Tom Mendicino - Probation

My sister can be almost willfully obtuse at times. But that’s not fair to her. How could she know what happened whenever Randall Jarvis and I were alone? And what would she say if I were to tell her about all the times he talked me into putting my dick into his mouth or sticking my finger up his bum or persuaded me into lying on top of him, rubbing our naked weenies together until they were raw and chafed? All of which I was willing to do, wanted to do, even looked forward to doing, until the day he made the mistake of assuming he could confide in me.

“I wish I was a girl so I could be your girlfriend.”

Years later, he’d returned in triumph for my sister’s wedding, already famous beyond a small town’s ability to comprehend, his gift her wedding gown. He seemed lost at the reception, self-conscious, the wretched town of Gastonia still able to intimidate a man who’d conquered the world. Tipsy on champagne cocktails, he approached me shyly, thinking he’d found a friendly face. His accent revived by alcohol, he said I looked wonderful, that he’d always known I’d become a handsome man, a son of the South.

I responded like any respectable Vice President of National Sales would have been expected to, like a true son of the South.

“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, Randall, or whatever you call yourself these days.”

My wife refused to speak to me the rest of the evening and well into the next day.

“You know, you still look like Princess Di,” I assured my sister, changing the subject and wanting to make some long-overdue amends to her and to Randall Jarvis for my despicable behavior.

She snorted, dismissing the compliment.

“Right, with this damn nose and my dago skin.”

“Well, she looked her best with a good suntan.”

She’s far too self-critical to accept a compliment, but I knew I’d pleased her and could end the dinner with a clear conscience.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said, happy, if only for the briefest moment. “You only live once. I’m gonna order the mousse, even though I know it’s probably Jell-O Instant Pudding in a champagne glass.”

The dinner finally over, I got to the Carousel twenty minutes before closing. He wasn’t there. I described him to the bartender. He shrugged, disinterested. I wouldn’t give up. He would have been wearing hospital scrubs or an East Carolina School of Medicine sweatshirt. Oh yeah, the bar man said, he left over an hour ago. Yes, alone, as far as I know, he said when I persisted. I wanted to call, to ask if I could come over, to confess I wanted to see him, but knew I would sound desperate. The next morning I was scheduled to fly to Hartford for a five-day swing through New England. I called from the boarding area. He answered on the first ring, sounding annoyed. What’s wrong? he asked. I’d gotten him out of the shower; he was dripping and shivering. I could tell he wanted to get off the telephone, to get dressed, to get to work on time. Was that a voice in the background? Was he wildly gesticulating to the man he’d brought home from the bar until he could get rid of me? Had the bartender lied? No, it was only the perky chirp of the morning news anchor. I’ll see you Saturday, he said, anxious to get off the phone. Don’t forget me this week. It seemed like forever since he’d said those words. The tables had turned; he was slipping through my fingers, this confident, cheerful boy.

I had too much on my mind. Airline schedules. Hotel reservations. Sales appointments. Doctor’s appointments. Oncologists. A pharmacopoeia of goodies for my mother needing to be picked up. And now Steve. No wonder I was always exhausted, wanting to do nothing but sprawl across the roomy bed in the Sheraton, and flush everything away with Budweiser and Johnny Walker and the crummy homegrown weed I get from the lawn boy at my mother’s club. What’s the difference if I slept through the wake-up call as long as I was up by noon?

“I’m so very sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I must be confused. I’m sure the appointment is for two.”

Meaning…what’s the big deal? I’m here now. Let’s go to work.

The honest mistake routine had worked in Buckhead, Georgia, and Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, before that.

But not in Darien, Connecticut, where I was four hours late for my appointment with the proprietor of an upscale kitchen-ware shop in the wealthiest zip code in the United States of America. Yes, I understand time is money and, yes, I understand that like everything else, time is more expensive within the boundaries of Darien, Connecticut.

“The appointment was for nine A.M. I verified it this morning with Shelton/Murray.”

I could almost hear that sniveling Born Again National Sales Manager licking this asshole’s balls, appeasing him with promises of discounts.

“Well, perhaps if it wouldn’t be inconvenient we could-”

He cut me dead.

“It would be very inconvenient.”

The thought of facing the Born Again National Sales Manager made me cringe. This wasn’t just some shopkeeper I’d alienated or a sale I’d lost. I’d managed to anger a Walking Endorsement, the author of a best-selling manual on grill techniques and a monthly column on cookware and utensils for the largest-circulation food and wine magazine. A man with an audience. A man with sufficient connections and influence to snare a design magazine spread on the expansion of his destination-point store. An article which would have prominently featured Shelton/Murray fixtures. In a nutshell, I’d fucked up.

But not fatally.

At least not this time.

The National Sales Manager forced himself to practice a little Born Again forgiveness.

But, going forward, he insisted I confirm every appointment by telephone twenty-four hours in advance.

Or else.

Finally, it was Saturday night. I met Steve at a cheap Italian restaurant near the hospital. I ordered a carafe of the house red and he asked the waitress for a Coke. No vino for me tonight, he announced. He’d picked up a night shift starting at eleven. I was dumbstruck. He was able to make a last-minute switch with a friend and patched together his three-day weekend. He’d scored a great airfare on the Internet and was flying to Pompano Beach to spend Easter with his family. I couldn’t even offer to drive him to the airport; it was all arranged. He was really looking forward to the break. He needed to decompress. Shit, the last month had been stressful, he sighed. (My fault? I wondered.) I pushed the spaghetti around my plate, choking at the sight of it.

He kissed me in the parking lot, seeming surprised when I didn’t kiss him back. He shrugged it off, his mind already back at the hospital, already on its way to Florida. By the way, he said, there’s a new movie he really wants to see. Maybe we could go together when he gets back if he doesn’t catch it while he’s in Florida.

“Happy Easter,” I said as we parted.

“But I’ll talk to you before Easter,” he said.

“But I won’t see you before Easter,” I answered.

He shrugged and turned away, his backpack jiggling on his shoulder.

Driving home, I stared beyond the road and into the horizon, past the warm starlight and into the frigid black of the Cosmic Dark Age. Only the clinically depressed despair over the infinity of eternity. Well, wasn’t I clinically depressed? Hadn’t I been diagnosed? Was I not suitably medicated? Don’t I have a right to chronic melancholy? My mother, the only human connection I have left, is dying. I will be even more alone than I am right now. How could she do this to me, abandon me at the time I need her most? I felt my heart racing, panic gripping me at the thought of her dying before I can thank her for her fierce and passionate loyalty, the gift of unconditional love my counselor assures me is rare and precious. But we’re not talkers, she and I, not really. It’s never been necessary. And just like it’s always been enough for me to know she is there, ready to attack or defend as necessity demanded, now it’s my physical presence, a somnambulant blob snoring and farting in the bedroom down the hallway, that reassures her during the long sleepless, painful nights. We don’t need words, the two of us.