Tim Sandlin - Social Blunders

The eye contact was intense. “The rebound is too hard right now. I trusted a man and he slept with others, and no matter how nice it feels with you, I know it felt just as nice once with Jeremy. I can’t ever go through that again.”

“My wife sleeps with others and I don’t see it as a reflection on the female gender.”

Gilia’s eyelids were so vulnerable they were translucent. “I’m not ready to trust yet.”

Pursuing Gilia went against the choose-women-who-can’t-hurt-you rule. A tramp’s exit had knocked me into emotional chaos; the mind shuddered to think what would happen if I got attached to, then lost, Gilia. A good relationship might be more risk than I was willing to take.

“When do you think you may be ready?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe never.”

“I’ll hang around a while and see what happens.”

“I’d like that.”

Gilia covered my hand with hers. It was more intimate than any sex I’ve had. She said, “Breakfast tomorrow?”

I said, “Cheese blintzes at nine.”

Gilia drove away, and as I carried the grocery sack full of baseball cards, Me Maw’s jewelry box, and The Shortstop Kid across the yard, I was forced to face the question of ethics. If you’re planning, or hoping, to have an exclusive involvement with someone in the future, should comfort sex be cut out now? I wanted to pursue the friendship and more with Gilia, but because she had been hurt by an untrue man she was particularly sensitive to adultery, even more so than your average woman. I had as much as told Gilia that unlike her sleazeball husband, she could trust me; therefore it did not seem proper to do what I had been doing with her Aunt Katrina.

On the other hand, it’s not like Gilia and I were going steady. We weren’t even dating yet. There’d been a few conversations over breakfast and one unrequited kiss. At what point does a commitment begin? Normally you’d think the line was clear-cut, but I’ve run into problems during that fringe period at the outset when one person thinks you have an unspoken understanding and the other person is oblivious. Those unspoken understandings can wreak havoc.

Something heavy hit the garage wall from the inside— Thonk . My heart fired off a monumental beat and my legs went limp. Setting the bag on the grass, I moved closer to listen. A low buzz came from the wall itself, or maybe from something pressed against the wall. Thoughts ran to Mike Newberry or Ryan and Sonny, the vengeance boys. Shannon and Eugene could be in there committing a strange new sex ritual. So many ways of being perverse had come along in the last few years that I’d lost track.

A new sound, like a soft hum, filled in under the buzz. As I reached for the door, there was another Thonk . Sudden sounds where sounds aren’t supposed to be means a surprise is coming, and nineteen out of twenty surprises are bad news. I did the Indian stealth walk around to a scrap pile on the back side of the garage and picked out a solid two-by-four. Wouldn’t stop bullets or Ryan Saunders, but it was enough to slow down pretty much anyone else. At the door, I slowly turned the knob in my left hand and raised the two-by-four in my right hand to ear level, then I pushed with my shoulder.

Nothing happened. It was stuck. I leaned back, slammed into the door with my shoulder, it flew open, and I blew into the garage like a Laurel and Hardy routine—splat onto the floor.

The light blinded me, which was weird because I hadn’t seen any light from outside. A rubber wheel passed within inches of my face. As my eyes adjusted, I realized golf carts were moving about the room. Two carts—Bull Run and Antietam—made tight circles, while Vicksburg, the Wilderness, Shiloh, and Appomattox Courthouse had all hit a wall—causing Thonks —where they buzzed as their tires spun on concrete.

When the Bull Run passed by a second time, I jumped in. A brick had been placed on the accelerator. I turned off the key and coasted to a stop beside the worktable next to the tool rack.

That’s where I found Clark. He was lying on his back on the table, eyes closed and hands cupped on his sternum, like a laid-out corpse.

“Clark.”

“Let me die.”

“Not in my garage.”

He didn’t open his eyes or move his hands. He simply repeated, “Let me die, let me die.”

I climbed out of the Bull Run and walked around the garage, turning off golf carts. He’d sealed both doors with masking tape, which is why the one I came through had been stuck and no light had been visible from outside. After collecting all the bricks, I walked over and sat back down in the Bull Run.

“Clark, you screwed up.”

His eyes flew open. “That’s no way to speak to a suicide. You might push me over the edge.” For some reason, he’d taken off his shoes and socks, which only made the black outfit look sillier than ever.

“You’re already over the edge. Look at this golf cart.”

Clark sat up and studied the Bull Run. “So.”

“Do you see an exhaust pipe?”

His forehead rippled in thought.

“An exhaust pipe, Clark. Even an idiot knows you can’t kill yourself by sucking exhaust off an electric golf cart.”

He blinked several times. “Why not?”

“Jesus.” I spoke slowly and distinctly. “Electric motors have no exhaust. No exhaust, no carbon monoxide; no carbon monoxide, no death.”

His entire body sagged as failure washed over his face. I’ve never seen anyone so disappointed at not being dead.

He said, “Now I’m back to killing you.”

I mount the Exercycle 6000, crank up the tension, and ride. Straight into the Charlie Russell print, I pump until sweat pops onto my forehead like water drops on a hot griddle. Intense energy expended for the purpose of going nowhere—my mind is too blank to dwell on the metaphor.

For that is the goal, to blank my mind. To forget those I’m hurting and those I’ve lost. To forget how many people lose loved ones every day. To beat back depression.

Fat chance. Muscles break down before the brain. Three a.m. found me in bed, reading Varieties of Religious Experience by William James.

“It is with no small amount of trepidation that I take my place behind this desk, and face this learned audience.”

Literary Valium. If James didn’t put me out I was doomed.

I was reading his dismissal of medical materialism—which treats pining for spiritual veracity as a symptom of a disordered colon—when the phone rang.

“Mr. Callahan, you’re a father.”

My mouth went metallic. “Well, yes, that’s true.”

“This is Babs.” There was a pause. “Babs Paseneaux.”

“The pregnant Babs?”

“Not anymore.” Giggles bubbled in the background.

“All right. You did it!”

“Three hours ago. The little booger hurt like the dickens.”

“I’m proud of you, Babs. You gave birth.” I was genuinely happy; felt better than I had in a year.

“Guess who’s here?” Babs asked.

“Your husband realized his mistake and came home in time for the baby.”

“Shoot no. I’ll never talk to that low-life again. It’s Lynette. She’s right here.” More giggles broke out as the girls carried on a whispered conference away from the phone.

Babs came back. “Lynette wants to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to Lynette.”

Sounds of scuffling and laughter came from their end. The only other woman I’d been around soon after she gave birth was Maurey, and I don’t recall her being in such a cheery mood. Upbeat, yes, but not cheery.

“Remember me, Mr. Callahan? Lynette.”

“I’m glad you turned around and came back, Lynette. Best friends should never break up over a man.”