Vincent and Alice and Alice Read online

  I do my shopping quickly.

  A man in blood-red suspenders holding a Caesar salad is mouth-breathing down my neck. Sometimes I wonder why anyone exists. One theory is that Armageddon already happened, invisibly, years ago. I don’t necessarily believe that, but hard to disagree if you’re out grocery shopping.

  Caesar Salad cuts the line. Forgetting something, looking at his phone, he moves from the line only to return seconds later and cut it again, his shoulder brushing past mine. He’s big so he does whatever he wants. His left hand is in a cast, a tiny red heart smeared at the base of his thumb.

  “Paper bag inside of a plastic bag,” he demands, not looking up from his phone.

  Everyone is thinking the same thing, but we won’t do a thing, no way, not this group. If anyone was going to say something it would be a woman. Men are brave but only inside cars. We need someone like Alice. “Show a man who he truly is and he will change.” A quote I like but it doesn’t apply because a guy like this, taking time to study his receipt before leaving, so ready to pounce on a mistake, doesn’t posses a sense of shame.

  Back home I have a missed message. Too much time worrying about strangers with salads to realize my phone was ringing. Like Alice used to say, I need to be more aware and to be present. It’s good advice in any situation and it’s annoying because I’m unable to do it.

  It’s from my boss saying to come to the office first thing Monday morning for a meeting with Dorian Blood. I don’t know anyone named Dorian Blood. Two weeks working from home and I’m going back, if only for a meeting, but it just goes to show, you don’t really control anything. Dorian Blood can’t be a real name and if it is what kind of head goes with it? Something oblong and bony. Someone with long fingernails and hazel eyes. I’ve never heard the name before. I would remember such a name if he worked for the State.

  When people ask what I do for a living I say I work an office job and flutter my fingers on an imaginary keyboard. I don’t know why I do this, but I do, grinning and typing on air. My job isn’t interesting but sometimes if I’m talkative I’ll say, “administrative work.”

  Because you can’t tell someone you work for the State without them rolling their eyes. It’s a detestable job. We’re overpaid for bureaucratic paper pushing and the benefits are shocking to the point of evil. You put in thirty years and the pension package and best health insurance available in the country (Michelle calls it diamond level) follows you until death.

  At 10am, if you drive by the building where I work, the one with thick streams of black gunk on the crystalized cement, you’ll see smokers on the marble steps, or if it’s windy, crouched and huddled between the bushes like gnomes. We have an absurd amount of free time, and time off, tripling what those in the private sector receive.

  When we have a three day weekend with Monday off you’re allowed to leave early on Friday, so most employees put in a request for Friday off completely, which is always approved. Wednesday is a breeze because you’re thinking about the coming five days off, you can’t concentrate on work if you even have work to do. On Thursday you can relax, come in a bit late, followed by a long lunch, sneak out early, and hey, another day off.

  What’s also common knowledge is that many jobs are created for the friends and family of the Leaders themselves. There’s an office and job description involved, just no work.

  And because many workers refuse to pay the fifteen dollars for monthly parking, they park in Center Square where there is a strict two hour limit. So every two hours, if not for a smoke break, they lethargically excuse themselves from their cubicles to move their car. During this break they make personal calls, nap, and buy potato chips.

  I call my boss for details. He says he has none besides, “The Leaders picked you.”

  I follow up for more information and he does his nervous boss cough and says he’s never had this request before, meaning from his boss, and to come with an open mind. He never talks like this. This is a man with a perfectly coifed “Greed is good” haircut. On his desk is a ceramic jar engraved with TERRORIST ASHES. He believes those on welfare should be drug-tested. I ask if this means working from home is over and he says of course, didn’t his message say welcome back?

  “I don’t know what to say,” I say.

  What I’ve learned from working at the State: no sense of logic, karma, or linear narrative. You constantly feel like you will be fired even though all signs, like those older employees shuffling around you, point to you obtaining the coveted thirty year mark. That’s the real reason people work a State job: free time in the present is nice; retirement at sixty is the real heaven.

  Being home all the time is depressing, so I tell my boss, “I’m ready for anything” in the strongest conference-call voice in the world while driving my hand into a family-sized bag of tortilla chips. Without a future, no Alice, I’m ready for an adventure.

  Dorian Blood. When I say the name there’s a magnetic quality to the sound like I’ve met this person before. Dorian. Blood. I can’t stop thinking about him, or her, and what this meeting means for my future. Possibly nothing, but maybe everything.

  In an attempt to distract myself I go for a walk. I live neither in the city of A-ville or the suburbs, but somewhere between, the neighborhood of Pine Hills where two-family houses have fifteen feet of grassy separation on city lots, a sad scattering of trees for the corner homes. The streets are lined with parallel-parked cars, but some people have driveways. I live two miles from my office. If I walk two blocks over I can see the head of the building I work in, one shoulder filled with my coworkers, computers, and cubicle walls.

  The weather tonight is a summer storm after a day of record-nearing heat. Elderly is holding his stuffed animal with spider-long arms and legs, curly blue hair and googly blue eyes. If this is surprising, it’s not. Elderly is a street person well-known on the sidewalks of Pine Hills. I find him less troublesome than Caesar Salad. Only one has a stuffed animal named Millionaire. Only one seems destructive.

  “Hey E. Nice night.”

  The thing about Elderly is he dislikes small talk, words to just fill spaces. But when it’s important he talks in endless depth, going on and on about politics and current affairs. Just don’t engage Elderly in chit-chat, he won’t hesitate to walk away. Most people love to talk even if they don’t like people, which is why they love to talk. Tonight he’s got a bag of cans half as tall as him slung over his shoulder. Millionaire is positioned so the stuffed animal’s hands appear to be holding the bag, his body hugging Elderly’s chest.

  The streetlamps click on for their thirty minutes, the breeze is sharp and exhilarating, and I say like it’s no big deal that I have a meeting with Dorian Blood.

  Elderly looks like James Baldwin, and when he hears the name Dorian Blood he raises his eyebrows and leans back on his heels. “The magician?”

  “A work meeting. I’m going back to the office,” I say.

  “Why?”

  It’s a good question. I’m not sure working for nine years in an office has done me any favors except giving my life meaning to strangers. Because when you’re asked, “What do you do?” you have to respond with your job, but if you’re retired you just say, “I’m retired.”

  If I retired at forty years old I’d receive six thousand dollars a year beginning in 2037. I need thirty years total to reach the goal everyone in my office talks about daily – the diamond-flickering retirement package, seventy percent of your highest year salary. But the way it works, I need to reach year ten first to receive anything at all. I am less than a year away before I become vested into the best retirement package in the world.

  “It’s for a work meeting,” I reiterate to Elderly. “I’m just not sure what, exactly.”

  He has Millionaire adjust the cans on his back. “Work meeting,” repeats Elderly.

  The outline of a person flashes in the distance under a tree then vanishes around the corner. I have a little Alice thought because it looked like her. I need to mo
ve on. Her side of things is a different experience than the one I had, I’m sure, but that’s life. What you think is a highlight is a lowlight for the person you love.

  Dad once told me his favorite experience with Mom was this white water rafting trip they took in the Adirondacks in the 70s, I forget the actual year, but it doesn’t matter, they were young and adventurous. When he told this story he lit up, explaining how Mom beamed as they zigzagged down the river in the rapids, how he almost went over, how the buffet at the resort had all-you-can-eat crab legs and no one was pushy, no single wide-shouldered man stood there waiting for the refill. They got caught in a rainstorm while walking back and ran with mud painted up to their knees. What makes this story so memorable is how Mom felt about the trip. She hated it. It was the worst trip of her life. “Going for a walk,” I tell Elderly who stares at me. “I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.” He doesn’t care if I go for a walk. Elderly dislikes style, material goods, and leisurely activities. He definitely doesn’t like work meetings. What I’m trying to say is that he’s amazing.

  When I’m walking at night like I am now into the areas of no street lights or glow from houses it feels like I’m being thrown forward into darkness with nothing to grab onto. I’ve read that people who have attempted suicide at the Golden Gate Bridge have experienced a similar feeling. But does anyone not suicidal feel this way? Everyone is so confident, so sure of themselves. I’ll get there one day, maybe, just hard to imagine the future without Alice in it because Alice, as married to me, is always bleeding images from the past.

  I like to cut through the park at night because of the stars. As a kid I could locate the most obscure constellations. I dominated the planetarium field trip. Tonight is overcast, the moon behind a wide band of gray clouds so it’s difficult to locate a star or planet. Still, walking through a field alone in the dark with possible life above feels powerful.

  Before leaving, I stand at the swing sets trying to find a star between the slight separation between clouds. Teenagers in hoodies are huddled on a nearby bench getting high. At the park exit men squatting under a streetlamp are spraying cleaner on a truck’s tires, saying, “Yeah, Ronny boy, yeah,” as the foam thickens. There’s a sudden clearing in the sky. I trace the belt of Orion.

  Another thing about Elderly is he lives in his car. I can see it in the distance as I walk home, a gold-colored 1995 Pontiac Bonneville which worsens each month and is rarely driven. When it won’t start I help him push it from one side of the street to the other side every Tuesday and Thursday because of the parking rules. The Pontiac sits too low to the ground. It has no functioning headlights, the hood is dented so badly that when it rains it holds water, and one flat tire is covered with little crosses of black tape. The front bumper is missing, and so is a chunk of the car itself, a missing corner exposing an inch of blue washer fluid. Standing next to the car now, I can see Elderly is asleep in the driver’s seat, which contains rips of white foam, crown-shaped, around his head.

  From my porch I collect seltzer cans in a plastic bag. Tied tightly, I place the bag next to the driver’s side tire. “Goodnight, E,” I say, and he responds through sleep, “Night, V.”

  JUNE 3

  Time to buy a dog. I’ve previously planned this move in the direction of independence, it’s just taken me a while to follow-through. A dog will keep me occupied until I meet Dorian Blood on Monday.

  Months ago I was cleared by the animal shelter. It’s interesting with so much dying the strict regulations we place on animal safety. When the volunteer inspected my apartment she went, “This it?” and moved in a stationary circle, clutching her clipboard.

  I don’t really have things. My apartment post-divorce is what considerate guests would call minimal. People talk like this now, and I don’t really know what looks nice. Everything I purchase is blue or black.

  There was some hesitation in my application because I imagine a single, nearly forty-year-old man fits the profile of someone who would burn an animal. When I told the volunteer I was divorced she said she understood because her boyfriend, Brandon, had recently dumped her for Crystal. Then she touched my wrist and approved my paperwork.

  I didn’t need to, but on the way down the stairs to the sidewalk I blurted out that I’ve loved animals ever since I was born, like, I came into the world loving animals so give me one to love now before it’s too late.

  The animal shelter is bright lights and barking dogs and worn leashes dangling from hooks. Two women sit on yellow chairs against the windows comforting cats. I’ve asked to walk Rudy. No one wants Rudy because he’s disgusting. Also, in a world of Max’s, Oreo’s, and Winston’s, he’s Rudy.

  Long brown fur that isn’t curly, but knotted with dirt. Where it looks like he has long toenails growing from his paws it’s filth-bundled hair, and around his eyes there’s so much gunk it’s permanently sleek. His left rear leg and part of his hindquarters has been shaven pig-pink because the leg, according to the volunteer, was coated in ticks when he was discovered in a dumpster behind a pool store.

  Rudy is so undesirable. Probably doesn’t have teeth. His breed is terrier mixed with a half-dozen others, who knows, no way anyone will adopt him before his day comes. They do a countdown until an animal is adopted, or not, and a dog like Rudy has little to no chance. Even before we go outside with everyone else testing out dogs, I decide he’s for me.

  There’s a real sadness to the way he jumps, frightened by other dogs barking. When a man in the passenger seat of a convertible starts singing on a nearby road, Rudy cowers between my legs and I tell him, “I’ll protect you from him,” which is something you can only say truthfully to an animal.

  When Dad was busy being a cop, Mom collected animals. She was lonely and filling her reality with things that had hearts. Don’t believe what other people will say because plants don’t work and fish don’t count.

  So we had nine cats, three dogs, four turtles, twin rabbits, three hamsters, a one-winged pigeon named Helio, and a squirrel, Bibb, who lived in the garage. Mom made Bibb a hammock above the workbench which Dad kept filled with peanuts. For their size, squirrels are skilled fighters. Is there a star constellation of a squirrel? If not, you could create one. For Bibb. That’s what’s so amazing about the world now – you can make anything up, and if you’re confident in your stance some others will believe you, and if you have yourself and some others, it’s all you need.

  Alice never met my parents but the animal stuff she thought was so weird. She was careful about what she said about Mom and Dad and I don’t blame her. How do you comment on two people who were dead from such an accident? Besides, if you don’t grow up with animals as pets you tend to just eat them.

  “Rudy?” says the volunteer at the counter. This one isn’t as pleasant as the one who visited my apartment, this one is talking while eating chips. In the future everyone will be eating chips, constantly, all day and night.

  A dog costs two hundred dollars.

  The volunteer licks his fingers. “We can’t understand why his tongue is bleeding.”

  “Right,” I nod.

  “He’s eleven-years-old with a life expectancy of thirteen.”

  “Where do I sign?”

  I imagine Rudy tossed slow motion like into a basement clouding with green gas, too late for my saving hands. The death syringe plunging into his fur and the black bag. My brain is killing Rudy. My imagination is powerful. On occasion, it has gotten me into trouble.

  Alice said I was incapable of living in reality. She said I spent too much time in my head, which is impossible because my reality was Alice, planning our days together. We spent weekends in bed eating sushi, reading the first ten pages of novels, binging shows, sleeping to no clock, no rules, no guidelines, no sense of time. If my imagination did wander, it always included her.

  Rudy comes out, dragged on his leash across the smooth-as-glass linoleum floor by an unaware volunteer until he reaches me and Rudy leaps, injected with sudden energy, his
unclipped nails scratching my thighs.

  How I landed my job when I turned thirty is all Alice, recommended by her brother-in-law who worked for a Leader. He said they were looking for “creative types.” I no longer consider myself a creative type. My pants are so much bigger now. Imagine working thirty years so you can live twenty years.

  The reason why my brother-in-law recommended me as a creative type was because I had a minor painting career before I met Alice. I’m not sure it was even a career, but people did buy them and it always surprised me. My paintings became boring around the time I settled into working an office job. Some new painters doing new things pushed me out of the way. The art world is a trap unless you have rich parents.

  My parents had money, but not power money. They signed me up for lessons when I was ten and didn’t say a thing when I brought home an oil painting the teacher herself had spent two hours on. She wanted to impress my parents so they thought I was excelling and would sign me up for more lessons. Mom and Dad were too smart for that. Where I had signed my name, in the lower right corner, were tall chunky blocks of smeared black paint and both of them ran their fingers lightly over the letters.

  I started to feel embarrassed when Alice looked in on me, in the basement, dripping paint onto the canvas in uninspired ways. The shame of not selling paintings made me give up. Steve, on occasion, still calls me Hollywood because I once sold a painting for a thousand dollars to Scott Rudin in Los Angeles.

  I’m not really sure where you bring a dog that has been living in a cage, and survived in a dumpster licking chlorine tablets, but my favorite park is twenty miles from my apartment, near Mom and Dad’s old house.

  Shortly after the divorce I drove to the house and asked the owner if I could see my childhood bedroom. This was the behavior of someone who had cracked, I don’t deny this now, but I did then. I denied everything around me. Some hesitation, but the family felt sorry for me, because they let me in after discussing it in the kitchen.