04-11-2014, 02:56 AM
I started out with the rip in the crotch and the shit stains in the back, but decided that wouldn't do and went back and changed. By one o'clock I had made it to the bus station out by Taco Bell on Piney Forest only to realize I'd left my wallet behind in the other pants. I went home and ended up changing my mind about leaving that day.
....My wife was still out of town, and would be till the Monday next. I had the house to myself, though there was nothing to do but watch TV. The air conditioner was making a sound like somebody was beating a tablespoon against the part of it that stuck out the window. It got on my nerves for a while; as I was two hours into a Parker Lewis Can't Lose marathon and I'd taken off my clothes, I wasn't about to get up and look out the window let alone go outside. Whatever was wrong with the air conditioner would be an internal thing anyway. I could have tried taking the front part off to see how much dust had collected in there, but I didn't feel like it.
....I was still feeling a little sick from the last few days. I'd tried drinking myself to death because I knew who was going on this work trip with my wife and how they felt about each other. I knew too that I'd lost my job by now since I hadn't gone in or called in all week. This wasn't the first time I'd tried drinking myself to death, it never worked; but I knew I wasn't a vomitter but a shitter. And that was a good thing to know.
....I watched the whole marathon, then they started playing Doogie Howser, M.D., a show I was never terribly fond of. The trashcan I put my ripped pants in needed to be changed. I put some clothes on and took the bag out front to the end of the yard. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a black man approaching me, I acted like I didn't see him and was making back for the house. He followed me.
....When we were up on the porch I turned to him and he started talking to me in Spanish. I didn't speak Spanish, and I never knew of any black dude around here speaking Spanish either, so I shook my head and said I didn't know what he was saying.
....There was some kind of dry yellow stuff under his nose; at first I thought it must be snot, but then I noticed some of it on his white shirt and it looked like mustard. He was wearing a tie and a white shirt with a white suit jacket and a pair of brown slacks. After I told him I couldn't understand him he was quiet, and I looked down and saw his boots; they were the kind of boots like they sold at that Mexican store around the turn coming back from the North Carolina exit. I looked at the man's face and didn't see any hint of Spanish features. He was just a black guy. It must have been a full minute before he said anything again.
...."I'm sorry," he said. He moved back to the edge of the porch where the step was, then turned back toward me.
...."You looking for somebody?" I said and brushed my hand over my forehead like that trash I'd carried to the road had been the last chore of a long day of outdoor work.
....He looked at me like he didn't know how to speak to me since I didn't know Spanish. I thought about asking if he spoke English, but decided it might sound rude and assumptive of me if it turned out he did.
....I asked him again if there was somebody around here he was looking for. He didn't say anything, just stood there in front of me. The phone started to ring inside. I said I'd be back in a few minutes; I don't know why I said anything.
....We had an old cream-colored rotary phone that hung on the wall in the kitchen. It was something my wife's grandma had in the house before she died. I went over and picked it up.
...."Hey Roge. Are things O.K.?" It was my wife.
...."Yeah, as far as I know . . ."
...."You haven't seen my address book have you? I could've sworn I packed it, but now I don't see it anywhere," she said.
...."No. I don't recall having seen it lately."
...."Well, could you look? I really need to call Leslie. I was supposed to find out from her the address of this hotel where they're having the . . . Hold on, will you . . . Just a minute . . ." Then I heard her talking to somebody. And I heard somebody else's voice. A man, probably Elliot.
...."Are you still there?" she asked.
...."I guess so."
...."Will you look for it for me? You know the little black book I keep on top of the refrigerator or . . . wait. It seems like I had it on the table when I was looking through it last. Can you see if it's in the kitchen for me?"
...."I don't see it," I said.
...."Uh, well, could you look?"
...."I'm in the kitchen. It's not on the table or on the refrigerator. I don't see it."
...."Well could you try . . . wait. Hold on." She started talking to somebody else again. This time I could tell it was Elliot.
...."You there?"
...."Yeah I'm here. Now what do you want?" I said.
...."Well you going to look for my book? I need to call Leslie. If you can give me her number. Try . . . try looking in the living room. I had it in there the other night."
...."I have to lay the phone down?"
...."What?"
...."I said I'm gonna have to lay the phone down. To go in the living room."
...."Oh O.K. . . . Wait. Can . . . Roge. Can you hold on?"
....I put the phone down.
....As I was looking around the living room for her damn address book I took a gander from behind the window-shade and saw Julio Jefferson standing out there by the edge of the porch looking as befuddled as ever. The address book turned out to be under one of the cushions on the couch where I'd been sitting my naked ass for most of the day. By the time I'd got back to the phone the bitch had hung up. I wasn't worried about it, if she wanted something out of the address book she could call back. Now I still had that black Mexican to deal with.
....I went back out on the porch to see if I could discover some way to get the jerk out of my hair. His hands were in his pockets, and he had the look on his face of a man that doesn't know how to smile or to experience standard human emotions unless he's piled in a truckload of his own kind that's heading down some empty section of the highway somewhere where nobody can see.
....I was out there long enough for him to start walking toward me again when I heard the phone ringing. The theme from Get a Life was playing as I went through the living room.
...."Did you find it?" she said.
...."Yeah," I said. "Why'd you hang up on me?"
...."Roge! Did you find it or not? I think it might be in the bedroom."
...."I said I found it!"
...."Well where was it?"
...."What difference does it make? What do you need out of it?"
...."Uh Leslie's number," she said.
....I looked through it trying to find the word 'Leslie' but all she had written down were last names with first initials before them. So far I'd passed two Ls. I asked her what Leslie's last name was. She'd said the name the first time like I was supposed to know who that was. I didn't know any Leslie. Maybe I met somebody with that name before, but odds are that wasn't the same Leslie. Maybe my wife was mistaking my memory of these people for somebody else's. Somebody that actually knew and worked with them.
...."Leslie . . . ?" I repeated a few times.
...."Yeah. Did you find it yet?" she asked.
...."No. You haven't told me her last name."
...."Isn't it . . . Doesn't it just say 'Leslie' somewhere on one of the pages?"
...."I don't see it. I'm looking."
....In her mind it would be so simple to have a page that just said the name 'Leslie' at the top and then a number under it. Like a piece of paper with the phone number of some middle school girl. But my wife was no simpleton, and all the pages were lists of first initials and last names followed by at least three phone numbers for each. As I flipped through the book I thought I saw maybe eight or nine numbers after some names.
...."Nothing says 'Leslie'," I said. "What's her last name?"
...."Burgess," she said.
...."Why didn't you just say that the first time I asked you?"
...."Roge! Will you hurry. I've got to be leaving in less than two hours."
...."O.K." I'd found it. "'L Burgess'." And I gave her all the appropriate phone numbers.
...."Thanks. I love you. I'll see you Monday . . . And we'll talk again probably tomorrow. Depends on how late we get back."
...."How's Elliot?" I asked.
...."Roge! I've got to go . . ."
...."I just asked how Elliot's doing," I said.
...."He's right here. Do you want me to put him on?"
...."No. I don't want to talk to him. I just was . . . Why is he there right now? Aren't you in your room?"
...."Roge!"
...."Well . . . why's he there if you're in your room?"
...."The hotel we're staying at had our reservations mixed up. Elliot's room . . . It got mixed up. And they had to book us in the same room."
....I didn't say anything.
...."You there? Roge?"
...."Yeah," I said.
...."He's sleeping on the floor. I have to go now. I'm going to be late."
...."I thought you had two hours," I said.
...."Roge!" she said.
....I hung up.
....I didn't have a job anymore, but I had enough money to be in Santa Domingo by the early evening next day. Santa Domingo, the home of Parker Lewis, of Ferris Bueller. I cut the light off in the kitchen and threw the book on the table.
....When I got back to the porch the black Spanish guy was gone. He'd crept from my yard and out of my life like a worm that passes in your stool unnoticed. It was too hot outside to turn the heat on, but too chilly now inside to leave the air running. I turned the machine off and sat down again on the cold cushions in front of that other machine with its dull, endless flashing.
....It was me that said we shouldn't have kids. It was because of her job, and all the travelling. I thought it would be the best thing for her. Sometimes I felt I wanted a son though, or a daughter. One or the other. Something. Really I didn't want anything. All was for the best. I took my shirt off and pulled the blanket over me that always laid over the back of the couch. Perfect Strangers was on.
....My wife was still out of town, and would be till the Monday next. I had the house to myself, though there was nothing to do but watch TV. The air conditioner was making a sound like somebody was beating a tablespoon against the part of it that stuck out the window. It got on my nerves for a while; as I was two hours into a Parker Lewis Can't Lose marathon and I'd taken off my clothes, I wasn't about to get up and look out the window let alone go outside. Whatever was wrong with the air conditioner would be an internal thing anyway. I could have tried taking the front part off to see how much dust had collected in there, but I didn't feel like it.
....I was still feeling a little sick from the last few days. I'd tried drinking myself to death because I knew who was going on this work trip with my wife and how they felt about each other. I knew too that I'd lost my job by now since I hadn't gone in or called in all week. This wasn't the first time I'd tried drinking myself to death, it never worked; but I knew I wasn't a vomitter but a shitter. And that was a good thing to know.
....I watched the whole marathon, then they started playing Doogie Howser, M.D., a show I was never terribly fond of. The trashcan I put my ripped pants in needed to be changed. I put some clothes on and took the bag out front to the end of the yard. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a black man approaching me, I acted like I didn't see him and was making back for the house. He followed me.
....When we were up on the porch I turned to him and he started talking to me in Spanish. I didn't speak Spanish, and I never knew of any black dude around here speaking Spanish either, so I shook my head and said I didn't know what he was saying.
....There was some kind of dry yellow stuff under his nose; at first I thought it must be snot, but then I noticed some of it on his white shirt and it looked like mustard. He was wearing a tie and a white shirt with a white suit jacket and a pair of brown slacks. After I told him I couldn't understand him he was quiet, and I looked down and saw his boots; they were the kind of boots like they sold at that Mexican store around the turn coming back from the North Carolina exit. I looked at the man's face and didn't see any hint of Spanish features. He was just a black guy. It must have been a full minute before he said anything again.
...."I'm sorry," he said. He moved back to the edge of the porch where the step was, then turned back toward me.
...."You looking for somebody?" I said and brushed my hand over my forehead like that trash I'd carried to the road had been the last chore of a long day of outdoor work.
....He looked at me like he didn't know how to speak to me since I didn't know Spanish. I thought about asking if he spoke English, but decided it might sound rude and assumptive of me if it turned out he did.
....I asked him again if there was somebody around here he was looking for. He didn't say anything, just stood there in front of me. The phone started to ring inside. I said I'd be back in a few minutes; I don't know why I said anything.
....We had an old cream-colored rotary phone that hung on the wall in the kitchen. It was something my wife's grandma had in the house before she died. I went over and picked it up.
...."Hey Roge. Are things O.K.?" It was my wife.
...."Yeah, as far as I know . . ."
...."You haven't seen my address book have you? I could've sworn I packed it, but now I don't see it anywhere," she said.
...."No. I don't recall having seen it lately."
...."Well, could you look? I really need to call Leslie. I was supposed to find out from her the address of this hotel where they're having the . . . Hold on, will you . . . Just a minute . . ." Then I heard her talking to somebody. And I heard somebody else's voice. A man, probably Elliot.
...."Are you still there?" she asked.
...."I guess so."
...."Will you look for it for me? You know the little black book I keep on top of the refrigerator or . . . wait. It seems like I had it on the table when I was looking through it last. Can you see if it's in the kitchen for me?"
...."I don't see it," I said.
...."Uh, well, could you look?"
...."I'm in the kitchen. It's not on the table or on the refrigerator. I don't see it."
...."Well could you try . . . wait. Hold on." She started talking to somebody else again. This time I could tell it was Elliot.
...."You there?"
...."Yeah I'm here. Now what do you want?" I said.
...."Well you going to look for my book? I need to call Leslie. If you can give me her number. Try . . . try looking in the living room. I had it in there the other night."
...."I have to lay the phone down?"
...."What?"
...."I said I'm gonna have to lay the phone down. To go in the living room."
...."Oh O.K. . . . Wait. Can . . . Roge. Can you hold on?"
....I put the phone down.
....As I was looking around the living room for her damn address book I took a gander from behind the window-shade and saw Julio Jefferson standing out there by the edge of the porch looking as befuddled as ever. The address book turned out to be under one of the cushions on the couch where I'd been sitting my naked ass for most of the day. By the time I'd got back to the phone the bitch had hung up. I wasn't worried about it, if she wanted something out of the address book she could call back. Now I still had that black Mexican to deal with.
....I went back out on the porch to see if I could discover some way to get the jerk out of my hair. His hands were in his pockets, and he had the look on his face of a man that doesn't know how to smile or to experience standard human emotions unless he's piled in a truckload of his own kind that's heading down some empty section of the highway somewhere where nobody can see.
....I was out there long enough for him to start walking toward me again when I heard the phone ringing. The theme from Get a Life was playing as I went through the living room.
...."Did you find it?" she said.
...."Yeah," I said. "Why'd you hang up on me?"
...."Roge! Did you find it or not? I think it might be in the bedroom."
...."I said I found it!"
...."Well where was it?"
...."What difference does it make? What do you need out of it?"
...."Uh Leslie's number," she said.
....I looked through it trying to find the word 'Leslie' but all she had written down were last names with first initials before them. So far I'd passed two Ls. I asked her what Leslie's last name was. She'd said the name the first time like I was supposed to know who that was. I didn't know any Leslie. Maybe I met somebody with that name before, but odds are that wasn't the same Leslie. Maybe my wife was mistaking my memory of these people for somebody else's. Somebody that actually knew and worked with them.
...."Leslie . . . ?" I repeated a few times.
...."Yeah. Did you find it yet?" she asked.
...."No. You haven't told me her last name."
...."Isn't it . . . Doesn't it just say 'Leslie' somewhere on one of the pages?"
...."I don't see it. I'm looking."
....In her mind it would be so simple to have a page that just said the name 'Leslie' at the top and then a number under it. Like a piece of paper with the phone number of some middle school girl. But my wife was no simpleton, and all the pages were lists of first initials and last names followed by at least three phone numbers for each. As I flipped through the book I thought I saw maybe eight or nine numbers after some names.
...."Nothing says 'Leslie'," I said. "What's her last name?"
...."Burgess," she said.
...."Why didn't you just say that the first time I asked you?"
...."Roge! Will you hurry. I've got to be leaving in less than two hours."
...."O.K." I'd found it. "'L Burgess'." And I gave her all the appropriate phone numbers.
...."Thanks. I love you. I'll see you Monday . . . And we'll talk again probably tomorrow. Depends on how late we get back."
...."How's Elliot?" I asked.
...."Roge! I've got to go . . ."
...."I just asked how Elliot's doing," I said.
...."He's right here. Do you want me to put him on?"
...."No. I don't want to talk to him. I just was . . . Why is he there right now? Aren't you in your room?"
...."Roge!"
...."Well . . . why's he there if you're in your room?"
...."The hotel we're staying at had our reservations mixed up. Elliot's room . . . It got mixed up. And they had to book us in the same room."
....I didn't say anything.
...."You there? Roge?"
...."Yeah," I said.
...."He's sleeping on the floor. I have to go now. I'm going to be late."
...."I thought you had two hours," I said.
...."Roge!" she said.
....I hung up.
....I didn't have a job anymore, but I had enough money to be in Santa Domingo by the early evening next day. Santa Domingo, the home of Parker Lewis, of Ferris Bueller. I cut the light off in the kitchen and threw the book on the table.
....When I got back to the porch the black Spanish guy was gone. He'd crept from my yard and out of my life like a worm that passes in your stool unnoticed. It was too hot outside to turn the heat on, but too chilly now inside to leave the air running. I turned the machine off and sat down again on the cold cushions in front of that other machine with its dull, endless flashing.
....It was me that said we shouldn't have kids. It was because of her job, and all the travelling. I thought it would be the best thing for her. Sometimes I felt I wanted a son though, or a daughter. One or the other. Something. Really I didn't want anything. All was for the best. I took my shirt off and pulled the blanket over me that always laid over the back of the couch. Perfect Strangers was on.