North side on a Saturday night. Might be a three-minute walk to Evanston, but it\u2019s officially Chicago. A forgettable bar and grill serves forgettable food to regulars and passers-through.<\/p>\n
Sitting across from each other at a corner booth, a man and woman are scanning the craft beer menu. When they arrived, she guided him through two separate sections of this large establishment, finally insisting they sit in this remote cul-de-sac in the third section.<\/p>\n
Her earlier liveliness, he feels, has been gradually evaporating since they got here.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhatever you do, don\u2019t order the Brother Goose,\u201d she says, looking at him over her too-large, but somehow appealing, glasses.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy? What\u2019s it taste like?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes go back to the menu. \u201cLike driving through Gary with your mouth open.\u201d<\/p>\n
An audible laugh. \u201cThat\u2019s funny.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is. Unless you\u2019re from Gary.\u201d<\/p>\n
The beers come. Their food is served. The waiter comes and goes. They talk, but the silences get longer. The cosmic feng shui of the evening continues to be a dying flower, its drooping face heading quickly for the ground and the grave.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry\u2026 Jill, I feel like\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name isn\u2019t Jill.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust a username. I don\u2019t put my real name on dating sites.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. I can understand that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He fumbles for the right thing to say, finds nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis isn\u2019t working,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
He exhales hard. \u201cNo. I guess it isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were funnier and smarter when we were texting,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
He leans back like he\u2019s taken a slap, closes his eyes for a few seconds, and rubs at his right temple. \u201cI\u2019m sorry\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJesus, will you stop being sorry? It\u2019s sickening.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d He feels the red blooming on his face.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike how you apologized to that asshole who bumped into you when we came in. He bumped into you. He should\u2019ve been apologizing, not you. It\u2019s a sorry-ass way to go through life, being sorry that you take up space.\u201d<\/p>\n
His hand goes to his face, fingers shielding his eyes. He\u2019s wishing for the power to will himself out of this moment, into the emotional safety of solitude. Then he takes his hand away, slowly nodding in reluctant acceptance.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay. So maybe I\u2019m a little too\u2026 conciliatory. Maybe that\u2019s a character flaw I should work on. I\u2019ve noticed a few things about how you handle yourself that aren\u2019t exactly\u2026 desirable traits.\u201d<\/p>\n
She takes a chug of beer, puts it back on the table with a little more force than necessary.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, all right. Stand up for yourself, man. Tell me what a shit heel I am. Please. Do something to dim the shine of your halo.\u201d<\/p>\n
He leans forward. \u201cI mean, what was the thing you did with our waiter? You insisted he leave that plate on the table, the plate that had three crumbs of bread and a tiny sliver of onion on it that neither of us had any intention of eating.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiles, laughs. \u201cI don\u2019t have to justify what I want to him. I pay him to give me what I want.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou enjoyed it. Making him put the plate back for no reason.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her smile widens. \u201cI did. Fuck him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right. You don\u2019t know me, mister suburban ex-husband, father of two. Let me help you. All of your niceness? Your \u2018have a great day,\u2019 and \u2018thanks so much\u2019 virgin Boy Scout demeanor? It\u2019s repulsive. Your ex-wife probably packed your lunch for you and ironed your shirts. You probably gave her a little peck on the cheek on your way out the door and said, \u2018Love you, hon.\u2019 But that\u2019s not who you really are. You don\u2019t even know who that is, you\u2019re so completely buried in the illusion you\u2019re trying to project to the world.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now he\u2019s tapping his fingertips on the table, and one knee is bouncing. \u201cWell, you got almost all of that wrong\u2026 whatever-your-fucking-name-is.\u201d He jams his cell phone in his pants pocket, lifts his jacket from the bench, pats at it to hear the sound of his car keys jingling, and starts hastily putting on his wool cap.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re leaving?\u201d<\/p>\n
She seems annoyed, and this blows his mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have a better idea?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence. He pauses his exit, lets the coat slide back down his arm. More silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat? What\u2019s your brilliant idea for how to finish our lovely first and last date?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI just think we\u2019re missing an opportunity here, Matt. If that\u2019s your real name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, for Christ\u2019s sake, it\u2019s my real name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow about, since we\u2019re never going to see each other again\u2026\u00a0 since we don\u2019t know each other\u2019s last names\u2014and you don\u2019t even know my first\u2014how about we play a little game where we just ask whatever the hell questions we want and tell the unvarnished truth? You know, instead of pretending to be people we aren\u2019t. Whaddaya think about that?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They\u2019re a little drunk now. They\u2019ve both gotten up to go to the bathroom a few times. She\u2019s told him that her real name is Rita, but he has his doubts.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, all-girl porn. That\u2019s your go-to on those lonely, horny nights, Matt?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure. I mean, why not, right?\u201d He\u2019s over-gesticulating, over-enunciating, without a care. He\u2019s finding this truth game freeing. \u201cThat way I don\u2019t have to look at some guy with a huge\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that your secret dream? A huge cock?\u201d<\/p>\n
Inner wheels spinning as he considers. \u201cOf course. Or\u2026\u00a0 no. I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMake up your mind, Matt. Remember, this is you telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth to a woman you\u2019ll never see again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think I want that. My ego does, I guess. But truth is, if I did, I think my life would be a ruin. A complete\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy\u2019s that? Explain, Mister Matt.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d have three ex-wives \u2018cause I cheated on them, repeatedly. I\u2019d have no friends because I fucked all their wives while they were away on business trips. I\u2019d want to show my spectacular penis to every reasonably attractive woman in my field of vision. There\u2019d be endless paternity tests, lawsuits, STDs. I\u2019d be absolutely ruled by it, even more than I am now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRuled by the tool. Catchy. Don\u2019t you think\u2014”<\/p>\n
\u201cBy now, some woman\u2019s boyfriend or husband would probably have murdered me, or at the least pounded the shit out of me, put me in the hospital. So, no. I\u2019ve gotten in enough trouble with the tool I\u2019ve got. Maybe the huge ones are best left in the porn industry. The ordinary civilian can\u2019t handle it. It\u2019s like a naked superpower. Bound to be a life-wrecker.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever trust a man with a huge penis,\u201d she says, as if taking notes for a class. Satisfied nod. \u201cGood information for a single woman in the dating pool to know.\u201d A breath. \u201cMy turn to tell some dark secrets.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, Rita, Be my guest.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI did time in Cook County Jail.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDown there on California and 27th?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s the place. I never thought\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJesus. I bet that sucked. How long?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, it did. Six months. I verbally threatened to harm someone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShit.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah. Confirming what you already knew about me. I\u2019m kind of a problem child.\u201d<\/p>\n
She starts listing things like bullet points in a college essay. \u201cHaven\u2019t talked to my two adult kids in more than five years. My ex stole my dog out of my hotel room a few months ago. I\u2019ve been homeless a few times. I\u2019ve lived in three different public storage facilities. Got kicked out of each one when they caught me sleeping inside. I\u2019m banned from all those places. I\u2019ve been living in a hotel for almost a year now. I\u2019ve just about run out of the money I saved from my last job. Can\u2019t pay next month\u2019s rent. Looking at being homeless again.\u201d<\/p>\n
He has trouble imagining all this. She\u2019s well-dressed, clean, put-together, articulate. She\u2019s edgy, even volatile\u2014but homeless, he wouldn\u2019t have guessed.<\/p>\n
\u201cDamn. What about your parents? They still alive? Would they take you in?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBurned bridges. They think I\u2019m a bad seed, a basket case. I can\u2019t pretend I\u2019m sorry for the choices I\u2019ve made, can\u2019t beg their forgiveness, can\u2019t sign up for rehab I don\u2019t need. I\u2019d rather freeze to death in the streets of Chicago than kiss their rich white asses. Can\u2019t do it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her list of crimes and misdemeanors is quite impressive. Criminal damage to property, assault, public drunkenness. Growing up in her family, she explains, involved various levels of mental cruelty, withholding of affection, oppressive religious teachings, and systematic abandonment.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Drinking coffee now, Matt\u2019s drifting off into dazed contemplation. Rita\u2019s been in the bathroom for what seems like an inordinate length of time. She got some ketchup on her jacket sleeve and left the table to wash it off.<\/p>\n
Her cell phone, which she hasn\u2019t activated once all night, sits face down on the table. He imagines it\u2019s like a personal black box containing all the data that explains how her life took a nosedive into Shitville. Part of him wants to snatch it up and go through it, read her text messages and emails, see her browsing history. A couple of times he nearly reached out to get it, then stopped himself. If he did, that would be when she\u2019d come around the corner, catch him in the act, and make a public scene. And she most definitely would do that. It would be ugly. He literally shudders at the thought. It\u2019s almost certainly password-protected anyway.<\/p>\n
Rita is pretty, smart, brutal, a little threatening, funny, challenging. When they\u2019d had their discussion about sexual things, her eyes had brightened, a smile played at her lips. She seemed to be enjoying the topic, like she was having fun teasing him. In his fading beer-buzz-daydream, it\u2019s impossible for him not to envision them going to a motel somewhere, stripping their clothes off in a frenzy, and fucking like teenagers. Then he thinks of the life she\u2019s lived. On the streets. In jail. And the sexual fantasy dies out. Mostly.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Standing at the women\u2019s washroom door, Matt asks the first woman who approaches to see if his \u201cfriend\u201d is in there, describing her as a petite woman with big glasses, washing a coat in a sink.<\/p>\n
The woman goes in and is opening the door again in a matter of seconds.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmpty,\u201d she says, then darts back in.<\/p>\n
Matt scans the bar, moving through all three sections, but can\u2019t spot her anywhere.<\/p>\n
She ditched me. How \u2018bout that? I guess the bill\u2019s on me. Maybe that shouldn\u2019t be a surprise.<\/p>\n
Back at the table, he grabs his jacket. Something\u2019s not right. He pats at a pocket and there\u2019s no familiar rattle of car keys. He shakes it roughly. Nothing. Squeezes each pocket. Nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve gotta be fucking kidding me,\u201d he says out loud. The keys aren\u2019t on the bench, or under it, or under the table. No one has turned them in at the bar or to the manager.<\/p>\n
Panic escalates. In this moment, he\u2019s grateful his wallet is a tiny metal thing the size of a credit card that holds only what he needs and fits in his pants pocket.<\/p>\n
Her cell phone doesn\u2019t light up when he tries to open the home screen. She probably pulled it out of a trash can somewhere on her way to sleep in a storage compartment.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Standing where his car had been parked, Matt is going over what he wants to say when he phones the Chicago police to report its theft. His face is hot, his body tense, trembling. There\u2019s a heaviness in his gut, like he might shit a boulder if he could relax his sphincter even a little.<\/p>\n
Lake Michigan, he knows, is only a few blocks away. It can\u2019t be seen, but it\u2019s there, breathing, indifferently holding life and death, bearing witness to the shining, sad carnival generated when too many people are concentrated in one area.<\/p>\n
Matt tries to imagine what might be worse than this night.<\/p>\n
Sleeping in a storage facility. Having parents who\u2019ve written you off. Being homeless. Doing time in Cook County.<\/p>\n
Then he pictures her speeding through Gary in his SUV, music cranked, her mouth open, laughing at his naivety. His brief lapse into empathy evaporates.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bought this crazy bitch dinner and drinks, then she stole my car,\u201d he imagines telling Officer Grabowski at CPD. Grabowski, he further imagines, pauses and says, \u201cUh-huh,\u201d barely choking back laughter, \u201cand the name of this fine citizen?\u201d<\/p>\n
Matt releases a long, painful sigh.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t even know her God damn real name.<\/p>\n
Dialing 911, his entire body on fire with thoughts of vengeance, he thinks: Virgin Boy Scout, my ass. I hope to Christ she left fingerprints on that fucking trash can cell phone.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It\u2019s a sorry-ass way to go through life, being sorry that you take up space.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":24559,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23593","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-j-r-wormington"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23593","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23593"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23593\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":24560,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23593\/revisions\/24560"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24559"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23593"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23593"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23593"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}