Shooting Stars Page 3

  “Just return my phone back to my wife when you’re finished.” Cliff begins to leave, but returns and points to the two black trash bags sitting outside of my doorway. “Can you please take your trash to the dumpster? You leave it out here for days. Last week my wife almost got attacked by a family of raccoons who were rummaging through your garbage. She had to stay in the house for five hours until they left . . . my pregnant wife.”

  Always going out of his way to emphasize that he has a wife and that she is indeed pregnant, like he wants me to spearhead a committee to throw a parade because his sperm works and he’s found someone willing to house his spawn for nine months. Get over yourself. The Maury Povich Show is filled with assholes with working sperm.

  But I keep it cordial with him. “Sure thing. Trash to the wife. Phone to the dumpster.” My grin incenses him. “I kid, I joke. I’ll take care of it. And you have a splendid day at work.”

  I gently close the door—even though my initial inclination is to slam it in his face. I then catch my breath before putting the phone up to my ear.

  “Hello? I was about to head out the door. You’re lucky you caught me.” Lie number one.

  “Yes, I heard the phone ringing earlier, but thought it was a bill collector.” Truth, then partial lie number two. I kinda knew it was her, but it could’ve been a bill collector.

  “You called three times?” That’s how I knew it was her. Nobody calls you three times back to back to back unless they have a strong hunch you’re home.

  “Well, I thought it was a very aggressive bill collector.” Lie number three.

  “I’ll get to work on time, don’t worry.” Lie number four. I know how long it takes me to get to work, and I’m way too behind on my schedule to get there on time now.

  “No, they still haven’t told me if they’re giving me the promotion. I have to go now. Or you’ll make me late. See you later tonight, bye.” That was semi-painless. And I ended the call with some truths sprinkled in. I put the phone down on the coffee table and turn the volume back up on the TV.

  Twenty-three minutes pass, and I get up from the couch and put my pants on. I would’ve left sooner, but the P90X workout infomercial was on, and I can’t stop myself from watching it. Makes me feel like I’m working out too. I might get it one day; don’t know when, but one day. I walk toward the door and slide on my already tied shoes that are neither dress shoes nor full-blown sneakers, but they would probably be found in the sneaker section of the shoe store if you were looking for them. They’re made by Puma, but no one hassles me about the dress code; they look dressy enough and they’re black. Plus, they’re a big step up from the Vans I used to wear. Even used them for a wedding and Alexis’s uncle’s funeral. I grab my coat and coast out the door to begin my daily grind.

  Hoping the snow isn’t frozen solid, I make my way down to the parking lot and slowly scrape snow off my teal Nissan Sentra. I wanted red, but only teal was left. Teal, the “sexy color for this millennium” according to the salesman. I’ve had it for about two years, and even splurged with all the trimmings: satellite radio, moonroof, rear spoiler, semi-fancy wheels. I don’t need a huge SUV as a declaration of my ultra-masculinity. This is all I need, but with weather like this I sometimes wish I had four-wheel drive at my disposal. I clear only a foot-wide path on the windshield, so I can get a good idea of what’s directly in front of me. It takes too much effort to stand there in the cold scraping off ice from an unforgiving sheet of glass. My hope is either the defroster will take off the rest of the ice or the wind will blow it off once I start moving.

  I gotta be cautious the first few residential miles, because children are running to bus stops early in the morning and might come out of nowhere. Wouldn’t want to slightly bump a child with my car again; that’d only make my commute worse. I leave the back window covered, because I only reverse out of the spot. And the top of the car and hood is still blanketed with snow as well; no time for that. Plus, when I drive, the snow flying off the car into my windshield makes me feel like I’m being pelted with asteroids. I need to have some semblance of fun on my way to work.

  Each time I get into the car, a huge part of me wishes it won’t start, resulting in a valid reason to stay home for the day. But it always starts, no matter how much I hope. Every morning I fiddle with the radio for anywhere from thirty seconds to a minute, which also serves as the time I allow the car to heat up. My mechanic, Darius, tells me I should let the car run a little bit longer, especially in the winter, but I always think, what’s the worst that can happen? The car breaks down. That’s well worth it, in my mind. The radio stations vary from day to day, and the satellite radio gives me a nice variety of options. Some mornings I like alternative-rock hits from the nineties, and other days it’s sports talk when I’m feeling particularly jock-like. But since I don’t really watch sports, much of the conversation goes over my head. I do get to pick up key topics so I can nod my head if a sports conversation ever comes up at work, which is the same reason I watch SportsCenter. The people who call into sports radio shows are more entertaining than the radio personalities. There’s nothing like an overweight forty-year-old who wants to shout his perspective as to why a highly conditioned quarterback sucks when he hasn’t done as much as a jumping jack since sophomore phys ed.

  As I settle for the alternative rock from the early 2000s (yep, that’s a station), a scraggily voice comes from the back of the car. “Put it on the eighties R&B station.” Now, a strange voice from the back seat a car would definitely startle most people, but I don’t even have to turn around to match a face to the voice.

  “Couldn’t get into the shelter last night?” I say.

  Robbie Brown, a black man about fortyish (his age always changes when I ask, so I stopped asking), with bushy facial hair and an eighties old-school geometric Gumby haircut. He’s wearing multiple layers of clothing, a variety of colors: a light blue jacket, a purple hoodie over the jacket, an orange bulky vest over the hoodie, yellow Fila headband, maroon neckerchief, and jeans underneath a pair of brown cutoff sweatpants. He looks kind of like a black Ken doll whose owner put all the doll clothes she had on it.

  “Got there too late,” he says. “Had a gig that ran over. Fucking encore. The natural entertainer in me always pleases the crowd, so I stayed for three more songs.”

  “They allow encores at the bus station?” I say.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I get actual gigs. But thanks for leaving the car unlocked. I still don’t know why you won’t let me sleep on your couch.”

  He can’t be serious. “We’re cool and all, but why in the world would I let a homeless Bobby Brown impersonator sleep in my apartment?”

  Robbie looks at me as if I just spat in his face. “How many times do I have to tell you? He’s impersonating me! I’m an entertainer, goddamn it! Lyrics, mine. Songs, mine too. Those dance moves, mine. This haircut was mine—”

  “No, that was Gumby’s, actually.”

  “He jacked my complete style, and that motherfucker used it to catapult himself to stardom. Even married Whitney Houston. So, in fact, I should’ve been married to Whitney Houston.”

  He pulls out a picture of Whitney that he ripped out of an old issue of Essence and starts singing to it. “And I . . . will always love you.”

  I don’t have time for his bullshit, and it’s too early for his yelling, singing, and carrying-on. I know he’s harmless for the most part, but he’s making me uncomfortable. I do what I always do when it’s time for me to go to work, unless it’s one of the days when I’m generous and let him borrow my car; I point for him to get out.

  But he doesn’t leave.

  “Can you do me a solid?” he says. I hate when he uses that term, solid; that always means he’s gonna inconvenience me. I keep pointing for him to get out.

  Robbie lowers his voice. “Okay, this morning we got off on the wrong foot. And I’m sorry for that. I haven’t had my coffee and stale donuts from the soup kitchen yet.”<
br />
  “I have to go.”

  He doesn’t budge one bit. “Please. It’s Tuesday.”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “That means the nursing homes in the area drop their patients off at the mall today so the nurses can go shopping while the patients wander around the food court.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but like always, he keeps talking anyway.

  “That means I have the undivided attention of an audience for at least four hours, or until one of them starts spitting at the employees at Saladworks.”

  “That’s weird,” I say.

  “I agree. I don’t know why it’s always Saladworks, but—”

  “No, the whole performing-at-the-mall thing. And no, I can’t take you. I’m already running late.”

  “You hate your job,” he says. I really have to stop sharing too much with him. “Can I borrow your car today?”

  “No, nope, not at all,” I say. “The last time I lent it to you, you brought it back smelling like weed and cold cuts.”

  “Oh, King Kevin. Please tell me, how many sorrys do you need? Okay . . . okay . . . how about drop me off? That’s it.”

  I think about it.

  He continues, “I know what this is really about. You’re gonna get the promotion. I’m sure of it. You deserve it.” Yep, I definitely have to learn to keep some things to myself. “Plus, we’re friends. Friends help friends.”

  “I know I don’t like my job, but it’s my duty to get there on time. People are depending on me. I’m in charge of too many things.”

  “Are you serious? I’ve been to your job,” he says. I always forget I got him a temp job at my company last summer for a few days, until he got fired two days later for allegedly giving a co-worker a drawing of him going down on her accompanied with an actual signed photograph of his exposed pubic hair. He said he thought of it as a tasteful invitation, but it made me look bad nonetheless.

  Robbie doesn’t believe the bullshit I’m spewing, and neither do I. He figures he can win me over with a sympathetic puppy-dog face, which is even all the more peculiar coming from a scraggly middle-aged homeless man. Now, I just feel uncomfortable and want him to stop. While I’m trying to figure out the best way to get him out of my car without hurting his feelings, our awkward silence is interrupted by the humming of my cellphone. It’s Alexis again. I motion Robbie to be quiet as I pick up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, baby, I just made it into the office.” About a month ago I started routing my office phone calls to my cellphone every day before I leave, in case she tries to monitor if I went to work or not.

  Robbie threatens to open his mouth. I put my finger over my mouth. He looks at me as if asking if I’d drop him off. I nod my head.

  “Of course I made it in on time.” She also knows exactly how long it takes me to get to work. “The roads weren’t that bad at all. I hope you have a good day too. I have to go to an urgent meeting.” I hang up and put my phone away.

  Part of me can’t believe I’m driving Robbie to the mall when I had to be at work fifteen minutes ago. My streak now pushes to four consecutive latenesses, but the bigger part of me knows Robbie is right. I don’t like my job and will do anything to avoid going. All I needed was the excuse to delay my working day, and he provided it.

  I’m astonished as I pull up to the mall, not only by the fact there are actually people waiting in the freezing cold but by the age of these people waiting to see Robbie. This has to be a breach of their nursing-home contract to leave these old people in the elements under these conditions. About twelve geriatric nursing-home patients with their assorted illnesses stand outside in the frigid morning with their heavy winter coats, wheelchairs, and breathing equipment, some still wearing pajama bottoms. I guess the nurses didn’t bother to dress them today, or their families, who sentenced them to the home, don’t provide casual clothes. They start to cheer when they spot Robbie in the back seat of the car. Initially I wanted him to sit in the front seat, but he pleaded to remain in the back. I rationalized it in my head, because he probably smells, as he always does, and I didn’t want that scent to latch on to my work clothes. Halfway through the ride he asked me to put on a chauffeur’s cap he had made out of black construction paper, and I almost kicked him out of the car for that. I look back at him, and he has a big I-told-you-so shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Thought I was bullshitting?” he says. He puts on his black shades and a microphone headset he found in a RadioShack dumpster, which is not plugged into anything, so it’s only for appearance. He hops out of the car and dives right into his routine.

  “Every little step I take. . . . You will be there. . . . Every little step I make. . . . We’ll be together.”

  I can’t believe my eyes. The senior crowd is going crazy, or about as crazy as a bunch of seniors can get, depending what medication they’re on, and their hands are in the air about as high as they can lift their arms given some of their physical limitations. And some of them look actually crazy, as evidenced by the one woman ballroom dancing with the plastic tree outside of the mall entrance. I couldn’t stay for any more, so I peeled off before his dance solo.

  * * *

  Finally made it to work. Since everyone actually started an hour and fifteen minutes ago, vacant parking spots are scarce. Even my often-frequented visitor’s spots were taken. I am a visitor; it’s not like I live here. Anyway, I had to scavenge through rows and rows of neutral-colored mid-sized sedans and minivans in the back of the parking lot for an open space. I have to park so far away from the entrance that I’m winded as I approach the door. My company’s building sits in a campus of eight other identical cold gray buildings. It’s the middle of a fierce northeast winter, but the building’s appearance looks frigid in the middle of July. The grounds are well kept—in my opinion, too well kept. It seems like landscapers are mowing the lawn or digging up some bushes to put in new bushes or shrubs every other day during the spring, but today they have salt duty to clear the pathways into the building. I wouldn’t mind a nice slip on some ice to get out of work today. Each company has a flag on its building, which I always found quite odd. It’s as if they’re all independent nations. I wonder what would happen if a corporate war broke out for turf in the complex. Would there be mayhem in the parking lot? Brawls with staplers and three-hole punches as weapons?

  As I walk past the brand-new sculpted sign with our new and undoubtedly expensive Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes logo, which isn’t much different from the old logo except a snazzy underline under the three names (probably the reason I didn’t get a raise), I realize I forgot my ID badge at home. It’s definitely not on my belt loop, and I refuse to wear the badge around my neck. I gotta have some sort of dignity, instead of walking around all day with my name tied to my neck like a third-grader on a field trip to the aquarium. I probably left it right on the coffee table. Fucking Cliff got me off track with his bullshit this morning.

  Now, I’m going to have to deal with the security guard at the entrance who acts like he’s guarding the Oval Office. First of all, I’m not sure how qualified he is to be a security guard at the front entrance of a professional office. He’s young and overweight, so that goes to show he doesn’t make great decisions at an early age and lacks self-control. Second, what type of training does he have to defend us from anything? What if some Hans Gruber’ish terrorists storm into this place? What will he do? Unless he knows aikido or some other fat-friendly martial art like Steven Segal. He might even be too out of breath to sound an alarm. Third, his work shoes are a pair of Crocs. Yes, a fat young guy in Crocs protects our building. Crocs are one step above furry bunny slippers on the non-fear-inducing footwear-choices depth chart. Those aren’t professional or uniform shoes. How does he get away with that? And he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to have a black or navy pair of Crocs so they can sort of blend in with his pants. He goes with neon-green Crocs.

  “Sorry, I don’t have my b
adge.”

  “Where is it?” he says.

  “Home, I guess.”

  He lets out a big sigh, but I don’t know if he’s upset at me for not having my security badge or if that’s the normal way his lungs desperately manage to get oxygen that’s trapped underneath all of his layers of fat skin.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kevin. Kevin Taylor.”

  He types on his keyboard. It sounds like he’s hitting way more keys than it takes to spell my name. I’m silently questioning whether he knows how to use a computer. This marks the first time I’ve ever witnessed someone sweat profusely solely from typing.

  “Sorry, no Kevin Taylor in here. You sure that’s your name?”

  The stink eye suffices as a reply to his moronic question.

  “Can I see some ID?”

  With my face revealing my increasing frustration, I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet and slam my driver’s license down on his desk.

  “Maybe your badge is in your wallet? You might want to check in there,” he says.

  “You’re right, it is in my wallet. Jousting wits with a sloth is something I like to do for fun.”

  It appears sarcasm and the feeling that I’m irate weren’t a part of his flashlight-cop training, because he looks at me as if he’s waiting for me to pull it out.

  “You know you should wear your badge on this necklace like so,” he says. He shows me his security badge nestled in his buxom man cleavage, jettisoning from his policeman light-blue short-sleeve shirt. Maybe he thinks if he looks like a cop he’ll actually get treated like a cop. That has to be the rationale for his outfit, but I’ve never met a police officer with a fanny pack or the aforementioned Crocs. So he kinda ruins it.

  He reads my license and looks up at me to make sure the picture matches my face. He does that three times. And to his dismay, it’s me, even though I didn’t have my current fuck-you expression on my face at the DMV that day.