Ambient Florida position
Josh Spilker
Copyright © 2011 by Josh Spilker
(KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition
www.kuboapress.wordpress.com
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There were no more Doritos. There were no more bottles of iced mocha coffee. There were no more almonds.
I got in the car.
This car used to go across the bridge, to a parking garage near the Westshore Mall. The car now goes to the Hess Station everyday. It does not know the bridge any longer.
At the Hess Station. The choices are limited, the lines are short, the bottles say there is 10 percent fruit juice.
I buy a full bottle with 10 percent fruit juice. There is a label on the bottle.
I buy a bottle of iced mocha. The bottle is made of plastic and has a label on it.
I buy small bags of almonds. The almonds have plastic wrappers with logos
The labels on the bags, the labels on the bottles; they have slogans. I don’t remember any of them.
"Nice day." The guy behind the counter.
“Yes,” I said.
"Is that all?"
“Yes.”
“Debit or credit?” the guy asked.
“Cash,” I said. I took out my wallet. I paid in cash.
***
I was at the stop sign.
If there was a light, it doesn't matter, its shade green or yellow or red. A blinking dull light on the ceiling, the passenger light, the reading light, that light that doesn't go off when you expect it to, instead you're standing outside your car waiting for that light to go out; that light was on.
That light was all that mattered. He went and they went, and they hit him, he hit them, the fault not only in the hitting, but also in the pain, the coincidence, some victims egg themselves to be victimized, maybe we all do, but the Goodwill truck bent the door, it’s bent by one of its kind -- another vehicle, recognizing the equal material and greater force, bending to its speed, ferocity and they were also forced to bend to it, crunching, crumbling, folding and folding farther, like stretched elastic with no purpose. We never notice the things we see everyday.
I was at the stop sign. I watched this.
An open gray road with littered materials, a rusty desk lamp, and tired sweaters, a cutting board and shears, a weedeater, a Playskool mobile. A DVD copy of Revenge of The Nerds with a scrape on its side, the case stood side-upright on the pavement, supported strong by American expansionism, American capitalism, ideas borne not out of grand visions, but out of knowing the intricate American-ness of both domination and the role of the underdog, its small fissures exposed to be exploited and then sold back to us -- we never the wiser for knowing these fissures, as we all kept doing what we were doing, what we are doing now, what I've always done, which is drive this Ford Explorer while others get decimated doing the same.
I opened the Ford Explorer door. I walked and picked up the movie. I'm sure the woman in the car was screaming for help. I'm sure she needed some water. We think about what we might do, but never think to do it.
***
"...did you see them coming?" Nathan said.
"...doesn't matter."
"...whose fault..." Uncle Ander said.
"...can't remember..." I said.
“…AND AFTER YOUR FATHER…” Mom breathed in a deep whisper.
"But you took this movie...from the accident?" Laurie said.
"Yes."
"And you didn't help?" Nathan said.
"No."
"...heartless, callous, unsympathetic bastard, that's what...,” Mom said.
"I am."
“…gawd, what else…” Mom breathed. In and out.
I walked out of the room. I went into my living room. I walked to the TV.
I put the movie in. I pressed “play.”
***
Blue, gray like a large Aerostream RV co-opted for public use, the bus stopped at the curb. Uncle Ander approached the bus. In Uncle Ander’s hand, a dirty wooden shaft. At the end of the shaft, a steel-tin-metal square, its edge sharp from standing upright in the back of a shed. Uncle Ander wore a backpack.
“Uh, sir where are you going with that thing?” the bus driver said.
“Is there a problem?” Uncle Ander balanced the shovel on the first bus step.
“I know what it is sir, but this is a…”
“See this finger?” Uncle Ander said. He flexed his middle finger. “This could be a weapon, but it ain’t if I don’t use it as a weapon.”
“Sir…”
“Same with this shovel.”
Uncle Ander got on the bus. He walked down the aisle. He selected a black plastic seat near the middle of the bus. Uncle Ander sat down. He looked forward. He looked backward. He was alone with a shovel.
The bus stopped five miles later. Uncle Ander got off the bus. He walked down the sidewalk. To his right was an iron fence. He walked to the corner of the gate. The iron gate was latched. He opened the iron gate latch and walked inside the gate.
A small headstone and another headstone and another. Willises, Betts, Samuels, Beasleys, Ramirezes, Blackmons. He found “Jorgeson.” He put the shovel down in front of the “Jorgeson” headstone. He scooped ground off the top. He was not making a hole. He wanted to scrape along the top. He wanted to make an indention.
Uncle Ander opened his backpack. Inside, a small wooden box. He slid the off the lid. He emptied the ashes into the indention. He placed the shovel into the fresh dirt. He lifted it, dumping it over the ashes. He flipped over the metal square of the shovel. He smoothed the dirt over the ashes. He laid the shovel down. He placed his hands on his hips.
II
“Is the scene dead?" I said.
"Not again," Nathan said.
"Are those girl jeans?” It was Mom. “You won’t be wearing girl jeans in my house."
“Not again,” Nathan said.
"What?" I asked. Nathan’s jeans, tight around the thighs, around the ankles, no holes in the knees.
“They make you look ridiculous,” Mom said. Her red apron with white piping, its straps wrapped around her neck, around her waist. Looked like an experienced 37 at age 50.
Outside on the deck, we were watching her swing a large grill fork. She flipped charred steak over and over, the grill lines in the same pattern, the same place on either side. She put lighter fluid on charcoal, she didn't mind the wait of the charcoals heating, the weight of the slow-cooked steaks. “Propane are for the Japanese,” she said.
"You shouldn't use lighter fluid then," I said. "Almost the same thing. A shortcut."
"Shut up," Mom said.
At 13, I said Michael Jackson’s interview with Oprah Winfrey was his first since the one with Barbara Walters on 20/20 in 1979. My parents were impressed with my pop culture fluidity. My parents were also impressed with Touched By An Angel.
“Take these in the house,” Mom said. She handed me a plate. The plates had steaks on them. Nathan followed. I put the steaks on the kitchen counter and we went into the living room. “And Wallace, there’s a key for you on the counter.”
“‘You know what the great thing about whistling is? It's that you can stop whistling!’” Red, That 70s Show. In the kitchen, Mom had a small television. 22-inch, not even flat, not even high-def.
“You still watch this show?” I said.
“It’s called syndication, D-A,” Nathan said. He threw the remote at me. It hit my face. It fell in my lap.
“Damn Rays.” Uncle Ander. In suspenders. Something like barbecue sauce spread across a flannel shirt. Like the sauce was there on purpose, across his stomach, an ‘x’ marking the spot for its return, its eventual resting place, the map spreading bigger and bigger each passing week, month, year. Sides of his head now snow white, the top enriching a gray zone, his body figuring out how to be old, how to sink, how to fall appropriately.
“We’re actually doing pretty well this year,” I said.
“We won’t make it,” Uncle Ander said. “Remember the Hit Show? We need something like that.”
“Hit Show” -- the slogan the Tampa Bay Rays used after luring three big names, all later found to be on steroids. Each night, third baseman Vinny Castilla disparaged us and our team’s livelihood on third base, not by his words, not by his looks, just with the bat as if by some unconceivable power he could only swing at nothing, Vinny Castilla’s balls never found green grass, never found brown dirt, his feet never reaching an extra base, inconceivable hate never erupting, never manifesting itself, not even festering, Vinny Castilla was wholly pleased with his play and his paycheck.
“That was a disaster,” Nathan said.
“You’re a disaster. Look at those pants. I should give you a wedgie, just so I wouldn’t have to put up with any offspring that might come out of you,” Uncle Ander said.
***
In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.
"God's last name isn't damn."
III
Mortgage bill on the table. Plates in the sink. A treadmill in front of a television. Books on the side table. The table next to a futon. A bag of almonds on the floor. Vitamin Water next to the bag. I always took my car to work, now I don't. The TV was on. “The View” with Elizabeth Hasselbeck. I sat down and looked up the website for Survivor. I clicked on “Become a Contestant.”
The phone rang, “Sweet Caroline” ringtone.
“What’d they say?” A female voice. Laurie.
“I didn’t tell them.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean?”
“You lost your job.”
“That happens to people all the time,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t tell people. You don’t lose your job all the time. They are your family.”
Scott had said “we wanted to keep you,” a pink envelope in his fingers (a real live pink slip!), his fingers passed it to me, I thumbed, I didn’t open it, he was in my office the blinds were open, he could see the retention pond from where he stood next to the bookcase, the same pond that I drove by every day never really noticing, except that one time it flooded --
“Hate to do this,” he continued, (hate to do what? didn’t you already do it?) “but I’m going to have to ask for your keys.”
In the desk drawer, and I opened the desk drawer and found them, and pulled the keys off, bending the circle trying to get the circle to open, extending the awkwardness further hoping he would change his mind, realize his grave mistake, realize things weren’t so bad after all, that I would stay and stay and that only the others, without offices and without key rings with important keys on them would have to go -- an announcement, a nice email MEMO that said, “If you have a key fob, you are fired. If you have a real set of keys, you can stay,” there would be no judging on merit then, just pure unadulterated RANK, “but you can leave when you want, just by Friday. Drop your files off in my office on you’re way out…” Others had been called to the conference room, with brown butcher paper covering the windows. They were told to leave and come back on the weekend for their things.
Scott said something else.
No hello, not even a glance in the eye, just a return from the watercooler to still find the pink envelope sitting there with an departing figure extremely high, extremely low -- I would take it anyway, as if medical coverage and SSN payments and higher property taxes were not a concern but where would I put my packet of gum in cleaning out this desk, the fake wood allowing the drawers to slide nicely out, just like this -- place in and out, easier to replace a piece of furniture than part of a soul.
I opened the pink envelope. There was no departing figure. Just a departing zero.
“Not all families work the same,” I told Laurie.
Two years ago, there was Laurie at the Brand New and Moneen show, not wearing some type of eccentric printed punk tee, just a simple striped shirt in splotched jeans in some type of sensible shoes, me wearing an old 1994 Orioles shirt with Ripken’s name on the back, vintage yes, original yes found on eBay, standing near one another in a wait for the portable toilet -- me saying casually -- “What’s the worst Hot Topic item you’ve seen so far?” her reply, simple but focused -- “a My Chemical Romance cape, yours?” and I said “a GI Joe messenger bag” the eyes mutually agreeing that we were TOO OLD for this, yet still enthralled, the music moved us even though the culture had slowed to a consumerist, corporate sludge, clogging up the pipes of punk rock -- she accepted the offer of a drink, some type of sale on Coronas because no one was old like us to buy and we talked about the currency of the day -- books, movies, music of course and stances on Wal-Mart; me older her younger, or so we thought until it was revealed our birthdays were the same month of the same year and here we are, me surviving her crocheting phase, her surviving my extreme jet ski phase, even though jet skis cost more.
The status was now “single” or “it’s complicated” depending on how the bar and small talk went the night before, someway somehow even through drunken taxi rides and late night beach bonfires with others, there was always a phone call the next day and the next, the valleys of rights and wrongs having no consequence.
“Still you need to tell them” she said. “Anyway, gotta go,” she said.
IV
Brewster’s Millions on the TV.
Cellphone, gyrating on the table, Uncle Ander.
“Come over here.”
“I’m at work,” I said.
“You’re a liar. Can’t believe this. Can’t believe you’d lie,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Laurie told me. She’s got good legs, okay?” Uncle Ander said.
“Why did she tell you?”
“Don’t worry, I did not tell your mom, I did not tell your brother. We’ll wait.”
“God…” I said.
“Loves you,” Uncle Ander replied. He laughed. He said “loves you” to anyone who used it as a curse. I would say “you” to him after he said “f***.” That was not funny like when he said “loves you” after “God.” We both let the word “sh**” slide. I turned off Brewster’s Millions. It was during a part where Richard Pryor’s eyes were very wide.
In the car. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.
"If you give the devil an inch, he will take a mile."
At his house, Uncle Ander was in the garage, his house a condo unit, the garage in the parking lot near brown awnings with numbers printed under them. Found a visitor’s spot, a rare commodity in the economy of right-place/right-time.
“Come move this. Someone is picking this up.” He pointed at a washing machine.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I’m going to the laundry mat from now on.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, I like the order. The peace and comfort. The whir-whirring.”
“It’s kind of nasty there and the quarter machines never work.”
“Not at my laundromat.”
We sat on the curb. Uncle Ander drank Natural Light from a brown paper bag.
“Did you really buy that from a convenience store?” I asked.
“No, I just put it in this bag,” he said.
“Why? Why didn’t you just bring it out? Everyone would have thought it was just an off brand Coke or something, now the paper bag actually brings attention to it,” I said. “If the security truck comes by, they’ll be suspicious. They’ll think you’re homeless."
“They already think that.” he said. He paused for a drink. “Since when did you care about the homeless? Or paper bags?”
“For always. For always I’ve cared about paper bags. I didn’t even know they made those bags anymore, I just thought people used plastic.”
“Don’t people still take their lunch to work?” An innocent question. Perhaps the most innocent I’ve ever heard from Uncle Ander.
“No, people don’t use paper bags anymore, they use those plastic bags that everybody has, you know with the big logos on it from the grocery store,” I said.
“I can’t drink Natty Light without the bag. It’s good on my fingertips, like the soft caress of a work shirt and Dickies all in a wad.”
“You just like to get drunk by dumpsters,” I said.
He threw the bag and the can at the dumpster, it didn’t make it, but hit his washing machine instead.
V
A Facebook message from Laurie.
“I’m free at 3,” it read. “Text me. Have my own new job news.”
I texted her. “Got yr msg on FB. Rods?”
“Great. C u in 30.”
***
John McCain:
“And I promise you, we will never put America in this position again. We will clean up Wall Street. We will reform government."
***
Coffee and wine bar Roderigo’s, with chocolates and cakes to elevate clientele and conversation maybe. Distraught well-to-do young professional adults at the tables, in the booths, Laurie and I took our place. On the table, a stack of cards for “urban lofts.”
“I’m working for Obama,” Laurie said. “On his campaign. And I wanted to let you know.”
“You know I don’t care about politics.”
“I know you don’t, but I want you to care, because this is important to me, and if you haven’t noticed, this city sucks, this state sucks.”
“Like a vacuum cleaner,” I said. “What will you be doing?”
“Finances. A financial assistant actually. Maybe buying supplies. Responsibilities like that.”
Laurie reached into her purse.
“They need all that just here in the Tampa region?” I said.
“Actually it’s for most of Florida. We are a big state,” she said. “And Obama will help us.”
“Change we can believe in,” I said.
A cigarette was in her hand. She lit it.
“What about Bob Barr? I might vote for Bob Barr.” I said.
“That’s wasting your vote.”
“Not if I believe in Bob Barr.”
“Wallace, come on.” Laurie said.
“Hope,” I said kind of like a burp. “I don’t remember you applying for that job or looking for a job.”
“It was through a friend of a friend. Networking.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“Do you support Obama?”
“I do now,” she said.
She put the cigarette in her mouth.
“Are you smoking again?” I asked.
“It's the only thing I know how to do well,” Laurie said.
"Is the only reason you ever call me to talk politics?" I asked.
"For the most part. And to find out what you're doing with your life."
"Why does everyone ask me that?"
"Because it's the only thing that makes sense to anyone," she said. “Are you looking?”
“Why does this matter again?” I asked.
“I need to see action. A-C-T-I-O-N.”
“I know how to spell action," I said.
“I know you know, but do you know how to do it?”
“What? Spell?” I said.
“Act?”
“I'm going to be in a band,” I said. "I'm not going to act. I’m not good at it.”
“Unrelenting,” Laurie said. She rolled her eyes. She drank her beer.
“This was fun and all dissecting our individual lives, but I gotta go," I said.
"You just got here."
“Going to see Nathan,” I said.
“What’re you guys doing?” she asked.
Family dinners at mom's house, Laurie wore scoop necks and shorter skirts and touched Nathan more than she touched me. It never went anywhere, it's not like she ever called him: it was the control. The control is why she liked politics. Why she had now decided to support Obama. Hillary was of no use to Laurie. No control, obviously.
“He’s playing softball. I’m not going to do anything.”
“Softball?”
“Yeah, he just decided to do it. He said kickball was too ironic.”
"Can I go?" she asked.
"You want to go to a softball game?”
"I want to know about your-slash-his manly pursuits. I just talk like I don’t.”
I grabbed the check.
“That’s a first,” Laurie said.
I walked to the cash register. At the cash register, my phone beeps. A text.
“U needs sexi women 2nite?”
VI
Metal bleachers and the dirty ground, no grass to be found; 3-year olds with specks in their hair, grime on their nose, gross sandy toes -- not beach sand, but dirt sand, dirt on them like they have never seen dirt, never have crossed dirt, their strollers and moms are not all-terrain, but just approved shopping center sidewalk and black asphalt trained, this dirt is a foreign yet organic concept -- and their sideburned/mulletted dads, laminated numbers on their backs for the lineup card, sacrificing groins and hamstrings and tender ankles for the sake of LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION and CRAZY PINS BOWLING, not sure what exchange either gets out of this except for $5 off a cabinet reinstallation and a free bowling shoe rental.
Nathan’s shirt says LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, a place he’s never been, but will happily represent like he’s ENDORSING something, a regular LeBron James, a regular Jeff Gordon, Nathan is peddling services for the right to be seen on the field, and in this exchange of endorsements, did they factor in that Nathan might suck, that these players might suck, bringing undue shame to LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION, and instead of a $5 discount on cabinets it actually becomes an increase of $5 for the harm they (NATHAN) have wrought the LARGO COASTAL CONSTRUCTION brand, for their ill-conceived slides (MULLET_GUT) for an extra base or their bumbling catches in mid-center-right field (NATHAN, AGAIN) or for their lofty swings that hit nothing but air (COACH/SUPPOSED MINOR LEAGUE ALL-STAR WITH GRAY ON HIS TEMPLES), their swings not contacting, just retracting and slumping skulk back to this (pine/maybe oak/maybe I’m no arborescent professional) lonely bench, only to be filled at 9 by WRIGHT INSURANCE SERVING PINELLAS PARK SINCE 1978.
The last out called, we walked to the Largo Coastal Construction dugout, Nathan was drinking Gatorade, someone holding a grime-dotted 3-year old, someone else putting a glove into a duffel bag, a hand fishing in a cooler with loose ice cubes, the elusive Diet Coke search.
“Laurie, hey!” Nathan said standing, rocking on his cleats. He gave her a hug, his chest enfolding closer to her breasts, no grimace from Laurie despite the dried sweat stench from the polyester jersey.
“Great game, bro,” acting like I meant it. “That was a crazy double play” -- Laurie’s yelp the only reason I knew about the double play.
“Let’s go out, come one, let’s go,” Nathan said, forgetting what I said, maybe not hearing it, always automatically tuning out advice from a big brother it had extended to compliments, too.
“No we shouldn’t I -- -”
“Why not?” It was Laurie, “It’ll be fun with the softball guys, to be out...”
“Yeah,” Nathan said “Why not?”
Then the sweep of the balls and the bats, the assurances of “I’ll see you there,” the rolling eyes of moms desiring rest for the night, their own opportunity to play and view “Dancing With The Stars” is gone, but those moms went anyway, and the married men, the single men and Laurie and two other (“I’m unattached,” I heard Laurie say...) unattached women motioned their way out of the cacophony of votes, selecting by a plurality, not a majority -- The Bronx Bar, more assurances made that not too many New Yorkers would be there, that it was good clean honest fun, with pool tables and at least (count’em!) three pinball machines and the music was of the punk rock variety, (“They cater to working-class hipsters!”) a burly third-baseman type had said to one of the unattached, who in her Ann Taylor Loft-but really Target clothes was neither assured or assuaged, but seemed okay once there and that guy taught her the words to an Against Me! song, then in the most fluid prose explained why they had sold out. Truly moving.
The Bronx emptied during a Lucero song, at which point a woman bartender with blonde hair, cowboy boots, she had been behind the bar only for the last hour or so that we were there walked up to me.
“You’re Wallace,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“It’s me Mattie,” she said.
“Damn…” I said.
“God…” she said.
“Loves you,” I said.
***
“Who was that girl?” Laurie asked. In the car now, the window rolled down, her arm out the window.
“That girl at the end?”
“Yeah, you know the blonde woman with long legs and cowboy boots who came up to you and said, ‘I’m Mattie’ and then you got a shy smile and gave her your phone number, yes, that girl at the end,” Laurie said.
“That’s Mattie,” I said. “She’s from high school. I haven’t seen her in six or seven years. You know I don’t talk to anyone from high school anymore.”
I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.
"God answers Knee-mail."
“That’s a funny sign,” Laurie said.
***
"That was much better than I thought,” Laurie said.
Laurie was on my bed.
"That was the only time I've seen him this focused," I said from the couch. Ghostbusters 2 on the television.
"I thought he might be better than that, you know, being on a team and stuff.”
"He was better at soccer, I remember that,” I said.
"‘Was’ is the keyword,” she said.
Laurie got up. She walked to the bathroom. She flipped on the light. She closed the door.
The mayor in Ghostbusters 2 was on the screen. "Being miserable and treating other people like dirt is every New Yorker's God-given right," he said.
Laurie flushed the toilet. She turned on the faucet. I could hear the water running.
VII
“What about it?” the man behind the counter said.
“Hadn’t thought about it again,” Uncle Ander said.
“Good, good opportunity. You need something to do.”
Uncle Ander opened the door to a washing machine.
Whites in first. He put in three quarters. He put in soap. He turned the dial.
“It’s not the opportunity. It’s the money. The money, Luis.”
“Nah, no worry, no worry, you’ll get it all back. Clean it up, good like new.”
“Then why don’t you keep it? You clean it.”
“We’re leaving. Back to the Phillipines. I already cleaned it up 20 years ago. 20 years ago when I bought it. Now, your turn, your turn.”
“I’m old. You were young when you bought it,” Uncle Ander said.
“True, but you got spirit,” Luis said. “You know young people. Those nephews you have. They’re young.”
“Who’s taking this place?” Uncle Ander said. Uncle Ander slammed the washing machine door.
“My son. My son is taking this place.”
“Why doesn’t he take the motel?”
“I don’t trust him with that. Too much work. If that closes, it will break my heart. With this...this was just extra. Extra money. He says he doesn’t want to go back, but give him time, give him time, his heart will change. And then he’ll sell this.”
“But you don’t want him to sell the motel?”
“You are my first choice for it, Ander. And my good friend.”
“Ah, screw you Luis.”
***
“This Luis, you need to meet him. I‘m working on a deal,” Uncle Ander said on the phone. “Hurry, my underwear and whites are almost done.”
“A deal?” I said. “What kind of deal are you getting into.”
“A good one,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you about on the phone.”
“Can’t today. I’m going to the library.”
The remote poised in my hand, it had sat like that for 10, 15, 20 minutes maybe -- Tron on the screen flaring 80s strobes and lights, the scene, the movie, the reaction was all mullet-hair weird, a certain audience only came, no one cared or wanted to know how cheap video games were made, the process more familiar now, it’s in our homes, in our entertainment consoles, on our fingers, in our heads, its rhythms replacing the rhythm of cassette tape stops and paper cut bleeds, calluses now from hitting reset and restart, we know not what it is to be lost in thought, only to be lost in Tron.
“What the hell for?” Uncle Ander said.
“Because I work there,” I said.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Researching things,” I said. “Wait...are you using your cellphone?”
“They still have a payphone here.”
***
In the library reference room, a dusty man with a spindly beard. His purple polo shirt ripped. The polo shirt collar was popped up. On his head was a hat that said “Dick’s Rigs.” The man slouched in the chair. He was reading the “Women We Love” Esquire issue.
I walked past him and to the computers. I was working away from home today. Better to check job boards at the library than on my own couch. Libraries were for work, but now are for distraction.
I sat down at the computer. I opened Opera. I typed in “indeed.com.” In the box I typed in “writer” and “tampa.” I opened a job titled “copywriter.” The description said: “Must have the ability to juggle multiple assignments and meet aggressive deadlines. Develop and execute creative concepts across multi-channel campaigns.”
Wondered what type of remote I needed to develop and execute creative concepts in multi-channels.
VIII
The condo complex in Seminole, somewhat of a suburb, but more of Pinellas County between the beach and bay, no good way to get across except to sit through stop light, then another stop light, avoid wreck and aviator-sunglassed retiree on bicycle and listen closely to the accented Quebecois on vacation for 4 months of the year. The condo was near a movie theater, and across from Kmart, where I would buy pruning shears for houseplants that would die and buy cheap candy bars to watch expensive movies. 2 bed, 1 bath, the drive into downtown St. Pete for work...no longer mattered. I came home from the library and watched Fletch on my Panasonic television. Fletch is on the beach, under the pier and Fletch tells the rich guy his name is Ted Nugent.
My phone rings. Don’t recognize the number.
“Hey, it’s Mattie.”
“Mattie?”
“From the other night,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“What’re you up to?”
“Watching Fletch.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A movie.”
“Oh, is it funny?” she asked.
“For the most part. He’s going to meet this guy who’s going to give him $50,000 to kill him.”
“Oh.”
“Eventually, Fletch will tote around this kid with braces in a white sports car. Then they make a sequel where Fletch finds out he’s the heir to a plantation house in Louisiana. That one’s not as good.”
“Uh-huh. When’s the last time we hung out?” she said.
“I think it was a few nights ago,” I said.
“Let’s do it again,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
No answer. Gone.
On the phone, I open my contacts. I find the name “UncAnder.” I press “call.”
“Uncle Ander?” I said.
“What?” he said. “I’m in the middle of lunch.”
“Is it peanut butter and jelly?” I asked.
“Yes, it is, who cares?” he said.
“Move in over here,” I said.
“Into your place, you want me to move into your place?”
“Yes, I need a roommate, you need a place with laundry.”
“I told you, I don’t need a washing machine. I have the laundry mat,” he said. “Your place is being foreclosed, you should move over here.”
“It’s not getting foreclosed,” I said.
“That’s not what Nathan told me.”
“He doesn’t know everything.”
“He knows a lot.”
“Anyway,” I said. “How about it?”
“No, you come over here. You move in over here,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
***
Tonight the Bronx Bar rides more on the young side, buffalo plaid and neon black, some girls have leggings, some don’t. I see Mattie. Her hair is in a side pony-tail, her black shirt some mess of sequins and Bedazzler. I can’t read what she wrote on her shirt. She probably did that on purpose.
“Hey,” Mattie yells. “Want a beer?”
“I only drink 100 percent fruit juice now.”
“Sure a-hole that’s it. I’ll get you something.”
Mattie’s shirt may actually be from 1989.
She sat down. She handed me an Amstel Light.
“What do you do now?” Mattie asked.
“I’m in advertising, I mean I was in advertising, still want to be again, maybe. Just got laid off.”
“That sucks,” she said.
She took a drink.
“What’re you up to?” I said. “Bartending here?”
Husker Du on the jukebox.
“Mostly, sometimes help in my friends’ vintage store. I should’ve gone away to college, like you, I guess instead of this.”
“Mattie, I just went to UF. But it’s not for everyone.”
“College?”
“Going away.”
The Amstel was in my mouth, I was drinking it, my eyes felt perky, I was stupid looking. We sat.
“Remember that time you were at the track meet and we made signs?” she asked.
“I ran hurdles.”
“You remember what the sign said?”
“Um....maybe....” I said.
“You do....”
“No, I don’t…”
“Wallace, don’t fall us,” she said.
“Oh yeah, that’s what they said.”
“Was that funny?” she asked.
“I thought it was creative.”
“Since you’re in advertising, you must come up with funny lines all the time.”
“Most of my time is spent hitting delete over and over and wishing upon wish that I could unsend email proposals.”
“Huh,” she said.
In high school, Mattie told me once between classes or at a show or maybe at Subway that she wanted to be in medical device equipment. I told her that was stupid.
“Remember our pact?” she said.
“I do remember it.”
She was right, time was drawing near. Somehow I convinced her to extend it to 30, and here we were at 26. Four years away.
A guy in overalls sat by the pool table. He wore a trucker hat. It said “I Heart NYC.” He was rubbing the pool stick between his hands. He was creating friction.
“Do you think we should start dating?” Mattie asked.
“Did you just break up with someone?” I asked.
She just broke up with someone. Neither one of us remembered the pact until we broke up with someone. I almost called her when Laurie first started supporting Romney. I didn’t though.
“Kind of not really,” she said.
“How many years had it been?” I asked.
“Like 3 years,” she said.
“Was it Gabe? Is that right?” I asked.
“Yeah, Gabe.”
“What happened? I thought he had that drywall thing going good,” I said.
“He did. But we....didn’t have the same interests. All he does is talk about tattoos and motorcycles.”
“Is this what the other night was about?” I asked.
The Rays were on the television above the bar. Evan Longoria with a hit, Carlos Pena on the bases. They were winning. Still. Young stars with promise finally making good on what everyone thought they could do, they finally believed in themselves, if they kept winning they might lose some of their charm, it was a risk all of us would have to take.
“No, not exactly, but kind of,” she said.
“Well, it’s not time to enforce the pact yet,” I said. “We still got time.”
“Maybe we don’t have to enforce the pact, maybe we can just fall into it naturally, you know together,” she said.
“Mattie...,” I said. I kind of whined. I felt squeamish. My stomach hurt. My eyes or the room began to spin. Or maybe my eyes just rolled.
“Believe me, I’m not flipping head over heels. I know you Wallace. But, we have to decide what we want out of life,” she said.
“Okay, Mattie,” my voice was calm again. Masculine. “What is it that we want out of life?”
“You know, a family, a nice house, maybe in Palm Harbor or at least in Seminole, with one of those small fenced-in pools and our friends can come over to get drunk.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“Let’s try it out,” I said. I slurped my glass. It was empty.
Alone at a table with an out-of-style black ankle-length skirt, this girl with a dark beer near an antique lamp reading a paperback. Her eyes, her skin it was familiar, but unknown, a passing not at a party, but a more intense gathering -- maybe she was a telepathic witch interpreting our conversation.
“Mattie, did I kill your dreams? You used to be hopeful,” I said with silly drunk bravado.
“That’s arrogant,” Mattie said. She drank more of her Amstel.
“Think I’m going to go,” I said.
“Suit yourself. Want to get burritos sometime?”
“Sure, you know, the pact.” Now, honesty.
I walked towards the door. I opened the door to the bar. I avoided two men standing in the middle of it. I avoided three girls in short Kohl’s dresses and Nine West heels. My Ford Explorer was across the street. I jogged across the street.
“You didn’t even ask me out again. Or what my favorite color is. Or if I like cashews or pistachios or if I like pancakes or waffles better. You just asked if you killed my dreams,” Mattie yelled from across the street. She had followed me outside. Her hand was still on the door, keeping it open.
“Pancakes or waffles?” I yelled.
“I don‘t know, Facebook needs that category. How ‘bout you?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Mine too,” she yelled.
“Hey Mattie?”
“What?” she said.
“I still believe in you,” I said. A car passed in between us.
“What? I couldn’t hear you?” she said.
“Okay,” I said. I got into the Ford Explorer.
In my Ford Explorer, I exhaled. The phone rang “Sweet Caroline.”
“Where are you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing...it’s fine, how are you?”
“I just wanted to say hey.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
On the driver’s side window, a knock. I jumped to see the possibly telepathic woman with the paperback looking back in my eyes, I pushed the button for the window to come down.
“Uh, do I know you...” I said.
“Hey,” she said, “you know from sculpture class” and it was true, it was her, through the window, she kissed my mouth which my tongue didn’t resist, she opened the door, her hand ran up my side and we were across the seats of this godawful Ford Explorer and her tall bun like a powerful refuge, the darkness, the twilight not making any sense, but I only thought of that later, probably because I had read it somewhere, but then and there it was more like a twitching finger that warned...of nothing except for seatbelt latches and broken CD cases, but I kept her from all of that, a chivalrous person I was and her head on my shoulder eventually grew heavy with sleep, she never woke even when my phone hummed “Sweet Caroline” thirty minutes after she had first kissed me. I decided then to reinvest myself into the arts.
IX
An email from Scott.
"New project that we can't quite handle. I've received approval for you to work on it if you're interested. More Chevy. Give me a call."
No hope for cars, less and less young people are getting driver’s licenses, but are riding bikes or just making their parents drive them around. Parking passes at colleges are expensive anyway. No one thought to tell Scott. Or maybe he knew. Maybe he perused CareerBuilder at work, too many IT techs left to monitor the server any longer. A pencil would always be behind Scott's ear, not because he used it because he thought it should be available, but just because it signified WORK, a sense of GETTING THINGS DONE, I never saw him use a pencil once.
I hit reply. "No thanks," I typed.
***
Rite-Aid opened at 7am. I walked in. I found the office section. "Two legal pads..." I said to myself. I found two yellow legal pads. I bought them.
I found a bench on the sidewalk. I wrote. I wrote some more. A bus stopped at the station and the bus driver opened the door. The bus driver was a woman.
"No, no ride," I said.
The bus driver spat and shut the door.
The word "cars" appeared 54 times on the yellow legal pad. "Job" was the 55th and last word.
***
“What do you think of the election things going on?” It was Mattie. On Facebook chat.
“Not much,” I wrote.
“What do you mean not much? Yu were always so smart.” she wrote.
“You think something.”
“I’m real not sure. Gotta go to bed.” I wrote. I closed the laptop. The Wizard on television. With Fred Savage and Jenny Lewis. Jenny Lewis now an indie rock star. She looked innocent.
“I love the Power Glove. It's so bad,” someone on the television said.
I watched the last 50 minutes. It seemed like an hour though.
A ring of “Sweet Caroline.” I let it go to voicemail.
X
There was no registration table. People wore big blue buttons that said John McCain with a "star" over the "i." We saw a white haired man at a podium. It was John McCain.
"There's no way we can hear him," Laurie said.
We stood. People in dress suits and people in jogging suits. People talked excitedly in hushed tones.
"Take this..." The boy had glasses on with a red tie. He wore a white collared Oxford shirt with American Eagle jeans. He wore boat shoes. He handed us flyers with words like “freedom” and “democracy” on them. There was a logo for “Americans For Prosperity.”
“Are they for or against McCain?” I asked Laurie.
“I don’t know,” she said.
AMERICAN NEED PHYSCAL RESPONSBILLITY, NOT MAVARICKS.
RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT.
A man in a 1977 Ford Bronco sold tshirts. One of them said “NOT FORGET 9/11.”
"Well, they can kind of spell."
"You mean they can't spell at all," Laurie said.
"That's what I mean, you're right.”
John McCain continued to talk or at least move his mouth.
I sat down on the grass. Laurie stood on her toes. Laurie squinted. Laurie’s lips were tight.
We were together.
***
At Laurie’s house, ranch-style in the north part of the county, a good 25 minute drive from me on a good day, passing Bed, Bath and Beyond, Sam Seltzer’s Steak House, over the McMullen-Booth bridge, lots of churches, a sign that said “Barack N Roll.”
Laurie’s house was Dunedin or Safety Harbor, no one knew for sure, she had an oak tree at her house, with a swing underneath it, like it wasn’t Florida at all, but somewhere familiar and home and rural. I drove the Ford Explorer into her driveway.
“I’m ready when you are,” she said and held beef brisket, I was to start the grill, dragging that little red Weber out her shed, graying the coals, letting the fire simmer, laying the steaks on top of it, now that we didn’t kill food, we had to tenderize it, spice it, do something to it as if we had done something.
There was a basket, plastic plates and silverware and a bottle of white wine -- "to sit under the oak tree,” she said - -and so we did, though the steaks would not be cut with cheap forks and cheap knives or be contained on cheap plates, somehow sensing after that tenderizing and that spicing that it deserved to be eaten not by morons but by those that would savor its cattle farm / chain store grocery upbringing.
We held the brisket in our hands, A-1 sauce and grease and bits of charcoal running out of our mouths, down our chins, over our arms, onto our clothes, like a gusher of beef squeezings.
“God that’s gross,” she said.
“Let’s go in the hot tub,” I said.
“No thanks, I’m full,” she said and went for the garden hose.
This was a time to spray her, to summer frolic, for us to understand and participate in a summer moment, given to us organically at the time of when spontaneity and summer meet and water was usually involved in those times, but I let it pass, the A-1 off of her mouth, her arms, still on her reddish polo-ish type shirt, she handed the hose to me and went into the house.
***
"I remember when this show was on," Laurie said.
Alf was on TV.
Alf decided he needed a job and he bought lots of makeup to sell at makeup house parties. The boxes were delivered by a UPS look-a-like man. He wheeled the boxes in. People in the family said "Oh Alf."
"I think I had a crush on the Alf girl," I said.
"You were supposed to have a crush on the Alf girl," Laurie said.
"You were supposed to have a crush on Doogie Howser," I said.
"You were supposed to have a crush on DJ from Full House," she said.
"No," I said. "I had a crush on Kimmie Gibler."
We watched more Alf.
“When did you leave BaxHoff?” I asked, implying the name of her old accounting firm, Baxter Hoffman, we had never talked about her reasons for leaving her old job.
“Well, it was mutual,” she said, eyes forward on Alf.
“They asked you to leave?”
“Yes-no, kind of sort-of, like I said it was mutual,” she said.
“So you wanted to leave?”
“What about yes-no, kind-of sort of do you not understand?” she said.
“Obama doesn’t pay as much I bet,” I said.
“No he doesn’t, he’s a socialist,” she said.
“I knew it,” I said.
“I was joking,” she said.
An Alf joke, a tracked laugh.
“I’m moving into Uncle Ander’s house,” I said.
“Is it because of the job?”
“Maybe, not really, yes,” I said.
***
In the car, on the way home from Laurie’s. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.
"God wants full custody, not just weekend visits."
XI
The door to Sonny’s had a sign on it. “Got what it takes? Enter the Sonny’s new BBQ sauce contest.”
I opened the door.
“Welcome to Sonny’s,” said a guy with a black apron on and a Sonny’s baseball cap. “Just one?”
“I’m meeting somebody....there she is.”
Mom was standing, waving.
I walked towards her, past the barbecue buffet, past a bald man with long hair and mini-tufts poking over his ears with a shirt that read: “I Heart Ronald Reagan.”
“Nice tie,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s new.”
Mom already had a plate of pulled pork and coleslaw.
“Thanks for waiting,” I said.
“I didn’t eat breakfast, trying out a new diet. Just nuts.”
“Then why are you eating meat?”
“No, I meant the diet is crazy, stupid, it’s mostly Slimfast shakes, but I moved my one meal to right now.”
“Got it, got it.”
“Did you dress up just for me?”
“What?”
“Now stop it, stop it right now, Uncle Ander told me.”
“Mom.....”
“No, no don’t blame him. I pressed him on it. I thought something was funny, you seemed to be going out more at night,” she said pointing her fork at me.
“I’m working on it you know, it’s probably for the best.”
“Well, that’s so unfortunate, I never liked that Scott guy, he seemed to always be selling you something,” she said.
A blonde-dyed, wiry woman with a pad in her hand and a ribbon in her hair was at the table.
“What will you have to drink?”
“Tea, please, thanks,” I said.
“And do you want to go ahead and order?” she said.
“Um, 1/4 chicken,” I said.
“Great, we’ll have it out to you...”
"Have you looked for a job?” Mom asked.
"Freelance mom."
"How much longer can you wait?"
“I have some savings.”
"They also need cashiers at the Pizza Hut. That money is important, you know it, too.”
“I do know it, I also know I’m a grown man.”
“Sometimes I wonder -- what would your father think? Then I get chills,” she said.
“Because he might be angry?”
“No, stupid, he loved you he was your father.”
Mom took a bite of pulled pork.
“This sauce...I could do better than this sauce. Way better,” she said.
I reached across the table. I took a piece of her barbecue.
“Probably so, it’s a little bland. You know how they water stuff down,” I said.
“Ha, do I. And so do you. Maybe it is for the best, never thought that was you anyway.”
“Never thought what was me?” I said.
“Advertising,” she said.
“So what is me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The waitress brought back a 1/4 dark chicken. I never told her which one I wanted.
“Anyway, I have job interviews tomorrow.”
Her mouth was a dark maroon red.
“Ooooh, before you go, got something for you,” she said.
She licked her fingers, her mouth the dark maroon red, she reached in her purse. Her lips were burning for sure by now.
“It’s this key, you forgot it the other day, your father wanted you to have it.”
I looked at the key.
I wasn’t sure I had what it takes.
XII
One water, one sky, the grays the same color. Sand in the toes, on the calf, bits of shell stuck to my forehead. Sliding in this half mass, top in the gray, bottom in the gray, wetness below, wetness evaporated above. These worlds, split, and black nyoprene joins together like a screw, or a nail. Or a thorn in the side of the expanse. There was no need, there was no need, it was warm. But some things you just want to do anyway.
She bit her lip.
"You got laid off?"
"Yes."
“I know you’ve worked in an office before, so did you ever think not to come here in a wetsuit?”
"Yes, but aren’t you the cool California store?”
"We still have rules of course, corporate...”
“You give us a uniform anyway even though you say we get a choice, but I’m assuming we have to wear the fall-frat line...”
She pulled on her ear.
"Um you used to work in...advertising? You should know about professionalism,” she said.
I leaned forward.
"And look where it got me. Right in front of you."
She pulled back her hair.
***
I dialed her phone.
“What?” she said.
“Can I come over?” I asked.
“Wallace, I’m at work,” Laurie said.
“It’s Friday.”
“It’s Tuesday…”
“Feels like Friday.”
“…and yesterday was a holiday.”
“Let’s move in together,” I said.
“This is a test, a test of your strength, character, faith…,” she said.
“Oh.”
***
He had long bangs.
“Why do you want to sell electronics?”
“I don’t really.”
“Why are you here?”
“Let’s be honest -- I need money, your store is offering some. All I have to do really is stand behind that computer and check people in and out.”
He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
"If you don't mind me asking, I mean, I know don't much about this stuff, but isn't it too warm for a wetsuit?"
"But not too warm for the wetsuit feeling."
He tapped his pen against a clipboard.
"Okay, hmmm. Well, we’ll be in touch.”
"I'm sure we will."
***
Answering machine in my condo. For business, important stuff. Hate to be bothered with this on the cellphone. Feels not grownup to talk about business on the cellphone. I told this philosophy to Nathan and Laurie once, when they were standing near one another in my condo. They both said “that’s weird” at the same time, and we all felt too old to say “jinx.”
It beeped. There was a red blink. I hit “play.”
“Oscar Andrews from American Home Life Mortgage…”
I hit delete.
***
Outside the grocery store. The man from the library with a hat that said “Dick’s Rigs” and in overalls sat in the back of a pickup truck. A Breyer’s Ice Cream container in his lap.
A dog in the back of the truck licked ice cream out of the hands of one of the man. “Martin, good dog” said the man. I looked at the back of the truck. A Rudy Giuliani sticker on the back.
“Too bad about Giuilani,” I said.
“No, it’s fine. It won’t tarnish his legacy,” the man said. “9/11 wasn’t good, but it was good leadership.”
“Sometimes it’s good to remember the good times,” I said.
“Like eating ice cream in the back of a truck,” he said.
XIII
"Some people are calling Obama the greatest marketing feat ever,” Mattie said.
"Yeah, he totally fits on a Facebook status.” I said.
"And he's the cool, educated minority. The type of person that liberal white people can refer to as, 'well, some of my best friends are black,’” Mattie said.
"Those liberal people that never leave doctor’s offices or lawyer’s offices,” I said.
Text. From Nathan.
“Come over,” it said.
“Right now?” I wrote back.
“Who is that?” Mattie asked. We were getting coffee. We were at something called Phoenix Coffee.
“Nathan.”
“You’re brother? I’ve never met him.”
“You want to?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Don’t say anything about Laurie,” I punched into the phone. I hit send.
***
At Nathan’s house. I ring the doorbell. Mattie is on her toes. She lowers to the ground. She is flexing her calf muscles.
Nathan opens the door. He wears a red-checked polyester shirt. He has a screwdriver in his hand.
“What’s up bro?” Nathan hugs me.
“Nathan, this is Mattie,” I said.
“Hey...” she said carrying out “hey” longer than it should have been.
Nathan had a hammer in his hand. There was a table of wooden planks behind him. There was a table saw. There was sawdust.
“It’s good to meet you,” Nathan said. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
He walked to the table. He lifted a 5-foot tall triangular piece.
“Whoa that’s huge,” Mattie said.
“Yes, big birdhouses,” Nathan said. “For a bunch of birds.”
“A birdhouse? Like, you mean like sea gulls? You want the gulls to come?” I said.
“Got it. People can put like bread and stuff in here for them, instead of throwing it out on the beach and everyone getting ticked.”
Nathan sounded nerdy. But he was smiling. Mattie was smiling.
“I am impressed with your craftsman skills,” Mattie said. “Whoa, is this the new Bun-B?”
On the table among scattered woodchips, the scattered sawdust, the random handsaw, the handsome tablesaw, a new album from Bun-B, Nathan and I took different philosophical stances on the rap-hip-hop-bounce-whatever else genre and releases, him a fan, me not so much, the profane, the violence -- “it’s just so subdued in what you listen to” he would say and there was nothing left after that, he was honest with his music, taking in rap as well as any punk-emo-garage rock I could throw at him, as fluent in Bun-B as in Deerhunter.
“You like him?”
“I love Trill so much,” Mattie said.
“That was a good record,” Nathan said.
***
“Come over and help me Pack,” I texted.
“Why” she wrote.
“I need some help.” I wrote.
“Thats not good reason.”
“Cuz I asked you to.”
“Still no.”
“COME ON!!!!1”
“Am finishing Proj Runway. Will be 30min-2hours.”
Opened cabinets under my sink and found a box of Winn Dixie brand garbage bags. Black ones, with a draw string. I pulled out the roll. I unpeeled them. I opened my cabinet. Plates in there, Tupperware, a blender. I put all of these into a garbage bag.
I tied the garbage bag. I took it to the door. I walked back to the kitchen and opened another garbage bag. I opened the pantry. I put a spice rack, a box of oatmeal, a box of cereal, three rice bags and Hamburger Helper boxes into the bag. I put other stuff into the bag until it was full. I pulled the red drawstring and tied it. I took this bag and placed it by the door.
I did this repeatedly for various closets, spaces and rooms. I had close to 12 bags full of stuff.
They were all in black bags.
The phone buzzed. Laurie. “On my way” it read.
XIV
From Craigslist:
“Lanier Shaubach Commercial Services is a manufacturer of unique composite home systems. Our automated, state of the art production system employs several technologies and processes. Our new and green product is expanding rapidly in many markets of the world, giving our company a bright and healthy future.
We are in need of an EXPERIENCED WEB Designer. This is a FULL TIME/PERMANENT position. We are in need of a Team Player with a CAN DO attitude. We currently need our website(s) completely re-done and then maintained. This is a CAREER opportunity, not just another job. We are looking to hire immediately. I could go into detail about the job, but if you are a web designer, then you already know what is required of you.
Please forward your resume WITH salary requirements as soon as possible. We look forward to hearing from dedicated team players.”
Message on Gchat from Nathan:
-what’s up?
looking for jobs.
-any luck?
shoulda gone into webdesign
-bro chexck it into finance research; where it’s at
that’s what i’m afraid of.
-u’ll find something.
eventually.
-chexck this.
A link. From Craigslist:
“Birdhouses for Sale! Large Birdhouses! Perfect for seagulls. Use at in the garden or at the beach.
$75
Call Nathan at 727-xxx-xxxx.”
***
"Have you seen my place?” Uncle Ander said.
Walking with Uncle Ander, cracks in the sidewalk, grass finds its way through, pass the gas station and the two half-court basketball courts to keep beach kids down from ever excelling at anything. There is no sound, the waves are quiet, like a genteel dirty bath to be drained after the toddler is tucked in. The Candy Kitchen with homemade taffy, big boxes of manufactured sugar with names lacking confidence like Runts and Saf-T-Pops and U-No, the Winn-Dixie with sour meat and soft produce and cashiers missing teeth and managers with alimony payments so high they can only unload the dairy cart while high.
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