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A SICK LITTLE SARCASTIC BLOOMING FLOWER OF LOVE, REVENGE, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN. |
| GINGER Don’t worry, he didn’t shoot anyone, the gun wasn’t even loaded; It’s just how Bruce handles being backed in a corner. The thing that blew me away was the words that came out of his mouth. They were the most honest and profound words I have ever heard Bruce speak; You should have seen the looks. Cindy was shocked; Dippenhammer looked even more shocked; I about fell off my chair. I don’t even remember the details. All I can say was that it led to Bruce and Cindy making out in the back seat of his cop car, in the middle of the parking lot. I decided that I would walk instead of wait. Later, Bruce will recommend that I get counseling, I know it. I spend the rest of the day going back and forth between a hospital and a nursing home. I play chess with George and lose at bingo with Homer. I eat prunes with Susan and listen to Scooter tell me about how his wife becoming a lesbian sixteen times. Scooter has Alzheimer's. George had a policy but it lapsed. Scooter had one when his wife was straight, then he let it go after that. My only prospect at the nursing home was Susan but she was with a very private, local company who knew of me, and didn’t like the trouble I’ve caused them in the past. So, no luck there. At the hospital, I bring flowers to Linda, and watch the game with Bob. Sharon has a disease we both can’t pronounce and she thinks it’s very kind of me to pay the bills. But she says she loves her husband, Jeff, and she wants him to have the life insurance money if she dies. I show her pictures that my friend Tommy took of Jeff cheating on her with her sister; no one has ever signed up faster. To contrary belief I actually like these dying people. I like them more than I do most. I am their hero; they are my best friends with countdowns. I am their last hope. And you know what? Even if in the end, if all that’s left of them is the money, it was still a good friendship. I have a soul, but sometimes I can’t feel it. The old ones are always inviting. They have great inappropriate jokes, and the most wonderful, terrible, bloody stories. Even though half of them are made up, they make me feel good. It’s like bonding with the main character of a really sad movie. You only see the depressing scenes and they tell you their life story in the most passionate way possible, then it’s over. The credits roll and you want to go back and watch it over and over again, but you can’t, and instead of paying seven fifty, you get about half a million for watching. Even though it was a good day, I feel sad tonight, and a little jealous. Bruce may be an idiot but at least he had someone to fight for whose death doesn’t pay his bills. You live in my world for a while, you start to become numb. You have a hard time caring, I mean really caring. Having a real relationship seems like the farthest thing away. Just look at Cassie; she lasted less than two months and now I am using her for a fix. I need to watch another soap tonight. We were even engaged, I mean, I think maybe I need to do some serious self inventory. Give me something more than a million dollar payout. Something I can burn in my heart for, something with more worth. Give me someone I can fall in love with. I need someone that will make me cry when I walk in on her cheating on me. I want someone who can make me hurt more than my spanish soaps do. That would be nice. You know, when I think about love, the true kind, I can’t help but think that I might never get it. Let’s look a little closer at me. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who was good at figuring people out. Someone good at calculating behavior and situations, that’s how I win. But for a long time now, I’ve found myself at a dead end with my own situation. Every time I run it, I can’t see an out. I’ve hurt too many people and have made too much money to get away with it. I’ve had people try and tap my phone and bug my house; people gun me down in the street, kidnap me, and send me nasty threatening letters. This one lady tried to strangle me at a bar on top of a pool table I have come to realize that no matter what I do, no matter who I fall in love with, my life cannot have a happy ending. It just doesn’t work. My story is destined to be a ferociously tragic tale. It will be a terrible young poetic death, that’s not going to be very poetic to anyone but me. Part of me knows this and accepts it. Part of me fights this thought at every turn. I stare straight up at the enormous skyscraper that is my home. I can see my portion of gold windows. I wonder if Cassie has the info about Sheila yet. If she could afford cigarettes, she should be able to buy a phone, don’t you think? I imagine her breaking in and stealing my valuables, then selling them to the nearest pawn shop instead. I wonder if she ate all those cookies. I wonder if Frenchy is back. Something in me doesn't want to go up anymore. I’m tired, too tired. This whole building looks down on me like a festering nest of disease, I wish it would burn. I turn to leave and she hits me. Well, more like I hit her, somehow. Her hot cocoa spills all over her white blouse and she takes in a deep shocking gasp of air. “I am so sorry,” I say. She tries to brush some of it off with no luck. “I am so sorry.” “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” “Here, I’m...” I start to wipe off the front of her shirt for her. “Whoa, there pal,” she says and backs away abruptly. I pull my hands away. I’m a kid that just touched a hot stove for the first time. Embarrassed I apologize again, “I live right here, I could go get you a shirt.” “No, I’m okay.” “Please, I feel so bad,” I say. “Lets go get you cleaned up.” She looks at me, and my eyes grow huge. I’ve met beautiful women; she wasn’t like them. She is the kind of beautiful you hate the second you meet because it breaks your heart to know that anyone you meet after her is going to be less than second rate. Tan, dark wavy hair. Emerald eyes that make me think of mint chocolate ice cream. I don’t even like ice cream but it sounds good looking at her. She says, “No, I’ll be fine.” She shakes her shirt and lets out an annoyed breath. She turns the way runway models do and starts walking away like a pro. Hips, legs, should-blades. Dripping with water and sugar. I almost let her go because I am so suddenly into watching her. “C’mon, I’ve got lots of women's clothing,” I shout; maybe not the most manly thing to say. She turns and looks at me funny. I smile again. Now she is walking back. Oh, now I get the front view; she needs a red carpet. Her feet pound the ground the way black smiths beat their swords into works of killing, slicing art. Sparks fly. I am so tempted to ask her to walk away and come back for a repeat. “Okay, fine...thanks, I guess.” She whispers the ‘I guess’ part. “Yah?” “I’ll wait right here,” she says. “You’ll wait? Are you sure you don’t want to come up?” She looks at her watch then back at me, I took this as a sign to hurry. I run to the elevator as fast as I can, of course Sheila Perkins just happens to be entering the nearest one. Pink knitted sweater, walker. She oozes the smell of cheap roses and baby powder. Half of me wants to take to the stairs, but I don’t. She gives me a cold look and a grunt. “Hi, Sheila, how are you this evening?” I ask, rolling up and bouncing up on the balls of my feet. Grunt. I’m finger punching my number. On the list of a billion things we as human being can’t control, elevator speed seems to be one that we always forget. “Good night Miss Perkins.” Grunt. Oh, I forgot about Cassie. She is sitting outside my solid hickory door with a cigarette hanging out of her greasy lips, working up a cloud of white smoke on the ceiling. “About time,” she says. I need to think fast. “No, Cassie, now’s not a good time.” She looks offended and beaten. “Look, Charlie. I sat with her, got the info, now just give me the keys to that place and I’ll get out of your way.” I look down at the papers. Birthday, social security number, favorite colors. “Where’s the info on her family? Insurance? Relationships with frie...you know what, I can’t deal with you right now. Go, stay another night, get the right stuff and you can have what ever you want.” “Charlie!” “What?” She doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me and shakes her head. She is a volcano, plugged with what ever it takes to stay alive. “Can I eat something? All the lady had in her fridge was soy milk and expired cottage cheese. And can I at least have a shower? I haven’t had one in...” “No showers, just, here.” I throw her an apple. I run to one of my walk in closets, the one I let Cassie use. I grab the first thing that is shirt like and tear it off the hanger. It goes spinning around the rack and lands on the floor. She yells, “that’s my shirt! What are you doing with my shirt?” As she is screaming this and a string of profane phrases I am prodding her out of the door again. I’m locking it behind me and giving her some good strong encouragement to not come anywhere near my apartment tonight. The elevator ride down seemed even longer. I am actually surprised to see her still standing there. “I’m Charlie by the way, Charlie Heart,” She takes the shirt and we shake hands. “Ginger Jainkins,” she says softly Then she kind of smiles. Jainkins? Why does that name sound familiar to me? “Well, thank you,” she says. It’s a purple t-shirt with lips embroidered on the bottom. I don’t realize how ugly it is until she holds it up to her. “There is a restaurant across the street here, I’ll just go change in there. um...” “Yah, hey, why don’t you let me buy you a drink or something, to say sorry?” She takes in a deep breath and looks at me. Her eyes feel like they are trying to see through me. Her pupils move back and forth and one side of her lips is lifted into sort of a forced fake smile. I don’t mind it. Sure I’m a little forward but can you blame me? She says, “You just don’t give up do you?” I say, “Well, I just really want to make sure I get my favorite shirt back.” Now she is smiling a little more. “I thought you were kidding. You really do own woman’s clothing. Are they your sister’s? Girlfriends? Are you a Cross dresser?” I smirk, “No, I uh... rescued that from a burning house.” I think of Cassie grabbing her cigarettes and a handful of clothes. Her eyebrow lifts. “Long story,” I say. Too many drinks of what ever and a late night snack of I don’t care later, I am actually kind of enjoying myself. Despite her dry attempts to make it seem like she’s bored, I can tell she is too. Tonight I’m not thinking about money. Tonight I’m a preteen at summer camp, I’m a miner finding a rare precious stone. “So tell me about yourself, Ginger, what do you do?” She hesitates, “I work at nuclear chemical plant.” “Really? What do you do there, blow stuff up?” She shrugs, “I sit in a chair all day and stare at a computer,” she says flatly. “Lots of fun, you could come by and push buttons with me one day.” “I would love to push buttons with you. She shrugs again and raises an eyebrow. We don’t say anything for a moment,. She just looks at me, a flat expression. “So what do you do, Charlie?” “Me, I’m a...” I have to think for a second. What do I do? I lie, “I’m an inventor.” “Oh, yeah, what of?” “Lots of stuff.” “Okay...” “But it’s all up in my place, want to go see?” She looks at me suspiciously. “Is that your line?” “My line?” “I’ll show you if you come to my place; That’s cute, Charlie.” I can’t help it, this makes me laugh. “Sound responsive hardware,” I say. She looks confused but interested. “Just about everything in my house responds to my voice. They turn off, on, whatever. I can get a full orchestra of machines running just by telling them to.” I am starting to feel the effects of the alcohol really kicking in now. I ramble when Im drunk. “Impressive,” she says, but she doesn’t act all that impressed. She says the word with sort of a ‘making fun of me and my big boy toys,’ connotation. “Thanks.” The conversation kind of takes a downslide after that. We both start looking around. Tapping the table, clearing our throats, smiling awkwardly. Then out of nowhere she says, “Alright.” “Alright what?” “Alright, I’ll go see your little inventions.” This takes me big complete surprise. She tells me she’s got nothing to do the rest of the night anyways. Then she asks if I have any bleach for her shirt. “I could just toss it in the washer. It’s voice responsive too, you could tell it to start if you want to.” Ginger fakes a surprised little kid face. A Christmas morning face on a sarcastic level. “Really? Oh, I have to see this now.” Usually, when I bring a woman home she says: ‘wow’ or ‘nice house,’ but not Ginger. This makes me like her a little bit more. She walks in like she owns the place. I ask, “You ever heard of the clap clap light?” She was about to respond when I cut her off. “Lights on” I said. They popped on. “Who needs clapping? She raises an eyebrow. “Dishwasher on,” it turns on. “Ceiling fan on,” it turns on. “Disco ball, on.” Nothing happened. I didn’t say that, she said that. But now that I was drunk enough to feel like I had seriously disappointed, nothing was going to stop me from installing one. The truth was I had invested a lot of money in my friends voice control company, so he gave me a lot of free stuff. His name was Tommy Lamar, the same Tommy that took those photos of Sharon's husband cheating on her while she was in the hospital so I could get her to write her policy over. I had always wanted to be an inventor like Tommy Lamar was. I guess she was a rambler too. The more she talked, the harder it got for me to concentrate on what she saying. Her nose would scrunch up when she spoke certain vowels, and she involuntarily did this little gesture with her eyebrow and lip when she was saying something that she felt passionate about. So cute. She puts me in the mood for holding kittens or plucking dandelions. Tonight I feel vulnerable. Tonight I don’t feel alone. I lie some more. “I’m even working on voice automation for the human body!” She looks at me, she doesn’t have to ask why, it was all over her face. I don’t know why I tell her all these things, I can tell she doesn’t care. I feel like I’m in high school, trying desperately to impress my hot english teacher. That feeling, mixed with Christmas. “Just think,” I say. “You can’t sleep. You are so tired and you know you have to wake up early for work tomorrow. So you say to yourself ‘go to sleep’. I snap and she blinks. “Just as you say it a small little device in your brain releases natural body chemicals to make you slip away. Genius right? “Sounds a little risky,” she says. Tommy told me about that one last week. He projects it will be ready for 2030. “How ‘bout implanted walkie talkies and tracking devices? No more phones or shouting across the room. I actually own a whole set of those. You get one little device slipped under your skin in your jaw, right here,” I point to a place under my right ear. She smiles a soft tired smile and yawns. Now I’m a little too drunk. I start talking about my tampon dispenser that senses when someone in the room is ovulating; thats some high tech stuff. After that she tells me she should probably start getting home now. It’s one a.m... I ask her to stay, but she wont. I beg her to let me take her home in my voice automated Cadillac XLR. We both knew that wasn’t a good idea. So I call her a cab. Before she leaves she thanks me for the shirt and invites me to something called the ‘Realization Seminar.’ She hands me a flyer from her purse. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. For a second I could feel again. For a second I felt like a lead actor in one of those horrible, happy ending, romantic comedies from the 1980s where Tina Turner sings over the end credits and the song has nothing to do with the movie. I don’t want to sleep, but the alcohol wants me to. I finally slip away but only for a bit. There is a knock on the door, it’s Cassie. She waves some papers at me through the spy glass. “About time,” she says as she marches in. “That lady made me sleep next to her in a plastic chair all night, again. I am not going back there. Now give me those keys and an address. I smile. “What, you don’t want to stay for breakfast?” She throws the stack of papers with hand written notes at me. “I want that shirt back,” she says. “I’ll tell the movers you are coming.” |
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