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issue 7
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| Bob's Story |
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|by Eric Stepp-Bolling
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For a moment gray sky gave way to a wall of green, white foam lacing a pattern of tempest and consternation. I was afraid the sea would have Bob before we could give him to her. The ship reached the bottom of the wave where we appeared to drift in a kind of powerless vacuum for a minute before the next wave and the meager push of the engines heaved us upward again. I took refuge inside the cavernous belly of this thirty foot cabin cruiser, even though the gray over us consisted largely of morning fog, I could not rid myself of the feeling that we would soon all find watery graves. I never knew how small and helpless a ship could be, even in the relatively light swell of the Pacific in mid-winter. If it weren't for Bob, I wouldn't be here now, and if he were yet alive, I would never have stepped aboard this floating roller coaster.
I knew Bob about as well as anyone. . . no, better than anyone, but how can you say you know someone who tries to commit suicide three times in the same day? I loved him. That's something his family couldn't or never would say to him. . . at least before he died. It's also something he didn't do very well. I mean his lovemaking was fine, just urgent and rushed. Maybe he understood his time limitations. . . the worldly ones, and that sort of rubbed off in the way he led his life. Makes sense if you think about it. And I do a lot of that. . . an awful lot. But Bob didn't know how to give of himself. He couldn't just say this is me and if you like me fine, that's how I am, but if you don't like me, try the next bar down the road. Instead, he always tried to impress; be someone he wasn't or ever could be.
Bob and I met at a Western Dance night at Murphy's Saloon. Two things about him I noticed right away. He could two-step better than any man there, and he could throw darts almost as good. He wasn't shy. He didn't need to be. At forty-eight he could have passed for someone ten years younger. He was tall and thin with long wavy hair the color of winter straw, and when he smiled it just gave me goose bumps. I'm not much to look at myself, short and plain,but he saw through all that and he treated me like someone special. The first time he asked me to dance, I felt like I was in high school again. Between the Wild Turkey on his breath and the way he danced me off my feet, I couldn't have been more intoxicated. God, he loved life. I never saw someone who enjoyed being who he was, when he was and where he was.
"You never could see the dark side of a man, Gwen."
"That wasn't you, Bob. That was just crazy talk when you weren't feeling yourself."
"And when was I feeling myself? When did I reach out and grab something solid, something real. . . and not the neck of a whiskey bottle?"
"I remember. . . I remember a night as gentle as spring mist with you rocking me like a little girl in her father's arms. . . strong, warm, loving arms which could protect me against anything the day threw at us. That was the first night you told me you loved me. That was real."
"And why was I holding you like that?"
"You held me so tight, like you never were going to let go. . ."
"Why, Gwen?"
". . . the warm crush of corduroy. . . "
"Why did I hold you?"
"Don't ruin it. Please don't ruin it."
"Say it."
"You loved me."
"I hit you! Can't you say it! I hit you and you cried in my arms."
"But you loved me. You can't deny it. You loved me."
"I still do."
Bob had his weaknesses. Drink was one. Probably the most noticeable to those around him. Gambling was the other. He loved Vegas. He loved the horses. If he had had the money, we would have spent our time following them. . . from Santa Anita, to Del Mar, to Hollywood, to the state fairs. We would have hit the circuits and lived for the track. Bob found nothing so fine as a three year old pounding dirt and flashing heels, with his chest heaving, the foam lathering under the saddle, the muscles in his neck bulging about to burst, and the jockey holding on for dear life. He knew the minute they came out for the crowd which horse would give it a race. He saw the spirit, the energy it took to be a winner. Maybe he sensed a kindred spirit. . . maybe he recognized what he could never have. Whatever it was, he saw it and won with it. Then somewhere around the sixth race, when he had had too much sun and too much beer, he lost it. Lost it all. The connection left him. The magic touch vanished. He'd blow five, sometimes ten thousand on a single bet. That was the sad thing. He never knew when to stop. And I suppose, that's what killed him finally. He just kept trying for it all. . . the razor, wire, charcoal. . . and then he didn't need to keep going.
We were together six months before he took me to see his parents. He called it my absolution by fire. Said they would see to it the time would not be dull.
"Dad, Mom, I want you to meet Gwen. Gwen and I are going to get married in the morning."
God I hated that. He did it to get a rise out of them. . . just to see the red slowly come to a boil and seem to spill out. Maybe that's the way he was raised.
"Well, isn't that interesting news, Joe," Bob's mom said like she meant nothing of the kind.
"Shit, son, you don't even know the girl. She may want you for your money."
And that was funny cause Bob just got laid off at work, and I paid for most of everything. Then I noticed it. I mean I had to see it when Bob's father turned around. It was handsome, huge, enormous, a rocky overhang. It was his nose. I had to admire it because of its totality. Joe's face fell under its shadow. It would have been Bob's inheritance if Bob had lived another twenty years. I suppose that's why I loved Joe.
Joe eyed me cautiously. "Not much to look at. Does she screw like a banshee?" He didn't bother to wait for a reply. Taking his pruning shears in hand, Joe shuffled toward the back door. "I've got a garden needs tending." I saw the strength in his wrist as he turned the door knob. It was so unlike Bob's delicate dart's wrist. And he left us. I pictured him doing the same thing for forty some years, and I suppose that's why I hated him.
"Sit down, girl," Bob's mom finally said, and she moved a kitchen chair my way.
"Don't mind Joe. He's not always with us if you know what I mean."
I didn't know what she meant, but I was afraid to ask. She seemed to think it was so obvious.
"It runs in the family. Bob's Uncle Jeremy lost it several years back. Went into the tool shed and put a shotgun in his mouth. Man had no sense of etiquette."
At the time I'd wish I had a drink, something I could take a long swallow from and watch the ice cubes gather around my mouth. But I didn't. And all I could see was a tool shed splattered with Uncle Jeremy's head.
"You better see to your girlfriend, Bob. She looks kinda pale."
"She'll be fine. She's tougher than she looks." Bob moved to the refrigerator. "Would you like some lemonade? Mom always makes it fresh with Joe's lemons."
I nodded.
He got a glass from the cupboard. I could see none of the glasses matched. They all looked like old jelly jars with pictures of cartoon characters on them. From the refrigerator he grabbed a large plastic pitcher, poured it near full, and handed it to me.
"Most of the time she even remembers the sugar."
I took a sip. It tasted fine. In fact, I couldn't remember tasting anything quite so delicious before, and I told her just that.
A large grin appeared on her wrinkled face like a school girl receiving her first compliment. "My name's Alice. My husband's Joe."
There was something in the way she said the names that meant acceptance. "I'm
Gwen Harding," I said.
Bob, satisfied that I had stood the test, headed for the rear door.
"Think I'll go help Joe with the onions. He always lets em get too big."
As soon as he left, Alice turned to me and said, "You better watch that one. He's too much like his father."
"Oh, I don't know. I think he takes after you quite a bit."
"He's not mine. His mom died in a car accident when he was eight. Joe needed someone. He's not the type to go it alone, especially with some bratty little kids hanging on."
"So you volunteered?" Somehow I couldn't imagine Alice as the motherly type.
"Joe was younger and he had plans. He wanted to leave his mark, his brand on the world. Course while he did it he needed someone to watch out for Bob and his brother and sister." Alice reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. From behind the toaster she slid an ashtray already overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then came the coughing spasms. For the next few minutes I watched as Alice went into a semi-trance. After taking several puffs on the Camel the spasms would begin, her entire body writhing with convulsions. Every now and then she would struggle to get up and walk to the sink where she would spit something yellow down the drain, washing it away with water and curses. Finally, when she had only a stub left, she smothered it into the ashtray, wiping her fingers on her dress. "I would've offered you one, but I only had two left." Then the coughing again.
"Have you been to the doctor about that cough?"
"Probably just lung cancer." But she didn't smile when she said it. "Are you really planning on marrying him?"
I wish she had said his name. She made him sound like a piece of furniture. "I don't know. He hasn't asked. I. . . I don't know." Of course I did know. I would have married Bob if he had asked me that first night, but there was something about Alice, something not quite right, and I didn't want her knowing everything so soon.
"I wouldn't blame you if you turned him down. He's too much like his father."
And that was that. Bob returned from the garden, grabbed my arm and whisked me out the door. I asked Bob what went wrong, but he just tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked into the grey haze of the afternoon. You couldn't even see the mountains. The smog was that bad. The paper said it would get worse before it got better. I hated Southern California. It made people do crazy things. . . or maybe the people were already crazy? The bruise on my arm had begun to blacken, but there was too much pain in the car to even notice.
"Do you know how silly you looked with the bare feet and the white bedsheet."
"Peach. You didn't have white. And I hadn't shaved for a week. I smelled. Badly."
"Bob?"
"Yes?"
"Those words. . . what you were doing. . . did you really believe. . . did you really think you were?"
"What do you think?"
"Sometimes I sit outside on the porch on the cold, wet nights and I try to imagine what it must have been like. Did you suffer much?"
"We are all suffering. Some more than others. I carried with me the pain of the world. That was my job. Some men build steel and glass monuments. Some shovel dirt. I suffer for others. What are we if we don't strive for our true potential? My life, what there was of it, began with my father's agony. He saw stars where most people see darkness. But the dreams exploded. With each unfulfilled vision came a moment of agony until he could only scream each time he got out of bed in the morning. Alice use to struggle with that. She was a good woman who became trapped in someone's nightmare. Now she just makes lemonade and sells Joe's vegetables by the road."
"Why do you always make everything sound like a funeral?"
"I can leave."
"No! Please, don't. I'm trying. . . really I am."
"Do you know why I gave that man on the street all of your money and the keys to your car? He never had any money and he never owned a car."
"But all of my savings. . . you gave him all."
"What would you have done with it?"
"It wasn't yours to give."
"Gwen, it was money. I would never have given away something which you truly valued."
"Why didn't you give your own money away?"
" I had already done that."
"Christ, you have a warped sense of ethics."
"They're mine, so I suppose I can warp them if I want to."
"Okay, the car. Why give someone who can't drive a car? Why?"
"I was insane."
Motel. Cheap. The smell of urine and disinfectant. Freeway sounds, lurid, irresistible. A maelstrom of sound and senses rising, lifting me above it all. Sirens and wax, melting too near to turn back. The pleasures of prayer, songs whispered in my ear. Joy, so close I can squeeze it like the trigger of a 22. Palpable. Fingers tremble. From a brown paper bag come tools to fix. The world. My world. Her world. Fix and consume. With this, my body, my blood, I give to you. . . my father. . . everlasting. Amen. Single sided, platinum edged, steel nerves. The joy of consummation. The song of eruption. God, do not forsake me as I have forsaken those around me. A surgeon of darkness. Cut deep. Fingers shake. Cut deep. Eyes unfixed. Cut deeper. Warm and sweet. Warm and sticky. Like red soda. A thirst unquenched. Cut deeper. Damn! You have nothing, nothing. No guts! No courage! No strength! The knot too tightly tied. The smell nauseates. Into the sink dry heaves. Mucus. Nothing comes. Nothing there. Nothing. The sink is stained with life. Look up. Someone staring at me, but I have made myself invisible. No need to worry. Stomach settles. Weak. Finger trembles. A letter, a note. . . to you. Be safe. Be warm. Be. But all that comes are lies. I love you all.
Chill. Numbing chill. Close the window. . . close the window. . . close the window. Windows already closed. This will not end it. Satan comes in many faces. Double-edged, platinum coated with the grin of the Devil in it. Sirens again. Angels with red eyes. Psalms. Brown shopping bag. Charcoal, wire, matches, gloves, scotch. Difficult to unscrew. Once screwed, always screwed. Break the neck. Not much glass. Sinking. . . bottom. . . cold diamonds strained by the stomach. Red inside, red outside. Slug it down. Courage. . . more courage. Slug it down. One third. Slug it down. Wire. Is it long enough? Will it reach? Strip it? Tie it. Light. . . share your light with me. Make me run. Make me jump. Make me do it. Slug it down. Chair to reach the light. Four legs. Need more. Steady. The wind blows heavy here. Freeway wind. Sirens. Higher. Touch the eyes of God. Bare wire. Touch his eyes. Touch his terrible eyes. Oh, God! Can't hold. The pain! Can't. . . numbness. . . blackness. . . can't.
Head. . . how long? Darkness. How long? A lifetime. Never enough time. . . always too much time. Coward. God reached out. . . couldn't hold on long enough. Coward. Slug it down. Coward. Slug it down. Don't torment me, Lord. Hold your hand steady. Let me feel the weight of sinless paradise. Take me into your arms. I am ready. The bag. Charcoal, fluid, matches. I will make a living hell. Close the vents. Close the cracks. Towels. More towels. Bedsheets. White as sin. Close all against the sirens. Hands useless. Cut bag with razor. Useless. Use the bottle. Last round before closing, boys. Drink up. There. Into the middle. Slow burning. Take away the sin. Cast me into your arms. Fluid. Matches. Not too much. Fan and burn. Fan and burn. Take away the sin. Now. . . let me rest. Satan get behind me. Let me rest. . . I will not fail you, Lord. . . I will not fail. . . let me rest. . . let. . . me. . .
"How did it feel?"
"Let's change the subject."
"No, I want to know."
"Serve the living, Gwen."
"Where did you find the strength. The razor. How could you see your own blood, your own life. . ."
"I was drunk."
"They. . . the police. . . didn't think you could connect the wire to the bulb if you were that drunk."
"I was drunk."
"What were you thinking about when you were doing it?"
"I was drunk, Gwen."
"That's an excuse, not an explanation. Goddamn it, Bob! You might as well have sucked the life out of me! What were you thinking about?"
"Does it matter? Hasn't there been enough pain?"
"No! Your pain stops. What about me? How the hell do I stop the pain you left me with?"
"I meant to rid you of it."
"Rid me of it? You gave me a scar I'll wear to my death bed. Rid me of it! The only thing you wanted rid of was this life."
"There were demons inside of me. Gwen, I loved you more than. . . "
"Life itself?"
"Every night I heard them calling me. They wanted me. They meant to have me. They threatened to take you with them. I knew they would come for me, so I lead them away from you. I called upon the hand of God to save me. He reached down. Twice he denied me. But he saw that I was persistent. Finally, he took me with him."
"Bullshit! I don't believe you. It's all bullshit!"
"It's the way I saw things."
"And the mirror. . . the message. . ."
"That was a lie. I knew it then. I know it now. You are the only one I ever loved. . . as far as I was capable of loving. Toward the end, I couldn't reach you because I couldn't find myself."
"And they are gone now?"
"The demons? All are gone. You must deal with them now."
My stomach had matched each thrust and drop of the ocean, and I soon found myself on deck hoping the fresh air and drenching wash of the waves would somehow calm my rolling stomach. The slap of the peaking waves against the cabin cruiser's hull threw salt spray into a heavy wind. The wind and motion of the boat bombarded the deck in an almost constant salt rain, drenching me as thoroughly as if I were the one tossed to the fishes. The rush of sea water made footing treacherous, so I clung, white knuckled, to the wooden handrail. At least my stomach troubles had been superseded by other concerns. Twice the captain had slowed the engines and twice he had been told by Joe to continue on. I estimated we were now somewhere between the mainland and Catalina. The thought of riding these swells another minute longer brought a thick lump to my throat. The acid residue washed into my mouth briefly before I choked it down again.
"I never knew you got seasick."
"We all have our own demons to deal with."
If the sea had been a mirror, it couldn't have reflected my life any better than it did now. I felt like all the beauty of the world had been thrown into a maddening storm where my only choices were to get sick or let myself go. I closed my eyes as tightly as I could and buried my nails into the hard wood of the railing.
"Feel better?"
At first I didn't know what he meant, but then I noticed the engines had quieted and the swells had become less mountainous, the spray, a gentle mist. For the first time during the trip, I could feel the sun on my face. although my hands and feet still felt numb. I hesitated to loosen my grip upon the railing and attempt a step or two. Everyone had mysteriously disappeared from the cabin. Gradually I worked my way along the railing and down the stairs to the lower level in the stern. Joe, Alice, Bob's brother and sister had gathered in a semicircle facing the ocean. Bob's brother faced the group and said something which the wind immediately took away. I edged closer. At Joe's feet was a brown box about the size of a typewriter. Everyone seemed to have their attention fixed on the box while one by one the individuals stepped forward to have their say.
"Are you sure you want to watch this?"
"They sound as if they actually knew you."
"That's Shelly, the youngest of the family. She's married with three kids and lives in Oakland."
"A little on the plump side."
"She's holding my favorite golf shoes."
"I didn't know you liked to golf."
"I don't. It seems a shame to toss those shoes in. They're practically new."
"Who's that with the bottle of Wild Turkey?"
"Cousin Eddie. A drinking buddy of many years. He'll want everyone to take a drink before he throws that overboard. Communion."
"Oh! That's terrible. How did you manage to swallow that without gagging?"
"Practice."
I could hear Joe talking now. Rather I could hear his conscience talking. He used words like putty, molding his world, Bob's world with his imagination. It all sounded so wonderful, so full of crap. Then they brought the box up. It looked heavy as it took two of them to lift it to the railing. Bob's brother ripped open the cover with a pocket knife. Inside, Bob was tightly wrapped in plastic.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Then this is where I must leave you."
"Do you have to go?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I'll miss you."
"For a while."
"I'll remember you always."
"I'm counting on it."
I threw a single red rose into the sea where Bob was finally going to rest. Joe turned his attention to dumping the ashes. I had always imagined that cremation would pulverize the body into fine, fireplace ashes, smooth and white. Instead, the contents of the box contained ash and fragments of bone, a kind of dehydrated human soup. Then the wind kicked up again and Bob flew into my eyes.
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