Fiction by Robert Denby: "OK", conclusion
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Seven It's a little after one in the afternoon. I lay awake for most of the night watching TCM (Bringing Up Baby and Charade. It's Cary Grant day, apparently.) I finally passed out around six, but it wasn't restful. One of those sleeps where details or people or ridiculous events keep running through your head again and again, but you aren't out deeply enough for it to really qualify as dreaming. The first time I recall looking at the clock this morning it was 11:19, but I'm still lying in bed. My curtains are closed, but I can tell that it's probably nice out; the sun's bright. I'm supposed to be meeting Veronica in three hours, but I don't know. I mean, it's great and all, but of course I have to meet somebody interesting now. Not when I'm dicking around in a Borders' back home or when I'm grocery shopping, but right when I pull a gun, kick down a door, and scare a kid so much that he wets himself. Part of me is still decompressing from last night. Regardless of the gun in my car and what I do for a living, I've never really done anything like that. Throwing horny drunks out on the parking lot, I can handle, but not the whole badass-thug thing. When you consider that me and Bobby just as easily could have been mowed down the instant I kicked down the door, it all went really well, and to honest, that worries me. After a while, I kind of started to enjoy myself, like I was watching Pacino before he started to suck. Even now, part of still keeps running the highlights over and over in my head and still feeling a little bit of that rush. I don't want to feel that rush. It's not the way things are supposed to be, and it's unnatural, but it's still all over me. And the second that Veronica opens the door, some part of me feels like that it'll be all over her. I know it doesn't make any sense. Trust me, working in a strip club teaches you really quickly that women are never as innocent as they seem, and I don't want to place Veronica on one of idealistic platforms I get all weepy over when I'm alone at six in the morning, but that's the problem. The only women I really know anymore are the ones at the club and all I see are their problems: guys getting grabby, their red eyes and bloody noses, their shitty boyfriends, their psycho girlfriends. It's not great, but I can handle it. I know Veronica's not perfect, but she's not like that. And lying here still pumped up from last night, I wonder if my fucked-up brother and the club and lying around watching movies is all I'll ever know. All I'm capable of knowing. She still keeps popping into my head, though. Little bits of our conversation yesterday. Her lips. Nice ones; big, but not ridiculous and collagen-like. How she must smell; strawberry shampoo, I'm guessing. Where we'll go out to eat. What she might look like in her underwear. What's worst, this is bouncing around in my head alongside everything else and it just leaves me feeling jittery. I get up and get into the shower. As the hot water begins to run down me, I start thinking about her mouth again, her breasts. I feel myself getting hard. I know that it isn't going to help, that it's only going to make me feel worse right now, but I can't help it. I reach down and finish myself off as quickly as I can. I'm unbelievable. Somebody should fucking shoot me. *** It's 5:01. I just got dressed (I was digging through my laundry basket hoping I had a shirt that buttoned up, but it's turns out that I had my black cotton one in there.) I thought about going out and grabbing something to eat earlier, but the thought of leaving the room was even worse than staying, so I'm been bouncing around all afternoon. Sitting on the bed, sitting on the other bed, then the chair. Flipping channels. Even thumbing through the Gideon Bible in the nightstand. For a dollar, I'd call her and tell her that I have to leave early, but I don't know which room she's in. I have to sit down. I swear to God I'm feeling lightheaded. Maybe it's a good thing I haven't eaten today. There's a knock at the door. Oh, shit. I'm going to open the door and she'll see it just by looking at me. A filthy masturbator who spent last night hanging out with dealers and meth-heads. Another knock. I pull on my coat. I'm sweating. Am I sweating? I wipe my hands on my pants. I open the door. Her smile. This floral print dress down to her knees. A brown sweater that zips up. "There you are." She's smiling. She's smiling at me. "Yeah. I was in the bathroom." I was in the bathroom? Yeah, that sounds good. Am I sweating? Can she see me sweating? "You ready to go?" she asks. "Um, yeah. Let's go." I close the door. We're walking down to the parking lot. "So where's your car?" she asks. "Actually, I was thinking we ought to take your car, if that's OK." "How come?" "I've never been here, and I got so lost driving around earlier. You probably know your way around better than I do." That way if she wants to run screaming in horror, she won't be stranded somewhere. "I can pay you gas money if you want." She laughs. "Thanks, but that's OK. I don't think this'll break me. We never covered this yesterday, but where are we going?" That thought hadn't crossed my mind until just now. "Yeah, well, I was thinking at first that we could just head downtown or something. We could grab something to eat, and then we could find a movie or just walk around, maybe. I don't know, I've never been here before. Did you have anything you wanted to do?" "No, not particularly. That sounds fine to me. I'm starving." We're at her car. We get in and she starts it up. "There's a parking garage at the ZCMI Center," she says. "That's the big mall downtown. We could park there and then figure out the rest." "Great." We pull out of the parking lot and head in a direction I assume is downtown. "I realized after you left yesterday that I never asked you where you were from." "Oh, California. Anaheim." "Oh, a Disneyland man, huh? Your secret's safe with me. If you want to put on your mouse-ears right now, go ahead." "No, there back at home, I'm afraid. Right next to my Donald Duck pajamas." "Donald Duck p.j.s. A shirt with no pants, right?" Where have you been all my life? "I never really cared for Disney stuff," she says. "Not even when I was a kid. Bugs Bunny and Looney Tunes were just so much cooler. Disney is the kind of stuff your parents want you to watch, so you have to rebel with Looney Tunes, see?" "Yeah, that makes perfect sense. I never thought of it that way." We drive for a minute or so. "Are you OK?" she asks. "Yeah, yeah. I just slept late, that's all." "How's the family emergency? If you don't mind my asking." "That. Well..." Unlawful entry. Armed assault. Drug possession. "It was my brother. He called me from jail. Turns out he's into meth." "Jesus." "Yeah. We wound up talking and I told him he had to go into rehab. I dropped him off late." "That's gotta suck. I see those before-and-after pictures in the paper. There was this one guy who looked like he'd aged ten years in, like, three months." "Well, that's my brother for you. He's been in trouble like this ever since high school. He dropped out when he was sixteen. Part of me's surprised he went this long before doing something like meth." "Now he's in rehab, at least. How do you think he'll do?" "Good, I'm hoping. He seemed to be interested. We'll have to see." "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to," she says. "You must be beat." "No, no, that's alright. I need to relax. Thanks again for this." "You're welcome." "So how was the funeral?" "Oh, pretty typical. It was nice to see people and all, but as I said, he was ninety-one. Kind of inevitable. I'm glad I came, though." "Still, though. I bet your grandmother's having a hard time." "She's been pretty senile the last few years, actually. I doubt she remembers who most of us are." "I'm sorry." "That's kind of inevitable, too. I think. I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound mean about it, but unless you're young or something horrible happens, death is just going to happen. Seems kind of silly to work up a lot of grief about it." "I like that. That's a healthy way to see things. Ever seen a movie called Afterlife?" "No." "You ought to. It's something I could imagine you being into." We're approaching downtown Salt Lake. The Mormon temple is right smack in the center and buzzing around that main block are hordes of guys in dark guys with a few women in longer dresses. "Are those missionaries?" I ask. "Yep." "What are they all doing here? Do they train here?" "I'm not sure. You'd think the last need they need here are people knocking on your door about being a Mormon, but who knows? Look at your brother." Or Derrick and Jordan. We pass by the temple and make a right. "The parking garage is just up here," she says. "We can walk out through the mall." She pulls into the garage, pays the toll ("I've got it, John. You can buy dinner, how about?"), drives up a couple of levels, and finds an empty space close to the elevator. We get out, head up another floor, and come out at the top level of the mall. It's three levels with the open atrium in the middle. "Ta-da," she says, with a flourish of her arms. "Wow. Just like being back home." "You should try living in Idaho. This is the biggest mall within hundreds of miles." Neither one of us see a directory, so we start walking towards the elevators at the other end. We pass a woman sitting on a bench and breast-feeding some boy who looks at least three without a blanket or anything to cover them up. "God, that's so gross," she says as soon as we're out of the woman's earshot. "What?" "Doing that in public." "Well, that kid was looking a little old, I guess." "Not just that, but whipping them out like that! Eww. Find someplace private." Now I know what to say when she asks me where I work. "I know it's a 'natural thing' or whatever, but so is going to the bathroom. That doesn't mean I get to hike up my skirt and go where ever I feel like it. Sorry for the disgusting imagery, by the way." "That's alright. I just never gave it much thought." "Why not? Aren't you going to have kids someday?" ` We're at the elevator and escalator. Veronica looks at the directory posted right between them. "Yeah, the food court's right down on the next level. I thought so. So, aren't you going to have kids someday?" I hope I'm not turning red right now. "Well...God. I don't know." "Haven't you thought of it? How old are you?" "Thirty-five. And no, I haven't really thought of it. I just, I just..." "Are you OK? I didn't mean to embarrass you." "No, it's fine. I just haven't...I don't know. It hasn't been an option. I've never pictured myself being a father." "Well, you could. I mean, if you don't want to, it's fine, but you could?" "Really?" "Why not? I've just met you and I can tell that you're intelligent, articulate, generous, and just a decent guy. I could see you being good with kids. Sure." She's not really saying this, is she? "Wow. Thanks." "Oh, crap. Now I'm freaking you out." She touches my arm. God, I wish I wasn't wearing my coat. "Let's eat," she says. *** "So how about you?" I ask. "What?" "Are you going to have kids?" We're sitting in the food court eating from our trays of Chinese ("3 Items and a Medium Drink for $6.25.") "Well," she says with a smile. Do that more. Do that as often as you'd like. "I got to grill you, so I guess that's fair. I just realized that you haven't even told me your last name. No telling until I know." "You didn't ask. And it's Hannigan. John Dennis Hannigan. What's yours?" "Daley. Veronica Anne Daley. Where do you work?" "I'm a bouncer." "Club or a bar?" "Club." "Really?" She's smiling. I can swear she's impressed. "So if someone tries to mug me tonight, you can take care of them?" "I'm not looking forward to it, but I could if it came to that." God, am I showing off? I never show off. "Cool," she says. "I've got a bodyguard." We're flirting. Holy shit. "So, about kids?" I ask. "Oh, right. Well, I was engaged a few years back, but just kind of died out." "How old are you?" "Thirty-two. I was kind of baby-hungry back then, but that fell though, and I'm glad. Michael and I, that was my fiance, would have been a total disaster as parents. I've thought about it since then, but I don't know. I don't want to be one of those desperate women who have a baby just to have a baby. So I've mainly been working and just focusing on that. I figure that when it's time, it'll happen." "That's smart. The world would probably be better off if more people thought like that." "Why, thank you. Mr. Hannigan" We eat for a moment. I finish my Sierra Mist, open the glass, and start munching on the ice. I heard that Dr. Ruth once said that chewing on ice is a sign of being sexually inhibited or something. The shit that goes through my head at the most random times. "So, are we going to a movie, then?" I ask. She takes a sip and set her cup back down. "There isn't a movie theater here in the mall. I hope this doesn't sound presumptuous, and I know how much you love movies, but it's just such a bad thing to do when you're going out with someone for the first time. Just sitting in the dark for two hours without saying anything?" Did she say that we're going out? "I don't know how watching movies became this big group activity." "I guess I know what you mean," I say. "It's like trying to read while someone's looking over your shoulder." She starts to laugh. "Exactly! That's so perfect! Ah, you're a riot!" I can be a riot. That's OK. "So, yeah," she says. "I was thinking that we could just eat and walk around downtown. Salt Lake's a pretty cool place to do that." "Great." "You know, I shouldn't be saying this to you, but I saw Casablanca for the first time last month. Thirty-two years old and I'd never seen it before. I wound up renting it." "What did you think?" "It was really good. It's nice when something that's a classic actually lives up to its reputation." "Yeah, I saw it for the first time when I was twenty, and I just couldn't get into it. Humphrey Bogart just seemed like a really stiff actor. It was a while before I saw it again, and that time it clicked?" "What was different?" "I was older. You don't really appreciate that sort of thing when you're a kid. Realizing that you sometimes don't get what you want." "I know what mean. I like that." "I also saw in a theater the second time. There's this place I like that has midnight shows. Maybe that had something to do with it." It's already getting dark outside. "The first movie I really remember seeing in a theater was Superman," she says. "I think that Christopher Reeve was my first crush. I must have spent most of the time staring at floor feeling all shy. He was so handsome. Oh, my God." "Yeah, I remember seeing Superman. The opening credits with the titles flying at you and that John Williams duh-da-DAH music blasting. Nothing had even happened yet and I was so excited. I swear, that's burned into my brain. I keep meaning to get the soundtrack, but I never get around to it." "So let's get it now." she says. "I'm sure there's a music store in here." She takes another sip from her cup. "We have anything else to do?" *** We're on a corner right outside of the food court (We couldn't find a Superman soundtrack, so I had to make do with Selections from the Greatest Scores of John Williams.) The walk icon comes on. Before we're halfway across the street, these numbers light up right next to the icon and starts counting down. 14, 13, 12... "I've never seen that before," I say. "That really makes sense." "Oh yeah, that's cool." We're on the other side of the street. The temple is on our left. "Mind if I smoke?" I ask. "Only if you give me one." I pull out my pack. I pull two out, light them, and hand her one. "Ooh, how suave," she says. First I'm a riot. Now I'm suave. "Let's walk around back there," she says, gesturing to a courtyard directly behind the temple. "There's a fountain." We walk down the sidewalk running alongside an older office building and come out into the courtyard of what looks like some business complex. The fountain is right on the other side of the fence from the temple. There's a white building a little farther down that looks to be about thirty or forty stories; probably the only thing in all of Salt Lake City that could honestly be called a skyscraper. "There's the fountain," she says. "Come on." She grabs my arms and pulls me towards it. I can live with this. She pulls some change out the pocket in her sweater and hands me a penny. "We have to make a wish, and we have to throw our pennies in at the same time. That's the rule." "What kind of rule is that?" "You never heard that? That all I heard growing up. Maybe it was some weird quirk of my Mom's, but I've already been indoctrinated for thirty years, so fuck it. Ready?" "Ready." "One, two, three." The streetlights are on. She's all backlit. I throw my penny in. "Where do you think all of the change in these fountains go?" she asks. "I don't know. We're in Utah. Maybe this is how they support all of those extra wives." She laughs with this really cute little snort. "Ah, man, that's good." "Or maybe it's the unemployment pension for when you get fired from here," I add. "Yeah, yeah, I can see it now." She drops her voice. "'Sorry, but you have to be out of the building by five. Here's a snorkel. Good luck!"" Now I'm laughing, too. It feels odd to be laughing with somebody else there. "Damn, you are so funny!" she says. "God!" She clears her throat, which then turns into a couple of coughs. "Excuse me. Sorry about that. Speaking of phlegm, gimme another cigarette." I hand her one and light it. We start walking down towards the other end of the courtyard. "I have a confession to make, if that's OK," she says. "Shoot." "When I saw your sitting in that laundry room yesterday?" "Yeah." "I also went the other way when I saw you sitting there. For a spilt second, I didn't want to go in there. I'm sorry, that sounds awful of me." "Well, I get that, kind of," I say. "I mean, look at me. I know how I look. It's kind of how I make my living, in a way." "But, still! Maybe it's the Self-Defense for Women class I took in college, but I don't know. It's like women are brainwashed into being afraid of big guys with no hair. I'm sure that's no fun for you." "It's all I know, I guess. I don't give it much thought. How I look is how I look. Can't help it." "So, are you bald bald, or do you shave it?" "Shave it. I was pretty much bald up here by the time I hit twenty-five. I look stupid unless I shave it." "That's cool, though. I wish more guys would be willing let that happen. Most of them just look dumb when they try to hang on to every last hair." "I think everybody should shave their head at least once in their life. Seriously." "Really?" "Sure. I haven't touched a comb in ten years. It helps you realize how unimportant all of that stuff is. Like about how we're supposed to look, and all." "Sure, but you're a guy. Guys can get away with that." "I see bald women all the time. It's more common than you think." "Yeah," she laughs. "That'd go over really well when I go to work in the morning. The school would probably get phone calls from parents afraid that I'm a lesbian coming to start early on their kids." "Yeah, that's true. I'm just saying, is all." We walk in silence for a moment. "So what about me?" she asks. "What about you?" "What did you think about me?" "Gosh...I don't remember." "Bullshit. You can tell me. I trust you." Probably shouldn't say the word breasts. "Really?" "Sure. Why not?" "Well, OK. I thought..." I take a deep breath. "I thought you were the nicest thing I'd seen all day." She stops. "Really?" I nod. "Yeah." "Awww," she says. "Thank you." "It's the truth." We reach the end of the courtyard and come back out onto a street. "Which way should we go?" I ask. "This way," she says, nodding her head to the right. Then she reaches out and interlaces her fingers with mine. *** We're back at the motel, standing by her car in the parking lot. It's a little before eleven. "Sorry we have to be back here so early," she says. "There's a meeting at school I promised to be at tomorrow afternoon, and I have to leave here at like six to get there on time." "Me, too, actually. I have to work tomorrow night. If I get a couple of hours sleep and drive like crazy, I should be able to make it." "Hang on a second." She pulls a pad of paper out of her purse and writes on it. She rips out the piece of paper. "Here's my phone number and e-mail." "Oh, thanks. Here, let me give you mine." She hands me the pad and mine. I write mine and hand it back. "Cool," she says. We're just standing there. She holds out her hand. "Well, thanks for hanging out. That was fun." I shake her hand. I'm not letting go of it. "Yeah, you too." We're still just standing there. "Hey," I say. "I might be coming back here to visit my brother. Maybe you could come down?" "Maybe." "How far away do you live?" "Not too far. Let me know. I'll see how my schedule looks." "It was nice meeting you." "Yeah, you too. 'Bye." We lean in for a hug. Mine arms go around her waist. Hers' go around mine. She smells like apples. She's squeezing me. I pull back and lift her chin up towards mine. Our lips press together. Stiff, at first, but then it softens. A kiss. A quick one, just for a second. She's not wearing lipstick. God, she tastes good. We pull apart. She exhales and wipes her eye with the sleeve of her sweater. "Whoo. Well. So, I'll call you?" "Yeah, me too." She starts walking towards the motel. She stops after a second and turns around. "Write me." "I will." "My grandma's probably going to die soon. I can invite you to the funeral." She smiles. I smile. "I'll see what I can do." "See you later." "'Bye." I watch her cross the parking lot, turn the corner of the motel, and disappear. I pull out the paper and study her note. The loops in her l's. She doesn't dot her i's with those cheesy hearts. Of course, she wouldn't. I look up at the door to my room. It seems like I've spent a lot of time coming back to that room in the past day or so. Maybe it's a good thing I have to go home tomorrow. Stay here any longer and I might start thinking I lived here. Eight It's just after nine in the morning. I crossed the Utah border a while back, and if I keep hauling ass, I should make it back into town just in time to start work. Veronica's car was still in the parking lot when I left. I assume she's still on the road. Probably crossed into Idaho, at least. I only got a couple hours of sleep last night, but it's probably for the best. I'm tired enough now that I've reached that state of mind where everything snaps into focus. I actually feel far more awake than I did a couple of hours ago. I'll be dead by the time I'm done at work tomorrow, but still. I don't know if it's me driving this stretch of road in the daylight or if it's just me being tired, but I'm liking the landscapes this morning. The land stretches out on both sides to some mountains on the horizon with nothing but shrubs to break its' surface. With everything's that's happened that past few days, it's kind of a relief to drive through empty desert and keep my eyes on the road. It reminds of this trip Mom took me and Bobby on when we were kids. We were driving to Arizona; I was up front, Bobby was in back. We were driving across the desert just like I am now, and no one had really said much for a while, out of nowhere, Bobby pipes up. "You know, if you were to kill somebody and take their body out here, I bet no one would be able to find it for long time." He was probably eight or nine. He didn't sound like he was joking, but he didn't sound like he was being serious about it, either. Just making conversation. God, he was such a funny kid. I spend a little time thinking about what my first e-mail to Veronica is going to say (Hi, there. Is your Grandma still alive ; ) No, that's no good.) I wonder what time she has to get up to get to her school. It'll be nice to have someone to call right when I get home from work. I search around in my coat for my pack of cigarettes. They aren't in my breast pocket; must have put them into the side one last night. I reach in and feel a piece of paper that feels odd. Kind of slick. I pull it out. It's that picture. The one I took off that computer nerd Friday. Friday. Feels like it was month ago. I look at a minute. She still looks nice. Then I roll down the window a crack and slide it through the window. The wind whips it out of my hand and it's gone. Sure, it's a cheesy gesture. It's like I'm hoping that a film crew's in the back seat and I'm playing a scene in somebody's script. I can almost write Ebert's review. But that's OK. Why can't I have a little fun sometimes? |