Tunnel Vision

by H. R. Kitte-Rojas

  Miles fetched his beer from the bathroom and took a swig. “I didn"t get with Shauna because of her jugs, Shallow Hal.”

  “But you sure couldn"t live without „em, now, could you?”

  “Even if she was flat as…” Miles" eyes roamed the ceiling, probably searching for a simile not too cliché.

  “As Violet?” Frank suggested.

  They both snickered.

  “Even if she was flat as a parking lot,” Miles said, “she"s still the best damn woman alive.”

  Frank couldn"t argue with that. It often seemed like Miles had somehow stumbled on the last good one left on the planet. Maybe jealousy was behind him trying to rain on Miles" parade. “So if she decides to have a breast reduction, you"d go along with it?”

  “Now I didn"t say all that.”

  Frank guffawed. Miles chuckled a little himself.

  They went back for the box spring. It was rigid and much lighter than the huge, fancy mattress.

  Miles shot him a concerned glance. “I think I know when you"re pulling my leg, dog. But just to be sure: you"re not serious about Violet"s nubs, are you?”

  “What, that they"re microscopic? Yes, they are.”

  “No, bonehead. That that"s why you two are drifting apart.”

  “No.” Frank let go a serious, sad sigh. “You know what it is…part of it, anyway? We were out at the movies one night, and bumped into some mutual friends in the lobby. Started talking. She"s chattering away with her girlfriend, I forget about what, but I hear her refer to my Mustang as „our car".”

  As he shuffled backwards, Miles glanced away from peering over his shoulder to briefly study Frank.

  “Ourcar.” Frank repeated. “Like it belongs to her as well as me. Married people start talking like that, y"know, when everything the guy owns suddenly becomes community property and they both pretend the same transformation takes place with her stuff. It was too weird.”

  Miles nodded.

  “I don"t want to live under the same roof with Violet,” Frank went on. “We can only stand each other for about two or three days at a time. Then one of us is gonna go crazy. There"s just no way I could ever „stop the world and meld with her." I"d be a masochist if I tried. „Our stuff?" No. We need more demarcation, not less.”

  They dropped off the box spring, then went back for the headboard and frame parts. They assembled the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, then returned to the bathroom to finish laying the tile. When all was done, they celebrated with more beer.

  “Just in time,” Frank said, gaze roaming over the finished bathroom. “That Subway sandwich is calling my name.

  “I really appreciate the help,” Miles said. “There"s no way I could finish all this in one day without you helping.”

  “No worries,” Frank replied, and knocked back a swig of Jaegermeister. “Has Shauna got a lot of stuff?”

  Miles frowned, nodding. “More knick-knacks than you could believe. But her and her friend should have that all boxed up, time we get there. Heaviest thing, I think, will be her dresser. But the couch will be awkward getting down the stairs. Entertainment center. Computer desk—we"ll have to take that apart, probably. Then her bed, Katina"s bed…”

  “She"s keeping her bed?” Frank asked.

  “For the guest room, here. And can you believe she wants me to throw away all my living room furniture?”

  Frank visualized the tattered, beat-up couch, easy chair and coffee table he had passed coming in, all of which appeared to be salvaged out of dumpsters. “No, man. I can"t imagine why she"d want that.”

  “Have I warned you about her friend?” Miles asked.

  “I don"t think so. Who"s her friend?”

  “Celeste,” Miles said, pronouncing the name as if demon-possessed.

  “What?”

  “She"s a ball-breaker,” Miles said. “Or she can be. Has been.”

  “Great.”

  “We"ve been cool for the last few months,” Miles said, “but it"s hard to forget how she was at the start. She hated me from jump.”

  “What"s her deal? One of those angry women who hate all men?”

  “Just real suspicious of white boys tasting brown sugar, I guess.”

  “Ahh. Well, I can"t wait to meet her. I"ll make sure to wear my protective cup.”

  Miles checked the time. “If we get going now, maybe we can get the heavy stuff into the truck before they"re back with the food, and they won"t be in the way.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Frank said, and they finished off their beers.

  3 Celeste and Shauna chatted and laughed all the way to Subway and back. It was like old times.

  They were still giggling about a guest on the latest Dr. Phil show as they approached the apartment stairway. Male voices carried down from above. They recognized the top of Shauna"s dresser bobbing beyond the railing. Then it rounded a corner and Miles Bowser, the love of Shauna"s life, appeared holding one end of it up as he backed down the steps carefully. He was tall, and sinewy, radiating natural masculine strength. The dresser must have weighed half a ton—she had tried to help Shauna move it once in the pre-Miles days—but he had solid control over it.

  Now the man helping Miles came into view. He had dark hair and mischievous hazel eyes. His mouth was twisted in the type of grin someone has when they just said something sarcastic. He wore sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, and looked buff. Large muscles, glistening with sweat, bulged with the effort of holding up his end of Shauna"s dresser.

  Both men recognized Shauna and shouted cheerful greetings. Then the man noticed Celeste and the smartass grin faded. If this were a cartoon, his eyes would have bulged right out of his face as he did a spring-loaded double-take.

  Oh, no, Celeste thought. I don’t need this.

  *** “Let me ask you something,” Miles said, as they bore the heavy dresser down the first flight of stairs. “Why am I the one always going backwards?”

  “It matches your upbringing,” Frank replied. “Not to mention your career path.”

  “Oooooh,” Miles intoned, as they rounded the corner to descend the next flight of stairs. “So we"re going there, huh? You gotta bring my career path into it.”

  Frank would never joke about things like this if Miles was thin-skinned. But because he could laugh at himself, it was fun to razz him. In a way, it was like a backhanded validation—they both knew Miles was far too intelligent to be an attic rat, and joking about it signified a mutual acknowledgement of the injustice.

  “Don"t you listen?” Frank quipped. “I said: „not to mention your career path".”

  Miles forced a fake, falsetto laugh. Something he often did after hearing a pun. Frank knew, because he loved puns and used them often.

  Shauna stood at the bottom of the staircase, holding a Subway bag.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Miles called to her over his shoulder.

  “Hi, handsome,” she greeted back. “Hi Frank.”

  “Hey Shauna,” Frank called to her, around the bulk of her dresser. It was easy to see why Miles worshipped her. She always brightened the day, wherever she showed up. It was like an aura she had that advertised she was a warm, giving person without a mean bone in her body.

  Then Frank noticed the other woman with a Subway bag. Her complexion was a little lighter than Shauna"s—milk chocolate instead of dark chocolate. She stood about five-five, with hair a little longer than shoulder-length, pulled back in a ponytail where it frizzed out into a big fuzzy ball. She had luminous brown eyes and nicely rounded cheeks. She had shapely child-bearing hips with the classic African bubble butt that made Jennifer Lopez look skinny. She was well-endowed up front, too, if not quite in Shauna"s league.

  What really fractured him, though, was her face: the shape of her mouth; the ramping curve of her short little nose; the graceful swoop of her eyelashes… She was one of those women.

  The woman caught him staring and frowned, turning her gaze toward Miles and offering a polite greeting.

  They
muscled the dresser into the bed of Miles" truck and took a break to stretch. Shauna kept her distance but smiled sweetly at Miles.

  “I"d give you both hugs,” Shauna said, “if you weren"t so sweaty.”

  Miles closed the distance and trapped her in a bear hug, laughing. She squealed her protest. “Now you"re sweaty too. You might as well hug us now.” He let her go and she slapped him in the chest a couple times. She was still a little chaste with Miles in public, but didn"t seem as afraid of being seen with him as she used to be.

  The other woman raised her eyebrowsat Miles" pickup. “Why didn"t you rent a moving truck? There"s no way we can fit everything in here.”

  “I figured it all out,” Miles said. “With some creative squeezing, we can fit all the big stuff in the bed of the truck. Then the leftover boxes get distributed in everybody"s cars. Two trips, max.”

  “If it takes two trips, then you can"t really fit everything in, now, can you?” quipped Shauna"s friend.

  Frank bit back a snicker. He"d been thinking the same thing.

  “So glad you brought her today, baby,” Miles told Shauna. “Here I thought we"d need some help moving, when evidently what we really need is a lesson in math and semantics.”

  “Are,” the womancorrected. “What you really need arelessons…with an „S"—plural…lessons in math and semantics.”

  “That ain"t the way you be talkin" wit" yo peeps on da cell, boo,” Miles said, in exaggerated Ebonics, simulating a phone to his ear with thumb and pinkie. Shauna gave him another slap-push.

  The woman twisted her lips and cocked her hips, then said, “Good to see you, too, Miles.”

  Frank snickered. She was plucky, but didn"t seem hateful. “We might as well eat while our sandwiches are warm,” he said.

  “Any excuse to get out of work,” Miles said, taking a Subway bag from Shauna and turning to ascend the stairs.

  “That"s how I roll,” Frank agreed.

  Back up inside the half-empty apartment, Shauna handed out water bottles. They took seats, used boxes for their tables, and ate. Miles tuned the boom box to a classic rock station.

  When the DJ played the Beatles" I Feel Fine, Frank noticed Celeste mouthing words in between bites of her sandwich. She gyrated ever-soslightly to the beat.

  She liked the Beatles? Could this be the same ballbreaker Miles told him about? She sure seemed cool to Frank so far.

  Soon Miles noticed her silent lip-syncing, also. He nudged Shauna, then nodded toward her friend.

  Shauna rolled her eyes and said, “No singing with your mouth full, Celeste.”

  Celeste"s lips stopped moving and she glanced at the three of them in turn, looking embarrassed.

  “Busted!” Miles said.

  “What?” she replied, innocently.

  “The truth is out,” Shauna said. “Celeste is a closet geek.”

  “Because I like the Beatles?” Celeste asked, indignant.

  “You gonna get yo" ghetto pass revoked,” Miles teased her.

  “I think it"s because of your Hearing Impaired Concert rehearsal,” Frank said. “Not because of a prejudice against British Invasion rock—at least on Miles" part.”

  “Guys play air guitar and air drums,” Celeste said. “Why can"t I air sing?”

  “White males do that,” Shauna corrected.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Miles said. “I resent the implication that one must be white to be a geek. Does nobody remember Erkle?”

  “You"re all a bunch of haters,” Celeste said. “I"m not a geek just because I march to the beat of my own drum.”

  “Um, I"m pretty sure those drums belonged to Ringo Starr,” Frank said, naming the Beatles" famous drummer.

  Celeste"s deep brown eyes flashed his way for a moment. “Don"t hate on Ringo, either.”

  Frank raised his hands…one of them holding his sandwich…in a surrendering gesture. “Nothing against Ringo. I mean, he wasn"t as good as Pete Best, but I got nothing against him.”

  Celeste did a doubletake. “Oh no. A Pete Best apologist?”

  Frank shrugged. “Nothing to apologize for. Pete was just…best.”

  Celeste groaned. “Ringo was more sociable and had a style that fit the band better.”

  Frank made a scoffing sound. “You"ve watched too many Beatles biopics. Best was too popular with the girls. Lennon and McCartney wanted to eliminate competition. The replacement had nothing to do with how anyone played drums. It was a bloodless purge, is what it was.”

  Celeste cupped one ear and turned her head from side to side in exaggerated fashion, as if listening for something. “Did you all hear that? No? I thought I just heard Pete „not quite" Best whining the blues all the way from Liverpool, England.”

  Frank laughed, despite himself. This girl was salty. Miles appeared amused, but Shauna was lost.

  “Sour grapes,” Celeste went on. “Hisdisposition isn"t good for band dynamics; he"s out. You fancy yourself a Beatles aficionado?”

  “Who, me?” Frank asked. “I thought you were still lecturing the best drummer, across the Atlantic.”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Not really. I kinda" like the Rolling Stones better.”

  “Oh puh-lease!” Celeste said, waving dismissively. “What is that, a macho thing? Youthink your manhood will come into question if you don"t insist the Stones were better than the Beatles?”

  “Um, what?” Frank asked. Was this girl going off the deep end? “What does manhood have to do with the discussion?”

  “You"re afraid of being associated with those swarms of starry-eyed teenage girls during the Beatles" early days,” Celeste said. “You picture yourself up there with the dope-smoking, acid-dropping college boys clapping and stomping at a Stones concert. Or maybe beating people to death withthe Hell"s Angels.”

  “Seriously, Celeste,” Miles said, “Ain"t it against the law or something for a modern black femaleto care so much about Sixties rock?”

  Celeste gasped at Miles. “I can"t believe what you just said.”

  Shauna hugged Miles protectively. “Who do you think taught him that? It isillegal, girlfriend. The closest we"re allowed to get is Motown.”

  “I can see you all need a lesson in cultural sensitivity,” Celeste said

  “Truth hurts,” Shauna said. “Only white folks get into that music. Even when it was by that black guy.” She glanced at Frank. “The one on that DVD concert of yours—he set the guitar on fire?”

  “Jimmi Hendrix,” Miles and Frank said, simultaneously.

  “That"s what made the Beatles so great,” Celeste said. “They were so versatile, they could appeal to anyone.”

  “Teenyboppers and spaced-out hippies,” Miles said.

  “That"s an ignorant generalization,” Celeste said.

  Miles grimaced, holding one hand to his heart as if shot there.

  “Can you tell she"s a school teacher?” Shauna asked Frank in a stage whisper.

  Frank could see it. Celeste had the demeanor of an educator at the end of her patience, lecturing a mob of brats. But there was a passion and intelligence that radiated out of her and made him want to smile, even when she slung out an insult.

  “Sure, they started out with the candystore love songs,” Celeste said. “It was at the end of the „teen idol" craze, and that was popular. But they covered rock & roll from the greats, too.”

  Frank shrugged to concede the point.

  “Once they were too big to argue with, they started branching out into other kinds of music they wanted to play,” Celeste added. “Unlike the Rolling Stones, who never got out of that recycled retroblues groove.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Frank said. “You"re trying to say the Stones weren"t versatile? Have you listened to them?”

  Celeste thrashed air guitar while vocalizing the distorted guitar lick from “Satisfaction.”

  “So that"s all they ever played?” Frank asked, sarcastically.

  “Hey, hey! You, you! Get offa" my cloud,” she retorted.
>
  “Okay,” Frank said. “Contrast those with „Like a Rainbow." And „Mother"s Little Helper." Then play „Sympathy for the Devil." Then try telling me they"re not versatile.”

  “Hoot, hoo!” Miles sang, thumping a Latin beat on a cardboard box.

  “Whatever,” Celeste said.

  “I"ll accept that as your apology,” Frank said.

  Celeste sucked her teeth.

  “Hey, reality check,” Shauna said. “None of us were even alive in those days, so let"s just settle down, OK? Let the past go.”

  I wish I could, Frank thought; but I keep getting reminders of it.

  He glanced at Celeste. Their eyes met for just an instant before she looked away.

  4 When they had finished eating, they went back to work. Miles and Frank handled the heavy stuff while Celeste helped Shauna with the light boxes. Once the vehicles were packed, they caravanned to the house.

  As Miles predicted, they got it all moved in two trips. The whole time they worked, Miles and Frank joked and argued with each other. Apparently, Frank was irreverent and sarcastic with everyone. It was obvious from the way he spoke that he was intelligent; but not mean-spirited in his wisecracks.

  Celeste noticed her heart rate was up. She felt exceptionally nervous. More and more as the day went on, she accepted that Frank was who she feared.

  Her mind went back to freshman year at State.

  Her first Fall Quarter began with such high hopes of spreading her wings. Until then she"d lived under the shadow of her big sister, Nikita, and under the seeming disapproval of a mother who didn"t understand her unabashedly unique personality. Neither Nikita nor Mama had ever come right out and said Celeste wasn"t “black enough,” but she knew that was part of their inability to relate.

  Everything about college was enchanting, at first. So many students there struck her as exotic…or even alien…in the way they dressed, spoke and behaved. It was a place where being different was OK. Admirable, even. Some people seemed to take it too far—trying so hard to be different that they were actually phony—but at first even that was charming. Celeste had never “fit in” anywhere, ever. In academia, however, that was just fine. She didn"t have to fit in. Nobody else seemed to, nor did they appear to be concerned about it.