Malcolm Orange’s pudgy, balding older brother scowled at him from the bathroom mirror. Sure, he was an only child, but what other explanation could there be? The gut hanging over the boxers of the poor bastard repulsed him. Tufts of hair shot from the back and shoulders of the reflection, as if to compensate for the thinning scalp. Gray edged apologetically into the hair and goatee. How could anyone let themselves go so badly? Who was this schlubby lump of goo?
Mirrors had become a cruel joke to Malcolm. His world view hadn’t changed. He was a life long Democrat, although he had begun the edging towards the politcal middle that occurs in one’s mid -thirties. Culturally, he thought he was pretty hip, unaware that describing himself that way made him exactly the opposite.
His health was another matter. Malcolm willfully ignored the alarms his body sounded. He had gained about thirty pounds in the past ten years largely through his inclusion of Heineken and Hostess products as major nutrition groups. Whenever he forgot about his added girth, his memory was refreshed when he found himself short of breath after such grueling activities as getting out of his favorite chair or tying a shoe.
All of his maladies conspired to paint the portrait of the stranger in the mirror. A paunch, thinning hair, tired eyes begging for glasses that Malcolm refused to consider all pointed to one inescapable fact. Malcolm was middle - aged. Forty, precisely, and more brutally, forty today.
But was it all an illusion? Some trick of time and space precipitated by, who knows? Stress? Lack of fiber? Cell phones?
Malcolm darted out of the room and hid in the hallway. After a count to “Three Mississippi”, he leaped into the bathroom.
“Ah - ha!”
Sadly, his reflection was not taken by surprise, springing fiercely at him. Startled, Malcolm slipped on the bath mat, Wile E. Coyote - like, treading air as he tumbled backwards. Time slowed. He noticed a rusty - yellow water stain on the ceiling for the first time. As Malcolm made a mental note to call the landlord about the substandard plumbing, his skull caromed off the toilet with a clang that Malcolm vaguely placed as a G sharp. A thousand flashbulbs went off as he landed on the tile and the room faded to black.
For most people the fall would have surely caused severe injury or worse, but Malcolm was blessed with the most prominent and peculiar of Orange family traits. Oddly, it was twenty - seven years ago, to the day, he learned of it.
Malcolm attended his first baseball game on his thirteenth birthday. On an August evening thick with humidity, he sat with his father and his younger brother Maynard ten rows behind the Red Sox dugout, in one of the hallowed halls of the sport, Boston’s Fenway Park. Malcolm and his brother were loaded down with hot dogs, pretzels and sodas watching the Red Sox battle the hated New York Yankees. By the third inning, the Red Sox were losing eight to two and Malcolm was suffering the first of his life long bouts with indigestion.
“Dad, do you have a Tums?”
“What the hell do you need a Tums for?” asked his father, as if there was some ulterior motive behind Malcolm’s making a play for the yummy antacid goodness wedged into his hip pocket.
“I ate too much.”
“Good for you, buddy.”
“I feel really sick.”
“Jesus Christ, son. You’re supposed to go to a ball game and eat like a goddamn pig. If you don’t, you’re not really a fan.”
Years later, when his fathers weight, blood pressure and cholesterol all hit two hundred sixty and he dropped dead, Malcolm found comfort in the thought, well, there goes a real fan.
His father reached into his right hip pocket to extract the roll of Tums. Stuffing his sausag - y fingers into Calvin Klein jeans two sizes too small, he grunted and pulled out a couple of crumpled lottery tickets and an unwrapped stick of gum.
As he burrowed deeper into the pocket, his wallet popped into the air.
On the field, Ron Guildry, a left hander with nasty stuff, whipped into his wind - up. Carlton Fisk, Red Sox catcher and future Hall of Fame inductee, awaited the pitch.
The wallet executed two perfect mid air turns.
Guidry kicked high and pushed hard off the rubber, unleashing a fast ball which began in the middle of the plate and as it hummed closer, tailed to the outside corner.
The wallet did another one eighty on the way down.
Fisk rightly anticipated fast ball and strode forward, coiling his bat, leaning in as the pitch moved away from him.
“Shit!” Arthur bent down to retrieve his wallet.
Fisk swung, making contact off the end of his bat, lining a rope into the first base stands, marked for the death of the ticket holder of Section J, Seat 10 -
Who was at the moment, hunched over, unsticking his wallet from a puddle of congealed ball park muck.
Malcolm, the ticket holder of Section J, Seat 12 wondered why his father insisted on wearing such tight jeans. He was too young to recognize his dad’s embarrassing taste for what it was in truth, a desperate attempt to ward off middle - age by suffocating it in denim.
Witnesses later described the sound of the baseball drilling Malcolm’s head as not unlike that of a coconut being cracked open.
Malcolm woke up at Massachusetts General Hospital. The wconcerned face of Carlton Fisk hovered over him like a Thanksgiving Day balloon.
“You’re looking good, pal.”
Why Carlton Fisk had any interest in his well - being puzzled Malcolm, though, not nearly as much as the television lights and the microphones now being shoved in his face. Later, Malcolm learned he was, according to the Boston Herald, “Coma Boy” and that a local television station had begun a “Malcolm’s Miracle” fund for his medical bills which had nearly eight thousand dollars in it’s coffers.
The medical community hummed with discussion of Malcolm’s survival. For a good week afterwards, specialists from across the world made pilgriages to Malcolm’s bedside to fondle, poke and scrutinize his head as if they were checking an exotic fruit for ripeness. During a lull in the showcase, his father pulled a chair up to Malcolm’s bed.
“You got the Orange Skull, son. The skulls of all of the men in the Orange family are anywhere from an eighth of an inch to, in the case of your uncle Stan, nearly two inches thicker than the average human skull.”
There were many traits which Malcolm would have welcomed as a genetic legacy. Musical ability, the skill to run a four minute mile, the rugged good looks of a Russell Crowe, for example. Hallelujah, he had the “Orange Skull”. It was only a matter of time before the carnival circuit beckoned.
“Step right up and watch the Amazing Malcolm stop a for - ty five caliber bullet with his Notorious Noggin! Huh - ry! Hurry! Hurry!”
But, as his skull smashed into the tile and brain matter ricocheted within, the three - quarters extra inch of thickness did indeed make a difference, turning a life - threatening concussion into a mere bump on the head. After about fifteen minutes, Malcolm’s eyes opened.
He propped himself on his elbows, trying to piece together what had occurred. All he knew was that his head was pounding and he felt like an asshole. He stood and looked into the mirror. Shit. Still forty.
Malcolm desperately searched for a cliché’ to comfort himself.
“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Uh huh. If today was the poster child for that little bromide, Malcolm figured he should chug his wife Carolyn's Vicodin while chasing it with a Nyquil shooter. Except Malcolm knew he could never commit suicide at home. It seemed to him the ultimate “fuck you” to off yourself where loved ones could find you. Why not go the whole nine yards and pin a note to your corpse, reading “And how was YOUR day?”
Malcolm opened the door of the shower and turned on the water, which sprayed contemptuously,
“Fourrr - teee.”
He calibrated the hot and cold faucets which squealed,
“Fffooouuurrr - tttyyy.”
At precisely eleven and two o’ clock, optimum temperature was achieved. As the steam billowed over the doors, he stepped inside.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the water run down his face. In about an hour, he and Carolyn would walk into Harry’s Kung - Pao Pueblo for a birthday dinner. Harry’s was a funky joint which served some of the best Thai - food in Los Angeles. If the only indignity he suffered was the singing of a loud, off - key birthday ditty by the kitchen staff, the evening would be painless. His only goal was to usher his fortieth birthday through the front door and into a dark back room quieckly and quietly, locking it away like some mentally defective relative.
Malcolm shot a squib of Pert Shampoo For Normal Hair into his palm. As he lathered up, he realized that a bottle lasted a lot longer than it did a few years ago, when his hair was longer. He rationalized that styles have changed, it wasn’t a balding thing. He calmed himself by calculating his shampoo savings since 1988.
It wasn’t a bad life, really. He loved movies and was paid to write about them. He was known at the paper as a stylish writer, but it was an ongoing source of amusement that no one could recall the last time he panned anything. It wasn’t unusual to read newspaper ads for the most reviled movie of the year carrying a quote from one of Malcolm’s raves.
“Little Nicky” - “Adam Sandler is a a national comic treasure!” Malcolm Orange - Burbank Times.
“Freddy Got Fingered” - “Tom Green is this generation’s Adam Sandler1” - Malcolm Orange - Burbank Times.
“Town and Country” - “Comedy, thy name is Warren Beatty!” - Malcolm Orange - Burbank Times.
Malcolm loved movies. With a capital L. With a “I know he hits me but if you really understood him, you’d see he’s under a lot of stress” devotion. He was the perfect doting parent and each movie was a drooling newborn, flawless, perfect and beautiful in it’s own stumbling, mewling, shitting way.
There were grumblings at the paper that Malcolm gave everything raves simply to see his name in print. He was a “studio whore” in it to suck up to the big guys for the perks.
Malcolm didn’t care. He was well - liked. In fact, at the paper, Malcolm realized he was pretty much universally considered a nice guy. No one had a bad thing to say about him.
When push came to shove, no one had anything to say about him.
The water pressure fluctuated briefly and the spray hissed.
“Nniii -sssssseeee.”
Nice. Maybe it was the shampoo seeping into his scalp, but the word resonated. Nice. What did that mean? Memorable? Beloved? impressive? Nice. Unobjectionable. Not bad, not exceptional. Nice. Inconsequential. Liked, maybe, but certainly not loved. Ignored, possibly, but not important enough to be hated. “Have a nice day.” Don’t have too exceptional a day, I don’t want that for you, I just hope your day will be ordinary. No peaks too high, no valleys too low. Nice.
The lather oozed down his forehead and stung his eyes. Malcolm squeezed them shut and held them closed. God, it was true. He was a nice guy who did an unimportant job. Who just turned forty. In Burbank.
Malcolm stopped in mid - shampoo. He had lost track of how many times he had lathered, rinsed and repeated.
Downstairs, Carolyn Orange wondered what Emeril Legase was like in bed. Every time she saw him on The Food Channel, her thoughts drifted from the Crawfish Etoufee he was preparing, tossing dashes of his “essence”, a spice combination known only to him, with cries of “bam” to imagining herself as the recipient of those very same “Bams”.
Her evening with Emeril always followed the same scenario. He would prepare a sumptuous meal like Oysters Canou. Carolyn would listen to Emeril tell the story of Dallas “Canou” Toups, the Louisiana fisherman the dish was named after, as he shucked the two dozen oysters necessary for the dish. She’d prop herself up on an unused section of the granite countertop (her fantasy kitchen) crossing her legs to flash a milky white thigh. (her fantasy complexion).
Laughter, conversation and wine flowed freely through dinner. Then Emeril would surprise her with a special dessert for the occasion. Tonight, it would be a praline pound cake as decadent as the evening promised to become.
The bedroom was warm and dark. A ceiling fan rotated languidly, lending atmosphere, though not any coolness which was fine with her. She reclined nude among the voluminous pillows. A slow Dixieland waltz played in the darkness.
“Carolyn?”
“I’m waiting, Emeril.’
The curtains around the bed parted, Emeril embraced her. Their sweat mingled as he kissed her deeply. Was that an andouile sausage she felt or ---
A voice from upstairs snapped Carolyn back to Burbank.
“Carolyn, where is my cashmere sweater?”
God, where the hell else would his cashmere sweater be?
“On the top shelf of the closet in the cedar box. Where it always is.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
Carolyn closed her eyes and tried to transport herself back to the French Quarter, but to no avail. Shit. After eight years of marriage, sex with Malcolm held all the fire and spontaneity of well, anything done several hundred times exactly the same damn way. A nice loving way, certainly, but sometimes a girl just needs a “bam”.
Malcolm strode downstairs.
“How do I look?”
He gave a fashion model spin, showing off his black cashmere sweater, which he wore over a navy Brooks Brothers shirt, with gray cords and L.L. Bean loafers. It was a look he hit out of the ballpark.
“You look nice.”
Malcolm stared at her for a very long time.
***
Carolyn always drove. After eight years of marriage, the true reason for this was buried under the dense sludge of habit, comfort and denial. Pressed for an explanation, Malcolm and Carolyn would offer versions of their party line.
“Malcolm likes to have a drink or two when we’re out, so it’s easier for me to drive.”
“The fact is I hate to drive. Carolyn does me a huge favor.”
Carolyn and Malcolm were two perfectly matched temperaments, except when behind the wheel of a car. Malcolm did indeed enjoy the occasional cocktail which made Carolyn, who drank only during her Emeril Legase fantasies, the designated driver by default. Carolyn’s fatal flaw was as a passenger, she exhibited the stability of Captain Queeg tracking the theft of his strawberries. Danger lurked around every corner which the automobile navigated without exploding. For the long term good of the relationship,the solution was obvious. Malcolm rode shotgun.
Their 1997 Contour raced through a yellow at the Melrose/Fairfax intersection. Carolyn kicked up the volume on the radio. A Tom Waits song played on KCRW. There was always a Tom Waits song on KCRW.
“So, it’s just a quiet dinner, right?”
In the twisted logic of the married, Carolyn believed that Malcolm’s repeated requests for a quiet birthday celebration were cries of help, pleads that this new decade of life be ushered in with a fanfare and pomp rivaling the opening ceremonies for the Olympics.
“That was what you wanted, sweetheart.”
“Good. Good.”
They pulled into the parking lot of Frontier Plaza, a collection of shops united by a vaguely western architectural theme. At the eastern end, next to a soon - to - open Starbucks (and roughly a block and a half from the next nearest Starbucks) was Harry’s Kung Pao Pueblo.
They stepped out of the car. Carolyn pulled a shawl around her. She wore a black cocktail dress that clung to her like scandal to a Democrat. After all these years, she was still the most sensational looking woman he knew. Why couldn’t they just be home, in bed, naked, right now? One of the genuine joys of Malcolm’s life was the certainty his sex life with Carolyn was as good as the first time they made love twelve years ago.
Carolyn took a deep breath of the evening air. She smiled.
“Nice night.”
That fucking word again.
“I think it’s a great night.” Malcolm snapped.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No. You said ‘nice’. If you meant something else, why didn’t you say that? What would be wrong with ‘pleasant’? Or ‘exquisite’? I’ll buy you a thesaurus.”
Carolyn said nothing as they crossed the parking lot. In an unfortunately timed gesture, Malcolm offered her his arm. Carolyn left it dangling forlornly.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Even if Malcolm could explain it to Carolyn, it seemed hardly the time. “Sorry, just losing my mind, let’s eat,” wouldn’t cut it.
“So you’re just being an asshole for no reason at all.”
“Let’s go with that.”
“Great. Happy goddamn birthday.”
“You swear too much.”
“Well, fuck me.”
As they opened the front door, Malcolm wondered what kind of fight they were having. Would they begin talking again as if nothing happened? Or would this stupid exchange leave a stench on the rest of the evening? Malcolm hoped not. Carolyn was right. He was being an asshole.
Harry came out to seat them.
“Hello, Orange family!”
He kissed Carolyn wetly on the cheek and enveloped Malcolm in a bear hug. The smell of Aqua - Velva reminded Malcolm of his Uncle Petey and was strangely comforting.
Harry walked them into the dining room. Malcolm eyeballed a quiet table in the rear that would give him a nice opportunity to rescue the rapport between him and Carolyn.
Harry marched them past the rear table and down a hall. Dread bubbled up in Malcolm’s stomach. It was evident one of two things were about to happen. Malcolm would walk into a surprise party or into an empty room and get shot in the head, a’la Joe Pesci in “GoodFellas”. Considering the options, Malcolm developed a strong preference for a slug in the cerebellum.
“Tonight, very special night, yes?”
“Just a birthday, Harry.”
“Good for you, Mr. Orange. Good. Good.” Harry laughed far too merrily, spittle misting into the air.
There was a function room at the end of the hall which was pitch black. From deep inside, Malcolm clearly heard whispers of “Shh!” “He’s coming!” Malcolm pitied the simpleminded oaf who could still be shocked by a surprise party. Had they learned nothing from “I Love Lucy?”
As he stepped over the threshold and his foot broke the invisible plane which separated existing outside of the room and entering the space, Malcolm swallowed. He discovered that his head was almost entirely drained of fluids. As that foot descended to the carpet, Malcolm’s head began to pound in a rhythm not unlike the bass line of Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love”.
When his foot hit the carpet, the room exploded in a flash of light and a cacophony as if triggered by his own body weight. The cries of “Surprise” rang in Malcolm’s ears and merged into a rendition of “Happy Birthday” which had the peppy bounce of a Gregorian chant.
Malcolm twisted his face into an expression he desperately hoped would read as a smile. He remembered that in times of great horror and stress, people have occasionally have been known to perform superhuman stunts, like lifting a stalled car off the body of a loved one. With that in mind, he tried to will himself invisible.
When that proved unsuccessful, he opened his eyes. Thirty two faces stared at him with teary affection, convinced that he was deeply moved by the proceedings.
A speech was unavoidable. Malcolm knew what they wanted to hear.
”Well, aren’t you all a bunch of bastards?”
The room rocked with laughter.
“All of you should go fuck yourselves.”
A doughy guy from accounting, Malcolm thought his name might have been Trent or Brent, doubled over, consumed by high pitched giggles.
“I mean, seriously.”
Tiffany, the receptionist, who made an art form out of converting the simplest phone message into impenetrable gibberish, sputtered and shot an ounce of Long Island Ice tea out of her left nostril.
“Now, drink a lot and drive home very, very fast.”
The laughter crested and morphed into applause. Malcolm stepped into the crowd as it pressed around him. If he had been President of the United States, his Secret Service detail would have been driven nuts by such a move. In reality, the only danger for Malcolm was from the Fellliniesque collection of faces bobbing towards him, each eager to put their personal spin on the evening’s grotesqueries.
“You don’t look a day over forty - five.”
That constituted Wally Malzone’s idea of a joke. Why a guy who covered the Los Angeles Clippers for a living so completely lacked a sense of humor was a genuine mystery to Malcolm.
“Good to see you, Wally.”
“I hope the food is good tonight, Malc.”
To Wally, “good” meant “free” and as deeply fried as possible. The irony of sportswriters spending decades writing about the athletic elite while gorging on artery clogging high caloric glop always amused Malcolm.
“Enjoy yourself, Wally.”
“That’s what I do”. Wally ambled off to parts unknown.
“That’s what I do”. Wally ambled off to parts unknown.
A large paw clamped on Malcolm’s shoulder.
“Happy birthday, fucker.”
Fucker was a term of endearment for Helen Buckman. it was a major career milestone when one of her employees received the upgrade from “shit head.” Helen still withheld the ultimate accolade, the title “cock sucker”, for her inner circle which currently consisted of News editor, Arlene Liberty and Roger Ackerman from legal.
Roger’s admission to the circle was undoubtedly based on his ability to extract Helen from the many lawsuits her behavior caused, and, if rumors were to be believed, his tremendous gift for oral sex. He never went out of his way to discourage the rumors, largely due to his difficulty with casual conversation and his secret relief that he was thought to have any sex life at all. The impression he left in the office was of a red bow tie at the top of a gray blur.
Arlene’s rapport was much simpler to explain. She had the good judgment to enthusiastically agree with everything Helen said, no matter how impractical from a business point of view, or simply ludicrous. Whispers were still heard throughout the paper about the Christmas party, where fueled by more Glen Livet than usual, Helen shared her theory that the United States government had set up Area 51 as a decoy for conspiracy buffs and that deep under New York’s Central Park was the real hub of extraterrestrial activity, Area 52, “where they keep the good stuff.”
Most of the staffers present had the good taste to remain respectfully silent. Arlene vociferously agreed with Helen, even offering her own theories about crop circles and cow mutilations. (Which, according to Arlene, were a well - organized strike against the meat industry orchestrated by a coalition consisting of Greenpeace, PETA and the Screen Actors Guild.) Arlene joined Helen’s inner circle after that and was entrusted with Helen’s pet project, an expose on shoddy workmanship at area beauty salons, which came about after Helen received an unfortunate haircut at Raoul’s of Glendale. The large part of the paper’s investigative reporting generally was a result of disputes Helen had with local merchants.
Helen squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder, sending aftershocks up into his neck. Malcolm couldn’t fathom that she was a mother of three and a grandmother of seven. She ought to be roaming in a forest, raiding campsites.
“So, another year older, hey Malcolm?”
“I guess that’s why we’re here.” He resisted the urge to drop and roll into a tight ball to protect himself from a mauling.
“Did you know I’m fifty - five years old?”
Malcolm knew she was sixty - three.
“I feel as good as I did when I was twenty. But do you know what people see when they look at me?”
A being from the darkest annals of mythology that would give Stephen King wretched, sleepless nights?
“No, Helen.”
“An old woman. Once the gray comes in and the wrinkles start, people look at you like their fitting you for a casket. Now, I’m wealthy, powerful and a real bitch, so I can crush people who don’t take me seriously. You? Well, enjoy the ride, because it’s all downhill, too goddamn fast. Happy birthday, fucker.”
Helen lurched back into crowd to rummage for her next cocktail.
Malcolm paddled through the sea of handshakes, bear hugs and birthday kisses to find Carolyn nursing a club soda at a rear booth. He slid in next to her.
“I never realized how easy it was to hate these people.”
Carolyn placed her hand on his.
“This is your night, honey. You should be happy.”
Malcolm yanked his hand back.
“And I’m not your biggest fan right now, either.”
“So, this was a bad idea.”
“Did it ever occur to you that this might be a birthday where I’d be taking stock of my existence and reassessing my life?”
“Honey, I had no idea that tonight was self - pitying cliché night.”
While Carolyn was familiar with Malcolm’s fondness for abusive introspection, too many phone calls and too much planning went into this evening for her to be indulgent. She had rented a karaoke machine, for god’s sake. Malcolm was only a drink away from grabbing the microphone and warbling through the entire Neil Diamond songbook, from “Cherry, Cherry” to “Brotherlove’s Traveling Salvation Show.” He’d be in his element if he’d just relax.
“That’s right, goddamnit. I am a cliché.”
Malcolm’s voice raised. In the next booth, Hank and Berry Van Poppel fed each other egg rolls and pretended not to eavesdrop.
“If you create a scene, I’m leaving.”
“Leaving would be a mistake.”
“Malcolm, I just wanted to give you a special evening. If that was stupid, I’m sorry. But don’t humiliate us because of it.”
“Honey, you’re reading this all wrong. I am going to create a scene. But you’ll be anything but humiliated. In fact, you’ll become much closer to everyone in this room when they take you to their bosom. ‘Poor thing, did you have any idea Malcolm was losing his mind’?”
Malcolm ran onto the stage and grabbed the mic of the karaoke
machine. He flicked the power switch. An electrical screech ripped through the sound system, stilling all of the party noise.
All of the faces were turned to Malcolm again. Expectant. Eager. Hungry for amusement. Smiling. Let’s hear it, funny boy. Rag on us some more. Call someone an asshole. Open the bar. Say something sweet and mushy to Carolyn. Cry a little. Pee your pants. Something.
Malcolm opened his mouth and found himself mute in a frozen moment in time. The world had stopped at eight - forty five on Tuesday, August twenty - ninth, in the function room of Harry’s Kung Pao Pueblo. Hearts paused in mid fribullation. Lungs held their next breath in suspension. Clocks waited in mid - tick. Eyes unblinking. Ice unmelting. The earth stopped. The piped in music held its final note. A tray of drinks slid off a tray and hovered inches off the floor. In the kitchen, sirloin steaks sizzled between rare and medium rare. The world waited for Malcolm to fill the moment.
Next to Malcolm there was a stool for the more laid back karaoke balladeers. Malcolm dropped the microphone, swooping gracefully to scoop up the stool. Whirling once, twice, flinging it into the crowd.
It tumbled end over end, knifing across the room toward the bar. Partygoers dove to either side for cover as it smashed into the mirror, shattering into thousand of shards like a moment from a John Woo gunfight
The expectant silence was replaced by shock. Malcolm raced off the stage, through the restaurant and into the parking lot.
Snippets of moments. Tumbling into the car. Key in the ignition. The sound of breaks screeching. Rubber scorched into the pavement. Thudding onto the freeway. White stripes racing past the windows. City lights fading. Black, star studded desert sky.
Malcolm was sweating even more than usual and his head pounded. He was nearly hyperventilating. His heart, which Dr. Avram Ghilstrap told him during his annual physical was a medical marvel in that it functioned at all, now beat like a caffeinated jackhammer.
He turned the radio up louder until the windows rattled with Gordon MacRae singing “Surrey With A Fringe On Top” from “Oklahoma”. Malcolm found show tunes comforting, one of his personality traits that caused Carolyn to occasionally ask, “Are you sure you’re not gay?” He wasn’t, which they both knew to be true, but he loved to read the latest issue of InStyle magazine as much as he enjoyed Sports Illustrated, which they both thought to be a little odd.
About thirty miles from the Nevada border, Malcolm opened the sunroof. Cool night air wrapped around him and massaged him into clarity. A vise held his soul in an ever tightening grip, squeezing it like an orange. The pulpy mess oozing down his face was any sense of self he still possessed. Malcolm pulled off the highway into a 76 gas station. As he stepped onto the gravel, he marveled at the quiet. The only illumination was provided by the florescent lighting directly over the pump which spilled through the parking lot, stretching to the cashiers booth, where a shaggy guy had his nose buried in a comic book. Malcolm tried to remember the horror movie that began with this same scenario. Something directed by John Carpenter, he thought. All he could recall was that for the guy in the booth, things ended badly.
He slid his credit card and began pumping regular unleaded into the tank when a semi roared into the station. A Lynyrd Sknyrd song blared from it’s radio. The driver was a generic red neck in his, who could tell, white trash doesn’t age well, let’s say forties, but he could have been twenty - five or fifty. He lurched from his cab and lumbered to the booth, rummaging in his pocket for cash. Malcolm heard the tinkle of coins falling to the ground and rolling away. Red Neck ignored or never noticed them. For a millisecond, Malcolm considered picking up the coins and giving them to him, but that’d be too nice a thing to do.
Conversation from the booth floated through the air to Malcolm. Red Neck was plainly drunk, bitching to the teenager behind the glass about the price of premium as if he had shaken himself awake from a long Jack Daniels soaked bender, like an alcoholic Rip Van Winkle. Hell, he probably thought Reagan was still president.
As his gas tank filled and he watched Red Neck, Malcolm composed a biography for him that contained tales of inbreeding, incest, grade school education and the occasional sodomized livestock. Red Neck was a mouth breathing, cow fucking, banjo playing son of his older sister and who would truly care if he died tonight?
There it was. No longer an abstraction. A concrete, conscious thought, sitting there like a shiny new penny, daring Malcolm to pick it up. Kill him. Why? Because it was the worst thing he could do, because it was Red Neck, because it was wrong, because he could get away with it, because if he didn’t, and he was caught, he’d be remembered, because it was NOT NICE.
Because if Red Neck died, the unremarkable, blink and you’ll miss it, insignificance of Malcolm’ s life would also be gone.
That’s the way a nervous breakdown makes you think.
The pump clicked off. Malcolm’s tank was full, but he stared motionless at Red Neck, who leaned against the side of his truck, draining a forty ounce bottle of Budwiser as quickly as the unleaded was filling his truck. What would killing him be like? Red Neck had easily six inches and fifty pounds on Malcolm, so overpowering him was out of the question.
A tire iron across the back of the head? Maybe. Tailing him on the highway and forcing his truck into a ditch at seventy miles an hour? Better, but at the same time, somewhat anonymous and cowardly.
Red Neck drained the beer and flung it across the parking lot into a dumpster some thirty feet away. The bottle shattered against the inside wall, echoing tinnily. He trudged back toward the station and spoke to the teenager in the booth, who handed him a key, lashed to a large piece of wood. Red Neck lumbered around the back of the station, undoubtedly to relieve himself.
Malcolm followed. He didn’t know why or what he would do, but his feet were moving. He found himself outside the men’s room. The key hung from the lock. Stupid asshole. He tested the piece of wood. Surprisingly heavy, a couple of pounds at least. Enough to cause serious damage to an unsuspecting skull.
He eased the key out of the lock, nudged the door open, and stepped into The Filthiest Men’s Room Ever. Germs undiscovered by modern science swirled around Malcolm’s head. The stench of ancient piss and shit merged to form a noxious superstink that reached deep into his sinuses and raped them like a convict in a shower.
An ancient fluorescent bulb flickered uncertainly, providing perfect nightmare illumination. There was one stall, with a broken green door, creaking on its one good hinge as if something broke through it in a violent escape attempt. The door and walls were covered with graffiti, some sketched with pen and magic marker, some carved forming an almost archeological chronicle of dirty limericks, childish nudes, and various endorsements of the sexual talents of several local women.
The tiles were once white, it seemed, but now were a grayish, sepia tinted, sickly tone not found in any child’s crayon box. Undoubtedly, the only reason the proprietors never cleaned up the place was that the Center for Disease Control didn’t make house calls.
Red Neck braced himself against the wall with his left hand as he leaned into the urinal, pissing urgently. Malcolm’s fingers tightened around the wood.
The stream ceased. Red Neck flushed, dropping his cigarette butt into the urinal and turning away, bumping into Malcolm. His forehead squarely met a button of Red Neck’s shirt. Staggered, he fell back a step, the wood clattering to the floor.
“You got a problem, buddy?”
Malcolm figured the subtleties of his state of mind would be lost on Red Neck.
“No.”
Red Neck paused, clearly confused by something. He stared at Malcolm, fly still unzipped, his cock flapping in the breeze. He fingered it. Malcolm’s stomach churned.
“Wanna blow me?”
There was no danger in his question, no wrong answer that would result in Malcolm beaten bloody in The Filthiest Men’s Room Ever. Red Neck was asking for a blow job. That’s it,
Malcolm backed toward the door.
“I don’t think so.”
Red Neck knifed in between Malcolm and the door.
“It’s not like I’m queer, or nothing. I just like getting my cock sucked by men.”
Malcolm thought that there was a certain inevitability to all of this. If he had killed Red Neck and was caught, he’d likely be put through this scene several times a day in prison. He noticed that Red Neck was wearing a wedding ring, as if that was an impenetrable barrier to homosexual urges.
“How does your wife feel about this?”
“Shut up.”
Malcolm considered still being conscious a moral victory.
“I mean, she can’t possibly know that you do this, can she?”
“I said, shut up.”
Red Neck turned away from Malcolm like a kid being taunted by a bully. He sniffled and rubbed his eyes with both palms as if to drive the tears back into their ducts. But, he was still between Malcolm and the door. Wounded, yes. But Malcolm knew that wild beasts were often the most dangerous in that state. So, no sudden moves.
“Listen. Can we settle one thing, right up front? I’m not going to blow you, okay....what’s your name?”
Bubba. Gomer. Billy - Ray. Billy - Joe. Billy - Bob. Jed. Andy. Barney. Cletus. Durwood. Ernest. Felix. Gopher. Herman. Izzy. Jethro, Kurtis, Lem, Norwood, Moon, Orville, Purvis, Roscoe, Scooter, Turvelle, Waldo, Zeke.
Red Neck sniffed again and mumbled,
“Timmy. You know, I ain’t never done this before. I just...”
He threw his head back and howled, making a sound of such pure agony, it reverberated off the fetid tiles with a primal beauty. Red Neck, that is, Timmy, crumpled to the floor, heaving with each phlegmy sob.
There was just enough space between Timmy and the door that Malcolm could squeeze out of The Filthiest Men’s Room Ever and into the night if he moved while Timmy was in mid - weep.
Malcolm stared at the slobbering hulk, wishing that someone were actually here to blow Timmy. As unhappy as Malcolm was, here was a man who life had truly done more than ignored, it had turned him into a Jerry Springer episode. Malcolm’s mind never had a chance to stop his next words.
“Do you want to go some place and talk?”
Timmy nodded while whimpering into the crook of his elbow. He rocked back and forth with desparate urgency.
And as if Malcolm had forgotten the rancid walls, the germs hungrily devouring him and the fact that his own life laid across the Interstate like fresh road kill, he helped Timmy to his feet. Timmy placed an arm that felt like a log around Malcolm’s shoulders.
They walked out of The Filthiest Men’s Room Ever exactly like that.
“You want to get a drink somewhere? I don’t have to get to Bakersfield until the morning.”
“What the hell.” It wasn’t like Malcolm had a schedule to follow. How was he supposed to handle this? He made a mental note: “Book Idea: Nervous Breakdowns For Dummies.”
“Cool. I know a place.”
Malcolm stopped about half way to Timmy’s semi.
“I need to make a phone call.”
Timmy wiped his drenched upper lip as he gained control of his sobbing,
“You can use my cell. “
Malcolm took Timmy’s phone and flipped it open.
He called home.
***
Harry was strangely reasonable about the shattered mirror.
“Mrs. Orange. I like you. I like Mr. Orange. But, he’s very sick. Something’s wrong. I know these things. He had the same look in his eye my father did the day he set fire to the house and killed my family.”
Carolyn was grateful that Harry was simply offering the information as context and not inviting further inquiry.
“He’s been under a lot of strain lately, what with...”
Carolyn’s voice trailed off. She had no idea where Malcolm’s stress was coming from. He sat in the dark, watched movies and wrote about them. Was finding a new way to describe the ineptitude of the latest Adam Sandler release enough to drive a man to madness?
“Just send me a bill, Harry. Whatever it is, we’ll take care of it. I am so, so sorry.”
Harry hugged Carolyn.
“Just be well.”
“Thank you, Harry. But I insist on paying for the damage.”
“Oh, you’ll pay. What do you take me for? A shmuck?”
Harry walked away, smiling that smile parents do when their toddlers break the good china and they’re trying to convince themsevles it’s just a phase.
A pair of busboys swept up the shattered shards of the mirror. The quiet tinkle of glass was the only sound in the function roon. By the time Carolyn had returned after chasing Malcolm outside, many of the guests were already slipping away from the scene of the event, most without a glance or remark to her. Given the clumsy expressions of sympathy and labored joking of the guests who remained, Carolyn was soon grateful to the cowards.
She took out her cell phone and dialed his number. It rang three times before his message clicked in:
“Hello, Malcolm Orange is unavailable to take your phone call right now. Please leave a message and he will return as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Malcolm had begged her to record the message. In his mind, it performed a two fold function, creating the illusion that he was in demand and had “people”. More importantly, Malcolm hated how his voice sounded on tape. Over the years, people had frequently described his baritone as mellow and soothing. Unfortunately, Malcolm was always reminded of how many pharmaceutical drugs could be describe the same way.
“Beep.”
Carolyn’s mouth was suddenly dry. She licked her lips.
“Hi. It’s me. I understand why you may not want to talk to anyone right now. I know there’s something going on. I don’t understand what it is, but I want to help you. I love you. Call me. I’m sorry about the party.”
She closed the phone. She looked up at her reflection in what was left of the bar mirror. A spiderweb of cracks slashed through the glass.
After a moment, the section reflecting her jawline fell to the floor and shattered. She jumped.
“Fuck. That’s a little on the nose, isn’t it?”
“Fuck. That’s a little on the nose, isn’t it?”
The busboys continue to sweep, unconcerned.
Carloyn sank to the floor. She thought if she refused to cry, maybe this wouldn’t be bad, but the tears weren’t cooperating. Rising to her feet, she sucked in a calming breath. No. This will not happen here. Maybe in the car, maybe when she got home, but Carloyn resolved to stay composed while in public.
“Let’s go home, kiddo.” She whispered to herself.
Nearly out the front door of Harry’s, she stopped.
“Motherfucking, son of a bitch.”
An elderly couple, waiting for a table shuffed a step away from her.
“He’s got the goddamn car.”
Carloyn turned to the couple.
“My husband went crazy and took the goddamed car. I don’t know if he’s dead, lost his mind or is fucking someone in a rat trap hotel in Barstow. He’s gone. And he’s got the goddamn car keys.”
The elderly woman nudged the man.
“Harry, give her the keys.”
“I’m not giving her my car keys.”
“She’s trying to carjack us.”
“She’s not a carjacker. Does she look lik e carjacker?”
“She’s crazy and needs a car. That’s good enough for me.”
Carolyn spun on her heels and headed into the resturant.
“I need a fucking ride.”
***
Malcolm never left his phone on “vibrate” unless he was in a movie theater, except for tonight. He didn’t notice the gentle rumble in his pocket, because Timmy’s truck was shaking him like a can of house paint as it raced through the desert.
What was Timmy expecting here? A caring listener, of course. Seeing him in such a vulnerable state made Malcolm someone he could trust implicitly. He certainly wasn’t going to broach the subect of his sexual confusion without a little help.
“So, Timmny --”
“Yeah?”
“Doing better?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, after the thing.”
“What?”
“The thing in the men’s room back there. You were kind of upset.”
Timmy fiddled with the radio and found a call - in show. The host ranted about the corruption of the Clinton administration.
“Fucking Democrats. All they want to do tax me and corrupt my children.”
“Uh, right.”
“I mean, look at what these shits are for. Abortion. Equal rights for women which is bad enough, but for fags? I mean, fags, Malcolm. Those people make me puke.”
“Timmy, you don’t have to hit me over the head.”
Any level that Timmy understood that remark was fine with Malcolm.
With his right hand, Timmy fumbled through a collection of CDs kept between their seats.
“This radio station is bullshit, Malcolm. I gotta find something.”
He handed Malcolm a CD’s that was missing it’s box.
“We need this”
Without checking the title, Malcolm popped it into the player.
Joel Grey’s singing, “Wilkomen” from “Cabaret” filled the cabin. Timmy’s expression softened. He began bouncing in time to the beat.
They listened to most of the first act in silence, absorbed in the music.
“What’s your story, Malcolm?”
Timmy tossed the question onto Malcolm’s lap, snapping him from the contemplation of the differences between the Broadway version and the film adaption of the musical.
“Me? I’m just a guy.”
“Yeah, right. You’re a long way from home, buddy. What are you doing up here?”
“I’m a serial killer looking for some new blood.”
Timmy laughed, a roar that drowned out the diesel engine until it petered out in snickers and sniffs.
“Shit, that is funny.”
Malcolm resented that Timmy found the idea so riotously implausible. If he only knew how close he had come to experiencing the fury of Malcolm Unleashed.
“Okay, you want the truth? I’m running away from my life. I have become my own nightmare, a guy so insignificant that I don’t cast a fucking shadow. I’m a black hole, the absence of light. I am a grain of sand, a drop in the ocean, a hair on the back of a Greek guy. I don’t matter. I haven’t moved people. I haven’t changed lives. I am ordinary. Ordinary, ordinary, fucking ordinary. And you know why? Because I hold open doors for women. I I don’t speed up at yellow lights. Because I mean it when I say, take care, pal, or How are you, today?. Because I call my mother every Sunday. Because I remember to lift the seat. Because I give to Jerry Lewis’ fucking telethon. I don’t cheat on my taxes. I tip fifteen to twenty per cent every time I eat out. I’m nice to kids and old people. And in this shithole of a world, that doesn’t mean a thing. Worse. It’s laughed at. When you’re a kid you’re taught to share your toys, play nice, respect your elders because, why, because it’s some goddamn golden ticket to, I don’t know, heaven? What the hell is that all about? Being nice. I never got that warm fuzzy feeling you’re supposed to get. All I got was ignored. So, that’s it. No more. Fuck the human race.”
There was silence in the cab for fifteen minutes by the dashboard clock. What more was there to say? Malcolm had unloaded on Timmy the root of his unhappiness. Timmy drove.
Surely, there was some home spun platitude that Timmy could offer. Just as sleep began to overtake Malcolm, he heard the click of a New CD beginning.
George Hearn was singing “I am what I am” from La Cage Aux Folles.
Timmy took the next exit off the highway. After half of a mile, the truck pulled into a gravel parking lot, packed with cars. The joint was jumping. It was an adobe style building with a red neon sign that read, “Calhouns”.
As they walked through the parking lot towards the entrance, Malcolm checked out the other parked cars. No SUV’s or luxury cars. Mostly vans, pick ups and late model sedans. He was relieved to see a trio of women also heading for the front door. A gay trucker bar would have reached Malcolm’s saturation point of weirdness.
Next to the front door was a sandwich - type chalkboard. Scrawled in yellow were the words, “KARAOK - Y TONIGHT”. Malcolm wondered why with the cutesy spelling of “karaoke”, the owner didn’t opt for the more colloquial “TONITE”. Seemed that they’d naturally go together.
Timmy saw the sign the same time as Malcolm.
“Fucking - a, karaoke! Tonight, I feel like singing. You got to sing with me, bro!”
He grabbed Malcolm in a playful headlock.
“I don’t thinks so.” squeaked Malcolm, as the veins in his neck compressed.
“No, man. You’ve got to. We’re brothers.”
“I can’t sing.” rasped Malcolm, as the oxygen flow to his brain slowed.
“Hell, enough whiskey, we all sound like Michael Bolton!” howled Timmy,
“Okay, maybe...” whispered Malcolm as his vision clouded and brain began flickering with scenes from his childhood.
“All right, then.”
` Timmy released Malcolm.
Air rushed back into his lungs, his blood flow evened out and the night reintroduced itself. He was walking into a karaoke bar in the desert with a gay trucker who he just tried to kill.
He needed a drink.
Calhoun’s was a single large room, lined with booths on its two long sides and across the back, stopping just short of a postage stamp - sized stage. Jutting from the far corner was a curved bar with eight stools, all filled. “Karoke - y” night had filled the place. Onstage, a heavy set, bleached blonde was bludgeoning the final verse of “Piece of My Heart” under a single spot light. Malcolm wondered what that great song had done to her to deserve such treatment.
Her eyes squeezed shut, her body convulsing to a tempo evident only to her, she sang with a husky, smoke and whiskey ravaged voice that was vaguely reminiscent of Janis Joplin. The most glaring difference being that The Blonde and the concept of carrying a tune were now and forever would be strangers.
But, it was impossible to ignore the crowd. Crammed with an eclectic mix of day laborers, townies and desert dwellers, they were united in cheers and support for every high note the Blonde flailed at and missed by a country mile. As the bartender slid a draft beer and a shot of tequila to him, Malcolm felt himself drawn into the passion of her performance.
“You know you got it, if it makes you feel go -- ood!”
She held the last note, which wavered and squirmed, trying to escape and find the proper pitch. The music crested and the audience exploded with applause. Before Malcolm knew it, he was on his feet whistling and cheering. The Blonde raised her right arm, and with a tomahawking motion, cut off the accompaniment, moving directly into a deep bow.
As she raised up and blew a kiss to the crowd, Malcolm wondered if she even knew where she was. At that moment, for as long as that applause lasted, she was onstage at Carnagie Hall, the greatest singer in the world and who the hell was Malcolm or anyone else to sit in judgment of her ability to carry a tune?
The Blonde made her way through the adoring crowd, heading for the bar. She wore jeans and a plain white blouse, both accentuating what was once called an hourglass figure. Her complexion was plain and ruddy, flush with the excitement of the evening and a life time of too much hard work in the sun. She broke into a smile, which was warm and jagged with teeth that were positively British in their decay.
Malcolm thought the Blonde was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He decided that she was twenty - seven, divorced with a three year old boy (Travis) and a five year old girl. (Haley) Her ex husband (Phil) is a long distance trucker and her high - school sweetheart. The marriage fell apart when the day Phil told her that he didn’t love her anymore. He’d return from the road to find screaming kids and a wife who was big, tired and slow. It was the only time there was any violence in the marriage. She broke his nose with a George Foreman grill. Phil left soon after, they divorced, but kept it civil for the kids. She continues to struggle with her weight, but likes how she looks. She’s taking accounting classes so she doesn’t have to rely on Phil’s sporadic child support payments and has started to date for the first time since the divorce. Her name is Susan, no...Elizabeth, but likes to be called Betty.
Timmy laid out the lime and the salt for his tequila meticulously, as if it were a sacred ritual. Malcolm tossed back his shot quickly, without the extras. His most macho habit. He followed it with his beer chaser, which doused the tequila flash fire into a warm glow in his stomach. The room shifted into more subtle gradations of color and the noise became more textured as if expertly mixed at a soundboard. The first seductive signs that the liquor was taking effect.
Onstage, a lanky Hispanic guy in a Los Angles Lakers jersey was singing “Heartbreak Hotel” with a similarly unsteady grasp of the melody, but without the panache of the Blonde.
Malcolm gulped more of his beer.
“Better slow down, buddy. I’m not going to be able to keep up with you.”
“This 180 proof Sasquatch was telling me to slow down? That’s a lot of fucking nerve. He must have a liver the size of a small pony. And why wouldn’t he drink like a fish. That is one seriously screwed up trucker.“ thought Malcolm.
Of course what he said was,
“Sorry, Tim - bo, you’d better speed up, because I came here to party!”
Malcolm actually pronounced it, “par - tay” and raised his mug of beer over his head, whooping like a warrior. In forty years, not only had he never done those things before, the inclination had never registered for so much as a nanosecond. He had slipped through some portal into a wondrous world where life was a beer commercial. All the guys were buddies for life and all of the women were ravishing beuties who could be had simply if you were wittier than the next slob.
He was suddenly standing at The Blonde’s table. That was the great power of tequila. Suddenly, you were transported from one point to another, with no sensation of movement or even the desire.
The Blonde sat with four women huddled around a forest of empty Budwiser bottles. A blowzy red head was holding court.
“So I ask Jackson, “Do you have to use the potty. He looks right at me and smiles that smile and says No mommy and lets it loose, peeing on the floor of the mall like a fucking racehorse.”
The women convulsed in varying degrees of hysterla, undoubtedly having endured various bowel and bladder disasters from their offspring. Their laughter had the intimate ring of shoptalk, of a shared language unintelligible to outsiders, which the childless Malcolm was one.
He guffawed heartily in a transparent attempt to win the Blonde’s attention.
Which, for some unearthly reason, worked.
“How ya doin’ honey?”
She was every truck stop waitress that ever slung a scoop of hash since the dawn of time.
“You sounded great. Let me buy the table a drink.”
To Malcolm’s eyes, this didn’t seem to be a table overly concerned where the next round of drinks was coming from.
The Blonde slid an empty chair toward Malcolm with her flip - flop shod foot.
“Have a seat. I’m Cheryl.”
She offered a chubby hand, which Malcolm took. It was cold and wet from the stranglehold she had on her beer bottle.
“Malcolm.” He dropped into the chair like a sack of laundry.
“Well, hello Malcolm. This is -
Cheryl did a Vanna White wave toward the red head.
Cheryl did a Vanna White wave toward the red head.
“Jackie.”
Jackie finished a deep pull from her beer, belched and slammed the bottle on the table, belching.
“Nasty!”
“Girl, I’d stay home if I wanted to hear that shit.”
Jackie laughed.
“You notice I’m the only one that never gets hit on.”
Jackie was actually the quiet one in the group, having an ugly little secret even these women, her closest friends found awkward discussing. She was happily married. At her high school graduation, Tom proposed. they were married that summer. He began working at his father’s construction business that fall. Ten years later, Tom makes 75 grand a year in a county where the median income is 16, 500. They have twin sons, Robbie and Steve who are now three and every Friday night, they hire a sitter and have a dinner at Red Lobster and catch a movie at the Fair Oaks Multiplex. Hers was a perfectly lived life. Her only annoyance in life was being hit on when she went drinking with her friends. So, she developed an impressive repertoire of belches,s scratches and farts to keep drunks at bay. This belch was designed to say, in essence,
“Buy me a beer, pal, but forget about me getting drunk and jumping into your pickup.”
Message received.
Cheryl introduced the other two women, but the high note a guy in military fatigues held at the end of Barry Manilow’s “I Write The Songs” made their names unintelligible. Malcolm smiled and gave a nod toward a sullen brunette named Ann or Jan or Pam. He got a smile and a wink back from a Meg Ryan esque Shelly or Shirley or Sheila.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here, Malcolm.”
Malcolm wondered what the giveaway was. His full set of teeth? The fact that he paid more for his shoes than most of these people did for everything they were wearing?
“I’m from Los Angeles”
“Don’t run into too many Angelenos out here.”
“I’m running away from home.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Jackie pitched her voice a major fifth higher and nearly shouted to interject.
“I wanted to do that when I was five. Once I figured out I wouldn’t be going out the front door. I packed up one doll, one dress from my bedroom and told my folks that I had moved to the living room. My parents let me live there until dinnertime.”
Malcolm smiled and laughed at the stories. He threw down several shots of tequila and even told the story of how he had done an interview with a certain A list actress while sitting on her bathroom floor as she showered.
The night crawled on. The club titled and lurched. Malcolm hung with the girls. At one point, he looked up and belived he saw Carolyn onstage singing, “Suspicious Minds.”
“They call it a trap -
“I can’t walk out”
“Because I love you too much bay - be...”
Malcolm blinked several times before Carolyn vanished and a petit red - head took her place to continue with the song. His heart percussed along like a drum machine. Somewhere between the final verse and Ann or Jan or Pam’s story on how pleased she was with her new gynecologist, Malcolm had a panic attack.
He no longer wanted to be sitting at that table. The warm, agenda less camaraderie that drew him to the women had become sludgy and unsatisfying. Why was he there? Did he want to fuck one of them? He wasn’t sure, although he would have welcomed interest on their part. Did he want their pity? Their respect? Envy? None of this seemed to be complete. All he knew was that they all seemed to be having a very nice time and Malcolm was beginning to hate them all.
His stomach lurched and the stale, acidic taste of tequila and beer tickled the back of his throat. He swallowed, but knew where things were heading. The last time he drank enough to get sick in public was at the cast party for his college production of “Anything Goes.” His performance as Moonface Martin was referred to as a “a comic gem” by the University of Massachusetts Daily Collegian.
He stood, mumbling to the women something about buying and renting liquor and lumbered across the bar toward the restroom. The torrent of vomit rumbled in his chest, ready to burst forward. Malcolm pinched his lips and moved as quickly as his coordination could allow him to while still holding his balance. It was as if he were negotiating the deck of a storm tossed ship.
Malcolm pitched forward, his shoulder shoving open the door of the restroom. His momentum carried him into the door of the stall. It flung open and Malcolm fell in, dropping to his knees.
As his puke splattered around the bowl, Malcolm smiled. It was at least a step up from the Filthiest Men’s Room Ever.
***
Carolyn stopped by The Clam Shack in Glendale on the chance that Malcolm had ducked in there to drown his breakdown. He was a creature of habit. While he went drinking rarely, he favored dives when he did. The lack of pretension, blue collar banter, the “How about those Dodgers?” - ness of places like that made it feel safe. It was a place so far removed from show business that the low rung from which Malcolm swung was well above the heads if the regulars which made him feel that his stories commanded at modicum of not only interest, but respect.
The bartender smirked when he told Carolyn that he had not seen Malcolm that night. She was sure that he was thinking,
“Ha! Another bitchy wife checking up on a husband. This is why I’m not married.”
Carolyn didn’t want to go home. On one hand, it made sense to be at home base in a time of crisis. When news came in, she needed to be there.
But, the news might be bad. She never seriously thought Malcolm could kill himself, but isn't’ that what always happens? Friends and family devastated by the completely unexpected suicide of a loved one?
If he flaked out and ran away, she’d kill him. This doesn’t look like that. There was bad news waiting for her, she was certain.
“There was something. I could tell. I could see it in his eyes.”
Felicia Campo guided her Saturn down Forest Lawn Drive like they rode the Autobahn.
Carolyn had been trapped. Felicia was one of those friends that you acquire like a virus from stale airplane air. Her idea of friendship was lending a sypathetic ear long enough to entitle her to commiserate by one upping your trauma with one of her own.
So, Carolyn endured her support in order to be driven home.
“David used to do this all the time. Just up and leave, no reason at all.”
“Uh - huh.”
“There’s no way that Malcolm would kill himself, believe me I know. The day I came home and found David on the floor, the only thing I wasn’t was surprised.”
“Malcolm didn’t kill himself.”
Carolyn wasn’t as certain as her tone of voice implied. She needed to keep Felicia from running away with this conversation. This was not the night to have to endure that bullshit.
“Good, because I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. If there is a cleaner that can get brain matter out of a shag carpet, I never found it.”
“Well, if I’m wrong about Malcolm, at least he won’t have done it at home. I’ll be spared the messy cleanup.” Carolyn wanted to strangle the joke in her throat before it became airborne, but it was too late. Maybe Felicia will take the cue and lighten the fuck up.
“Even professional carpet cleaners couldn’t handle it. I finally had to rearrange the furniture to hide the stain. I moved the love seat on top of it.”
Or maybe not.
They drove further in silence. Felicia pulled off Alemeda Ave. and onto Marilyn Street. stopping in front of 1786. A two story pink apartment building built in the 1980’s. Felicia turned off the motor and locked eyes with Carolyn.
“If you need anything, and I mean anything. Call. Promise?”
Carlon hugged her.
“Thanks.”
She knew that Felicia’s heart was in the right place. She wanted to comfort and support Carolyn, but was so inept that the comic relief she provided just about did the trick, anyway. Carolyn also knew that Felicia really didn’t want her to call. That was fine. Perfect even.
She hugged her and hopped out of the car, which screeched from the curb and pulled away instantly.
Carolyn watched the tailights shrink and vanish before she walked up the stairs to her building.
In the lobby, she checked the mail only to find the full box upsetting. If Malcolm were home, he would have brought up the mail. He was still out there.
She opened the door of number #101 and stepped inside. Blackness with the exception of an orange LED light fixture flickering the number #1 repeatedly.
Carolyn crept over. He answering machine declared one message. She drew her shawl around her tightly. Suddenly, so cold. If she didn’t press the button, would everything still be true?
She knew the answer. She pressed the button. Malcolm’s voice.
“Hey, babe. Hell of a night, huh?”
Carolyn sank into a couch, listening. He’s alive. She kept telling herself. As long as he;s alive, maybe we can fix this, whatever this thing is.
“Something snapped. Turning forty, the party, the people, it wasn’t anyone thing. But, something inside of just stopped working. Everything I was or thought I was I ether hated or couldn’t understand anymore. So, I ran. Away from myself, I guess. But, here I am, hot on my trail. Don’t worry, I’ll shake the bastard yet.”
Malcolm laughed. To Carolyn’s ears, it sounded tired and hollow. She heard highway noises in the background. Where the hell was he?
“I love you. Just remember that.”
Tears stung Carolyn’s eyes.
“Fuck you.” She sputtered.
“I can’t come back right now. I’m just a bag filled with broken pieces of me. I need to find a quiet place to glue them together. It’s like when -- “
A gruff voice rumbled in the background.
“You comin’ man? I need a fucking drink.”
“Yeah, okay...” Malcolm called off to The Voice. Then back to the phone --
“Don’t worry. Okay?”
The message clicked off. Carolyn was nearly blind with confusion. Who was that voice in the background? What happened here? A grown man had a fit and ran away to join the circus? The man she loved had a serious psychotic episode and now wanders the desert to who know what end? Was Malcolm’s, what, problem, because she still only had a vague idea as to what it actually was, really so bad that she couldn’t help fix it? Was this her fault?
Did she hate the fact that he was helpless or that she was?
She walked in circles in her living room, clutching her head as if it would fly part. She wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight and probably not ever. Getting drunk would be stupid. She couldn’t be alone.
Carolyn smiled, when she actually realized she was considering calling Felicia. She poured through her mental rolodex of female friends and realized that her role was to comfort them in times of stress and that as much as she loved several of them, she wouldn’t trust them to safeguard the emotional well - being of the Dali Lama.
Malcolm, damn it. He could be a danger to himself, or others. She wasn’t going to wait for that goddamn phone call. She picked up her phone and dialed.
Detective Bobby Flores has just begun the graveyard shift at the Burbank Police station when his phone rang.
***
Malcolm felt wonderful. He had vomited violently for about ten minutes, with little return to speak of, but the wrenching of his stomach, turning it inside out as it raced up his esophagus, broke him into a sweat that was invigorating and undoubtedly, 100 proof.
He maneuvered his way back onto the floor. The crowd had thinned out leading him to wonder how long he had actually been genuflecting in nauseous worship.
Onstage, a guy in a Postal uniform sang “Hey, Mister Postman” to minimal interest from the audience.
The girls table was empty, just the collection of beer bottles like some Stonehenge for alcoholics.
“There’s my buddy!”
Timmy’s arm beached itself across Malcolm’s shoulders, buckling his knees for a split second.
“You signed up yet?”
“I don’t know about this.”
“Don’t be a faggot.”
Malcolm laughed. The man who propositioned him in a men’s room was trying to shame him about his manhood if he didn’t get onstage and sing. How could he not embraced that multiplex of irony?
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a faggot.”
“Damn straight.”
Timmy did not have much of an ear for irony. He pulled Malcolm over to the side of the stage, where a Dom Deluise - ish guy sat on a stool next to his console. A bulky metal suitcase lay at his feet, open to reveal several hundred discs. He smiled at Malcolm, dislodging some crumbs that fluttered from his beard like a winter snow flurry.
“Welcome to Karaoke Central. You gentlemen like to peruse the songbook?”
“Absol - fucking - lutely.” blurted Timmy, grabbing the phone book sized sized tome in one paw and darting to an empty table. Malcolm followed, taking a seat across from him.
Timmy slapped the book on the flimsy table, bouncing an empty Miller Lite bottle to the floor and flipped it open.
“I should let you do this, I already know what I’m doing.”
“Should I ask?”
“The Rose.”
“By Bette Midler.”
“Yeah, but I think someone else wrote it.”
Timmy was a man clearly living the wrong life. He slid the book over to Malcolm. He turned to the D’s. As coy as Malcolm wanted to appear, there was never any doubt that he would be singing a Neil Diamond song.
When Malcolm was twelve, Neil Diamond’s album “Moods” hit the record stores. While his peers were discovering the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, Malcolm drew profound resonance from the lyrics,
“Song Sung Blue, everybody knows one,
Song sung blue, every garden grows one,
Me and you are subject to
The blues now and then
So then you take the blues and make a song
And sing em out again
You sing em out again.”
Although he later found the resemblance between Diamond and anchorman Sam Donaldson the stuff of nightmares, the songs continued to speak to him.
Malcolm skimmed the list.
“Play Me” - Don’t know, maybe a little too ballady for the room.
“Song Sung Blue” - The same.
“Holly Holy” - Always liked the song, but Malcolm had to be honest. His upper register was not what it was during his salad days of musical comedy.
Another shot and beer materialized at his elbow. Malcolm looked up from the book. Timmy offered him a toast, tossing another shot as he lumbered to the stage. He took the microphone from the stand and lowered his head. The bar chatter stopped. The silence was of respect and yes, awe. Such a massive creature in repose. Beautiful, but don’t get too close.
The gentle bell chords of “The Rose” began. Timmy raised his head and slowly brought the microphone to his lips.
“Some say love, it is a hunger -- “
Malcolm tossed back another shot. Timmy’s voice was a reedy baritone with a steady vibrato and a sure handle of pitch. Lovely and utterly unsurprising to Malcolm. Why the fuck not, he thought.
He turned his attention to the songbook and there it was.
“I Am, I Said.”
Malcolm had found an anthem. Once again, his life was laid out in the lyrics of Mister Neil Diamond. Was he living in his head? How could a stranger know him so completely? Malcolm’s eyes began to water. His entire life had been pointing toward this moment, the perfect meld of circumstance, physical and emotional. The manifestation of that in music. The soaring blood alcohol level. Malcolm was meant to sing this song here, tonight.
Jumping up he bumped a waitress, who spun expertly, catching herself and saving the teetering tray of drinks headed for a nearby table.
“Watch yourself, honey child.”
Malcolm didn’t even notice as he stumbled to Karaoke Central.
“I have a song. I need to do this.”
Dom put a finger to his lips.
“Shhh.”
Onstage, Timmy was on his knees.
“There’s a seed,
That with the sunshine,
In the spring, becomes
The Rose...”
Timmy reached slowly upward with his right hand, opening his fingers at the top of the stretch like a rose blooming. His tear streaked face followed his reach. He held the pose for a moment as the final note faded.
The room roared with approval. Timmy covered his face and sobbed, shoulders heaving. Malcolm was no less horrified having witnessed this scene earlier in the Filthiest Men’s Room Ever.
A waitress stepped onstage and draped Timmy’s coat across his shoulders. Two busboys helped him up and led him off as the applause grew into shouts of affirmation. Calhoun’s had become church and Timmy was James Fucking Brown. The Hardest Working, Ballad Singing, Alcoholic Gay Trucker in Show Business.
As Timmy was led to a rear table, Dom grabbed the microphone. He waited a measure beat for the noise to crest and then, ebb.
“Timmy Gilmartin, Ladies and gentlemen. let him know.”
The noise spiked up again, with an occasional testimonial from the dark.
“Yeah, baby.”
“Preach it.”
Dom rode the wave of applause and as it hit the shore, put the microphone to his lips.
“Man, that was something. Wore me out. Let’s take a ten minute break and then I’ll be back, because don’t you know, we got more.”
Dom flicked a switch. Air Supply’s “I’m All Out of Love” poured from the sound system. Malcolm grabbed Dom’s arm as he stepped down from the stage.
“You can’t take a break now.”
Dom pulled his arm from Malcolm clutches. His face darkened, the cherubic jollity replaced by the glare of a man with serious impulse control.
“Touch me again and I will shove my entire collection of eighties music so far up your ass, when you open your mouth, David Lee Roth’s voice will come out.”
Malcolm’s hand dropped.
“I’m sorry, but I need to sing now.”
“Well, I need to take a hellacious shit. You can wait ten fucking minutes.”
Dom walked away, having resolved the dispute in his own mind. Malcolm dropped into a chair at an empty table. His epiphany had been put on hold for the duration of a stranger’s dump.
“I’m hitting the road, buddy. You coming?”
In the darkness of the club, Timmy’s voice seemed to be coming from the redwood that suddenly apppeared in front of Malcolm.
Malcolm looked up at Timmy’s silhouette. Droplets of sweat rained down from him, stinging Malcolm’s eyes.
“Shtayin. Singin. Whydunyou shtay? NeelDiamin. AmIsed.”
The tequilla had honed Malcolm’s vocabularly to only the most necessary of words and his alphabet to roughly seventeen to twenty letters, combining the extras into various new and suprisingly versatile sounds. Liguisitically, it was an remarkably efficient beverage.
“I need to go. I’m feeling the itch again.”
Malcolm found no connotation to Timmy’s criptic remark that didn’t fill him with dread. Was ihe talking about propostioning men in highway rest stops or was it a creepy hygiene thing?
“I’ve neevr been much for staying in one place for long.”
“Myshownsnexsss....”
“Thanks little fella.”
Timmy hauled Malcolm to his feet and crushed him in an embrace. The buttons of his flannel shirt dug into Malcolm’s forehead.
“Taycaraysef.” Malcolm mumbled into the fabric.
Timmy released Malcolm suddenly, holding him by the shoulders, which inadvertebtly kept Malcolm from toppling into the table behind him. Timmy locked his red - rimmed eyes on Malcolm.
“Thanks for understanding. You’re a nice man.”
Nice. The word slapped Malcolm across the face.
“Gufugyersef.”
Timmy leaned in.
“What?”
“Gofugyersef.”
Timmy laughed.
“Boy, you are seriously fucked up. You better not be driving. Hey, maybe you can luck out with your new friends over there.”
Timmy turned and shuffled into the night. Gravity pulled Malcolm into his seat. He watched Timmy leave. The echo of his baritone voice lingering in his memory. His thoughts of murdering him shoved back into the dark corner from where they had crawled.
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