Phone Fun
By Scott Deckman
Monday. Aug 13, 3:58 PM
Chapter 22: crumble, Dan, crumble...

In a stall of the men’s room at Hard Rock Cafe was where he was stationed, the coke not doing much good: he’d been in there for a good 10 minutes and the fucking shit was not working! Or not well enough, as his mind refused to let go of that oblique, shady thing that was desperate to show itself if he’d let it. He sat mismatched, bent over, holding his head, wet from his frantic attempts at damage control as soon as he hit the john, to the consternation of the few who watched him.

“Achumm,” he coughed. “Hmmmmmmrahahah! Hahaha… breathing’s good, good.” His heart raced to keep up with that mouth and head, gasping for life force, panicking, the parasympathetic nervous system neither particularly sympathetic or functioning as well as he would have liked; breathing was laborious, as again those goddamn neurotransmitters were bearing down on him, this thing, whatever it was, would not drown, would not die, coke or no coke, Xanax or no Xanax.

He exited the stall and washed down the rest of his Xanax in full view of a startled middle-aged man standing near him at the sinks, probably there with his family of four, enjoying a rare night out on the town in this veritable smorgasbord of the sights and senses, not wanting to get close to this panic-stricken codger, as he’d seen enough of those after Nam to last a lifetime. But the last time he checked, there wasn’t a war going on and this guy looked as if he stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine or the screen of that MTV crap. Drying off his hands, he couldn’t help but eye him with suspicion.

“Don’t mind me, just a headache,” his eyes like charged flares, rictus pure bowel waste.

The man exited and a whole stream of partiers joined the fray. He escaped back to his stall and jumped up on top of it, grabbing himself around the arms and, like it or not, it finally came. The image, grainy at first, soon received Technicolor bliss, full-scale picture, not no Super 8, but big screen proper with Dolby Digital Surround EX: and it came in circa ’82, Ypsilanti, Michigan. He banged his head against the stall wall a couple times, shocking a couple patrons, but no one dared make a conciliatory move. The bed: there he was, all nine or 10, clinging tight to Mom’s picture, one she supposedly had made for her kids, and yes, even he had a mother, he was her kid, he was once.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The head slam felt good, but the adjoining pictures wouldn’t. There he was, all little and frightened, holding on to that picture, her funeral three days past, on punishment for something or other, smacking Steve, molesting Shauna, had the fires started? He couldn’t remember, just rocking back and forth, kissing that thing in futile hopes of bringing her back from the dead; somehow his childhood brain thought if he kissed her just right, with just enough oomph, he could. He had plans when he was younger to eventually grow up and marry his mother, take her way from that evil bastard Griffin Arnold the 3rd, take her away from all the alcohol and lies and deception and pain, the unbearable weight he himself sometimes bestowed upon her with his mere presence, and once that fantasy was squashed he dreamed of just taking her away, incognito, to a little island, not man and wife, but king and queen, or queen and prince, away, away from all the pain that life was grilling the two with.

He was now shaking as if staving off frostbite, breath seeping out in hurtful little gasps, oblivious to what was going on around him, to the snot running down his nose into his trembling lips, to the wet quasars in their sockets, to the rumblings of some of the others in the restroom, or to his aching knees, feet, and arches, still mired in the estate on 2376 Lane Avenue; in his room, with his mom’s portrait, kind blue eyes reaching out, engaging him in oedipal discourse, telling him that she indeed loved him, no matter how naughty he was, no matter how many therapists said he was borderline and needed to be watched closely, no matter how much Dad punished and spanked and berated him, embarrassed him; they were different she said, special, feelers and givers, they were smarter, gifted: not squashers and takers and hurters.

“Fuhhhhck!”

He punched the stall so hard he could have broken his hand, and they both went up to grab his face, a slight knot forming on the side of his forehead, as the shaking went on, unfettered and unabated for several minutes.

“Okay, okaaaaayyy… let’s get some control,” he mumbled as quietly as he could, stepping off the toilet and out into the wash area, luckily only inhabited by one gentleman preparing to leave it. He faked a smile on that handsome face and even chuckled cryptically, evincing some sort of normalcy out of the roiling chaos. The water he splashed on seemed to dim distant memory a bit; it drifted away, layer by layer, till only bits and pieces remained: tattered, shard, wrecked damage. That harsh reverie hopefully over and done with, he had marks to hit and love to give: dominion awaited. He was gonna try and get this back.

She had moved – two times – yet he wouldn’t leave well enough alone, and it was hard to keep her eyelids free of moisture, and the guy still didn’t get it.

“Listen to me,” she bellowed. “My date is in the bathroom and he’s not gonna like it one bit if he sees you and me together talking. You said what you wanted to and that’s more than enough. Okay?” She fought back a sob, “Please Gilmer, just go.”

“Yeah…” he was already almost finished his second Coors Light, but the alcohol did have that strange effect of quelling his head, unbelievably. “Yeah… I’m just, I can’t… I guess I better. I’m…” he stared into those periwinkles thinking all the wrong things, then all the right ones: she wasn’t giving him much to go on. “I’m sorry, I didn’t wanna do this to you.”

She looked down.

“I should go.”

At first he had a hard time recognizing her: she had moved a little and he didn’t remember that kid being there, but for once he was actually glad his little tête-à-tête had been intercepted by fate. A funny thing happened, as the cathartic cry and the memories threatened to come back, he was gonna capitulate. Maybe go out and find somebody else, someone less identifiably human who didn’t evoke such strange compassion and empathy… or whatever that viscous stuff was, maybe a black girl or a Hispanic girl or some piece of white trash. Hey, maybe he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror for awhile, but he wasn’t about to dive back in the deep end again, not about to chance another furlong into the abyss. He had dreams to build, and souls to consume.

“Hey, Pete! Over here!”

Gilmer turned around and prepared to fight or flee, and got up off his stool feeling, well, all things considered, kinda toasty.

Pete looked up and saw her waving nervously.

“There’s been an emergency. I’m needed at work. I’ll catch up to you next week,” he yelled across the room, disheveled and wet, amid the thump of Zeppelin’s “Living Loving Maid (She’s Just A Woman)”.

“But, are you okay?” she got up and started towards him; he wasn’t taking replies. And she watched silently with a frog in her throat as he was just as suddenly out the door.

Gilmer sat, head in hands, just wishing maybe he could be swallowed up by his own lack of prudence as he watched the macabre scene curtail; Marylynn looked like she just lost her best friend. But deliverance would not come and he had to face her searing visage as if he were her anathema: the traveling panjandrum out to wreak havoc on all she stood for. For whatever reason, as he looked at her, stoned-out, slow moving back to the bar where her purse lay and with it low-grade shattered dreams, all he could think of was one simple phrase that he hoped would console her, one he pointedly remembered her uttering clearly at least once, maybe twice during their conversations that he actually missed already, both now, then, and in the future. It was an admission he would nary utter under just about any other circumstance, and to be completely honest, even this snookered, though he had it on the tip of his tongue, staring at her distraught little eyes, face misshapen somehow, he couldn’t pull the trigger on the epigram that had fueled both the economy of capitalism and Great Western Thought for almost 8,000 seasons, and not always pretty and receptive ones. So there the quote sat, stymied, in the void, struggling, enduring, living, breathing, masticating: Jesus Saves.

*****

ChanteuseU: Maybes… let me think about it.

OneBadDude: Oh come on, it can’t hurt, no harm, no foul. It’ll be fun, stimulating, you know the rest.

ChanteuseU: Yeah, that’s the problem.

OneBadDude: I’m hurt.

ChanteuseU: I’m sure you are.

OneBadDude: Hey, I said I’d mail you a picture.

ChanteuseU: I know, and I said not yet.

OneBadDude: Why are you being such a poor sport about this?

ChanteuseU: I’m not, you are.

OneBadDude: I apologize from the bottom of my heart… truly, a new me, less demanding, more charismatic, more computer sensitive… more in touch with my emotional barometer.

ChanteuseU: If only…

OneBadDude: I can only be as good as you let me.

ChanteuseU: I know, I know.

OneBadDude: Please?

ChanteuseU: Thinking…

There was a pause lasting about three minutes.

Nigz4evr: Hey baby, how’s it going?

ChanteuseU: Okay I guess.

Nigz4evr: Okay… any word?

ChanteuseU: Nope, not yet.

Nigz4evr: Feeling okay?

ChanteuseU: Yeah yeah, Ham put me through primordial hell for the stuff I pulled at home… but I deserved it, I guess.

Nigz4evr: Ha! I’m such an erroneous influence, I’m so sorry sweetie. Why don’tcha just shoot me, I guess I deserve it.

ChanteuseU: Yeah, in fact you do, at times.

Nigz4evr: Good to see they haven’t crushed that.

ChanteuseU: I’m talking to some guy I met on this cheesy online thing, one that everybody’s doing and he wants me to send him a picture and he wants to talk to me.

Nigz4evr: You, Lucy, what’s wrong with that brain of yours?

ChanteuseU: That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.

Nigz4evr: Oh, it’s okay I guess… well, I know people who do it.

ChanteuseU: And you?

Nigz4evr: Are you kidding me? With a look like this?

ChanteuseU: Ha ha ha.

OneBadDude: I feel like I’m on fired-up mothballs over here. What will it be, Ms. Chanteuse?

ChanteuseU: Send away, send away.

OneBadDude: Give me the address.

Nigz4evr: I guess anything’s worth a try, I guess.

ChanteuseU: He’s sending me the pic.

Nigz4evr: Just don’t get mad if he’s unworthy of your many charms.

ChanteuseU: Believe me, no one is, or ever will be.

Nigz4evr: Ha. Ha. Ha.

ChanteuseU: HAHAHA.

Nigz4evr: You may be right.

ChanteuseU: And I may be crazy.

Nigz4evr: And it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.

Lucy smiled as she went to her hotmail and retrieved the picture of OneBadDude.

“Holyshit…”

ChanteuseU: Okay, now the real one.

OneBadDude: Swear on my mama’s grave.

ChanteuseU: You even have a mother… why isn’t yours up there?

OneBadDude: Cuz I kept getting all these crass comments, and too much mail from fat, middle-aged women, and 18 year-old aspiring model-types. I want someone with intellect, verve, you know, joie de verve.

ChanteuseU: I shouldn’t do this, but here goes… 410-727-2749… that’s my work number.

Nigz4evr: You should see the progress I’ve made on the painting since you’ve been gone.

ChanteuseU: I gotta go for a bit Mel, I let that guy call me.

Nigz4evr: Oh Lord. Well, good luck.

ChanteuseU: Pray for me, I’ll need it!

Nigz4evr: Let me know the score later, okay?

ChanteuseU: You know it. Bye.

Nigz4evr: Bye.

“You still there? Sorry about that, I was saying bye to my friend online. She’s in San Francisco.”

“Great, good to know you have friends all over the place.”

“Why is that?”

“So you have someplace to go to when things turn sour here… I guess.”

“I know what you mean, John. You know,” her face turned a hazy shade of disbelief. “I’m almost tempted to say that you heisted that picture from the net somewhere. I could swear to God I recognize that face.”

“I get it all the time,” said Dan, who called himself John. “I really do. That model, what’s his name, Peter, Jean-Paul, what, is he French, German? Well it’s me. Cursed by genetics.”

“Well, if everything’s on the up and up, it’s a curse I wouldn’t mind having.”

“Hahah… don’t be so sure, don’t be so sure. And you? Where’s you? When am I gonna get to see you?”

“I guess when I get the gumption to send you one, simmer down rascal.”

“Hahah… okay, okay.”

Dan at his desk in D.C., pen and trusty spiral notebook in hand, combing through the Matchline ads for suitable potential dates, or more succinctly, ones who were online at present, ones who could fulfill his immediate, direct needs a little later on as evening’s call would surely beckon. He felt it in his bones. And this one may have been the smartest, smarmiest yet.

“…Well, I’m sure you’re fine, with all that working out you talked about…”

“I’ve only been at it a month or two, please don’t expect Corinna Everson.”

“I won’t, I won’t. What’s there to be scared of? Is someone over there not telling the truth?”

They had been on the phone long enough for her to tell everything didn’t quite add up. I mean, if this was indeed what this guy looked like, and as smart and admittedly funny as he was (even if it was steeped with arrogance and cheeky distemper), what was he doing on that thing? Secondly, he was great looking, and third, he was hot as shit. As the conversation entered its 40th minute she acquiesced and sent the damn thing, one taken of her out in L.A. on her trip, standing by a dogwood tree outside the stucco abode. Lucy’s smile was somewhat wan but the picture did have a distinct laissez-fair quality, especially the insouciant way her hips shifted slightly and, well, the less-than confident smile could be interpreted as a sexy sneer, punk’s ultimate legacy, couldn’t it?

“Didja get it?”

“No, not yet. You sure you got the address right?”

Dan was busy writing some trashy little nubile who said she was using the system from work, and that young boys bored her, and that she thought Fred Durst was totally hot, and… you get the point. Conversing with such diverse clientele at the same times could spell trouble for most, but not Dan Can Arnold. He was busy writing the buxom little chickie a dirty limerick that she herself suggested: no harm in that, right? Then, the picture…

“Ah… got it. Okay, you look… mmmm… post-punk, kinda a poseur – kidding, kidding –”

“Want me to hang up now?”

“No, no, you look fine, nice eyes, nice sneer, cute little body…”

“Look, I realize I’m not the bimbo type I’m sure you attract and most assuredly date; so I have a few pounds, curves, you know those things, they were en vogue way back when we were born, back in the halcyon ’70s.”

“Defensive, ouch, all from subtle compliments. Lucy you look great. Fine.”

“Okay, maybe I was a little hard…”

“Why don’t you try a lot hard?”

“Okay, okay… now I’m over it. Maybe you reminded me of someone from my past.”

“Maybe, maybe,” he muttered catatonically as he put the finishing touches on the aforementioned limerick that was sailing out toward Arlington this very second, at Deirdra299’s day job, that of chiropractor’s receptionist.

“Dan, whatcha doin?”

In walked Marlene Aliano, someone who lusted after him like cats lusted after mice, and somebody he unfortunately let blow him at the Christmas party of ’99. Well, Prince told ya’ll to get it, right? He regretted it ever since, because whenever she dumped her current lay, as had probably just happened – apparently – she wouldn’t leave him alone. She was about average height, had feminine curves on a delightfully thin body and pretty Italian dark eyes and the prerequisite full mouth. And while she was a delightful little morsel he’d nail otherwise, he wanted to smack her every time she opened her dumb mouth, and don’t get him started on Sue’s incredible hatred toward the little trollop – off of one meeting – somehow making him even more nervous around her than need be. To be honest, she was extremely lucky they worked together is what she was.

Extra trouble, she spotted his lunch: a red, thick and meaty, dubious substance that lay dead in a throwaway Tupperware container. As he had three conversations going at once, all circling him like sharks of the afferent pathway, he was having trouble getting his attention where it needed to be. And this didn’t happen often.

“Hold on Luce – ”

“What’s for lunch, Dan?”

“NO!” he shot his hand around hers as she reached for the sanguine concoction.

“Hey!” she yanked her hand back from his grip like it was a hot stove. “Sorry Dan. Didn’t know you were, well, so sensitive about your lunch.”

“I’m not I…” compose, compose. “I’m not, it’s just, it’s not that good, really. And it’s still kinda hot, wouldn’t want you to burn yourself. That’s all.”

He shoved his cellphone in his desk drawer. A boulder the size of the city threatened to black out his conscious state if he couldn’t squelch those threatening nerves. He had become pyretic and started to sweat a little as he eyed Marlene with contemptuous fear.

“Are you okay, Dan?”

“Yes… yes… I need, hold up,” he bent down and rummaged in his side desk for either Valium or Xanax; he finally located some Xanax.

In a flash Marlene’s finger was in and out of the meal thicket and into her mouth as he came up with the green elixirs.

“Hah…” his breath shorted out, circumvented, like God Himself had spoken, telling him it was about up, his crazy little operation, this virulent scheme, time.

“Mmmm… this is good. Who, what is this? It’s strange, but vaguely, I don’t know, familiar… is that the word I’m looking for?”

The pills swallowed with the Diet Dr. Pepper on his desk, he cringed deliriously. “Good, tasty?” He popped two more pills and downed what was left of his soda.

“Stomach problems still acting up, Dan? You know my sister’s boyfriend is an endocrinologist specializing in, what is it, I believe oncology…”

“Cancer, they specialize in cancer, Marlene. You think I got cancer?!”

“Dan, I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, but I wish you’d snap out of it.”

Now, Arlo.

“Marlene? I’ve been looking for you for the last half-hour, there you are. Hey Dan.”

Dan shook his head at fate’s inevitability, his eyes still dewy. “Yeah, Arlo.”

“Arlo, you have to try this, what is it Dan? It’s really, really good.”

“Dan?” Arlo smiled, happy that someone as cute as Marlene wanted him for any reason.

“Oh what the hell Arlo, I guess since she’s… here,” he handed his fork to him, face stun-gunned and moist, hoping they’d all leave soon so he wouldn’t be forced to commit homicide right there in the office.

Skeptical about the fork, but glad at the opportunity, any opportunity to pal around with these two major leaguers, Arlo took the utensil, brushed it against his pants with an embarrassed grin, cut out a fairly good chunk of the questionable gunk, and put it in his mouth.

“Mmmmmm…” ever the ass-kisser, even in cannibalistic situations. “This stuff is good. What is it, Dan?”

“Something Sue made last night, I can’t remember.”

“Can I have another nibble?”

“Me too?” Marlene projected.

“Just take the whole thing… the whole… damn thing,” Dan shook his head, eyes still in a haze, as breath was hard to come by.

“Oh no, couldn’t do that,” Arlo piped up, and promptly cut another bite-size chunk out of the mushy mess and gobbled it down his thick-lipped mouth. “And one more for her and that’ll be it.”

He cut another little piece and took great pleasure in feeding it to Marlene, who in turn gave Dan an incredibly lascivious look, and even licked her lips, further emasculating Arlo.

“Well, gotta go, I guess. Bye you two.”

“See ya Arlo,” she replied.

“Wait a second, I need you.” He grabbed Marlene and the two were out the door

“Bye Danny,” she managed to blurt while trailing out of his office, her sexy legs pumping sensual pleasure that most men would fight over.

Dan just sat stunned and gingerly retrieved his phone from the drawer and put it up to his ear: Lucy was gone.

Scott Deckman

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