Rough Draft April 17, 2009
Author’s note: I was listening to Damien Jurado’s
“Gillian Was A Horse” as I was writing this.
——–
It’s not supposed to be this cold. At four thirty-five in the afternoon, it’s supposed to be all sunny and bright, not this drab cloudy sky. I’m supposed to stand outside and wait in front of this coffee shop. Why meet here?
My one hand is holding a cup of coffee. The other is in my jacket pocket. The brown jacket over the maroon shirt. Maroon. Who the hell wears a maroon shirt? Oh yeah, me. To work. I didn’t have time to change. The voicemail he left said four-thirty. He was calm and commanding. His usual way.
Twenty minutes ago, I had ordered a medium cup of hazelnut blend to keep me warm. There’s a small table outside for the creamer, sugar, stirrers and napkins. The half-and-half comes in these little brown plastic containers as big as my thumb and topped with foil. I had taken two and poured it into my coffee. As I set one empty cup down, the wind blew it off. After I poured the other cup, I put it into my jacket pocket.
Now the coffee’s almost out. Why is he late?
Finally, I see it. The car pulls up to the curb. A red zone, of all places. It’s a black Toyota Hybrid. I was expecting a limo for this. I had it all played out in my head. Me sitting in the back, him behind the driver, us face to face. This will have to do.
The passenger window opens. It’s him. I toss the empty cup of coffee into the trash and walk over to the car. He sees me.
“Get in.”
I open the door and get in. It’s warm in his car, warm and pristine and sterile. Black leather seats. The floor is a dark gray carpet, absolutely spotless. The dashboard has that touchscreen displaying the energy sharing of the electric battery and the gas, as well as the time, and, on better days, the title of the track being played. My car is never this clean. My car never had a touchscreen either. The passenger window closes.
“Hey,” I say.
Not a word from him. He doesn’t look at me. He looks straight out. Smug sonuvabitch. No wonder she hates him.
His hands are on the wheel. The car doesn’t move. We’re idling at a red zone. Or I think we’re idling. These hybrids don’t make a sound.
“Did you want coffee? I could’ve gotten you some.”
Nothing. He’s had years of practice at this. The silence made a name for him. The silence bought him this car. I put my right hand into my jacket pocket. Nothing but the little cup. I really should stop putting trash in my pockets.
“How much do you make an hour?”
He dives right into the money question. How am I supposed to answer that?
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Saved by the bell. And with that, he reaches from under his car seat and pulls out a manila envelope, folded into itself. It looks like it’s carrying a little brick.
He hands it to me.
“What’s in it?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
I unfold the envelope and peek inside. It’s a little brick of new hundred-dollar bills.
“Ten thousand,” he says.
“Wow.” For a second, my eyes are wide. For a second.
“Exactly.”
He smiles that stupid Mona Lisa smile. That half-smile that doesn’t convey happiness. No, satisfaction. He’s got me and he knows it.
“What’s it for?”
“You know.”
I stare at the envelope. Ten thousand. That’s the going rate for these things nowadays? Who determines the price, anyway?
“You knew what you got yourself into,” he says, “you knew it was leading up to this.”
It’s too warm and cozy in this car. I’m more focused on how comfortable I am, instead of what he’s saying. Argh, can’t do that. He did this on purpose. He made me stand in the cold. He made me get in his warm car. He put the ten large in my hands. He knows what he’s doing.
“You know what I’m asking you to do, right?”
I know exactly what he’s asking me to do. I can’t let him win this. I need to try. Need to make an effort.
“I can fight this.”
“Fight all you want. I don’t care. Sooner or later, it’s going to end. At least this way, you get to choose the when and the how.”
I stay silent. I need a comeback for this. All I really had was: “I can fight this.” Now that’s gone.
“I get it,” he says, “You want her to be happy. Saps like you. You say you care for her and you want what’s best for her. Well, here are the facts. I’ve cared for her and have known what’s best for her longer than you’ve ever had. Longer than you ever will. And I’m sorry, but what’s best for her, well, it isn’t you.”
I look out the window to the coffee shop. The cold has forced everyone indoors. The curb is empty except for the two of us.
“I spoke too soon,” he says. I look at him.
He continues.
“I’m not sorry.”
He’s good.
I thumb the empty half-and-half cup in my pocket. There’s a drop of milk left in it. It spills into the lining of my pocket. I really should stop putting trash in my pocket. I take the cup of half-and-half and drop it on his car floor.
That summer was remarkable. The beach. Photos under the boardwalk, chasing the waves, making sure the camera didn’t get wet. Blowing off work to drive around two counties. Sleevefacing at the Second Street record store. Midnight dessert runs. Movie marathons on mute, where we provided our own stupid dialogue. Days just spent in bed, studying her eyes, smile, shape, smell, lips. Her hands. Her warmth.
Joyful and promising.
“I need an answer.”
——–
I’m better dressed now. I went home, took a warm shower, and put on some nice clothes. The kind she likes. I’m supposed to meet her here, in front of the record store. One day, we took photos of each other holding up record covers to make it look like we were extensions of the artwork. Sleevefacing.
The sun’s just about setting. The clouds have decided to move around, and now there’s orange and purple painting the sky. The record store’s closed now, and the bars along the street are starting to open up.
There she is. Her car parked right behind mine. She gets out and walks up to me. She’s wearing that dress. The corner is empty except for the two of us.
She smiles. That same smile runs in the family. The stupid Mona Lisa half-grin that screams of satisfaction.
She starts.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Well, how’d it go?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What did he say?”
“Some shit about how sooner or later it’s gonna end, and at least I get to choose.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Also something about how he’s known what’s best for you longer than I have.”
“Damn.”
“I know.”
“He played his shtick.”
“Yep. He did the silent thing, too. And the me-standing-in-the-cold-while-he-was in-the-car trick.”
“Did you at least try for a comeback?”
“I did. All I had was: ‘I could fight this.’ He then said: ‘Of course you will.’”
“You said that?”
“Yeah. I even offered to get him coffee.”
“He said no?”
“He said no.”
“Thanks for standing up to him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“I guess.”
“I hate him.”
“I know.”
“Now you see why, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He does that to everyone. It’s not just you. Don’t take it personal.”
“I don’t.”
“I still can’t believe it happened.”
“Me neither.”
“Just like I said it would.”
“Just like you said it would.”
“Is that it?”
She notices my jacket pocket.
“Yeah.”
“You really did it.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I can’t believe he did it.”
“We did it.”
“How much?”
“Ten.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the going rate for these things, huh?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as if you can find the prices online or something.”
A laugh. Then silence.
“So, split even?” she asks.
“Five each.”
“Half-and-half.”
“You noticed.”
“Of course I do.”
“Thanks.”
I take the envelope out. I’ve already wrapped her share in copy paper and wound a rubber band over it. Confident that no one else is looking, I hand it to her.
“How do I know this is equal?” She asks.
“You just do.”
She puts it inside her purse. I fold the envelope back and place it in my pocket. It’s lighter now.
She begins.
“So…”
“So.”
“We had fun, right?”
“I suppose.”
“I had fun.”
“I know.”
“Are you gonna keep the photos?”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
“That was a good day.”
“Yeah. You were wearing the same shirt as the girl in the cover, so it was a great photo.”
“Yeah.”
“I might keep that one.”
“Good. That was a good album.”
“Partly. The B-side sucked.”
“I guess so.”
“I mean, how could something that good make way for utter crap?”
“I dunno. It happens. You got your books, right? And the blanket, too?”
“Yeah. You could’ve kept them.”
“Yeah, but you might need those someday.”
“I guess.”
“You know, it was real. At least for a time.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m glad you do. I’m really sorry it didn’t work out.”
“I’m not. We both got something out of it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
“I dunno. Doesn’t matter. Maybe abroad. Maybe Vegas.”
“Don’t go to Vegas. Go abroad. You always talked about it.”
“Perhaps. What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“You never do.”
“I should get going.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We get back into our cars. I wait for her to drive off, then I drive in the opposite direction.
That summer was remarkable. The beach. Photos under the boardwalk, chasing the waves, making sure the camera didn’t get wet. Blowing off work to drive around two counties. Sleevefacing at the Second Street record store. Midnight dessert runs. Movie marathons on mute, where we provided our own stupid dialogue. Days just spent in bed, studying her eyes, smile, shape, smell, lips. Her hands. Her warmth.
Joyful and promising.
- THE END -