Matt Cowper - The Clerk

The girl, who he’d met the day before on a full-day charter, was at first terrified of Reggie’s proposition: “They’ll hear! They’re just downstairs!” But he’d nibbled on her ear and neck, and soon they were thrashing against each other, on the parents’ bed, no less. This was indeed heard downstairs. The father, a stern functionary used to crushing petty environmentalists for his Republican boss, rushed upstairs, threw open the door, gasped, yelled, dragged Reggie off his shrieking daughter, and readied his fist. Reggie, however, was twenty-two years younger, thirty pounds heavier, and used to scrapping with uppity tourists his own age. A few hard things hit the politico — he didn’t quite know what they were; they couldn’t be fists, could they? — and he slumped to the floor, his blood dribbling on the carpet. Reggie pulled on his clothes quickly and rushed out of the house, easily outpacing the invective-spewing mother who chased him, and was soon laughing and driving back into Morehead City at an illegal speed.

In his youthful invincibility, he didn’t expect repercussions. He figured the father would be ashamed that he got trounced by a kid roughly half his age, and the mother would want to protect her desecrated daughter from further ignominy. He was wrong. The next day, the mother and father were standing on the dock as the Faust , back from a half-day charter, pulled into its slip. Reggie gulped.

The two fathers had words, right there on the dock, while Reggie stood by helplessly. Whenever he tried to say something, his father, who immediately grasped the situation, told him to shut the hell up. The mother glared at him with the fury of hell. He should do something, save the day with his charm, as he’d done so many times before — but how? His innate boldness seemed to have been drained out of him by some evil force.

Rape was mentioned. Reggie sweated. His father called him many ingenious names. The politico used lots of big words. His wife glared. But no accord was reached. Reggie’s father finally prevailed upon the aggrieved party to meet in private, away from prying eyes and curious ears. But before they adjourned, he turned to Thomas with pure disdain, and said, “You’re no longer working on this boat.”

Reggie would later remember those words as marking the end of an era. While his father had eventually placated the parents, and all Reggie had to do was apologize and promise never to contact their daughter ever again, the damage was done. Not only did his father throw him off the Faust , he put the word out that his only son was not to be trusted as a mate. There were only so many charter boats in the area, and his father knew all the captains, so Reggie was effectively blackballed. He had skills he would likely never use again, unless he moved far away and hoodwinked someone into hiring him.

He eventually found work as a dishwasher at Clamshells, an Atlantic Beach seafood joint. Him, a dishwasher! Him, cloistered inside with a bunch of idiots, when a few months ago, he’d been out in the Gulf Stream helping cute eleventeen-year-olds reel in dolphin and watching hooked blue marlins surge out of the water like angry gods! Him, breaking his back carrying all these plates! Him, grubbing around in all this ooze and sogginess! He hated the job, but he had bills to pay — he lived alone in a garage apartment — and his father had made it clear he would get no financial help. He kept at it, if only to prove to the bastard he wouldn’t be beat.

It was during this time that he and Thomas stumbled across each other. They were both at Sharkey’s on a busy Saturday night, and both were planning on getting laid. Reggie, fearful of another scandal, had abandoned his cocky Challenges, so he knew he had a 95% chance of taking a girl home, while Thomas had no such confidence. They were both sitting at the bar, and they both recognized each other, but neither approached at first. To Thomas, Reggie was one of the cool kids from back in high school who looked like he’d grown up into a cool man. He saw no reason to go talk to him. To Reggie, Thomas looked different than he remembered — more solid , somehow, more mature. He found himself walking over. Thomas was caught off guard, but he recovered quickly enough. As the conversation unfolded, as old memories were dredged up and present-day situations were explained, they both found that the man they were talking to was different than the boy they’d known — different, but not wholly foreign.

Their friendship, such as it was, had continued on its mellow way for eighteen years. They hung out once a week or so, then returned to their work and lives. For years, Thomas had expected Reggie to drift out of his life, since they were, after all, different people. Reggie was a ladies’ man and still partied hard. When they first became friends, he was always inviting Thomas to “chase after some strange” or “pound a few beers.” Thomas went along at first, but he was soon making up excuses to avoid these adventures. He felt like a winking candle next to a roaring sun whenever he went cavorting with Reggie. Reggie did all of the talking, all of the wooing, and most of the drinking. Thomas could do little besides sit there and watch the girls fall at the feet of his friend.

But Reggie didn’t drift away, and he even accommodated his pal’s quieter sensibilities. By unspoken accord, it was usually just the two of them when they hung out. Reggie still occasionally asked Thomas to partake in a bacchanalia, but by now he understood that Thomas was probably going to say no. Instead of pressuring his friend, Reggie would simply nod, make a smart-ass comment about Thomas’s penis size, and let the matter rest.

Thomas walked up the steps to Reggie’s apartment and knocked on the door. Reggie still lived in the same garage apartment; by now, he was practically a son to the Weavers, the elderly couple who lived in the house and rented to him. Their own son, who lived in San Francisco and worked as a software engineer, rarely visited.

“It’s open!” Thomas heard through the wood and glass. He entered the apartment, stepping directly into the small kitchen. There was only a hot plate, a micro-fridge, a sink, and a few cabinets that had been haphazardly nailed to the wall. A nostril-burning miasma rose from the overflowing trash can. The sink was filled with gunk-encrusted dishes. Thomas shook his head and walked past the thin partition into the living room/bedroom. Reggie’s bed was stuffed into a corner, unmade. A heap of dirty laundry swelled out of a large plastic bin. Reggie, shirtless and sockless, was sprawled out on what he called his “swank” leather couch, watching ESPN on his old clunky cathode ray tube television. In the age of flatscreens, it was as strange as a Model T suddenly appearing on a modern-day interstate.

“Wassup, Tommy?” he barked. Thomas didn’t like Tommy, or Tom, or Tom-Tom, as his mother called him when he was young. His name was Thomas . He’d tried to correct Reggie years ago, but Reggie ignored him, and Thomas eventually learned to live with his friend’s nicknames for him.

“Not much,” Thomas replied. “The apartment looks a little rough, you know.”

“So fucking what? Is Your Highness offended by some trash and bad smells? Do I need to get Jeeves to summon the carriage so you can return to your château?”

“Nope, not necessary. Just pointing out your slackness.”

“You cut me, you cut me deep. C’mon, man, you know I’ll clean up sometime.”

This was true. Reggie would clean the apartment in a quick burst, and it would be spotless and smelling like roses — or Proctor & Gamble’s approximation of roses. Then it would deteriorate until it looked much like it did now, until Reggie had another cleaning burst.