Something Serious
Gerald settled into his seat at the small, unwashed plastic table. He felt overly conscious of his chair scuffing the diner’s floor and emitting an awkward high-pitched noise – seemingly in protest at being moved. Why he felt anxious about this, he had no clue. But he did.
“Careful there, I’ve already been told off about spilling my java all over the place. She’s not in a stellar mood.”
As he said this, Trent hooked his thumb over his shoulder, dispassionately gesticulating at the blonde haired server behind him. She appeared disheveled and out of sorts. It was 11:00AM-ish so it was right before the impending lunch rush, which always meant a torrent of hungry people, demanding food; and with little patience. They were in a place called The Pavlovian, a small diner off of 5th Street, approximately two blocks from the intersection of Ruth & 3rd St.
One of the busier hotspots to get a reasonably priced breaky in the West end.
Trent had asked him here.
“So, do you know what it is I wanna’ talk to you about?”
Trent’s query was accompanied by a loud slurp out of his mug. Little droplets of luke-warm Arabica spattered the beige table below beside a serviette dispenser and assorted condiments. The menu lay discarded like so much refuse; having served its purpose – it no longer held much value.
Gerald attempted not to notice how unintentionally melancholy it all was. Maybe it was just him – he preferred the slightly pricier cafes for breakfast (or rather brunch, as it was now past 11:00AM) over on 2nd. Sure, those eateries were more costly, but ambience was everything in his opinion.
Trent was different.
Trent couldn’t care less about the look of an establishment: if it functioned as it should, providing a spot to sit and consume a bit of professionally cooked food, nourishing his want for some communion with others in the process – he was content. Happy even.
“No Trent, I just rushed over here as fast as possible.”
Gerald tried to brush the question off. It felt unnecessary.
“Well, do you have any idea at all?”
Trent responded with a glint in his eye.
“No, haven’t the faintest.”
Gerald replied, reaching for a cup of hot jo’ that the waitress had brought him, only after registering the woman’s casual scowl. It was getting busier by the second.
“It’s a job opportunity.”
Trent grinned, proud of his declaration. He stared over at his friend Gerald, slurping more heavily out of his cup as he did.
“Who says I need a job – never even mentioned anything about it – did I?”
This exchange irritated Gerald a bit. The extended preamble he could’ve done without. The thought was nice but he wasn’t sure he was quite ready yet to attempt a reconstruction of his life post the Karen Spenosa debacle.
Getting divorced is one thing, but a drunken annulment was a whole other. He had thrown away a steady paying job on that trip to Vegas, one that he’d held four consecutive years in a row, with almost no days missed. Gerald’s life had begun to spin out of control from that moment on – he just wasn’t sure when the opportune moment to disembark from the tailspin was. Before he went over the proverbial cliff or after? Obviously it’d have to be before, but what constituted a cliff metaphorically speaking. His electrical & hot water bill was due, his cable had been cut off the week before last – was that the red flag he needed to get his life in order and take things seriously again?
“Gerald! You’re slopping coffee all over the damn place.” Trent pushed a wad of napkins across to his companion, sighing audibly before continuing.
“Look, I noticed you paused for a while after chewing me out for the offer. Clearly, you’re hesitant. But, it’s good pay – comfy hours, 10AM to 4:30PM five days a week down at the docks. You got some boxes to haul, rigging to organize, maybe some sanding and odd ends. Gopher-ing for some long shoremen…”
Trent hailed a different member of the wait staff over intent on getting some food finally. Most likely the lumberjack plate; it’s what he opted for at most restaurants that served breakfast.
“…minimal crate work since there’s paperwork and whatnot involved with unloading. It’s a godsend of a job – perfect for a guy in a rut like yourself.”
“I am not in a rut Trent. I’m considering options. That’s all.”
*****
After catching a bus, one which had seen more miles than was advisable (the ever-audible grinding of the struts said as much) and then a dawdling ride down West Street for eight blocks (very monotonous!) and then a turn onto Beach Ave. which provided surroundings less drab and more delightful; a much-needed distraction in the form of art vendors selling their wares. A short portly Columbian man; mustached, with evident sweat beads on his forearms, sat perched on a squat chair selling hand-sketched portraits – the ones of the cartoon caricature variety, no realism, just lewd exaggeration and idiosyncrasies cranked up to ten. On the next block, a vendor haggled with a man over an eclectic assortment of brightly coloured sea shell jewelry. She looked Caribbean or maybe Dominican – it was hard to tell. Trent’s vision obscured inside the grimy confines of the bus, his observations trapped behind the dusty fog-worn windows. She seemed tenacious enough to receive her intended price from the man standing opposite of her – she bristled as he reluctantly withdrew more notes from a billfold. A handful of merchants littered the sidewalks the rest of the way down Beach Ave., a pale man sitting on an apple box selling rounds of wood that had been meticulously sanded, varnished, and adorned with crystals embedded in the piney surface – kitsch and rustic – all at the same time.
An old Vietnamese man sat grilling strips of pork, seasoned, placed alongside salads of grated carrots, jicama, and pickled red onions, served in a checkered basket, a decadent sorted guaranteed bon-appétit through visual pleasure alone. As the bus came to a slow rumbling stop; to allow a few passengers out, Trent caught a whiff of the food, the culinary perfume seemed almost to carry flavour and elicited an instant response: his taste buds dancing and the responding salivation turning an oratory Juke joint – into a bayside pool party.
After a lengthy ride wishing he had stopped to explore the beach – he was back at the apartment.
Trent sank into his favourite armchair, one with brown leather upholstery that squeezed as it sagged under his weight. His apartment was a disparate, but, highly coordinated arrangement of knickknacks and personal belongings – that when interwoven with the clutter – typical to a downtown bachelor’s pad – produced a disharmonious yet comforting interior. Cluttered yet familiar. It was his home for better or worse. Home appliances were distributed roughshod around the compact space – creating the impression that any thought process involved had been focused on brevity; rather than any attempt at efficiency. His living space was an obstacle course caused by procrastination, buoyed by his continual habitation. Evidently Trent’s idea, while moving in was to be as brusque as possible with no care for the future.
Or maybe that was just Trent’s nagging insecurities, unneeded weights pulling him to the swirling watery depths of inequity below.
He leaned forward in his chair, grasping the hand rest and consciously chastising himself for such thoughts.
Time to stop with the self pity, I’m better than that…”
A letter he had left to the side days earlier (resting on an orange side table, metal legs, the plastic surface a bit tarnished and pockmarked from use) caught Trent’s attention and shook his melancholy away for the moment. He grabbed the thing – seeing that it was an official looking envelope displaying the return address, his first name, and surname were in bold: Trent Vicks. Whatever company this was, the mail clerks chose to omit his middle name, no initial even. Hmm… Not very professional.
As he tore the back of the envelope open he realized there was no return address, an incidental thing, kind of conspicuous but anxiety inducing? – no – not something that worried him. Even if this was some form of prank mail or a chain letter, the mere presence of something to divert him from the gray mixture of boredom bordering on lethargy, would be pleasantly received, especially in his current state. The way Gerald had presented a job opening to him knowing that he had expressed his own plan for getting back on the horse –was sort of irritating. He had made his intentions perfectly clear during their last monthly meetup, occurring in a cafe situated on the West Side – a friendly sitdown as usual, acquaintance-quick as he had initially resisted the request, and chose to ensure as little of his precious (but altogether aimless) time was spent comparing his current situation to Gerald’s, since his seemed to be working out swimmingly. This convo had seen Trent announce his intention to Gerald of frequenting a job fair; a tiny bit of networking and then a foray back into the fracas – his being an industry, an altogether reckless one – known universally as white-collar work.
He had come up with this “plan” of action (or really, a last second excuse) while he was waiting for tea to arrive at their booth, in an attempt to assuage his own misgivings, more than his friend’s. Oh, how he missed the endless filing of forms and watercooler chit-chats; funnily enough, a statement like that would’ve been made with some sardonicism – back when he was still working steadily – and of course still with Mrs. Vicks, now, resolutely Ms. Karen Spenosa.
Recently, when he chose to use this line in an answer to his own inadequacy; the emotional flavour was one of sheepishness – and a man’s sheepishness often masked an ineffable desire to reach required plateaus of success.
The letter was still gripped in Trent Vicks’ hands – lost in thought. Then, an unanticipated knock at the door, well a series of them really, caused him to toss the opened mail back on the table unread. Hopefully he’d have time later to find out what the damn thing was. For now it would have to wait.
The knocking at the door grew louder, and then ceased, and then resumed – much more impatiently.
Trent got out of his armchair and crossed the small room.
He grasped the door handle, hesitated a moment before opening the door just a sliver, slyly. He then found himself, somewhat responsively, greeting the last person in the world he had expected to see…
No, it wasn’t Karen.
(Thankfully.)
END OF CHAPTER 1