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  “No, not exactly, but kind of,” she said.

  “Well, it’s not time to enforce the pact yet,” I said. “We still got time.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to enforce the pact, maybe we can just fall into it naturally, you know together,” she said.

  “Mattie...,” I said. I kind of whined. I felt squeamish. My stomach hurt. My eyes or the room began to spin. Or maybe my eyes just rolled.

  “Believe me, I’m not flipping head over heels. I know you Wallace. But, we have to decide what we want out of life,” she said.

  “Okay, Mattie,” my voice was calm again. Masculine. “What is it that we want out of life?”

  “You know, a family, a nice house, maybe in Palm Harbor or at least in Seminole, with one of those small fenced-in pools and our friends can come over to get drunk.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What?” she said.

  “Let’s try it out,” I said. I slurped my glass. It was empty.

  Alone at a table with an out-of-style black ankle-length skirt, this girl with a dark beer near an antique lamp reading a paperback. Her eyes, her skin it was familiar, but unknown, a passing not at a party, but a more intense gathering -- maybe she was a telepathic witch interpreting our conversation.

  “Mattie, did I kill your dreams? You used to be hopeful,” I said with silly drunk bravado.

  “That’s arrogant,” Mattie said. She drank more of her Amstel. 

  “Think I’m going to go,” I said.

  “Suit yourself. Want to get burritos sometime?”

  “Sure, you know, the pact.”  Now, honesty.

  I walked towards the door. I opened the door to the bar. I avoided two men standing in the middle of it. I avoided three girls in short Kohl’s dresses and Nine West heels. My Ford Explorer was across the street. I jogged across the street.

  “You didn’t even ask me out again. Or what my favorite color is. Or if I like cashews or pistachios or if I like pancakes or waffles better. You just asked if you killed my dreams,” Mattie yelled from across the street. She had followed me outside. Her hand was still on the door, keeping it open.

  “Pancakes or waffles?” I yelled.

  “I don‘t know, Facebook needs that category.  How ‘bout you?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “Mine too,” she yelled.

  “Hey Mattie?”

  “What?” she said.

  “I still believe in you,” I said. A car passed in between us.

  “What? I couldn’t hear you?” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. I got into the Ford Explorer.

  In my Ford Explorer, I exhaled. The phone rang “Sweet Caroline.”

  “Where are you?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing...it’s fine, how are you?”

  “I just wanted to say hey.”

  “Hey,” I said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

  On the driver’s side window, a knock. I jumped to see the possibly telepathic woman with the paperback looking back in my eyes, I pushed the button for the window to come down.

  “Uh, do I know you...” I said.

  “Hey,” she said, “you know from sculpture class” and it was true, it was her, through the window, she kissed my mouth which my tongue didn’t resist, she opened the door, her hand ran up my side and we were across the seats of this godawful Ford Explorer and her tall bun like a powerful refuge, the darkness, the twilight not making any sense, but I only thought of that later, probably because I had read it somewhere, but then and there it was more like a twitching finger that warned...of nothing except for seatbelt latches and broken CD cases, but I kept her from all of that, a chivalrous person I was and her head on my shoulder eventually grew heavy with sleep, she never woke even when my phone hummed “Sweet Caroline” thirty minutes after she had first kissed me. I decided then to reinvest myself into the arts.

  IX

  An email from Scott.

  "New project that we can't quite handle. I've received approval for you to work on it if you're interested. More Chevy. Give me a call."

  No hope for cars, less and less young people are getting driver’s licenses, but are riding bikes or just making their parents drive them around. Parking passes at colleges are expensive anyway. No one thought to tell Scott. Or maybe he knew. Maybe he perused CareerBuilder at work, too many IT techs left to monitor the server any longer. A pencil would always be behind Scott's ear, not because he used it because he thought it should be available, but just because it signified WORK, a sense of GETTING THINGS DONE, I never saw him use a pencil once.

  I hit reply. "No thanks," I typed.

  ***

  Rite-Aid opened at 7am. I walked in. I found the office section. "Two legal pads..." I said to myself. I found two yellow legal pads. I bought them.

  I found a bench on the sidewalk. I wrote. I wrote some more. A bus stopped at the station and the bus driver opened the door. The bus driver was a woman.

  "No, no ride," I said.

  The bus driver spat and shut the door.

  The word "cars" appeared 54 times on the yellow legal pad. "Job" was the 55th and last word.

  ***

  “What do you think of the election things going on?” It was Mattie. On Facebook chat.

  “Not much,” I wrote.

  “What do you mean not much? Yu were always so smart.” she wrote.

  “You think something.”

  “I’m real not sure. Gotta go to bed.” I wrote. I closed the laptop. The Wizard on television. With Fred Savage and Jenny Lewis. Jenny Lewis now an indie rock star. She looked innocent.

  “I love the Power Glove. It's so bad,” someone on the television said.

  I watched the last 50 minutes. It seemed like an hour though.

  A ring of “Sweet Caroline.” I let it go to voicemail.

  X

  There was no registration table. People wore big blue buttons that said John McCain with a "star" over the "i." We saw a white haired man at a podium. It was John McCain.

  "There's no way we can hear him," Laurie said.

  We stood. People in dress suits and people in jogging suits. People talked excitedly in hushed tones.

  "Take this..." The boy had glasses on with a red tie. He wore a white collared Oxford shirt with American Eagle jeans. He wore boat shoes. He handed us flyers with words like “freedom” and “democracy” on them. There was a logo for “Americans For Prosperity.”

  “Are they for or against McCain?” I asked Laurie.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  AMERICAN NEED PHYSCAL RESPONSBILLITY, NOT MAVARICKS.

  RON PAUL FOR PRESIDENT.

  A man in a 1977 Ford Bronco sold tshirts. One of them said “NOT FORGET 9/11.”

  "Well, they can kind of spell."

  "You mean they can't spell at all," Laurie said.

  "That's what I mean, you're right.”

  John McCain continued to talk or at least move his mouth.

  I sat down on the grass. Laurie stood on her toes. Laurie squinted. Laurie’s lips were tight.

  We were together.

  ***

  At Laurie’s house, ranch-style in the north part of the county, a good 25 minute drive from me on a good day, passing Bed, Bath and Beyond, Sam Seltzer’s Steak House, over the McMullen-Booth bridge, lots of churches, a sign that said “Barack N Roll.”

  Laurie’s house was Dunedin or Safety Harbor, no one knew for sure, she had an oak tree at her house, with a swing underneath it, like it wasn’t Florida at all, but somewhere familiar and home and rural. I drove the Ford Explorer into her driveway.

  “I’m ready when you are,” she said and held beef brisket, I was to start the grill, dragging that little red Weber out her shed, graying the coals, letting the fire simmer, laying the steaks on top of it, now that we didn’t kill food, we had to tenderize it, spice it, do something to it as if we had don
e something.

  There was a basket, plastic plates and silverware and a bottle of white wine -- "to sit under the oak tree,” she said - -and so we did, though the steaks would not be cut with cheap forks and cheap knives or be contained on cheap plates, somehow sensing after that tenderizing and that spicing that it deserved to be eaten not by morons but by those that would savor its cattle farm / chain store grocery upbringing.

  We held the brisket in our hands, A-1 sauce and grease and bits of charcoal running out of our mouths, down our chins, over our arms, onto our clothes, like a gusher of beef squeezings.

  “God that’s gross,” she said.

  “Let’s go in the hot tub,” I said.

  “No thanks, I’m full,” she said and went for the garden hose.

  This was a time to spray her, to summer frolic, for us to understand and participate in a summer moment, given to us organically at the time of when spontaneity and summer meet and water was usually involved in those times, but I let it pass, the A-1 off of her mouth, her arms, still on her reddish polo-ish type shirt, she handed the hose to me and went into the house.

  ***

  "I remember when this show was on," Laurie said.

  Alf was on TV.

  Alf decided he needed a job and he bought lots of makeup to sell at makeup house parties. The boxes were delivered by a UPS look-a-like man. He wheeled the boxes in. People in the family said "Oh Alf."

  "I think I had a crush on the Alf girl," I said.

  "You were supposed to have a crush on the Alf girl," Laurie said.

  "You were supposed to have a crush on Doogie Howser," I said.

  "You were supposed to have a crush on DJ from Full House," she said.

  "No," I said. "I had a crush on Kimmie Gibler."

  We watched more Alf.

  “When did you leave BaxHoff?” I asked, implying the name of her old accounting firm, Baxter Hoffman, we had never talked about her reasons for leaving her old job.

  “Well, it was mutual,” she said, eyes forward on Alf.

  “They asked you to leave?”

  “Yes-no, kind of sort-of, like I said it was mutual,” she said.

  “So you wanted to leave?”

  “What about yes-no, kind-of sort of do you not understand?” she said.

  “Obama doesn’t pay as much I bet,” I said.

  “No he doesn’t, he’s a socialist,” she said.

  “I knew it,” I said.

  “I was joking,” she said.

  An Alf joke, a tracked laugh.

  “I’m moving into Uncle Ander’s house,” I said.

  “Is it because of the job?”

  “Maybe, not really, yes,” I said.

  ***

  In the car, on the way home from Laurie’s. I turned left then right, then another left. Near my house, there is a church on the corner.

  "God wants full custody, not just weekend visits."

  XI

  The door to Sonny’s had a sign on it. “Got what it takes? Enter the Sonny’s new BBQ sauce contest.”

  I opened the door.

  “Welcome to Sonny’s,” said a guy with a black apron on and a Sonny’s baseball cap. “Just one?”

  “I’m meeting somebody....there she is.”

  Mom was standing, waving.

  I walked towards her, past the barbecue buffet, past a bald man with long hair and mini-tufts poking over his ears with a shirt that read: “I Heart Ronald Reagan.”

  “Nice tie,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s new.”

  Mom already had a plate of pulled pork and coleslaw.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I said.

  “I didn’t eat breakfast, trying out a new diet. Just nuts.”

  “Then why are you eating meat?”

  “No, I meant the diet is crazy, stupid, it’s mostly Slimfast shakes, but I moved my one meal to right now.”

  “Got it, got it.”

  “Did you dress up just for me?”

  “What?”

  “Now stop it, stop it right now, Uncle Ander told me.”

  “Mom.....”

  “No, no don’t blame him. I pressed him on it. I thought something was funny, you seemed to be going out more at night,” she said pointing her fork at me.

  “I’m working on it you know, it’s probably for the best.”

  “Well, that’s so unfortunate, I never liked that Scott guy, he seemed to always be selling you something,” she said.

  A blonde-dyed, wiry woman with a pad in her hand and a ribbon in her hair was at the table.

  “What will you have to drink?”

  “Tea, please, thanks,” I said.

  “And do you want to go ahead and order?” she said.

  “Um, 1/4 chicken,” I said.

  “Great, we’ll have it out to you...”

  "Have you looked for a job?” Mom asked.

  "Freelance mom."

  "How much longer can you wait?"

  “I have some savings.”

  "They also need cashiers at the Pizza Hut. That money is important, you know it, too.”

  “I do know it, I also know I’m a grown man.”

  “Sometimes I wonder -- what would your father think? Then I get chills,” she said.

  “Because he might be angry?”

  “No, stupid, he loved you he was your father.”

  Mom took a bite of pulled pork.

  “This sauce...I could do better than this sauce. Way better,” she said.

  I reached across the table. I took a piece of her barbecue.

  “Probably so, it’s a little bland. You know how they water stuff down,” I said.

  “Ha, do I. And so do you. Maybe it is for the best, never thought that was you anyway.”

  “Never thought what was me?” I said.

  “Advertising,” she said.

  “So what is me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  The waitress brought back a 1/4 dark chicken. I never told her which one I wanted.

  “Anyway, I have job interviews tomorrow.”

  Her mouth was a dark maroon red.

  “Ooooh, before you go, got something for you,” she said.

  She licked her fingers, her mouth the dark maroon red, she reached in her purse. Her lips were burning for sure by now.

  “It’s this key, you forgot it the other day, your father wanted you to have it.”

  I looked at the key.

  I wasn’t sure I had what it takes.

  XII

  One water, one sky, the grays the same color. Sand in the toes, on the calf, bits of shell stuck to my forehead. Sliding in this half mass, top in the gray, bottom in the gray, wetness below, wetness evaporated above. These worlds, split, and black nyoprene joins together like a screw, or a nail. Or a thorn in the side of the expanse. There was no need, there was no need, it was warm. But some things you just want to do anyway.

  She bit her lip.

  "You got laid off?"

  "Yes."

  “I know you’ve worked in an office before, so did you ever think not to come  here in a wetsuit?”

  "Yes, but aren’t you the cool California store?”

  "We still have rules of course, corporate...”

  “You give us a uniform anyway even though you say we get a choice, but I’m assuming we have to wear the fall-frat line...”

  She pulled on her ear.

  "Um you used to work in...advertising? You should know about professionalism,” she said.

  I leaned forward.

  "And look where it got me. Right in front of you."

  She pulled back her hair.

  ***

  I dialed her phone.

  “What?” she said.

  “Can I come over?” I asked.

  “Wallace, I’m at work,” Laurie said.

  “It’s Friday.”

  “It’s Tuesday…”

  “Feels like Friday.”

  “…and yesterday was
a holiday.”

  “Let’s move in together,” I said.

  “This is a test, a test of your strength, character, faith…,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  ***

  He had long bangs.

  “Why do you want to sell electronics?”

  “I don’t really.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Let’s be honest -- I need money, your store is offering some. All I have to do really is stand behind that computer and check people in and out.”

  He wore wire-rimmed glasses.

  "If you don't mind me asking, I mean, I know don't much about this stuff, but isn't it too warm for a wetsuit?"

  "But not too warm for the wetsuit feeling."

  He tapped his pen against a clipboard.

  "Okay, hmmm. Well, we’ll be in touch.”

  "I'm sure we will."

  ***

  Answering machine in my condo. For business, important stuff. Hate to be bothered with this on the cellphone. Feels not grownup to talk about business on the cellphone. I told this philosophy to Nathan and Laurie once, when they were standing near one another in my condo. They both said “that’s weird” at the same time, and we all felt too old to say “jinx.”

  It beeped. There was a red blink. I hit “play.”

  “Oscar Andrews from American Home Life Mortgage…”

  I hit delete.

  ***

  Outside the grocery store. The man from the library with a hat that said “Dick’s Rigs” and in overalls sat in the back of a pickup truck. A Breyer’s Ice Cream container in his lap.

  A dog in the back of the truck licked ice cream out of the hands of one of the man. “Martin, good dog” said the man. I looked at the back of the truck. A Rudy Giuliani sticker on the back.

  “Too bad about Giuilani,” I said.

  “No, it’s fine. It won’t tarnish his legacy,” the man said. “9/11 wasn’t good, but it was good leadership.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to remember the good times,” I said.

  “Like eating ice cream in the back of a truck,” he said.

  XIII

  "Some people are calling Obama the greatest marketing feat ever,” Mattie said.

  "Yeah, he totally fits on a Facebook status.” I said.

  "And he's the cool, educated minority. The type of person that liberal white people can refer to as, 'well, some of my best friends are black,’” Mattie said.

  "Those liberal people that never leave doctor’s offices or lawyer’s offices,” I said.