3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1)

by Nick Pirog

The phone rang. It rang again. It rang a third time. The answering machine kicked in halfway into the fourth ring.

  Click.

  “Hello, caller. I’m going to be gone for the next couple weeks. I’ve set out to find the guy who coined the phrase ‘It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ and blow his brains all over the sidewalk. You can leave a message if you want, but odds are I’m either in jail or dead. Happy holidays. Live long and prosper. Jesus loves you. The pen is mightier than the sword. Vote yes on 3B. Always compare to the placebo. Seat belts save lives. Freedom.”

  Beep.

  A voice gave an exasperated sigh, then started. “Nice message, Thomas. Very eloquent. I would tell you that you’re an idiot but you already know that. I know you’re home. In fact, I know you’re lying on the couch with your blue comforter. There’s probably a jar of peanut butter, the jelly, a loaf of two-week-old bread, and about ten juice boxes sitting on the coffee table.”

  I lolled my head to the left and peeked at the glass coffee table. Skippy Extra Creamy. Welch’s raspberry preserves. Sara Lee Golden Honey Wheat. And six boxes of Tree Top apple juice.

  I guess Lacy knew me pretty well.

  “Do me a favor and get off your pathetic ass and pick up the phone.” She was silent for a second then started back in. “Fine. If you want to self-destruct, isolate yourself from the world, then that’s your problem. Have fun.”

  I will. Thank you.

  “Just remember there are those of us who still love you. Even when you’re acting like a huge baby.”

  Ouch.

  “Well, I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I hope you find your way to some pumpkin pie.”

  A Pumpkin Spice latte from Starbucks would suffice. I hoped they delivered.

  “I know I’ve said it a hundred times already, Thomas, but she doesn’t deserve you. You’re too good for her. It’s been almost six weeks. It’s time to get on with your life.”

  Wrong. I didn’t deserve her. She was too good for me. It’d only been 41 days. And it was time to wallow.

  “Bye. I love you.”

  I hit my head backwards on the pillow three times, then threw off the comforter. I snagged the remote from under the couch and blindly turned on the television. The parade filled the screen and I mentally gagged. This had the potential to be the most depressing day in the history of time.

  On screen, a giant Snoopy floated by. Followed by a giant Charlie Brown. I waited for Woodstock, but he never came. An overly joyous woman commented on the procession, each affected syllable steaming the cold New York air as it left her mouth.

  I pulled on my bear paw slippers and padded to the window.

  If it was cold in New York then it was freezing in Maine. The sky was a dark gray and the earth looked frozen, the dew brittle, tundra-like, the land preparing itself for the long onslaught of winter. The first big snowstorm of the year was expected to start in the late afternoon, early evening. Then everything would be white for the next five months. At least until late April. Old Man Winter wasn’t very friendly in the Northeast. In fact, he was one mean old sumbitch.

  I made my way to the sliding glass door and peered out on the bay. By bay, I refer to the Penobscot. The last body of water before the Pond, silent e’s, and bad teeth.

  Anyhow, it was early, around eight, but even so there were a couple brave souls in their sailboats getting one last ride in before the snow began to fall. The water was three shades darker than the sky and lapped idly against the rocky shore. Just off center was the Surry Woods Lighthouse. The old, tattered lighthouse’s light was still visible, a reflective coin on the drab horizon.

  Sort of made you want to catch the red-eye to the Bahamas.

  On that note, I went into the kitchen, cranked the heat to Bahamian, and opened the freezer. There were five boxes of waffles; Regular, Buttermilk, Cinnamon Toast, Blueberry, and Strawberry. I know, I have a problem. Hi, my name is Thomas and I’m addicted to waffles. Hey, leggo my Eggo.

  As my waffles toasted, I started a cup of water heating in the microwave. I opened the front door and scampered the ten steps to the paper. It was already half drizzling, half snowing, and I had a feeling the storm was six hours ahead of schedule.

  I sat down to the waffles and a cup of steaming apple cider and read the paper. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they read the paper. I was a comics, sports, weather, front page, Dow Jones, Jumble, kind of guy. Alex had been a front-to-back kind of gal. Maybe that’s why it hadn’t worked out.

  I retired back to the couch and turned on football. Detroit and Minnesota. One of them was winning. I was looking forward to John Madden’s Turkey Leg awards, but it turns out he wasn’t doing the game this year. Shucks.

  I picked up a different remote and hit the stereo. Some stupid Shania Twain song was playing (You know the one, The One I Want for Life) and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even think. I almost—I stress almost—started crying. And I’m fairly certain if there had been a gun in the house I would have shot myself through the heart. I turned the stereo off.

  So there I was about an hour into my thirty-third Thanksgiving and it had already proved to be the worst yet. Well, the first one after my parents’ death was awful, but this one was giving it a run for its money.

  I packed a bag, turned the heat off, hit all the lights, and recorded a new phone message. When I pulled the front door open, I was hit by a wall of cold. It was officially snowing now and everything that wasn’t made of concrete was white. I took two steps, then froze. I pressed my ear to the door. The phone rang three more times before the answering machine picked up.

  “If this is Lacy, I’ll call you in a couple days. If this isn’t Lacy, stick the phone in your mouth and swallow it.”  

  “Hi Thomas. It’s me. Listen—”

  It was Alex.

  I panicked. I couldn’t find my keys. Then I couldn’t find the right key. By the time I got the door open, Alex was long gone.

  I made my way to the answering machine and peered down at the blinking red light. Time for a real gut check. I took a deep breath, picked up the machine, and threw it against the wall. I’d clean it up when I got back. If I ever got back.

  Two hours later, I was at 37,000 feet.

  Headed for Seattle.

  Chapter 2