Authors: Scott Bartlett
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Humor & Satire, #Humorous, #Literary, #contemporary fiction, #american, #Dark Comedy, #General Humor, #Satire, #Literary Fiction, #Humor, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Psychological, #Romance, #Thrillers
“Okay,” I say.
The following evening, I create a Facebook account and search for Capriana. She hasn’t done much with her privacy settings, and I can see everything. Apparently she travels a lot—there are many photos of her wearing bikinis on foreign beaches. Italy, Jamaica, Cuba. She’s so beautiful. I can’t believe we had sex.
She was so understanding, and kind. Incredibly, her relationship status is listed as single. I scroll through her profile to see who posts on it. It’s mostly guys, but that probably doesn’t mean anything. She just has a lot of guy friends, I guess. I wonder if I should add her as a friend. Probably not. That would make it pretty obvious I only created an account to creep her. I should wait till I have more friends.
I search Gilbert. Doesn’t look like he has an account.
Who else?
I try Sam. He doesn’t have one, either. I go around the house and knock on his door.
“Hey, Sheldon.”
“Hey. How come you don’t have a Facebook account?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t seem to go with being a drug dealer.”
“Oh.”
“Want to come in?”
“Sure.”
He goes to the kitchen to get me a beer. “Besides,” he calls through the swinging doors. “Facebook’s like a sugar rush when what you really want is heroin.”
“How do you mean?”
He comes back and passes me the bottle. “We’re all searching for something we can never have. I mean, deep down, I’m sure we all want to have sex with each other. But I think we crave a deeper connection. I think, subconsciously, we want to actually be other people. And Facebook is a very poor substitute for that.”
“How would you know? You don’t have an account.”
“It’s not hard to piece together. The people you interact with on Facebook aren’t even in the same room. Why are you asking me about this?”
“It’s kind of a long story. I met a girl last night.”
He pauses with his beer halfway to his lips. “Where’d you meet her?”
“New Year’s party. My co-worker’s girlfriend hosted it.”
“Was it fun?”
“Yeah, actually. Hey, so you have a nephew named Gilbert Ryan?”
He puts down his beer. “Yes, I do.”
“He mentioned last night. Small world, hey?”
“It’s a really big world, actually.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I should warn you about Gilbert. He might seem cool to you, but his confidence stems from an awareness of other people’s faults. If he doesn’t think poorly of someone, he isn’t comfortable being around them.”
“Wow, Sam. You’re always telling me to go out and make friends. Now you’re bashing the one friend I have made?”
He returns my gaze. “The friend count is one, now, is it Sheldon? You’ve made just the one friend.”
“Who else?”
“How should I know? I’m taking a nap. Can you leave?”
“See ya.” I put down my half-drunk beer and walk around to my apartment.
*
Sam never told the nurses I wasn’t eating my meals. “Forcing you to eat would be delaying the inevitable,” he said, with a sigh. “You need to come to it on your own.”
At the time I nodded and didn’t comment, but now I think he was wrong. As long as Fred was a patient, it was easy to donate my food, and continue giving up. I needed someone to snap me out of it.
That someone ended up being Theresa.
I was lying in bed when the lady in purple pushed the breakfast trolley down the hall. Patients were supposed to get up an hour before breakfast was served, but I found that if I lay there and didn’t move or speak, no one bothered me. I hauled myself out of bed when I saw breakfast roll by, though, and trudged to the cafeteria. To maintain appearances.
Fred poked his head out of his room as I passed. He looked down the hall, at the lady pushing the trolley. “Blue Wizard needs food, badly!” he called. He came out and fell into step with me. “How are you, Sheldon?”
“Good.”
“Beautiful day!”
“Sure.”
“Have you been outside yet?”
“No.”
He put a hand to his mouth and whispered. “You eating your breakfast?”
“Guess not.”
I sat on the couches near the window. I twisted around and looked outside. It was bright.
“Excuse me. Do you have a dysmorphia?”
I turned around. It was the skinny girl. She had dark shadows under her eyes. Really pretty, though. Long brown hair and bright blue eyes. My hands started to sweat.
“Sorry?” I said.
“Have you been diagnosed with an eating disorder?”
“Um, no.”
“I couldn’t help noticing you never eat your meals.”
“Not hungry.”
“Bullshit.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re my age, and you’re healthy, and you barely eat anything. You’ve lost weight. I notice these things. I have been diagnosed with an eating disorder—anorexia nervosa. I’m working hard to convince myself that I do have a healthy body, and that there’s nothing wrong with eating. It’s really hard to watch someone stop eating just to prove a point, or something.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
Across the room, Fred was returning to the table with tray number two—my tray. My new friend marched over, snatched it out of his hands, and marched back, placing it on my lap. Fred stood with his hands still curled as though holding the tray.
“Now, eat up,” she said. “You’re too cute to waste.”
I felt my face heat up.
She took her own tray from the trolley and came back. We looked at our food.
“I’m Theresa, by the way.”
“I’m Sheldon.”
“The first bite is the hardest,” she said.
They served scrambled eggs, Friday mornings. I spooned some up with my fork. Theresa picked up a slice of toast.
We ate.
*
Around eight, I go for a drive with Gilbert.
He’s playing music from his phone over the Hummer’s stereo system, and he reaches down to change the song. I eye the road nervously. “So,” he says. “Did you enjoy Capriana last night?”
“She’s nice.”
He laughs. “That’s one way of putting it. Did you get with her?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“I’m not asking if you kissed her.”
I grin. “We had sex.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
“What?”
“Capriana loves books. I knew she’d be at the party, so I texted her that I was bringing my writer friend. She said she’d never slept with one before.”
“Wait—she had sex with me because I write?”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. I’m sure it’s not the only reason. The fact she thought you were gay helped, too. Gay guys drive girls wild. Plus you’re not that bad looking.”
“Thanks.”
“Plus, she ate a lot of ecstasy. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to cultivate a little sexual ambiguity. A girl can’t resist the idea she might be so hot even gays want to do her.”
“Girls aren’t all like that.”
“Most of them are. You know, the mystery could translate into book sales too, if you ever get a novel published. People would probably buy it just to figure out if you’re straight or not.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. The more rumours, the more book sales. Count on it.”
I look out the window and don’t say anything for a while. We enter a subdivision, passing home after identical home. Gilbert pulls into one of the driveways.
“Who lives here?”
“Him.”
Donovan emerges, and walks toward us.
“You didn’t tell me we were picking him up.”
“There’s something I want to discuss with you both.”
Donovan opens the door behind me and gets in. “Hey.”
Gilbert pulls out and drives deeper into the subdivision. He tells Donovan to pass him a CD case. One hand on the wheel, he unzips the case with his other hand and takes out the first disc, slipping it into the player.
“They play this song at Spend Easy all the time,” I say. “It’s terrible.”
“They do. And it is. A couple years ago I took my laptop up to the control room, and I ripped one of their CDs to my hard drive.”
“Why?”
“I had a hunch. I took it to my friend, who’s a DJ, and asked him to analyze it. Here’s what he found.”
He changes the track. A man’s voice emerges from the speakers, whispering. It’s Frank. “Kellogg’s Froot Loops are on sale this week. Kellogg’s Froot Loops are cheap and tasty. Kellogg’s Froot Loops make your mornings quick and easy. Buy Kellogg’s Froot Loops. Buy Kellogg’s Froot Loops. Buy Kellogg’s Froot Loops. Johnson’s Baby Wipes are clean and moist. Make your little one happy with Johnson’s Baby Wipes. Your baby’s hygiene is quick and easy at Spend Easy with Johnson’s Baby Wipes. Buy Johnson’s Baby Wipes. Buy Johnson’s Baby Wipes. Buy Johnson’s—”
Gilbert switches it off. “You get the idea.”
“Um,” I say. “I’m having trouble processing what I just heard.”
“Spend Easy’s in the hole, man. Has been for years. Frank is trying everything.”
“What did you do, when you found this?”
“I went to Frank’s office and played it for him. Then I told him what I wanted. A raise, for one. And I told him I’d be taking my groceries out the back door from then on, free of charge. Also, that I wouldn’t be doing very much work.”
“And he agreed to that?”
“Sure. I’d go straight to the media, otherwise. Subliminal advertising is illegal.”
I turn around and look at Donovan. “Did you know about any of this?”
He exchanges glances with Gilbert in the rearview mirror. Gilbert nods.
“I’ve known about it since I was hired.”
“And you’re okay with it? Isn’t there anything about not blackmailing people in the Bible?”
He’s solemn-faced. “I think God has a plan for Gilbert.”
“Oh, wow.” I face the front again. “Why are you telling me, then, Gilbert?”
“You asked why I was changing the tags at Spend Easy. Frank’s been showing signs of trying to get rid of me. He gave his son a job in Grocery, and he installed cameras that actually work. And he told Brent he could keep his job if he offered up some dirt on me.”
“So Brent took the fall for you?”
“Not really. What could he have told Frank?”
“Oh, I don’t know, that you’re selling weed out of the warehouse?” I glance back at Donovan. “Oops, did you know about that one?”
“Of course he knows.”
“So is this why you’ve been working so hard lately?” I say.
“It’s also why I convinced everyone else to start working hard. I wanted to give Frank a false sense of security. Now, it’s time to do the opposite.”
“And what does that consist of?”
“For starters, a certain local newspaper got an anonymous tip today about the new Remembering price tags. They’re very interested in doing a story on them. That should give Frank an idea of what media pressure feels like.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“The same thing I want from Donovan. I need more dirt on Frank. You’re both uniquely situated—Donovan conducts his little Bible studies with him, and you’re the hardest worker in the store. No one will expect you to spy. I also want to know immediately if Frank visits Sam again. If you help me, I’ll see to it you get a raise.”
“You lied to me.”
“I never lied. I omitted. I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”
“How do you know you can, now? What’s stopping me from bringing this to Frank?”
“Nothing. You’re right—I don’t really know I can trust you. All I have is a strong feeling. I don’t think you’d rat me out, after everything we’ve been through.”
“What are you talking about? What have I been through with you?”
Gilbert shakes his head slowly, a tiny smile on his lips. “Have you already forgotten about the night we broke into Spend Easy and ordered 500 boxes of condoms?”
Of course. Gilbert has insurance in place.
“Take me home.”
“Need time to consider my offer?”
“This isn’t an offer. You’re trying to blackmail me like you blackmailed Frank. But I won’t be coerced. You can tell whoever you want about the condoms. I’m not helping you spy.”
“You don’t understand, Sheldon. I’m not trying to threaten you.”
“You lied to me, Gilbert. By omission. I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
Donovan puts his hand on my shoulder. “Think on this, Sheldon. Pray on it.”
“Take me home. Now.”
“Very well,” Gilbert says.
I decided a couple days ago I don’t care if Capriana knows I only got a Facebook account to find her. I sent her a message asking if she’d like to meet up. She continued posting status updates and pictures, but she didn’t reply.
Assuming my message got lost somehow, I tried again, and she still didn’t answer. I don’t understand. Doesn’t she want to talk about what happened?
Earlier today, on her profile, she arranged to meet someone for coffee at a place near Spend Easy—the same one Gilbert and I went to a couple times. I decide to meet her there, too. I can’t handle wondering what she’s thinking any more.
It takes less than 10 minutes to get to the coffee shop by bike. When I arrive, I spot her sitting at a table in the middle of the store, with a guy. I sit near the door and take several deep breaths. I walk over. “Hey, Capriana.”
She looks up, and so does the guy she’s with. “Hi,” she says.
“Can I speak with you?”
Her lips tighten. “Excuse me, Andrew,” she says, and moves to another table. I sit across from her.
“Can I buy you something?” I say.
“I have a latte waiting for me.”
“Did you get my Facebook messages?”
“I got them.”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t think of anything to say.”
I can relate to that.
“Are you interested in hanging out again?” I say. “I’d like to get to know you.”
“Not really.”
I swallow. “Why not?”
“You’re not my type.”
“But we...” I lean forward, and whisper, “We had sex.”
“Yes, we did. At a party, when I was on ecstasy. Did you think I was looking for a relationship?”
“I just thought having sex meant a little more than that.” She seemed so into me.
“Not to everyone. And usually not with a person you just met.”
“Who’s he, then?” I point at the guy she’s with, who’s looking at his phone.
“A friend.”
“Are you going to sleep with him, too?”
“That’s none of your business.” She stands up. “Don’t send me any more messages, please. Bye.”
*
I turn on my computer as soon as I get home, and I delete my Facebook account. Sam was right.
Above me, Metallica starts to boom through the ceiling. Sam’s been blasting music every day for a while now. Heavy metal, mostly. So loud the light fixtures vibrate. I believe he’s having a midlife crisis.
I used to think
Romeo and Juliet
was unrealistic—they meet, fall in love, and kill themselves for each other all in three days. I don’t think that anymore.
Four days ago I didn’t know Capriana existed, but now her rejection has removed all possibility of happiness. I feel like I laid my heart on the ground before her, and she stomped it till there was nothing left but crimson jam.
I keep a deck of playing cards on my desk to use as bookmarks, and now I shuffle them to try and distract myself. I shuffle faster and faster, until the cards start hitting against each other, some of them tumbling out of the deck. I pick these up and slam them between the others, bending a few.
Finally I throw the deck onto the floor, the cards fanning out on the laminate, all face-up except for one.
I reach down and turn it over. It’s the king of hearts.
I turn back to the computer, close the internet browser, and click open a word processor. I type that in: “The King of Hearts”. I centre it, and underline it.
And I start to write.
*
“Your friend’s pretty promiscuous, isn’t she?” I say.
It’s just me and Gilbert scheduled to work tonight in Grocery, and the only reason I’m speaking to him at all is we’re fronting the store together.
“Capriana?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs. “That might be why she slept with you the first night you met. But you did the same thing.”
I laugh. “I’m definitely not promiscuous. I want to keep hanging out with her, for one.”
“You know, before humans became farmers, we had no concept of sexual monogamy. 10,000 years ago, everyone pretty much slept with whoever they wanted. Relationships only became useful when we quit the hunter-gatherer life and started living in one spot year-round. That’s where the idea of owning stuff came from. Farms are a lot of work, and they don’t produce as much food, so it was important that your neighbours had a clear idea of what you owned—your land, your cattle, your wife. All valuable assets.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, Gilbert. Unfortunately, I don’t live 10,000 years ago—I live in the 21st century.”
“You’re right. Here you are, in the 21st century. You went to a party, slept with a girl on ecstasy, and you didn’t get the relationship you hoped for. Would you like a nontissue for your nonissue?”
Gilbert leaves Aisle Two without saying anything, and doesn’t come back for a long time. I keep glancing toward the ends of the aisle, expecting to see him again any minute. I assume he’s still trying to maintain the illusion he’s a hard worker, but he’s doing a pretty poor job of it tonight.
I see a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, but when I look no one’s there.
It happens again.
The third time, I run toward it, as quietly as I can. I come upon a startled Ernie. “Evening, Sheldon,” he says, his voice cracking. “Slow night, hey?”
He’s holding a phone in his right hand.
“What are you doing, Ernie?”
“I’m just—uh—I’m here to check the schedule.”
“Ralph emails us the schedule. The schedule can’t be checked here anymore.”
“Right. That’s true, isn’t it? God. I feel dumb. Well—now that I’m here, I might as well take a look around. See if I can help you guys out with anything, hey? Have you seen Gilbert?”
“Not for a while. Why?”
“Curiosity. That’s all. I’m just wondering.”
“Okay.”
“Yep. Not too many customers, are there?”
“I’m going to continue fronting, now.”
“All right. Sure. Take care, Sheldon. Good talk.”
“Yeah.”
*
I’m at my computer, in the middle of a scene, tapping feverishly on my keyboard, when the phone rings. I finish my sentence and answer it. “Hello?”
Breathing.
“Hello?”
“I...” Whoever it is clears his throat. “Can I speak with Sheldon Mason?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling to tell you how badly I feel.”
“Who is this?”
“This is—” He swallows. I can hear how dry his throat is. “This is Herman Barry.”
The rage is like every molecule in my body sifting downward, trading places with all the heat, which rises to the roof of my skull. The hand holding the receiver to my ear begins to tremble. The muscle tissue in my throat pulses upward.
“Are you there?” he says.
“Who let you call me?”
“I joined the Alcoholics Anonymous group, here in the prison. I’m trying to deal with my problem. I’ve been sober for almost three—”
“That’s because you can’t get any alcohol.”
“Every day, I think about what I did to end up here. As part of the program, we’re encouraged to ask forgiveness from everyone we’ve wronged. I’m calling to ask if you’d consider forgiving me for what I did.”
“Well, let’s see,” I say. “Are you delayed?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you mentally delayed?”
“No.”
“So, you understand alcohol impairs driving ability?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you get that cars kill people?”
“Yes.” Herman Barry is sobbing.
“You must understand, then, that when you got in your car shitfaced and started to drive, that made you a murderer. You have enough brain cells to grasp that, right?”
Big, gasping sobs.
“Of course I don’t forgive you, you piece of shit. And neither does the higher power AA insists you accept. You murdered my mother, Barry. If there’s a hell, you’re going to rot in it. Okay?”
I slam the receiver into its cradle. I pick it up, and slam it down again.