A Wonderful Life Page 6

  “Yes,” said his brother. “It has been a long time.”

  THE END

  WHATCHA GONNA DO?

  Okay. So here you are, 32 years old, a pizza delivery guy and stuck out here in the middle of a forest. Come on, Mitch. Whatcha gonna do?

  Oh, and who’s the dame? Charcoaled face over impacted make-up and blood flowing from numerous head injuries. Pretty in her tattered financial district power suit, but not that powerful now. So tell me, Mitch. Whatcha gonna do?

  “Where are we?” she tells you in a bit of a daze. You don’t know, and you tell her that. You remember the plane, the oxygen masks dropping in front of you and then digging yourself out of the debris. You have no idea whatcha gonna do.

  “What happened to the plane?” she asks you in that innocent way women usually pull on you. You say nothing and she only grows more impatient with you.

  “Are we the only two left?” she says.

  You nod, not mentioning that alone was the reason you took the plane in the first place. Alone was what you needed before the others—

  “I’m talking to you,” she says with that indignant tone people keep using with you. “My name is Molly. I’m an attorney. What’s your name?”

  She’s holding out her hand to you and you, like a sap, take it. “Mitch. I deliver pizzas.”

  That look again, Mitch. That bitch gave you that look just like all the other women from before.

  “Of all the people to be stuck with, I get the Domino’s kid,” she tells you with that superior attitude of hers. My god, Mitch, she’s practically laughing at you.

  Come on, Mitch. Whatcha gonna do?

  She says: “Well, as I’m the educated one here, I guess it’s my job to get us out of this place.”

  “No one else survived,” you tell her. Probably too much info, Mitch, but she plays it off, and then you gotta add: “One guy kinda made it but he didn’t make it.”

  She’s staring at you, Mitch. She probably thinks you’re crazy like the others did, before they made you run away.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  You’re about to say it, Mitch. I can feel it. Just let it go.

  “Do you ever hear voices in your head?” you ask her.

  She moves away from you. “No,” she replies. I can see she’s nervous now. “Do you?”

  And then a great recovery, Mitch. “No, not really. We may as well start home. It’s a long way to the nearest town.”

  And then you walk her around the place where you stashed the body of the one guy who did survive. Well, who survived the crash, at least.

  And she follows.

  You know, Mitch, there’s a reason why I stick around you. You always do know how to have fun.

  The End

  PRECIPICE

  Some stories are autobiographies, some are biographies, and some are completely contrived through fiction. Some are designated as one category, yet are, in reality, of another. Sometimes those designations cause great concern, as was evidenced by the whole James Frey incident with his fictionalized autobiography that caused all sorts of condemnation from the Oprah crowd. And then there’s a story like that of Robert Caldwell, a simple writer who straddled all of the categories, yet never found solace in any one. It is his story that I wish to tell, although for the sake of austerity, I must admit that even today, I am not sure just where to categorize his life, or his lack thereof.

  Robert Caldwell was just finishing up his last day at the English Second Language School (ESLS) third tier class. ESLS attracted young high school students from various countries around the world, who were interested in visiting California and learning a little bit of English while present in the large state. The classes were broken up into five tiers, and depending upon the initial English-aptitude of the students, the better writing students were pushed into the higher tiers.

  “I know our two month course has been really long,” said Robert, “but today is our last day, and as I’m sure you’re all happy to hear, there are no more lessons to be taught.”

  There was a breath of relief in general that exhaled from the eighteen students. A two month intensive course required them to partake in another lesson each and every day, and it was of great relief to realize that the instructions were finally over.

  This was of great comfort to Robert as well. “I know it hasn’t been an easy two weeks,” he added, “and believe me when I say that it would have been a bit easier if some of you would have contributed more to the exercises.”

  He then paused, realizing that he was finding himself having to speak over a group of three female students from France who were heavily engaged in a conversation of their own. Even though they acknowledged that he had paused on account of their bantering, they continued speaking anyway. It wasn’t until Robert actually asked them to stop that they finished up their little conversation and then turned their attention back to the front of the room. Before Robert could speak his next sentence, they were back at speaking, engaged in some subject obviously more interesting than anything they figured Robert might say.

  Robert just sighed and shook his head. This was how this class operated for the past two months. Even though he had years of experience of teaching at the college level in both English and communication, there was nothing he could do to curtail the amount of personal conversations taking place during each class. At one point, he finally gave up and resigned himself to teaching to the few students who actually pretended to be listening to what he had to say.

  When the class reached its chronological end, Robert dismissed the class and thanked the heavens that he would never have to teach it again. He told the students that this was his last class he was teaching for ESLS, but they didn’t appear all that interested, so that was yet another conversation he had with himself in front of a class of eighteen students. It was depressing when he realized how many classes had that exact same type of reaction from the audience.

  As Robert cleaned off the dry erase board from random scribblings he had made to explain what was going to be an elaborate wrap-up of the two month experience, which he abandoned once he realized no one was really listening, he went to grab his laptop bag and watched as the final student filed out of the room. He was about to leave, himself, when Rebecca, the site leader of ESLS entered the room. She had that look on her face that he could never diagnose; she was either pissed off or content. The perfect poker face, thought Robert.

  “How did it go, Robert?” she said.

  “As good as could be expected,” he replied. He never made it a secret how much of a struggle each class was with these students.

  “Not every class is like this one,” she said. “You just had an exceptionally bad group.”

  He smiled. “I’ll live. Besides, I’m done.”

  “About that,” she said. “We really wish you would reconsider about leaving us.”

  “I appreciate it,” he replied. “It just wasn’t something I’d really like to repeat. I’ve had bad teaching experiences before, but this really reached for the bottom of the barrel.”

  “But what are you going to do instead? My understanding is that you’re still looking for a job.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m a survivor.”

  She nodded. “Well, if you change your mind, you have our number.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said. “Good luck to you and the rest of the group.”

  With that, he grabbed his laptop bag and headed for the parking lot. This was going to be his last commute home from Fairfield to Stockton, where he lived.

  Stockton, California, is one of those weird cities that meets all sorts of criteria for making it a crappy place to live. Often hailed for its lowest literacy rate in the country and its continuous struggle to achieve a national ranking as number one crime capital of the country, it also finds itself a victim to its proximity to the large San Francisco Bay Area metropolitan area. Too far from the Bay Area to be a comfortable commute, it is still too close to
be considered completely away from the Bay Area, so prices for everything in Stockton are often comparable to the same prices in the comfortable areas of San Francisco and the East Bay. Because it is about an hour away from Sacramento, Stockton also serves as a hub for higher prices because of potential commuters to the state’s government.

  Yet Stockton itself has really little to offer for itself other than a lot of crime, high prices, a housing market that collapsed upon itself and continues to collapse, and several pockets of civilization in a morass of dangerous locales. The city houses a well known private university and a couple of state universities and city colleges. However, those educational facilities serve as fortresses of safety in a larger metropolitan area of crime and grime. There are constant attempts to “beautify” or advertise the city as a great place to visit, and of course, like every other run down city, there is always an attempt to “revitalize downtown,” which lasts only as long as a politician is willing to spend capital to do so. For a politician, it is political suicide to admit there is anything wrong with Stockton, but in order for a politician to be effective, that politician is required to own up to the fact that there are serious problems that exist in the city. Unfortunately, it becomes a somewhat hilarious conundrum, in which the first person who tries to fix the problem also becomes the first victim of political suicide. Therefore, the problem continues to manifest itself because the solution is more difficult than the status quo.

  This was Robert’s city. He graduated with a master’s degree in communication from the University of the Pacific, and since that graduation, he found it difficult to find actual work. Being in a city with a devastated economy, Robert chose to remain in an area that was not actually of benefit within which to remain, convinced that eventually some type of opportunity would arise. Unfortunately, as might be suspected, no opportunity ever did arise. Robert found himself in one bad temporary job after another, and even the few jobs that offered a longer term prospect of survivability weren’t worth survival if those were their only terms for employment.

  In such a city, it is not hard to find a place where one can feel useful, even if the effort may be seen as somewhat Sisyphus-ian or Quixotic in nature. Robert spent a great deal of time volunteering for a very helpful organization that combined volunteers with young children who were involved in the juvenile justice system. For a few years, Robert worked with a young man named Lester who was mentally challenged, but had been indicted for hitting a foster parent’s son over a disagreement involving toys that were shared between the host family’s biological child and Lester. Lester didn’t understand the juxtaposition of toy distribution, and because he was so much bigger than the other child, he had hurt the younger sibling. As a result, Lester then became a charge under the juvenile justice system, and Robert was chosen as his volunteer advocate.

  The advocate position was something Robert enjoyed, because he was very good at persuasive methodology. It was dealing with Lester that often caused Robert the problems he had with the program; sometimes Lester was just more than any one man could handle.

  “I had a fight again,” said Lester to Robert, which explained why Lester was now in restraints while speaking to him in the institution’s meeting room. Usually, Lester was unfettered and tended to walk around the room while talking. He did not like to move much when there were chains on his wrists and ankles. “They are very mad at me.”

  Robert nodded slowly. “Are you all right, Lester?”

  Lester nodded. “They didn’t like me. They called me names. The big guy threw an eraser at me. Called me stupid. So I hit him. Made him feel stupid.”

  Robert said nothing. Part of his job was not to be judgmental of Lester. He also stopped giving advice, like telling him not to get in fights, because it just wasn’t worth the energy. Lester was going to get into fights regardless of what Robert told him. That was just Lester.

  “Lester, I have something important to tell you,” said Robert.

  Lester’s eyes opened a bit larger than normal. He was not a big fan of change, and whenever Robert said something and said it was important, Lester started to get nervous. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, Lester,” he said. “I’m not mad at you. But this latest incident of yours is going to cause problems. You are of adult age now, meaning you are now eighteen years old. They have decided you have to take responsibility for your actions now.”

  Lester’s face did not register understanding. “They put chains on me. I know I did wrong. I’ll try not to do it again.”

  “It’s not that simple, Lester. I wish it was. They’re going to be moving you to a different place.”

  Lester just stared, no expression his face. “Where will they take me?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Robert. “Probably to a state facility. I really don’t know.”

  “You will still come see me?”

  Robert knew this question was going to come, and even though he practiced the answer in front of the mirror a hundred times over the last few months, he was no more prepared for it when the question came. “I can’t. They are not going to let me visit you anymore. They’re taking you out of the program.”

  Lester’s eyes opened wide. And then he started to grow angry. He began shaking in his chair, and he started to stand up, nearly knocking the table over and the chair to the floor behind him. Before he could register his anger, several orderlies rushed over to his table and grabbed him. In less than a few seconds, they dragged Lester away to an inner room of the institution, and that was the last Robert ever saw of him.

  Robert turned the table back over and then sat at it for a few more minutes, just staring at the other visitors who were speaking to other prisoners. He wondered how long it would be before each and every one of them had a similar conversation where things turned ugly. And then he stood up and wandered out of the facility.

  Robert sat down at the bar in The Culture House Restaurant and Bar. The bartender was on the other side of the bar, saw him, and then slowly made her way over to where he was seated. “The usual, Bob?”

  He nodded as she poured him a house beer. “Tough day,” he said.

  She just nodded and then stared at him as he took his first sip. She continued staring as he placed the beer glass back down on the house coaster. “And what brings you into our fine establishment?”

  “Just needed a beer,” he said.

  She crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head. “Really? That’s all that brought you here? There are a lot of bars in the city.”

  “But none have a bartender as beautiful as you,” he said, tipping his drink to her.

  No smile came to her face. “Still the same shit from the same orifice.”

  “My job at ESLS ended today. And Lester is being transferred to a more secure facility.”

  She leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I liked Lester.”

  “He liked you, too,” he said. “He often asks about you. Wonders what happened.”

  “Doesn’t he understand what breaking up means? Or did you just never tell him? Come to think of it, have you actually told yourself?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?

  “What is that supposed to mean? Bob, you come here at least once a week and hang out at the bar with me, even though we agreed to see other people. We broke it off, and I see you now more than I ever saw you when we were dating.”

  “I like you,” he said. “I understand we’re never getting back together, but you did want to remain friends.”

  “That’s a throwaway comment people use when they don’t want to date someone anymore,” she replied. “Let’s just be friends means get the fuck out of my life.”

  He took another drink. “So, you want me to leave?”

  She sighed. “No.” She stared at him for a long time before speaking. “I don’t want you to leave. I’m just having a bad day.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Anything I can do to make it better?”

  She shook her he
ad no. “Maybe some day in the past that might have been possible. Not anymore. Business is slow, and the manger’s an asshole.”

  “The manager has always been an asshole,” said Robert. “I, at least, remember that.”

  She smiled. “Why did you come in today? You don’t usually come in until Saturday night. This is a Thursday.”

  “I’m finding myself creating closure in a lot of things today. Thought today would be a good day to come in and visit.”

  “Oh, so you want closure with me now? Little late for that.”

  He smiled back at her. “No, not really what I meant. I just needed to see a familiar face.”

  “Are you even writing anymore?”

  He stared back, slightly stunned by her question. “What do you mean?”

  “Every night you come in here, you keep talking about how you’re going to be writing another novel, but I’m suspecting you haven’t written a single thing in the last three years.”

  “I’ve been working on a recent project,” he said. “It’s a little different from the rest of my work.”

  “No science fiction aliens? No female vampires in black leather chasing the hero around?”

  “No, this is different. It’s more of a psychological project I’ve been wanting to tackle for a few years now.”

  She leaned on the counter on her elbows, her head balanced on her hands. “I’m intrigued. Tell me about it.”

  “Well, it’s called Precipice. It’s about a writer who decides his time is finally up, so he decides to write a story about another writer who is planning to kill himself. Kind of like a call for help, but at the same time with a cathartic spin to it.”

  “That sounds kind of depressing,” she said.

  “It’s not, really. It’s more about how the author has done everything he can do in his life but has never made it as an author, so he writes an autobiographical novel, like Kenneth Rexroth did in his name-dropping autobiographical novel. Except, the purpose of this novel is that the author realizes there can only be one ending to a very depressing story of one’s uneventful life.”