He
sat on the edge of the couch. He could hear the urgent thump thump
thump of his neighbor upstairs as she chased her son across the
floor. The hockey game on the television bored him.
“I
need to go to the grocery store, “ he thought as he collected his
keys off the kitchen counter.
One
lap around the perimeter of the store was 102 steps. He was about to
count the steps up and down each aisle when he remembered why he had
left the couch and come to store in the first place.
“I
need dish soap, “ he reminded himself silently as he walked off to
locate the proper aisle.
Perusing
his choices, he heard footsteps behind him, but ignored them. Why did
there have to be so many choices? Did clean plates really need to be
lemon fresh, and if so, why did that cost more? Shouldn't clean be
enough? All he wanted were clean plates ready to be sullied anew with
delicious concoctions. That seemed like enough to him. There were too
many choices. Shouldn't clean be enough?
A
man cleared his throat behind him. He turned to look and saw that a
female police officer was standing behind a man wearing a button down
shirt with the store's logo embroidered on the chest, right above the
heart. The man looked nervous. The officer wore no expression.
“Excuse
me sir, “ said the man in the button down shirt, “Um, we need to
close, and, uh, you've been standing here quite a while. We couldn't
get your attention, “ he explained.
“Everything
ok sir” asked the officer.
“I
just need dish soap, “ he replied. Grabbing a package without
looking he walked to the self checkout as the man and officer
followed behind him. After paying and making his way to the parking
lot, the officer stopped him.
“Is
everything ok sir?' she asked, “You didn't respond for a very long
time. You had them a little worried.”
“Yeah,
I'm good, “ he replied and walked to the only vehicle waiting in
the lot, his.
Dear
Jordan,
I
sat down to write you a song. I have the perfect tune, but I can't
get the words to match what I really want to say. I remember how you
always seemed to know what it was that I meant, even when I couldn't
find the right words. I wonder if you know, even now, what I'm trying
to tell you. Help me? Dish soap is expensive.
I
miss you.
He
left the letter unsigned. She would know who sent it. The missive was
slipped neatly into an envelope and tucked into his jacket pocket.
The bright sunshine convinced him to walk so he left his backdoor
unlocked and forayed into the crisp fall afternoon.
Purposefully
striding to deliver his letter, he neglected to notice that his phone
was announcing an incoming text message. Even more, having left from
his back door, he had avoided his sister standing at the front of his
building, a bag of groceries at her feet and cell phone in her hands.
Her foot tapped in annoyance at having to wait after having told him
she would be visiting on her way home from work.
There
are 168 hours in a week and it seemed like he spent most of them in
silence, deflecting invitations. His sister reminded him of as much
as she stomped about his kitchen, putting away groceries and
depositing dirty dishes into a sink overflowing.
“What
the fuck, “ she muttered under her breath as he sat, admonished, in
his dining alcove and watched her work. A cold beer in one hand, his
head resting against the balled up fist of the other, he wished that
she would leave.
“I'm
not going to help you anymore, if you refuse to help your self, “
she chastised him. She had threatened this before.
“I
know,” he replied, “I'm sorry.“
Dear
Jordan,
I
made chicken the way you like it. It wasn't the same without you. I
smiled when I remembered the time you spilled the wine. There's still
a stain on the floor. I know it won't matter, but, I'll say it
anyway.....
Hurry
home.
He
had fallen out of the habit, most called it a necessity during a
Midwestern winter, of wearing a coat. Snow crunched beneath his boots
as he made his way along the well-worn path to deliver his weekly
letter. Arriving at the place, he deposited the letter with the rest
of the mail and, before turning to go, lingered with a whispered, “I
love you.”
On
his way back to his cluttered apartment (his sister had made good on
her threat) a grizzled old man in a red wool cap addressed him with
an, “Ain't you cold?' that was ignored as a matter of course. He
made a dinner of cold chicken and potato chips after arriving home.
Wiping chicken grease on his soiled khakis, he fought with the remote
control to turn on the television before giving up and choosing to
sit in silence. He hoped he would remember to purchase batteries the
next time he was out. What he neglected to remember, however, was
that the cable bill remained unpaid and the television would provide
no respite from the silence no matter how many batteries he
purchased.
“Jesus
fucking Christ. I hate it when you do that, “ she complained.
“Um,
what did I do? “ he answered.
“You
put the spoons in the dishwasher upside down, “ she explained, “And
now they need to be washed again.”
“Oh,
“ was all he said.
“See.
You think it's not a big deal. But it is, “ she continued, “Guess
who gets to wash them?”
“Is
it me? “ he asked with a smirk.
“Don't
be a dick, “ she answered.
“They're
just spoons, “ he replied defensively.
“Yup,
“ was all she said as she plucked spoons out of the washer basket
and dropped them noisily into the sink. She started to fill it with
hot water but changed her mind. “Fuck it. I'm going for a run. “
“Sweetie,
they're just spoons. I'll do it, “ he said.
“If
you do, I'm only gonna be more pissed, “ her running shoes were
already on.
The
door shut behind her and he stood in silence for a moment, unsure as
to whether he should wash the spoons or not.
Dear
Jordan,
My
sister came back again today. She cleaned the entire apartment. It
looks really nice and smells better too. I'm sorry I let it get as
bad as it does. I know you wouldn't like it. I'll try to do better,
ok?
I
miss you.
The
burgeoning springtime and the late-night rain had chased earthworms
onto the walkway. There were a little over 2,000 paces to deliver his
latest letter and he had begun by counting the segmented creepers but
he was distracted by the rattle of empty beer cans in the open bed of
a passing pickup truck. More rainclouds darkened the horizon and
threatened to dampen his journey.
He
dialed his sister, “Do you ever wash plastic spoons?”
“I
throw them away.”
“Are
they biodegradable?”
“Don’t
think so. Why?”
“So,
they just last forever after we throw them away?”
“This
is why you called?”
“Yeah,
“ he hung up without saying goodbye.
Later,
reclined against the fabric of his couch cushions, he held two spoons
in his hands, one plastic and one stainless steel. He studied them
earnestly as if they might speak and break the silence he wore, the
silence that had become his shield. He rose from the couch and walked
the half dozen steps into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher, and
placed both spoons right side up in the silverware basket before
seeking out his sketchpad and the leisure of the couch once again.
An
obnoxious buzz announced a visitor at his door. He remained on the
couch, doodling is his notebook. The unwanted guest was persistent,
however, and the buzzing eventually lured him off the couch.
“Dude,
get off your ass! I’m taking you to the Suru Pub, “ Dab announced
as he bounded through his front door.
“Suru?“
“Hell
yes. It’s time to get your ass outa this piece of shit apartment,
drink some beers, and eat some chicken wings.”
He
hesitated. This was unexpected.
“This
isn’t optional, “ Dab crossed his arms.
He
shuffled to front hallway closet, slid open the door, nudged his
brown shoes from their cubby, and slipped them onto his feet.
Reaching up, he snatched his ball cap from the top shelf, turned
toward Dab and said, “Ok.”
The
pub smelled like stale beer and fried food but had a small, yet
dedicated, clientele. The two of them grabbed a table, ordered draft
beers, and perused the chicken wing menus that were sticky with years
of consistent use. Televisions were mounted on every wall and a
combination of baseball, basketball, and hockey games were displayed
on them. The place was pretty busy for a Wednesday evening.
“Gotta
love hockey playoffs, “ said Dab, then looking around the room, “I
wonder if I can get you some action tonight.”
“Seriously?
“ he asked.
Their
stout waitress returned with their beers, took their order, and was
gone again.
“I
wish you wouldn’t, “ he said, “Let’s just eat and watch the
game.”
“Ok,
whatever, “ said Dab while sipping his beer and scanning the room.
Chicken
wings were delivered, eaten, cleared away and two more beers were
brought for each of them before he excused himself to go to the
restroom. After finishing he stopped to wash and splash cold water on
his face. It wasn’t cold enough to be bracing but did make him feel
a little better. He resolved to thank his friend and tell him it was
time to go but he slipped into an alcohol-induced reverie about the
last time he had made love to her.
Dab
found him on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees next to
the commode in the bathroom stall. Though he typically chose caustic
sarcasm, Dab quietly said, “Dude, let’s just get you home.”
Looking
up at Dab slowly he rose to his feet, wiped his hands on his jeans,
and nodded his head in agreement. The ride home from Suru was silent.
Dab steered the car carefully while he counted light posts on his
side of the street. Above, a waning moon was partly obscured by
low-lying clouds.
Dear
Jordan,
There
was always something about your laugh. There was no hiding your
delight when you found something funny. I caught myself smiling at
the thought of you laughing at those stupid TV shows you love so
much. Remember how we would get all tangled up together on the couch?
I
sure would love to hear you laugh again.
She
had hated that he owned a gun. He kept it locked up even though he
didn’t even own any bullets. That seemed to appease her. Thinking
of the pistol had brought him to his bedroom. He lifted up his bed
skirt, she had picked that stuff out, and fished under his bed until
he found the locked box that hid the gun. Taking it out, he marveled
at the heft of it in his hand, then, nodding at what he knew she
would be thinking, he put it back in the box, locked it, and shoved
it under the bed.
He
saw her that night. It had been months since he had done so. At first
her back was turned to him and he couldn’t see her face. Then, as
though she could sense his eyes on her, she turned slowly until their
eyes met. He took a step forward as did she. The smile on her face
encouraged him and he took another step. Two more steps closed the
distance between the two of them and he opened his arms for an
embrace. At the last moment he noticed her left arm was bent at an
odd angle above her elbow and that a trickle of blood escaped her
right nostril. Her hair too, once his to play with absently, was
matted with drying blood and the side of her face was deeply bruised.
She raised her arms to accept his embrace but he was overtaken with
revulsion and stepped back, a scream at his lips, and he was awake,
sweating and sobbing her name. The dream had returned.
Dear
Jordan,
Remembering
how you looked that first day, wow. Wow! Even the memory takes my
breath away. But, recalling how you looked after, you know, makes me
ache for you....makes me want to take it all away. I still need you.
Did
we ever use plastic spoons?
I
love you.
He
usually ran without effort. Running was one thing he didn't give up
after he had lost her. It provided structure and sometimes fatigued
him enough to allow him to capture desperately needed sleep. But, on
this day as summer swelter arrived early in the morning, he struggled
to find his pace. He pushed to no avail and ended his five miles
feeling defeated rather than refreshed.
The
smell of something rotting accosted him as he entered his apartment.
He followed the noxious aroma to the dishwasher, and upon opening it,
realized that he had not run the thing for weeks. He squeezed the
detergent into the compartment and noticed, just as he was shutting
the door, that a plastic spoon sat head up among the other
silverware. Turning the dial and flipping the switch to heated dry he
finished the task while wondering if he would need to run the washer
twice to get rid of the offending smell. Maybe some lemon freshness
was in order after all.
Running
always made Jordan feel good. Yes, it was difficult. Yes, she seemed
to sweat for an hour afterward. Running, though, helped even out her
mood when Andy did something that annoyed her. “Spoons, “ she
thought, “What a dumb ass.” Still, as she ran, she felt her mood
shift from angry annoyance to regret. They had used those spoons to
eat the strawberry pie he had brought home after work. She wondered
if her period was imminent. She tended to be a little unreasonable at
certain times of the month. Those spoons, however, were still dirty
with dried on strawberry goo and and it sure as hell wasn't her
fault. Even so, she resolved to treat him sweetly when she returned,
even if she did make him sweat it out a little while longer. She
smiled to herself at the thought of that and picked up her pace,
hoping to catch him in the middle of washing the spoons despite her
warning against it.
Jordan
was introduced to him as they sat side by side at an acquaintance's
wedding. They were holding hands by the end of the evening and though
she had a ride, pretended to have missed it so she could have him
drive her home. They laughed all the way back to the apartment they
would share three months later. He kissed her on the doorstep, and
though she had been dating someone, they were soon perceived as an
inseparable couple by all of their friends.
It
was this he thought of as he had dropped off his latest letter to
Jordan during his lunch break. He usually walked but chose to drive
on this occasion. The drive allowed him to spend a little extra time
with her. However, shortly after arriving he remembered that he had
left his briefcase at home, so he delivered his letter and left to
run that errand.
After
grabbing his briefcase and setting it by the front door he searched
his refrigerator for a quick lunch. Spying a raspberry yogurt he
grabbed it, turned to his cupboard to find a bowl, and finding no
silverware in the drawer, opened the dishwasher Gasping with
surprise, he noticed immediately that the heat of the drying cycle
had cracked the plastic spoon. He never called work to tell them that
he wouldn't be returning from lunch.
She
never saw the pickup truck, a rattle of empty beer cans in its open
bed warned her too late. It struck her squarely in the left side,
snapping her arm awkwardly and knocking her cleanly out of her
running shoes. Her head struck the asphalt first and she skidded
unconsciously to a stop, half on the road and half off of it. The
driver of the truck slowed for a moment but sped off. The
identification tag laced into Jordan's shoe listed her contact
information, but Andy's phone had been set to vibrate and was sitting
in the living room while he washed spoons in the kitchen. She was
buried on his birthday, wearing her engagement ring.
He
typed his goodbye and hoped his sister wouldn't make too much fuss,
he had left clear instructions on the coffee table in his living
room. They wouldn't be missed. His apartment was in order, every bit
of clutter straightened, bathrooms cleaned, dishwasher emptied. He
put the cracked plastic spoon is his shirt pocket. He locked the
front door out of habit on his way out.
He
walked the mile to the cemetery, as he often did, with his eyes cast
toward the sidewalk. Streetlights lit his way. Arriving at Jordan's
resting place a dozen unopened and weather beaten envelopes leaned
against her headstone. The envelope he laid there hours earlier
seemed bright in comparison. He dropped to his knees next to the
headstone and then leaned forward, placing his head where he imagined
her head was. Lightening flashed, thunder pealed, and he closed his
eyes to wait for the rain. Heavy drops splattered about him, then on
him, beginning to soak his clothes. He stretched out and lay just as
he remembered she was, and then, Jordan was with him.
His
sister found him first and had made the important phone calls. Though
the coroner could find no cause of death, “Broken heart, “ is
what was whispered among those who knew. His sister agreed, though
she had never told anyone that when she found him Jordan's engagement
ring was in his tightly clasped right hand.
