Then We Were Not

Our waiter was cross-eyed and had a lopsided haircut. His uniform included an oversize, floppy, black bow tie, and his apron was covered in stains. He was the stupidest looking waiter in the entire restaurant. His voice was wobbly, and he spoke with a lisp.

"What do... I mean, what do you want to eat for dinner? I mean, let me tell you the specials." We stepped on each other's feet under the table to keep ourselves from cracking up. We ordered. Twenty minutes later our food arrived at our table, and our slow-witted waiter told us to enjoy.

Later in the evening, he spilled a large platter of spaghetti and meatballs, and we tried not to laugh as he stammered out clumsy apologies to the entire restaurant. An embarrassed manager ushered him back into the kitchen while addressing the restaurant's patrons with knowing glances that seemed to say I'm firing him soon. It's just difficult.

I went to the bathroom. When I walked out I saw a folded piece of paper on the floor. I picked it up, put it in my pocket, and returned to my table.

"Some guy in the bathroom was cursing a lot. He had a big coffee stain on his shirt."

"What was he saying?"

"All kinds of curse words."

"Like what?"

"He said, 'Fuck this ass shit.' And I was washing my hands..."

"Fuck this ass shit?"

"Yeah. I know. But I was washing my hands, and he was running some paper towel under the other sink, and he looked at me and said, 'See this?' I nodded at him, and then he kept talking. He said, 'You think she's gonna fuck me now?' I asked him if he was on a date, and he said, 'Yeah.' I faked a smile, shrugged, and said, 'What can you do?' He shook his head as I walked out."

"Weird..."

"That's him. He's walking out of the bathroom now. See him? That's him." I pointed. The guy walked briskly and ran his hand over his feathered hair. He sat down and gestured largely at the stain on his shirt. I watched his mouth and saw him say, "I couldn't get it out."

"He looks like an asshole."

"Yeah, he's pretty much an asshole. What kind of girl doesn't fuck someone because he spills something on his shirt?"

"This one." She pointed at herself with her fork and bit the piece of chicken off the end. I laughed.

We walked home with our arms around each other's waists. I saw a stray cat slink under a fence in the distance. A construction site was just ahead. I could smell the tar. As we passed, I looked up and thought about climbing the half-erected building. I looked at my ratty loafers, and I wondered if I could.

My girlfriend pulled my arm tighter around her. "I'm cold." We moved faster toward her apartment against the wind.

In bed, we were silent. I put my hand on her shoulder blade. She was asleep. My head hurt, and I felt dizzy. My hairline was dotted with sweat. I sat up and breathed deeply, but the pain grew worse, and I couldn't see clearly. I wiped my face and tried to fall asleep. I did and had a terrible dream.

"You've got forty-five minutes to deliver all the chocolate cake to the rodeo. There are thirty boxes in the truck. You'll meet a guy named V, but before he accepts the cakes he's going to test you."

"Test me? About what?"

"Shut the fuck up." The small, old man pointed at me. The chains around his neck jangled and shined in the fluorescent light. "He's going to test you about all kinds of things. And you have to know the answers. Do you know the answers?"

I thought about whether I knew the answers to enough things.

"Don't fuck it up. I'll fire you."

My boss handed me the keys to the refrigerated delivery truck. I ran down the underground corridor and out to the covered garage. I reached the stairs, tripped, and fell face first into a concrete step. My mouth bled.

I arrived at the rodeo, and I could hear the applause from the stands as I traversed an employee parking area. A large Hispanic man accosted me at the door. He wiped his hands on his apron.

"Who are you?" His voice was mostly breath.

"I'm supposed to see V."

"What do you got? Cakes?"

"Yeah." He looked at me.

"Why your mouth is blood?" I touched my lips and scratched the corner of my mouth. I felt the dried blood collect under my fingernail.

"I fell down."

He pulled a slip of paper and a pencil out of his pocket. He held the paper about two inches from his face and gripped the pencil at the sharpened point. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth as he wrote something down. I waited.

He finished writing and looked at me again. "I don't like you." He turned and I stepped to follow, but the fat Hispanic man stuck his log of an arm out, indicating I should stay put.

I took a seat on a crate. I felt tired. My chin dipped into my chest. I was tired of delivering cakes. I was tired of everything, and I felt insignificant.

The door opened again, and I stood up. A light-skinned black man with a V tattooed on his throat stood in front of me with his arms crossed. "I'm V."

"I've got thirty chocolate cakes for you."

"You might." He rolled his lips into each other until they disappeared. "Bitch," he muttered under his breath as he pushed up his sleeves.

"What's the name of the girl who gave me my first blow job?"

"What?"

"You heard me, ass shit. What was her name?"

"Erin?" I guessed.

"Excuse me? I can't hear you when you whisper like a bitch."

"Erin." I spoke louder. For twenty seconds or more he remained still. And then he shook his head.

"No. You got it wrong."

"What's the right answer then?" I asked.

"Kimberly," he yelled. His voice carried the last syllable for at least ten seconds. The earth around him started to rumble. I lost my balance and fell over. The sound slaughtered the night air, and his yell separated out into an uneven, turbulent laugh.

The ground began to break apart beneath his feet. V stood steady though with his arms interlocked. Something was rising up from under the ground. It was directly beneath him, and as it surfaced, it carried V up into the air. I saw a lot of brown hair pressed flat against what appeared to be an enormous female head protruding from the earth's surface. V was still standing firmly in place just above her pristine forehead. Her eyes were shut, and her long eyelashes were as thick as suspension cable.

The head, sealed like an amputee's stump across the bottom of the neck, hovered five or six feet off the ground. V's laugh had mutated into hard, electronic dissonance. Tree silhouettes shuddered in front of a warlike red sky. V went down on one knee and placed his hand on the girl's scalp. Polygonal sections of her face began to light up, spark, and flare like a magnesium reaction. Her lips began to melt and drip on the ground. An expanding pool of red sludge oozed toward my feet.

I woke up and felt sweat on my back. I sat up. I felt ill.

"Are you all right?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"My head is spinning. I don't feel good."

"Really?" She pulled the covers back. "I'll make you some tea. Just stay here. I'll be right back."

I waited. My throat felt bigger than my neck. I dug my fingers into my clavicle to force my body into submission. Sweat rolled into the corner of my mouth. The heat was ruining me. I pressed my hands and face against the wall to lower my temperature, but it wasn't working. I felt my lungs contract, and I knew I would vomit.

I ran through her railroad apartment in just my underwear and I made it to the bathroom. I grabbed the handle and threw myself into the door, but it was locked. "Hang on," she said. I heard the toilet flush, but I was on my knees in the hall barfing up the greatest amount of barf I'd ever barfed in my life. I didn't stop. "Oh no. Oh no." She stood there and watched the thick grey-purple liquid pool beneath me in front of her roommate's door.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"It's OK. Go sit down. Drink this tea." I obeyed. I sat on the couch, convulsing and occasionally sipping from the hot mug. My girlfriend cleaned up what must have been two or three pounds of barf. She put it all in a garbage bag and took it outside. She sat down next to me. "Do you feel better?"

"Yes."

"I worry about you."

"Why?"

"Because..." She lifted her legs onto the couch. "It's like you're somewhere else. You're always staring into space... I don't know what you think about."

I didn't know how to answer. Solemn and distressed, I looked down. "I'm sorry."

"That's all I ever hear out of you anymore. You're sorry about everything. What are you going to do about it?" I didn't look up. I knew she was right. "I'm not going to get mad at you right now. That's not really fair since you just threw up everywhere. But you have to know. It's been bad for a while." She moved to stand.

"Wait." I touched her wrist. "What do you do? How do you put up with me?"

She sighed. "I just retreat more and more. Little by little. I sort of... You know when you fold jeans in half. That's kind of how I feel. I just... I just take what you can give me." I shook my head. I felt a slow, sharp sting across multiple points in my chest as if I was breathing with urchins for lungs. I finished the tea.

"That's really sad. That's like a boy who has to ride a girl's bike." She looked at me. "You don't hate me for that?"

"No, I love you."

"Do you?" I asked.

She didn't answer. She just rubbed at her soft purple eyeliner. My abdomen tightened.

"I'm tired," she finally said.

I slept on the couch outside her room. I hated myself for a lot of reasons, and I wanted to sink into the ground. Music played in my head. It was shitty music because that's what I deserved.

I woke to loud thumps in the stairwell. I put my pants on and found the slip of paper I'd picked up by the bathroom at the restaurant. I unfolded it and read:

I'm not a fucking mind reader.

Her bedroom door opened, and we looked at each other for a couple minutes. Dark orange leaves floated down past the windows.

I put my coat on and stepped toward her. We held each other, and I felt her body for the last time. I held on for too long, and she pulled away. She squeezed my arm, and her eyes stayed on my face. I could feel her talking inside my head. Everything will be all right. You'll be all right. I wasn't sure I agreed.

We were together, and then we were not.