I bought pen and paper at the Stop-N-Shop from a
man, I realized half way through the transaction, that had been a friend of my
parents. It caused me to look down in fear that he would recognize me and want
to start one of those tedious and uncomfortable conversations older people are
famous for. Back safely in the car I asked myself why the fear? What if he had
said: Say, aren't you Chester and Winnie's boy? And what if I'd been honest and
said: Why yes, Brad, I am. And I remember you, too, from way back when – what?
– maybe thirty years ago? How the hell are you? And how's Stacie? And didn't
you two have some kids too, and wouldn't they be right around my age, if
perhaps a little younger? And while I don't remember what you did for a living
way back when, I can't help but wonder what has happened that here you are now
a checker at the lone grocery in town. I'll assume, unless you tell me
otherwise, that it's a hobby more than a vocation, that you don't need to work
at Stop-N-Shop but that it keeps you busy and gets you out of the house and out
of Stacie's hair a couple of days a week when you're not with your
grandchildren, which you consider your real life's work these days. How
wonderful.
Me? Well, you may have
heard I moved away from here right after high school, found my way to New York
City. Been there over twenty-five years now.
You don't say? New York
City. Wow.
Indeed.
And what is it you do in
New York City?
I imagined for a moment
telling him the God honest truth, but then I happened to notice a most discernible
splotch on his cheek just below his left eye. It was the size and shape of an
irregular dime, slightly raised and dark brown in color. I quickly went through
the ABCD checklist from my dermatologist: A) Asymmetry. Check. B) Border
irregularity. Check. C) Color variation. Check. D) Diameter greater than six
millimeters. Check. Skin cancer. I couldn't give a person dying of skin cancer
the truth. That I'm without significant companionship once again. That I'm
childless. That I'm in between jobs though looking high and low.
I'm an attorney.
Litigation, some tax stuff but only for special clients. I was part of a big
New York City firm – Brando Caan and Duvall. Maybe you've heard of it. We had a
hand in the Michael Jackson trial, you know the one about what he did or didn't
do with other people's kids? But I left BCD shortly after, over what I guess
you could call creative differences. Founded
my own firm after that. We're boutique,
which, if you don't know, is lawyer-speak for selective. A lot of people,
especially lay folk such as yourself, think that boutique just means small. But it doesn't.
It occurred to me that
the cancer on Brad's face looked a little like George Washington's famous silhouette.
It made me think that maybe he didn't know he was dying, that he'd managed to
not see this as a very deadly affliction but as something akin to seeing the
face of Christ burnt into a piece of toast. I changed my tack with him.
But really, how are you, Brad? Everything all right?
Can't complain, can't
complain. Stacie and I got ourselves a fifth-wheel a few years back. We take a
couple of weeks during the winter and go down to Arizona. Lake Havasu. Gets us
away from the rain a little bit anyway.
Sounds nice. Real nice.
Yeah, it is. It's got a
gas fireplace in it which we thought was a real neat feature. Course, we never
have a chance to use it in Arizona, so I guess it was kind of a waste to pay
extra for that.
It made sense now –
winter after winter in Lake Havasu without sunblock. A picture was forming in
the center of the puzzle.
So, asked Brad, you got
a wife back east?
Here's the thing, Brad.
I really, really like boys. I like the way they look, the way they walk, the
way they talk. I like that majoritively they have hair on the shorter side. I
especially like their penises. I imagine that might shock you, but that's the
way it is.
No, no. It's doesn't
shock me. To be honest, it might have shocked me if you hadn't said that. I
remember as a little boy you used to prance around in a very short bathrobe
without anything on underneath.
That's a bit of a
stereotype, isn't it Brad? Prance?
Well, didn't you though?
Walk around in that short robe, naked as a jaybird underneath?
I did.
At that point I realized
Brad was a more sophisticated checker than I had anticipated.
Say, I said as a way of
segueing, what's the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?
Brad thought and then
said: Last year for my birthday my wife and kids called in sick for me – he
looked around to see that no one was listening in – and took me up to Lake
Sylvia for just a wonderful picnic they put together themselves. Pretty sweet,
I'd say.
I interpreted that last
line as a challenge.
Just last week I was
stood up in a strange city during a layover. I usually always fly direct,
always. But I had arranged this layover specifically to see a friend who lived
in that strange city, let's say it was Cincinnati. When she stood me up, I was
pretty pissed. I texted a mutual friend, Stephanie. She suggested I get drunk
to pass the time, which I thought was a pretty excellent idea, actually. So I
found myself down at this classy bar by the river drinking Rob Roys, my usual
drink. And I have to admit it was lifting my spirits a bit even if it was an
artificial boost. I re-texted Stephanie to tell her her suggestion was working.
She asked, off-handedly, where I was imbibing. I told her it was at the bar at
Over the Rhine. And do you know what she did, Brad? Do you know what this rock
solid friend did for me? A few minutes later the bartender placed another Rob
Roy in front of me and said: "Stephanie wishes she were here with you, and
this drink is on her." I said to the bartender, "Holy shit, how do
you know Stephanie?" Then it hit me. She'd called in and put a drink for
me on her credit card. Clear half way across the fucking continent. Now come
on, Brad, how fucking sweet is that?
I don't drink, he said.
It doesn't matter, man.
She didn't call in a drink for you.
The point is I do drink and the story is about me. God.
Brad shrugged. He was
starting to piss me off.
Seriously, Brad. You don't
think that's the sweetest Goddamned thing you ever heard?
It's okay. It's nice I
guess.
Nice? It sure the hell
beat the shit out of your lame-ass picnic at the lake story.
Okay, well, nice to see
you. I got to help the next person.
Wait. Wait just a
fucking minute. You were perfectly happy shooting the shit with me, taking a
break from what has to be the most uninteresting, monotonous job in the entire world to talk about your
wife and 2.5 kiddies and your fifth-wheel and your trips to Lake Have-a-fuck or
where ever it is you go to acquire your skin cancer. But the minute I get a
really good shot in, a really fucking good story, you get all, "next
please?" What the fuck , Brad? Man, now I see why my parents kicked you
and Stacie to the curb as friends. You are just so lame! So fucking, fucking,
fucking lame!
You're cross-eyed, said Brad.
Excuse me?
Your eyes, they cross.
It's like you're staring at the end of your nose all the time. Has no one ever
told you that before?
I wanted to wring his
neck. I wanted to choke him like a Sunday chicken, whatever the fuck that
means.
Fuck you, Brad, I said
as I started the car. Just fuck you!
He made me so angry I
couldn't see straight.
BIO: J. Edward Kruft received his MFA in fiction writing from Brooklyn College. He lives in Long Island City, NY and Asbury Park, NJ with his husband, Mike, and their Keeshond-mix rescue, Aine. When he dropped high school physics in order to write for the school newspaper, he was told he would rue the day. He hasn’t. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in the Brooklyn Review, Soundings Review, and Eunoia Review. He is currently at work on a novel, Playing at the D&R and Other Stories.