Tom Mendicino - Probation

Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s a miracle. I can never tell anyone. They’d think I was crazy. But my mother hears me and takes my hand and squeezes it, telling me to make my peace with the world.

LAURA WAY BREWER, M.D.

PRACTICE LIMITED TO PSYCHIATRY

The address is smack in the heart of one of those leafy suburbs where the oak trees are older than the nation. So private, so quiet. Volvos for daytime errands and a Mercedes for a night on the town. Two children…no, no, it would be highly irresponsible of Laura Way Brewer, M.D., to contribute to the global overpopulation straining our exhausted planet. One-point-five children. A son and half-a-daughter, eviscerated at the midsection.

There’ll be a discreet side entrance. Dr. Brewer? I presume. So stylishly unstylish. A simple haircut with a light rinse that set you back a cool hundred fifty after tip. A silk blouse, single strand of pearls, wool crepe skirt, and European leather pumps, softer than skin. Bric-a-brac from the Asian continent scattered around the office, booty from her journeys. (God knows Dr. Brewer would never deign to do something as mundane as vacation.) Plush oriental carpets and ethnic wall hangings to soak up the interminable silences that are broken only by the sound of the half-a-daughter several rooms away, practicing piano. Pardon me, Dr. Brewer. Can you spare me your undivided attention? I’m not paying you to be distracted by your darling child as she fumbles her way through “Für Elise.” Don’t you want to know how salty a mechanic’s cock tastes at three in the morning in a shit-stinking rest stop on the interstate?

I made the appointment but didn’t keep it.

And God knows how I hate you. Sorry, not you, Dr. Brewer. We’ve never even met.

You, Reverend Matthew McGinley, S.J., M.D.

Or is it M.D., S.J.?

We never did get that sorted out.

How’s tricks up in the good old D. of C.? Hail the conquering hero. The whole town must have turned out to celebrate your triumphant return from exile in Mayberry and your liberation from us po’ bucktooth yokels with bad haircuts and cornmeal between our toes.

Oh, God, did I forget to tell you I’ve accepted the academic appointment at Georgetown? I’m referring you to Dr. Brewer. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.

Maybe your announcement wasn’t that harsh, but it felt that way.

Adios, amigo. Yeah, you got your problems, but the chairman of the Department of Psychiatry is wheezing close to seventy and they’re searching for young blood and there’s no blood younger and fresher and more deserving than mine.

Maybe those weren’t your exact words, but it’s exactly what you meant.

That’s terrific, Matt. I’m so happy for you. Maybe we can do dinner some night when I’m in D.C. We’ll catch up. You can ask me how things are going.

Great. Things are going great. You know my mother’s dead. My sister’s a bitch. She’s selling the house. I’m a gentleman of leisure now. My throat has been sore for weeks now, since the night my mother died. Staph, strep, gonorrhea, syphilis, maybe just postnasal drip? Who knows? Maybe I should get it checked out, but I refuse to set foot in one more doctor’s office, flipping through ancient copies of People and reading about forgotten celebrities whose moment has passed. Not that I don’t have time to spare. I haven’t worked since my mother died. I got fired or quit. I’m not sure which. My Born Again National Sales Manager sent flowers and a sugary sympathy note and left a holier-than-thou condolence on the answering machine. He waited a respectable seven days and left another message with my itinerary along the California coast. He sounded so pleased with himself, telling me how he’d chosen the trip with the gorgeous weather in mind, knowing how much I’d appreciate a break after the past few months. I never returned the call or any of the others he made in the following days. Finally, he left an angry message, demanding I return the company laptop, calling me irresponsible and threatening me with ugly references.

The estate is divided equally between Regina and me. She’s anxious to sell the house. She says we should capitalize on the hot real estate market. What she means is she’s afraid the ash from one of my cigarettes will ignite the carpet and burn her security to the ground. She’s not unsympathetic to my plight, but money is money and, as she points out, I need my share more than she needs hers. You need a change of scenery, she says, you need to get on with your life. She says she doesn’t think my antidepressants are working. I haven’t told her I’ve stopped filling my prescriptions, except for the anti-anxiety pills, of course, which I swallow religiously to put me to sleep, washed down with a six-pack and a couple of shots.

But I am getting on with it. Three days ago I dragged myself out of bed before noon and ran a razor over my face for the first time in weeks. My hangover tasted like spearmint mouthwash and my pants were spotted with coffee rings, but I looked respectable enough to the manager of the Charlotte outpost of the Barnes and Noble empire. He hired me on the spot, sales associate at minimum wage, and asked me to start the next morning. Startled, I backtracked and told him I wasn’t available for two weeks. I wouldn’t bet the ranch on me showing up.

My new landlord certainly didn’t seem to mind the Crown Royal blended on my breath. He was eager enough to take the check. In two or three days-or is it four or five?-I begin my new life as an inmate in one of his $600-a-month cells, complete with barred windows and chipped enamel sinks. I’m looking forward to meeting the other prisoners and spending time with their screaming babies and drunken spouses. We’ll all shout to be heard over the shrieking televisions. My sister offered to loan me the down payment to buy, but I’d rather serve my sentence at the Magnolia Towne Courte than in a luxury condominium with ceiling fans and hardwood floors and a wide balcony.

The contents of the Monument to Heat and Air are being put in storage. The move is scheduled. The movers are coming to pack everything into boxes and cartons and haul it off to a cinderblock storage compound near the airport. Regina says the charms of the listing-the crown moldings, actual plaster on the walls-will show better stripped to essentials and slapped with a fresh coat of paint. I’ve got my instructions to tag the few bits and pieces my prison cell can accommodate. She’s called and left several messages, not confident of my ability to accomplish even this one small duty. She’s right. I haven’t lifted a finger yet. The movers are coming…when? Tomorrow? I’m confused, uncertain when she left the message.

My mother’s bed, a dresser, an upholstered chair, and a television are all I need. I suppose I ought to poke around the kitchen and toss a coffeepot and bottle opener into a box. I need to pack my clothes. Everything else can collect dust in the storage compound.

It’s one o’clock. Not too late for an early start. I’ve had two cups of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes. Time to crack open a beer and get to work. The phone rings and I let it spill into the answering machine. It’s just my sister again, asking me to pick up, please. I ignore her and go to the front door to retrieve the morning paper. I keep forgetting to stop delivery. Need to put it on my to-do list. I skim the pages, looking for a headline about a body found in a city Dumpster, young white male, identity unknown, sandy hair, dressed in a nylon warm-up suit. Nothing. Somewhere out there, Douglas is still “working,” singing “I Love Rock ’N Roll,” dodging his angry supplier, finding refuge for the night.