Cartilage and Skin (18 page)

“I don't understand what's this all about,” Kyle said, still looking out the window. “He knew I had my doctor's appointment this morning.”

“I don't think that's the point. It wouldn't matter so much if you hadn't missed so many days lately,” the man said. “You should've come in afterwards.”

“Is that why you're here?”

“He didn't send me, if that's what you mean.” The man was now fingering his cap. “I was worried that you might've gotten bad news today. That's all.”

“No, my PSA is fine. The doctor says I'm in good shape.”

“You've got it beat then. That's good.” The man stood up and put his cap on, but he didn't advance.

“You've never got it beat. It could come back tomorrow. And then they'll want to take off some more of my cock.”

The man grew still, uneasy, as if he didn't know if he should move or even look at anything.

Kyle was holding the curtain to the side. He didn't turn to face the man.

“About the other thing,” the man began to say.

“What other thing?”

“Missing days at work.”

“Ah hah,” Kyle said, almost happily. “You are his messenger.”

“I'm your friend. That's all.”

“Tell him—”

“I'm not going to tell him anything,” the man said. “I'm telling you.”

Kyle suddenly let go of the curtain and turned around. He seemed half-startled, half-amused.

“The little bastard is passing by again. See,” Kyle said, pulling the curtain aside. “There he goes.”

The man stepped forward, but he didn't seem concerned with looking outside.

“I've got to get back to work,” the man said.

“These kids keep riding their bikes past my house. Like I'm a freak show. They think I'm crazy.”

“Nobody thinks anything.”

“You weren't here when the police were poking around in my house and digging through my garbage. Half a dozen boys sat across the street watching, waiting for the men to carry out bodies or something. One of them, this little prick, told the police that I was all crazy and distraught when he shoveled my driveway that night.” Kyle smiled, lowering the curtain again. “That was his word: ‘distraught.' When do kids use a word like that? This little prick goes by my house all day long, like he's a detective or something, because he got to say that I was ‘distraught' in front of the police.”

“Anyone would've been distraught,” the man said as he moved toward the front door.

Kyle nodded slowly, staring vaguely at the man's chest. He appeared to be contemplating the word anew.

“Maybe working again would be good for you,” the man said. “It's better than staring out the window all day.”

Still nodding, Kyle steadied his gaze upon the man's eyes.

“Okay,” the man said. He opened the door and let in the cold air. “I'll see you Monday.”

When the man departed, Kyle went to the window and watched him climb into his van and drive away. Long after the man had left, Kyle continued to stand at the window, with his palm resting flat upon the pane and his forearm holding the curtain aside. He stared blankly. He was dressed in a white tee-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. His hair was a bit disheveled. Eventually, he lifted his hand from the glass, and as the curtain fell, he receded back into the house, taking slow steps. He seemed to be moving aimlessly, even as he entered the kitchen and began to fix himself a tall glass of cranberry juice and vodka. He didn't bother to stir it. He wandered from room to room, occasionally stopping at one object or another, such as a soup can filled with pens or a mess of sneakers in the hall closet. He would remain fixated for a while and then move on. He carried his drink with him, and at the instant he finished it, he happened to be back in the kitchen, as if the end of his listless tour of the house coincided exactly with the moment he needed to refill his glass. He lingered in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, until the dusk began to creep through the bay window. He moved again, and this time his wandering brought him to the upstairs bathroom. He set the glass on the back lid of the toilet and started to undress. Only when he was completely naked did his expression change; his eyes, which had been fixed in a bland, drowsy gaze, now became glazed. He seemed to be on the brink of crying, but once he stepped into the shower, if any tears were shed, they were lost in the water.

The shower appeared to revive him a little. He dressed himself in a pair of brown slacks and a button-down shirt, and after combing his hair, he even put a dab of cologne at the hollow of his throat and on the front of each wrist. He only had two sports coats in the bedroom closet, one black and the other a dark, murky brown, which he selected and hung over the edge of the crib. He checked his appearance in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Then he put on the sports coat and looked at himself again. He started toward the hallway, yet suddenly stopped and went back to the bathroom. He found his drink on the toilet. He stood in one spot in the bathroom until he finished the drink; lastly, he brushed his teeth.

Despite the cold, he left the house without an overcoat and walked toward a small detached garage at the end of the driveway. Firewood, covered with ice and snow, was stacked against the outside wall. A path worn by footsteps through the snow led to a side door. Kyle entered the garage and locked the door behind him. In the dark, he walked across an empty parking space, got into an old Honda Civic, started the car, and got out again. He placed a milkcrate in the empty parking spot, as if he intended to sit down, but he then just stood there. The dome light from the idling car cast low, broken shadows across the concrete floor and sent vague, diffuse light up into the ceiling. Kyle seemed frozen, confused, on the brink of tears again, as if by stepping upon the empty parking space he'd awoken something inside of himself that unnerved him. But whatever spell held him, he cast it off with a sudden lifting of his gaze and a tiny sniffle. Inside the car again, he pressed the garage door opener attached to the visor. As the door creaked and chugged its way up the tracks, the exhaust fumes dissipated into the crisp night air.

He drove along quiet suburban streets but soon entered the business section of a small town. Above the streetlights and buildings, the dark sky was full and depthless and blank. He parked beside the curb and then walked along the sidewalk. Most of the storefronts were shut down, but several people lingered under an awning up ahead. In the glow of greenish light, a thin girl was leaning against a man. She kept reaching for his cigarette, and he kept holding it out of her reach. Finally, she placed both of her palms on his chest, as if she'd been defeated and now surrendered herself to him. As Kyle approached them, he watched the couple with a subtle, averted gaze. He opened the door and slipped into the building as though he feared they might attack him. The people on the sidewalk, however, paid no attention to him.

Inside, the bar was shaped like a horseshoe, and tall, round tables lined the walls. People—a mostly younger crowd—cluttered together. Gray, hazy smoke floated above their heads. Although everyone appeared engaged with one another, the scene was like an elaborate pantomime as the loud music seemed to render them all mute and silly. Kyle looked for a stool at the bar, but quickly gave up and began to press his way across the room. He descended three steps into another room, which was quieter. People sat at tables littered with empty bottles and glasses. No sooner than Kyle found a seat at a corner table, a slight waitress, with her midriff exposed, came up and asked him what he would like to drink. He froze for a second, as if surprised that someone had spoken to him.

“Vodka and tonic,” he said.

“House okay?”

“Sure.” He smiled at her, but she left without looking at him.

A young man carrying a black bus box began to clear off Kyle's table.

“This yours?” he asked several times.

Still smiling, Kyle responded “No” each time and watched the young man as if he were the entertainment.

Shortly, the waitress brought him his drink and offered to start him a tab.

“Sure,” he said.

He sat back, resting one arm on the table and the other on the wide chair rail. Although the room was open and square—completely exposed in a glance—oval security mirrors were perched in each corner of the ceiling. The floor was made of hardwood. On some evenings, the tables and chairs might have been carted away and the room used for dancing; or more likely, it had been used for dancing in the past, before the bar area had expanded and took over the space.

Sitting behind Kyle was a young man in a sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Occasionally, when he spoke to his friends, he leaned back in his chair and lightly bumped Kyle. This gesture apparently gave Kyle the excuse to glance at their table and grin. Across the table sat another young man and a girl who seemed too young to be in a bar. Her hand rested partly upon his forearm, a lover's subtle touch. She was the only one to notice Kyle's interest in their group. She smiled at him a few times, but then simply began to lower her eyes whenever she caught his gaze. By the time Kyle finished his second drink, he sat turned around in his seat, like a member of their table.

They appeared to be college students, perhaps studying philosophy, theology, or literature, because their conversation skirted rapidly over several related and bleak topics.

The young man in the sweater mentioned
The Book of Job
, and Kyle began to smile and nod, evidently appreciative of this new reference.

“At least, he had a shard of pottery to scratch his sores,” the man said.

“Yes,” Kyle said suddenly. “That's why his wife told him to curse God and die.”

Everyone looked at him now.

“What's that?” the student asked.

“Because he probably had a boil on the tip of his cock. A woman needs to be fucked, you know.”

“No doubt.” The other young man, the boyfriend, raised his glass and drank, to toast Kyle's comment.

“And that's why the whole thing is hog shit,” Kyle said, leaning his arm on their table.

“Watch it, chief,” the first student said as he slid his chair away from Kyle. Even so, the young man seemed mildly amused.

“God told Satan, ‘Do whatever you want; just don't kill him.' Right. See?” Kyle said. He focused his eyes mainly on the young girl. “So Satan put a boil on his cock, but he didn't neuter Job because later on Job was able to have another family. See. He had hope because he still had juice in his ball sack.”

“Alright now.” The young man in the sweater gently started to lift Kyle from the table by the shoulders of his sports coat. “You made your point.”

“But do you get it?” Kyle asked quickly. “It wasn't a good test.”

“I've read Hemingway too.” The young man turned around, to dismiss Kyle.

“Fuck Hemingway,” Kyle blurted.

“Relax, chief.”

“What did I tell you?” the boyfriend said. “You can't talk religion.” There was something pleasant in his smooth face. He had a sort of leisurely charm, a nonchalance that seemed well-adapted to making people feel comfortable.

Kyle suddenly glared at him and said, “It's not just talk; that's why.”

“You're a well of wisdom,” the boyfriend responded, which Kyle appeared to regard as an insult.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

But then the waitress returned, and Kyle turned back to his own table and ordered another drink.

“And give me their bill.”

“Don't do that,” the girl said, speaking for the first time; she was looking up at the waitress.

“Sure,” Kyle said. He also addressed the waitress. “I got it.”

“No, he doesn't,” the girl said.

Without a word, the waitress walked away, obviously not caring one way or the other.

Kyle muttered something.

“Watch it, chief,” the first young man said quickly.

Kyle sat and brooded. Although his glass was empty, save for the ice and a lemon wedge, he held it in both hands.

“He's right, though,” the boyfriend said. “It's an existential problem. ‘Repent,' Christ said when He was questioned about suffering, just as God told Job. The answer to the problem of pain is a call to action, a way of living, a practice—not just a bunch of talk.”

“Talk, talk, talk,” Kyle said into his glass.

“Words, words, words,” the student responded in an English accent, and the girl giggled now, as if her lover were not only charming but clever and witty too.

Apparently bemused, Kyle looked at the group as though they were offensive and gross, a glistening knot of cartilage and skin.

“Go eat your white bread,” Kyle said, and they laughed.

“It's past your curfew,” he added.

“It's past your limit,” the student responded. The girl was watching him; she seemed to adore the very sound of his voice.

Kyle's face contorted. If he at first loathed the group because they had shut him out, now it was plainly the girl's affection that further stirred up his disgust. Kyle turned his gaze from her to the smoothfaced young man.

“Go fuck your whore.” He snarled.

Their laughter and grins ceased at once.

“Excuse me.” The boyfriend started to get out of his seat as the girl clutched his arm. “You've got a problem.”

“Stop,” the girl said. “He's drunk.”

The young man stared steadily at Kyle, who suddenly seemed very calm, as if he were now a mere observant and the situation had nothing at all to do with him.

“You've got a problem,” the boyfriend repeated.

“Relax, chief,” the other one said, even though Kyle was relaxed. In a quirky gesture, the young man rolled down the sleeves of his sweater and then pushed them back up again. He was the most agitated, unsettled; his friend stood rigidly poised before the table.