Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (20 page)

The door slams hard into the wall as Roy throws it open, the doorknob smashing into the plaster. He stands there, in the doorway,
taking up the whole frame. Secretary running behind him, trying to catch up, trying to shout her apologies.

Inside, Klein is at his desk, deep in conversation with another man sitting in the patient’s chair. He looks up, startled, as the door flies in. Eyes wide, shocked as he sees Roy enter. Backing up. “It’s okay, Wanda,” he tells the receptionist. “I can handle it.” Reluctantly, she slinks back to her desk.

Roy’s across the room in two bounding steps, anger carrying his bulky frame. “Sugar pills?” he yells, throwing the bottle at Klein. Hitting him in the chest. “You gave me fucking sugar pills?”

He’s at the doctor’s side. Hands an inch from his face. Klein tries to scoot backward, his chair caught in the carpeting. Tipping back. “Roy, this isn’t a good time.”

“I got a chemical malfunction, you know that?”

“Please, Roy—”

“I got a chemical malfunction
in my brain
. I need the right drugs, the right class of medicine. Not some fucking sugar pills!” He’s leaning in farther now, dancing with the doctor. Klein moves back, Roy moves forward. Not controlling his own motions. Not thinking about them. “What am I, a fucking test case for you? A guinea pig for some fucking paper you’re writing?”

The doctor motions to his patient, who is still sitting peacefully in the chair. Eyes half closed, a bemused smile on his face. “I’ve got a patient here.”

“And what am I? Huh? Don’t I pay you?”

“We can discuss this in an hour—”

“We can discuss this now.” Roy looks over to the other patient and waves his hand. “Scram, I gotta talk to the doc.”

There’s no response. Not even the hint of movement. A touch of a smile still riding those lips. “The fuck is wrong with him?”

“He’s under hypnosis,” says Klein. “I can’t send him out of the room as long as he’s still under. I’m sorry.”

Roy circles the desk, peering at the other man. Bends down to take a look at his eyes. At that smile. Roy grabs the patient by the shoulders and shakes him violently, his neck snapping around. “Wake up!” he yells in the young man’s ears. Slaps him across the face. “Wake the fuck up!”

The patient startles to consciousness, eyes blinking. Looking around in a fog. “What …”

“Hey, you still sleeping?”

“No … no, I don’t think—”

“Good,” says Roy, hauling the guy onto his feet. “Good-bye.” He ushers the patient out of the office, slamming the door closed behind him.

“That was unprofessional, Roy,” says Klein.

Roy laughs. Lets out a good one. “You’re a funny man, doc. You’re gonna talk to me about professionalism.” Walks back to the desk, perches on the edge. Legs kicking out, brushing Klein’s knee. “So, you wanna explain yourself?”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“I am.”

“Like a … like a patient? In the chair?”

Roy hops off the desk and grabs the chair by the seat, pulling it out and around the table. Next to Klein’s. A foot away. He sits. Stares. Doesn’t want the doctor too far. Doesn’t want him comfortable. “How’s this?”

“It’s—fine. Roy, why do you think you need the pills?”

Roy shakes his head, bottom lip pursed out. “No, no, no. You’re not asking the questions yet. First you answer. Did you give me sugar pills?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.” He didn’t expect it that easily. Expected a fight. “Why?”

“Because you don’t need the Effexor.”

“Fuck that. I have a chemical—”

“Malfunction, I know. In your brain, I know, I know. Listen to me for a second, and we can work this out. You tell me: Why do you think you need the pills?”

Roy lifts his hands. They’re shaking. Trembling. Been that way since last night. Since the drugstore. “Look at me,” he says. “I’m a fucking wreck.”

“Agreed.”

“I can’t—I can’t think straight, I’m not … acting right. My mouth, it’s all filled with spit all the time. I can’t walk out of a room without checking the door—without locking it and locking it again. I can’t look at the carpet, at the fibers. I got this, this pain in my throat, this liquid, it stings, it makes me sick. I almost got arrested at the drugstore last night. You want more?”

“And you attribute this to my giving you the sugar pills.”

“You did.”

“I did.”

Roy spreads his hands wide. “This is what I’m saying. Sugar pills, I lose it. What more is there?”

Klein sits back. Roy doesn’t pursue. “How’s Angela?” he asks.

Roy coughs. “Don’t change the subject.”

“This is the subject. How’s Angela?”

“She left.”

“When?”

“Last week,” Roy says.

“What day?”

“I dunno. Tuesday, Wednesday. A few days before my trip.”

Klein nods. Grabs that damned notepad. Roy snatches it up and throws it across the room. It slams into a wall and falls to the floor.

Dr. Klein puts his pencil on the desk, but otherwise doesn’t seem startled. As if he expected it from Roy, a move like that. “So she’s been gone … how long?”

“Six, seven days.”

“Uh-huh. Seven days.”

Roy balls his fists. He’s not going to hit the doctor, not yet, but it feels good to have them tight like that. “You got a point here?”

“Have you talked to her since she left?” Roy shrugs. “She’s got school—”

“So you haven’t.”

“No, but she’s got stuff to do. What, am I supposed to track her down? She’ll call me when she calls me.”

“You haven’t tried to call her.”

“No. It’s … better. This way. She’s gotta be with her mom.”

Klein looks up. “Are you starting to see this, yet?”

“What?”

“The correlation. Angela leaving and your … difficulties.”

Roy shakes his head. Doesn’t get it. Shrink trick, that’s all it is. “Doc, you gave me sugar pills. That’s the correlation.”

“So you don’t see it.”

“Don’t do this.” Roy sighs. Knows he’s at a loss. His edge gone. “What? What don’t I see?”

Klein scoots his chair forward, his knees touching Roy’s. He couldn’t get any closer without a kiss. “I had a patient,” he begins. “Three, four years back. Good guy, in general. Loved his
family, loved his friends, would do anything for them. And things didn’t always go well for him. Life took its toll, like it does on all of us. Most people accept and move on. But he had what we call an attribution deficiency.”

“Lost me.”

“Fancy way of saying he laid off blame. For example: In college, he failed an astronomy class. He decided it was because the professor had it in for him. Didn’t like him from day one.”

“Maybe so,” says Roy.

“Maybe. But it became a pattern. He got fired from work. Three different jobs. Why? Each time, he said it was because his supervisor didn’t like his hair, his clothes, his whatever. Eventually, his wife left him. Why? Well, she must have had commitment issues. It couldn’t have been anything
he
did. One night, his house burned down because he fell asleep in his easy chair with a cigarette in his hand. What did he do? He sued the tobacco company and the store where he bought the pack of cigarettes.” Roy can’t help but laugh a little; Klein joins in. “This sounding familiar, Roy?”

“You’re saying I should blame myself?”

“I’m saying you’re looking in the wrong place, that’s all. I’m saying you’re looking to blame the pills, when that’s not the answer. I’ve had you on sugar pills since the first day you came to see me—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“—and by your own admission, you were doing great. You came in here that third, fourth week, couldn’t be better. The obsessive/compulsive loop had calmed down, the depression had subsided, and by the second month of treatment, you were
as up as you’ve ever been. Practically danced in here on a cloud that one day. Said so yourself.”

Roy can’t deny it. Wants to, but can’t. “Yeah. So?”

“So the point is, you don’t need any Effexor. I could prescribe it to you right now. Take out my pad and write you up a scrip, and you’d be living it up at the local pharmacy in no time. But I won’t, because you don’t need it. It’s been months now since you’ve been taking those sugar pills, and if you didn’t run out, if you didn’t go to the pharmacy, you never would have known the difference. So what’s the problem? What’s the reason you’re really starting to lose it again?”

Roy knows the answer. Doesn’t want to say it yet. Klein doesn’t mind waiting. They stare at each other in silence. Klein’s phone rings, and he doesn’t answer it. Doesn’t even flinch. Waiting for Roy to talk. It rings again, stops.

“Angela,” says Roy eventually.

“Angela. She left, and you started having your problems again. Angela’s the key. She’s what came into your life. Made it better. Not the drugs. Her. And now she’s gone.”

“Angela,” Roy repeats. “It’s Angela.”

“You fix that, and you fix yourself.”

It takes Roy a few minutes to find the piece of paper amid the destruction of his kitchen. The phone lies shattered on the floor. The appliances are scattered, broken. The refrigerator door was left open, and the food inside stinks of rot. It was how he left the house when he headed out to the pharmacy. Wasn’t in his right mind. Wasn’t in his own mind.

He locates the number, the paper with the kittens on it. Tries out the living-room phone. A non-smashed phone. The answering machine is blinking. One message. He pushes the play button, hopes to hear her voice.

“Hey, buddy.” It’s Frankie. Low-key. “The other night … things got outta hand. We’d been … it had been bad, you know? This shit happens sometimes. So … whatever, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t … whatever. ’Case you wanna get in on something, I got some more scores lined up. Easy stuff, nothing too … well, if you want to talk, call me. I’m here. Anyway, gimme a call, whatever you wanna do. I’m here.”

Roy erases the message. Glad Frankie called. Glad he apologized. Roy should do the same. But not now. He’s got Angela’s cell phone number in front of him. Can’t call Frankie now. It will wait.

Roy dials. Waits for the connection. He hopes Angela has it turned on. He doesn’t like leaving messages. A message means he’s been recorded. Captured. Anyone can play it back, hear it, use his voice however they like. Worse still, what if her phone’s lying around the house, and Heather picks up? He might hang up, in that case. Might end it all with a hang-up.

“ ’Lo?” A man’s voice. Roy looks down at the paper in his hand. At the phone. He’s pretty sure he dialed the right number.

“Hello,” says Roy. “Maybe I got the wrong number, here.…”

“Maybe you do.” A gruff voice. Not a friendly voice.

“I’m looking for Angela.”

“What?”

“For Angela. This is her—Roy. Tell her it’s Roy.”

“Oh. Yeah.” There’s a pause. He can hear a TV blaring in the background. Music, incoherent sounds. “Yeah, hold on.”

Yelling, muted. The guy’s hand on the phone, Roy thinks. Calling something out. A yell back, a shouted conversation. A crash. Something falling. Roy stands up, paces the living room, cord tangling around his legs. There’s nothing on the line now. Did the guy hang up? Does he have to call back?

“Hello?” It’s Angela.

“Angie, it’s Roy.”

“Hey! Hey, I tried to call you!”

“Yeah? I was out. Who was that?”

“Who?”

“Before, the guy on the phone.”

“That? That was Joe.” She drops her volume to a whisper. “He’s an asshole.”

“Your mom’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah. She lets him stay over. Don’t worry about Joe, he’s just drunk.”

In the background, Roy can hear more banging, more yelling. Something else crashing to the floor. That man shouting, screaming away. Not a place for a kid to be. Not a place for Angela. “He drink a lot?”

“Yeah,” says Angela. “He can put it away sometimes—” She stops, and Roy hears the sound of a scuffle. “Get the fuck off me, Joe,” she mutters. “And don’t answer my fucking phone.” Roy can hear the exertion in her voice. Like she’s pushing him away. Pushing him off her.

“You need me to come up there?”

“No,” Angela says quickly. “I can take care of him.” She shifts gears, back to her usual perky self. “I’m glad you called. When can I come back down?”

“I was thinking Saturday. Maybe we’ll take a trip—”

“I can come tomorrow, if you want. I’ve got school off.”

“No, I got … business to take care of tomorrow.”

“Ooh, I can help.”

“Not that kind of business. You’ll come down on Saturday, okay?”

A pause. Upset? Pouting? “I’ll take the eight-thirty train. We’ll have fun, I swear it.”

Roy untangles himself from the phone cord, sits down in his recliner. “Good, then. It’s settled.”

“Settled.”

There’s a pause. Roy tries to listen for Joe, for that drunken lunatic. Can’t hear him. “We gonna sit on the phone for a while?” Angela says eventually. “I mean, I got a lotta free minutes …”

“See you Saturday,” laughs Roy.

“Saturday. Bye, Dad.”

Roy gets in his own parting words this time. “Bye, Angie.”

He hangs up the phone and sits for a while. Stares down at the carpet. Wonders if he should call back. If he should tell her what he’s planning on doing tomorrow afternoon. If he should clue her in on everything, let her be part of the plan.