by Dan Taylor
I was making a hell of an argument, until I turned and looked at the woman I was dragging to find that it wasn’t Sandra at all.
I apologized, went back inside, and tried again.
I’ve replayed the following argument between Sandra and me many times in my head:
Me: “Get in the car.”
Sandra: “No. You’re drunk.”
“Get in the car or I’m leaving without you.”
“You just said ‘wish out you.’ That’s all I need to hear. I’m calling a cab.”
“You phone one of those Uber things and it’s over, Sandra. I mean it.”
“Feel free to get in there yourself. But I’m not sitting in that car a second with you at the wheel.”
I took her up on her offer, and I’ve never been able to explain what happened next. Instead of letting me drive off alone, Sandra got in with me. Maybe I’d won an argument for a change. Maybe she loved me so much she couldn’t bear to see me drive off alone, and thought she could save me from driving straight into a lamppost. Or maybe her cell had run out of battery.
It was raining that night, and while the details are a blur, I found out the next morning I’d skidded off the road the second turn I made, careering myself and Sandra into a dairy cow that had gotten loose.
I stumbled away with only scratches and bruises. The rest you know.
I haven’t touched a drop since.
Sitting opposite Sandra, I’m reminded of that night by a hideous scar that runs from the back of her neck to her forehead. But she’s still beautiful. Always will be.
Looking up from her backgammon board, she catches me looking at her. Says, “What are you staring at, Mike?”
I don’t know how much she remembers of that night; I can’t bring myself to ask her. But what I do know is that she thinks I’m a bully from her high school. Mike Rutherford, a zit-riddled kid who terrorized her and her friends before being kicked out of school.
I say, “I’m not Mike, honey. I’m Blake, your husband.”
“I’m not married.”
“You are. To me. Next week it’s our ten-year anniversary.”
“You’re just saying that, Mike, so that you can stuff daisies into my panties like you did the other girls.”
I show her my wedding band. “See? You picked it out especially.”
“I’ve never seen that thing in my life.”
Jesus, it stings the same each time.
I reach out to try to grab her hand, to point out the ring she has on her hand, but she reacts badly, stands up from the table, and puts her hands over her ears and screams at the top of her lungs, so that she doesn’t have to listen to what mean things Spotty Mike is saying to her in her head.
One of the nurses rushes over after seeing the commotion, escorting Sandy away, who’ll take some time to calm down. My visit is over for this week.
Am I a bad man? I know I’ll always feel like one.
3.
When visits don’t go well, afterwards I find myself sitting in my old haunt on the westside of Hollywood, not knowing how I got here. Wild Jim’s Bar and Grill. It was Sandra’s favorite place, at least she said it was, but I suspected she was being ironic when she said so. Or maybe, like as was so often in our relationship, she was pleasing me without letting me know she was putting the effort in to make things perfect.
Past tense. I’m using it again.
Truth is, I hate the place too.
But here seems like as good a place as any to stare at a glass of whisky, thinking about getting off the wagon.
My phone rings and I press the REJECT CALL button.
I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone, let alone the barman, who’s just finishing up telling me a story about how an escaped convict managed to stay on the run by dressing in a Mickey Mouse costume and hiding out at Disneyland.
“It was the damndest thing. Guy went around posing for photos with kiddies, grabbing moms’ asses, flirting with them, that sort of thing. He would’ve gotten away with it for longer, too, if the guy at the kiosk hadn’t noticed all the giant pretzels that went missing. But a man’s got to eat, right? You gonna drink that or should I use it to clean the windows?”
I look up at him, staring at me as he polishes a glass with a rag. “I was thinking about it.”
“Hey, you’re not an alcoholic, are you? Thinking of getting off the wagon? My brother’s one of those. Says if he ever touched a drink again, just one, we’d find him in Las Vegas ten days later, drunk out of his mind, a hooker on each arm, his lifesavings now lining the pockets of some casino owner—”
My phone starts ringing again, and this time I answer it, so I can interrupt the barman’s story.
“Blake here.”
No one replies for two or three seconds. Then a voice I recognize says, “Blake, it’s Julius. Pick up your drink and hand it to the barman.”
It’s Julius Godfrey, my AA sponsor. He’s a hippy-looking type with a loose ponytail, a penchant for flea market clothing, and he’s a real pain in the ass. But he’s a good guy.
“What number are you phoning on? I didn’t recognize the number,” I ask.
“Never mind that. Take your drink, hand it to the barman, and tell him no thank you.”
“I’m just sitting at home, relaxing.”
“Blake, how long have we known each other?”
“Almost a year.”
“Right.”
“And?”
“That’s long enough to know that you don’t relax at home while listening to ZZ Top. Give me a little credit and don’t bullshit me.”
“Okay, you got me. I’m at a bar.”
“Of course you are; you’re an alcoholic. That’s like a bird flying south for the winter. Where you at?” There’s a pause. “Not going to tell me? Let me see, ZZ Top… And what day is it? That’s right you went to see Sandra today, who is just north of Ventura Freeway. I’m betting you went straight there in a cab. Wild Jim’s? Don’t tell me I’m right because I just had it confirmed by your nose breathing. If I don’t hear you in the next ten seconds tell the barman he can use your drink to flush the toilet I’m coming down there. If you make me leave work, I’ll be extra pissed.”
“Okay, okay. I’m doing it.”
I hand the drink back to the barman and, knowing how seriously Julius takes his instructions, tell him deadpan he can flush the toilet with it.
When I put the phone back to my ear, Julius says, “From now on, after every time you visit Sandra, you’re to check in with me. Even if it went well and Sandra gave you a peck on the cheek. I’m not going to advise you don’t go see her, even though she’s a trigger, because, well, she’s your wife and all. But if I don’t hear from you the moment you step out of that dump I’m driving around Hollywood, comin’ looking for you. And I’ll do more than drag you out of the bar by your ear, Mister. Now stand up.”
If anyone talked to me the way Julius does—a client, the postman, or even Jimmy Balbone—I’d tear his nose off and churn it up in my garbage disposal. But for some reason I’m putty in Julius’s hands. So I stand up, feeling like an overgrown school kid.
“You standing?” Julius asks.
“I am.”
“Now put one foot in front of the other and walk out of that place. And Jesus, Wild Jim’s? I thought to myself the other day: If my guy Blake goes runnin’ after the ice cream van like the other twenty-six losers before him, he’ll do so in a classy place, in style. I thought better of you. Let me know when you’re outside.”
“I am now.”
“Congratulations. And I mean it. You succeeded in not F-ing up my day. Now take a cab home. Take a bubble bath. Eat a gallon of ice cream. Whatever it is you do to relax without a drink in your hand.”
“Will do, Julius. And thanks.”
“What? No problem. That’s what I’m here for. And remember, as soon as one of my guys’ feet grazes the threshold of a bar, or his eyes linger on a bottle of scotch at the grocery store, my spidey sense
starts tingling, my friend.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Just before I go and get my ass chewed out by my boss for making a ‘non-work-related call during office hours,’ have you thought about what you’re going to share next Thursday?”
Next Thursday I’ll be finishing up the twelve-step program, and part of being one of Julius’s guys means sharing with the rest of the group the worst thing I’ve ever done. In his words, “It doesn’t matter how morally reprehensible it is, we’re all friends here. You want to give up the bottle for good, then you need to unload the baggage.”
I tell him, “I’m still thinking about that one.”
“Don’t think about it for too long, or you’ll back out. And whatever you do, don’t try to fob us with some shit about running over your neighbor’s cat and not leaving a note. I’ve already seen what’s in your soul, even if I don’t know the details, and I’ve decided I like you anyway. But it’s important for you—not me or anyone else in our group—to do this. When you’re done, you’ll feel like you’ve been bathed by a horde of virgins. I’ve gotta run. My boss just pointed at his watch and raised both his eyebrows, which is his way of telling people he’s an a-hole.”
Julius hangs up and I flag down a cab. I look back and take one last look at Wild Jim’s before I get in, hoping I’ll never be back here.
4.
My dad had a dream. He worked a modest job, was never late, never phoned in sick when he was able to get out of bed on a morning, and saved up every penny that he didn’t use to give Mom a decent life. His dream was to travel the world with Mom in his retirement, and he would’ve done it. Apart from the day before his final day at work, Mom up and left him for the guy that tended to her dog every Wednesday. Lorenzo. And the crazy thing is she didn’t take the dog with her, after all the preening she’d paid for with dad’s money.
We never heard from her again.
Now instead of using his savings to travel to India to develop his spiritual side or to stand on the top of the Great Wall of China to think poignantly about how big the world is, he uses that money and all his time to drink away the hours, occasionally using the computer to check if anyone has replied to his messages on some dating website. Which, at least to my knowledge, hasn’t happened yet
I know what you’re thinking. What happened to the dog?
She still gets her manicure and whatnot from some new dog care guy. Dad couldn’t bring himself to get rid of her, even though Mom did a piss-poor job of house-training her.
I tell this story to Cherry now and again, who’s been Sandra’s stand-in ever since she whacked her noggin in the car accident.
Cherry is my relaxation that doesn’t involve a drink in my hand. She’s healthier than a gallon of ice cream, though she’s more expensive. Right after I knocked off from the soup kitchen early tonight, I arranged a date with her.
I’ve just finished up telling her that story for the umpteenth time while we ate our entrées at Basil Bush, my favorite Italian restaurant.
Cherry isn’t like most call girls I’ve encountered, which is the reason she got the gig over five other unknowing applicants. Although I know she’s bored by that story, she does a hell of a job of feigning interest, asking the right questions, and acting sympathetic; although she knows I don’t need her sympathy, she knows it’s part of being polite company to offer it.
This time I intend to take the discussion about the story in a different direction.
“That’s so sad,” Cherry says. “You ever hear from your mom again?”
“I received a postcard once. It said to not come looking for her and that she was happy.”
“That’s something, I guess. Will you…? Go looking for her, I mean?”
“I’ve thought about hiring someone to find her.”
“What would you do if you managed to find her?”
Here goes. I lean in close, lower my voice. “I’d put a bullet in her lover’s head, so she knew what it’s like to lose someone you love. Then I’d let her experience that for a while before I put a bullet in her head too, for Dad.”
“Oh, David, you’re so funny.”
Sandra never knew about my profession. She thought I sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door, like Willy Loman.
If Sandra ever recovers, I want our relationship to be fully transparent. Even if it means losing her, I’ll tell her I work as a hired gun and about every single man, woman, child, and elderly person I’ve killed in the name of creating a profession for myself.
As well as providing a “full wife experience,” Cherry, unknowingly, is my practice subject for being completely transparent in an intimate relationship.
Cherry would never snitch on me, but just in case, I’ve told her my name’s David Brinkbottom.
The downside of using that alias is Cherry thinks I’m joking every time I try to reveal my dark side to her.
“It’s true,” I say. “I’d put a bullet right between her eyes.”
She giggles. Says, “Sometimes you make me laugh so hard, David.”
I take her by the hand, look at her seriously. “I’m not joking around with you, Terry,” I say, referring to her as Terry Brinkbottom, the role I’ve cast her in, my wife. “I know we’ve known each other for a long time, but the truth is, being a business executive isn’t my real gig. I’ve done bad things, Terry. Real bad things.”
Cherry must sense I’m being genuine, or maybe she’s just a hell of an actress tonight, as she swallows hard, looks genuinely uncomfortable, and says, in the cracked voice I expect to hear from Sandra someday, “David, I don’t like this conversation.”
“I know you don’t. I don’t like it either. But I thought it time I was totally honest with you.”
She takes her hand away from mine. Looks at me wide-eyed. Breaks character. “Wait a minute. Let’s back up a little. In this conversation, are you talking to me, Cherry, or your ‘wife,’ Terry?”
“I’m talking to you, Terry. My wife of nearly ten years.”
“Phew. You had me worried for a second there, David.”
She takes my hand again, no longer looking uncomfortable.
That didn’t go as planned.
My cell phone starts to ring. I take it out and see it’s Jimmy Balbone.
Then I say to Terry, “It’s a notorious crime boss who I can’t name for obvious reasons. He probably wants to discuss a job I’m doing for him next week. I better take this.”
Terry suppresses laughter. “You’re too much, David.”
On my way to the men’s room, I answer. “Blake.”
“How’d it go with Mr. Can’t Read Scripts For Shit today?”
“Peter Hammer?”
“Course Peter Hammer. Who the hell else would I have meant?”
“Just give me a second to get to the bathroom.”
“Take as long as you want. It’s not like I have more pressing matters than getting the money back I shouldn’t be running ‘round to get back in the first place. Going straight, I tell ya…”
I ignore him until I’ve confirmed that no one’s in the bathroom, and until I’ve hung a sign on the outside of the door informing customers that it’s temporarily closed for cleaning.
“Secure,” I say.
“You wanna check if there’s a full roll before we start talking?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Give me a yes or no answer to the following question: Peter Hammer?”
“Yes.”
“How sure are you?”
“Guy wanted to know if he’d get back his aunt’s jewelry box I’ll steal to make it look like a robbery.”
“Son of a bitch. Didn’t think he’d have it in him. One day that weasel might make me proud.”
“By the time Gary and Phil have visited him, he’ll be practically begging me to take his aunt’s lifesavings.”
“So it’s a go?”
“Guy’s desperate. You want to know how desperate?”
�
�Don’t leave me hanging. Just tell me. Who do ya think I am, with this question-and-answer bullshit?”
“Hundred dollars desperate.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Before I went to see Peter Hammer, I bet Jimmy he would try to hire me to take Jimmy out. Jimmy thought it was easy money, with his reputation and all. But looks like Jimmy hadn’t read the script for King’s Return 2 either.
He says, “I oughta kill that guy myself, when all this is done. But you know what they say. A dead man can’t even pay to take a dump in the toilet.”
“Relax. There’s not a hired gun in the state of California that’d take that gig.”
“Do I sound like I’m worried? Who ya think I am, worried over some guy who can barely read.”
“Anyway, I better go. I’m on a date.”
“I thought your wife was in the loony bin. She on day release?”
“My wife is not on day release.”
“Say no more. I shouldn’t have asked. Go nuts, kid.”
Jimmy hangs up.
And I go back to Cherry.
As I walk past her, she’s consulting a napkin on which she’s written a number of conversation topics. When she spots me, she folds it in two, hiding the text.
When I’ve sat down, she waits for what would seem like a natural pause if I hadn’t seen the napkin, then says, “So, tell me about how you see your retirement going.”
5.
Cherry gets the David Brinkbottom version, which is to say I backed out of revealing my profession to her, in practice for revealing it to my real wife Sandra.
David Brinkbottom, I imagine, would work until he’s in his late-fifties, early sixties. He’d join a golf club, get white balled, because the worst thing he’s ever done in his life is be late for paying a parking ticket. He’d take six vacations a year, have two affairs a year, and he’d rarely eat in.
He’d feel strong for a few years, and it would seem like he’s got his best years ahead of him, with all the time he has now he doesn’t work sixty hours a week.
But when he started to creep towards his mid-to-late sixties, he’d start to get a little forgetful, and maybe his golf swing would start to feel a little stiffer. He’d go to all the right physicians and specialists, and they’d do what they could. Maybe he’d have good periods, when it felt like old age would never catch up to him, but at some point, like when he developed arthritis in his golf grip, or his check up with his primary care physician revealed his cholesterol is off the charts, he’d realize that he’d spent all his good years working himself into an early grave. And that honeymoon period of retirement, those first couple years when he slept in until ten and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast each morning, was too little too late in his quest to make up for lost time until he would have one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana skin.