Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“What are you doing?” says some guy.

“Who is this?”

“This is a handsome member of the clean team.”

“Ace? How’d you get this number?”

“You people have to remember that the clean team has access to everything. We don’t only dump the trash. We have keys, alarm codes. We can get into every cranny. We know where you bozos hide your passwords and who has the best snacks tucked in desk drawers.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m gonna go back to the office to hang out before the big gig,” Ace says, “if you want to meet me there.”

“Okay,” Coffen says, excited to spend some time away from Schumann.

“If you’re still feeling the effects of the rum, drive slow,” he says. “Drunk drivers usually get popped for speeding.”

“I’m not drunk driving.”

“Exactly. No way would you. Remember to go slow. Before Acey settled down and joined the clean team, he might have wriggled on the wrong side of the law occasionally.”

“Your glory days.”

“Boy, were they.”

“Right now my life feels like the opposite of glory days.”

“We’ll see what some rock and roll has to say about that later tonight,” says Ace.

Bob has Schumann swing them by Taco Shed for an afternoon Mexican lasagna. They pull into the drive-through and Coffen almost tells him about Tilda’s shady business venture, but he decides to keep her secret safe. She seems like a good person, and Bob wants her to make all the extra money she needs.

He does not, however, expect Tilda to be working the day shift, but he recognizes her voice right off. Apparently, one of the other workers is on maternity leave and the extra shifts have been disseminated amongst the remaining Shedheads.

“Hi, Tilda, it’s Bob Coffen,” he says from the passenger seat.

“Bob who?”

“Last night. With Otis.”

“It’s not ringing a bell.”

“The cop.”

“Still no.”

“The capitán of Mexican lasagnas.”

“Ah, yes,” she says. “How many would you like?”

“Three.” Coffen feels the urge to talk to her alone. He wants a couple minutes without Schumann here to chat. Bob truly enjoyed their time together last night, chomping Mexican lasagnas in the parking lot. He whispers to Schumann, “Give me a minute.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Hark the herald angel likes to watch TV in his birthday suit,” Schumann says, smiling, parroting the magic words to get into Tilda’s erotic speakeasy.

“Who’s that?” Tilda asks.

“It’s Schumann.”

“Howdy, big fella,” she says.

“You guys know each other?” Bob says.

Schumann only shrugs. Tilda says, “Don’t be a prude, capitán .”

“Can I talk to Tilda privately, Schumann?” Bob says. “Will you give me a minute?”

“Teammates can say anything in front of each other,” Schumann says.

“Now, Schu, play nice. Give me and Bob a moment alone,” Tilda says through the intercom.

Schumann makes a face like this is truly an inconvenience for him, but quickly exits the driver’s seat in a huff, slamming the door. Bob crawls over the center console.

“You okay?” Tilda asks.

“Never better,” he says. “Except that’s a lie.”

“I’ve been better, too. Found out one of my exes is getting lethally injected soon. Turns out he’s a serial killer.”

Nothing from Coffen.

“Did you hear me?” Tilda asks.

“Why did you sleep with a serial killer?”

“It was an accident,” she says. “He wasn’t wearing any kind of identifying badge.”

“Cops and monsters.”

“Now you’re catching on. Plus, he wrote poetry.”

“What were they about?” Coffen asks.

“Mostly they were whiny anecdotes about how he needed more love in his life. He had a crappy father.”

“Me, too,” Bob says.

“Me, too,” says Tilda. “The Mexican lasagnas are ready. Please pull up to the window.”

“Before I pull up, can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“Do you ever want to get out of your box?”

“What box?”

“The box you’re in right now,” he says.

“I’m at work right now.”

“Right, but I mean the box that our lives turn into, whether we want it to happen or not.”

“Just break out of your box.”

“I’m talking about being trapped,” Bob says. “My life, my job, my wife. Jesus, my kids are in a box that I created for them — they barely go outside. They are more comfortable online. They’re afraid of real life.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” says Tilda. “My daughter is in a literal box — Roy’s car. Now that’s a fucking problem.”

She’s right , Coffen thinks. That’s a problem . He can fix what he’s teaching his children, starting tomorrow, starting with the sea horses. They say they don’t want to come, well, Coffen’s going to make them come. He’s their father. He’ll insist, and if that doesn’t work, the bribery from this afternoon might rear its ugly head again. He has the money and if that’s the bait to get them to go, so be it.

“If you ever fancy a change of careers,” Bob says, “I think you have a future in helping people.”

“I do help people: Every time a guy pulls his pud while I talk dirty, that’s helping humanity.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she says, “but why would I give up all this glamour?”

Coffen pulls the SUV up to the window.

Tilda hands him the bag of lasagnas. He’s astounded by her muscles every time he sees them, the way she’s wrapped her heart in bulky protection. He looks across the parking lot and sees Schumann, uniform and all, throwing rocks at a stop sign. “He’s one of your regulars?” Coffen asks her.

“That man loves him some raunch. If he wanted to take our relationship to the next level, I’d certainly get out of this box so he could get into mine.”

“Do you like music?”

“What kind?”

“Kiss.”

“I love Kiss,” she says.

“I’m going to hear a Kiss cover band tonight. Wanna come with?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

It hadn’t occurred to Coffen how this innocuously conceived question might be received. He meant nothing smarmy. The last thing on earth he wants is to cheat on his wife. Coffen posed the invitation to Tilda simply for the companionship, and in fact, the mere idea of an official date with her brings with it a few unfortunate images: He pictures Tilda’s naked, engorged muscles, then the likelihood that if she ever saw Bob nude, the probability of her unbridled laughter.

“Not a date. As friends,” Coffen says.

“Good. I don’t date prudes. But as long as we’re going as friends, I’d love to.”

“I’m not a prude.”

“Guess we’re adding to our list.”

“Our list?”

“Cops, monsters, and prudes,” she says.

Half an hour later, Coffen arrives at the office with a bottle of rum, ready to return the favor and get Ace nice and buzzed. But that plan won’t work because Ace has company. Currently, Coffen’s wedged in a cubicle near his work’s kitchen, eavesdropping as Ace talks to a boy who looks about Margot’s age. Who is this mysterious lad who’s shown up with the tattooed janitor? Well, as Coffen has learned from his gutless spying, the boy happens to be the son of Ace’s girlfriend. Apparently, Ace normally lives with his girlfriend and her son. The janitor has been sleeping at the office this week since she told him to “poop or get off the pot” regarding the likelihood of a marriage proposal.