It's unusually hot as I shove the lawnmower up and down our, relatively, small front yard. What it lacks in size it makes up for with its slope. From the porch to the sidewalk the yard drops almost four feet. It's nice to sit high off the street and look down at everyone who passes by but it's a pain in the ass for lawn care.
Growing up, I lived in an apartment downtown so I never had the chore of cutting grass. I never went door-to-door in my neighborhood asking to cut other families' lawns like other children did. There were no yards to speak of and very few green spaces. There were parks around the city, of course, and I would play in them, but I never had to be the one to take care of them.
It has taken me over three hours now, but I'm almost finished. I'm covered in sweat. My once white tee shirt is turning grey. I'm hot, tired, thirsty and it's my day off. A small crowd of unconcerned neighbors gather across the street to watch and gloat. I can see them snickering as I endure the greatest workout of my adult life. The pain and heat keep me from realizing how pathetic that is, however, the monotony of the task allows me time to reflect.
I’m almost thirty years old. I have a shitty job and I have not had a meaningful relationship since high school. I share a house with a few friends where the rent is cheap enough for us to not really care about it. The house is almost a hundred years old and it looks like it hasn't been updated since the seventies. The living room wallpaper, which is a pukish green, is peeling in obvious places and we don't even try to cover it up anymore. The heater doesn't work, so it's cold in the winter and the house retains heat in the summer, so we bake. The landlord won't come out to fix anything anymore, partially because we're afraid to call her because the house is a wreck. I'm surprised we even have a lawnmower to begin with.
The lawnmower suddenly stops for the seventh-hundred time. I sigh, wipe my forehead, push the plunger on the side three times, swear at it under my breath, glance at the people watching from their porches and the sidewalk, smile at them and pull the cord. The small engine sputters as I ride the choke on the handle. It kicks out blueish-black smoke into the atmosphere. It hits the remaining tall grass and breaks apart into a multitude of patterns. The smoke swirls around like a tiny dust devil, a tornado of pollution wreaking havoc on the environment. I watch as it slowly dissipates, getting thinner and thinner. Watching it, I feel the global temperature rise just a bit. I cannot help but think; sometimes even poisonous things can be beautiful.
As the moment passes, I lift the mower up into the air to cut down the tall grass before attempting to push it over the yard directly. The mower will just stall if I force it. The grass is almost waist high by this point. How did we let it get so bad? We just don't care, that's how. The only reason I'm doing this at all is because of the letter on our fridge. It came last week; an official letter from the city demanding that we "manicure our lawn within acceptable limits" or a fine will be issued. None of us wanted to cut the front yard. It was laziness for the longest time, but after a while we viewed our lawn differently. While everyone else on the block meticulously trimmed their grass, weeded, edge mowed, tilled and whatever the hell one does to properly maintain a frontage, we sat back, put our feet up and drank. We dared to be different and we were going to be fined for it. Even in a free society you are made to conform.
In our yard is a vast array of trash, most of which isn’t even ours. I'm finding soda cans - none of us drink soda - empty bags of potato chips, candy bar wrappers, a sock, a wet newspaper and half a bag of pop-rocks; where do you even get these, anyway? The worst, by far, is the soiled condom I found. Some people have no respect. Most likely it was thrown from a parked car on the street, but with the grass so high, it's possible that someone had a tryst in our front yard. Maybe the sock was theirs too.
After nearly four hours, I finish cutting our lawn. I release the bar and the engine comes to a stop. The crowd begins to disperse; the show is over. I see Bob leaning against the post on our front porch, holding a bottle of beer. Clad in his trademark white pants and shirt - he seems to have only one outfit - he looks over the lawn smiling that slight smile he has. He's holding the beer out slightly as I walk up to him. With sweat dripping down my face, a nice cold one would be perfect. My throat dries out quickly in anticipation as I approach . My thirst increases as I get closer to the amber ambrosia, closer to Bob. Water drips down the side of the bottle. It's hot out here, and that beer has been chilling in the fridge all night long. I reach out to grab the beer he has brought me when Bob lifts up his arm and takes a long drink. My mouth hangs open for a moment or two, then shuts.
I don't know Bob. I don't know where he comes from or much about him, other than the fact he never pays for any of our beer and watches a lot of television. I came home from work one day a few months ago and found Bob sitting on our couch with a beer in his hand, watching a shopping channel on our TV. I figured he was a friend of one of my roommates, so I greeted him and went to get myself a beer. I had bought a case just the day before, so I was surprised when I discovered we were out. I asked where all the beer had gone in a loud enough voice that I was not talking to just one person, but to anyone who could hear me. Bob, rather calmly, informed me that we were out. It was the 'we' that got my attention. I looked him over, studied him carefully. I was certain I had never seen him before. To this day I still can’t figure out how he moved in and my portion of rent did not go down.
Bob finishes his drink and says, " You missed a spot." Without another word he turns around and walks back inside the house. I'm left standing alone on the porch. For a few seconds I stare at the front door after it closes. My lip curls up slightly and my eyes get a little narrow. I bite my lower lip and I look back to the yard. Sure enough, there is a patch of tall grass I missed. It's all pretty even except for the one patch no wider than six inches, and no longer than a foot. It throws the whole look of the yard off. There is nothing left to do except start the lawnmower up again and finish it off.
Night falls, and the stars come out, but I can't see them because I'm face down in my bed, fast asleep. The yard work exhausted me and the weed I shared with Jeremy did me in. I went to bed early, leaving my roommates watching a new episode of Millennium.
The sun rises, the clouds break and my alarm neglects to sound. It has one purpose in life, which is clear, and it fails. There are no major burdens laid at its feet, yet it disappoints. I am very late for work. I skip showering, brush my teeth and dress before dashing downstairs to run for the bus. Before I get through the front door, I pass by Bob, who is sitting on the couch watching, what else, but the shopping channel. I really don't understand his obsession with that garbage. He is always writing things down in his notebook, but I've never seen him call in to order anything. I can't figure that guy out. Bob calls out my name to stop me, but I cannot be stopped.
"I'm late for work, Bob," I say. "Catch me when I get back."
"You're boss called while you were sleeping," he says.
I stop with my hand still on the door handle. "And?" I ask without looking at him.
"I told him you were sleeping and he gave me a message for you." I can hear the distance in his voice. Bob always has a vacant sound to his voice, like he is always lost in thought, but it’s especially apparent when he's watching the television.
"And?"
"He said," Bob says. "You're fired."
My heart sinks and my blood boils. I turn around to see Bob writing something down in his notebook, as expected.
"Why didn't you wake me?" I ask, not hiding my annoyance.
"Never want to come between a man and his sleep."
I go to the kitchen to use the phone. I pause, searching my mind for my work number. I never call the store so I never commited it to memory. I grab the phone book and flip through it before remembering half the pages are missing because Jeremy uses it to roll joints.
"Was that the last call that came through?" I shout from the kitchen. After a few moments, Bob confirms that it was. I dial star-six-nine and wait for the phone to ring.
"Mister Michaelson, this is - I know, sir. My alarm - I do. I do. That's not true. I haven't been."
The sudden click of my boss hanging up the phone was louder than I expected. I hang up the phone and stand perfectly still, not moving a muscle. I try to remember to breathe. Standing there for a few moments, I count in my head. I take a deep breath, walk back to the living room and stare at the side of Bob's head. He has small ears, and his hair is thick and wavy.
After a minute or two, I go back upstairs and right to bed. I don’t dream at all, which is odd. I usually dream very vividly, though they never really make sense, which I suppose is usual. I have this recurring one where I'm driving down a tree lined road with two great big hills in both directions. It's dark. Suddenly, there is a werewolf standing in the middle of the road. I stop the car, turn around and drive fast in the opposite direction. I make it part way up the hill when I see another werewolf standing in the road. I assume it's a different werewolf, but I'm never actually sure. I turn the car around again only to meet the first werewolf once more. I repeat this until I wake up. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything at all.
My sleep is interrupted several times by the common noises in the house that are uncommon to me because I'm usually at work. I hear Allen and his girlfriend yelling at each one another for what seems like an hour. The sound of the door slamming on her way out wakes me up again. These walls don't do a good job blocking noise.
Sometime around two o'clock I get out of bed and hunt for food in the fridge. There isn’t much in there I would consider eating. I find Bob still on the couch watching the shopping channel. He must have left and come back; no one can watch junk being hawked on television that much, can they?
I sit on the opposite end of the couch and half watch, half think. I think of what I'm going to do about money. I hate my job, that is, I hate the job I used to have. I'm not really qualified to do much. I've been out of school for eleven years and I never went to college, which I never thought was a mistake until now. College was never something that was talked about when I was growing up. I guess my parents were embarrassed because they never went, or maybe they didn't want me to do better than them. I start to panic a little, then I hear Bob's oddly soothing voice.
"You know, there is a place for people in your situation," he says, never looking away from the television.
"Yeah?"
"Unemployment office."
I let the words swirl in my brain for a bit. Unemployment office. He goes on to tell me that maybe it's a blessing in disguise, that I'm not meant to work in retail. I tell him he's probably right. "I'm probably not meant to have an income," I say. Bob smiles, despite himself. "What am I meant to do then, Bob?" I ask vaguely.
"Maybe," he says, turning his head away from his precious television screen to make actual eye contact with me. "Maybe that's what you are going to find out."
Bob is so helpful. However, I begin to consider the unemployment option. I know a few friends who have gone on unemployment, some more than once, and all of them for as long as they possibly can. I find the idea somewhat disingenuous, to say the least. I'm not injured or impaired, at least not by circumstances out of my control. I choose to drink alcohol and smoke weed on a regular basis. The occasional pills I take with said alcohol are my choice too. I'm not even sure I could get unemployment benefits for being fired. I'm pretty sure you have to have been laid off.
There is also the ethical dilemma to this whole scenario. Conservatives bitch and moan about the so-called "welfare state." People cheating the system and getting rich, or something. Are they right? Do I deserve to get the benefits of being unemployed? I mean, I am unemployed, but do I deserve it? It's also true that my employer pays insurance for all employees for this specific situation. The money they pay out is for me, part of it, anyway. Aren't I entitled to that social safety net? I've been steadily employed since I was fifteen. I don't see my firing as being my fault; I blame Bob.
I leave Bob on the couch and head to the library. After hunting and pecking my way through the State Unemployment website, I find the information I need and make an appointment for the following week. I can’t file a claim until I've been unemployed for a week, something called a waiting week, so I've got a week's unpaid vacation heading my way. I quickly realize I'm going to have to keep an even tighter budget than I am used to until I start getting money. It's a good thing I don't have a lot of expenses as it is. The unemployment check will be about half of what I used to make, which wasn't much to begin with, so I'll need to cut back on a few things. My purchases of alcohol and weed will take a hit, that's for sure.
In the garage I find my bike. It’s nothing special, just an old ten-speed that will get me from here to there when it needs to. The tires need pumping up, but I think they'll work just fine. I haven't ridden a bike in years. I had a grand scheme a few years back to start riding my bike again and lose a few pounds. It was a plan to better myself that included cutting back on the drinking and smoking as well. I rode my bike every day for a few weeks, then it started raining. After a few days of not riding, I just gave up. That seems to be a recurring theme in my life.
Sliding my leg over the bar of the bike and onto the pedal, I push off for the first time in what seems like a lifetime. The transition from standing to pedaling goes smoothly, but my front wheel starts wobbling uncontrollably. I overcorrect and down I go. My foot instinctively hits the pavement and I steady myself. I quickly look around to see if anyone is watching, but I don't see anyone. I straighten myself out and start again. Instantly, I start to wobble and I fall down, hard. My foot doesn't catch me and I try to leap off the bike before it hits the ground, but it's no use. My lack of dexterity makes me tumble over the turned handle bars and onto the freshly mowed lawn. Looking up at my porch, I realize I haven't even made it past my house. The thought hits me, 'you never forget how to ride a bike.' Bullshit.
I can't keep the bike straight and I keep hitting the curb, but at least I'm maintaining an upright position. I come close to hitting a few parked cars, but I manage to keep pedaling. After a block or two, I've pretty much have it under control. If I had any pride, I would be embarrassed.
I decide to go down the hill and into downtown. There is a nice waterfront park to ride along, and it's a really nice day. The sky is blue and the sun is shining giving the trees a beautiful halo of light. Riding along the waterfront, I'm feeling much more comfortable on the bike. I can control it well, but I'm not about to let go of my handlebars for any reason. I weave through a traffic jam of pedestrians, strollers and pets, all while getting passed by other bikers who seem to have the whole thing down. They're wearing helmets, spandex looking bodysuits and the ones wearing pants all seem to have one pant leg rolled up. I wonder why until my own pant leg gets caught in the serrated wheel the chain is connected to.
My body is not used to this amount of physical exertion, and I'm starting to think it wasn't prudent to take such a long ride my first time out, especially without any water. I didn't even think of the hill when I went down it, but I'm thinking of it as I start to climb up, slowly. I start downshifting to counteract the steep incline, while my leg muscles are screaming at me. I mumble profanities to myself, but I need to breathe instead. Every decision I make is wrong. I'm down to the lowest gear and I'm still struggling. I'm sure I could get passed by someone walking at this point, but I don't stop. Sweat pours down my face, arms and legs. Panting only seems to work for dogs, because I'm not getting any relief from it. I want to wipe my eyes so I can see, but I'm afraid of letting go of the bike. If I crash at this stage, I don't think I'll be able to get up again.
I push my muscles to the point of breaking, and I can see the top of the hill as it curves to the right. At the top is a hospital, and I consider just continuing riding inside and collapsing in the emergency room. As the cars pass me, the gust of wind they create is almost enough to knock me over. I can feel the cramps coming on in my legs, but I'm so close to the top. I want to finish this. I want to achieve something, even this one small thing.
Finally, I reach the top of the hill. A band strikes up in my head and there is a parade for me. Streamers and confetti fill the streets, but oddly there are no people. I think I'm delirious and in desperate need of water. I can feel my organs wanting to shut down along with my leg muscles. The hill flattens out and I get into a groove again, shift up a few gears and continue home.
I ditch my bike in the front yard with the intention of going inside, but my legs have other ideas. I can barely stand, I stumble a few times and, finally, collapse on the porch, breathing heavily. My head is spinning. This must be what it's like to step off a boat after a month at sea. I'm not comfortable that the ground is steady beneath me. Once I achieve my land legs again, I make my way inside. I manage to walk to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of water, and finish it in one gulp. I pour myself another one when the house phone rings.
"Father?" The man on the other end says. He doesn't sound like a child, but I'm not thinking clearly from the bike ride.
"Who?"
They hang up without another word. The phone rings again as I'm finishing my second glass or water. The man on the other end asks for Bob. I'm pretty sure it's the same person as the first, but I don’t bother questioning him.
“People are freaking out about it,” Jeremy says. “There are people stockpiling food, guns and ammunition so they’re prepared for the end of the world.”
“And they think all this will happen because of the lack of zeros in the code?” I ask. Jeremy, Allen and I are sitting around the kitchen table, winding down as the sun drops below the hills surrounding the city.
“Computers are stupid,” Allen says. “They can’t do anything they’re not programmed to do. When the clock strikes midnight, all of the computers will think it’s nineteen-hundred again and it’ll fuck up all of the banks records and money will disappear over night!”
“Once the banks fail, other financial institutions will follow and they’re will be anarchy. People will start fighting over resources, killing their neighbors for food and water. It’ll be chaos!”
“Cat’s and dogs, living together, mass hysteria!” I laugh.
“Some people are taking this seriously,” Jeremy says.
“I don’t buy it,” I say, looking out at the setting sun. The sun is just below the cityscape and the sky is a dull orange with traces of pink.
“What do you know about computer programing?”
“Not much,” I admitted. We continued our conversation until Millennium came on. I find the show very creepy, but they are obsessed with it. It’s the only show I see Bob watch that isn’t about selling necklaces or sets of knives. Bob is really odd. He always wears a white button up shirt that he leaves untucked with white slacks and white tennis shoes. He looks a Caribbean watch salesman with autism. Someone who thinks one solid color head to toe looks just fine. He has a sort of nonexistent quality to him, what with his appearance and his quietness. Perhaps he just doesn't want to deal with fashion all together. I have no room to talk I guess, I'll never be featured in GQ.
After two weeks of unemployment I figure out that I don't have to come into the unemployment office to lie to them, I can lie to them over the phone. That makes it so much easier. After my weekly check-in with the state unemployment office I hear some noise in the backyard. I'm pretty sure Bob and I are the only ones home, and I can hear the television on in the living room. I peek out the window and see a man clad in white standing on what passes for our deck. It's large enough, technically, to hold several people, but those people would have to be very comfortable with others in their personal space.
I stand next to Bob, who is stoic, arms crossed with that slight arrogant smile of his. In the yard I see four people with clippers, a weed eater and a lawn mower land- scaping our backyard. They are already half finished and are ignoring me. I ask Bob who they are.
"Friends," is all he says.
I watch them for a while and begin thinking about my own adventure in lawn care. "Why couldn't your friends have cut our front yard last month?"
Without looking at me, he says, "If they had, you would be at work right now."
That shut me up.
No one mentions the back yard that night. It could be they didn't notice; we're not the most attentive people around. It's not like we spend much time back there. It doesn't come up until the next day.
"We're going to have a barbecue," Allen tells us. Jeremy and I are playing a video game, hogging the television. "Jeremy will cook ribs and burgers, and I'll make a few sides." He looks at me until I notice he's looking at me and I look up. "Trent, you can do the shopping. Take my car."
We all throw in some money and I head out after Jeremy crushes me in Street Fighter. The list is quite a lot for me, but I manage anyway. I end up with six full bags of groceries. The trick is to get plastic bags because you can carry more of them at once. Fuck the environment, it was ruined when I got here.
The whole house is filled with a mix of delicious smells coming from the kitchen. It's an American style meal with hamburgers, ribs, mash potatoes, macaroni and cheese and cornbread. I'm out back with Jeremy watching him wrestle with the grill. Even with his two-to-one lighter fluid to charcoal briquette ratio he can't get it lit. Jeremy, who is a soft spoken guy, yells obscenities at the grill until it lights with the last match thrown in. We sit down and wait for the coals to turn white and I tell him about the yard crew.
"They did a hell of a job," Jeremy says. It was true, the bushes are pruned around the fence along the back and there is not one stray blade of grass to be seen. It makes the job I did in the front look like a blind man ran amok. There are even light and dark stripes in the grass. I have no idea how they did that. We speculate on it until the coals turn white and Jeremy puts the meat on to cook. He pours some beer over the grill.
"They taste better this way," he says.
I don't argue with him. Instead, I turn back to the yard and reflect on the day. I am a lazy bastard, I conclude. Cutting the front yard was the most work I've done in years, and as much as I hate to say it, it probably built up a little character for me. I'm sure the guys who Bob had cut our back yard needed that too. He's a pretty smart guy. I decide not to question Bob anymore.
The food is coming along and is almost ready when it hits me; there are no other people here. Jeremy doesn't know anything about that, he says he's not in charge of getting people. This led me to ask myself the question; who is putting people in charge of things? We used to just do them.
"Allen told me I was in charge of cooking the meat, and I said okay," Jeremy says.
The kitchen smells wonderful as I enter, on my way to find Allen. Several side dishes sit on the counter, still covered and ready to serve. I find Allen in the living room. I ask him who felt the need to put people in charge of things for this barbeque.
"That's what Bob said," was his response.
"What is Bob in charge of then?"
"He's in charge of bringing people."
"So a bunch of people we don't know are coming over to our barbecue?" I ask,
"It was Bob's idea for the whole thing. We just helped out."
Jeremy comes in through the kitchen. "You've got to check this out," he says.
The three of us walk into the kitchen just as the last of a few strangers carry the side dishes out into the back yard. They are all dressed quite similarly; the men all in loose button up shirts and slacks, and the women all in plain dresses. Everyone is wearing muted colors, except for Bob, who is dressed all in white. Two men are standing in the doorway. As we approach, one of the men holds out his hand to stop us.
"Excuse us," I say to them
"This is a private gathering," one of them says. "Please leave us in peace."
Jeremy and I look at one another, seeing which one of us is going to say something first. Jeremy looks back, unsure of what to do. I guess it will be me then. I turn back to the guy who spoke.
"This is our house, this is our damn food!"
"Please don't raise your voice," the other one says. Some of the people on the patio turn to see what is happening.
"Then, please, get out of my way," I say.
A woman walks up behind the two men. "Is there a problem, brother Jacob?"
"These two want to join us, but were not invited," Jacob says. I look back to see why Allen isn't with us.
"Not invited?" Jeremy asks. "We live here. I grilled all of that meat out there."
"Father thanks you for your contribution," she says. She touches Jacob's shoulder. "But, you were not chosen to attend." She turns away from us and rejoins a few others who are already walking towards Bob and some picnic tables that were not there earlier. The two men in the doorway move towards us, causing Jeremy and I to back up.
Jeremy grabs my arm, pulling me back.
"It's not worth it, come on."
We go back into the living room and find Allen standing by the door.
"What the fuck just happened?" I yell at Allen. He's digging in his pocket for his keys.
"Bob wanted to have a barbeque and I said we'd help him," Allen says. He finds his keys and opens the door. "Come on. Let's go to Fishers. I'm buying."
Jeremy follows him out. He holds the door open and looks back at me. "You coming?”
I'm kind of stunned, to be honest. For some reason, I walk out the door behind them. I slam the door kind of hard. I meant to close it hard, but not that hard. Not wanting to explain that, I walk past Jeremy and Allen, who stopped when they heard the door slam shut. I was more confused than angry, but this allowed me a little personal space on the way to the bar.
Fishers is our favorite bar. Well, it's the closest bar from our house, so we go there a lot. It's not too cramped, but there is not enough room to dance, thankfully. There’s a dart board in the back and they have huge portions of bar food. No one brings up the barbecue again, but it's festering in my brain. I try to relax, but I make Allen buy a few rounds up front.
The three of us haven't known each other too long. Jeremy and I lived together in a crappy little apartment when he first moved to the city. It was right downtown, so it was loud night and day. I was right at home, having lived in the city all my life, but Jeremy wasn't used to the constant noise. To compound the discomfort, it seemed like every police siren we heard came to a stop at our building. There were a lot of hard drugs being sold out of an apartment on our floor. We used to see guys drop bags out the window to another guy on the street all the time. The stairways always smelled like urine and most of the windows in the apartment wouldn't open. We met Allen a few years ago and the three of us found the house. It's on a semi-quiet street in a decent neighborhood we could afford.
I get along great with these guys, and it doesn't take me long to start being myself again. I'm still thinking of those weirdos eating our food, in our house, but I'm trying to just be me, out with my friends. That's when I notice a woman noticing me across the bar. She's brunette with very short hair, almost buzzed but maintains a feminine quality. Her dress hangs on her body loosely and her thin hands grip a glass of beer. She has soft eyes that contrast the metal hoop in her left eyebrow. When she laughs, I can see her tongue ring. I may have a lot of bad qualities, but my vision is perfect.
"Go talk to her," Jeremy says.
"Who?" I try to be coy and sip my whiskey. I can tell he doesn't buy my brilliant ruse. "It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that simple," he says.
The noise level in the bar is not too high, so I don't have to lean in to hear Jeremy and he doesn't have to shout his words. I know from experience, however, that eventually Jeremy will start shouting in hopes of her hearing him cajole me into talking to her. That's his go to move when he knows I'm not going to go talk to a woman. I've never understood how some guys can just walk up to a woman they don't know and start talking to them. My superpower is to observe and let opportunities pass by without so much as trying. Admitably, it's not a good superpower. It's actually more of a crippling, evolutionary disadvantage. One that would prevent me from ever passing it on, and thereby ending the line of that particular trait.
"You've already made visual contact," he says. Allen is amused, but he's staying out of the conversation. He and I are more alike in this regard. His current girlfriend pursued him and is the reason they are still together. He's pretty complacent, but he seems happy.
"Our eyes," Jeremy continues. "Our eyes are our most used information gathering devices. When she sees you her eyes make an expression of pleasure, and yours return the expression. It's body language. It's natural."
"Can you even see her eyes from here?" I can, but I don't think his vision is that great, even without the blurriness that comes from whiskey.
"I'm making an assumption on that one, you got me there."
"How much have you had to drink?" Allen asks.
"Shut up," Jeremy says to Allen, then turns back to me. "Listen to me. All you have to do now is stand up, walk over there and introduce yourself. You've already done the hard part by making eye contact." Lifting his hand, his index and middle finger pointing out, he twists his wrist back and forth at eye level with me. "The eyes are the key, my friend."
"What about blind people?" I ask.
"What?"
"The blind can't rely on their eyes to make contact with another human being." "They can't use their most used information gathering device," Allen speaks up.
"Fuck blind people," Jeremy snorts. "They're not really alive!"
A few people at the closest table to us give Jeremy a quick look. Allen jumps in and argues that touch is more important than sight, and I tune them both out, finishing my drink, as if that will somehow give me courage. I stand up and turn towards her table. I feel a wave of excitement and trepidation roll all over my body. My hands go numb as I start to walk towards her. My body automatically jumps into flight mode, but the part of my brain that is tired of being alone overrides it and I keep moving. I imagine this is what an ancient warrior must feel like as he races across the battlefield to either kill someone or die trying. Why do I feel this when all I'm going to do is talk to a woman? What kind of sense does that make? We have cars, cell phones, microwaves that can defrost a turkey and a way to traverse the ocean in under a day, but my body is still reacting to talking to a woman as if my life were on the line.
Seeing me approach, she smiles and quickly turns to her friend next to her. She leans into her shoulder slightly and a few people at the table giggle. I'm nearly close enough to talk to her when I realize I have no idea what I'm going to say. I'm being propelled by sheer adrenaline and lust, not by confidence and intelligence, which is what I should have. My mind is blank as I stop a few feet away from her. She's looking up at me now, smiling. I can tell by how my lips feel that I'm smiling too.
"Hi", I say.
"Hi," she says.
It hangs in the air for a moment and I realize, the entire time I was walking over to her, I couldn't not hear anything. The room was completely silent as I tuned out everything that wasn't her. That's another bad evolutionary trait I have. The sound comes rushing back into my ears and I'm still standing there.
"That's actually all I have," I say before I can stop myself.
Still smiling, she laughs a little. "You don't have a name?" Her voice is soft, but not quiet. I see a flash of light off her tongue ring.
"My name is Trent."
"Hi Trent. My name is Gwen."
One of her friends at the table pushes a chair out with her foot. "Have a seat," she says. I thank her and have a seat. I stay and talk to Gwen for the rest of the night. I don't lie to her, even once, and I don't exaggerate anything either. I don't even say that I'm between jobs. I tell her the truth and she doesn't seem to mind. She's encouraging, engaging, and kind. I've forgotten what it's like to have someone interested in me. It's a wonderful feeling. I don't even notice when Allen and Jeremy leave. When her friends decide to leave, I walk with her to her car and get her number. As I watch her drive off, I realize Allen was my ride.
After a casual twenty minute walk on a cool autumn night, I’m home and in bed. I dream wildly. None of it makes sense. When I awake, I actually feel refreshed. I don't feel like a zombie as I walk downstairs to find a large pile of dirty dishes on the counter and a note asking me to clean them. The barbeque comes back to me in a bout of furious anger. I find Bob on the front porch, oddly, not watching TV.
"How was your night?" he asks, cutting me off before I can start. "I hear you met someone. I'm happy for you."
I am completely in awe of how he can change the subject before I can even bring it up. "Thanks, Bob. I want to talk to you about what happened last night."
"It was a wonderful meal, thank you for all of your efforts."
"We did all of the work and we weren't allowed to eat, in our fucking home. What was that about? And now you want me to clean your dishes?"
"If you were here last night," he says dryly. "Then you would not have met that woman."
Son of a bitch.
"Preparing for the gathering," he says. "And cleaning up afterwards is a small price to pay for happiness, don't you agree? I thank you for your contribution."
I feel like I've just been dismissed by a superior officer. I am completely dumbfounded as I am washing the dishes. The mindless task of washing dishes allows my mind to wonder. I think of Gwen, of her smile, her eyes, her lips. I think about the next time I'm going to see her. I'll call her when I'm done with these dishes. I think about Bob, and all the things he's said to me over the few months that he's been living here. He says a lot of things that don't make sense, but in the end he's always right. He once told me to be a leaf on the wind. I asked him what that meant and he told me I would understand one day. Scraping off a plate of what I'm sure was delicious barbecue sauce and ribs that was now crusted onto our cheap thrift store dishes, I understand what Bob was telling me. My life has been spent paddling upstream when everything I want is down stream. I just need to let myself go and see where the wind takes me.
After I finished the dishes the day after we met, I decided that I didn't want to waste any more of my life struggling for meaning. We talked for quite a while, longer than I've ever talked on the phone before. I was nervous, but I got through it.
It's been a month since Bob left. I wouldn't say he moved out because he never really moved in. He was just always there. He had no belongings that weren't ours to begin with, save his white clothes. No one has called for "father" again and the grass is starting to get long again. Allen and his girlfriend vanished the same day as Bob. They took all of their stuff, and most of mine with them. The television, my stereo, even our dishes. I called the police and they said they would look into it. They didn't seem hopeful.
Gwen and I are sitting on the couch in the living room. I'm reading a book she gave me while she works her way through a crossword puzzle. She leans against me, tapping her pencil against my arm as she thinks. The exposed wall where the television used to be has a weird dust outline where the set was pushed up against it. I've cut back on my drinking, and I started a new job last week. Gwen has been encouraging me to go back to school, and we're working on figuring out what I want to do with my life.
I finish reading the chapter in the book she gave me and pause before going on to the next one. Gwen softly hums as she fills in a row of boxes in her puzzle. I kiss the top of her head, softly.
"What was that for?" she asks, looking up at me.
"Good luck," I say. She smiles and continues with her puzzle. I start in on the next chapter in the book. Things are looking up, and I miss Bob.