Journey, page 21
Probably Jenna scribbled a note.
“Food intolerances,” Maggie added.
“What brought you to LocaFolk?”
“Yeah,” Maggie nodded again. “You know, I’m not sure.” She drew a deep breath. “Okay, I need a job.”
Dustin blinked, Jenna wrote another note. Her letters were neat and round.
Maggie tried again. “I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve been in the workforce nearly as long as you’ve been alive. I don’t even know what I know, but I know a lot. Trust me, I’d be an asset. I’m not just saying that.”
Dustin nodded. Jenna tapped her tooth with the end of her pen.
“And I’m very fit. I can run 10K in forty-five to forty-eight minutes.”
Jenna started to scribble again.
“So, you know, I can stand for long periods.”
Dustin and Jenna exchanged a glance. Dustin pushed his chair back.
“Would you like to know what I’d do if a customer was displeased?”
“No, no, that’s good,” Dustin said. “Thank you, Maggie. It’s been great.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” Jenna said airily.
Maggie graced the pair with a full-toothed, sparkly smile. “The pleasure has been all mine,” she said. She stood up and pulled her bag onto her shoulder. She wasn’t going to try to shake their limp hands again.
* * *
—
I could start an etiquette school…? Maggie sent the text to Lacey.
Lacey’s reply rang back in less than a minute. It’s 4 a.m.!
Well what do you think? Maggie hit send.
No!! Jesus. Turning phone off. Now.
Maggie flicked the burning ash off her joint and dropped it in the ashtray. She opened Twitter. Well, that was a stupid idea, she typed, #maggieVandermeer.
It’s not like she really believed she was going to trend.
She set herself up on the floor and executed ten push-ups, careful to keep her shoulders away from her neck and her spine straight. She flipped onto her back. She tightened her core (keeping her spine in a neutral position), then she lifted her legs six inches off the floor and held the position. She should apply for a job at Lululemon, or be a fitness instructor. The baby boomers would relate to her. She let her legs drop. She’d like to see pasty little Jenna pull that off. Or that Dustin; she saw the tobacco stains on his fingers.
She could teach all those fat chefs how to eat properly.
She pushed herself into a back bend. How many thirty-year-olds could do that?
Her kitchen was shining. From this angle she could see the freshly polished, black fridge door. She could start a cleaning business. She let herself back down into a resting position.
Except, ew. There was something about other people’s pubic hair that just made the bile rise in her throat.
Maybe Lacey could get her a bartending job. It would be nice to talk to the people and to help them. Except not really, unless she wanted to kiss her sobriety goodbye.
When the stores opened she would buy a lottery ticket. Why the hell not?
Lacey was awfully quick to judge for someone who, herself, sent unwanted texts in the middle of the night. Maggie sat up, grabbed her phone and texted Lacey: Judge not lest ye be judged. She wondered if Lacey, who had never even set foot inside a church, would know even what she was talking about.
If you know what I mean. Maggie hit send.
Really, Lacey had some nerve. I mean, SRSLY?? Maggie hit send.
You’re turning off your phone??? Maggie was on a tear. She hit send.
Do unto others. Maggie hit send.
If you know what I mean again. Maggie hit send.
A better person would stop texting. Maggie stood up and brushed her hands on her thighs. She was hungry so she poured herself a glass of water. She was exhausted and completely wide awake. Her blood was ringing in her veins. She really shouldn’t have sent those messages.
Mommy loves you sweetie. Maggie hit send.
Don’t ever forget it! Maggie hit send.
But show a little gratitude maybe. Maggie hit send.
I’m not drinking if that’s what you think. Maggie hit send.
When you reach mid-life you can’t sleep any more. Maggie hit send.
A little something to look forward to! :-D Maggie hit send.
Maggie took a photo of her fridge door, her outline reflected in the image. At least my kitchen is clean! She typed under the photo and hit send.
Because she didn’t want Lacey to worry, Maggie texted: Rocking out to Fleetwood Mac!
I guess I’m second hand news too ;-/ Maggie hit send. Hopefully that wasn’t too glum.
Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow! ;^* That was better, Maggie hit send.
Say hi to Dane. Maggie hit send.
Unless Dane was a 1-nighter. Maggie hit send. Jesus, she was tired. And hungry. She grabbed six almonds from the fridge then wiped it free of fingerprints. She lay down on the couch.
Is a 1-night stand even safe? Maggie hit send.
Trust me it’s not. Maggie hit send.
I’m going to try to sleep now. Maggie hit send.
Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t even like me. Maggie hit send.
What if someone breaks in and your phone is turned off?? Maggie hit send.
You shouldn’t just assume everything is fine. Maggie hit send.
I’m talking about you, not me. Maggie hit send.
But your book thing is great! Maggie hit send.
If you need my help with anything just call. Maggie hit send.
But not as soon as you wake up. Maggie hit send.
Because I’m going to go to sleep now. :D For real. Maggie hit send.
So don’t call when you wake up. Maggie hit send.
She turned her face toward the back of the couch. The cat sprang from his chair and curled himself at the end of Maggie’s feet.
She sent her final text of the night: Have a sweet day :-p
Then: @>--- >---
And then: I mean it. Don’t call.
And just in case Lacey would worry she was crazy, Maggie typed her final, final message on her phone’s small screen: It’s all good.
She hit send.
Andrew Hood
Manning
“I’m gonna hit the can like it hit me first,” my mom says. “Man the booth, Pickle.” She squats, ducks under the table, pops back up on the other side, and, jingling her keys, disappears down the aisles of other booths.
“Hit it like it hit me first” is one of my mom’s classic phrases. She’s been using it since I can remember being embarrassed of her. It’s an okay one, as far as go-to phrases go: not quite smart and not quite funny, but just enough of both of those to elicit at least a smirk. Unless you’ve heard the hell out of it, then your mouth screws up another way. “Night, Pickle. I’m gonna hit the hay like it hit me first. Don’t stay up too late.” “Buckle up, Pickle, and let’s hit the road like it hit us first.” “I’m not against you drinking, Pickle, but keep in mind how your dad would hit that bottle like it hit him first.” She’ll be here all week, folks.
Dad’s splitting has inspired a new number in her repertoire. Everything has to be manned all of a sudden. “Man the apartment, Pickle, while I go out for spaghetti sauce.” “Man the car, Pickle, while I run in here for a lotto ticket.” “Man the basketball, Pickle, while I go see if those two black kids want to play two-on-two.” As if this one guy—who was never around much anyway, even when he was around—had his finger stuck into some crack in some hypothetical dam and now that he’s hit the road like it hit him first, someone else has to plug that hole so everything doesn’t just gush and break through and drown everything else. It’s like, “Here, Pickle, man the world while I’m gone, will you?”
While my mom’s hitting the can like it hit her first, this big pile of human being comes up to the booth I’ve been left to man. He’s got this mustache on his face, but it doesn’t look like a mustache he grew. More like he couldn’t grow a beard. What he’s got on his face is how I imagine the mustache on the main character in this book I’m reading for school called A Confederacy of Dunces.
“What have you got?” the pile of human being wants to know. He looks sad about the boxes that we’ve got opened on the table, and a little tired about them. The good burgundy tablecloth that’s been in the family since before Christ was a cowboy does not, as my mom insists, help.
“There’s some baseball,” I tell him. “Some basketball, some hockey. Some of everything.”
“But what have you got?” His eyes look like they’ve been thumbed into his head, like the sunken eyes of a snowman.
“We’ve got what we’ve got,” I tell him.
The pile sighs like air escaping from a chair when it gets sat on. This has to be his first time to this card show, to be coming to our booth, let alone asking us what we’ve got. Every month it’s the same junk collectors and sad sacks and single dads who come, and they all know that we don’t have anything, and that even if we did have anything, we wouldn’t even know we had it. They come to the booth to flirt with Mom, maybe buy a card on the off chance that it might improve their chances, but that’s about it.
The last Sunday of every month my mom and I pay five dollars to set up our pointless booth at The Arena. This place isn’t even really called The Arena, that’s just the name it’s been given. Where the name was supposed to be, there’s just a big blank space. For a while someone had spray painted a weird-looking dick in that spot, but now it’s blank again. This is the hockey rink that Corbet’s OHL team was supposed to kick ass on. I don’t know what goes on, whether they melt the ice or just put a flooring over top of it, but there’s always a wet chill here and that sweet chemical smell that all indoor rinks have, folded into the pungency of locker-room-sweat stink. The team the rink was built for was going to be called The Corbet Combats. Something with a bat was going to be the logo. There was even a competition to design some lame mascot. I don’t know if someone forgot to carry a one or what, but the way the math of it worked out, the town had enough money for an OHL team or for a rink, but not for both. So we got The Arena for a hockey team, but no hockey team. Now The Arena gets rented out for kids’ birthdays, school skating parties, the circus—not the good circus—Neil Diamond that one time, Tom Jones that other, and, every last Sunday of the month, this crap collectors’ convention.
The human pile’s got a shoulder bag, one of those cheapass ones they give away at conventions, and when he adjusts the way it hangs I see that his left hand is a little itty claw. The other one is in okay shape, though something about the little stubby fingers on it makes me think of baby penises. So with his baby penis fingers he goes through every single card in every single box of Dad’s worthless collection. I guess he needs to find out for himself that we have nothing. And I’ve got to stand there like I’m listening to someone tell a joke I’ve heard a million times because this is my booth to man now, my worthless cards to man. And the pile is mine to man now, too.
* * *
—
I get the feeling that in life you’re rarely lucky enough to know just where the shit has come from that gets cut up and thrown by the blades of your fan. But I can tell you that all of this is Ben Rooney’s fault. Ben Rooney is this guy Dad worked nights with at the chainsaw factory who just disappeared one day. Like a bubble that popped, he was there and then he wasn’t. What happened was Ben Rooney sold his lifelong baseball card collection for a million dollars and then hit the road like it had hit him first. A wife and daughter were left behind. Claire Rooney went to the same school as me for a few years, though not when her pop popped. She was that girl who in kindergarten would come in from recess during the winter and, starting with her snowsuit, just take all of her clothes off, all the way down to her pointless pink body and get laughed at. Her pop was never heard from again, though I heard of him all the time, because fucking Ben Rooney became like this big hero for my pop. And that’s the source of this huge load of elephant dook that got chucked at my fan and got sprayed pretty much all over everything.
“I swear to God,” Pop would always say. “A million dollars.” Like swearing to God meant anything. Swearing to God for him was just the same as saying “excuse me” after he’d sneak up on me and belch in my ear.
With dollar signs twinkling in his eyes, Pop started buying baseball cards like rations before a disaster. In his mind, whatever that mind was, this was as good as buying money. Seriously: like buying fucking money. Like he was going out and paying one dollar for ten dollars. That’s what he figured out from that Ben Rooney story. I would never ask my mom what on earth she was doing with such an impressive dope because I have this tickling suspicion that I’m the answer. The other answer is that it takes someone just a bit stupider to be with someone so stupid. So, either way, I just don’t ask.
Instead of playing catch or something with me in the backyard we didn’t have, or taking my mother out to fancy restaurants this town doesn’t have, Pop would be sitting there cross-legged in the basement, unwrapping the cards and stuffing them right into the box, the foil packaging glittering around him like fancy garbage. On the off-chance there would be a hard, dusty blade of gum included, he’d give it to me if I asked before he stuffed it into his own breathing mouth. Card gum you’ve got to incubate and soften in the hot wetness of your mouth before you can even threaten to dream of trying to chew it. But in all that time it takes to get soft, you just realize that you don’t want it anyway.
By the time he popped, like his hero Ben Rooney, Pop had amassed twenty-nine boxes of sports cards. Unlike Ben Rooney, he left all his cards behind when he left. He must have realized what they were really worth. The drool on his pillow on the couch hadn’t even dried when Mom packed up those boxes and spirited them to the city and to the first comics and sports memorabilia store she found in the phonebook.
Pop must not have even looked at the cards. He didn’t care what they were or what they were about. The cards went from package to box untouched, unenjoyed. Just money in the bank. Rudy—the owner of Rudy’s, where we took Pop’s boxes of currency—had to peel the cards off one another. I pretended to browse the stupid store while Mom watched Rudy like a hawk that has no idea what a hawk eats.
Rudy, who was dressed entirely in denim—and I mean entirely: a snap-up denim shirt under a fraying denim jacket covered in buttons of all the major league ball teams, and jeans, and a denim hat from the ’88 Calgary Olympics, and even his beard was that yellow colour that jeans become when they rot—Rudy offered us $300 for all twenty-nine boxes. Mom lost it like the house keys.
She screamed and all the grown men in the store looked up from their comic books. How dare Rudy try to take advantage of a destitute and heartbroken widow who was selling her beloved husband’s beloved collection to afford to take care of her ailing, beloved son, who had contracted AIDS—that’s right! Goddamned fucking AIDS, Rudy!—from the blood transfusion he needed after the car crash that had killed her beloved husband? “Fuck you, Rudy!” Mom yelled, as if her and Rudy went way, way back, and she stormed out. She sat out in the car and left me, goddamned fucking AIDS and all, to lug the twenty-nine boxes from Rudy’s counter back out to the car.
She didn’t say it, but I could tell that Mom, in her heart of hearts—yes, the heart that she has inside of her heart—I could tell that in there she actually believed that after one look at all those boxes, Rudy would open his register and count out one million dollars for her, bill by bill. Like Rudy would take the top off the first box, and this golden glow would bathe him. The heart inside of your heart is always the dumbest. Ask around.
As he stacked the last few boxes into my arms, Rudy, a bit jittery from having been screamed at, gave me a message to give to my mom. The economy of baseball cards, he said, is just like any other economy: it depends on lack. Not many people collected cards in the ’50s, say, or their moms threw all the cards in the trash. The harder a card from the ’50s is to come by, the more some guy who’s stiff for that stuff is willing to cough up for it. When everyone realized how much some people were willing to pay for these useless things, they started holding on to their cards, dreaming of their own million-dollar payoff. But because everyone is collecting now, nothing is rare, and so a collection like Pop’s is barely worth the cardboard it was printed on.
I said thanks to Randy and assured him that I really didn’t have AIDS. “Yet,” I added, and winked, and the look that he gave me said that being nice time was over and now it was time to get the fuck out of his store and leave him to surf online undisturbed for that rare pair denim underwear he needed to complete his look.
I imparted Rudy’s wisdom to my mom on the drive home, but telling my mom anything she doesn’t want to hear is like trying to give a cat a vitamin. Her fuckbag husband’s cards were worth a million dollars and that’s all. The next weekend we had a booth at the weird-looking dick-rink. And that was what? A year or so ago?
This book I’m reading right now was written by this guy who killed himself after no one wanted to read his book. His mom found the manuscript in a drawer after this guy hooked a hose to the ass of his car and she started insisting that it was the best thing anyone had ever written. Luck had it that the book was awesome, but I wonder if this guy’s crazy old mom ever actually read the thing, like whether or not she just took the thing out of his drawer and hung it up on the fridge with an A+ on it. Whatever it was that was his, it was the best thing ever because her dead son had written it. You can never tell with crazy women what the value of anything they’re trying to sell you is. But I kind of get the feeling that it’s the crazy women that always get left to man the things that men leave behind, whatever the things are worth.
