Losing Our Edge

by Jeff Gomez

  “That’s great, sweetheart. Thanks.”

  Charles leans in to kiss her but Grace smiles and pulls back.

  “Shower, sweetie. Shower.”

  Charles gets up and climbs the stairs. After a quick shower he comes downstairs and does more work in his office. Down the hall he can hear Grace cooking and Maddie eating. As she has her dinner, Maddie tells Grace all about how Zoe, Ellis, and she played in the backyard. Even though it’s the same routine they always follow—Grace has heard this recap a million times—she listens attentively and asks questions she already knows the answers to.

  Charles looks at the clock and sees that it’s almost seven. He calls down the hall.

  “Get ready, guys. He’s almost here.”

  “Who, Daddy?”

  Grace answers.

  “Daddy’s old friend, Randy. From back when daddy had hair.”

  Grace and Maddie both laugh. Charles turns back to his laptop. As he’s going through emails from last week, a new one pops up. It’s from Tom.

  Finally.

  Charles sits up in his chair, nervous to open it. He looks and makes sure that Grace and Maddie are still in the kitchen. He hears water running—Grace probably doing the dishes—while Maddie’s singing “Call Me Maybe.” He opens the email.

  Charles,

  Sorry to bother you over the weekend, but I just had a preliminary discussion with O’Brien about what you and I discussed the other day and, while he was initially taken aback, he eventually agreed about our assessment of the situation. He even confided in me that he’s had similar suspicions. Per our discussion, I now need some documentation. Once I have some proof, we can move forward. Let’s try and meet by Wednesday. Get me something before then. And, of course, this is all in strictest confidence.

  —Tom

  PS: Don’t bullshit me for a second that you don’t want that job.

  By the time Charles finishes reading the email, his heart’s beating fast and he feels flushed. He puts his hand to his forehead and discovers it’s hot. Sweat begins to form on his upper lip.

  Documentation. Proof. Wednesday.

  The doorbell rings and Charles jumps. Looking up, he sees it’s ten past seven.

  Grace calls out.

  “Charles, you want to get that?”

  Charles closes his laptop, exhales, and walks into the hallway. As he approaches the door, he can see the top of Randy’s head through three rectangular panes of glass. Charles is jealous that Randy still has hair.

  He opens the door and can’t believe that Randy’s standing there. For a second Charles flashes back to high school, to that first day in science class their sophomore year. Randy doesn’t look much different.

  “Dude,” he says.

  “Randy, my God. This is amazing. Come in, come in.”

  When Charles puts his hand out for Randy to shake, he sees that Randy’s nails are long and dirty, each one tipped with a crescent of black.

  “Come on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Charles steps aside to let Randy enter the house, he smells cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of pot. Closing the door, Charles frowns at Randy’s battered Tercel parked at the curb. Grace and Maddie enter the hallway from the kitchen.

  “Guys, this is Randy. Randy, this is my wife, Grace.”

  “Hey,” Randy says.

  “Hey,” Grace says.

  “And who’s this?” When Randy bends over to make eye contact with Maddie, he burps. She steps back, behind Grace.

  “That’s our daughter, Maddie.”

  “Hey,” Maddie says.

  “Hey,” Randy says.

  There’s an awkward silence for a second. No one knows who has the next move. Charles finally says, “So, Randy, want a drink?”

  “You bet I do.”

  Without waiting and without really knowing where he’s going, Randy walks past Charles and enters the den.

  “Power lines.”

  “What?”

  “Power lines,” Mark repeats. “You asked me what the strangest thing about being back in Kitty is.”

  Steve stuffs another slice of pizza into his mouth. Gary’s sitting cross-legged on the floor while Mark sits on the edge of the bass drum. The tuning pegs are digging into his ass. Steve’s on his drumming throne, the box of pizza open on the snare drum. There are four slices left. The plastic rings from a six-pack of beer hang from the crash cymbal, while the rings from another six-pack sit on the ground, three cans already empty and crumpled while the other three are currently being swigged by Mark, Gary, and Steve.

  “I just can’t get over how many power lines there are in this town. When you drive down the road, that’s all you see. Power lines.”

  Chewing, Steve says, “I guess I never noticed it.”

  Gary laughs and looks around the room.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, guys.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe that we’re sitting here talking about goddamn power lines when the show’s barely a week away.”

  “You asked how I was doing,” Mark says. “What it was like being back in Kitty. I’m telling you.”

  “About power lines?”

  “It’s just something I’ve noticed.”

  Gary finishes his beer, crushes it in his hand, and throws it across the room.

  “Guys, we need to talk about the show.”

  Steve goes in for another slice.

  “What about it?”

  “Well,” Gary says. “I know a guy who can make us some T-shirts.”

  “You mean Bottlecap shirts?” Mark says.

  Gary points at Steve.

  “No, I mean Haverkamp Motors shirts. Yes, Bottlecap shirts. Dave told me he’s going to be selling the last of the Violent Revolution stock at the show. Our early singles and shit like that. He mentioned the Deer Park still has a bunch of T-shirts and he’s going to unload them. So I thought it’d be fun if we had T-shirts, too.”

  “The Deer Park? Figures.” Steve laughs. “Those guys could barely get arrested in this town, let alone anywhere else. No wonder they still have that crap.”

  “But what would the shirts say?” Mark says. “I don’t have time to design anything. I didn’t even bring my computer.”

  Gary grins.

  “It’s all taken care of.”

  “What?” Steve says. “What’s taken care of?”

  “The shirts.”

  “But how?”

  Gary says, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  Mark takes a swig of beer and then twists around to grab another slice of pizza. Chewing, he looks at Gary.

  What’s he up to?

  As Charles walks to where a bar’s set up in the corner of the den—bottles of liquor stand next to an array of glasses and an ice bucket with a pair of tongs attached to the side—Randy gets a whiff of his old friend. Charles smells like Polo and lawn clippings.

  “So, what are we drinking?”

  “Whiskey,” Charles says. “Little ice?”

  “Hit me.”

  Behind them, Randy hears Grace tell Maddie to go upstairs to watch TV. Charles goes to work on the drinks, ice cubes clinking into the glasses.

  “Dude, your wife is hot.”

  “Uh, thanks, Randy. How about you?”

  Charles hands Randy his drink. Randy takes a huge sip, drinking almost half of it in one gulp. Charles takes a small sip and sits down on a wooden chair.

  “How about me, what?”

  “You seeing someone?”

  Randy just shakes his head.

  “Relationships haven’t really worked for me for the past couple of—decades.”

  Grace calls out from the kitchen.

  “Honey? Can you give me a hand?”

  “Sure,” Charles says. “Be there in a second.”

  After Charles joins Grace in the kitchen, Randy walks around the room. All the furniture is new and matches. When he lived with Charles, they used boxes as an entertainment center an
d sat on a couch they’d hauled in from the street with ripped seats and exposed springs. But Charles’s house isn’t just furnished, it’s decorated. The pillows match the curtains that match the trim on the windowsills that match the rug. Randy’s exhausted just thinking about the effort that must have taken.

  Charles reenters the room, startling Randy.

  “Sorry about that. Women. You know how it is.”

  Randy takes a big sip and says, “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “You ever even got close? I mean, to getting married? Engaged, even?” He snaps his fingers. “God, remember that girl Sarita from when we lived together? She had the hots for you.”

  “The problem with ‘the hots’ is that it goes away. What you’re left with is warm, and that’s no fun.”

  Grace calls them to dinner.

  The table’s set with plates, wine glasses, silverware, napkins, candles, and bread plates. Randy realizes there are more dishes on this table than he owns. As he sits down, Grace enters with a platter filled with roasted chicken covered in herbs. She sets down the platter as Charles fills the wineglasses with Sauvignon Blanc. Grace exits and reenters the room bringing various bowls of food—roasted potatoes, green beans, corn, bread. She finally sits down on the other side of Charles, across from Randy.

  “I think that’s everything,” she says.

  “Honey, it all looks delicious.”

  “Yeah, it looks fucking awesome. Smells good, too.”

  “Why thank you, Randy.”

  As they begin to pass around the food, Randy looks at Charles. Within the wrinkles and baldness, Randy can see his old friend.

  Grace says, “So, Randy, tell me. What was he like back then?”

  “You mean Chipp?”

  Hearing his old nickname, Charles smiles bashfully.

  “He was a lot of fun. Back then.”

  Grace touches Charles’s hand with the hand that’s not holding a fork.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. I still think you’re fun.”

  Randy raises his glass. Grace and Charles put down their knives and forks and raise their glasses, too, thinking Randy’s going to make a toast. But he doesn’t. He just takes a big gulp of wine, sets down the glass, and tears into the chicken.

  As they eat, Charles asks Randy what he’s been up to the past few years. Randy can tell as he answers that Charles doesn’t approve of all of the jobs, or the fact that he still lives in an apartment with roommates. Charles then takes over the conversation, talking about Maddie, his boring job, moving to Tiger Bay. When Charles begins to show photos on his phone from the Trust Christmas party last year, Randy’s eyes glaze over.

  After dinner, Grace brings out an almond cake. Charles and Grace each have an espresso. Randy keeps drinking wine. When the cake is gone, Grace gets up and begins to clear the dishes. Charles tries to stop her.

  “No, honey, let us help.”

  “She’s got it,” Randy says. “Let her do her thing.”

  Grace just grins and shoots Charles a glance that Randy catches.

  “Thanks, darling,” Charles says. “It was a wonderful meal. Wonderful.”

  “Wonderful,” Randy repeats.

  “Thanks, guys. You go and finish your drinks. I’m going to do a little cleaning up and then head to bed. Randy, it was nice to meet you.”

  Randy just raises his glass. Again, it seems like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t.

  “Shall we retire to the den?”

  “Let’s,” Randy says. Then he burps. “Shall.”

  Charles and Randy walk back to the den. Randy takes his wine glass while Charles leaves his espresso cup behind. Charles takes a seat in a large blue wingback chair, while Randy straddles a patterned ottoman sitting next to a credenza.

  “Seriously, dude, your wife is hot.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “How old is she? She wasn’t a virgin when you met her, was she?”

  “Randy, let’s talk about something else.”

  “Fine.” Randy pouts. He’s dying for a cigarette, but is sure Charles wouldn’t allow it.

  For the next hour they exchange gossip about common friends—where they ended up, who they married, what they’re doing now. During the discussion, Randy keeps drinking. He finishes off the bottle of wine and then goes back to whiskey. He can tell that Charles isn’t happy about it, but he also doesn’t have the balls to stop him. Charles finally looks at his watch and says, “Wow, it’s getting late.” Randy gets the hint. He beings to dig into his pockets for his keys.

  “You okay to drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fucking yes, Charles. I’m fine.”

  “Let me call you a cab, okay? Or why don’t you—do you Uber?”

  Randy pushes Charles out of the way and stomps to the front door. When one of his heels catches on the welcome mat, he’s almost sent reeling down the pathway. He catches himself at the last moment.

  “Randy, wait.” Charles whispers. “Really, Randy. Stop.”

  Randy gets into his Tercel. He can see Charles out of his peripheral vision as a blur. The neighborhood’s eerily quiet. There are no lights on in any windows. Everyone’s asleep. When Randy starts up his car, it sounds like firecrackers. He puts it in gear and drives off. In his rearview mirror he sees Charles enter his house and, by the time he turns the corner, it’s just in time to see Charles’s lights go dark.

  As Randy tries to find his way back to the freeway, he marvels at how nice the houses are—so much red brick, so many white columns; mile after mile of shutters painted a variety of dark colors: black, blue, green; so many perfect lawns, gardens with gorgeous flowers, yards hemmed in by white picket fences. Randy thought neighborhoods like this were only in the movies.

  He tries to remember how long it’s been since he’s been in this part of town. Twenty-five years? More? Growing up he’d had a few friends who lived there, rich kids who got into trouble which their parents later got them out of. There were parties where people would drink by the pool until they fell in, or basements where everyone would sneak in the side door and empty rumpus room refrigerators of all of their beer. Someone’s parents always seemed to be out of town.

  Those kids didn’t have a care in the world.

  At sixteen they each would be given a new car—a BMW or even a Mercedes. At that age all Randy had to get around town was a second-hand bike. It didn’t seem fair to him then. It doesn’t seem fair to him now.

  And now he’s lost. He turns around once or twice, but each time he ends up dead-ended on some street that doesn’t look familiar. He pulls off to the side of the road.

  That house. That wife. That daughter.

  The car knocks violently twice and then dies.

  Charles’s life.

  Randy begins sobbing. He doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels lines of tears marching down his face. He looks into the rearview mirror and sees bloodshot eyes. But then he focuses on something else. A car approaching, red and blue lights flashing. He wipes his runny nose with his sleeve, leaving a silver streak on the flannel he can see in the dark. He hears the engine behind him stop, a car door opening and closing. Crackle from a police radio. The officer approaches just as Randy finishes rolling down his window.

  “Sir, do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s nearly midnight.”

  Mark, sweating, looks up at the clock above the entrance to the studio. “God,” he says, laughing. “I had no idea.”

  Steve immediately drops his sticks and stands up.

  “Jesus, Robin’s going to kill me.” As he heads for the door, he’s a bit hunched over and walking stiffly. “I’m going to feel this in the morning.”

  As Gary and Mark take off their guitars and unplug, Gary says, “Same time tomorrow, boys?”

  “Yes,” Steve says. He already has car keys in his hand and is standing in the doorway. His sweatshirt is draped over his shoulder. “But tomorrow I
can only stay until four. We’re having Graham’s Italian tutor over for dinner.”

  “Fine. But tomorrow we’ll talk about the schedule for the rest of the week. I’d like to get in at least three more practices before Saturday, and we need to finalize the set list, pronto. There’s no point in relearning any of these songs if we’re not going to play them next week.”

  “Sure, sure,” Steve says as he disappears through the studio doors.

  Gary and Mark put their guitars back in their cases and turn off the amps followed by the lights. While Gary locks up, Mark carries his guitar outside. It’s never felt heavier.

  Their cars are the only ones left on the street. The night is silent, the sky full of stars. Walking to the rental car, Mark can’t believe it. In Manhattan you never see stars.

  “How did it feel in there?”

  Mark pops the trunk, puts the case inside. “Good,” he says. “Better than I thought it would.” He slams the trunk.

  “Yeah, for me, too.” Gary throws his bass into the back of the Chrysler. He walks over and leans against Mark’s rental car. “You know, at one point I looked over and it was just like old times—me on the left, you on the right, Steve in the middle pounding away. And because we were rusty, and kind of trying to find our groove, it reminded me of when we were first getting started.”

  Gary’s right. That’s how it felt for Mark, too.

  “Funny thing is,” Gary continues, “I don’t feel much different now than I did then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know I’m older. I certainly feel it in my body. But otherwise, I don’t know. I still like going out. I like playing loud music and getting high. I still feel like I did back then.” He laughs. “I guess that’s not good in a lot of respects.”

  Mark shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. Gary fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up. The red tip glows in the darkness.

  “By the way, I know how you used to park and wait for Steve at rehearsals.” Gary takes a deep drag, holds it in his chest, and then exhales a huge cloud of smoke. “I know it was weird at first because you didn’t know me.”

  “Gary, I never meant anything by that, it’s just—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pellion. It is what it is. Or was.”