"Glyn?" she asks. "Is this a good time to talk?"
Debbie lets out a great sigh.
"I' m just calling you to say good bye, and thanks for everything."
Searching for Debbie
After a hard day’ s work Ken is out of the tiny shower in his motel room. He puts on clean jeans and a shirt and sits on the edge of his bed, a bed that smells like mothballs. He hopes it is mothballs that he’ s smelling. He could watch TV, flipping through channels and never stopping for more than five minutes on any program, like he has been doing for the last few days, or he could go out for a long supper and then hit a bar to drink alone until it is time to go to bed.
Jesus, he thinks, what a fucked up life he leads. His married life had been a joke but his new single status has nothing better to offer either. Maybe, he thinks, he will get into the new groove of things and he, being a middle aged, overweight dude with a shaved head will turn out to be a chick magnet. That should happen about the same time that pigs fly and frogs grow hair.
Standing by the window, Ken sees the lights of Colorado Springs spread like a carpet into the eastern plains where grass and wind and buffalo had once ruled but were now cowering away from the new masters: subdivisions of track homes, convenience stores and strip malls.
Out with the old, in with the new. It happened to the buffalo and the Indians, now it needs to happen to him. New doesn’ t mean better, at least not for everybody. Ken runs his hand through the hard stubble on his head then his hand moves to his chin where a goatee is now growing, red and white, mostly white hairs telling him how old he really is. What’ s next? A pierced tongue? Nose?Earrings? Maybe tattoos. Regardless of all the cool trappings he may end up attaching to his body, it is still a forty plus year old body. Gadgets cannot turn time back or attract happiness; their feel good quality is short lived and dubious.
Ken knows what he needs, wants, desires to do, and tonight is as good as any other time to do it. He grabs his keys, his jacket, and heads out of the door. What the hell, he assures himself, he got nothing to lose. He gets into his truck and a few minutes later he’ s heading northbound on I-25 for Denver.
He doesn’ t know why he waited this long. How could he be afraid of rejection? So what if he got rejected? As they say, pick yourself up and get back on the saddle. One more bruise means nothing. Ken drives through open plains and realizes that he was not afraid of being rejected, but of being accepted. Then what? Yes, Debbie and him go a long way back, but for the wrong reasons. His logic comes out shorthanded when he tries to analyze Debbie. Facts and experience add up to a big mistake in the making, to another screwed up relationship.
Yet, his desire for Debbie is beyond common sense; it is a wild hair in his ass, a wanting that needs to be satisfied no matter what. So he punches the accelerator and prays that the State Troopers won’ t nail him for reckless speeding.
He parks his truck one block down from the Night Owl and starts walking. Going through the parking lot he scans for Debbie’ s car and doesn’ t see it. Maybe she’ s parked somewhere else, he says to himself. There are a few ribbons of yellow police tape hanging from the fence and the light pole, just the stuff you want to see when you walk into a bar. Ken shakes his head in disbelief. Maybe for this crowd, it is a badge of honor.
The Rockolla is playing Nirvana. Behind the bar is a dry stick of an old guy with a haircut like his, but white stubbles instead of darkones. Ken bellies up to the bar and asks the old guy, “ Is Debbie here tonight?”
“ Who wants to know?” replies the old stick in a not too kind tone. Ken has an itch to reach over the bar and grab the old man by his neck and rub his face on the counter, but he’ s polite instead.
“ I’ m a friend of hers.”
“ Everybody says that.”
The old stick is getting on his nerves. This time Ken speaks without any politeness in his voice.
“ Listen, the last time I saw her we got jumped by her ex in the parking lot. When I came to it at the hospital she was gone. I just need to speak to her.”
Ken waits for an answer with a sullen face. If the old stick comes back with sarcasm or rudeness he’ s going to get it. Ken is not sure yet what he’ s going to give the old stick, but it ain’ t gonna be pretty. The old man seems to be spinning his little wheels in his worn out brain because he is not moving or saying anything. His face alights with a smile and then he speaks.
“ You’ re the guy who got clocked! How’ bout that? Debbie told me you got lucky her ex didn’ t crack your skull open.”
“ He tried, ” says Ken turning his head and pointing to the scar on his scalp.
“ Oh man.”
“ What about Debbie?” Ken reminded the old stick who now stares enthralled at his head.
“ Oh, Debbie. She quit. She picked up her last pay check this afternoon.”
Ken’ s plans, his fuzzy ideas of how things were going to play out hit a stop like a bag of garbage flung on a dark alley and bursting open, scattering stuff all over the place, and he had no shovel to pick up the litter. That’ s to say, he had no back up plans, so he stands where he is with a dazzled look on his face. Now what?
“ Are you OK?” asks the old stick.
“ Yeah, ” says Ken. “ I suppose I will stop by the caterers to see if I can get in touch with her.” Ken’ s words came out before he had time to think that maybe the old stick has her phone number.
“ No luck either. She quit that job too.”
“ Do you have her phone number?”
The old stick gives Ken a mistrustful look and shakes his head. The bastard is lying, Ken knows. Ken’ s fists are bunching up and his stare is narrowing on the old man when a voice comes from the side.
“ You Ken?”
Ken looks in the direction of the question and he sees a large black man sitting on the side of the bar.
“ Yes, ” says Ken. The black mange stures for him to come over to his side. Ken has no idea yet what to do with the stick man so letting his head cool off a little bit may help him see a way out of his blind street. Besides, the black guy may know something. Ken approaches and the black guy points to the stool next to him. After Ken is seated the black man hollers to the old stick to bring a beer.
“ What do you drink, ” asks Glyn.
“ Bud.”
“ Make it a Bud, in a bottle.”
The old man brings the drink and when Ken is going to pay for it Glyn tells him to forget about it. “ It’ s on me.” Despite his intimidating size, there is a geniality in Glyn that makes Ken feel at ease.
“ Debbie is leaving town, ” says Glyn without being asked.
“ How do you know?”
“ She told me so herself.”
Both men drink a few sips without saying anything else before Ken speaks again.
“ Did she mention me by any chance?”
Glyn smiles. “ Why? Should she mention you for any reason?”
“ Well, ” says Ken rubbing his chin.“ That’ s the whole point of me trying to talk to her. I don’ t know if I mean anything to her or I’ m just a bother she is trying to get rid off.”
“ What is she to you?” Glyn looks straight into Ken’ s eyes. Ken feels this is one of those times where what comes out of his mouth will dictate how the rest of his life will unfold. Ken doesn’ t even know the name of this stranger and somehow he feels that he is the gatekeeper of the hidden path that leads to Debbie.
“ She’ s nothing and she’ s everything, and she doesn’ t know it.” Ken sips on his beer.
“ Name is Glyn.” A big hand comes across the distance between the stools. Ken shakes the hand and feels the big squeeze.
“ Ken, ” he says.
“ Debbie felt pretty bad about you getting whacked like that. She thinks it is her fault, ” says Glyn.
“ That’ s nonsense. It was just bad timing and bad luck.”
“ That’ s what we all say when things turn to shit, bad timing and bad luck.”
Both men drink in short sips, their minds probing each other’ s answers and questions.
“ Why is Debbie running away?” asks Ken.
“ She’ s afraid of you.”
“ Of me?” Ken looks at Glyn. “ I would never hurt her.”
“ She is not sure of that.”
“ You know, says Ken. “ I should really talk to her and straighten things out. This game of I think, she thinks, I say, she says is bullshit. I need to see her and we need to have an honest talk, whatever happens, happens.”
“ How bad you want it?” asks Glyn. His teeth over the beer bottle shine with the electric colors of the beer signs on the wall.
“ There is nothing in life that I want more than seeing her again. I want one more chance, without a nut swinging a baseball bat cutting in.”
Glyn calls the old stick and asks him for pencil and paper. He writes a phone number on it.
“ This is Debbie’ s cell number. Now, I know her well and she will probably have it off, and who knows if she will ever turn it on before leaving town.” Glyn cuts the paper in half and gives the side with the number on it to Ken.“ Write you number down, in case Debbie calls me again, which I doubt is gonna happen, but just in case. I can give it to her.”
Ken writes his number down on the other half of the paper and gives it to Glyn.
“ Do you know where she lives?” asks Ken.
“ Somewhere in Englewood. That’ s about it. She kept her private life pretty much to herself.”
Ken drinks and thinks about her phone number, calling and calling and not getting through. The future that had waited over twenty years turned away because of a frigging phone call that didn’ t make it through. Glyn must have been reading his mind because he spoke with the same doubts.
“ You know, ” says Glyn. “ You may never be able to reach her through her cell.”
“ I figure that much, ” says Ken.“ Any other ideas?”
Glyn laughs, loud and long. “ It’ s time for you to chase her!” Ken says nothing but gives Ken a wondering look.
“ She told me that she’ s hitting the highway for Santa Fe tomorrow, when the sun rises. You gonna have to watch the damned highway for her piece of shit Geo to go by.”
“ Is she going to Santa Fe then?”
“ Nope. She’ s headed that way. She doesn’ t know where she is going to stop for good.”
After the beer was gone Ken bid Glyn good night and thanked him for the help.
“ Good luck tomorrow, ” said Glyn.
“ Thanks, I’ ll need it.”
Ken called Debbie’ s cell about twenty times while he walked back to his truck Good luck was not to be had tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
Traffic Watch
My sleep last night wasn' t worthy of the name. I kept on wakening up, tossing and rolling in bed, my mind unable to settle into a restful unconsciousness. I don' t know how many times I dialed Debbie' s cell to no avail. The people who turn their cells off is a rarity but the yare out there, walking among us with their dead phones. Vicente, one of my foremen, is such an oddball. If I leave him with a crew somewheres, I better call someone else in the crew but him.
"Why in hell you have a cell phone if it is always off?"
He shrugs. "It' s like a pay phone in your pocket, and you don' t need coins."
"What about people trying to get in touch with you?"
"The only reason people call you is because they want something from you, you know, money or do this or that for them," he says laughing. "I can do without it."
I cannot argue with the guy because he' s correct. My business depend son that stupid thing but I cannot tell you how many times I had wished I could just fling the damned beeping gizmo as far as I could. It is both a blessing and a course; I envy those who can just turn them off and live theirs lives without the agony of unexpected beeping.
Because I' m the one trying to call Debbie I infer, using Vicente' s logic, that I' m the one who wants something from her. Of course I do. I want her, the whole of her. Again, using Vicente' s logic, she doesn' t want to be bothered because she can do without me.
There is madness is in my dialing fingers, calling Debbie and each call never going through but still dialing, time after time, and like a madman, expecting her to answer using a phone that is not turned on. I stand on this stupid bridge facing the highway and every so often I go through the dialing motions, putting the cell to my ear and then putting it back in my shirt pocket, every attempt an exact copy of the previous failed one.
There was a chill in the morning that made me take a big jacket, gloves and a wool hat. The hat is white with red and yellow flames and has a long tip. It looks like a condom on my head. I have been standing on this bridge over I-25 since just before sunrise, watching my breath turn solid in front of my mouth. There is a steady buzz of engines and tires on pavement, a never ending stream of traffic heading south. With every car that passes my hopes diminish but I stay put. The sun climbs through the clouds and the temperature rises and I’ m still standing on the same spot, looking northward.
I have done crazy and stupid things in my life, but this one has to be one of the dumbest ones, watching traffic, watching for a blue Geo with a grafted red front end and a blonde behind the wheel to go by. The chances of me seeing her go by are so low that I should had given it up many hours ago, but here I' m, like a dupe, standing now with my jacket in my hand, the gloves in my pockets, the condom still on my head, pulled above my big red ears. Cops go up and down the street and look at me funny but they haven' t given me any grief yet. I think this is called loitering. I call it a waste of time.
Then, why am I here?
Because I don' t want to give up, no matter how ridiculous I may look standing over a bridge watching cars pass by, no matter how small are my chances of ever seeing Debbie again. It took over twenty years and a fat chance for us to meet, and things have not gone well since that first meeting, but if it happened once, why shouldn' t it happen again? It burns me up that after twenty years, after meeting by pure chance, our lives are drifting apart again without us having a chance to talk things over, to decide if our paths should be one or should split again. I don' t want our paths to diverge because of fate. If she tells me to go to hell, I can live with that, but just drifting away like shipwrecks in a dark night, pulled away by the currents, that I cannot accept and that' s why here I stand, my bladder ready to burst, my feet tired of standing.
If by ten o' clock in the morning I' m still here, then I have to switch to Plan B. I just have to figure out what plan B is.
Debbie and Cash
The Geo is pointed south, past Pueblo, in the slow lane. Every time a fat SUV or a truck flies by, the little car gets buffeted by the wind swirls. Debbie is not in a hurry because where she is going, which she hasn' t decided yet, there will be nobody waiting for her. That' s the way it has always been. Ernie is asleep on the passenger seat. The CD is playing Johnny Cash' s The Man Comes Around. She never liked the Man in Black but this CD somehow strikes a soft mood in her with its simple arrangements and pointed lyrics. Debbie realizes she is getting mellower as the years go by. Since she left Denver a couple of hours before sunrise the CD has been playing. Debbie wonders about Mr. Cash, with all his money and fame, and still having to deal with his addictions and life' s bad tricks. Well, Debbie muses, hard times don' t care how deep you pockets are or how well known your mug is; shitty times are for everybody.
Money doesn' t buy happiness but it buys options. Her detox program had been going cold turkey at the jail house. She shivers at the memories. Cash probably went to a fancy rehab center and his friends and family were behind him. That must be nice, Debbie thinks, to have people willing to give their support just because they love you. Debbie tries to imagine what that feeling must be like, to have somebody waiting when one comes out of jail, out of the hospital, somebody who comes running to one’ s side when things turn for the worse. Debbie looks to her right. She has a cat. She used
to have another one but God took it away because she didn’ t deserve two.
Her fingers grip the steering wheel with anger but she exhales and the tension in her hand eases as her breath comes out of her lips. Thinking stuff like that does no good, she decides; it’ s bad Karma.
Dumb and Dumber
If standing on a bridge looking down on I-25 for hours is dumb, riding down the highway chasing after what may not be there is dumber. At ten o' clock I gave up my watch and walked to the convenience store in the corner, took a long overdue piss, bought a burrito and coffee and took off in my truck, chewing and drinking and thinking what a fool I was.
My plan, if it can be called that, is to drive southbound all the way to Santa Fe with the hope that I may overtake her. What if she is driving to California instead? or to the east coast? Or if she decided to leave later during the day? My chances are nil, I know, but driving and searching are better than sitting on my butt and letting her slip away. I feel like I' m wading in a lake up to my waist in water trying to catch a small fish. I don' t know if it is behind me, or in front of me, or if it took off in other direction. The lake is full of fish, but none of them is the one I want; maybe it is not in this lake anymore. Still, splashing in the water and searching with clumsy steps and cold hands is better than sitting on the shore crying about my loss. It is a mighty big lake, but I have no choice.
The only thing I might get out of this is a speeding ticket, but I don' t care. What if she pulled off the highway to eat or to take a leak? Is she a McDonald' s person? A Burger King person? I don' t know if she still eats hamburgers. Here I' m, chasing after her because I feel my life depends on it, and I don' t know her; I don' t know the simplest of things about her, what she likes or dislikes. The absurdity of the chase is obvious to anybody with two fingers of fore head. I put my hand over my eyebrows and I measure a comfortable five fingers. I seem to have the space for enough brain matter to understand the futility of my quest but I cannot stop. I pass cars that are not hers and look forward as far as my eyes can see, searching for what I know will not be there, but search I must because that' s all I have and I don' t want to give up without a good fight.
Snapshots of Modern Love Page 17