Ryan Jahn - Low Life

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he said, ‘did you call the office a couple nights ago?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t recall ever having called the office after business hours.’

‘That’s what I thought. Strange.’

‘Someone called?’

‘Someone claiming to be you called and left a message. Apologized for missing so much work, and then asked for his job back. It didn’t make sense.’

‘No, sir. I haven’t missed a day yet.’

‘I know. I checked your file.’

‘Oh.’

‘You have no idea what it might be about?’

‘Not the foggiest.’

Mr Thames nodded and frowned, as if that was what he had expected to hear but had been hoping for more. Then he simply stood and stared for a moment.

‘Is that all?’ Simon asked.

Mr Thames blinked and looked around like he didn’t know how he’d gotten there, smiled a smile that could have meant anything, and said, ‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Okay, sir.’

Mr Thames turned and walked away, each step he took momentarily revealing a thin slice of red sock before the gray pants fell down to cover it again.

When Simon stepped out of the office building and into the noontime sun, Robert and Chris were nowhere to be seen. He figured they’d gotten tired of waiting for him – it had taken longer than usual for the twentieth floor to clear out – and headed to Wally’s without him. They had been doing that more and more frequently.

He lighted a cigarette and started his walk toward Broadway.

When he arrived at the diner, he found both of his friends at a booth against the back wall. They were sitting next to one another.

The diner walls were thin wood paneling and the tables which littered the room were white with specks of blue and scratched and stained as well. The chairs were a mishmash, some metal, some wood, some plastic, no two alike. The diner had a ‘B’ rating – maybe cockroaches had been found in the kitchen, or the refrigeration system wasn’t quite up to code – and in a fit of humor someone had spray-painted a graffito on the glass window in which the ‘B’ was posted to make it the beginning of a claim of quality.

it said. Simon could neither confirm nor deny the claim, since he’d never ordered a meal here.

He walked across the scarred vinyl floor to the booth where Robert and Chris were sitting.

‘Hey, Simon,’ Chris said.

‘Hey.’

‘How you doing?’ Robert said.

Simon sat down across from them, shrugged.

‘I’m good. Did you guys order already?’

‘Yeah, it’s on the way,’ Chris said. ‘Did you watch that UFO special last night?’

‘What UFO special?’

‘The one about UFOs.’

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘I had company. Was it any good?’

‘Was it any good? Are you fucking kidding me? It was about UFOs. Of course it was good. Those fuckers’ll get you, man. I told you to watch it. I can’t believe you forgot.’

‘You never mentioned it.’

‘When we talked on the phone the other night. Man, you got a memory like a cheesecloth.’

‘When we talked on the phone the other night?’

‘When you called me.’

‘I didn’t call you.’

‘’Course you called me.’

‘You had company?’ Robert said.

‘Well – not company exactly. Someone broke into my apartment.’

‘God damn , man,’ Chris said. ‘I told you you should move outta that dump and into a proper apartment. Were you home?’

‘Yeah,’ Simon said. ‘I was in bed.’

‘Are those bruises on your neck?’ Robert said. ‘What happened?’

‘He broke in through the front door.’

‘After that.’

Simon opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Babette arrived carrying a brown tray and gnawing on her gum like a horse on cud. She put chipped white plates with sandwiches and fries in front of Robert and Chris, and then put Simon’s 7-Up on the table in front of him.

‘Hi, Simon,’ she said, smiling.

Babette was almost pretty. She was in her mid-thirties, and her face was a smooth oval framed by boyishly short brunette hair. Her lips were thick and red and looked very soft. She had a large backside and a narrow waist, where her body bent forward like an elbow, maybe from the weight of her breasts, which were sizable. Somehow, she reminded Simon of a rather sexy ostrich.

‘Hi, Babette,’ he said, smiling back. ‘I like your lipstick.’

‘Aw, you’re too sweet. Thank you.’

‘Sure.’

Then she pivoted on a dirty white sneaker and bounced away like a beach ball.

Simon took the paper off the top of his straw and drew in a swallow of 7-Up. There was something black floating on the surface of the liquid. Simon thought it was a piece of ground pepper. He dipped a finger in, got whatever it was on the tip of it, and then wiped it off on his pants. If he didn’t like Babette he might complain. But he did like her.

He unpacked his lunch, laid it out in front of him, and began to work on a sandwich.

Chris smiled at him. ‘I think Babette’s sweet on you.’

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘She’s just working for tips.’

‘But what happened with the break-in?’ Robert said.

Simon licked his lips, swallowed, looked toward the wall where ketchup was splattered, a dried chunk of it hanging between two wood panels like a bloody booger.

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘There was this one guy,’ Chris said, ‘UFO took him for a month, but it only felt like a couple of hours to him, though, right? So he gets home and he’s lost his job and his wife is banging some neighbor and his dog ran off. Sounds like a country song, huh? Except for the UFO bit. But it’s true. It happens more than you think. Aliens are all around us, and the only way you can identify ’em is by their eyes. They got crazy eyes. They look like—’

‘Would you shut up?’ Robert said.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to hear about UFOs.’

‘But they’re interesting.’

‘Not to me, they aren’t.’

‘Well, that’s ’cause you only like boring shit. Probably wanna talk about Dustonsky or some other German writer.’

‘Dostoevsky. And he was Russian.’

‘Whatever, man. He’s still dead.’

Simon got to his feet after only a few bites of sandwich. He decided he wasn’t feeling hungry.

‘Where you going?’ Robert said.

‘I don’t feel so hot.’

‘You sick?’

Simon shook his head.

‘No, I’m just—’

He let it end there, then walked toward the front door. As he did, Babette smiled at him from where she was standing at the counter. ‘Bye, Simon,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow, Babette.’

He grabbed the door handle.

‘Oh, wait,’ Babette said.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you—’ Babette began, and then took her gum from her mouth, apparently thinking this conversation was too serious for chewing. ‘Do you have a brother?’

Simon shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘Some guy came in here yesterday asking about you and acting really strange.’

‘What’d he look like?’

‘You. Kinda. That’s why I asked if you had a brother.’

‘Yeah – no. I don’t think so. I was adopted.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you don’t know anything about—’

Simon shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Okay,’ she said. She bit her lip and seemed unsure about what to say next. Finally: ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow, Babette.’

‘Okay.’