The Tightrope Walker’s Romance - Part I

As you can see, I've taken to publishing some of my short stories on this blog. I have so far had no responses - either positive or negative. There is a Part Two to this one, but it isn't ready yet. In any case, I hesitate to release it as it promises to be a little dicey. Think of the movie 'Chinatown'.
------------------------------------------------------
It was Sunday night, two days before our daughter, Sharon, was to come home for the holidays. I was watching TV when I heard the cat scratching inside the hall closet, wanting to come out. So, I got up and opened the door for him, but the stupid creature only retreated and started to growl.

I should have just left the damn door open and gone back to what I was doing. But I knew that if I did that, my wife, Doris, who was due back from work any minute, would swing the front door open and bash it into the open closet door. There were marks on both doors to show that this had happened before.

I’d never gotten around to changing the light bulb in the closet; so, I couldn’t exactly tell where the cat was hiding. He was practically invisible in there unless a ray of light from somewhere happened to catch his eyes in just a certain way.

I dropped to my knees and started to grope around for him under the hems of all the overcoats we had accumulated over the years. When the growling rose in pitch, I knew I was getting close. Then, the bastard bit me.

I caught hold of him and dragged him out. It was all I could do to hang on. When I picked him up, one of his hind claws got me right across the face. From there on followed a moment that I can no longer support.

My hands took a major beating as I walked over to the open window with my screaming bundle. Just before reaching it, I remember hearing the front door slam into the open closet door behind me.

I pitched the cat outside and quickly slammed the window shut to avoid hearing the thud. We lived three stories up.

When I turned around, my wife was there, glaring at me. I felt the heat rush to my head. “God, it’s hot in here!” I said. “The entire city is freezing its ass off this winter. It’s only in here where it’s got to be hotter than hell!”

I turned and threw the window back open. Doris came up behind me and started pounding my back with her fists. Frankly, I’m a big man; I hardly felt it. But the thing with the cat had gotten me all worked up. I slapped her across the face and she staggered backwards - still looking at me - her mouth twisted horribly. My wounded hand had left blood on her face. Her fingers fluttered up to it, wallowing in it like sparrows do in dust.

“The cat scratched the shit out of me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Then Doris turned and ran out of the apartment.

Yesterday was my birthday. I’ve been having quite a few of them lately. There’s so precious little to tell for all that time. It’s so scary, the way life presses on, year after year; deafening like the thunder of a freight (train); racing towards the void; unstoppable, certainly; without much hint of memory even, to slow the plunge. There are no longer any landmarks to see. Everything’s a blur.

After a while I got up and looked in the refrigerator. Nothing looked good enough to eat. - not cold anyway - and I never did learn to heat up much of anything without burning it first. I took out a beer and popped the top open; and promptly poured it down into the sink. “Let her find the can in the garbage,” I said to myself. Then I went to the bathroom and let hot water run over my hands. I considered what I would tell Sharon about where the cat went. He was hers after all. Only she couldn’t take him to college with her. I had agreed to look after him, though my heart was never in it.

I began to wonder where my wife was. I’d almost forgotten about the fight we had. In those days we were living in a state of near constant confrontation. I had met her twenty-five years earlier at the place where I worked. She saved my life back then.

The problem is that I am no longer aware. I’ve lost interest, direction, drive… God! There are so many ways to describe it: the losses I’ve suffered. The world no longer intrudes to touch me. Trapped in a whirlpool of self; isolated, I drift from day to day, leaving no imprint, as each one of my waking hours is tightly wound up in a wrapper of common rags - all cut from the same gray cloth.

As long as Sharon was here with us, I made an effort to keep it all inside, thinking it would hurt the child to see us fighting. Doris would start something and I’d simply fade away, keeping the vulnerable part of myself small and moving. Sharon was spared the worst, but Doris paid a heavy price. Her mood swings became epic.

Driven home at an early age, punctuality is key to having brought about this eternal twilight. Punctually at eight, I punch the clock. I rearrange the papers on my desk until twelve. Then I go to lunch. I eat in my car. God knows what I eat! Twelve thirty to four thirty, I man the phones. All the voices sound alike. I make them spell their names. Sometimes I get it wrong. Eventually, I always connect them with their desired extensions. Someone always sends me a bottle for Christmas.

Now, with Sharon away most of the time, Doris and I reached an understanding. It permitted us to express our feelings openly. She’d been doing much better since. Personally, I didn’t give much of a shit anymore. But, at least, she still cared enough to dislike me. A lot of couples don’t even have that much going for them.

I picked up a book from the coffee table. It was the Bible. Doris was always reading it. I doubt if it did her much good beyond encouraging her self-righteous streak.

I flipped it open. It was all so painfully familiar. I had to memorize some of it as a kid. I read up to the part where man gained dominion over animals.

Then I threw the book down. As much as it’s preached, memorized and quoted, there never were (or will be) any useful answers in it. Most of it depends on how one feels anyway. Sometimes a feeling may well correspond to one passage or another. Then, those without conviction can boast, “Hey! This must be right! It says so right here in the Bible.” But most of the time, there’s just no connection whatsoever, and one realizes just how alone one really is. And that’s when one has to have the courage to know that one’s feelings are legitimate, and not a curse or reason to hate oneself. -- I simply felt like tossing the cat out the window. And I did it. And now, I no longer felt much of anything. The kicker would be trying to explain it to Sharon.

4:30 finds me back in my car. On the highway, I feel like I’m in one of those video racing games, the ones with all those twisty turns and obstacles - most notably in winter when it gets dark early and all you see is red tail lights.

It got to be way past when I should have been in bed. Where was Doris anyway?

Come to think of it, there is something new: Doris. Can’t remember exactly when she started working here, but it couldn’t have been that long ago. Short skirt; sexy legs. How could I forget something like that? She always smiles at me when I come in mornings.

I realized once again just how much I depended on her for my daily routine. It was she, by and large, who determined what and when I ate, slept - washed even. I paced the apartment, consciously avoiding the bedroom and the windows.

Doris replaced a girl named Doreen. (Not much difference there.) The latter used to like me, I think. Anyway, I never pursued it. Maybe that’s what she liked. Still, we talked sometimes and went to the bank together to cash our checks on Thursdays.

I make a mental list of all the places I could call in the morning to ask about Doris. First on my list was Rube Goldberg, our neighbor downstairs on the first floor, who is blind. He’s one of the most serene bastards you’d ever want to meet. Of course, he could afford it, not having to watch his fat wife contort herself into dresses several sizes too small for her - the way Doris did. She’s always hanging around their place, doing this or that for them. I figured he might know something. God, I wish I were blind sometimes as not to have to put up with some of the crap that goes on!

Next on my list was the police. It’d be just like her to run over there and kick up a fuss. Christ! The blood on her face wasn’t even hers! It’s just that sometimes, come hell or high water, she’d get it in her head to hate me so much… Then, she’d create a situation by twisting the facts to support her point. (She would have made a great lawyer if her mood changes hadn’t been quicker than her mind.) To someone listening who might not have known us, she’d sound perfectly rational. It’d really give her a kick to strut around, waving her flag and spewing her venom. Sometimes, I think, it was the only thing that stood between her and the void. I put up with it. Her depressions were worse.

When Doreen tells me she’d found another job, I feel empty. She is quite excited about it though. Her hands tremble. On her last day she is busy with the new girl. Somehow I thought she had another week coming. As a result, I never get a chance to say good-bye.

Our first child died a week after we brought her home from the hospital. I was away on business at the time. Doris had been heavily into one of her moods. They said it was crib death, which is what they always say when they can’t figure out what happened. I’ve always had my suspicions though.

I feel betrayed somehow. But soon the new girl makes it seem like Doreen never existed. It makes me wonder what kind of relationship, if any, I’d actually had with her. I still manage a smile for Doris when I happen to pass by her desk in the morning. But it’s an empty reflex. Perhaps it’s only the spot - being physically there, at the front desk - that brings it on. There, where I’ve smiled so many times before without having had to think about it. I can only wonder what wayward impulse sets the corners of my mouth twitching every time I pass by that desk. After my grimace fades, I always hurry along to my own cubby and watch my hands move.

With Sharon, our second, I wasn’t taking any chances. I took six months’ leave and stayed home. Our financial situation became desperate. Doris, true to form, spent more time in the nut house than out. I think she resented my doing what was essentially her job.

It wasn’t always fun and games for me either. I remember, there was a time when Sharon cried almost constantly. And I’d just sit there and bite my knuckles until the urge to hit her would pass.

Sometime, when the three of us were together, I’d watch Sharon fuss in Doreen’s awkward arms, demanding to be put down. After getting her wish, she’d come crawling over and tug at my pants. Doris would take it all in; then run to the bedroom and slam the door.

Over the years, I came to understand that Doris’ moods were determined in large part by my own. When I had a firm grip, our relationship - never easy - was workable nonetheless. When things happened, and it was all I could do just to keep myself above water, I’d lose her. A recurring dream, in which I walk a tightrope with Doreen and Sharon on my shoulders, illustrates this, I think. It’s always been a matter of pride for me to keep the family functioning as a unit. I would bet that Sharon appreciated this perhaps more than anybody. It’d be a shame to have to tell her that I’d slipped up again.

The doorbell rang and I awoke with a start. It was one of those mornings when I couldn’t remember where I was. I forced myself up and felt my way to the door. Through the peephole I saw Rube Goldberg with his head down, moving about oddly in the hall and making weird smacking sounds with his lips. I braced myself before opening.

“Why, Mr. Goldberg!” I said, showing surprise. “To what can I attribute this honor?”

“I’ve got your cat here. (Come here pussy.)” he said in two distinct voices, and with that, the cat scooted between my legs and into the apartment. “My wife found him wandering around outside. …must have jumped off the ledge again.

I stood dumbfounded.

“It’s amazing,” he went on, “how these creatures can jump from great heights, legs spread almost at right angles, and practically float to the ground like some prehistoric wing.”

I was so happy; I could hardly talk. “Please come in,” I said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“No, but thanks just the same. I’ve got to be getting along,” he said, adding, “We tried to give him some milk, but my wife says, he’d be more interested in eating.”

“Well, thank you very much for bringing him back. Why, we had no idea he was even gone,” I lied.

“It would help if you kept your windows shut.”

“It’s either that or running the A/C, particularly this time of year,” I remarked. “The place is an oven.”

“To each his own -- good day,” he said, turning his sightless eyes away.

“Say, you didn’t happen to see Doris?” I called after him, trying to make it sound casual.

“She’ll be back. Her whoring days are over,” Goldberg called up cryptically from the second floor. For a blind man he moved rather fast, I thought.

I went to the kitchen to ransack the pantry for cat food, but the cat’s shelf was empty except for the dry stuff I knew he didn’t like. So, I decided to go out to get a few cans of the fancy stuff by way of celebration. Before leaving, I closed the windows and turned on the A/C.

I was breathing hard when I returned some twenty minutes later. In my zeal I had overdone it at the store. They say one should never go grocery shopping on an empty stomach.

The bags were too heavy to bring up all in one trip, but I managed it just the same. Now, it got even more complicated as I needed a free hand to open the door. But I managed this too, finally using my foot to give it a good kick. It flew open, but only so far as its progress was halted rather abruptly by the closet door which someone had inadvertently left open.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Doris died by her own hand the same year Sharon graduated from college. He death was cause for celebration for all concerned (excepting the Goldbergs, perhaps). I must admit, she did us all a huge favor. It was apt closure to a failed experiment repeated every day many millions of times throughout the world; each, without exception, yielding similar, largely disappointing results. Each time a child is conceived, its parents implicitly hope for a savior. In all of two thousand years, it’s happened only once. And some would deny even this.

With such poor odds, why do we continue to even bother? And why are cats said to have nine lives to every human one to prove that there is a God?

We left the city for the suburbs. (For me it wasn’t really such a big deal. I’d been reverse commuting for years.) Sharon never married. We’ve lived too long like sticks of old furniture, side by side, taking much for granted. Later, it would get to be her salary alone that sustained us. More and more, I began to feel less of a man and more of an appendage.

Clearly, the day would come when one of us would go. I’d always imagined that I would precede her. And that would turn out to have been right in a way, but certainly not in the way I’d imagined.

--date uncertain

The Madman (a ‘Spooky Dude’ bedtime story)

The madman is in the kitchen. I am in the bathroom. I had excused myself, citing nature’s call. The door is locked and for the moment I am secure as much as the largely ornamental latch will allow. There are no windows here. No escape is possible. The door to the medicine cabinet hangs open, the way I left it when I went to get some valium earlier. No sounds can be heard from the outside. It is precisely 3:24 AM when I feel my bowels move.

It’s been several hours since the doorbell roused me from sleep. I opened up without first checking through the peephole. Though his name escaped me, I recognized him immediately. His hair, though considerably thinner than I remembered it, was soaking wet.

“Good God!” I announced. “What brings you out on a night like this?”

He pushed past me without answering.

“Can I get you something?” I asked when I found him pacing around in the kitchen.

He gestured distractedly and I put water on to boil. I stood by the stove, watching the pot as if in a trance. Neither of us spoke, yet the air was thick with what for me unaccountably translated into fear.

“At least take your shoes and socks off,” I ventured. “You’ll catch cold in those wet things.”

“Are you serious?” he grunted. “There’s glass all over the floor.”

He had been a high school buddy of mine - my only friend, in fact. We were both unpopular and did things together for lack of other options. After graduation, we lost touch. Our parents remained in contact. It was through my mother that I knew he’d moved to Boston where he tried to start a business and later got married. I understand they also had kids.

The pot was beginning to boil. I couldn’t find the herbal tea, so I reached for the instant (coffee). I knew that if I were to drink the stuff, I’d be awake for the rest of the night. It did cross my mind to simply grab him and toss him out the door. Isn’t it reasonable to expect that one be left alone, in one’s own home no less, after a certain hour? Besides, he was way shorter than I. I could easily have done it. But isn’t it just like me to put myself at the mercy of events? My wife had suggested that it was a way for me to avoid taking responsibility; to always put myself in the position of being able to point the finger at somebody else. I, on the other hand, prefer to think of it in terms of the curiosity instinct - waiting to see what happens.

There are several ways of enjoying one’s coffee. I wanted to ask him how he took it, but didn’t. I made both cups exactly alike: cream; no sugar.

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the notes on the refrigerator door, held in place there by tiny, toy-shaped magnets. Among these was the yellow copy of a rental agreement. It is doubtful that he could have made anything out from that distance.

I grasped both cups at once in order to serve them, burning my fingers in the process. In my haste to release them, I spilled some of the hot liquid on the table. As the spill shot across its smooth surface, seeking the edge; he jumped up to avoid a soaking. Just then, his jacket opened to reveal the black leather of a shoulder holster.

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m still half asleep.” Then we proceeded to busy ourselves with napkins and paper towels.

“I’m getting old, Harry,” he said, aiming a wad of stained paper at the sink. “The old illusions are beginning to weaken one by one. Already, water and dust feel pretty much the same to me.”

“So, how long has it been?” I asked.

“A quarter century,” he replied dramatically. “Twenty-five Christmas cards; twenty-five promises to visit.”

I felt a pang of guilt redden my face.

“I’ve always wanted to,” I said. “But Boston isn’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump away.”

“Excuses are like assholes; everybody has one.” He sounded decidedly hostile. “Besides, you did manage to visit Barry on Oregon last year - was it? You bragged about it in your mass Christmas mailing. …and the year before that, Chris in Florida?

“My wife and I both had been expecting you,” he continued. “For a while she blamed me for not having much of a social life. Somehow, after high school, it’s never been easy to make friends.

“I guess,” he went on, “I’ve been too damn busy trying to eke out a living. In the early days, I still had hope. It took me twenty years to realize that, no matter how you slice it, the government gets it all anyway. I don’t have very much more now than when I started. The wife got so disgusted, she actually tried to poison me - anyway, she’s gone now.”

“Gee, I’m sorry to hear it, John,” I said. “My wife left me too. Financially I’m also just about scraping along. Often, I’m grateful just for the fact that time is passing. Indeed, a lot of it has passed already. If we can just manage to hang on just a bit longer…”

“That’s just it,” he stood for emphasis. “The colossal crime of our generation is that we’ve allowed ourselves to get sucked up by corporate America. They trained us well and early. Remember how our teachers used to put up poster board and stick gold and silver stars next to our names whenever we did something that was deemed exceptional? Some of the kids would practically kill for one of those blasted little trophies. Now, most of us have graduated to doing the same thing with money. From the looks of your refrigerator I can see that you yourself are still doing it the old-fashioned way, right here in your own home, probably for the benefit of your kids.”

I shift uneasily in my seat.

“I remember sitting in history class and hearing how well our democratic system works,” he continued. “In case you haven’t noticed, democracy is dead - has been for some time. Most people no longer vote, and those who do are coming to realize that the choices are cosmetic at best. There’s no longer a system - if there ever was one. It’s a goddamn free-for-all out there. We are witnessing the self-destruction of a civilization - our civilization. Every conceivable form of human degradation is now openly practiced, even sanctioned in significant quarters. Excess and need live side by side. Each feels threatened by the other. Each finds itself trapped by the whirlpool of activity that promotes it, stuck deep down in the narrow part of the funnel where motion is restricted to running in place. Every one of us has become merely a cog in some enormous machinery whose sole purpose is to… who knows what? It’s ironic that the Communists have picked exactly this time to fold up their tents.”

He sat back down and took a drink. Exhaustion had set in. I could see it in his eyes.

“I’ve done much research over the past couple of years,” he said wearily. “I’ve managed to work it all out, down to the last detail. I wanted to make a difference. But in order to do it, I needed the paper. Actually, it wasn’t my paper. I just worked there. My wife kept control of it. When I found out she sold it, I just went nuts. I struck her with a bottle - killed her instantly. Then I rented a wood chipper to dispose of the body. I have no illusions about getting away with it.”
---------------------------------------------
It was at this point I excused myself. On the way to the bathroom, I brushed by the refrigerator, dislodging some of the notes and magnets. I stooped to pick them up and took them with me.

Now I rise and pull up my pants all in one motion. My hands hover instinctively above the sink but I decide not to wash them after all. Of late, they’ve been in the habit of bleeding. The stained towels all around me are in evidence of this.

I emerge from the bathroom and walk out into the kitchen. He is gone.

“John?” I call out cautiously.

No one answers. On the table stands a full cup of cold coffee. I lock the front door and go the bedroom. More blood. As I am drifting off to sleep, I am wondering what I will tell the kids about where Mom went when they get back from camp tomorrow.

--June 1992