Oddball

Brian was my friend. He was a bit of an OCD oddball, a loner, never married, but he was my friend. We grew up together, and spent nearly every day flagging cars for speeding or switching of day or night patrol. Even as a kid I knew he wasn’t normal, and I was one of the only guys to put up with him. Kind of sad to not hear him mention me in his goddamn suicide note. He went missing a couple of days ago, and I went around Coco’s Diner, his favorite restaurant, God knows why, the place is awful, but he liked it. A waitress went missing too, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. I went around Coco’s to look for him, all the way out to the bridge over the river. I saw his body below on the rocks, and had some rookies pull him up. They found his fucking sad excuse for last words. -Note from Tommy Lee, highway patrol officer.

--

I wouldn’t want to say I’ve had a bad life in any meaning of the term. I really don’t think I’ve suffered more than the average man.

I grew up at 1567 Elm Lane, and I flourished there. My happiest years were in my childhood, prancing around as a little tyke, chasing my friends around the field. I was a normal child, with normal friends, I may have even been popular. It was the happiest time of my life. In a truly genuine meaning of the word, I had it good. I always had food, good friends, my parents never hit me, they never fought each other, I didn’t fight with my siblings anymore than a young boy would. I grew up in this little, quiet, town. By eight P.M., the streets would be without a soul roaming, and the soft orange lights would hum alongside the fireflies and other bugs in the humid night. It was pretty, and so somber, but the humidity gave a fullness to the air like a blanket swaddling a baby. It was tranquil, on those nights I would be left with the darkness to swaddle me, after the summer baseball practices. Every summer, I’d do baseball, along with the other boys of my grade. It would give me good time to think, bond with my peers, and keep my muscles active. My mother always made me heaping portions of dinner and kept it saran wrapped in the fridge. She would stay up however late she would need to in order to give me a goodnight kiss and read me a story. She kept me with a pattern. My father, he was just a normal guy, but he’d usually be passed out in front of the TV when I got home. He was normal, he went to work, he was normal to my mother, he was normal to my siblings and me. They did a good job for me, they kept my life normal in their own ways. However, they were fat, and was my sister and brother, but I was not fat. I was normal, I was good. I don’t even know why I’m writing this now. I’d be running across those bases until the night, when I’d grab an ice water from the cooler and hit the road, still in uniform like the carefree boy I used to be.

I guess I couldn’t hear just how quiet it was when I was young. I was so full of energy and boisterousness. My childhood had a simple, planned scheme to it. But the word ‘scheme’ gives it much more flavor than the events really had. But that was the most flavor I’d ever tasted in my whole life. I had fun and we laughed together, and we played together. Those were the good old days. As I hit puberty, I was awkward, just like every normal teenage boy. Boy, I can still feel it now when I talk about it. The wobbling knees as the girls talked to me, the- I’ll save you the imagery. I kind of hate thinking about those teenage years anyways.

And I proceeded to become a normal adult. I worked at a gas station while in my later teens, went to the community college, and I eventually found a stable job as a cop. I hated be forced to stare down into slick, dark liquid over my hands. Dirty. It was a quaint, small, town, so it wasn’t a hard job. One might expect that in that flat middle-of-nowhere, that there would be druggies or some kind of smuggling, but somehow, we slipped through that stereotype. The rest of the world seemed so different compared to my town, we were swallowed in a vacuum world all our own. We slipped through the cracks. The sky was a different color on the other side of the border. The stars didn’t cut like the blinding-cold crystals on the other side, they only bobbed like a tiny flame of a candle, with the same lethargy of the fat clouds in a same summer’s sky. I slipped through the cracks. My whole life, it had remained a tranquil pond undisturbed, a grey blue that slept placidly. Nothing moved and it marinated all within our cozy home of a quiet town, in a bubble, that seemed to reside on the surface of the moon, far away from the fiery stimulus of Earth and her drama.

May it be through my stargazing, or a vase at one of the cheezy Mexican restaurants I would patrol, or a topiary lining the lips of the lake, I saw women in places she wasn’t. I’d see her sparkling lipgloss in the reflection of the water. But she never gazed back at me, real or imaginary. As a teen, I was awkward, I said that. I guess I just didn’t get the practice with women very well. But I still wanted what I wanted. I’d see women in everything. I spent a lot of days just perusing around on my Segway, patrolling either the majestic lake, populated mall, or one of the many sleazy tourist restaurants. I hated hearing the same stupid ethnic trumpet music blaring, and every gringo trying to say ‘tortilla’ wrong, but they looked happy, so I’d smile back when they looked at me through their blonde hair and aged, orange skin. I’d smile back, but looking to them was like looking into the eyes of an animal, there was nothing of substance behind their beady, lifeless eyes no matter how long I focussed. Damn, one time I nearly tripped off my Segway because I was looking so hard at a kid. I watched them stuff their stupid faces with week old bean-mush and the last guy’s repurposed meal. I saw frijoles y papitas gather flies and mold, which would only be swatted or scraped off before being thrown into the next unknowing victim’s gullet. In the same way, I watched my parents fatten up, gather dust, and die on the couch in front of their TV dinners. Pigs dying at fucking sixty years old. I don’t know what stupid, happy, jaded trance was over me in my boyhood to relate to these people, but now they registered the same as a coffee table or the mug atop it. Null.

On the occasion, I would be able to escort a bird to her car, or walk her up the stairs to her apartment. It’s not a crime to look up, or down, a dress. But I always looked for a gold ring on one of her dainty fingers, that’s what mattered. A lot of the times, by the end of the night, I’d plop myself into one of the sticky, plasticky, fake leather booths in Coco’s Diner. They always peeled like pillowy alligator skin. A couple cases of E. coli and lawsuits, but Coco’s stood still here, and I had no reason to object. I never got sick from any of their consistently average meals. Coco’s didn’t exactly have the best food, but I’ve never been a picky eater. Which is another reason I’d always look for the ring, I didn’t want to get beat up by her bulky, manlier husband. While I wasn’t exactly a wimp, I wasn’t bulky either, I was just me, I was just normal. I’d sit there for a second, eyeing the two girls who would talk when a customer wasn’t there, which was almost nightly; due to the poor food, service, vapid atmosphere. But I was drowned in that shallowness despite whatever shithole canteen I found myself in. The restaurant was large, it was a ghost town except for the girls and myself. You could hear a pin drop, if silence ever had the chance to manifest, but the girls kept their brazen conversation flowing. One girl, Macy, had luscious blonde curls that came to her bust, and were commonly fluffed up into a sexy, wavy style. She looked unreal, and when I looked into the clouds in the daytime of my shift, I could almost feel her silky, pale skin. She was a bubbly bird, who played with her makeup and was always spouting about her next idea, a really, truly passionate idiot. She often forgot my drink, or she’d spill it on me. Maybe she did it on purpose. I’d get a good glance at her body under the fluorescent, flickering bulbs when she cleaned up her mess. She wore these really sexy push-up bras you’d like, reader. But when I looked closely, the hazy veil of her beauty would twist. Sometimes she looked like she belonged at the other establishment down the road, rather than the diner. I, for the first time in my flat life, I feared for her safety when I looked closely, or one of her ‘boyfriends’ showed up, demanding money from a waitress. Kind of ironic. She had thinner lips, usually coated with a vibrant lipstick, and a strangely crooked nose. I wondered if she’d had it reconstructed. Maybe it was just part of being a cop, I don’t know. The thick makeup around her one eye didn’t match her skin. It was uneasy, maybe even sad, to see the milky part of one of her doe-eyes soaked with red blood and creeping with red, saturated veins. Her baby blue eyes made the difference even greater, encircled with dead red blood. Her eyes were lined with black lashes, which were tiny, fluffy, dainty, curls. I wondered about the ant-like trail crawling up her arm, prick by prick, my eyes followed the irritated pink dots over her skinny arms many times over. But I tried to not look at her that closely. I tried to play along when she gave me a smile of crooked, yellow and brown, rotted teeth. It was easier with the other girl I liked to watch, Veronica. She was a brunette buxom with fierce light brown eyes, almost a blinding orange when she slept enough. She looked very normal, her skin the color of a milky summer peach and her normal warm brown hair. She would glare at me often, and I’d like to think she was protective of Macy. When Macy not-so-quietly cooed for me, Veronica would put her hand on Macy’s arm to keep her from drifting to me. Veronica held Macy’s locks when she puked, covered her shifts, walked for her when she couldn’t stand. She wasn’t much older than Macy, but Macy had the spirit of a clumsy child and Veronica had the protective spirit of a mother. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, but one time, when one of Macy’s ‘boyfriends’ showed up, she threw herself in front of Macy to protect her and held a goddamn gun to him. Of course I had to deescalate that situation and take them in to the station, but I got her good heart out of it. I didn’t really know her that well, but I’d overheard many of their conversations, and one night I pulled Veronica’s heart strings enough to finally talk to her one on one. I was finishing my usual meal, a cup of black coffee and a chicken fried steak. Macy hadn’t shown up to work, and Veronica had a long day. Dark bags gathered below her olive skin, and her eyes seemed to haze and glaze over. I was a patient person, however, she was not. She sat slumped at the window connecting the kitchen to the dining area with sloppy fortitude. My table’s position made it so that we were aligned, and I could see her glaring at me. The piercing yellow light kept her silhouette a purplish black, yet her fiery eyes followed me like Sauron. Maybe it was just the glare from the light above me hitting the polished oak table under my chin. I could get lost in her entrancement with me. Sometimes she did it out of curiosity, boredom, there could be any reason. But somehow, she always found a way, welcomed, to watch me. Even though Macy would pretend to be happy and chat with me, and strong, yet petite Veronica would put up her wall, they both reminded me that I was nothing but a street sweeper to this town. Their personalities would still be just as vibrant as if I had never walked through Coco’s door. They’d carry on without me, just as Veronica would insinuate in her glance. I was the street spirit that listened to their gossip and private conversation, though they failed to keep it private, I was the one who watched them progress. Just like every person on the street, every face I would know, but never know the name of, I only could observe them. Veronica, though she fronted as an assertive, strong woman, was quite timid in conversation. She’d hate to admit it, and I’d tease her about it. That long night where she stared at me, I eventually called her over and cracked her shell. She would turn away from me playfully, putting one arm over the other to stroke it unconsciously nervously. She really blossomed, where there was nothing beyond Macy. Macy was purely vapid. Veronica’s laugh was a bit deeper, but it was warmer, it was kinder. I didn’t feel like a street spirit when she laughed at my jokes. Or even when she laughed at me. The flames in her laugh licked around my pathetic solidarity and made the world just a bit kinder. Sometimes the harsh divide in the sky would fade when I looked into the stars after leaving the diner in the early morning after a conversation with her. Eventually, she walked over to my table with a want in mind. She moved her body like she wanted something from me, and in a playful, yet cold tone she demanded, “I don’t care how long your shift lasts, I’m closing.” To which I placidly shoveled a piece of chicken into my mouth, “Okay.” She shifted her hips onto the other leg, crossing her arms, “So…” she paused, cheeks lighting with the warm tone I could bring out with a bout of laughter. “You should get out. Or maybe walk me to my car.” She laughed nervously and furrowed her brow, and continued, “You know how dangerous these streets can be at night.” This was a perfect allusion to an town inside joke, and it almost hurt to hear something so clever from a waitress. Our town had no problems with criminals at night, we defied the stereotypes of the rest of the word, and as I said earlier, I roamed the night many times as a child. There would be no night stalker to harm little Veronica. Yet, Macy always found a way to end up in trouble no matter the time of day. But that’s besides the point. “I do know how dangerous they can be.” I offered her a smirk, and pushed the meal aside to get up and hook my arm around hers. A deep giggle rose in her throat and her chin dipped down to show me her pretty, normal eyes. I walked the frail woman to her car, the muggy heat pillowing in between us where her flesh didn’t touch mine. So I brought her closer when we were between the yellow lines of the torn up concrete parking lot. She hesitated for a moment, her lips pursed, and she looked at me in thought. I couldn’t say anything. “Won’t you come home with me?”

Needless to say, I left my Segway in Coco’s parking lot that night.

The inside of her house was nice, the structure reminded me of my parent’s house. It was cozy, and small, but her decorations breathed a different air into the home that was refreshing. It had a modern aesthetic, and my eyes followed the edge from her off-white coffee table upward onto a connected ledge, and then up to hers. She had her shoulders squared, and arms pushed together to give me a view. She had a devilish look, and she beckoned for me. That night was the beginning of what became a habit.

We eventually talked about kids. My childhood was the best part of my life, I’d love to give a kid the same experience I had growing up. My life was good, I grew up normally, I had a wife now, and was on my way to family.

One day again, in her pattern, Macy didn’t come to work, and Veronica knew she didn’t have the luxury to lie to me about it. I saw her eyes glaze over the same way I’d seen many times before, and she uttered the same sighs, and she put up the same walls she always did. This is what I can report from home: “Why isn’t it happening?!”

CRASH!

“What am I? A failure? What did I do? WHAT DID I DO?!”

I can’t put it on record more truly than those four sentences. Sorry reader. Sorry champ. She tore my chest open and threw me out of this cozy town onto another piercing, burning, planet I’d never been too. And I threw her crashing back into whatever meteor passed in space. She made me bleed and I’d hit back in reflex. I could watch her stupid body fall victim to my force like a poppet, and she could burn my skin like boiling water, and watch me bubble. I hated be forced to stare down into slick, dark liquid over my hands. Dirty. But it really wasn’t that bad, it’s not on record. It was just her and I in that tiny room. It wasn’t in this lovely town. Everything was normal and good. The confession fell out of her mouth like Macy’s hangovered vomit, chunky and disgusting. I couldn’t slow my heartbeat to hear her quivering, pathetic words.

Veronica couldn’t have children.

That’s why she was so protective of Macy, I guess.

It hit me like a ton of bricks, and I felt the anger bubble in my throat. She’s barren, she’s not normal. How the fuck did I fall in love with a woman who couldn’t even bear children? She already tried with another guy but miscarried in the fucking toilet. Unnatural. I had been trained in minor self defense, since I was a cop, and even though it was minor, the tiny woman was no match for me.

But I was normally sized. And I was a normal man.

With a happy wife, and two kids, told from the shining lips over the water.

I’m looking at them now, feeling the wind on my shoulders. It’s a pretty night out tonight. The bugs are humming, the humidity is swimming through my skin, but the wind is refreshing. The sky is a rich blue, but it isn’t sad. The stars are a pretty silver, something that would suit my wife, Veronica. I’ve got my arms wrapped over the railing of the bridge, swinging my feet like the carefree man I am now. I’d like to have you here by my side, champ, like how I’d sit sometimes as a kid dawdling to get home. She’s been sleeping the past couple of days, Veronica, and she’s gone a bit stiff. And bloated. But she’s still my pretty, pregnant Veronica. I couldn’t get her out of bed, couldn’t move her- like a hunk of meat. Somebody would think she’s dead! She’s just sick, just sick, but I know the baby will be just fine. I tried moving her out of the bed, and she fell down out of it, and has been just propped up to the corner of the bed since then. I don’t know what goes through that woman’s head! Mommy brain!

I stroked her pretty, sleeping face and felt her normal brown hair as she slept. I washed the slick liquid off my hands and proceeded to be clean.

I’m overjoyed! My heart will flutter when I’m out diaper shopping for you, champ, -- reader. I’m so happy to have you and your brother on your way. Your mom’s stomach is going to swell right up!

I’m normal.

-- To my knowledge, Veronica Fynch, the waitress, never had a relationship with Brian. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw him on a date, or even really look at a woman. God, this gives me the creeps… I want to justify Brian but I can’t warp this any way to make it sound right. God help us.