Each tick of the clock resounded like a thunderclap. Goddard sat stone still, his eyes peering across the gloomy living room at the desolate cityscape framed above the bookcase. As always, he made an effort not to look at the offending timepiece.
It’s 2:45, he told himself against his will. I know with all certainty that it’s exactly 2:45. I can feel it in the night air. I can hear it in the silence. I know it from every other time I have remained awake fighting against the insidious pull. It’s 2:45.
He grit his teeth, shut his eyes. He sighed submissively and stole a glance at the old fashioned mantle clock far to his left.
2:47 AM.
Close enough. Probably two minutes of internalizing and irresolution, anyway.
Goddard stood up, peeled off his tee shirt, examining it for blood stains. Happily, there were none. He moved listlessly toward the small kitchen. The sink remained half full of used dishes, and the aroma of fresh coffee lingered in the air.
He poured himself another cup. Leaving it on the counter, he washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink. His hands trembled slightly as he toweled off the water and again when he spilled the sugar. He steadied himself enough not to splash the cream.
He heard the refrigerator door slam and knew he had just put the cream back inside. But he did not remember doing it.
Damn. It’s happening again.
The coffee seemed to leap from the cup onto the counter as he tried to lift it. Only a little spilled, but that was the next sign that he was losing the battle. He gulped down the rest to avoid spilling anymore, no longer convinced that it would keep him awake.
Unplugging the coffee pot, he considered the caffeine pills, but rejected the notion at once. He hated how they made him feel—jittery, racing, out of control, careening down the mental byways without breaks, moving too fast to note the scenery flashing by. Taking them was just another way to lose it.
The phone rang. He jumped, snatching the handset from the kitchen wall before it could ring again.
“Hello?”
“Goddard?”
“Yes.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Too bad, you little shit. I hate you. I hope you rot in hell. Fuck you, you selfish little prick—fuck you to hell.”
Whoever she was, she slammed the phone down before he had a chance to pull away and hang up first. He jumped again. His mind began a litany of potential callers, even though he did his best to control it. He succeeded a minute later, well before the end of the list.
He staggered back to the living room, gulping at the air like a fish too long out of water. Falling back into the black leather chair, his mind began another litany of the reasons that the women on the previous list might be calling him at 2:47 AM.
From force of habit he stole another glance at the clock.
2:52 AM.
Damn. I’m not going to watch time pass me by. I’m going to remain as I am. I’m going to resume my life tomorrow from this point on. I’m not going lose the meaning of this day. I’m not going to begin anew, as if none of it ever happened.
He shut his eyes, folded his legs beneath him. He began taking slow, measured breaths, counting to ten on the inhale, to six on the exhale. After a dozen or so of these, he stopped counting. He repeated his affirmations. He was not going to begin it all anew. He was going to move forward from this spot, wherever it might be.
He did not notice the dreams forming. They began with a facsimile of the room in which he sat. His legs felt cramped so he uncrossed them. The phone rang again, but now it was on the new oak table he had not yet bought, beside the black leather chair, much newer than it really was.
“Hello?”
“Goddard?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to kill you, you fucking shit.”
Wide awake again he found himself in a cold sweat, sticking to the old leather. He smelled like a skunk. Too much meat. He got up and staggered into the shower, his thoughts like white water rapids. It was too late, he told himself as the stinging cold water washed over him. He had already lost it he decided as he lathered his entire body. The focus was gone. There was no longer any point to his remaining awake. It had snuck up on him again, robbing him of his wits. He might as well sleep. He had done better than the night before. Tomorrow he would do better still. Tomorrow he might even last the night. He shut off the shower and dried himself in haste.
He tossed the towel over the shower curtain rod and trudged off to bed.
At 7:00 AM the alarm clock set on low, wailed like a siren. He did not remember dreaming. His mouth tasted like he had been sucking on a dead rat half the night. His body screamed for more sleep, but the bitter taste would not allow him the forbidden luxury. His mind like a blunt axe swung at random.
Three long swigs of mouthwash removed the rotting flavor before he brushed his teeth. He took another shower to remove the stickiness that coated his skin. The towel, still wet from the last one, took longer to dry him. The sweat kept beading up on his forehead, and he kept dabbing at it, hoping it would stop. He dressed himself in a daze. Against all his efforts, he was new again. He remembered none of it. Only the routine remained. Goddard was too tired to clean the coffee pot and make more, so he stumbled out the front door of the townhouse without the benefit of caffeine. The small lawn needed mowing. He made a mental note to write a nasty letter to the condo association. He paid enough for services not to have to wade ankle deep in dewy grass. Then he wondered if he had in fact sent in the last check. Goddard made another mental note to make certain, then promptly forgot both.
He turned on the engine and realized he did not remember unlocking the car door or even getting into the car. He shut his eyes and moaned. He was hot. He felt as if he could fall asleep in a matter of seconds if he let himself, but if he slept any later he’d get stuck in traffic. His eyelids popped open and he backed out of the driveway. Goddard felt the speed bumps in the condo driveway jarring him as he crept over them. Once on the open road he would feel the air rushing past, cooling him. The air conditioner always made him sneeze. He pushed the button to open the window. The wind seemed to leap into the car, pawing him like a big friendly dog.
Ten minutes later he was on the highway. Now he could really go. In a matter of seconds he was in the passing lane glaring at the back of the driver’s head in front of him.
Shit or get off the pot, asshole.
The driver pulled over to let him by.
His radar detector remained silent. He brought it up to eighty, eighty-five. The air rushing by sounded like a crowd cheering. It splashed over him, mussing his hair. It felt wonderful.
Moments later he found himself slowing back down to sixty-five, staring at the back of another head. This one bobbed and jerked. A hand began rubbing the back of the neck. But the car remained where it was.
God damned numbfuck, lost in Radioland.
Goddard eased the car into the center lane and then around another creeper into the right lane, and pressed the accelerator. Cutting back to the center lane, he started to pass cars in both the right and left lanes. The car on the extreme right began to pull into him. Goddard leaned on the horn. It swerved right to avoid him, hit the guard rail and careened back behind him into the center barrier. He heard metal crunching and breaks squealing. The car was badly twisted, foreshortened and minus a wheel as it spun to rest in the center lane. The wind-shield was shattered and bits of plastic and glass were everywhere. Three lanes of traffic had ground to a stop behind it.
He stole another glance in the rear view mirror, looking for signs of blood, but there was too much smoke for him to see anything. He made a mental note to watch the local news for details. The blood was rushing in his veins and the highway seemed to unroll before him like a beautiful black ribbon as he pressed the accelerator.
Early as usual, he unlocked the office door. He turned on the lights and made the coffee. Once again Goddard decided that heaven, if there really was such a place, must smell of fresh coffee.
The day dragged on. He made his week’s sales quota by noon and it was only Tuesday. He had lunch with Larry and Wade, listened to their stories and laughed at the appropriate places. He heard himself encouraging them to go on. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—a complete stranger. He said nothing about making his quota. No need to bring them down. No need to make it a competition. He might need a favor from one of them some day.
At three he caught Linda at the water cooler. Rubbing her cheek lightly with the back of his hand, he asked her out Saturday. They could make a day of it, he said, painting pictures of things he thought he would like to do: a day at the beach, a picnic lunch, dinner at Alfredo’s, take in a show, he had connections. She pushed his hand away and said her mother was coming to town Friday night and that she would be busy all weekend. Then she rushed away on another pretense.
Goddard laughed, remembering how much he had enjoyed her company the last time. He had pumped her for all the details of her life, as usual. He had explained to her exactly what every member of her family was doing to her. And he had made her whimper with ecstasy with his wonderful touch. He really wanted to do all of it again.
He shrugged when she ran off. He knew that she’d give in eventually. Linda would be good for another long weekend. Maybe even two. At least one to turn it around, to make her own statement. He could tell. She was the type.
After his encounter at the water cooler he sold nothing else for the rest of the afternoon.
He did not remember driving home when he shut his front door behind him.
He flipped through the pages of inked names and addresses, all scratched out in pencil until he came to one not yet marked. Margie. It took a moment for him to put a face with the name. She was the coy one with her bright green eyes, her heart shaped face framed with thick shoulder length black hair, and her questions for answers. Goddard had learned next to nothing about her, save that she liked to laugh, drank sparingly, didn’t get physical on the first date. It had been two months. Would she be offended if he called her now?
“Hello?”
“Hi, Margie, it’s Goddard.”
“Who?”
“Goddard, you remember. From the Black Lion. We took a walk around the lake last spring.”
“Oh yes. How’ve you been?”
“Busy as a one armed paper hanger. You know, all work, no play…”
“Me too. I haven’t been back to the Lion since then.”
“Me either. Have you had dinner yet?”
“I just got in.”
“So there’s hope for me.”
“Sure.”
“Do you know Lenny’s?”
“The pub at Valley Plaza?”
“That’s the place. I’d like to take you there tonight.”
“I’ll meet you there, say in an hour?”
“Okay. I look forward to it.”
“Bye.”
Goddard laughed. A challenge. It would be worth it. Probably two or three public get-togethers, lots of light conversation, a few shared insights, then reality. It would give him something to focus on. It would keep him sharp. It might even inspire him to remain in real time.
Goddard hummed a refrain from a song whose words he could not recall while he showered. Lots of lather, lots of cold water. His skin tingled, his eyes blazed.
He arrived at Lenny’s a few minutes early. It took him a moment to acclimate himself to the drab lighting and the din of voices. He spotted someone he thought he knew, tried to remember her name.
Louise? Lorraine? Louanne?
She looked up into his probing gaze. Her eyes remained blank. She flung her long auburn hair back like a horse tail and returned her attention to those at her table.
Once again Goddard scanned the pub. Margie was either not here yet, or in the ladies’ room. He made his way to the bar.
“Hey, Lenny,” he said, when the bartender asked his pleasure.
The bartender took a moment to place him. “You Goddard?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a message for you.”
“From Margie?”
“Right. Family emergency. Call her next week.”
“Thanks.”
Goddard wondered if he’d been set up or if the message was real. He pondered ordering a drink. He scanned the pub again. There was a blonde looking like she was half in the bag sitting with a couple consoling her. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. That held promise.
“What’ll you have?” Lenny pressed.
“What’s with her?” Goddard asked, nodding toward the blonde.
“Third time she’s been dumped this week. Probably thinking suicide. Take my advice, pal, stay away.”
Goddard ordered a scotch neat. And then another. He remembered Alice. She had committed suicide. She was always doing stupid things like crossing the street without looking, or wading into the ocean with her clothes on. Grandstand plays—understand me, or I’ll do it—really I will. Well, he did understand her and she did it anyway. Jumped in front of a subway car. It didn’t seem like her, when he considered it. She was always so neat and stylish—only her life was messy. Perhaps it was like her after all. Self embraces life. Very real. He smiled and made his way to the table across the room carrying his scotch. Margie would keep. If she was real. And if she wasn’t, it was no loss.
Her name was Stephanie. She was half Polish, half German, big boned, big breasted, with high pale cheeks and real blonde hair, thick as molasses, coarse as straw. She had obviously been starving herself to keep the weight off, and she looked like she had been beaten as a child.
Goddard introduced himself, laughed and said he had been stood up, and asked if he could join them for a drink or two. The couple seemed very relieved not to have Stephanie all to themselves, and said yes in unison. Stephanie barely glanced at him. Two beers and a scotch later, the couple left—some feeble excuse about walking a dog. Stephanie was still nursing the soda and lime she had been sipping when Goddard sat down. The last ice cube was a tiny little blip pressing against the lime, but she was talking, and coherently for a potential suicide.
There had been Phil. Too good to be true, Phil. A gentleman, a listener, a lover. Also a married man using his friend’s condo. It had lasted for a month. Then Hans. A hunk. He had used her, abused her, and then told her to piss off. All inside of three days. Ken had found her, consoled her, slipped her something in a drink and then had his way with her while she slept. He just disappeared. At least the blood tests had been negative—for everything.
“How about another soda?” Goddard offered during a lull in the conversation.
“I’m fine,” she almost snapped.
“Hey, take it easy. I didn’t ask for your soul.”
“Sorry, I’m a little edgy tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah. And it’s late. Tomorrow’s another work day. Do you need a lift, or a cab?”
Stephanie hesitated.
Goddard put his hands up.
“Sorry,” he said again, doing his best to look uncertain as to what he was sorry about.
“I’ve got my car,” she said, “but I don’t really want to be alone right now. Why don’t you follow me home.”
“You sure? I mean it’s been a tough week for you.”
“I’m sure.”
Goddard stole a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. 11:38 PM.
She drove a candy apple red convertible coupe. The sort that was severely underpowered and priced two thousand more than it was worth. A flashy body, small engine, big insurance. It figured. She drove erratically, straddling lanes, slowing down for green lights, darting through yellow ones. Goddard had to run three red lights not to lose her. He was muttering to himself by the time they reached her apartment building. Was she trying to get him killed, or just lost with a speeding ticket? No matter—it hadn’t worked.
Inside the apartment Stephanie became morose. She cried, and told him that she hated herself. She showed him some superficial scar tissue on her wrists that she had been careful to conceal in the pub. Then she cried some more.
Goddard just watched her from across the table until the sobbing stopped. Then he offered her his handkerchief. She took it and blew her nose loudly. Her mascara had run down her pale cheeks.
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here adding to your grief,” he said. “
Do you want to fuck?” she asked suddenly.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Goddard answered candidly.
Stephanie took him into the bedroom. She removed all her clothes and Goddard did the same, placing the package of condoms on the night stand.
“Do you really need those?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s not you, love, it’s the times we live in.”
She lay down submissively and spread her legs.
Goddard looked her over carefully, noting the stretch marks on her breasts. At least one child, probably given up for adoption. Then he began kissing the crooked white lines slowly. She was sobbing again by the time he reached her nipples. They were big, and very sensitive. Each one got at least five minutes. Stephanie was in a sweat and moaning by the time his hand found her sex and began gently massaging it. She shuddered in orgasm twice before he entered her. It was important that she welcome his invasion and later, that she feel truly fucked.
Two hours later, Stephanie was lying on top of him snoring softly, while Goddard stared at the clock. 1:32 AM. He wanted a shower and his own bed. He pushed her gently aside, trying not to wake her.
“You going?” she demanded. Her groggy voice made it sound like a mantra.
“Gotta. 7:00 AM is just around the corner.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’ll call you,” he lied, hoping she would not remember that she had not given him her phone number.
He dressed quickly and let himself out without tying his shoes.
He felt her anger as he drove home. It started as an empty feeling just above his stomach. Then he felt his own, like a fire ball come to fill the void.
Stupid cow—what do you expect? If you don’t respect yourself, who the hell is going to do it for you? Some other loser? Maybe—if you’re lucky. Thanks for the tumble, Steff. Now be a good little twit and get lost before you really get hurt. You’re way out of your league.
He laughed and the wind rushing by howled with him.
The night wind was still blowing over him through the open window as he pulled off the highway. It had been a good evening after all—not spectacular, but good.
At home he showered for twenty minutes, trying to wash off the smell of her and her sweetly cloying cologne. He had to lather himself three times. His skin felt frozen from the cold water, but the heat below rushed upward to counter it. Between the hot and the cold, he felt alive.
In the kitchen he cleaned out the coffee pot and put six cups on to brew. He was wide awake, and meant to stay that way. He felt real again.
The clock on the mantle read 2:13 AM. Its ticking had not yet begun to thunder.