The Distance Between Then and Now

FICTION

by J. Malcolm Garcia

How’re you going to do it?
         Do it?
         Gun, pills? Cut your wrist?
         Jesus, man, those are some hella questions.
         This is a suicide hotline. I have to ask.
         Listen, I called because, well, I saw this number on YouTube. It said Advice Line. I was just like sitting here watching TV and thinking, I can heat a chicken pot pie or I could go out. I’m sick of pot pies. But I don’t feel like going out. And this happens a lot. I get off work, come home, and then I go look in the fridge and all’s I got is frozen pot pies. Maybe a can of Hormel Chili. And I don’t care but I do. I care. I’m tired of eating the same shit every day. So, I called you.
         Are you thinking of suicide, sir?
         I’m thinking I want something different than chicken pot pie and chili.
         What would you like?
         Something else. You’re not listening.
         I’m not sure what you want. This is a suicide hotline. Are you thinking of killing yourself?
         Forget it. I guess I’ll go out.
         He hangs up and stares at his feet. Crooked shadows stamp the faded blue carpet. Glancing out his kitchen window, he sees an old man in a long corduroy coat across the street tapping his cane into icy ridges of snow piled against the curb. The snow has formed a slushy dam at the curb, and large, shallow pools of brown water stretch from the sidewalk into the street. He watches people as they try to jump over the water, often unsuccessfully, or tiptoe through it until they reach an island of pavement on the other side of the street.
         He assumes that the old man has taken it upon himself to clear the slush and drain the street. In the past, he would see him walking through the neighborhood picking up trash. He has never spoken to the old man. Maybe he’ll talk to him tonight. He stands and takes his Army field jacket and shrugs it on. He puts an asthma inhaler in his pocket. A VA doctor diagnosed him with asthma after he had gotten back from Afghanistan. Probably from inhaling all that dust.
         His dog, a Lab and German shepherd mix—at least that’s what he assumes—watches him.
         Not now, he says.
         He picks up a pen and puts it in the breast pocket of his shirt. For a long time, he felt weird without a weapon. The dog jumps onto the sofa and turns its back to him. He had another dog but it died. He remembers how it looked at him when the vet put it down. Betrayed. After all these years, it seemed to say. He had a wife too, but they divorced a year ago. Little things that led up to big things and before they knew it, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Maybe it wasn’t that personal. Maybe they just wore each other down. Their love, if it had existed, now a distant thing. He hasn’t seen her in months. No need to. No kids. No alimony. He watches YouTube movies most nights, the dog asleep at his feet. It’s company enough but not enough. For either of them. Should get another dog. For the dog, at least.

         Outside, he looks at the night sky. Despite the dark, he can see the heavy outline of clouds and the glow of skyscrapers downtown. When he was on patrol in Afghan villages, nights turned everything black. No glow of city lights anywhere on the horizon. Pitch black. He thought this must have been what nights were like at the beginning of time. Fires glowed inside of mud huts. Guys broke their ankles stepping into holes they couldn’t see. He put a red protective lens over his flashlight to conceal his position from the bad guys.
         A cold wind cuts against his face. His vapory breath bursts from his mouth. He pulls his collar against his neck. He’d heard it might snow again tonight. Feels like it. Well, he’ll make this quick. Grab a bite at Donny’s. Good as any and it’s close.
         He crosses the street and watches the old man working the slush with his cane. Something to do, he supposes. Why else would the old man waste his time this way? The old man taps out narrow channels to the storm sewer, draining the puddles. Shifting chunks of ice move with the water, blocking the flow again. The old man breaks it up once more. He raises a hand in greeting, but the old man doesn’t see him.
         He walks downhill to Broadway. A homeless man in a sleeping bag lies beside an overturned milk crate. An “open” sign flashes red at the corner. Above it, an unlit sign ringed with dead lightbulbs: Donny’s Grill. He comes here so much, it’s almost the same as staying home. He always takes a booth at the rear. The other regulars who prefer to sit at the counter call him Booth. He thinks they must know his real name by now. Then again, he doesn’t know theirs.
         Stamping his cold feet on the doormat, he opens the door and a blast of warm air lifts the hair off his forehead. A waitress looks at him and then finishes wiping a table. She takes the rag and hangs it off her apron.
         What’s going on, Booth?
         I’m good, Marcia.
         He sniffles from the cold.
         Water?
         Water.
         He slides into the booth and rubs his hands. The usual crew sits at the counter. One young guy he doesn’t know shouts, hey, Fuckface, to another young guy he also doesn’t recognize. The second young guy laughs and waves him off. The other people at the counter talk in low voices, ignoring them. Dim light pales the room. He gets irritated at the young guy shouting, Hey Fuckface, over and over. That dude doesn’t belong here. This isn’t that kind of place. Or maybe it is. Maybe a new crowd is coming in. Everywhere he goes, a foreign land.
         He takes a menu wedged between empty salt and pepper shakers and a napkin holder. The red-checkered tablecloth sticks to his elbows. He doesn’t need the menu; he knows what he wants. Still, maybe there’s something new. There isn’t. When Marcia brings his water, he asks for his usual, a burger with chips. He watches the sway of her hips as she walks away and gives his order to the cook. The cook reads the slip of paper and clips it above the grill. He reaches into the refrigerator for a paper-wrapped meat patty.
         He leans back and waits. The plastic seat cover crackles. In Kabul, all these Western-style restaurants popped up downtown. He liked a place called Yummies. He’d always order a burger because he just thought it was a trip to have a burger in Kabul. He and the other guys got out of their Humvee and stood with their M16s. He went inside and ordered for all of them, two burgers each. Afghans seated at tables stared at him. Conversations stopped. Sit in or take away. That’s how Afghans said for here or to go. Sit in or take away. Take away, he said, waiting in the silence until the food was ready.
         He rubs his face. Work, walk the dog, watch some shit on YouTube, read, go to bed, wake up, go to work, start all over again. He lives his life as if it were a drill. He doesn’t think about it until he does. He called the 800 number after he saw an ad on YouTube. Struggling to get through the day? a young woman said, staring intently into the camera. Call The Talk Hotline. We’re here for you. Nothing suggested it was for people considering offing themselves. Nothing. He had expected the chick in the ad to answer but the guy who did was nice enough. He wishes they had talked longer. Maybe he was a vet. He should have asked. He wishes he had stayed home and just eaten the damn pot pie instead of sitting in this booth thinking how he made an ass of himself by calling an 800 number for people thinking of doing themselves in.
         Snow starts falling. Light at first, then big, wet flakes. He pictures the old man breaking up the slush and cursing the snow. The “open” sign casts a red glow and wind bounces the snowflakes across parked cars. A couple walking hand in hand turn their faces from the wind. They’ll embrace when they get home, he thinks, and rub the chill off each other. Afghans wore sandals year-round, even when it snowed. Most of the ones he saw anyway. They wrapped themselves in prayer shawls, and he wondered how they didn’t freeze. On medical missions, his unit would distribute blankets and men would take them, bow, thank the soldiers, and offer them tea.
         Marcia turns a switch on the wall and the voice of Madonna rises out of two speakers above the coffee maker. He can’t recall the name of the song. He’ll wake up at two in the morning and remember it with no one to tell. He’ll write it down to get it out of his head, fall asleep, then look at what he wrote in the morning and wonder, What’s this? Then he’ll remember. His wife would shake him in the middle of the night and tell him he was shouting in his sleep. I didn’t know, he said. What’d I say? Nothing, she said, just shouting. She rolled on her side with her back to him and fell asleep again. He lay awake the rest of the night to avoid dreams he didn’t remember.
         Through the restaurant window, he notices two men step out of a white van. They turn their backs to the wind and snow, heads down. They wear ski masks. The snow clings to the fabric, turning their faces white.
         I’ll have to walk home in this shit, he thinks. And then let the dog out. He rubs his eyes. Tired. No reason, just tired. Arms sore. Stocking deliveries at Home Depot all day. February yet they were already receiving orders for spring. He pulled cart after cart loaded with boxes to the freight elevator, leaning forward, head down, his arms stretched out behind him.
         The dignity of work, he told Phil, a coworker.
         I’m thinking better of you already, Phil said.
         Ski mask guys enter Donny’s. Snow blows inside and then the door closes behind them. One of the men stays by the door while the other man looks around and then moves toward Fuckface in long, fast strides and jerks him off his stool. Fuckface flies backward, arms in the air, and collapses after striking the back of his head against a table and knocking it over. Fuckface rolls to one side groaning. He clasps his head in his hands.
         Stay down! the man shouts and kicks him.
         Booth looks at Fuckface feeling far removed, as if he’s looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. He takes his pen in his right hand but doesn’t move. Ski Mask, he presumes, knows Fuckface. Fuckface screwed him over some dumb shit and now it’s payback time. He watches Fuckface grope at the air, as if he’s trying to grasp a rope to pull himself up. Ski Mask holds him down, his right foot against his chest, and pulls a pistol out of his coat pocket. He looks around the restaurant sweeping up everyone in his gaze.
         Get on the ground and lie on your stomachs, bitches! he shouts. Close your eyes. This is a robbery.
         Marcia starts shaking. The cook stands by the grill and raises his arms and then Marcia raises hers. Ski Mask steps away from Fuckface and goes behind the counter, knocking over glasses with a sweep of his arm. Booth understands now that Ski Mask has nothing against Fuckface. Fuckface was a random target. Ski Mask wants to instill fear, shock everyone into obedience to remain in control. He tells the cook to get on the fucking floor. He orders Marcia to open the cash register. She lowers her arms, opens the drawer, steps backward, and raises her arms again. Ski Mask tells her to lie down beside the cook.
         You too, Ski Mask says to Booth. On the floor. Close your eyes.
         At first, he doesn’t move. He watches everyone, his eyes darting from Ski Mask behind the counter to Second Ski Mask by the door and makes an assessment. There could be civilian casualties if he chooses to get involved. He gets on the floor. He presses a cheek against the cool tile and closes his eyes. Once on a medical mission one hour south of Jalalabad, his patrol stopped by a school to give polio vaccine. Soldiers took up positions around the perimeter of the school. He stayed with the medics who would administer the vaccine. They had arrived moments before the teacher woke the children from a midday nap. About twenty boys and girls slept on rugs on opposite sides of the classroom. He squinted as the lights came on. The teacher shook them. They rolled on their backs, eyes closed, resisting the light. Whoever remained quiet, the teacher said, would get a piece of candy. He smiled at her bribe and the dazed look of the waking children and then he felt himself lifted in the air and falling to the floor, the noise of an explosion filling his head until he thought it might burst. He heard nothing but a muffled roar between his ears. Debris from a shattered wall fell on him. Screams, gunfire, shouting. He got up, stumbled. Overturned desks, arms, legs, blood black with dust. A car burned outside. He tried to focus. Another explosion. He fell forward, rolled onto his back, choking on dust, shorn clothing like confetti, like snow falling.
         Close your eyes, Ski Mask says, standing above him.
         He rifles through Booth’s pockets and takes his wallet and asthma inhaler. Booth senses him pause. Then he places the inhaler on Booth’s back. Booth doesn’t move. He squeezes the pen. In his mind he stabs this man several times in the throat. He obeys to avoid killing him, while vividly remembering the smell of things dying, rotten stuff, vehicle fumes, shit burning, bodies torn open red as raw steak, that smell. The inhaler slips to the floor. Ski Mask puts it on his back again. Then he takes Booth’s left hand and places the inhaler in it. If he notices the pen balled in his fist, he doesn’t comment.
         Breathe, he tells him.
         He stands.
         Breathe, he says again from somewhere above him. Let’s go! he shouts. Second Ski Mask follows him to the door. Booth hears them leave, doesn’t move, eyes closed. He lets his head clear in the silence, smells nothing but feels the cold rising off the floor.
         They’re gone, Marcia says.

         He opens his eyes and stands. Whoever remains quiet will get a piece of candy. He looks at the other customers pushing themselves off the floor. Like zombies, they stagger, sit at the counter, resume their usual positions.
         Are you alright? they ask one another.
         The cook and Marcia help Fuckface off the floor and lead him behind the counter. The cook fills a plastic bag with ice and holds it against his head. The waitress calls the police.
         He shoves his inhaler back in his pocket and pats his other pocket. Ski Mask has his wallet. Gone. He’ll have to call the bank about his ATM card. He can’t think of the name of the bank. He remembers how to get there. Take Broadway to Juniper. He’ll go home and get his car, drive there, see the bank’s name, write it down and go home and call. Crazy, he can’t remember. What the hell? Drive in the snow, shit, just to get the name then drive home and call. Nuts.
         I’m not hit, he tells himself.
         He walks home. A hard wind is blowing the accumulating snow into drifts. He kicks the snow aside, shaking it off his boots. The cold constricts his lungs. He feels the inhaler in his pocket. He doesn’t see the old man when he gets home. Poor bastard will have his work cut for him with this snow. He stops in a convenience store across from his apartment. The bright ceiling lights shine the scuffed tile floor a yellowish alien color. He sees the owner filling a shelf with cans of tuna and vegetable soup. He doesn’t move until the owner looks over his shoulder and notices him.
         Hey, he says.
         Hey.
         What’s up? Your usual? A ham and cheese sandwich?
         He shakes his head. The owner slaps his hands together and wipes them against his jeans. He has recently started serving food in the morning to day laborers. Pans for scrambled eggs float in a sink filled with soapy water.
         I was robbed.
         His voice feels overly loud in the empty store.
         Robbed?
         At Donny’s. Two guys.
         Really? Donny’s?
         Yeah.
         Jesus.
         Took my wallet. I have to call my bank.
         Do you need a phone?
         No, I can’t remember the name of the bank.
         You can’t . . . where’s it at?
         Broadway and Juniper.
         That’s U.S. Bank.
         Right. That’s it. Jesus. Thank you. I was going to drive there to get the name.
         The store owner reaches into a cooler and offers him a sixteen-ounce can of beer.
         Take this.
         I can’t pay. I don’t have my wallet.
         Don’t worry about it. Go home. You better call the bank.
         I will.
         He leaves with the beer, crosses the street and hurries up the steps of his building and unlocks the front door. At least they didn’t take his keys. His hands shake. So cold, he thinks. I could’ve killed him. The dog greets him wagging its tail. He pats its head. I was robbed, he says, and lets it out. It runs down the steps and looks back at him. He closes his door, hurries down the steps to let the dog out, watches until it finishes peeing on a bush, and then he lets it back in and unlocks the door to his apartment. He sets the beer down, takes off his jacket, and drapes it around a chair. He tosses the pen, inhaler, and his keys on the counter. He feels a mounting rage that he didn’t kill Ski Mask. It was good he didn’t, but still. Now he’s got to get a new ATM card.
         He drops the beer in the trash beneath the sink. During a routine physical, his doctor said, Do you drink? Your blood tests show your liver enzymes are through the roof. No, he lied, I don’t drink. The lie embarrassed him and he stopped drinking. Eight months now. Fell into a sloppy habit, drinking every night, that’s all it was. Boy, those Aussies in Kandahar could drink. Sometimes a stereotype is true. Fucking Australians. Call the bank, he reminds himself. He sits down, the dog by his side. He thinks he should feel different. One swift jab to the Adam’s apple with his pen and Ski Mask would be dead. Blood, that acrid smell. His stomach turns. Better call the bank, he tells the dog.

         This one guy told me and everyone else to get on the floor. He took my wallet. Then he took my inhaler. He said breathe. He goes, breathe.
         Wow. Strange. You’re OK?
         Yeah. Like he cared. Like he was giving me a message.
         I don’t know about that.
         I don’t know either. It made an impression is all. Why would he care?
         I don’t know. What matters is you’re OK. You weren’t hurt. But this is a suicide hotline. You don’t sound like you’re contemplating suicide. Maybe you just need to talk to someone?
         Well, that’s kind of what I’m doing. We’re doing. Are you the person I spoke to earlier?
         I don’t think so. You better call the bank. Didn’t you say they took your wallet with your credit card?
         ATM card.
         Right. And your license. You’ll have to get another driver’s license.
         Yeah, right. I didn’t think about that.
         OK. Good. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.

         He follows a number of voice prompts before he reaches a live person on the bank’s 24-hour line. If you have an existing account, press two; if you have a question about your account, press three; if you are calling about a lost or stolen card, press five, or press zero for a customer service representative.
         Pushing zero, he waits for the operator. A woman gets on and asks him his name and account information. He tells her what happened. She looks up his account using his Social Security number and cancels his debit card. She says he will receive a new one in five to ten business days. Is there anything else? No one was hurt, he tells her. I’m glad, she says. Is there anything else? No. Thank you for calling U.S. Bank.
         He hangs up and faces the bare walls of his living room. A plumber who fixed his toilet a few weeks back told him he needed to hang some pictures. He thought that was a good idea. He still thinks it is.
         The dog curls up at his feet and closes its eyes. Eight o’clock. If he had not gone out, he’d probably be in bed now. He’d have watched a YouTube movie and called it a night. Not even nine and he’d be in bed if this had been a normal night. If he’d just had a pot pie and stayed home, none of this would have happened. At least to him. Maybe Ski Mask has asthma. Maybe someone in his family does. He kneels beside the dog and rolls it on its back. The dog wags its tail and stretches its head expecting a neck scratch. He holds the dog’s forelegs down. The dog squirms, whimpers.
         Breathe, he says.
         The dog whimpers louder.
         Breathe, he says.
         He releases the dog. It kicks its legs in the air, rolls to one side, stands and shakes. It licks his face desperately as if to say, Are we all right?
         He dreams. He stands at the pharmacy window of CVS with his pen and orders an asthma inhaler. Ski Mask waits behind him and Booth spins around and stabs him. Ski Mask falls, his chest oiled in blood. Booth fumbles for the inhaler. He sticks it in Ski Mask’s mouth although he’s no longer Ski Mask but one of those Afghan schoolkids. Breathe, he says. He puts a hand behind the kid’s head. Breathe.

         He clocks in at work at seven in the morning. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. A saleswoman is loading a cart. She tells him if he gets orders of potting soil to let her know. We’ve got a sale in the garden center, she says. I’ll put it right out on the floor. OK, he says. Good morning. Oh, yeah, good morning, she says.
         He starts sorting boxes making room on some shelves. His coworker Phil clocks in.
         Hey.
         Hey, Phil says. Shit traffic.
         He looks at his timecard.
         Seven ten, not too late. I can work an extra ten minutes to make it up.
         For the big money.
         For the big money, yeah, Phil says. What’s going on?
         Nothing. Making room on the shelves. Did you hear about the robbery?
         When? Phil says.
         Last night. At Donny’s.
         Donny’s?
         On Broadway, Phil.
         I don’t have a goddamn clue. How’d you hear about it?
         He considers saying, Because, Phil, I was there. I got robbed. He feels small somehow that Phil doesn’t know. Sort of takes the oomph out of it. A few weeks ago, when they overheard a customer telling one of the cashiers that his son just got back from Afghanistan, he had to remind Phil that Americans were still fighting over there. Really? Phil said. I thought we’d left. Fucking Phil. He doesn’t know he’s a vet. What could an ignorant fuck like him say? What was it like? He can’t even begin to answer that question.
         I just heard about it, he tells Phil.

         After work, he drives home, lets the dog out, and walks to Donny’s.
         We made the 10 o’clock news last night, Marcia tells him.
         He takes a booth. The regulars are all here at the counter like nothing happened. That bugs him. Something did happen.
         Marcia wipes his table and gives him a glass of water.
         The cops think it’s the same guys have hit almost a dozen restaurants, she says.
         What happened to the guy they roughed up?
         Fuckface? Haven’t seen him or his friend, Marcia says.
         You OK?
         Yeah, thanks for asking, Booth. You eating?
         A burger, please.
         She laughs. He smiles. She has a pleasant face. Her brown hair stops just at her shoulders, and she has enough buttons on her blouse open to hint at cleavage. He feels an urge to run a finger over the curve of her full mouth. He imagines asking her on a date.
         After you left, the police came and then Channel Five, Marcia says.
         Did you talk to them?
         The police but not Channel Five. You should’ve stayed. The cops wanted to talk to witnesses.
         Rain check.
         Marcia laughs again.
         Here we still are, she says.
         It’s when you’re away and alone you think about it.

         After he eats, he goes home. He sees the old man standing on the sidewalk watching him.
         Hey, Booth shouts.
         The old man raises his chin.
         I always see you out here. I thought it was about time I said hello.
         The old man smiles and raises a hand. Booth doesn’t think he heard him. He sees the convenience store owner mopping the floor. He thinks of saying hello but keeps going.
         A clear, cold night sky. Stars. The dead schoolchildren were lined up in rows under white sheets paled blue by moonlight. Wailing parents. Piercing like the screams of cats. He lets his dog out.
         In the morning, he’ll buy a book to make himself stop watching YouTube movies every night. And another dog. He’ll stop at the animal shelter for a dog to keep his dog company and see. Just see. He called the wrong number the other night, never meant to dial a suicide hotline. You want to come up for coffee? he should have asked the old man. I live just over there. He can ask him tomorrow. He sighs and chews on the tip of his pen. Tomorrow. He’s got things to do. A vast distance between then and now. If he can just hang on.