Happy That It's Not True (10 page)

              The DJ said something she couldn’t hear.

              “What?”

              “He’s getting away!  Your guy just walked out the door.”

Chapter Ten

            
 
Outside, Cara stood immobile on the sidewalk like she was on a pier, scanning the horizon, hoping for something foretelling or some insight that would save the evening from a dreadful ending—Matt, nowhere to be seen—completely at a loss as to what to do next.

              “Hey Cara.”

              Cara looked behind and down to the grass to the source of the voice.  “Matt, is that you?”

              “Yeah,” came the tired yet friendly reply.

              Cara moved closer to see Matt lying with his back on the grass, one forearm over the lower half of his head, his shirt absorbing starlight.

              “Are you okay?”

              “No, not really,” he whispered.

              “What’s wrong—want to talk?”             

              “I’d like that,” he said, lifting his arm to his forehead.

              Cara smiled, dropped down and sat cross-legged.

              “Lay back—I’m looking at the stars—they’re kinda bright tonight.”

              “All right.”  Cara dropped down next to Matt, their two bodies arranged like parallel sunbathers. 

              Matt searched the stars for answers, but they remained elusive.

              “So what’s going on?” Cara said.

              She looked at his profile, not the stars.  Matt squinted his eyes with reluctance and breathed out slowly.

              “Sheryl and I broke up tonight.”             

              “I’m so sorry.”

              “Sheryl was here earlier—and some stuff happened.”

              “What happened?”  It’s okay to say she’s friggin nuts—it’s okay, you can say she’s friggin nuts.  She’s much more nuts than me.

              Matt sighed and shook his head.  “Oh, I just want to forget about it.”

              “Sorry.”

              “You know, I think—we’re both kinda normal.  Normal people attract unbalanced people.  Do you attract a lot of unstable people?”

              “Yes, I do,” Cara laughed.

              “And the timing is always so messed up.  By the time I get over this, if I were to ask someone like you out, you’ll be the one suffering with relationship problems.”

              “You think?  So what you’re saying is that soul mates are really star-crossed lovers?”

              “I hope I’m wrong.  God would be a sadist if that were true.”

              “Yeah, you can’t think like that.”

              “How are your mom and dad?”

              “Dad is heading back to Afghanistan soon, and Mom is in the hospital—my stepfather, Luciano, beat her up.”

              “Oh—I’m sorry to hear that.”

              “So you’re right about how normal people attract unstable people.”

              “Is your mom gonna be okay?”

              “Yeah, the doctor says she’ll get better.”

              They both stared at the blinking red and blue lights in the sky, Cara swatting what felt like a mosquito crawling on her arm, Matt’s presence, a distracting camphor.  

              “My Dad felt bad about what happened to your family.  He would’ve let you guys stay with us, if you had only said something.”

              “That was a long time ago.”

              “It wasn’t the same after your family left.  The new neighbors butchered the yard and cut down all the trees.  And you and your brother were so cute.  And look at you now—a beautiful woman.  You’re actually making me very nervous.”

              “Stop it,” Cara laughed.

              Matt turned his head towards Cara.  Their faces were close together—their lips only a few inches apart.  Matt seemed somehow transfigured, the night having a strange effect on him.  Cara studied the bluish shapes in his irises, amazed at how much color she could see in the dark.  Her mouth felt warm, which made her want to push her lips against his.  The door was open for only a moment longer and then it closed.  Matt stood up, patting dry grass off his clothes and reaching down to Cara.

              “Let me help you up.”  Matt gently pulled Cara up to her feet and hugged her.  “Thanks so much for talking to me.”

              “You’re leaving?”

              “Yeah.”

              “Keep in touch Matt, I’ll be checking up on you online.”

              “Okay—now I better get on with the rest of my life—going home—I’m so tired.  Besides—no one wants to see a man cry. Good night Cara.”

              “Good night Matt.”

              As Matt walked across the street to find his car, he couldn’t see Cara, behind him, keeling over. 

...

              A short while later, Cara paid a toll at the Rickenbacker Causeway and drove along a tall bridge toward the Atlantic Ocean.  Eventually, she parked her car on a small island overlooking Biscayne Bay and downtown Miami—the city lit up with countless bright windows.  It was the reflections in the bay that she wanted to see most.  Blue lights seemed to have a reddish tint in the water.  Purples became green.  Waves caused striped reflections to squiggle with interesting patterns.  Some of the patterns reminded her of Matt’s eyes, which had taunted her all evening.  She searched for the exact colors and shapes, but the water was ever changing, defying her meager longings.

              No one wants to see a man cry.  She could still hear his voice echoing in her mind.  If only she had responded with something clever.  I know all about crying—I’ll cry with you—we can cry together until the sun comes up...Oh—I’m such a drama queen—he would think I was just as nuts as Sheryl.  He’s a guy—I’d scare him away with such talk.  I’ll be checking up on you online?  My God, I can’t believe I said that.  I sound like a crazed stalker.  I am a crazed stalker...

...

              On the edifice of the strip mall were bright green neon letters, powerful enough to compete with the afternoon sunlight.  Another sign hung on a white curtained window: OPEN, in red letters inside a blue swirl.  Oh—Cookie Ben’s, Alex salivated at the sight.

              In the dark glass of the door he saw a perfect reflection of the parking lot, and then of himself.  He tried to minimize the disappointment of seeing his XXL t-shirt being stretched tight by his flaccid midsection. 

              In Alex’s mind, Cookie Benito’s Deli and Sub Shop was the proverbial whore of Babylon.  It seemed that the aroma had led him here from miles away on a boring Sunday afternoon.  So great were her powers that Alex eyed the stainless steel appliances, wishing he could touch them—get close enough to breath in whatever essence caused the harlot to speak, to advertise for a good ol’ time. 

              A man in a white shirt and black apron looked at Alex through droopy eyelids.  Was he tired or impatient or perhaps judging Alex for his frequent visits?  He saw Alex looking back at him and averted his eyes, shaking a cleaver in a water container.  “What can I get you today?”

              “Um—I’ll have the double meatball—with bacon—fifteen inch sub with extra provolone cheese—and onions and mushrooms.”

              “Sauté the mushrooms and onions, right?”

              “Yeah, thanks.”

              The man threw the mushrooms and onions on a large griddle before starting the sandwich.  Alex was torn between hunger and self-loathing.  He had promised himself that he would diet today—and he did, but eating small amounts of food all morning had driven his appetite to a lustful, unmanageable level.  Eat half now, half for dinner—yeah that’s what I’ll do—it’s a big sub—half will fill me.  The scent of provolone made his mouth water.  Saucy, steamy meatballs were sprawled out on bread without the tenderness required for such high art.  It was all so cheap, degrading, and yet awe-inspiring.

              “What would you like on that?”

              “Lettuce-pickle-tomatoes-green pepper-olives—um—salt-pepper-oil and vinegar...”

              What am I doing?  I wonder how many calories are in this thing.

              Alex nervously lifted his phone and texted his favorite toll-free mobile answers service:  How many calories in a meatball sub?

              Onions and mushrooms softly fell on the lush, succulent feast, which he could no longer look at—Alex having succumbed completely to the tormentor.  He noticed one-pound bags of M&M’s on a shelf next to the chips.  Why were they selling these at Cookie-Benito’s?  I’ll eat my half sub, and then have a few.  I’ll count them out—five or ten.  That’s what I’ll do from now on—portion control—I’ll eat only part of something and then save the rest for later.  I bet I can make that one-pound bag last for a month. 

              “You want a value-meal?”

              “No thanks.”  Don’t want a bag of chips—on a diet, Alex thought.

              “Here or to go?”

              “Here—I’ll have a bag of M&M’s and a soda.”

              “One pounder?”  The man’s droopy eyes could have been astonished, or simply condemning, but very definitely not approving.

              Alex paid for his lunch and sat down by himself to eat, placing a glossy Japanese graphic novel, iPod Touch and phone next to the plastic tray to visually enhance the eating experience.  He heard his ring tone and checked his phone.  The mobile answers service had returned his text message:  A plain 12-inch meatball sub has 1,000 calories. 

              A thousand calories—and that was only a regular meatball sub.  Add extra meatballs, extra three inches, bacon and cheese—can’t think about it—can’t.  Alex unwrapped his sandwich—undressing the vamp.  The sharp, biting, salty heaven filled his being.  He thought a moment about flipping the pages of his manga, but chose instead to devote his heart and soul to conquest and delight. 

              It seemed like it only took a few bites to eat half the sandwich.  Alex was shocked to discover that he was still hungry, the other half waiting for him, unwilling to be put away and saved for dinner—still hot and fresh.  It had been a mistake to order a high-calorie sub—tomorrow was another day—I’ll begin the diet tomorrow.  He tasted the second half, determined to savor every morsel. 

              Seated a table away were a man and his son of about ten who was wearing a soccer uniform.  “You shouldn’t say that,” said the father.

              “But it’s true—he’s not playing his position right,” the boy said.

              “Even if it’s true, you don’t say it.”

              “I’ll tell him that I was once terrible and pitiful, and I practiced real hard and got better.”

              “You can’t say that either.  Remember, people can read into your thoughts.  People will know what you’re actually thinking and what your true motivation is—remember that,” the father said. 

              For Alex, the discussion was far more stimulating than the sub.  He could imagine the kind of life the boy led.  Soccer and karate or clarinet lessons, or maybe scouting, earning a million merit badges.  No doubt, it all starts with a good father.  With a good father, the boy will understand all the mysteries of life at a young age.  Of course, Alex had Wikipedia, but wisdom?  Where would wisdom come from?  The war had taken Dad away for most of his life—and when he was back from Afghanistan, it sometimes felt as though he wasn’t all there—something he had never dared to say aloud and rarely admitted to himself. 

              People—reading into your thoughts—maybe it’s better to never say anything at all.  Could the man preparing my sub read my mind?  Can the entire world tell that there is something wrong with me?   

              An entire fifteen inch sub—gone.  Gone.  Alex analyzed the cost versus benefit and concluded that yes, it was delicious, but nothing lasting remained to bring joy to his life.  He had failed again—Cookie Benito’s was simply too tempting—he would have to think hard about this—come up with a different plan.

...

              On the third floor of the hospital, Adriana looked up out of one eye at the two nurses.  They had stopped by to see her before starting their night shifts.  Adriana’s left eye was swollen shut—her nose and chin bandaged—her lips also swollen and bluish.  She didn’t know whether to be happy or embarrassed to have visitors.

              “Hey sweetness, how are you today?”  Her friend knew how to comfort people with just the tone of her voice.

              “I’ll be going home soon—you know it’s not so bad—we’re used to seeing a lot worse,” Adriana attempted to form a smile.

              “You’re lucky to be alive,” said a Filipino nurse.

              “My kids were here last night,” Adriana said.