By Kyle N. George
My
girlfriend of three years, Kelsie, had found this guy online who was giving
away his futon. So I’m standing in the doorway of our newish (about five weeks,
new building and everything) apartment, waiting for her to finish dolling
herself up in the bathroom. And I’m getting irritated because she’s taking
forever, and we need this futon; we were sitting in lawn chairs to watch
TV. A placeholder coffee table. Just a
rectangular wooden slab on four pegs, really. Plus, we had yellow
daffodil-patterned drapes from Kelsie’s old place. She had called them “fucking
dope” the day she put them up. And I liked them, too, but could not seem to
muster any excitement for them at the moment. More like I wanted to rip them
down, if I’m being honest.
“Come
on. Let’s go,” I said.
Kelsie’s
blonde head popped around the corner of the bathroom. Her emerald eyes met
mine, like whirling copper fires in a hurricane. “Just a few more minutes,
Joe.”
I
tried to sound urgent. “He’ll give it to someone else, babe. Other people out
there want free futons, too, you know.”
She
dismissed the notion with a quick wave of her hand and retreated into the
bathroom. “No, he won’t do that. I spoke to him through email. He knows I want
it. Two seconds, Joe. Two seconds.”
Overwhelmed
by the boredom of standing there with nothing to do, I threw my arms out and
hung my head to one side like it weighed too much. Then I leaned back on the
doorframe and moaned.
The
problem was, if I started doing something to pass the time, like checking my
email, Kelsie would walk around the corner, ready to go. But if I did nothing,
she wouldn’t. But then if I took out my phone and pretended to check my email,
she would stay in there. So it was a cruel joke by the universe with no way to
win. You had to accept it or let it ruin the relationship. Simple as that.
But
can’t she just not give a shit about how she looks this one time? I actually
thought this as I checked my silver wristwatch. Six-eleven PM. We had less than
thirty minutes to make it across town in Saturday traffic.
We’re
moving furniture, for Christ’s sake. And she’s worried she doesn’t look good.
Am I immature for wanting to leave on time? The guy we’re going to see is
probably going to be on time. I want to be patient but at the same time . . .
“Kelsie,
let’s gooooo.”
“Two
more seconds, Joe. Hang on.”
I
rolled my eyes so hard they ground against the rims of my eye sockets. I sighed
and put my hands on my hips, something my father used to do.
Then
a blue jay landed on the windowsill. Very difficult to spot the difference
between a male and female blue jay. But it was pretty big, so probably a male.
It looked at me and cocked its head and then flew away.
I
wish more birds were blue.
Kelsie
walked out of the bathroom, wearing a pink sunflower dress. She pranced toward
me, her lemon-colored shoes, with their little straps that had bitsy pink belt
buckles on them, tapped against the hardwood floor. Her shoulder-length blonde
hair bobbed slightly as she walked until, suddenly, she stopped, looking
around.
“I’m
forgetting something,” she said.
I
sort of shrugged and glanced around. “What are you forgetting?”
She
looked at me incredulously. Her dark eyeshadow. Glossy pink lips. Fair
complexion. “I can’t remember what it is, that’s what I’m saying.” Then she
moved slowly around the room. Her purple purse dangled on its thin shoulder
strap whenever she bent to look behind something, a still-unpacked box or a
trashcan. She kept mumbling to herself, “What is it, what is it,” seemingly
reaching out with her thoughts to commune with the apartment for an answer like
a sage.
But
after a few seconds, I’m standing there, worrying about the futon, and I tell
her—I say, “We’ll lose this futon, Kelsie.”
“Shit.”
She deflated. “I don’t know what it is, but I know I’m forgetting something.”
She was moseying over to me. “We’ll be in the car, and halfway there, I’ll
think of it. I know it.”
“Fantastic.”
I motioned for her to walk out the door.
Kelsie
tromped past me, frowning, and then, finally, I shut the door.
***
In my Rav4, Kelsie had her smooth bare
feet on the dash, wiggling her yellow-painted toes. Change rattled in one of my
cup holders as we hit the edge of a pothole. I was usually good at dodging
them, but I was in a hurry and distracted. A new song I had never heard was playing
on the radio. Fast tempo. In-your-face lyrics. A hummable melody.
I looked at Kelsie, who was bobbing
her head and feet in time with the beat.
“Is this new?” I said. “Do you know
who this is?”
She shook her head no.
I stopped at a red light and turned
the volume up a little. It was a rock-pop-techno abomination. A weak yet
overproduced drumbeat. A “computery” sound to the whole thing. Fake. Corporate.
Soulless. Designed to be in a car commercial someday. Talking about all the
right things, rebelliousness and the movement and the love all that, but not
saying anything. Not really. Deceptive. Greedy.
A song like that probably would have
worked on me for a summer in my preteen years. But now, at thirty-seven, it
didn’t sound very good.
I turned off the radio. “I think I’m
getting old.” I stared at the red traffic light with both hands resting on the
steering wheel. “Like . . . in mind.”
“Isn’t that how growing up is supposed
to be?”
“Sure. But it’s the tiny realizations
along the way about what it all entails that tend to get to me. Like, when I
was a teenager, and a new, big song came out, everyone would sing it at school.
I got it by osmosis, you know. And by the time I actually heard it, I basically
already knew the whole thing by heart; I sort of miss that, the feeling of
being connected to it all. Culture and whatnot.”
Kelsie got out her phone, smiling.
“Nobody gets to stay a kid forever, babe.”
I looked at her as if to say, “I know
that, sweety,” but she was engrossed in her phone already.
Honk. Honk.
The light had turned green.
***
We reached the end of a cul de sac,
and I pulled to the curb in front of a lime-colored house. I cut the engine,
noticing the front yard was overgrown. Long grass drooped, veiling a stone
walkway. Each stone a flat gray octagon with a turtle shell pattern. The
walkway forked to connect both the sidewalk and the driveway to the front
porch. And at the center of the yard, partially blocking half the house, stood
a majestic red oak. Its branches outstretched over the sidewalk, over the curb
and my SUV.
A rusty white pickup truck,
half-covered by a brown tarp, sat, up the driveway, looking untouched for
years. Rear right tire missing. Left taillight busted. Missing tailgate. Dented
bumper, half-falling off.
Kelsie and I strode up the turtle
shell walkway, toward the burgundy porch in the warm summer rays. The cool
breeze breathed on us and whispered through the leaves of the red oak and the
other trees. A yellow bird tweeted from one of them and then darted away, flying
fast to another part of the neighborhood.
The loose wooden porch steps groaned
under our weight. We reached the top and approached the white paint-chipped
door. Two rattan chairs to our right and a small round table with tempered
glass surface. The aroma of fresh marijuana lingered beneath the awning. A
welcome relief, I thought, from the abhorrent stink of manure wafting from the
neighbor’s yard. I could see over the border hedges the five recently laid
patches of shoveled dung. But that sweet, overpowering scent of cannabis made
it mostly bearable.
Kelsie knocked three times on the
door, then backed away and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
As time went on, and no one came to
the door, I got impatient. I stepped forward and knocked eight times. Louder
than Kelsie had. Then I backed up, and we waited, but still, no one came.
I
checked the time on my wristwatch. Six-thirty. Right on time.
Kelsie folded her arms, tapping her
toe on the uneven boards of the decades-defeated porch.
A
dingy metal windchime hung on the far side of the porch, jingling in the light
breeze.
Kelsie
knelt on one side of the door. She peered through the lower half of a smudgy
window into the shadowy house.
My eyes widened at the sight of it,
and I snapped, “Kelsie. No.”
She waved me off without turning to
look at me. “I’m just checking.”
“It’s dangerous, though. What if
someone thinks you’re trespassing and shoots you?”
She fired a skeptical look at me.
“Joe, stuff like that doesn’t happen here.”
“Idiots can be anywhere, babe. I’ve
been one my entire life. I know how they think.”
Kelsie rolled her eyes. She moved away
from the window and back to the door. Again, she knocked three times, then
backed up next to me. But when no one came, I turned away.
Kelsie asked me where I was going.
I walked down the steps, out from
under the awning, and looked up to recheck the address.
“We’re in the right place?” It was as
much a question in Kelsie’s tone as it was a statement of fact. She knew it was
right. We both did.
I nodded, indicating what we both
already knew.
Kelsie
pursed her lips in thought, then spun to face the door and stared at it.
I put my hands on my hips, looking
around at the overgrown lawn, unsure of what to do now. Bored.
I couldn’t help it, really. Life just
got boring to me on a dime. Suddenly, I couldn’t care less. It was a real
handicap, if I’m being honest.
I stood on that first turtle shell
stone and looked up at Kelsie, who was still on the porch, staring at the front
door. The lime green grass blades, bending in the calm breeze, stretched long
and proud around me while bumble bees buzzed about, their wings gyrating with
frenzy. The birds chirped their hunting songs; they perched in the trees and
darted down to the ground, seeking out their next meal among the insects. And
in the distance, a dog barked, a rough and tumble sound that echoed down the
road, like drum beats in this symphony of nature.
A bee buzzed past my ear, startling
me. “Ah!” I swatted it away. “Bastard.” I swatted all around me as a warning to
others.
Kelsie was walking down the creaky
steps. “He must not be home.”
“You want to just wait in the car for
a bit?” I indicated the SUV behind me with my thumb.
She nodded, walking toward me
gloomily. And I could tell she was worried we wouldn’t get this futon, after
all.
And I was, too, if I’m being honest.
So I put my arm around her and kissed
the top of her head. We walked back to my Rav4, got in, and waited, waited,
then waited some more.
***
Her bare feet were up on the dash
again, her chair leaned all the way back. And with her eyes closed, she hummed
that melody that Ariel and her evil clone hum in The Little Mermaid.
I sat in the driver’s seat, listening,
and started tapping a drum beat to her humming on the steering wheel. It was involuntary.
I was bored and couldn’t help myself.
“Babe!” Kelsie shouted.
“Sorry.” I stopped.
“I’m trying to remember what I forgot
at home, and humming helps me think. You know that.”
“I know, I know. And drumming
distracts you. I’m sorry.” I leaned back and sighed, resting my head against
the window.
Kelsie started humming again.
Across the street, on my side, a
little girl with auburn pigtails walked a beagle puppy on a pink leash. She
wore jeans and a blue shirt with a big pink heart on it. And she waved to me,
her pup too busy sniffing around to notice me.
With my head still against the warm
window, miserably, I waved back at her. Smiling a little to let her know it
wasn’t all bad. Life, I mean. That it was only a little boring sometimes.
Kelsie stopped humming.
I turned away from the window to look
at her, and she was still lying back with her eyes closed.
“Did you have a dog when you were a
kid?” I said.
Kelsie didn’t open her eyes. “I had a
gerbil. You know that.”
“Mr. Muffin Top, right?”
She nodded, looking relaxed as she lay
back with her fingers interlocked over her stomach. Her bosom rose and fell
with each gentle breath, and the tiny blonde hairs on her arm glimmered golden
in the tangerine sunlight.
“Never any dogs, though?” I asked.
“No. My dad is allergic to them.”
“Oh, Jesus. Is Phil allergic to
everything?”
Kelsie grinned. “Not everything; just
some stuff, you dick.”
“Dogs, peanuts, cats, apples . . .” I
started drumming on the wheel again, continuing to list Phil’s allergies in
rhythm with the beat. “Mold, latex, insect stings, penicillin and sulfa drugs;
shellfish, soy, milk and eggs, metals such as iron or gold . . .”
Kelsie was guffawing and slapping my
arm so hard I had to stop.
Chuckling with her, I noticed through
my side-view mirror that, still, no one was coming down the long road that led
to the cul de sac. And I couldn’t believe that the guy was late after all.
I groaned. “Did you try calling him
again?” I looked up and down the sidewalk, but the little girl and her puppy
were gone.
“I tried twice already.”
“And it went straight to voicemail?”
Kelsie nodded, busy on her phone.
I checked my side-view again. A few
houses down from us, I spotted a tall, elderly man, dressed in all black, out
for a midday stroll.
He walked with the confidence of a man
who strolled daily. His legs were so long it almost looked like he wore stilts.
And he had, except for his shiny dome, short silver hair.
The man crossed the street, and I kept
watching him because he was so tall. I didn’t often see tall elderly people.
Most got shorter as they aged.
Then the man tripped and fell forward.
He faceplanted on the asphalt and lay motionless in the middle of the road.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
But Kelsie was too involved with her
phone; she hadn’t heard me or even seen the man.
I glanced around to see if anyone else
in the neighborhood had seen the man fall and was, perhaps, coming to help. But
it didn’t look that way. I didn’t so much as see someone standing by a window.
I reached for my door handle to get
out and go check on him, eying him through the side-view. But then, suddenly,
he moved. First his legs. Then his arms. And he used them to lift himself off
the ground. Slowly, he got back on his feet. He dusted himself off, took a look
around, then continued across the street, around a corner of hedges.
I wasn’t sure if he was okay. I hoped
he was. He’d probably feel it worse, later on, I thought. Hopefully, he didn’t
have any broken bones. Falling like that had to suck worse and worse the older
you got. I’ve never even broken a bone before. I don’t think I could stand
learning what that feels like for the first time at seventy.
A maroon sedan turned onto the road
and drove toward the cul de sac. It got closer and closer until it slowed as it
passed us.
The driver, a scraggly gent, eyed me
from behind circular dark sunglasses. His long brown hair and graying goatee
flowed in the breeze coming in through his open windows. He pulled ahead of us
and then turned into the driveway behind the old pickup.
“Babe.” I nudged Kelsie. “Babe, look.”
She looked up from her phone, and I
indicated, with a nod, the maroon car. And she perked up, putting her phone
back in her purse. Then Kelsie slipped her feet into her shoes on the floor in
front of her while I opened my door, cleared my throat, and got out.
***
We carried the wooden futon, with its
dark green mattress, Kelsie and I did, up the stairs from the basement. The
guy, who’d said his name was Floyd Cooper, didn’t have many good lights in his
house. Even once he turned them on, there wasn’t much light for seeing. Most of
the curtains were drawn, too. I feared I would trip, walking backward with my
end of the futon in a solid underhand grip.
The whole place reeked of weed. And
there were blankets bunched up everywhere in odd places, on a shelf, behind a
recliner, under a lowboy. Shitloads of them. I had never seen so many blankets
in a private residence.
I just wanted to get out of there, if
I’m being honest. I didn’t trust this guy.
Kelsie and I reached the front door.
But when we tried to go through, the futon got caught on the doorframe. It
wouldn’t fit.
And
Kelsie motioned with her head to her right and said to roll it left.
So I did. I rolled it to my left,
which didn’t altogether do the trick.
We kept trying, saying things like
“Steady, steady” and “Woah, hey, watch it now” as we tried to force it through
the doorway.
Finally, on the last push, the futon
went through, scraping the doorframe a little. We carried it, with elated
expressions, past the rattan chairs, and down the noisy porch steps.
“Don’t trip, babe,” Kelsie said.
“I got it. I’m good.” I eased down the
steps, not wanting to twist an ankle and immediately be proven to “not got it”
and “not be good.”
Reaching the bottom, I breathed
easier. My heart beat steadier.
Then
we hauled it over the turtle shell walkway, toward my Rav4, into the shade of
the red maple.
I had
to open my trunk with one hand while still holding the futon with the other.
Floyd
Cooper watched us from his porch as we loaded the futon in. He wore a dark blue
Led Zeppelin shirt and black jeans with gaping holes. Lighting a blunt, he
walked down the steps to us, blowing out a long stream of silvery smoke along
the way.
Kelsie
shook his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Cooper. Trust me, it’ll have a good home.”
Floyd
smiled warmly under his dark mustache. Adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge
of his bony nose, he said, “I believe it.” Then he offered us the blunt.
Kelsie
accepted it and smoked and passed it to me. And we all started shooting the
shit for the next minute or so.
A
massive flock of birds, hundreds strong, crossed the cloudy sky above the cul
de sac. Like a giant black alien spaceship hovering over the land. A clatter of
chirps that didn’t stop. Myriad fluttering wings. A legion of avians with no
end in sight, blotting out the sun.
“Goddamn,”
Floyd said, face upturned.
“Look
at them all,” Kelsie said.
And
while we did, I imagined what it would be like to be one of them, one of the
birds, flying in the middle of the group. Birds above, around, and below you. I
wasn’t sure how I’d like it since I got claustrophobic in crowds, but I figured
I might feel differently about that as a bird.
But,
eventually, the group lost interest in the birds, and the conversation resumed.
We talked about liberal politics and conservative politics. Religion. Mass
shootings. The war in Ukraine. Gandhi. Nirvana, the band. And a new radio
telescope NASA was putting in orbit around the moon soon. Floyd knew all about
it.
“It’ll be able to see into other
galaxies. It’s nuts.” He puffed on the blunt, then made mention of his
overgrown lawn, apologizing for how it looked.
Kelsie waved her hand, making a face
as if to say, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We hardly noticed.” Then she hit the
blunt.
“The guys who cut it are really
fickle,” Floyd said. “I never know if they’re gonna be here on the day they say
they are. And then they never are. So you just got to wait. Be patient. But I’m
hoping they’re coming today.” He motioned to his lawn. “I’m getting tired of
looking at it myself. I’d mow it myself if I didn’t have this damn grass pollen
allergy.”
“My dad has that,” Kelsie said.
“I used to mow lawns as a kid,” I
said. “Maybe there’s some neighborhood kid that would do it for a few bucks.”
“Nah, nah, nah.” Floyd shook his head.
“They’ll be here eventually. And if I use their service five times, the sixth
one is free. And the next one is number four, so I’m, like, almost there, you
know?”
I nodded. And my head tingled from the
heady effects of the ganja. Good shit. Mostly a mental high with mild physical
effects.
The
sun looked amazing and felt extra warm in the now birdless sky. Correction, one
bird flew over. Late. Far behind the others. Struggling to catch up. Flapping
its wings as hard and fast as it could.
The blunt was small now. And when I
passed it to Floyd, he waved it away.
“You guys finish it. I got more
inside.”
We thanked him again for the futon,
and for the weed and the pleasant conversation. Girlishly, Kelsie waved goodbye
as we walked to the Rav4. She took the blunt from me, wetted her fingers with
saliva, and pinched out its cherry. Then she reached into her purse and started
rummaging for something.
She
stopped and looked at me. “I just remembered what I forgot at the apartment.”
Standing in front of the SUV, I looked
at her quizzically, expecting her to say what it was, but she just sighed and
went back into her purse. She pulled out an empty cigarette box.
“I’ll
just use this,” she mumbled and put the roach inside. She closed the box and
put it back in her purse. Shaking her head slightly, she went to the
passenger-side.
And I
could tell she was being hard on herself about having forgotten something,
which she often did. But, I realized, that was one reason we made a good team.
She was great at socializing, and I never forgot anything.
About the author:
K.N. George’s lifelong love affair with the arts began long before
he attended The Art Institute of Washington for animation. But it was there
that he began to focus more on creative writing. His passion for storytelling
stems from a youth spent acting on stage in community theatre, drawing, and
playing music in rock bands.
