The One Percenters Page 4

  death was not too painful. She deserved a quiet exit.

  I had hoped she would go as a silver-haired princess smiling in her sleep.

  My apartment was looking dandy. I had stuck with the minimalist mentality, and my living room had only a rug, a television, and two beanbag chairs. Nice ones, though, not the kind where the beads fall out and make a mess. Those are for college kids who need a place to get lucky without fear of rug burn.

  I would open the sliding glass door, and my apartment would suddenly feel like a cabana. I got the afternoon sunshine, which to me is the best two-word phrase in the English language next to Happy Hour.

  My new oval rug was rather interesting too. It was black, with a zigzag of yellow tracing its edges, looking not unlike lightning bolts in the nighttime sky. The rug was soft and sweet on the ass. There are two things you should never skimp on in this world: carpeting and toilet paper. Your feet and ass deserve better, really they do.

  Two months came and went like a shot. I was taking to my new town and was able to get through the day without once getting weepy. I now thought of Jill as being by my side, guiding me. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no spiritualist or séance-holding sage, and I wasn’t seeing ghosts. It’s just more comforting to think of someone you love in a good situation than to think of them as rotting underground. It wasn’t like I thought she was some sort of guardian angel or any of that horse shit. I’m aware that she’s fertilizer by now.

  Jill wasn’t cremated. That was one thing we disagreed on. To her, the idea of the cemetery was a romantic one, which might sound odd. I guess she liked the idea of being buried with your loved ones and having the sun shine upon you. Maybe I’ll have myself buried just to make her happy. Maybe not. Something about bugs in my brain and maggots in my testicles.

  For my money, cemeteries are the biggest and most selfish waste of space since golf courses. Or vice versa. I guess people have been dying longer than they’ve been golfing. Every time someone bogies, they should be shot on site and buried where they stand. We Page 29

  could kill two birds with one gravestone.

  As it turned out, it was an hour’s drive to Binter.

  I followed Cristen and her friends in my car while they rode in her pickup. They offered me what would no doubt have been a very crowded ride, but I politely declined. These people were new to me, and I wanted to be able to scram in a hurry if I wasn’t having fun.

  Also, it’s nice to be able to stretch out in your own car.

  My car wasn’t big, and I couldn’t really stretch out all that much, but it still made me feel better to ride alone.

  I think it’s good to do things on your own—sink or swim—even if it just means driving separately once in a while. Otherwise you get weak.

  We stopped at a drive-thru beer joint to get a couple of cases. They paid. I made a mental note to buy them something at the concert in return for their kindness. Only to the kind doth kindness come. I read that somewhere as a kid. Whoever wrote it needs a strong enema, I’m sure.

  There was a cooler in the bed of the truck filled with hot dogs and snacks. Cristen’s friend Pat had brought along his charcoal grill to cook on. I wanted some mellow music for the ride, so I popped in a classical composer. One of the B’s, I think. I enjoy all types of music, but I am knowledgeable about very little of it. I like to let the magician keep his dirty little secrets to himself.

  I was surprised by the size of Binter City. It’s a legitimate “city,” though it doesn’t get much press. It must be a sleepy town. We pulled onto Third Avenue and into the parking lot of the Sin Bin. I remember thinking it odd that we’d tailgate at a club. Normally I associate it with an arena-complex atmosphere. And normally it’s just a bunch of young hooligans, not a mixed group like the one at the Bin that day. What’s tailgating without painted faces and a couple of water bongs? I dropped my preconceived ideas when I saw the number of people out back drinking beer and cooking up dinner. What a waste of skin this all was. A bunch of slobbering drunks, slaves to the beast within.

  The Sin Bin had a huge parking lot, though the Page 30

  club itself didn’t look all that sizable, contrary to my earlier assumption. I didn’t know how all of the people before me would ever fit through the front door.

  My observation of the parking lot is the last thing I recall from that night.

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  Chapter Six

  It was 9:30 am, and I smelled eggs. My stomach felt uneasy, and I moved slowly so as not to upset it further. The eggy smell certainly didn’t help, though it did make my stomach growl. I worked my way into a crawling position and peeked over the half-wall next to the sofa I was laid out on. I had no idea where I was.

  Cristen tended to the stove, listening to music over headphones. I suddenly got a whiff of an odor far worse than that of the eggs. I looked to my right, too quickly. My stomach whined in complaint. There was a brown bag there that reeked of vomit. It was a wet, brown smell. The picture was starting to become clear.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but found my lips and tongue were dried out. My head didn’t feel particularly good either, so I decided the situation was safe, and an explanation could wait. I put my head down on the pillow, and slept for two more hours. It wasn’t great sleep, but it helped.

  “Ed. .”

  “Ed. .”

  “Edward. .”

  Vague recognition. I opened my eyes to see two aspirin on the table in front of me, along with a towering blue glass of water. It might as well have been solid gold at that point. I reached for the glass. She had over poured, and the outside of the glass was wet with droplets. The cool water felt good against my hand.

  “I thought you might appreciate that.” I turned my head to see Cristen. She wasn’t wearing the robe I saw her in earlier by the stove. She had showered and put her hair up, and she was now in a green shirt. The bottom was oranged by bleach and torn with age. I wondered how many men that shirt had known more intimately than me. Jill had men before Ed Caine, of course. I thought of them all in bed with her, naked. And all the women they had been with collectively. It would have had to have been a pretty big Page 32

  bed. It was a thought I wished to put out of my head immediately. I rubbed my eyes because they were still weak and cloudy. At last I gathered myself and spoke.

  “I do appreciate it. Thank you.”

  “No problem. Would you like something to eat?” I was starving, but I didn’t care to impose anymore than I had obviously done already.

  “No, thank you. I take it this is your apartment?”

  “Yep. We’re back in Clefton. I think you overdid it a bit last night.”

  “I haven’t had a drink in six months. Kind of a promise I made to myself. Last night was the first time since then that I felt comfortable taking a sip.” Technically a lie. I had broken down two months ago and had a light beer. That doesn’t count though. Light beer is a ball game in a domed stadium.

  “You must have felt damn comfortable.” She said it in a kidding, sprite-like way. She had a very pleasant voice. A mother has that voice—I’ll say it again. Like on the mornings when you wake up sick and can’t go to school and they serve you warm gelatin. Yeah, a mother has just that kind of voice.

  “How much did I drink?”

  “Between the lot and the club, probably fifteen.

  I wasn’t keeping count though. I’m not your mother.”

  “I haven’t blacked out like this since I was a kid.

  I’m really sorry.”

  She tossed me a smile and took a seat on the chair beside the sofa.

  “Hey, no problem. You were really hamming it up last night, dancing with all kinds of people.”

  “I don’t dance. My wife, um. .my ex. .Jill used to kid me all the time about it. It’s not in my blood.”

  “Well, whatever. But you did dance. You had the whole place in stitches.” She paused, apparently aware that it was taking me a second to register. “How’d you like V.D.?”


  “Unfortunately, I don’t remember seeing them.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you don’t. My friends loved you though. Sandy thought you were witty. Quite the shit.” Sandy was tall and straight-bodied with Page 33

  muscular extremities. I remembered wondering if she played volleyball. Her forearms were bread loaves.

  “How’d I get back?”

  “We gave you a ride, though we had to leave your car there. I didn’t want to go fishing for your keys, you understand. They don’t tow since they close so late. I’ll take you to get it when you’re feeling up to it.” I had stopped listening. I was captivated by the small nubs poking at the front of her shirt. As a boy, we’re taught to like them big, but we come to find that the little perky ones are actually the best. They seem to smile at you. I was staring pretty good, too.

  I wondered if Cristen sensed it. I wondered if maybe she was puffing her chest out a little in response.

  The games we play, they’re so funny. Wrapping ourselves in polyester and suede, as if the parts beneath stop swingin’ and sweatin’ when we get on the subway or walk into the office. These days, all you have to do is remind a woman that she is a woman and you’ll elicit a smile. It makes them feel good to see that someone noticed. That’s how I got Alisha—the freak.

  Ah, the three women in my life. The Angel, the Freak, and the Slut. Cristen was a slut; I could sense it. It sounds like some kind of twisted fairy tale or really bad joke. An angel, a freak, and a slut are in a bar talking about their best sex. The freak tells about a time in a bondage bar. The slut relates a story of once having had six men at once. The angel tells the others about an encounter on Cloud Nine. So the freak chimes in. “Sex on a cloud. Sounds dangerous. How do you do it?” To which the angel replies, “Ah, you just wing it.” I warned you it was bad, now, didn’t I?

  Cristen rose from her seat and walked toward the refrigerator. She poured orange juice into one of the big, blue glasses. I really did admire those glasses.

  I snapped back to reality. Her tits weren’t going anywhere.

  “Look, I really appreciate all this. You could have just left me there. A lot of people would have.”

  “It’s no problem, Ed. We all got to look out for each other, no?” She gave me a wink that left me unexpectedly excited.

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  The morning progressed into afternoon, and I took a shower, for which I was grateful beyond belief.

  The nozzle was high, and the water was hot and jetted with good pressure. The three keys to a good shower and thus a better life: heat, height, and pressure.

  We jumped in the pickup to go get my car.

  Normally, hangovers don’t go away fully until after your second night of sleep. For some reason, your body needs to go through two full sleep cycles to right itself.

  That day, though, I felt better. It must have been the company, though the shower helped, too.

  We talked at the start of the ride. It was very comfortable, and we found we had similar tastes in quite a few areas. Cristen was very spunky, as reflected in her look. She had spiky hair and wore a tight, red shirt. While Jill had been tall and slender, Cristen was shorter with an athletic build. What little hair she sported was a brilliant black, and she had sun-freckles on her cheeks that made her look cherubic. She was a very cute woman. I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Ed, do you mind if I ask you a question? It’s a bit personal.”

  “Sure.”

  “You mentioned that you were married. How long have you been divorced?” I liked Cristen, but I didn’t feel comfortable with this topic yet. I skirted it.

  “Eighteen months.”

  “You know you didn’t pass out right away, right?”

  “What do you mean?” I hate quick transitions.

  This seemed a strange diversion from the divorce question.

  “Last night, at the club. Seems you made a friend.” She winked at me. I think she expected a question from me at this point, because she sure took her time in chiming in again.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “I think his name was Frank. The house painter?”

  “Shit, I don’t remember him at all.”

  “I’d have thought you would. You two got along pretty well, I’d say. I mean, he did steal a kiss from you.”

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  I looked Cristen dead in the eye, or as near as I could while she was driving. The cab was silent.

  Now, I have nothing against gays (less competition for chicks, in my mind), but I know what I am, and it’s not gay. I wanted to just say “Bullshit” and end it there.

  But there’s always that small part of you. .alcohol does some strange shit to your head. I felt little bugs on my skin. I tried to remember the guy—any guy—from last night. Finally, Cristen laughed loudly.

  “Ha! You had to think about it, huh?” I laughed along, but the incident bothered me for a while. Why did I hesitate? What would my delay cause Cristen to believe? I had wondered about her own sexuality. Was this her way of bringing it to light?

  Of testing the waters? I was driving myself crazy in her truck. People say we’re all on this big continuum and that there is no man and woman or straight and gay. Fuck. I hate gray areas. It reminds me of that pin: “Bisexuals are greedy fuckers.” It always makes me laugh.

  I sat there in silence for a while. I’m not sure why, but Cristen did too. I knew I’d still like her if she was gay, but I also knew I felt uncomfortable at the thought she might think I was. It’s a fucked-up world.

  I’m telling you, the millennium brought with it a warm wind carrying death on its shoulders. The world just ain’t the same anymore.

  Six months went by. I adapted to my new town and took a job editing for a local paper. It paid lousy, but I wasn’t out for money at that point. I needed something to keep me busy. When I interviewed, the man who was asking the questions recognized my name. He began to question me about the murder and then halted himself mid-sentence, embarrassed and ashamed. In the end, I think he took pity on me. It was either pity or guilt. I got the job though, so it didn’t bother me a stitch. Pity’s underrated; it can get you a drink, a smoke, a lay. Nothing wrong with that. No, sir, not a damn thing wrong with that.

  Cristen talked me into joining a group that picks litter up off the roads with one of those stabby apparatuses. The guys in the park use them too.

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  Personally I think it’s a cool job, cleaning up the outdoors in the comfort of green overalls. You have to respect the people who do it for a living. Altruism is rare, and rewarding only to those with the largest and purest of hearts.

  It made me feel good to be outside in the open air, helping the community and all that crap. It amazed me how many people would throw trash out their window—cigarette butts, tissues—even as they passed us while we were working. It was an endless cycle.

  People are pigs without the good looks and the brains.

  Eventually I did tell Cristen about Jill.

  It was a rainy night. We had become pretty good friends by then, considering the relatively short length of our relationship. We were in my apartment after a day working the roads. We sipped wine on the balcony, which is covered by an overhang. I purchased some plastic green chairs down at Arnie’s Home and Garden, and they were practical if not stylish. I tried hanging a dart board on the wall dividing my balcony from the next, but I found that was just a convenient way to lose darts over the railing. Also, my neighbors below cook out a lot. I didn’t want a stray dart to peg their kid in the eye, and have to spend the evening searching for his cornea in the grass.

  We were sipping zinfandel—not my favorite wine type, but Cristen liked it, so it was fine by me.

  Personally, I don’t think wine should come in shades.

  It should be RED or WHITE. There’s too much wishy-washiness in the world today. Paper or plastic. Cash or credit. Buy or lease. Make a decision and live with it, for crying out loud.
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  We were relaxing, shooting the breeze, but my mind wasn’t in it. I kept looking off in the distance, daydreaming, and Cristen must have noticed it. I broke off mid-sentence and began to cry.

  “What’s wrong, Edward?” What’s wrong?

  What’s wrong?

  It’s a question we all have heard about a billion times, not that anyone ever solves any of our problems.

  I am only comforted by the fact that should people stop fucking here and now for the next sixty years, this Page 37

  miserable experience would all be over with. But who’s gonna convince the people to stop fucking? It’s like the cat and the mice and the bell.

  So I told her about Jill. I told her all that I’ve told you, Doctor. It was a long and emotional conversation.

  She was very receptive and listened far more than she talked, and that’s a very good and rare quality in a friend. Yes, she was a very good crisis listener. The conversation ended in a hug, and I remember how that felt. Her body was warm, soft. It wasn’t one of those obligatory hugs with quick shoulder pats and a stiff frame. You know, man hugs. It was heartfelt.

  The rain changed direction and was now swooping in on us, but I didn’t care. I don’t think Cristen did either. The rain felt good, natural, primal.

  She kissed me. So much for my thoughts about her sexual orientation. This would be a hell of a “favor.” Her lips were soft. Some women don’t have soft lips.

  Some have lifeless, rough lips. Lifeless, rough lips are a sign of a woman without depth and are to be avoided.

  She pulled back from the kiss, ashamed. After the conversation we had just completed, I think she felt like she was taking advantage of a vulnerable man. I pulled her back in and kissed her back. It felt good.

  No, it felt great. Not great like they do in college, when it’s exciting and new. This kiss was deep, passionate, caring. Jill and I had shared many such kisses. What surprised me though was that it wasn’t just reassuring.