Fluke (8 page)

I turned up the volume on my stereo, and rolled down my window as I drove home to finish cleaning.
 
I couldn’t take my mind off Sara, so finding a job could wait for a day.
 
Everything always seemed better tomorrow.
 
Especially work.

****

I tossed my keys on the counter in the kitchen and saw my cell phone was lying on the counter; I was always forgetting the damn thing at home, effectively defeating the purpose of having a cell phone. The little green light was flashing, indicating a voicemail, so I picked it up and tapped the buttons to listen. The female recording said I had two voicemails, an unusually high volume for me. I hit the button to play them and absent-mindedly open the fridge.
 
I noticed that a six-pack of soda and three cans of beer were all that resided in the Adam Fluke refrigerator.
 
I grabbed a soda and thought, damn, I need to pick up some food so that it looks like someone actually lives here.

The first message played: “Hey, Mister Fluke! It’s Sara…Hello, Hello, Hello?” she paused for a minute. “Sorry I missed you, but I wanted to tell you not to make plans tonight.
 
You’re mine, and I want you and I to go to the carnival.
 
It’ll be just like the old days.
 
You can buy me a candy apple, win me a kewpie doll, and we’ll hold hands on the Ferris wheel, ha
ha
.
 
I’ll come by your place at 8pm, maybe?
 
Anyway, call me.
 
Bye!”

“Huh. Dumb fucking luck,” I said to my empty apartment, leaning on the counter.
 
Two invitations from two separate women to go to the carnival tonight.
 
Too weird.
 
I felt like I was learning what my grandfather meant when he used to say, “Boy, when it rains, it pours.”
 
I popped the top on my soda and took a swig, carbonation making my eyes tear up.

The second message was also from Sara and came about fifteen minutes after the first one.

“Hey, it’s me again!
 
Sorry to keep leaving messages, but I was listening to some music and this song made me think of you, and I had to call and let you know.
 
I’ll talk to you soon, Adam.
 
But for now, listen closely,” she said, sounding like happy Sara.
 
I heard rustling and a click, and the sounds of “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure came through, muffled but clear enough to make my heart skip.
 
It played for about ten seconds, and she hung up.

She held the phone to the speaker to let me know that “Just Like Heaven” made her think of me.

Man oh man, what did I do to deserve this?

I hung the phone up and just stood there for a moment, but I couldn’t help myself; I was overcome.
 
I threw my hands in the air like a prizefighter and yelled, “All right!” at the top of my lungs.
 
I was on top of the world.
 
Just like heaven, indeed.

I dialed Sara’s number to call and tell her that it all sounded great.
 
I was hers for the evening. Hell, I was hers for as long as she’d let me be.

****

I woke up on the couch that evening, confused and sore.
 
It was pitch black in my apartment, and I had no idea what time it was, or if it was a.m. or p.m.
 
I lurched my body to a sitting position and felt stiffness in my neck that I hadn’t known before.

“
Oww
...damn,” I cried aloud as my hand went to my neck and rubbed the sore area.

Shit, did I sleep through the night?
 
Had Sara shown up?

I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to squeeze the blurriness out of them, and attempted to read the time on the cable box.
 
After a few seconds of squinting, I was able to make out the time: 7:03 p.m.
 
Whew.

I reached for the lamp on the end table by the couch and turned it on.
 
The sudden blast of light caused me to squint again.
 
I reached for the pack of cigarettes next to the lamp and calculated how long I had been asleep.

I had finished cleaning up at about 3:30 and took another shower at 4.
 
After the shower, I had some chips that I found in the cabinet, drank a beer, and the next thing I remember was that the phone rang and woke me up.
 
I scanned my memory for what the conversation consisted of.

“Hey, it’s Heather,” I was greeted with.
 
I heard background noises, pans clanking together, other phones ringing.
 
She was at work still, so it must have been before six.

“Hey, what’s up?”
 
I asked, groggy and half asleep.

“Want to go to the carnival, or are you still busy?” she asked me.
 
Even in my sleep-induced haze, I recalled the way I felt when I lied to her earlier, and grew uncomfortable.

“Um, I can’t do it tonight, Heather.
 
Sorry.
 
Thanks for asking, though.”
 
I did it again.

“Okay, well, maybe some other time,” she said, disappointment in her voice again.

I said goodbye, clicked the phone off, and dropped it on the floor, where it was laying as I sat now.
 
Apparently, I sacked back out as soon as I dropped the phone.
 
I hoped I hadn’t come off like too much of an asshole with Heather.

On a brighter note, the apartment was cleaner than it had ever been since I moved in eight months earlier.
 
I looked out at the floor, which I had vacuumed meticulously, and felt a small burst of pride at my work.
 
I could smell the faint residue of lemon Pledge furniture polish, and I knew that the bathroom would smell like Lysol.
 
It was a nice feeling.
 
The place looked decent, and I felt like I could quit worrying about Sara seeing it.

The place looks presentable, Adam-boy.
 
Now, what about you?

I spent the next half hour looking through my clothes for something decent to wear. It had been a warm day out, and the evenings were warm lately, so I opted for a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a long sleeve T-shirt.
 
I went into the (clean) bathroom and brushed my teeth, scraping away the funky morning breath, and checked my hair and my nose.
 
Back in the living room, I grabbed a pair of leather sandals (Sean referred to them as my “Jesus sandals”) from the closet by the door and sat down.

Nothing to do now but wait for Sara.

I decided to put on some music, and thought of the message Sara left earlier.
 
I went to the C’s on my CD rack, grabbed “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me” by the Cure and popped it in the player.
 
I skipped to “Just Like Heaven” and went back to the couch.

What an awesome song
, I thought.
 
I contemplated the fact that some people had never heard this song, and probably never would.
 
It seemed incredibly sad to me.

The song ended and I used the remote to skip back and listen to it again.
 
Robert Smith had just sung, “
Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…
” when there was a knock at the door.
 
I felt my heart jump.

I opened the door, and there she was, smiling.
 
She looked incredible in a pair of short denim shorts, a halter-top, and brown leather flip-flops.
 
The gold bracelet was on her arm, hanging on her wrist, and she held a small brown purse.
 
She cocked her head, listening to the music, when her face lit up and she jumped inside.

“Great song!
 
So, you liked my message?”

“Of course I did…thanks for leaving it,” I answered.
 
I didn’t tell her that I had listened to the message about ten times and still had it saved on my phone.

“Did you know you live in the ghetto?” she asked, setting her purse on the coffee table.
 
“There’s about a dozen guys hanging out in the parking lot, drinking out of brown paper bags and whooping it up.
 
They yelled something at me as I drove past, but I didn’t hear them over the stereo.
 
It looked like a scene from a rap video.”
 
She looked at me and laughed, and I just nodded.
 
I felt awful inside, knowing that she had to run that gauntlet to get to my place, but she didn’t seem too upset by it.

“Yeah, yeah.
 
Well, pizza boys don’t live in mansions,” I joked.
 
She came to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“And especially not unemployed pizza boys,” she laughed, and I held her to me.
 
“Did you make any headway in your job search today?”

That depends, Sara. Do you consider staring at the computer headway?
 
I thought.

“Nah, there wasn’t a lot out there today,” I lied.
 
“I’ll give it another whirl tomorrow.”
 
I watched her face to see if she would give me the you’re-f-of-shit look, but she was busy looking around my apartment.

“Do I get the grand tour?”

“Sure,” I took her hand and led her around the shoebox I called home, which was anything but grand.

I was pointing out the bathroom when she gave me a playful slap on the butt and said, “Come on, get to the good part.
 
Where’s the bedroom?”

We found ourselves in the bedroom, suddenly naked, on the bed, wrapped up, moving all over each other like wild animals.
 
It was quick but intense and wonderful.
 
Thank God I got rid of that twin-size bed!

“So, do you like the bedroom?” I asked her, rubbing her bare belly.

“I don’t know.
 
I didn’t really look,” she laughed.

After some random pillow talk and more laughter, we got dressed.
 
She stepped into the bathroom to “fix her face,” and I made my way to the living room.
 
She came out looking magnificent.
 
 
She was wearing some fresh lipstick, but other than that, I couldn’t tell what she did to “fix her face.”
 
She always looked magnificent.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah, Miss
DuBeau
.
 
Let’s get out of here.
 
I
gotta
get you a kewpie doll at the ring toss,” I told her.

“That’d be great,” she answered, holding her arm out for me to take.
 
I slipped my arm through hers, and we left for the carnival.

6.

Simms’
Fairground was where all of Hazel Beach's carnivals were held.
 
It was located on the coast, just off the white sands of the beach.
 
The highway that led to the fairgrounds paralleled the coast, and as we drove along with the top down in her convertible VW Golf, I couldn't imagine that it was ever as beautiful as it was right then.

My senses were in a frenzy, drunk in the moment, filled with input almost to the point of overload.
 
My mind worked to devour everything.
 
The emerald green water, almost the color of Sara's eyes.
 
The smell of the saltwater was so rich and sweet that I could taste it as we drove by.
 
The feel of the warm wind hitting my face, whipping my hair around. The sound of Depeche Mode massaging its way into my ears.
 
I was caught up; I imagined us laying just behind the dunes, laughing together, touching each other, listening to small waves break and crash in the water.
 
I have never been this happy with anyone.
 
Not even
close