Diverging Points of View

I don’t understand what my woman wants. I should clarify, Cassie isn’t my woman in a possessive sense, but rather she is my companion. You need to understand that Cassie and I are more than roommates but less than boyfriend and girlfriend. I don’t know what she wants from our relationship, but as we stand here at home our lives intertwine in complex ways beyond my comprehension despite much thinking on my part dedicated to untwisting our mutual Gordian knot. When we started living together I had lofty goals, dreams of a spectacular career as an urban planner, the Robert Moses of the 27th century, but now my life is consumed by the need to make Cassie happy. I don’t know how to go about this though.

The first thing I noticed occur with Cassie around is our front door is locked at all times. This annoys me when I unlock the door only to find Cassie on the couch watching my television, a situation where the decision to leave the door unlocked is a perfectly cromulent one. Maddening as the locked door was I kept my mouth shut until the day I returned home to find Cassie sitting in the kitchen in a stupor, her blue eyes shifting in suspicion towards my noisy entry before relaxing at my sight. I asked, “What’s got you spooked?”

She said, “Nothing.”

I said, “Don’t give me that bunk; something happened, so spill it.”

Cassie gave me a tare that reached right to the base of my spine and gave it a good shake. A red aura matching her hair told me to tread with care lest I provoke the beast within. She said, “We had a visitor today, a stranger. He was a rather short man.”

I said, “And what else? Did he do something?”

Cassie rolled her eyes away from me and muttered, “I knew you wouldn’t understand; you’re useless.”

I said, “Help me understand then, give me the story from the beginning.”

We returned to earlier in the day when Cassie went about daily chores, cleaning the apartment in her liberal time off from working as “sanitary engineer” for an enterprising couple living on Manhattan’s East Side. A knock on our door shook Cassie from her work, and a second rap summoned her to the peep hole. In the hall stood the alleged Short Man wearing a dangerous gray polo with dastardly blue jeans while carrying his clipboard of doom. I asked Cassie what she did when presented by the awful sight of the stranger at the door.

She said, “I didn’t answer the man, and he went away.”

I asked Cassie if the mystery man said anything, and she told me he did, she said, “The man called out once saying he was with the Census Bureau. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

I said, “You could have made that he was a Census taker.”

Cassie grew sharp, “He could’ve been lying.”

I said, “And he could’ve been a stalker, just like the UPS man. Remember him, the guy in brown with a package underarm containing who knows what chasing you down the deserted street into our building and up the stairs right to our very door?”

Cassie interrupted, “James . . .”

I continued in spite, “The underhanded villain who delivered his package, quite possibly a bomb. But no, it was a book, a how-to on job searching that you ordered for me. I guess you were right, that man delivered only evil to our good home.”

Cassie refused to dignify me with a response, and I realized I went too far this time. A good tip-off was the temperature in the room which I swear to this day dropped a good twenty degrees. Here now my true fears manifest, Cassie Grozny staring me down into oblivion. This is the time to backpedal away from the precipice and head down more constructive paths, so I said, “Cassie I’m sorry. I don’t understand; you’re absolutely right. The world is a dangerous place sometimes and I downplay it. I just don’t want you to worry so much; it’s not healthy for either of us. I’ll be here next time anybody comes around our way.”

Two blue eyes still bore down on me, extracting more concessions lest I face the terrible wrath of a woman scorned. I said, “Hey look, I can see I’m being useless right now, so here I’ll cook and clean the dishes for the week. Okay?”

Cassie said, “Two weeks.”

I bit my tongue and said through gritted teeth, “Fine two weeks.”

Cassie nodded once and added, “Good, but don’t think you’re off the hook. You haven’t learned your lesson quite yet, but I show you. Don’t worry about it though; it’s bad for your health.”

Thus I was defeated in pitched battle. Cassie left me to stew alone in my loss, a prisoner of war with no recourse, what a rout. I’m young and stupid that’s for sure, but on the bright side there’s a lesson here for us all, namely the next time I’m in trouble with the Law here I need to sympathize, sympathize and redirect here ire towards a common enemy. There is still hope for me, as this failure is worth ten thousand victories in the wealth of knowledge gained. I only need to apply my learning to achieve my goal in life to make Cassie happy, that and buy a good present.

Shadow of a Man

My uncle’s decent into hell began one day in Hartford Hospital. Mom, my brother, and I all shoved ourselves into my old, gray Saturn for a trip to visit my uncle Bernie, and following a forty minute trip we ended up in a waiting room outside of the intensive care unit. I knew this would be a long wait so I brought a book to read, a little tome on Russian history, something to brighten up my gloomy day. Across from my family sat an elderly couple right at home with the waiting room’s retro futuristic charm, ghosts from the past dreaming of tomorrow. The old woman smiles and I return the gesture before losing myself in my book lest these strangers strike up a conversation with us.

After a brutal wait sitting next to my mother, a woman on the verge of a panic attack, the phone attached to the wall behind us rings, and Mom looks at me to answer it. I pick up the receiver and a bored nurse asks if she has the Smith family. I answer yes and she says, “You can come in to see Bernie now, you have fifteen minutes.”

Just outside of the waiting room the double steel doors blocking access to the intensive care ward unlock with a click and swing open. From the nurse on the phone to the automatic doors it’s nice to see the hospital’s cold efficiency on display. At least the last time I was here a doctor took the time to see me in person, but no more. Now we let the robots do all of the drudgery, especially the unsavory job of dealing with bereaved families. The three of us enter the ward, the nurse behind the main desk throwing us a dire look while directing us down the hall to the right in search of room 407. We catch Bernie’s doctor outside his room, she’s a young, blond woman wearing a white coat one size too large, and I figure it must be the smallest size coat the hospital has for employees.

Mom steps aside to speak with the doctor, pushing us towards Bernie’s room to say hi to our uncle. My brother and I shuffle into the room without saying a word, and now we are face to face with our good ol’ uncle. The man sleeps, his face bruised and tired despite a week’s rest; tubes run in and out of every orifice while the smell of body and cleaner mingle in the air. The only thought I have, the only words I say are to my brother, “God, Uncle Bernie’s old.”

My brother nods in silent agreement, so we sit with our unconscious uncle with nothing else to say. Mom, done talking with the doctor, enters the room and takes a seat by Bernie’s side, holding his hand. She says to her comatose brother, “Hi Bernie, I’m glad you’re okay. The doctor says you’re getting better every day, so I hope we can get you outta here in the next few weeks, get you back on your feet.”

The sight of my mother at the edge of a bed on the verge of tears, the smell of disinfectant, and the sound of busy nurses bustling in the hall drag up painful memories of my last visit to the hospital, so I excuse myself from the room. I try to get some air in the hall, but I’m still in the hospital, there’s no escape until Mom’s done with her visit. While I’m waiting I’m met with a familiar voice, “Hey Isaac you’re back! Must be nice not being the one in bed.”

I grumbled a half-hearted greeting to my Uncle Herby, a large man with a shitfaced grin glued to his face and a penchant to show up late to the party. He pats my back and wraps his arm around my shoulder, and I try in vain to slink away back into Bernie’s room, the lesser of two evils. Herby keeps talking, “It’s a shame all this had to happen to Bernie don’t ya think? We’ll never get real retribution from the bastard who ran over him.”

I say, “The police did catch the guy, at least that’s what I heard.”

Uncle Herby says, “Yeah, but he’s just some illegal driving with a fake license and no insurance. Where’s the justice in shipping back to Mexico without just compensation for our troubles?”

There’s nothing left for me to say, so a momentary silence drives my uncle into Bernie’s room. Alone I count down the minutes before nurses come to shoo us from the antiseptic white halls, but I’m cut off in the act when Mom storms out of the room, my brother in tow. She takes off down the hall and I follow behind two paces so as not to draw on Mom’s ire. Down through the maze of corridors and elevators we reach the light of day, passing through the glass double door sealing off this hell from the rest of the world.

Mom charges across the open field separating the hospital from the parking garage, my brother hanging off her with me bringing up the rear. Out of the corner of my eye I see my Aunt Betty sitting on a bench under an oak tree, she tries to get my mother’s attention to no avail. My aunt is older woman; she is loathe in admitting it, though today the fair weather prompted her to wear a yellow sun dress splashed in sunshine giving her a seasoned look. Unable to hail Mom Aunt Betty turns to me and calls. Not someone to be rude, I couldn’t ignore Aunt Betty, so I meandered over to her bench. My aunt doesn’t get up to greet me when I ask if she is here to see Bernie.

Aunt Betty says, “Yes I came to see him but I can’t bring myself to go into the hospital. Bernie’s always been so dirty and now that he’s in this place he’s so much worse. I don’t know how your mother brings herself to hold his hands, they’re so vile.”

I say, “That’s what happens when you work in a chemical factory for forty years. I’m sure Uncle Bernie would be happy to see you, Uncle Herb’s already in there.”

Aunt Betty says, “I know Herb’s in there, I drove with him. I’m not too worried about Bernie, he’s in a coma right now and you can bet he’ll be out of it in time for my Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I should have the grandkids visit Nana for Thanksgiving this year.”

I ask, “What do you need me for?”

Aunt Betty answers, “Oh yes, could you give this number to your mother, it’s for the physical therapist who helped your Uncle Kyle get back on his feet following his accident. Your mother’s been bugging me for it, not that she or Bernie could afford this man’s services.”

A cool wind blowing through the courtyard brought an end to our conversation. I took the piece of paper from my aunt and made my way back to my car. Upon arrival Mom asked where I was. I answer, “Talking with Aunt Betty, she was hanging around outside the hospital you know.”

Mom says, “I missed her then. I don’t want to talk to her anyway; she never did care for Bernie or any of the rest of us for that matter. Let’s go, I can’t stand to be around her or Herby for another second.”

The car ride home starts off in a fragile silence, the calm before the storm. I hand Mom the paper with the number of the physical therapist and she grabs it in a huff; I breathe a sigh of relief, my action didn’t spark the swirling winds of hate brewing in Mom. As I drove the urban decay of downtown Harford gave way to the bright, tree-lined boulevards of Connecticut’s suburban paradise, but the atmosphere in the car built up to a guaranteed explosion sure to blow us all to Hell and quite possibly back again. The look on Mon’s face degenerated from agitation to pure white rage as thoughts churned in her head. I valued every second of peace.

A single bump in the road was enough to spark Mom, a black stream of bile spewed forth from her mouth in an emotional release that nearly drowned my poor brother and I. Mom says, “This thing with Bernie, it’s just like what happen with grandma. Herby is trying to pull the plug again; he wants to kill your uncle.”

I say, “I don’t know about that Mom, I think Herb’s concerned about the cost of keeping Bernie in that hospital bed, a bit too much sure but since Bernie survived the accident Herb’s resigned to caring for Bernie in the most economic way possible.”

Mom says, “Herby doesn’t give a damn about Bernie. I need to keep everyone away from Bernie, those two back at the hospital are vultures circling around Bernie, waiting to pick his bones dry. Herby and Betty convinced the doctors to pull the plug on grandma, but they aren’t gonna get Bernie, I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s little I can do to quell Mom’s paranoia, so I just listen to her rant on the evils plaguing our family. My silence does me no good, it must make me suspicious as Mom asks, “You remember what happened to grandma, right?”

I say, “Grandma went to the doctor with leg pains; the doctor diagnosed her with sciatica, and Grandma pushed for surgery to fix it. She got sick on the operating table and she died two weeks later.”

Mom says, “This is your problem Isaac, you buy the lies Herby and Betty sell to you. The doctor did diagnose Grandma with sciatica, but she didn’t want the surgery. Betty convinced Grandma to go in for surgery and when she was sick in recovery Herby persuaded the doctors to pull the plug. I even blame the doctors some since Grandma didn’t have sciatica, she had a broken hip. This thing with Bernie is a little different, but it’s playing out much the same.”

It’s hard for me to believe the entirety of Mom’s story; her reality is colored too much by her history with her siblings. That’s not to say her points are devoid of truth, but Mom needs some time to calm down before I can really talk to her about Bernie. Getting home made me happy, relieved to seclude myself in my room. Such respite ion the hands of television, music, and video games never last long though, and this time is no exception as Mom from the living room calls me.

Sitting on our black leather couch, my brother and I watch Mom pace back and forth clutching our phone. Al our cat wanders in from parts unknown, drawn by curiosity and giving us his usual smug smile as he rolls about on the carpet, happy to have an audience. Mom takes her time in giving us her news, the analog clock ticking each moment that passes by perpetually five minutes into the future. Mom breaks her own quiet by saying, “It’s a done deal Bernie’s coming to live with us once he’s better.”

My brother says, “Are we gonna have to take care of him? Is he gonna be some kind of vegetable who’s diapers we have to change?”

I say, “Happily he’s the second time come to them, for they say an old man is twice child.”

Mom balks at me, “Isaac I don’t need your sass, and you’re not as witty as you think you are. Bernie’s taking the spare bedroom, and you don’t have to worry I’m taking care of him.”

At the end of the month Mom wheeled Uncle Bernie into the back bedroom for good. Sometimes I go back there to give him the lunch Mom made for him, and I see the man he’s now become. Bernie spent his whole life working with chemicals before going home to drink beer and watch television; one time he even had a girlfriend. Now he sits in his recliner staring off into space, the few comforts of his life taken from him, replaced with cold melancholy and boredom. His liver spotted hands shake, so he often drops the glasses of orange juice he requests, and at first it bothered him but now he leaves it alone, a mess for one of us others to clean. I drop Mom’s sandwich in front of Bernie and ask if he needs anything else to which the answer is always a curt no. Bernie’s sad eyes look off into space, his crusty blue bathrobe in dire need of a wash, but none of this is my problem and can be left for someone else to think about in their spare time. I steal away, back about my day.

Red Volkswagen

After many months, another story.

When you work retail you meet interesting people, and you don’t even need to go looking for them, they come to you. Some of these interesting folks are co-workers, people you can’t escape from with a smile and short apology when they demand a piece of you. I work as a stock boy at my local grocery store in a small town nestled in the folds of the Berkshire Hills, our little hamlet stuck in the year 1955, a situation granting me my own place in the Twilight Zone. Hell, I’m sure Rod Sterling will make a visit to my store one of these days.

One day a co-worker of mine who goes by the self-inflicted moniker “The Koon” decided to talk with me while I shelved baked goods. The Koon and I met a few months ago when he got hired to the meat department, introducing himself and his name with pomp and circumstance. At first I thought Koon joked with me, the man being as white as they come and one bed sheet away from dancing around a burning cross; I figured he was being ironic.

I gave the Koon too much credit, the man was dead serious. He wasn’t aware, as far as I could tell, of the meaning behind his chosen name, and neither I nor anyone else in the store had the heart or courage to enlighten the man. So here I was in the baked goods aisle with a gaunt, lanky figure wearing a white butcher’s coat two sizes too large. Blood stains covered his outfit complimenting the slow look in his face, missing teeth, and bulging eyes. Koon is a man straight out of Deliverance, now all he needs is a banjo.

Koon of all of my co-workers always took a front row seat in the parade of interesting people, being a rather sociable guy for a man of his breeding. You see the Koon was born of special stock, a descendant of intrepid settlers who left the relative safety of early colonial settlements to carve out a place for themselves in the wilderness of Appalachia. This vanguard of settlers labored to achieve the American Dream before there was even an America. Koon is the result of centuries of inbreeding, his ancestors insulated themselves from the halls of civilization, venturing west as men and sending back men like Koon as their legacy. Koon hob knobbed among the civilized folk of New England smug in his own superiority over the lesser races of men, in particular people soft from the creature comforts of modern life. This intrepid vanguard greeted me in his usual manner.

He said, “Hey Isaac, wanna see my meat?”

My concentration broken by the interruption, I looked up from my work to find Koon’s crotch inches from my head. I backed up and stood as far back from Koon as I could, responding, “Keep your junk out of my face Koon.”

Koon said, “Hey guy be cool, don’t go crazy. It’s a nice day today, good for a drive. I saw you coming to work driving that Saturn of yours . . .”

Here is a man obsessed with cars, and Koon does own more cars than he has teeth. I have to shut him down here and now lest he commits himself, or worse me to something we’ll both regret. I said, “For the last time Koon, I’m not selling you my car.”

Koon recoiled, “Hey, hey that’s not what I’m here about . . . but my offer is still on the table. No? Well you drive a nice car so I figure you got a smart opinion.”
I asked, “Where are you going with this Koon?”

He said, “I’m looking to buy a car from my friend Mike, a Volkswagen. Somebody like you knows about European cars right? I want you to go see the car with me, tell me what you think.”

Mike, a friend of Koon and a name I hoped never again for a long time. When the store hired Koon they also took on his friend Mike, and I was charged with showing Mike the ropes for work in the backroom. Much like Koon, Mike descended from the hills in search of opportunity, but where Koon wanted money to buy more cars Mike wanted a job to fuel another past time, one involving heroin. The friend wasn’t any junky though, this kid had a real drive, a professional addict.

Leading Mike around I soon learned the dedication Mike had to his craft. The kid went on break before me, a courtesy on my part I’m remiss to repeat since Mike didn’t return for over half an hour, forcing me to go on a manhunt to find my ward lest I get in trouble for his disappearance during my shift. I scoured every inch of the store and Mike just wasn’t there, leading me to search the surrounding property, and I found him behind the store dumpsters. There Mike was fresh in his dress shirt fished out of a Wal-Mart dumpster and a haircut reminiscent of Charles Manson, the kid’s eyes darting about paranoid as if in expectation of the impending race war, Helter Skelter.

Squatting in the store refuse with a needle in his arm Mike went about his business unaware I watched. Once he finished mike turned to me and said, “Hey Isaac what’re you doing here?”

I said, “I’m looking for you.”

He said, “Oh. Can you take my Saturday shift? I’m busy that day.”

I told Mike I’m already working Saturday and Mike just shrugged as he got up and returned to work. Needless to say I informed our manager of the show Mike put on behind the store and Mike, the smooth operator he is, slid out the door and never came back; he wasn’t missed except by Koon who to this day holds Mike’s quick release as a personal affront on the part of the management, but I digress. Koon wants to buy a car from his old friend and he wants me to give him consul, so I gave Koon my two cents, “Don’t do it Koon just let it go. If the car’s from Mike it isn’t worth doing business.”

Koon said, “Nah I gotta at least see the car, so let’s go after work.”

I said, “Wait, wait, you want me to go see the car? No, that’s stupid. You can go make that decision on your own, you have my opinion.”

Koon pleaded, “Come on guy you can’t just decide like that, you gotta make an effort, buying a car ain’t a light matter. All I need is a second set of eyes.”

This did not bode well for me, or for anyone else involved for that matter. At the end of my shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a 1989 Ford F-350 with a rusting frame, stripped upholstery and the smell of dead chickens filling the cabin. Koon drove homeward and my eyes wandered about, settling on an old M1-Garand stored on a rack hanging on the back of the truck cabin. Koon noticed my interest saying, “Yep, that was Pappy’s gun, killed a ton of Nazis with it.”

I thought on what Koon said, imagining an army of rednecks and hillbillies washing over Western Europe, and I wondered what the Europeans thought . . . the devastation we country bumpkins wrought on their well ordered world, an inbred Armageddon. We passed into the back woods part of town, driving by what I thought to be landfills and scrap yards, areas filled with piles of garbage and broken cars, but it dawned on me these dumps belong to people, constituting their front yards.

We came to a stop in front of a lawn relatively clean compared to the rest, a beat up red Volkswagen in the driveway. The house is run down, a den of rats festering in a rotting neighborhood. We exited the truck and the sound of slamming doors drew Mike out of his home, and the guy had bags under his eyes, sunken cheekbones, and needle scars all along his arms. Mike completed his look with a yellow stained wife beater and boxer shorts, no need for pants in this exchange, and Koon greeted his old friend with pleasantries as I waited far off to the side near the truck.

Soon everyone got down to the business of selling the red Volkswagen, a delicate and well practiced dance among the hill folk. Mike showed the both of us around the car, Loon the buyer and me the witness judging this particular offering. I suppose I should be honored to participate in this cultural institution, but I feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. We get a tour of the entire car, the weather damaged exterior and empty interior, everything from the upholstery to the electronics stripped from the vehicle. Mike and Koon swung around front of the car for the all important check under the hood, the part that could make or break a deal. The two made a production of lifting up the hood and underneath was . . . nothing.

The car had no radiator, no battery and alternator, not even an engine. The entire engine block gone I inquired as to where it went and Mike said, “Oh, hey I had to have some work done so I had it taken out, but the car’s still good.”

I turned to Koon, “I don’t know much about cars Koon but I do know this car is shit. It’d cost too much to fix no matter what Mike’s charging. How much is he asking?”

Koon said, “He only wants eight hundred for the car. Eight hundred! Don’t look at it like it is but how it’ll become. I’ve owned cars kinda like this before, so I can fix ‘er up good.”

I gave Koon my last word, “You can’t fix this pile Koon, it’s beyond you, and anyone else besides.”

Koon ogled the car, “I’m gonna buy it.”

With nothing left to say, Koon produced eight hundred dollars cash on the spot, paying Mike for the car. It struck me that Koon had eight hundred cash on him, rendering the entire exercise a pointless endeavor. Having played my part in this song and dance I hopped back into the truck as Koon hitched the Volkswagen to the back, and with everything set we took off again I making the comment, “You know you just handed eight hundred dollars to a heroin addict.”

Koon shook his head, “Don’t worry Mike told me he was clean.”

I said, “The heroin addict said he’s clean . . . right. He’s going to kill himself.”

Koon asked how and I answered, “With however much heroin eight hundred dollars can buy.”

The rest of the night went by quiet, and the day after next I showed up for work ready to take on the hordes of shoppers. I picked up a newspaper for break and flipped through, a name in the obituaries catching my eye. Koon’s good friend Mike up and died the day before, the cause of death not given. Koon showed the proper amount of devastation at losing a close friend, and I didn’t have anything good to say about the turn of events so I kept to myself.