Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“No, I’d like to be alone for a few minutes. Get my head straight.”

“Oh. OK. Uh — see you when you come back in?”

“Sure.”

He looked away from her crestfallen face, half-walked, half-shoved his way out of the living room and kitchen, and stepped out onto Reggie’s small landing. He shut the door behind him, and it muffled some, but not all, of the ruckus inside. It was much cooler out here, so Thomas zipped up his jacket and turned up the collar.

From the landing, you could see part of the driveway and part of the Weavers’ tiny backyard, which was bordered by a small picket fence. Other houses, much like the Weavers’ modest two story bungalow, were bunched in close. This wasn’t the McMansion section of town by the waterfront; this was an older, blue-collar community.

A movement below caught his eye, and when he looked down he was so startled he nearly dropped his beer. The Weavers were sitting in wicker chairs out in the yard, glasses in hand. They were looking up at him with what looked like amusement.

“Sorry to scare ya, son!” Benny Weaver yelled up.

“My, I thought you were gonna have a heart attack,” Maribel Weaver cackled. “Are we that ugly that we cause a young boy like you to have a heart attack?”

Recovering his poise, Thomas laughed along with them. “You know better than that, Mrs. Weaver. I was just a million miles away.”

“I bet you’re thinkin’ bout all those girls in there,” Benny said. “I snuck a peek out the window at ’em when they were arriving, and I must say, some of ’em are mighty fine.”

“Benny, if you ain’t a dirty old man!” Maribel scolded. “Drooling over girls and making them uncomfortable.”

“Bull! They never saw me — I think. And even if they did see me, I don’t care! If a woman is gonna dress in no more material than it would take to make a handkerchief, why, I’m gonna ogle her till my eyes burn, and if she don’t like it, tough!”

Thomas laughed. “Yes, there’re some lookers in there.”

“Got one lined up for yourself?” Benny asked scandalously.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, he says,” Maribel said. “In other words, mind your own business, Benny.”

“Hush, dear. I’m trying to get pertinent information out of the boy.”

“That’s all the information you get,” Thomas said, pulling an imaginary zipper across his lips to illustrate his commitment to privacy.

“Fine then,” Benny said in mock peevishness. “How’s Reggie doing? Maybe you’ll tell us how his courting’s going, since you won’t tell us about yours.”

“He’s Reggie,” Thomas said, shrugging. “You both know how his courting goes.”

“That we do,” Maribel said, a note of disapproval in her voice. “He’s a good kid, but I wish he’d settle down, find him a nice girl. He can’t be a Casanova forever, you know. Age will take care of that.”

“Yes, it will,” Benny agreed, “but let him have his fun while his equipment’s still working. He can marry some rich old widow when his one-eyed snake’s gone into permanent hibernation.”

“Like you did?” Maribel said sassily.

“You? Rich? Hah!”

“Richer than you were!”

“That’s not saying anything! I was so deep in it back then, I said I was ‘po,’ not poor, because I couldn’t afford the ‘o’ and the ‘r’!”

Thomas listened to the banter, smiling. Part of it was done for his benefit, yes, but the Weavers truly had a solid marriage and didn’t mind needling each other. They reminded him of the Oxendines and their endless loving quarrels. It seemed only the older generations had these bonds. The marriages of the middle and upper classes of today were more like tenuous accords between historically hostile nation-states: there would be war, it was just a question of when. The marriages of the poor were sloppy and ridiculous, with far too many kids being popped out, more like the fumblings of naive teenagers (sometimes, quite literally) than a contract between two adults.

No, it was all too messy these days. Thomas was thankful he’d never slipped an overpriced ring on some princess’s manicured finger, even more thankful when he considered how Emily had gone AWOL a few days ago and thrown everything into confusion.

The door opened behind him. He figured it was Allison coming out to try another cast of the net, but it was a plastered, goggle-eyed, sweaty Reggie.

“Tommy! Tom! The Tomster!” he yelled. “What’re ya doing out here?”

“Needed some fresh air.”

“How much you need? You gonna stand out here and suck up the whole atmosphere? Oh, hey Benny, hey Maribel!”

He waved down to his landlords, who chuckled and waved back.

“Sounds like the party’s hopping, Reggie,” Benny said.

“Oh, it is, it is. It ain’t hopping too much, though, is it? Don’t want the noise to bother ya’ll.”

“It’s fine for now,” Maribel said. “Just don’t let it go on till too late, now, ya hear?”

“No problem. I’ll kick ’em all out at two o’clock, that good?”

“Yup, that works,” Benny said. “We’re about to retire, but we can sleep through hurricanes, so don’t mind us.”

“ You can sleep through hurricanes,” Maribel said, “but I’m a light sleeper.”

“You slept through that one nor’easter just last week that banged on the house like a herd of elephants!”

They were at it again, and Reggie laughed and turned back to Thomas.

“Come on back in, Tommy,” he exhorted, nudging Thomas on the shoulder. “That nurse was giving you The Eye. She’s ready to drop those panties, all you have to do is spit a little game at her.”

“Yeah, she seems eager — but she’s also dumb as a post.”

Reggie spread out his arms and stared up at the heavens in exasperation. He mumbled a few words that Thomas didn’t catch; he may very well have been praying to a God he ignored pretty much all the time.

“Who cares about her intelligence?” Reggie demanded. “You’re gonna be ramming your rod into her vag-hole, not sipping Earl Grey and talking about Shakespeare!”

“Reggie, no need to yell,” Thomas said, motioning to the couple sitting below.

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” he said, looking shockingly abashed. “They don’t like my language sometimes.”

The Weavers, however, had both recognized that this conversation should not involve them. They got up creakily, complaining of bad joints and general decrepitude, said goodnight, and went inside. The light pouring out from the sliding-glass door on their back porch was extinguished, and curtains were drawn across it.

“Now we can talk like we want,” Reggie said, again giving Thomas a playful shoulder-nudge. “So let’s go. Talk.”

“Nice party. A few vixens…”

“Aw, hell, cut the crap. They ain’t worth two cents. I ain’t worth a nickel myself, but that’s still better’n those walking Instagram accounts. I wanna know what’s going on in Tommy’s world. Something’s bothering ya. So spill the beans.”

“Just not up to it tonight, Reggie. Thought I was. Felt like getting drunk and fucking some girl, but there’s this stuff holding me back.”

“What stuff?”

“Family stuff. Co-worker stuff.”

“I want details, Tommy! Tell Dr. Willis what ails ya.”

Thomas began reluctantly, but as soon as he got in a rhythm, the words poured out. He was soon going into minute detail, and he feared Reggie was going to interrupt him and say “Yeah, yeah, yeah, get to the point.” But Reggie stood there, as still as he could, his eyes as focused as a drunken man could possibly make them, and listened.

First, Thomas told him about Orianna. He described how she looked: her paleness, her fondness for bandannas, her tattoo. He recounted how she’d embarrassed him with “Are You Interested?” and how she’d caught him with a weeping Kara. Finally, he relived their moonlit walk by the docks, when Orianna had discarded Oxendine’s Grocery and ruined his evening — and, truth be told, his past several weeks.