Tenth of December (10 page)

Hundreds of dry leaf fragments were skittering across the FlapJackers parking lot. A bird on a parking bumper bolted, alarmed at the advance of the leaves. Stupid leaves, they’d never catch that bird.

Unless he killed it with a stone, left it lying there. They’d be so grateful they’d declare him King of Leaves.

Ha ha.

He gave a pile of leaves a vicious kick.

Shit. He felt like crying. Why, what was it, what was making him so sad?

Off he drove through the town where he’d lived his whole life. The river was high. The grade school had a new bike rack. A ton of dogs leaped to the fence as usual as he passed the Flannery Kennel. Next to the kennel was Mike’s Gyros. Once, during that terrible seventh-grade year, Mom had taken him to Mike’s for a Coke.

“What seems to be the problem, Al?” Mom had said.

“Everyone’s calling me bossy and fat,” he’d said. “Plus they say I’m sneaky.”

“Well, Al,” she’d said, “you are bossy, you are fat. And I’m guessing you can be pretty sneaky. But you know what else you are? You have what is called moral courage. When you know something is right, you do it, no matter what the cost.”

Mom could sometimes be full of it. Once, she’d said she could tell by the way he ran upstairs that he’d make a great
mountain climber. Once, when he managed a B-minus in math, she’d said he should be an astronomer.

Good old Mom. She’d always made him feel special.

Suddenly his face was hot. He felt Mom looking at him from Heaven, sternly but wryly, in that way she’d had, as if saying, Hello, are we maybe forgetting something?

Well, it had been an accident. He had just accidentally misplaced some things inadvertently. With his foot. Via spontaneously kicking them erroneously.

Mom’s eyes narrowed in Heaven.

They were being mean to me, he said.

Mom in Heaven tapped her foot.

What was he supposed to do? Go racing back, lead them to the keys? They’d know he’d done it. Plus Donfrey was probably long gone. Probably Donfrey’s wife had a set of spare keys. Although Donfrey’s wife hadn’t been there. Well, someone could drive Donfrey home. After he’d fruitlessly looked for his keys awhile. Causing him to be so late, they’d have to reschedule the kid’s—

Shit.

Oh, they’d live. No one was dying from this. So a kid had to wait a few more months for her—

Roosten pulled into a white-stoned driveway. He had to think. A Yorkie rushed up to the fence, barking ceremonially. Then a chicken came up. Huh. A chicken and a Yorkie, living in the same yard. They stood side by side, looking at Roosten.

Eureka.

He saw how he could do it.

He’d sneak back, pretend he’d never left. Everyone would be searching for the wallet and keys. He’d look alongside them awhile. When they were about to give up, he’d say, I assume you’ve already looked under those risers?

Uh, well, no, Donfrey would say.

Might be worth a try, Roosten would suggest.

They’d get some guys and move the risers. And there would be the wallet and there would be the keys.

Wow, Donfrey would say. You are amazing.

Just a hunch, Roosten would say. I simply mentally eliminated all other possible options.

I’m afraid I’ve underestimated you, Donfrey would say. We have to have you over to the house soon.

To the mansion? Roosten would say.

And Al? Donfrey would say. Sorry about that time we walked out of your shop. That was rude. And Al? Sorry I called you Ed earlier.

Oh, did you? Roosten would say. I didn’t even really notice.

Dinner at the mansion would go well. Soon he’d basically be part of the family. He’d just drop by whenever. That would be nice. Nice to hang out in a mansion. Sometimes the boys might come along. Although the boys had better not break anything. They’d have to wrestle outside. One thing he did not need was his friends’ mansion trashed. He saw Donfrey’s gorgeous wife, distressed by all the things the boys had broken, collapse into a chair and start weeping.

Thanks, boys, great, thanks a lot for that. Go outside. Go outside and sit quietly.

Now the moon is full in the big window and he and Donfrey are wearing tuxes and Donfrey’s wife is wearing something low-cut and golden.

This dinner is great, he says. All your dinners have been so great.

It’s the least we could do, says Donfrey. You helped us out so much that time I stupidly lost my keys.

Ha ha, yes, well, about that? Roosten says.

Then he tells them all about it: how he did an unfortunate thing, saw the light, raced back to help.

What a riot! says Donfrey.

That took guts, says Donfrey’s wife. Coming back like that.

I’d say it took moral courage, says Donfrey.

Your honesty actually makes us admire you all the more, says Donfrey’s wife.

Mag was there, too. What was she doing there? Well, it was fine, she could stay. Mag was a good egg. Decent conversationalist. The Donfreys would appreciate her good qualities. Just like they appreciated his good qualities. And wouldn’t Mom love seeing that, her kids finally getting their due from some sophisticated people in a beautiful mansion.

An odd inadvertent sound of contentment jerked Roosten out of his reverie.

Ha.

What the hell. Where was he?

The Yorkie was sniffing the chicken. The chicken didn’t seem to mind. Or notice. The chicken had a laserlike focus on him, Al Roosten.

Yeah, right. Like any of that was happening. Like he was racing back. They’d see through him. They’d fry his ass. People were always seeing through him and frying his ass. When he’d stolen Kirk Desner’s flip-downs, the kids on the team had seen through him and fried his ass. The time he’d cheated on Syl, Syl had seen through him, broken off their engagement, and cheated on him with Charles, which had fried his ass possibly worse than any single other ass frying he’d ever had, in a life that, it recently seemed, was simply a series of escalating ass fries.

He turned his mind toward Mom, as always, for a word of encouragement.

What, that Donfrey doofus never made a mistake in his life? Mom said. Was never inadvertently involved in something unfortunate that sadly occurred? And now wants to label you a dick, or scum, or a bad immature person, because of one small mistake? Does that seem fair? Don’t you think he’s probably needed forgiveness sometime in his life?

Probably, Roosten said.

Oh, definitely, Mom said. I’ve known you all your life, Al, and there’s not a mean bone in your body. You are Al Roosten. Don’t forget that. Sometimes you think something’s wrong with you, but every time, turns out, there isn’t.

Why beat yourself up about this and, in so doing, miss the beauty of the actual moment?

The lilt of Mom’s voice in his head cheered him.

He pulled out of the driveway. Mom was right. The world was beautiful. Here was the pioneer graveyard with its leaning yellowed stones. Here was the very vivid Jiffy Lube. A dense ball of birds went linear, then settled into the branches of a lightning-blasted tree. He knew it wasn’t really Mom in his head. He was just imagining what Mom would have said. Who knew what Mom would have said? She could be a crazy old broad there at the end. But he sure did miss her.

He thought again of the crippled girl. They’d missed the appointment and had to reschedule. The only available slot was months away. In the dark of night, she reached down for her bent foot and let out a groan. She’d been so close, so close to getting—

That was crap. That was negative. You had to let the healing begin. Everyone knew that. You had to love yourself. What was positive? The shop: thinking up ways to improve it, make it halfway decent, bring it back to life. He’d put in a coffee bar. Tear out that old stained rug. There, he was feeling better already. You had to have joy. Joy kept a guy going. Once he got the shop viable, he’d go beyond that, make it great. Lines of people would be waiting when he arrived every morning. As he pushed his way through the crowd in his mind, everyone seemed to be asking, with smiles and pats on his back, would he consider running for mayor? Would he do for the town what he’d done for Bygone Daze?
Ha ha, what a fun deal that would be, running for mayor. What colors would his banners be? What was his slogan?

AL ROOSTEN, FRIEND TO ALL.

That was good.

AL ROOSTEN, THE BEST AMONG US.

Little vain.

AL ROOSTEN: LIKE YOU, ONLY BETTER.

Ha ha.

Here was the shop. Nobody was waiting to get in. A muddy tarp had blown over from the junkyard and plastered itself against the window. Across from the junkyard was the viaduct where the hoboes hung out. Those hoboes were ruining his—

He believed they preferred to be called “homeless.” Hadn’t he read that? “Hobo” being derogatory? Jesus, that took nerve. Guy never works a day in his life, just goes around stealing pies off windowsills, then starts yelping about his rights? He’d like to walk up to a homeless and call him a hobo. He’d do it too, he would, he’d grab that damn hobo by the collar and go, Hey, hobo, you’re ruining my business. I’ve missed my rent two months in a row. Go back to the foreign country you probably—

He just really hated those beggars walking past his shop with their crude signs. Couldn’t they at least spell right? Yesterday one had walked by with a sign that said, PLEASE HELP HOMLESS. He’d felt like shouting, Hey, sorry you lost your hom! They spent enough time under that viaduct, couldn’t they at least proofread each other’s—

As he parked the car, his mind went strangely blank. Where was he? The shop. Ugh. Where were his keys? On the same old ugly lanyard, impossible to get out of your pocket.

Jesus, he couldn’t stand the thought of going in.

He’d sit there alone all afternoon. Why did he have to do it? For what? For who?

Mag. Mag and the boys were counting on him.

He sat a minute, breathing deeply.

An old man in filthy clothes staggered up the street, dragging a cardboard square on which, no doubt, he slept. His teeth were ghoulish, his eyes wet and red. Roosten imagined himself leaping from the car, knocking the man to the ground, kicking him and kicking him, teaching him, in this way, a valuable lesson on how to behave.

The man gave Roosten a weak smile, and Roosten gave the man a weak smile back.

THE SEMPLICA GIRL DIARIES

(September 3)

Having just turned 40 have resolved to embark on grand project of writing every day in this new black book just got at OfficeMax. Exciting to think how in one year, at rate of one page/day, will have written 365 pages, and what a picture of life and times then available for kids & grandkids, even greatgrandkids, whoever, all are welcome (!) to see how life really was/is now. Because what do we know of other times really? How clothes smelled and carriages sounded? Will future people know, for example, about sound of airplanes going over at night, since airplanes by that time passé? Will future people know sometimes cats fought in night? Because
by that time some chemical invented to make cats not fight? Last night dreamed of two demons having sex and found it was only two cats fighting outside window. Will future people be aware of concept of “demons”? Will they find our belief in “demons” quaint? Will “windows” even exist? Interesting to future generations that even sophisticated college grad like me sometimes woke in cold sweat, thinking of demons, believing one possibly under bed? Anyway, what the heck, am not planning on writing encyclopedia, if any future person is reading this, if you want to know what a “demon” was, go look it up, in something called an encyclopedia, if you even still have those!

Am getting off track, due to tired, due to those fighting cats.

Will write twenty minutes a night, no matter how tired.

So goodnight to all future generations. Please know I was a person like you, I too breathed air and tensed legs while trying to sleep and, when writing with pencil, sometimes brought pencil to nose to smell. Although who knows, maybe you future people write with laser pens? But probably even those have a certain smell? Do future people still sniff their (laser) pens? Well, it is getting late and I am going far afield in these philosophical speculations. But hereby resolve to write in this book at least twenty minutes a night. (If discouraged, just think of how much will have been recorded for posterity after one mere year!)

(September 5)

Oops. Missed a day. Things hectic. Will summarize yesterday. Yesterday a bit rough. While picking kids up at school, bumper fell off Park Avenue. Note to future generations: “Park Avenue” = type of car. Ours not new. Ours oldish. Bit rusty. Eva got in, asked what was meaning of “junkorama.” At that moment, bumper fell off. Mr. Renn, history teacher, quite helpful, retrieved bumper (note: write letter of commendation to principal), saying he too once had car whose bumper fell off, when poor, in college. Eva assured me it was all right bumper had fallen off. I replied of course it was all right, why wouldn’t it be all right, it was just something that had happened, I certainly hadn’t caused. Image that stays in mind is of three sweet kids in backseat, sad chastened expressions on little faces, timidly holding bumper across laps. One end of bumper had to hang out Eva’s window and today she has sniffles, plus small cut on hand from place where bumper was sharp. Mr. Renn attached hankie to end of bumper hanging out window. When Eva worried aloud about us forgetting to return hankie (“Well, Daddy, we are the careless kind”), I said I hardly saw us as careless kind. Then of course, on way home, hankie blew off.