THE MAYOR OF CAFFEINE TOWN
He starts early, maybe four-thirty. He feeds Lizzie enough for the day and pets her back all the way down to her tail. She gives him a little meow and turns over so that he can rub her underside. Outside he smokes beneath the porch light and it’s so quiet he can hear the bulb burning in the in-between of cars passing on Pond Street. Tires slush over the leftover rain. He throws his cigarette by the mailbox, aiming for the sewer grate.
It’s a miss.
In the bathroom he checks his hairline, parsing his thinning brown follicles, looking for any new points of diminishment. His eyes go wide as he does this, his irises round into sweet black circles. He pushes his jaw out and purses his lips. Then he holds the sink and jumps up and down to watch his skinny and fat body ripple in the mirror. He does this for almost two minutes, until he feels he’s activated some fat-burning microbes, or the skin covering his breasts starts to tingle from the vibration. It’s unscientific but it makes him feel good. To him it is a weird, small, good exercise.
Next, he dresses: white button-up, olive slacks and brown shoes. Simple and inconspicuous. Kind and self-made. He wants to look like one of their fathers’ friends or a handsome teacher, like a substitute– the kind of substitute where word gets around school about how handsome he is and the girls hover around the classroom door to see if it’s true. He can be so many things in his clothes which are the same clothes a bank teller might wear. He could work in government. Or sales and imports. Or own a photography studio. And that’s what he wants, to be graftable. As in: any fantasy a young barista might have about sleeping with, performing on, or being performed upon by an older man can be grafted onto him. He’s the perfect choice. Any version of any lover that they’ve ever imagined.
He turns on music from his laptop so Lizzie won’t be alone.
Okay, he says.
Then he leaves the house beneath a sky just starting out.
Outside It takes him two jumps to get into the cabin of his big new truck. He’s not the tallest. Once in, he taps his feet together over the pedals, excitedly. And it is exciting. He thinks that today will be a good day and imagines the many ways that it could be a good great day.
First, he drives down Main Street towards the hole.
The hole is in a poor part of town, cut into a stucco brick wall in the back of the bathroom at J. Clifton Park. The girls don’t need to know about this, he thinks. If anything he feels like he’s saving them from the grotesque-snorting-animal part of himself that they could never love. Because it is an unlovable part of any man, he agrees. The part that must be tended to. The part of him that cannot be grafted. The part he’s unable to hide in a sweater and slacks.
Speeding in the dark, his face slips in and out of the street light.
The park comes quickly. The sky is still black in the west and last willful stars are paused above the treetops. He jumps from his truck. A thud. He knows there’s no police in the park but he doesn’t want to be cocky so he looks both ways for any unmarked cruisers.
When he first started this part would rattle him.
Some days he would drive by and not even stop if there was another car in the parking lot. He would pack workout clothes, so if caught, he could explain to the police he had just come into the bathroom to urinate because he’d consumed too much water during his new circuit-training regimen. But that was way back in the beginning, during his curiosity with the hole. It was before the hole became as obligatory as teeth brushing or feeding Lizzie. Before the hole became a safe place. A real safe place for him.
Birds swing from the tree line.
He can hear the shuffling of their wings against the branches and the stern orations of the mother birds as they direct their young. He imagines the baby birds with small, squinty eyes, unfledged and unformed in their bodies. He wonders what they can see in the early morning darkness. His foot kicks a rock towards the split foundation of the bathroom. It taps against the cement and the birds stop talking for a moment, alarmed. He cracks his neck, his knuckles. The pond behind the bathroom sits unmoved, the only currents coming from the mayflies landing against the surface. The water smells to him: brave and funky. It’s the sulfur that's making his eyes water.
He can hear whispers from behind the bathroom.
He doesn’t look.
You never look, he thinks to himself.
Ignorance is next to godliness, he utters softly, making a note to remember his own sage wisdom so he can repeat it to one of the baristas later.
The door is heavy but manageable.
Inside, the bathroom is dark.
He slides his money into the hole first.
Again, chatter picks up from behind the wall. He can hear through the hole: a lazy panic of soft voices debating whose turn it is to suck. He breathes in deep from his mouth, avoiding the smell of the pond, the bathroom. He hissess his tongue, feigning impatience.
The motion timer above the sinks begins ticking.
The talking from the hole grows more aggressive and then stops.
A fist bangs against the other side of the wall which means it’s time.
He unzips himself, pulling his underwear around his hips. He puts his hands against the mint green wall and then it all comes to him: the cold from outside beneath his shaft/ the weight of his body against his new insoles/ the smell of life/ all the ways he could be better if he worked harder/ the feeling of a reddish warmth spreading over him from the other side/ even though it’s begun there’s an eagerness for the entire thing to start again/ he squirms/ he wonders/ what if he’s bit/ what if somebody kicks in the bathroom door and puts a stop to it/ what if it does start again/ what if love is just/ a/ you know/ what if/
His head tilts towards the ceiling like a Pez dispenser.
He closes his eyes.
Most of the time before he comes he sees himself as a young boy and sees his first love, Amanda. His only real love. He really, really loved Amanda. And Amanda was so young. And taken before her time. A bad driver. Bad bad driver. But beautiful and pure and perfect and he can’t fathom why people want anything other than young love? Why? What’s the great victory in complicated things? Adult misery? As the hole tightens and he begins to throb, he focuses hard on Amanda in the sunlight. Summertime. Amanda in the summertime. Good Girl. Flawless. She comes back to him so quickly. He can now feel her on the other side of the hole. He can smell the chlorine in her hair and it takes the place of the awful bathroom smell. He can hear the clicking of her shoulder in its socket from the accident she had on the bleachers while filming that video about molecules for Mr. Lario’s class. Click, click, click. Everything falls away. I love you, he says. And Amanda says, I love you too. And even from the other side of the wall her words are so eager and kind that he almost tears up. He can see the grass stains on her knees as she dances around the hole just beyond him. She loves dancing. Stay here for a minute, she says. And he wants to. Okay, he says. Okay. If you really want me to. But Amanda says nothing else because she’s run out of breath and is now using her hands. Yes, he says, as the touch of her warm palms puts him in a more loving place than he feels he deserves. Oh God, he says. Slapping the wall. Your perfect hands.
This is the part that never gets old, he thinks.
Never.
_
When he leaves the bathroom, the sky has changed. There’s a soft blue above the park as he backs his truck away, his headlights illuminating the chilled pedals of the Asters plants and gold fern. Yes, the canary grass lights up too.
The first sign of life appears at the far end of the park: sleepy vagrants finding their way into another clear morning. His truck revs over the loose gravel of the parking lot. Yes, he says slowly, checking his hairline in the rearview mirror. Yep yep yep.
He drives away from J. Clifton Park.
Away from distress: the homeless, the trash, the empty storefronts.
The hole.
It’s a bad part of town.
For the second time, he is ready to begin his day.
_
The Girls
He turns on the news. If anything has happened–cancer breakthroughs, oil spills, winter-weather advisories–it’s good for him to know. He finds a broken station with soft talk “…After not heeding… A joint statement from the Malaysian and Indonesian Governments…Deeply saddened with the untimely death of Prince Haji ‘Abdul’ Azim… Thirty-se… Support from around the world is pouring…Again, Prince Azim of Brunei, dead at thirty-seventh after suffering fatal wounds during his birthday celebration. It would…Screams could…. Early reports indicate the tiger was a present from…” He turns off the radio. A prince killed by a tiger, he thinks. What a world.
It’s perfect: morbid yet funny, the ultimate icebreaker. He gets excited.
Today will be a good day.
The truck speeds up.
He’ll spend his day as he spends all his Saturdays: driving around town, going to every drive-thru coffee shop within a thirty-mile radius. One after another, he’ll go see all his favorite girls. He’ll be clear-headed from going to the hole, ready to be whoever he has to be, depending on who’s working. It’s all very complicated: the math, the layers, the myriad of variables that could occur. But he knows them, the girls. He knows what he can be to them if the opportunity presents itself. His white shirt, the ah-shucks of him, the quiet confidence he’s absorbed from watching men with real confidence. He believes he has this all down to a science–and the science is good, so, now all that is required is repetition. Any man can be with any woman at any time, he’d read from his book. For some it will take more ‘any times’ than others. He knows he’s older, skinny-fat and at the beginning part of baldness, and he knows he probably appears gross to a younger woman at first glance. But he also knows his time is coming. His any time. And he also knows that you never really know when your any time may occur. His number could be called at any moment and won’t it be great, he thinks, that when it finally happens he will have come prepared.
_
First is the Mocha Moose Café by the airport next to the CarMax lot. As he arrives the frosted windshields of the rental cars are mid-melt. To the east, purple falls through the leftover storm clouds. The Mocha Moose looks like all the other coffee huts, save for the giant moose head mounted above the order window. The moose has glasses for reasons that remain unclear, but he’s already joked with Kayla about that on too many occasions. Kayla is one of the girls who’ll recognize him. He thinks Kayla looks like Mrs. Noreen, who’d been his mother’s homecare nurse during her final months and had always been kind to him and worn perfume that made the room smell like freshly drawn chalk.
There’s no line. It’s too early. It’s the way he likes it best: when he’s the only one there, and there’s no pressure from the car behind him to hurry his conversation. He can see through the yellow windows of the hut as he approaches. She’s on her cellphone, the mouthpiece of her headset turned away from her soft lips. Like an angel fallen back to earth, now a crew chief for a NASCAR team. He’s never made that joke to her and figures it’s as good a line as any, plus it lets her know he’s paying attention to her looks.
The order window opens.
Kayla: Mr. Mike and his new truck! (Her breath makes a big plume. She has a big smile)
Mike: Don’t you mean Mr. Truck and his new Mike! (He laughs, she laughs, 10/10)
Kayla: What are we doing, Mike? (Puts hand on counter, pressing developing parts together and he’s very grateful he went to the hole. He abstains. No peeking)
Mike: Um. (…) (He peeks)
Kayla: Large Mooseacinno? (Eyes batten. He wants to prolong the conversation, so he goes with the NASCAR line)
Mike: Am I that predictable? (Good pause) Hey…you know who you kind of look like with that thing on your head? (Good segue, 10/10)
Kayla: Who?
Mike: A crew chief in NASCAR. (Her face fading, confused)
Kayla: What’s that? (Bad, bad, bad, 3/10, but he hasn’t lost her)
Mike: Oh, I don’t know how to explain it really…But it’s a good job! (Great recovery)
Kayla: Well, (Nice little blush-laugh, great eye engagement) hopefully it pays better than The
Mocha Moose. (Small smile)
Mike: Oh, it does…It definitely does. (He prays their hands might touch, so he can transfer some type of attention or understanding to her through physical contact)
She hands him the coffee and their hands do not touch. He sets the money on the counter and tells her to keep it all. Gratefully, she accepts, then turns around to clean the stem of the coffee machine. He stares for a moment. And as she walks back to the window their eyes lock. A look comes over Kayla like she’s forgotten something, or, like she thinks he’s forgotten something. He feels her strange look tear through his body and he knows stayed too long. He doesn’t want to be one of those guys.
He drives away.
His tires pulling through the dumpster water and his cheeks beating hotly.
He heads south towards the Prince Roasters Coffee on Fairfax. Now, the morning dog walkers and school children are crowding onto the sidewalks. Sunlight drools in from the mountains at the city’s edge. He cuts through a housing development; on a small patch of grass, a border collie does its business while its owner jogs in place. He turns on his seat warmer. Then the radio. On the radio: a story about a Caliphate stronghold–not the kind of thing any of the girls would be interested in. Next is a story about a Medicaid billing scam. No good. He’ll stick with the prince and tiger thing. According to the book he ordered, Bringing Them Up to Your Level, one of the key steps in gaining the attention of a younger woman is to never age yourself when it comes to small talk, details and dates. Funny stories are fine but jokes about mortgages and blood pressure are forbidden. The book encouraged him to drop in youthful references. Sometimes he’d ask for music recommendations. Cool bands. What’s new online. The trick, again, was not for him to adopt a childish persona, but more so to adopt a childish wonder and spirit while still maintaining the persona of a sonorous and confident adult. Befriend them before you bed them, he’d read one night, the book glowing in lamp light. It all made great sense to him in theory but sometimes when he was actually out talking to the girls it was difficult for him to harness the confidence of great men.
He knows he’s not a great man, and, moreover, deep inside, somewhere, he understands that he’s a desperate and embarrassing man. And it hurts him. It hurts knowing he would be average at any point in the entire history of mankind. A shield maker in the time of Nero. A honey farmer at the edge of the dust bowl. A vacuum salesman under threat of atomic fallout. It didn’t matter. He had and would always walk the same path of averageness. And sad as it is, he knows, per the book, that feeling sorry for yourself is the quickest way of isolating a young woman. So he keeps driving forward, every day a daisy chain of decent or half-bad coffee, bathroom breaks, daydreams, with only a hope, a prayer that the right set of circumstances may one day present themselves and he can finally get what he’s been waiting all these years for. The world has great allowance for men unwilling to compromise their destinies, he thinks.
Stopping at a red light, he takes a deep breath while dumping out his almost-full Mooseacinno. The splash is loud against the concrete, and he can smell the chocolate rising from the pavement.
Then the light is green.
Green and he’s wondering.
Is mocha-dumping littering or something else entirely?
_
Prince Roasters Coffee has two cars in line. Prince Roasters is pretty mid-sized when compared to the other drive thru coffee huts, no specialty drinks. He likes the girls at Prince Roasters when it’s just the girls, but sometimes they have the guys working too. He doesn’t really have a problem with the guys and actually thinks that sometimes their brain-dead conversation can lead to knowing glances between him and the girls. Like, “Can you believe this dipshit?” But, as a negative, it sometimes leads him to thinking about the guys having sex with the girls, which disturbs him greatly.
Maybe he does have a problem with the guys.
It’s a day-to-day thing.
The car at the window pulls away and he idles behind a truck slightly smaller than his own. This brings him a small jolt of pleasure. His big truck. At the order window he sees Liana’s blonde, almost white hair spilling out. Her split ends. Liana is a mall rocker: black around her eyes and on her fingernails, t-shirts with fonts in demonic lightning. He’s seen her smoking on occasion, during her break, which is a good sign. His book says to look for girls who break rules because they often have authority issues and low self-worth. He likes her style for what it is, and it allows him to imagine her spending her Friday nights in a cemetery, carrying around a Ouija board, looking for the oldest grave she can find.
He holds his breath for a moment and again checks his hairline in the mirror.
The truck in front of him pulls away.
As he slows to the window, he prepares his first line about the prince being mauled by his birthday tiger. But just as soon as his truck comes to a stop, Liana has disappeared into the back of the hut, somewhere into the stock closet.
He’s a car too late.
She’s on break.
A wave of disappointment runs up his legs and settles into his chest.
He begins to sweat.
And Jared steps to the window.
He’s not a Jared fan. Jared, with his hair pulled back behind his headband and his open mouth always smiling. It drives him a little mad, Jared’s cheer and pep. Always with the “Bro” or the “Dude.” He has a face like an owl and the body of a kickboxer: veiny everywhere and cut tightly at the ends. Jared has a body he never has and never will have. And this makes him a little jealous of Jared and it also makes it hard for him to not imagine that Jared’s having sex with Liana. He figures Jared is the kind of guy girls experiment with when they’re young and don’t understand the world, or repercussions, or true intimacy. He’s not serious. He’s putty. Something the girls can stretch out and press themselves against in the interim. Jared’s not capable of punishment or pain. He’s safe, consistently handsome and perfectly simple.
Then he–
And he can’t help it.
He imagines Jared lifting Liana onto a bundle of coffee beans on a night when just the two of them are closing. And he imagines Jared’s pants pulled down to his ankles and Liana, eyes ablaze, just staring into Jared’s deep, receded face and wondering what he’s thinking. Or if he likes her. Or if he’s done this with other girls that she knows, her friends.
No. He doesn’t like Jared.
The order window opens.
Jared: My man!
Mike: Coffee. Small and black. (He peaks around Jared to see if Liana has come out of the stock room)
Jared: Man on a mission today, I can dig that. (No Liana, but Mira is counting cash and placing it into a bank purse. He likes Mira’s style too. It’s a twist on the tomboy, a sort of soccer-player-chic)
Mike: No mission, just coffee. But I am running around a bit, errands and stuff. (Jared centers himself and blocks his view Mira, 0/10) (He hates this kid) (He wants him hurt) (Wants to throw his coffee back in his face) (Jerkoff on handle of his car door) (Ask him how it feels to be the most stupid person in town, any town, the world, maybe)
Jared: Right on! Be back with that coffee in a sec’. (Jared, steps back, mouth-coughs into his tight blue t-shirt, and reaches out of his view to grab a coffee from someone he can’t see, but now imagines is Liana)
Mike: (Yelling through the open window) Is Liana back there? (Perfect, jokey delivery, not too serious in case Liana can hear him. Jared walks back to the window, slides a sleeve onto the cup, then smiles)
Jared: A small coffee for my man, Mike, who is NOT on a mission, but DOES have a few errands to knock out today. (Hands him the coffee, it’s hot even with the sleeve)
Mike: How much?
Jared: On the house today! Just leave a good tip. We’re trying to raise money for our Ice Splash tonight. It’s pretty awesome. All of the coffee shops around town are raising money and then this afternoon we’ll all close early–or, kinda early, for some–like, we’re all trying to see who can raise the most money for some research, so it’s pretty sick. We’re all going to run into the reservoir up at Sligo Dam and the water’s crazy cold. (1/10)
Mike: What? (2/10) I didn’t know about this? I’m a loyal customer. (3/10)
Jared: We’ve had signs up all week… maybe you haven’t been paying attention? Too busy? Some of the girls forget to mention it; you know how they get coffee brain. (4/10)
Mike: Jared, are you telling me all of the coffee shops in town are competing in a charity fundraiser that culminates … or ends, I mean, in all of you running into near-freezing water this afternoon? (5/10)
Jared: Yes sir. (6/10)
Mike: Jared, will you be there? (7/10)
Jared: Mikey, dude, we’re all going man. (8/10)
Mike: Liana too? (9/10)
Jared: All of us, man. (10/10) Well, maybe not the chicks from Extract Bean, but pretty much everyone else. You know…you should come watch us take the splash! You’re like, one of our main dudes. It’s at six! Be there! I think Channel Eight might have a reporter come. It’s gonna be hilarious. I’m wearing, like, a red rubber nose. Super funny digs. (He gives birth to a new religion trying to contain himself) (His eyes water with joy) (11/10) (He wants to adopt Jared) (He wants them to get their portraits taken at the Wal-Mart holding the Pit-bull he’ll buy for him) (He tips Jared 25$) (He feels a tear getting ready to break down his cheek) (All of his precious coffee fiefdoms assembled in one place) (It’s perfect)
__
He speeds the parkway.
The storm hit hard on this side of town.
Branches lie flexed and broken in the yards.
Power lines dangle like torn muscles over the side streets.
He plays the radio loud, music now instead of news.
He howls along with enthusiasm, a few times even falling into the correct key. All of a sudden: the town feels like home. The only impossibility to him in this moment is failure. He takes Merion Street to the part of town where there’s no trash and the driveways get very long. He goes to The Java Hut and waits behind a Lexus. He asks Michelle if The Java Hut is competing in the Sligo Park Splash and she tells him they wouldn’t miss it for the world. He orders an espresso and looks her deep in the eyes. He tells her that he’ll be there and he’s excited to see her do something other than work. He tells her about the prince and his birthday tiger. She laughs and he can see her freckles glow. He tips her twenty dollars and continues his joyous journey.
A Coffee from Dutch Bros.
An espresso from The Coffee Barn on Cole Street.
A Chai from Big Bean, where the line is a madhouse.
He urinates at the Shell Station.
Then.
A hot caramel latte from The Coffee Barn on Alistair.
An iced caramel latte from Juan’s Espresso & Gelato
And he ends with a coffee from Caffeine Town, where the barista, Piper, is wearing sunglasses even though a gathering of clouds has cottoned the sky leaving only a white glow. No sun. It’s not the kind of light you need protection from but he likes her shades. They say something about her personality. And he loves Piper’s personality the most. Really, he does.
She’s excited when he tells her he’s going to come cheer her on at the splash.
She laughs when he makes a joke about her X-files t-shirt.
He brushes her fingers as she hands him his cup and he can feel the slickness of lotion on her hand.
Piper: One coffee for The Mayor of Caffeine Town! (He loves his nickname, his only regret being he didn’t make it up himself, 10/10)
Mike: Well, if I’m the mayor, you’re my secret service agent. (Great use of her own joke, a classic conversation add-on, and he can see her bra through the thinning cotton of her shirt, 10/10)
Piper: You’d better cheer the loudest when I take the splash! (She smiles) If you don’t you won’t be my favorite customer anymore and I won’t like you. Imagine that! Me not liking you!(He closes his eyes and imagines Piper not liking him) (He can’t) (He only sees Piper in his house, changing Lizzie’s water dish) (Piper in the living room) (Amanda his first love is now standing next to Piper in the living room) (Amanda’s naked) (Piper’s naked) (Amanda’s got her arms all broken and a bad dent in her head) (Amanda’s been in an accident) (His Mother walks in) (His Mother poking him in the chest for taking without asking) (Him, throwing a boomerang in the yard while Piper and Amanda nakedly cheer him on) (Mom yelling about the boomerang) (Mom sick) (Mom with the dialysis machine that’s chord would fall out of the wall too much) (Micro plastics and soiled air, pneumoconiosis)(A casket was donated by the funeral home, they took it back at the end of the day) (Amanda and Piper and him spreading his mother’s ashes into the Potomac)(Him alone) (Him finding the hole) (Him ordering a book off Amazon) (The girls) (The hole) (Piper’s mouth, open and silent and Amanda waving her broken arms in silence) (Help, they say) (Help us, please) (Help us–)
Piper: Hello? Mr. Mayor? Everything all good? (He suddenly does not feel all good)
Mike: I’m good.
Piper: You were on another planet for a second there, a spacewalk. (3/10)
Mike: I’m just… (His voice hard from the coffee, the cold air)
Piper: Tired as all Hell. Rest! We need you cheering! (2.5/10)
Mike: I think, maybe, I’ll see you tonight. (1.8/10) (A panic again sweeps his body and melts him into his truck) (Nerves) (NERVES) (.4/10)(He pulls across the street into the Ace Hardware) (.2/10) (His eyes shut) (This time he sees nothing) (.1/10) (He’s got nothing left to-) (.0/10) (.0/0) (.0) (..) (0) ()
_
The Splash
He wakes in the late afternoon feeling heavy.
And late.
It’s a half-hour to get across town and then he still has to make the long, hilly drive to Sligo Dam. His truck hurries back through town. He passes all the coffee huts he’s already hit. Most of them have signs that say something to the effect of, “Gone Splashing!” or, “Went to get Wet!” He tries recalling what Bringing Them Up to Your Level, says are the must dos when in close proximity to a potential match. He repeats what he can remember of the words in his head, saying the letters quietly to himself. Close. Close.
Continue with small talk.
Lose the idea you’re not wanted. You wouldn’t still be talking to her if you weren’t.
Overreach, ask for what you want, what’s the worst that can happen?
Suggest a time and place. Plans are difficult to break.
Elevate yourself to the position of power. All women want something. All women can be had. It’s up to you signaling that as a strong and confident matl, that you’re willing to take control.
He drives past the park, the hole, and against the bathroom wall there’s a man in a too-big shirt asleep on his feet. He sees no one else by the bathroom, just cold people huddled around a junk-fire beneath the pergola. Beyond that a drift of sandflies glows over the pond and it makes everything fuzzy, reminding him of the interstate in Arizona he used to have to drive with his mother on their way to their faraway church. The shaky and unsure cement as the gasoline burned away in the hot months of June, July and early August.
He used to get so hot in the car.
_
He passes Coffee Kingdom and sees a man with his hands pressed against the window looking to see if anybody’s inside.
Sorry, he thinks.
They all went to the same place and you, my friend, are not invited.
I was. I am.
I’m invited, he says quietly over the barely-playing radio.
A rush of energy comes back into his tired body.
It’s happening. He’s invited.
Yes, he thinks. The hole is great but what’s even better? A real, flesh-and-blood young woman. All the fixings. Eighteen? Nineteen? Doesn’t matter, he’s ready for them. Their bodies. The fat filling into their hips and butts and breast perfectly–the way it happens when they’re young–not stretching them, but substantiating them, slowly, finely, as they form into the thing they’ve always dreamt of being. They want to be grown, he thinks.
And he’d be happy with any one of them.
He certainly had preference, but he’s not so picky.
And whichever one she ended up being, she’d be happy with him.
There’d be no anger with him.
No competition.
Or stress.
Just a shared curiosity of the world, a wonder, that fucking wonderful wonder.
The way it was with Amanda.
The way it should be again.
–
At the edge of town he speeds into the unsharpened mountains.
He’s six minutes late. And he hopes they haven’t started early.
As he puts the gas pedal nearly to the floor, an idea pops into his head: maybe the girls are waiting for him to get there before they run into the icy water?
Could that be?
The idea frightens and delights in equal measure. He passes a roadside memorial, a white painted bike. He tries to recognize the saints on the candles. He can’t. There’s a legless teddy bear glued to the bike seat and in its arms there’s a piece of cardboard with black lettering: ROBERT NIAZ, 1999-2016.
The water treatment plant is next.
Five minutes away.
He wonders if Robert Niaz was scared.
Alone?
With friends?
He looks up at the rocks that line both sides of the road and hopes that no boulders decide, at that very moment, to shake loose after ten-thousand years and destroy him completely. He hopes he does not share the fate of poor Robert Niaz.
Not when he’s so close.
_
Sligo Dam and the reservoir beneath reveal themselves after a lengthy, stomach-tightening turn. The valley is beautiful: the face of the dam with its soft blue wood chips; the epic rocks to the north; the winding service road that connects the upper parking lot to the grassy island; and the silly hill of sand that sits at the bottom of the spillway like the foreman had forgotten to spread it out.
He feels such relief at the sight of the nearly full lower lot.
They’re here. The girls.
All of them. Each of the coffee houses has their own color, their own little fiefdom. Hand crafted banners hang between the rotting spruce trees and lifeguard towers, boarded up for the winter. The girls run around with silly string and sparklers, prancing to the edge of the water where the sand is wet and cold.
They jump back after dipping a toe in.
He pulls into the upper lot, breathing hard.
And.
And: his stomach drops at the sight of another truck parked at the edge of the rock-face that overlooks the splash. Competition? He wonders. Another customer they invited? He feels betrayed, less special. It was his brilliant idea to watch from above. And his idea to run down and see the girls after, cheering them, providing them with a sense of accomplishment and warmth. It was supposed to be his surprise arrival.
He looks hard at the truck.
He imagines the pervert inside as he scans the blacked out windows. Alphas hunt the same forests, he’d once read in his book. And when confronted by another predator in nature, standing your ground is key. Remember your training, your breathing. Remember you are an animal willing to defend his herd. You’re an animal.
Yes, he thinks.
Now close, beast.
I am a beast, he says quietly towards the darkened truck.
Close! Close! Close!
Yes, he says a bit louder.
He jumps from his truck and walks a big circle around the parking lot. Hummingbirds drill down in the woods behind him as he approaches the truck slowly, cautiously, checking for the signs of a police vehicle. No transmitter or extra antennas. No license plate ending in “PD.” He’s ten feet when the driver’s side door of the truck swings open. Never relinquish eye contact and never explain yourself. He thinks hard about the section on confrontation, but the book begins to fail him, jumbling in his mind: You are always the only thing between you and her/ never kiss goodnight/new clothes are so good/now stand up and embrace the taller qualities of yourself/ The man slides out from the cab of his truck. He’s tall. Taller than him. Definitely thinner. His dread is immediate as the taller man tips back his baseball cap.
He wonders how fast he could run back to his own track.
But instead just smiles, a small little half-cooked smile.
Garvey: You got one down there?
Mike: A what? (Make him play his own hand first, 10/10)
Garvey: A kid, which is yours? (A parent, 8/10, not bad, not great. This can be managed)
Mike: My sister’s kid is down there. She wanted me to pick him up. He’s one of the dopey looking ones with long hair. (Point randomly) Sort of tough to pick out from up here.
Garvey: Yeah, I guess. (He extends a pair of binoculars) Got a name? (He’s being niceish)
Mike: Mike. (Careful)
Garvey: Garvey Dyer.
He looks at Garvey holding the binoculars, the noticeable muscles beneath his golf shirt, his thick eyebrows and hair poking down from his hat and hanging effortlessly over his pointy face. He wonders if Garvey is ex-military.
Because he’s handsome in an ex-military way.
Probably proud of himself, he thinks.
Garvey takes a can of chew out and offers him some.
He shakes his head no.
Below the girls are getting ready: painting each other's faces, taking pictures where the dam will be in the background, and dancing in front of big subwoofers outside of Juan’s Espresso van. He sees girls he knows and girls he doesn’t. There’s too many to count, really. He scans the beach head: Kyla, Dana, Cece, Rachelle, Hope, Kendra, and–oh yes, there’s Piper in her X-Files shirt, her studded belt. All the girls look delighted, happy, carefree. Some of the ones already in their bikinis have the name of their store written on their stomachs. A moment later, out of the bushes at the far end of the beach, stumbles Jared, with a clan of similarly doltish surfer-types flanking him on both sides. They begin an unsuccessful game of hacky sack with some of the girls. And it’s okay. Because everyone’s laughing now. Joking. Being bad at something and having fun with it.
_
Garvey: You find yours?
Mike: Not yet.
Garvey: There’s Katie down there dancing.
Mike: Where’s she work? (Garvey spits his chew into an empty Red Bull)
Garvey: The Java Jet on Plaza.
Mike: A good little shop.
Garvey: You've been there?
Mike: Well I’ve see–
A boom from the reservoir.
The owner of Ultimate Coffee is holding a pistol overhead. Him and Garvey watch the stampede of young bodies run towards the icy waters. Some of the girls are holding their noses to keep the water out. Their legs make white crested waves in the shallows, before they push off into the deep, rock-free part of the reservoir. Their hair floats behind their bodies. They all look the same in the water. And it’s less exciting to him as the last bit of sun falls low beside the dam and reflects like sunken treasure against the reservoir's surface.
Soon, the smoke from the pistol clears.
And the last of the girls’ bodies settles into the golden water.
Garvey: At least they float. (Garvey walks back towards his truck)
Mike: Yeah.
Garvey: You’ve still got to keep an eye on them though.
Mike: You do. You must. (He stops himself from going further)
He wants to say more for some reason. He wants to tell Garvey he would never make the girls do horrible things. Never or treat them like dogs. Or force them to the ground. He’s not a freak, he thinks. He’d find the right one, a special one, one of the ones that understands that a heart grows stronger and more appreciative with age. And he’d know and she’d know that he’s not much. But he’s something. Something. And that he’d be happy to wait for them to learn to love him. He wouldn’t C-L-O-S-E. He wouldn’t touch. Just drive them when they’re drunk to get food and tell them things about how taxes work and hold them when they’re feeling blue. Couldn’t he just be there? Around them? Just in case?
Was that so wrong?
No, he thinks. It doesn’t feel so wrong.
So: it’s settled.
He’ll wait.
He promises himself he’ll wait.
He’ll watch them grow into people.
People.
He hears a noise.
A car door opening.
His car door opening.
He can tell by the squeak.
Garvey: I’d say you have a cup from every joint in town. (Bad) (Really bad) (Turn around slow) (The car door open) (All the cups falling out) (Garvey picks up the one from The Java Jet) (Now Garvey is retrieving a two-by-four from his own truck) (His eyes wide) (Animals must be animals)
Mike: Please no.
Garvey: You’re a freak.
Mike: No. I’m telling you I have a nephew down there.
Garvey: I’m telling you you’re going to toss me your wallet and cellphone or I’m going to kill you. (This is not right) (Garvey’s an Alpha) (0/0) (Confront the other Alpha with confidence) (Find his eyes and don’t break contact)
Mike: I trade futures. I’m a businessman. A businessman. I trade currencies, cattle.
Garvey: I will kill you and bury you in the woods. I want to. I’ll do the time for killing a kid diddler. Swear to God.
Mike: (Laughs) (What else can he do) I thought maybe you were a cop…Or, maybe you were like me…I read books about how to get girls, but I’m going to stop doing that. I’m not a freak. I’m just a guy. (Garvey holds himself up with his board, sick for a moment, repulsed) (Run) (Run!)
He takes off towards the edge of downhill. The girls are wading back towards the beach as he jumps over the guard rail and onto the rocky decline. He can hear Garvey’s footsteps pick-up behind him: he’s coming. Coming for him. The last bit of sun is pressed against his face as his footing begins to slip and his feet shuffle haphazardly over smooth and unsmooth rocks. He falls, tearing his knee on a piece of limestone. He screams towards the reservoir but the still blaring subwoofers drown out his cry. Some of the girls are now standing in the shallows, unsummoned and cold, having accomplished their Sligo Park Splash and unsure of what to do next. He screams again. And hears Garvey’s two-by-four swinging for his head. The board misses, hitting the ground just behind him. Garvey too, is slipping wildly down the loose rock of the hill face. He tries a controlled gallop but nothing seems to work. He falls to both knees, scuffling his palms against the sandpaper granite. He can feel the sting of dirt in his wounds. Behind him: he hears Garvey’s breath between the long pauses of bass notes that rush up from the beach.
A falcon spins high above the dam.
Garvey: I got you. (Breathless)
Mike: Yeah. (Breathless)
Garvey: Yep.
Mike: Yeah.
All the sounds drown each other for a moment creating a sense of stillness and calm, it’s the same clear-headedness he gets after he allows his body to indulge in the savagery of the hole. He thinks: one day he’ll build a house for himself in the mountains.
He’ll build a house only accessible by a bridge.
And he’ll build the bridge too, and he’ll build the road to get to it.
He’ll rent the cement roller himself.
He’ll do it all.
He’ll start tomorrow, he thinks, staring down at the beachhead as Garvey’s shadow lifts behind him. It’s a nice view: all the girls standing in the shade of the dam.
He closes his eyes.
Praying for one more second.
Just enough time for him to take it all back.
But there’s no time.
No.
No more girls sneaking out of their windows and sitting on top of the park benches until the police come and shine their light. No more watching as they dance beneath the handsome traffic lights of Claude Street in that last part of night right before the first buses start up for that day. Gone too, he imagines will be the dogs howling at the edge of town, waiting for the girls to come and treat them kindly.
What a shame, he thinks. Losing it all.
His people.
His girls.
It’s all so sad to him: the rush of the music and the whistle of the board coming down through the air, the fine ticking of blood still pumping into his head, his ears. Yet somehow sadder and louder than all that is the girls coming to his rescue, having seen the mad men fighting up on the hillside, having heard the savage mounting of his screams.
The board connects with the base of his scalp again.
It’s sad but beautiful.
Beautiful: because now he can hear the girls real good, the sound of vengeful harmony as their sandals scrape against the upward ground. And he can feel them. Feel them and the unsure ticking of their hearts as they grow close. They’re scared. Scared yet brave. And even though they don’t make it–can’t make it–what a wonderous last gift for them to have given him as he floats, and soars, and falls and falls and falls like a sickened bird into the great and unknowable beyond.
by Sam Berman
Sam Berman is a short story writer who lives in Boise, Idaho and works at House Of Wheels, in a very nice warehouse with Wes & Peter & Whitney. They are terrific coworkers. He has had his work published in Maudlin House, The Masters Review, HAD, Illuminations, The Fourth River, Smokelong Quarterly, and recently won Forever Magazine's Unconventional Love Stories competition. He was also selected as runner-up in The Kenyon Review's 2022 Non-Fiction Competition. He has forthcoming work in Hobart, Expat Press and D.F.L., among others