn gentleman all the time.

  “Well,” Norson replied. “I just wanted to let you know. In case things are a little crazy when you come home.”

  “Sure,” Terrance said. “Hope the festivities are still in full swing when I get here. Have a blast. Ring it in!”

  Norson smiled, nodded as he always did, and walked through the living room, glancing at the television where Sylvester’s face suddenly exploded. Norson told Terrance to have a good day, opened the front door, and closed it behind him.

  Terrance stood up, went to the kitchen, and put the bowl in the sink. He looked at the calendar. He wiped his mouth on his robe, suddenly not so child-like. New Years Eve was only three days away.

  Four tedious months, Terrance thought, smiling. Time for a change.

  *

  Much like any alcoholic, all he needed was an excuse. It was progress. One thing led to another, and those things had been piling up for weeks now: Dana’s shoes in the bathroom, the lipstick, the curlers, beer bottles lying along the kitchen counter. It confirmed his suspicions. Things happened for a reason. It was only a matter of time.

  He’d been meaning to have a long talk about these things with Norson, those liquid blue eyes. />
  On New Year’s Eve, Terrance giggled to himself, and dressed for work. He’d traded with the night cook, Vince Cabanero, earlier in the week, even thought the restaurant closed at 11:00 pm. Vince wanted to ring in the New Year with several friends without having to worry about the job the next day. Terrance was fine with that, he’d said. He had plans of his own. And working New Year’s Eve wasn’t a problem. He’d be home before the celebrations started anyway.

  *

  He made it through a virtual, hassle free shift, ringing the bell, getting on people’s nerves whenever the mood struck. The only thing he had to get used to was cooking dinners instead of breakfasts and lunches. Hardly a dilemma.

  At the end of his shift, he punched out, left The Tasty Station, and drove his Cavalier through a cold, blustery, snowy evening. The grease from the restaurant and the heat added a layer of sweaty grime to his skin. He looked forward to coming home, relaxing with a cold beer, and unwinding in front of the television. He’d take a shower first.

  The scene throughout the neighborhood—when he parked the Cavalier in front of the house—was the purest of festivities. Faithful arrays of colored lights ran along windows and doors. Lights lay embedded in bushes and trees in front of several houses. A nativity scene told the story of Jesus on the front lawn across the street. Pictures in windows of Rudolph and Santa were cheerfully displayed, decorations of stars, and every kind of angel imaginable. A pure, six-inch blanket of snow draped the entire neighborhood in a cold, winter mantle. It was still snowing when he shut off the car.

  Terrance smiled, humming Noel. He stepped out of the car and shut the door. The caking sweat and grease froze to his skin when the cold hit him. Yes, a shower would do him wonders.

  Norson and Terrance had exchanged gifts on Christmas morning. Norson had bought Terrance a thick blue sweater Terrance had worn the entire day. Terrance had given Norson a scarf with piano keys on it because Norson was always typing in his room to the sounds of Chopin. Norson had loved it.