Robert Lopez - Good People

There she was in the bathroom, wearing overalls and a bandanna. The lid of the toilet tank was resting on the bowl and she was hunched over, with her arms submerged in the very cold water, fingers manipulating the rusted chain, growing numb.

I got the plumber’s tape you wanted.

What did you say to me?

Still, both are satisfied with the arrangement, their respective roles.

The one driving says, I don’t know, man. He is aggressively changing lanes whenever there is an opportunity to pass a slower car like he is in a race. The one in the passenger seat doesn’t like it that he comes right up behind the car directly in front of them, leaving only a few inches between back and front bumpers, tailgating this way for a few seconds, before changing lanes to pass. He thinks about telling the one who is driving to relax, asking him, Where’s the fire? but he says nothing. Instead, he looks out the window and peers into the cars they are passing.

A few months ago, the one in the passenger seat walked into a supply closet at the office. He was looking for a colored binder but found the one now in the driver’s seat leaning back while a young girl was kneeling in front of him. The one in the passenger seat couldn’t tell who the young girl was, but she most likely worked in another department. The one in the driver’s seat looked at the one in the passenger’s seat and winked.

This is the first time they’ve been in each other’s company since it happened.

The meeting is about a new account and who is going to be responsible for it. The one driving insisted on driving to the meeting, though the one in the passenger seat offered to drive, as well. The one driving told the one in the passenger seat not to worry about it, though the one in the passenger seat wasn’t worried. Now that they are actually in the car, the one in the passenger seat is concerned they will get into an accident. He wouldn’t want to die this way, in a car accident, next to the one who is driving. He doesn’t mind that they are associates at work, one can’t help such a thing, one cannot pick one’s colleagues, after all, but he wouldn’t want to be associated in death with the one driving. The one in the passenger seat wouldn’t mind dying in some other kind of accident, something he was responsible for himself, with his own hands on the wheel, at his own hand even, but not like this, not next to the one who is driving. About this, he is concerned, but he isn’t actually worried. Both of them, however, are worried about the meeting. They are worried about what to order for lunch. Both contracted food poisoning from this restaurant and both missed work because of it. The one driving had bad clams and the one in the passenger seat had bad chicken salad.

The one driving woke twice in the middle of the night, once at 1:30 and again at 3:30. He scared his wife on both occasions because when he throws up, he throws up violently, screaming the poison out of him. It sounds like someone being tortured, perhaps with a cattle prod or thumb screws. Or maybe it sounds like an animal dying from a gut shot, he doesn’t know. He’s never heard anyone tortured and he’s never seen an animal die from a gut shot, though this is what he imagines. He also doesn’t know why he throws up this way or if other people do it the same way. He has never heard his wife throw up, and for this he is grateful. He does not like to think of his wife in regard to her bodily functions. The first time she told him about her period, he said, I get this way around blood. In this case, this way meant queasy, it meant he didn’t want to know about it. He said it had to do with his father, that once he saw him get punched in the face in a street fight, saw his father drop to the pavement after he was hit, blood pouring out of his nose. He didn’t like it that he was sick in front of her.

The one in the passenger seat got sick right there in the restaurant. It was during another meeting with the boss, this one about a new campaign for a new client, something that was important to the boss but not to the one in the passenger seat, although he is good at seeming interested, invested. The one in the passenger seat is adept at feigning team spirit. He will always use the words we or us or our when discussing company business. He is always punctual, courteous. He never complains. The boss considers him his best employee, the most reliable and most dedicated. He is none of these things. He is good at his job, or rather, he is competent, fair, but he never excels at anything, his work is always acceptable and on time, yes, his assigned task or tasks, whatever is assigned to him, he does it, always, but he rarely shows initiative, rarely goes any extra miles. He is wholly without ambition. He has never sought a promotion or raise. He shows up, he does what is required, he leaves. He is there. That’s how he was, too, in the restaurant when he got sick. He didn’t tell anyone he wasn’t feeling well, didn’t mention it afterward, either. The one in the passenger seat knew something was wrong shortly after his last bite of the chicken salad sandwich. He could feel something inside himself, in his innards, something moving itself around, looking for a way out. So what he did was excuse himself to go do what he had to in the rest room. He rose up from the table, clutched the napkin placed on his lap, folded it, laid it down on his chair and said, Pardon me, please. No one paid attention to him as he said this or as he left the table. There was no urgency involved, judging by his demeanor, though he wasted no time walking directly to the rest room. Once there, he acted accordingly and finished without drawing any attention to himself. There were two other men in the rest room, though neither was aware of what was happening in the first stall. He thought this episode was a sign of his good health, of his improving health, that his body so quickly rejected what wasn’t good for him. Later, he returned to the table, but skipped dessert.

Neither is keen on eating lunch today, but both realize they have no choice. More than that, though, more than worrying about food poisoning, neither wants the new account and both are hoping the other gets it.

The two of them never interact at work. When they see each other in the hallway or lobby they will sometimes nod. The one in the passenger seat is certain the one in the driver’s seat must think this lack of interaction is related to what happened in the supply closet. The one in the passenger seat is fine with the other one thinking this.

The one who says that pussy is not pussy does not like to hold anyone’s hand. Once he had dinner with his mother’s neighbor. His mother’s neighbor worked as a nurse, was handsome around the face, save some old pockmarks and acne scars, and shaped like a field hockey player. The mother arranged for the outing, said the nurse was perfectly suitable, and instructed her son to pick up the neighbor and walk her to the restaurant. He did this. At dinner, they discussed her job, her background, her plans for the future. He shared nothing of himself, instead asking questions and smiling when he thought it appropriate. On the walk home, she slipped her hand in his. She did this casually. There was no call for such an action, no reason for it. There was nothing about his body language or demeanor or anything he may’ve said during dinner that would’ve indicated such a thing would be welcomed. He always sweats when he comes in contact with another person. He sweats, too, whenever he eats or is active for more than two minutes. Every day, he has to change out of his shirt after lunch. He keeps five freshly laundered shirts behind the door in his office. He does not like going to a doctor but promises to do so whenever he talks on the phone with his mother. His mother worries about him and is correct in doing so.