Apathy and Other Small Victories Read online

  “So nice to meet you Shane,” Chad and Julie said as they were leaving.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Running into Julie, that’s so funny!” Gwen said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why don’t you tell your goddamn grandmother to call you Gwen instead of Gwendolyn?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said she’s the only one who ever calls you Gwendolyn. Tell her to call you Gwen.”

  “Shane, what are you talking about? Both of my grandmothers died before I was born.”

  I never wanted to see her again.

  “Anyway you always make me talk about myself. Let’s talk about you instead.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know. Just tell me something.”

  “Okay. When I was seven years old I thought I was a superhero. My name, was Leaf Man. . . .” And I told her that lie of a Leaf Man story. It wasn’t a total lie actually. I really did have the GI Joe underoos and the cape made out of St. Patrick’s Day napkins. But I always knew I wasn’t a superhero, and I never jumped out of any trees. I thought about it, but I was too scared. I knew I’d get hurt real bad. Those poems about the fearlessness of children are fucking bullshit.

  “Oh my god! That’s so you! You must have been hilarious as a little kid!” she said, laughing.

  “Yeah.”

  “Taped together St. Patrick’s Day napkins? Hah hah hah, hmmm.”

  I wanted her to pay the check so I could get out of there. Once we were outside I was going to say my stomach hurt and that I would soon have explosive diarrhea, then I’d go home and never return her calls. Maybe I’d write her a letter saying that I’d left town because of a family emergency that I couldn’t really explain, but that I would always remember what a special and professional person she was and cherish our time together. Or maybe I wouldn’t write her at all. I just wanted to get out of there.

  “I feel like we’re really connecting again,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you tell me something else?”

  “Like what?” I didn’t have any more stock footage in the archives to show her. One made up story is usually enough.

  “Why don’t you tell me how much you like me?”

  Jesus.

  “Like is such a strong word,” I said, genuinely smiling.

  “You bastard!” she said, and kept her mouth open, mock horrified. Then she came at me pretending to be angry, thinking she was playing along. And she was playing along, just not in the way she believed.

  This was our final act together, since I planned on never seeing her again. This was it. But I wanted it to have a happy ending, even if it was somewhat mysterious and abrupt. I wanted to leave her with nothing but sweet memories of our sham relationship, to feel good about all the time we’d wasted together. I don’t care if it’s founded on lies and misconceptions, I like to be remembered fondly. I was feeling so magnanimous just then I would have even bantered with her maybe, if she’d bought me another drink or five. But then she started tickling me instead.

  I have never reacted well to tickling. I squeal like a little girl and fall to the ground and curl up in the fetal position to protect myself. There’s nothing I can do about it. It just happens. The tickling years, from kindergarten through early high school, when there’s a chance you’ll be tickled at random, for no reason whatsoever, were for me a season in hell. But once you reach a certain age it doesn’t matter anymore. You just don’t expect to ever get tickled again. It’s like pissing your pants or crying. You assume those days are finally behind you. But they never really are.

  And there I was, twenty-eight years old, being tickled in a crowded bar surrounded by young professionals. And God wept for the world that he had made.

  Luckily Gwen didn’t tickle like most people. Gwen tickled with her fists.

  Ugh. Ugh. She jabbed me twice in the ribs before I even knew what was happening.

  “You think so? You think so?” she said, rabidly playful, catching me once in each kidney. And then we were street fighting. I had the height advantage but the close crowd negated my long reach, so I tried to get in tight and tie up her arms, grapple with her until a bouncer separated us or threw us out or clubbed me in the back of the head and killed me. But she was too quick and slippery. I couldn’t get a hold. And there was no one coming to save me.

  She caught me with a left hook to the gut that sent me stumbling back, my legs wobbling. Wobbling from the alcohol, I’d like to tell myself, and often do. As I reeled I fell into the rounded back of a fat guy who had just bent over laughing at something one of his buddies said, and that sent me staggering towards Gwen like the skinny kid on the playground who’s getting tossed by the circle of bullies, helpless momentum the only thing keeping him on his feet. Unfortunately Gwen had come forward for the knockout, so when that fat guy pitched me I stumbled face first into her solid linebacker’s shoulder. How I stayed up I’ll never know. There was a flash of black in my eyes and my head swerved, and I saw the headlights of oncoming traffic even though I wasn’t in a car. There was a moment of perfect silence like just after diving into a pool. Then I felt the heat in my hands.

  “Bathroom,” I mumbled as I broke past her, weaving through the crowd with my hand over my mouth like I was yawning for a really long time, pinching my nose as I tried to catch the blood in my mouth. It was hot on my tongue and I almost gagged. It wasn’t too far from blowing your nose right into your mouth. Maybe it was worse. There was nothing else I could do.

  At least the bathroom was empty. I spit it all into the sink and hacked and coughed and washed my face as best I could. I didn’t know if I was supposed to tilt my head back or keep it forward. One way the blood seeps into your brain and you get retarded and the other it goes into your lungs and you can’t breathe. But I forgot which was which so I did both, wrenching my head back and forth every five seconds trying to keep the blood swishing somewhere in the middle, in a neutral canal, slowly becoming a partially retarded asthmatic. I was ripping up my face with those coarse, gritty recycled hand towels, soaking them red quicker than I could grab them and stashing them in the garbage or dropping them on the floor. I felt miserable.

  I grabbed a stack of towels and went into the stall and stood leaning against the door like a junkie. I would’ve slept on the toilet but I was afraid I’d slip into a coma. I heard the door open and I listened as two guys stood at the urinals, talking and pissing. And then the two motherfuckers were at the sink making jokes about all the bloody towels.

  “Dude, looks like somebody’s on the rag!”

  “It’s that time of the month bro!”

  Then they high-fived.

  Hours passed. Days. The blood finally slowed and hardened in my nose, crusted over my brain and lungs. I would wear short pants and pull my tube socks up to my knees, carry a pinwheel around with me and an inhaler. Things would be different.

  Gwen was at a window booth when I got back. There was a full beer waiting for me. “Are you okay?” she said delicately.

  My nose was red and swollen and my head was pounding.

  I had made up my mind in the bathroom to sucker punch her. Lean over the table and pop right on the bridge of the nose. That would almost make us even. Looking at her though I wasn’t sure if in my weakened and bloodless condition one shot would be enough to put her down. And one shot was all I was getting before she started throwing back. If she punched me out in front of this crowd that would be it. I’d have to leave town. I’d have to leave the country. Move to France and start over. I’ve never had much pride, but still.

  “Shane?”

  Just let me get a few beers into me, and a steak. Get some strength back. Then we’ll see how tough you are sister. Realistically though, it could have gone either way. And if there’s one thing my father taught me it’s that if you’re going to get into a fight with a girl you better make goddamn sure you’re going to win you little faggot.

  “A
re you all right?”

  I prayed that the sniper had me in the crosshairs. Hurry up and take the shot.

  “Shane? Talk to me.”

  Please, God, somebody, take the fucking shot.

  Chapter 6

  I came in Monday morning to this:

  This is the hardest email I’ve ever had to write. I just received word that Martha Wolsey, our beloved co-worker, passed away last night from a massive heart attack. She was taken in her sleep. Martha was a dedicated, caring individual who was never without a smile, and I can honestly say that she was the most gifted typist I have ever seen. She is survived by her husband, Vern.

  Because of all that Martha meant to us here at Panopticon, I have received special permission for the entire team to attend funeral services at 2 P.M. Friday. This will be a paid leave of up to three hours and will not count towards personal or vacation time. I will distribute directions to the funeral home when they become available, and I would like to encourage car-pooling if at all possible. In the meantime, please take a moment to remember Martha in whatever way you feel appropriate: religiously, spiritually, silently, or professionally. She will be missed.

  Regards,

  Andrew

  p.s. All rush word processing jobs will go directly to Brenda Norris until further notice.

  I had no idea who the fuck Martha was, but from disinterestedly eavesdropping on the somber, choked up remembrances of everyone around me I deduced that she was the morbidly obese woman who sat a few rows over and handled all the emergency data entry jobs. No one filled in the fields of a database with updated names and addresses faster than Martha. No one.

  She was a large woman, one who took “business casual” to mean beige or black stretch pants and loose-necked T-shirts with bead and sequin designs stitched on the front. Usually flowers, or sailboats. She did her monotonous typing with a certain flair, altering the tempo of her keystrokes like a small town high school band conductor, hitting the Enter key harder than the rest to punctuate the end of every phrase. If anyone had ever made data entry an art form—and they had not—it would have been Martha.

  So she was dead. A pallor of grief-stricken sluggishness and lamentation descended over the cubicles. It wasn’t really palpable at all, but everyone did their best. Brenda Norris must have been pissed about all that extra work. Out of respect for the dead and for the living, I hoped they wouldn’t approach me about applying for Martha’s job.

  I slept in the bathroom and played with my paper clip sculptures, trying to go on as best I could. The only break in the day came when Karal made his lurching rounds, hacking up the plants with his pruning shears.

  “Hi,” he said, standing in my cubicle, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  “Hey Karal. How’s it going?”

  “I’m here for the plants.”

  “Yeah, I don’t have any yet. I’m still waiting for the paperwork to go through.”

  “I like football,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Who’s your team?”

  “I’m too old to sleep with my mother.”

  “I know you are Karal.”

  “Okay bye,” he said.

  And I was left to consider this.

  I forgot about dead Martha until Friday, when I noticed that everyone was wearing black Dockers instead of khaki and nobody took lunch because they were getting out at two for the funeral. I was also getting out at two, but there was no way I was going to a funeral. I was going home.

  As I was leaving I ran into Andrew.

  “Hello Shane.” He was politely subdued in a black shirt and solid gray tie. “Are you riding with us?”

  “No that’s okay. I’ll, uh, figure something else out.”

  “You’re included in the proceedings you know. I’ve made arrangements with your temp agency to credit you with the time even though you won’t actually be in the office.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. Now let me give you a lift. It will give us a chance to talk.”

  “Uh, yeah, I was going to stop off and get some flowers first. I’ll see you there though.”

  “Oh it’s all taken care of. We had an arrangement sent over on behalf of the entire team. Come on,” and he tilted his head and smiled kindly, because this was a tough time for us all.

  There was no way I was getting roped into a talk with Andrew and blowing my Friday afternoon at the funeral of a fat woman I did not know. I didn’t have any other plans or anything but still, the principle of it was repugnant.

  “No that’s all right. I’ll catch up with you,” I said.

  Andrew untilted his head and squinted at me, obviously trying to figure out what I meant. I thought I was going to have to mouth “explosive diarrhea” and run to the bathroom holding the back of my pants, but then he took the hint.

  “All right. Suit yourself,” he said, kind of pissy, and walked away.

  I didn’t care. I was going home three hours early and getting paid for it. I would honor Martha’s memory in my own special way: pitchers and pitchers of cheap beer, and many, many stolen saltshakers.

  My phone was ringing but I didn’t know what was happening. I was dead asleep and dreaming of a sandwich. I’d been eating it slowly and after every bite I said, “This is a good sandwich.” Then I heard the phone and the dream was gone and my sandwich was lost to me forever.

  I sat straight up in bed and salt slid down my bare chest and into my lap. I threw the sheet off of me and salt scattered over my carpet. That’s when I realized I was naked, and that I had salt in my hair. Saturday mornings are always strange for me.

  I let the phone ring like I always do. There’s never anyone to talk to and even if there was I’d let them leave a message and just call them back sometime on my own terms. I don’t understand people who bitch about telemarketers. You’re asking people to bother you when you pick up the phone. It’s like inviting a vampire into your house and then complaining because he bit you. You can’t blame them. It’s what they do. Just don’t answer the phone goddamnit.

  The phone kept ringing. It was 6:27 and I looked around for my clothes. My shirt was folded under the bed next to my shoes, but my pants were nowhere to be found. That was strange, even for a Saturday morning.

  My answering machine picked up, and after the beep there came a voice:

  “hel-lo-shane-are-you-there-shane-are-you-there,” it said.

  It wasn’t human. It was like one of those robots from the old Battlestar Galactica, flat and toneless, breaking up every syllable without inflection.

  “wake-up-shane-pick-up-the-phone.”

  I would have done whatever it asked.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “shane-did-I-wake-you-up.”

  “UH-m, yes?” My voice broke like I was thirteen years old.

  “do-you-know-who-this-is.”

  “Uhm, no?” It sounded like someone from the future who was about to give me really bad news. I was petrified.

  “come-on-think.”

  There was nothing to think about. I was still half asleep, but I was sure that I didn’t know any robots. None who would be calling me anyway. I wasn’t going to suddenly remember a robot I was friends with in high school whom I’d lost touch with over the years. To make things more complicated, I was naked and about to piss my bed, and I had salt in my hair.

  “i-will-give-you-a-hint,” the voice said without emotion. “you-are-stink.”

  “Marlene?” I said. My god, what had they done to her.

  “ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” the robot voice laughed like a Japanimation villain, so echoing and hollow and sinister I almost went completely insane.

  “i-need-your-help-it-is-a-bout-my-hus-band-i-can-not-talk-now-meet-me-on-the-wa-ter-front-at-noon-by-the-ja-pa-nese-me-mor-i-al-good-bye-stink.”

  It went so fast I could barely keep up or comprehend what it was saying. Then there was a dial tone.

  What? Marlene? Waterfront? The Japanese? Was this the deaf versio
n of Mission: Impossible? Was she a robot now? It was 6:30 in the morning, what the fuck was going on?

  I fell facedown back into bed. Salt leapt from my pillow, right into my eyes.

  I rode my crappy bike down to the waterfront. It was not what I thought it would be. I was expecting a wharf, gutted sharks hanging from hooks on the docks and big ships being unloaded by men who liked to get drunk and fight, then get tattoos. I thought it would at least be foggy.

  But this waterfront was a park, a built-up urban renewal promenade for families and tourists that stretched along a dirty river for a few hundred yards before giving way to busy streets and shopping centers. It was a wide strip of grass separating the downtown from the water, with trees and flowers in neat rows and homeless people passed out beside them. A raised concrete path was laid beside the river with a wrought-iron railing so you could look over and see the green-brown water lapping the sloping concrete embankment below. It was fucking disgusting, but it was a river that ran through a good-sized city so it didn’t have much of a choice. Sewage pipes and assholes with empty cans of Bud Light will eventually kill us all.

  All through the park there were ornate stone fountains that looked like they’d been dry for centuries, but then there were drinking fountains that were perpetually running, water bubbling up from a spout in the middle even when no one was around to drink it. It seemed like a huge waste. Even if it was being filtered and reused that was still a huge waste, and gross. But then I saw a little kid who was walking with his father run up to a fountain and put his thumb partially over the nozzle so the water came shooting out fast and far and he fucking soaked his dad. The guy was pissed and I’m sure he beat the poor kid senseless when he got him home, but then I didn’t think the fountains were such a waste anymore.