Victor Roy
Circles
A silver Buick rolled down
“Be careful John! Why don’t you just keep your eyes on the road and let the three of us look for street signs.”
John slowed the car to stop at a red light and looked around gleefully. “Bah! I don’t need directions, I feel like I was here just yesterday.” He pounded his hands against the steering wheel and turned to address the man in the rear driver-side seat. “Right Martin?”
“Yeah, just yesterday.” Martin sat with his hands neatly folded in his lap and looked out the window to survey his surroundings. “Are you sure you know where we are?” he added.
“Of course I’m sure, Martin, don’t be an ass. You take Thayer East for about three miles and then it’s a Left on Eastman and I can grab
“It’s green John!” John returned his abruptly hands to the 10-2 positions on the steering wheel and began studying the road like a calculus problem.
“Sorry honey.”
Mary, the slender figure sitting rigidly in the rear passenger seat, spoke up on her own for the first time that night by asking Martin, her fiancé of two months, “What strip joint, Martin?”
Martin turned to her and began in a steady, calculated voice to recount a highly abridged version of an experience he had there with John in college. “It was a long time ago, and we were only there because of some school event,” he finished. Martin rested one of his hands on Mary’s and said again, “It really was a long time ago.” He then looked into the rearview mirror and made sure to give John a very specific look, which either meant “shut the hell up,” or “I’m going to beat you.”
“When’s our reservation for?”
John eyed the clock and said, “Seven-thirty.” It was seven-fifteen, and the street-lights which lined Thayer became more and more periodic.
“Look John, there’s a 7-11. I need to use the restroom anyways, so while I’m inside, why don’t you just ask for directions?”
“But the restroom there is probably dirty. You could just wait for a bit, I’m sure we’ll be there only a few more minutes.”
“John!” The silver Buick veered across two lanes to take a sudden right turn into a cramped 7-11 car lot. The four passengers exited and John and Charlotte went inside while Martin and Mary waited out by the car.
Martin started to take Mary in his arms, but she turned away. “I don’t like them. I don’t like John. He’s much too loud. And
“I know, I know. But when he called to say he was in town, I couldn’t say no. How about after dinner, we go back to the hotel and have some dessert ourselves?”
“Oh Martin…” Mary submitted again to his words and the two began to embrace and kiss until the door to the 7-11 burst open and
“The bathroom’s out back,” she said hurriedly, as if needing to justify her sudden return. She made her way into the dark behind the 7-11 and when she was out of earshot, Mary spoke up.
“Why do you always have to be shy about us?”
Martin was used to taking the defensive with Mary and always ready to try and reassure her. “I’m not, honey, she just came out all of a sudden and I was surprised. That’s all. You know I love you.”
“You pushed me away! You always push me away!” Mary announced that she would be waiting in the car and Martin thought it best to simply let her cool down. He meandered around the empty parking lot watching the 7-11 clerk, adorned in a turban, gesturing and pointing to John, who had his mouth open and was undoubtedly confounded. Just as he thought it would be best to go inside to help, a shriek came from the back of the 7-11, after which
“Martin…oh Martin! You…have to…there was this…oh Martin!” Martin waited for her to regain a little composure. “Oh Martin…you have to help me! I was in the back restroom and…I put down my purse…and before I knew it a RAT…a rat came and took my purse and ran away with it!” By this time,
“What’s going on?”
Martin shrugged. “I don’t know, something about a rat?”
John exited the 7-11 at that instant, initially looking rather embarrassed; an expression which shifted to concern in response to seeing his wife Charlotte so disheveled and wrecked.
“Where were you John? How long does it take to get directions to a lousy restaurant? Where were you when I was being attacked out here,” she screamed, somehow avoiding bursting into more tears.
Martin finally took it upon himself to tell John the travesty that had taken place in his short departure from the parking lot. John looked like he was going to say something along the lines of “I told you to wait until we got to the restaurant,” but Martin had the sense to give him that same very specific look, which John knew this time to mean “shut the hell up.” The two men ventured to the back of the 7-11 to see if they could uncover the mystery of the kleptomaniac rodent and return with the purse.
It was during college that Charlotte, John, and Martin had first made each other’s acquaintance. John and Martin had made the weekly ritual of having lattes over used textbooks and photocopied pages at the café. Once they came of age, they moved on to having Red Stripes at the jazz club where they eventually met Charlotte, a psychology major, who made young men hold their breath and turn blue when she sang. She performed a few times a month; sometimes she would ask men whom she eyed from the stage to buy her a strong drink after the show. By chance, one night she asked John to buy her a second strong drink, but it was an offer that started them down the line of volatile infatuation. “How’s that?” Martin would ask sometimes, as the two men sat at the bar; and John would reply while his eyes remained transfixed upon the stage. “You know. You know, I might love her.” John would say this as they both watched
After college, the three went their separate ways, but John and Charlotte would oftentimes circle back to each other, caught in the comfort of familiarity, and after a few years the circles became smaller and tighter so they decided wed. “How’s that?” Martin would ask, and John would pause to take a drink. “You know. You know, I love her.”
John and Martin only talked about their relationships in short words embedded within shorter sentences. And they talked only every once in a while on the phone; letting their few conversations drag into the thick of the night. But that’s all they ever really required of each other. It was during one of their recent conversations when Martin told John of his engagement and that night they toasted to happiness. “To a long and prosperous life!” and Martin stayed silent as he heard this, allowing the message to echo within plastic receiver and resonate through the telephone wires which ran through the many miles of country and suburb between them; he thought perhaps that all the words over the telephone sound distant.
The area behind the 7-11 smelled dank, an aroma of sewage and feet. In college, Martin had once rescued a futon from a local dump; “one of those nice, smelly pieces of crap,” as John described it.
“It smells like your futon,” John said, as his eyes swept the ground and the sky for
“Then you should hurry and find
“Hey, found it!” John pointed to a small patch of bush on the other side of a low, wire fence. “No, no way. I’m feeling fine,” he said, the words escaping his stubble-ridden mouth in a quick exhale as he climbed over the fence with the grace of a man in slacks too tight in the middle. John retrieved the purse and decided to use the restroom, so he told Martin to go ahead to give
Martin didn’t know what that meant and looked back to wonder if he should wait, but upon hearing
Charlotte and Mary had been standing, talking on their phones out front. Mary called the restaurant to notify them of their late arrival and
“Never mind,”
“He’s in the bathroom, wait, look, there he is now,” Martin replied, pointing to John’s emerging silhouette. Mary called out to them from the car; she had managed to get the reservation extended until 8:00.
“They can’t hold it past that,” she said.
John grinned at the good fortune. “That’s wonderful Mary, well done.” The foursome huddled into the car. Charlotte reapplied her makeup, John concentrated on the road, and the four sat silently, listening to 90’s love songs on a soft-rock radio station until the car came upon the interstate where they merged into heavy traffic, at which point John broke the silence with a loud “shit!” and a violent smack to the steering wheel.
It was 8:15 when the traffic cleared and John stepped on the gas and drifted in and out of lanes. “John there’s no sense in rushing. We can just go and wait, I don’t think any of us mind terribly. It’s only Tuesday,” said Martin, leaning forward so his words might travel straight to John’s ear and more quickly to his sense.
“You know I hate it when you drive so fast John,” added
“You idiot!’
“Fuck!”
“It’s alright, it happens. It’s most likely nothing”
Mary said nothing however, and sat in the backseat smiling out the window. The officer walked to the driver’s window and he asked for license and registration. Looking back and forth between the documents and the noticeably aggravated driver, the officer also found it necessary to ask “have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
He had been drinking that night, but he managed to get away with it for the time-being as the breathalyzer cleared him a few notches below point oh-eight.
The Buick sped on even after the ticket had been administered, lumbering along with frightening momentum. The radio had been turned off when the car had been pulled over so now all that could be heard were the cold tires rolling vigorously against the asphalt and the steady hum and maw of the engine. The sound filled the air, it was the stuff that hung between them, which made up that space, and each sat in their own corner, suffocated by all that stuff around them. They retreated to within their own heads as to escape the density of the air in the car; they dove inside of themselves for refuge.
John had once called Martin and told him that he was sick and couldn’t make it to see him and Charlotte at the club. Martin was already there, already had opened a beer when John called, so he stayed and waited for
“I’m a bit nervous; it’s a new act for tonight.”
“That seems rather uncharacteristic of you, Lotte.” Sometimes she liked it when people called her that.
“Do you want to go outside? I think I’d like some air.”
“Sure.”
The two stepped through the glass door and collided with a sudden easterly gust. Martin reached for a crumpled pack inside of his back pocket and took out a Zippo. The air reeked from the lighter, the liquid fuel he used for it was of the cheap kind they sell in big plastic bottles at pharmacies, and it stank the air like a gas station. Martin quickly lit a cigarette and put the lighter away, to the bottom corner of his pocket.
“It’s pretty cold,” he said. But it didn’t matter because she had grown up in upstate
“Do you mind,” she asked, taking the cigarette from his fingers. Twice she puffed on it. She gave it back and there remained a little of her lipstick on the filter.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“No I only used to. Don’t tell John, I don’t know if he’d like it.” She looked up and down the sidewalk. “Where is he anyways?”
“Sick, he said he can’t make it. He wishes you luck.”
“Thanks.” She said it while looking straight up at Martin who allowed himself to foolishly think for a moment that the word was directed at him, and not John. Not much else was said, nothing of significance and after a minute or two
Dinner caused the group to emerge out of themselves into the spaces of each other. They began to talk about things accessible to them; such things were easiest to discuss: the Spanish menu, the paltry wine selection, the weather, the salad dressing. This continued through the meal, which had been pleasantly satisfying; the courses were flavorful and went well with the wine, a bold and spiced red which matched the pork and the beef and the sauce. When the food was gone off the table, the two men leaned back into their chairs with their drink; the ladies crossed their legs and slouched slightly over theirs. The things upon which they could speak grew scarce as what was accessible became used and the absence of the necessity to eat or choose food from menus forced them closer together. But the wine made the conversation at least manageable and John held his glass by the stem as he retold stories from college. “And Martin over here wanted to be a journalist. Can you believe that? He had some idealistic version of what the news should be like, some sort of revolutionary scheme. But look at him now; he’s a fancy corporate lawyer, so much for idealism. At least you’re clean though. You’re still clean, right Martin.”
Martin was clean, as he always was. He showered every day, meticulously disinfecting every spot, making sure every root of hair was shaved down to the very skin, that the parting in his hair was straight. It was his neat appearance which made him amiable; it was a good shell to have in an executive world.
“Yeah, I’m clean.”
John continued to linger long after dinner had been finished, returning to random reminisces. He recited stories about the jazz club, about Tuesday-afternoon adventures to the river, their New Year’s excursion to the city. Martin encouraged him by responding and engaging Charlotte, but he sensed that it was time to leave as Mary had grown steadily quieter at her side of the table, only listening and smiling, taking frequent sips from her glass, but never saying anything more than what a smile could say.
“It’s getting pretty late John. We should head back? I’ll go call a cab.” Martin stood from the table, leaving John, Mary and Charlotte staring at the cactus shaped centerpiece accompanied by an emptied bottle of wine.
“You’re really lucky Mary.”
Mary raised and sipped her glass, smiling and thanking the two of them. She had taken the night to gauge her silent victory, a battle unbeknownst to John and Charlotte, but one the two certainly had lost. Mary noted the lines underneath John’s eyes and the roundness forming around his midsection and knew that
The four stood outside of the restaurant as the yellow cab pulled to the curb. Mary gave both John and Charlotte a brief goodbye and disappeared into the car, leaving little room for Martin to makeshift a farewell. Martin gave John an awkward hug which the latter may have tried to hold for too long; he faltered with
“So we’ll stay in touch as we do, eh Martin?”
“Yeah, yeah we will. You two take care and stay safe.” He didn’t know what else to say as the three of them stood on the curb staring at each other, not really knowing what the other was thinking or expecting. Martin motioned towards the car and bent into the seat and decided that there may be one more thing to say. “It was really nice seeing you guys.” The cab door closed and the driver turned out of the parking lot into the street picking up speed and disappearing behind more cars and buildings, away to the places in which they were most involved. John and Charlotte stood transfixed for a moment after the cab had left. They were caught too deeply in the present, astonished that they were where they were, and it became hard to tell from where the present had come; it became hard to remember the people that they were with each other. Such details were barely real only in memories, and seemed far too distant in all the stories John recounted through the night. As the cab left the four felt the air pour back into the space between all of them, whether the distance had come in years or in miles.
Charlotte and John walked side-by-side back to the silver Buick. John had taken out his key to open the car door when all of a sudden
John ran over to the purse and began to kick it and stomp on it with relentless vigor. He struck the bag as if beating it would cure the world, as if it were his last, final act. The scene ensued for a frantic moment which came to a disappointing end when John ceased his outburst and realized there was never anything animate in the purse, which now to Charlotte’s dismay, looked more like a dead animal itself, sitting limply on the asphalt with its contents spilling out in every-which-way from its gut.
