"I'm sorry about this Janie, I - I just needed someone to talk to. I remembered you said liked this place, and grew up here…"
He reaches out across the table, and grasps my hand.
In response, my body tenses; waiting for the signal to throw his hand away. Waiting, and waiting. I breathe slow, mentally cutting myself free of his grip. Free-floating, I focus on the view outside of the smoothie shop. The temperature is record-breaking today, and people celebrate the occasion in khaki shorts, tank tops, and cool cotton dresses. The smoothie shop is several blocks from the harbor, and as something of a local landmark, the city has grown around it. I remember watching the ceiling fans in this shop spin furiously while drinking a Cherry Blaster many years ago. Back then, the streets emptied at six, and the sun set at 9:30. At seven, the shop owner would chase us teenagers into the brilliant summer light. He claimed that babysitting juvenile delinquents wasn't in his job description, and we agreed with the old man. The smoothie shop had invested in air conditioning since then, and the old man was dead; leaving his children to run the place. I'm not sure if I like the changes. Fifteen years ago, the sharp, cool smoothie did the work of the ceiling fans, cooling me from the inside out until my fingertips tingled. Now, I feel as if someone has painted me in a thin layer of ice. I freeze a little more with every passing second, crystallizing, pierced by microscopic spears of cold.
I shiver, and he lets go of my hand.
"Yeah," I say, no longer floating, no longer free. "I would have told you that."
"You did tell me, Janie." He says.
The hell I did-I want to say-as if I told you anything, as if I thought we understood each other.
For the second time that day, for the second time in a long time, my body responds to what I feel. My hands curl into themselves, tight and small. I look at him from the corner of my eye. He's dressed inappropriately for the weather, in a long-sleeved shirt and pants. He's wearing thin, black gloves. So thin, that his fingers leave red streaks as he pulls down a sleeve, and begins to scratch his forearm.
"You don't want me here," he says. He's never shied away from stating what was stupidly obvious.
"How did you find me?" I ask. How did he know that I would be here, fifteen minutes before closing, sucking up cherry-flavored memories through a straw? "How do you find any of us, like this?"
"How did I find you?" He laughs, in a choked, restrained sort of way. It's like like he wants to toss his head back and cackle like a madman, but can't. He sort of jerks his head up and down, and clenches his jaw until he's silent again.
"I've told you," he says, "all of you, that I was trying to run away. That I hated this. Each and every one of you- it was like you were drawn to me-like I was a magnet. At parks, in cites, and art galleries. Farmers and CEO's and parents, and children. None of you, none of you knew each other. But you all came to me, all of you wanted me-needed me. Janie, you needed me!"
It was true. It was true, and I couldn't deny it. This place was where it had all started. Before Adam, before Leah, before I ever thought of being part of something greater than myself, I was alone and weak. At least, that's what I've told myself - but I don't think I knew what I was. I couldn't feel my size after my heart disappeared. I can't measure my life through the blood that once flowed through my veins.
"Eli told you that I was insincere," Sam says. "That I was feeding you all a sob story, that I was a sociopath. That's not true. I hated you all in the beginning, but there were so many of you looking toward me. I had to accept all of you. Had to."
"So you're saying that it is our fault," I say. "Did we force you to do anything, Sam? Did we really?"
Now Sam is the one looking out of the window. Laughing softly, he curls in on himself, lifting his shoulders and bowing his head. Before I realize what is happening, his fingers hook lazily through the skin on his forearm and begin to pull.
In that moment, I move. I pull the offending hand away from his forearm, covering the wound and the flap of flesh with a jerk of Sam's long sleeved shirt. I push my Cherry Blaster forward, wrapping his gloved and slightly bloody fingers around the plastic container. My movements are smooth and instinctive. Once my hands have nothing to do, my brain does its best to catch up. I watch as Sam's fingers slowly tighten around the smoothie, squeezing until the sweet goop spills over his fingers.
"Not here," I say. "Don't you dare do this here."
It's not because I'm afraid of scaring my fellow customers. I've tried all of the flavors here, the Raging Raspberry, Mad Mango, Banana-berry, and so on. So what's one more? There's always a need for the taste of horror and terror in our lives. I've gorged myself silly on those particular flavors for the past few years. The old man's kids look like they could use something to jazz up their lives. I'm long past the fear of exposure stage, and all of my old friends are gone. I have nothing to hide, and I have no one to hide from, not here. It's an in-between feeling, a flat place between the two extremes I have lived. It needs to stay that way.
"Do I look angry to you, Janie?" Sam asks.
"Why wouldn't you be?" I ask.
He shakes his head, and says, "No. Answer me. Do I look-"
"No, Sam. You look tired. Not angry. And that makes me think about Eli, because what he made you lose your ever-lovin' mind. You should still be angry." I say.
"I know you think about him, Janie," Sam says. "I've come to see that what we did, trying to make people…like us…was wrong."
He's looking out the window again, but there's no way he can see what I see out there. I can tell, because he turns away from the sun-drenched view of my childhood, back toward me, and says:
"Janie, Eli wasn't who he said he was."
There's blood soaking through his sleeve, and he grabs several napkins to stop the seepage, laying them over his sleeve. He pulls something out of his pocket, a small card, a business card. I reach for it, pick it up. Its smooth to the touch, and the color of cream.
Skin Care Products
Health starts on the surface
"Ah, I see," I say. "So he wasn't starting a business, like he said. He was a soap and scented-lotion salesman!"
I flip the card over.
Eli Verrel
888-234-4019374832
"Janie, Eli wasn't the sort of guy who knew guys capable of dropping down from ceilings with guns," Sam says. "But, somehow that's what happened. They all came because of him, they came for-"
"There's a number here, Sam." I say. I can almost hear Sam swallowing his words. What did he expect me to do? To say?
"Yeah," He says, he's stuffing napkins into his shirt sleeve. "Look, I'll be back, ok?"
He leaves for the bathroom.
I flip the card back and forth. Health Starts on the Surface. I pull out my cell phone.
What are the odds that Eli would still have his job, that he could just move on? I would be lucky to connect to a voice-mail, or a co-worker who knew him.
I wait too long, long enough for Sam to come back. He slides back into his seat, and looks at me. I'm awash in his blue-green stare. His hair is cut short, close to his head, emphasizing his features. Thin lips overshadowed by a thick nose, all set within a pale oval of a face. My eyes pick out the pieces, but their sum is a flat nothing.
"I remember holding him, Sam." I say. "He didn't know it was me, then. You know those nature documentaries, where the lion, or cheetah, or-or the snake gets its prey? If they get it by the neck, it'll sort of struggle, then go completely still. It will be alive, but…defeated. I felt that, Sam. I held him so tight."
I remember feeling the heat leave Eli as he scratched and struggled.
-
-
-
"I don't care who he was, Sam," I say. "I didn't care how about how he stopped us, only that he did. "
"Janie… What if there is an explanation?" Sam says. "What if there's more? Maybe someone knows-"
"I don't care." I say.
And that's it for me. I look around the shop. No one's at the counter, and we are the only two customers left. It's almost closing time.
"Look," I say. "Take this."
I dig in my purse, and hold out my hand toward Sam. I'm holding my favorite stress-ball. It's not actually shaped like a ball, though. It's red, and heart-shaped, with small indentations where I've dug my fingernails in, and picked at the foam.
He looks at the stress-ball, looks at me, then picks it up.
I say, "I've tried gloves, but muscle-memory is deep. It's always going to feel weird. It's going to itch, or get cut, or sun-burned, and sweat. The sweat is the worst…Anyway, ditch the gloves. Focus on keeping your fingers busy, then you can focus on living your life."
Sam nods, and takes off his gloves. There are angry red scars on the backs of his hands. He holds the stress-ball, and it's much smaller in his hands than it was in mine.
"Thanks," he says.
I turn away. It's getting darker, and it's only 5 pm. I don't bother saying goodbye to Sam, if he could find me here, there's no where I could hide from him. Not that I believe in fate, but he's found me at the right place, at the right time, and said the right things far too many times. I don't believe in coincidences any more.
I believe in making the right choices.
"Janie," Sam calls out. "Are you going to call him?"
Back at my apartment I stand in front of the mirror, thinking back. To when I was younger, when coming home at midnight was a thrill. To think I spent so many hours in front of a reflective glass, turning my head toward storefronts, squinting at car doors. So many silent moments of vapid meditation.
"Janie, you're a beautiful girl," my Mother said one day, after catching me staring at a handheld mirror on the table. "I know I've told you this before, and I know that you might not believe it. In fact, you might not believe it for awhile, but I just want you to remember that you have a strong, beautiful heart. Full, and compassionate. That's what people will remember about you. It's the sort of thing that outshines the lipstick and short skirts, dear."
"Damn you, Janie. All I wanted was a drink. I was looking for you earlier, but I was tired and this place looked nice. I had given up on finding anyone, no one would talk to me. All I wanted was a drink."
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