Odd Man Out

by John Timm

“This is all I have available until the end of next month,” the apartment manager said.

It was the fifth or sixth place we’d looked at that day. It wasn’t much better than the others we’d seen, but we were both nearing exhaustion. 

“Can you do anything for us on the rent?” Meg was doing all the talking. Between the two of us, she’d always been the better negotiator. 

“Nope. Had three other parties look at it today. Said they’d be back later this afternoon.”  Not even a sorry. Just, nope. 

Meg signaled me to step outside the apartment. She looked back over her shoulder at the manager as we walked into the crumbling asphalt parking lot. “Give us a minute, okay?” 

The tenants before us had left the place in sorry shape, but we were in no position to complain. We needed something in a hurry. Another month’s rent due at our last apartment and we didn’t have nearly enough to pay it, so we skipped out in the night. This one was a lot farther from the city, but the rent was much more reasonable—about half as much. And it was close to a BART station, so I wouldn’t need to drive. I’d be saving on gas and bridge tolls, and we figured Meg could get some kind of temp job nearby until she found something permanent. 

We walked back into the apartment trying not to look too enthusiastic, although I’m sure we weren’t fooling the manager. “How about maybe getting somebody in here to clean the carpet?

“That’s why we don’t allow pets no more. I’ll see if maintenance can do something about the stains.” 

“And the smell…” 

Meg’s last comment brought no response. Clearly, it was not a new request for the manager who was now beginning to fidget, shifting from one foot to the other as he awaited our decision. Meg looked at me. I looked at her. Neither of us was excited about moving into this apartment-turned-kennel, but we had little choice. We’d spent the night in her Subaru Outback. I was sore just about everywhere and Meg was near delirious from a lack of sleep. We kept getting kicked out of parking lots every couple of hours. First Walmart. Then Home Depot. Then Safeway. After a few hours she didn’t sleep at all, awaiting a rap on the window from store security at any moment. She called it water torture without the water.

                                                                      ***

It didn’t take long for us to move in. Everything we owned was piled in the back of the Subaru, the only exception being the book collection we’d left with a friend of hers back in Portland when we got out of rehab,actually, an old boyfriend who spent weeks on end without leaving his apartment. I liked to call him “Agoraphobic Arthur,” which would bring forth a predictable defense on Meg’s part. 

“He was fine when I was with him.”

“Was fine is the operative term here.”

“It’s just that his brain’s gotten a little toasted in the meantime.”

“A little toasted? I’d say a lot toasted.”

To make peace of late I’d vowed to lay off on Arthur as long as he stood watch over our beloved books.The Subaru’s doors didn’t lock on the driver’s side. I kept saying it didn’t matter because nobody would want to steal that piece of crap or anything in it. Meg would remind me it was our only means of transportation, and that it was bad karma to speak ill of Sammy Subaru, a car she claimed to have bought second-hand during her time at Reed. One night, after too much wine and various controlled substances, her then-boyfriend related to me a somewhat different version: another past boyfriend had supposedly given it to her as a present. And there were accompanying rumors he’d stolen it out of a driveway. I’d only been to Portland a couple of times before rehab, but it seemed like every street was full of Subarus. There were plenty to choose from. If someone did, in fact, steal this one, the least they could have done is fire it up first to see if it had something less than 375,000 miles on the odometer.  

That first night in the new apartment, we put sheets on the bed, ignoring multiple blotches on the mattress, just as we were ignoring the stains on the carpet and the fragrance that wafted from it. Within minutes we were asleep. No time for lovemaking or anything remotely related. 

                                                                    ***

The second night at our new abode we were equally exhausted. I was dragged down by the long commute, Meg from a fruitless day spent searching for work. Still, we didn’t fall asleep right away. The thin walls of an aging structure that was built on the cheap, transmitted all the typical sounds of human beings living in close confinement: radios and TVs, muted conversations, crying babies, domestic arguments in a panoply of exotic languages, bursts of flatulence, flushing toilets and some tool overhead who decided to use their treadmill at 11 p.m. 

After that, the activity began to settle downuntil the knock at the door. Not just any knock, this was a firm, I-mean-business kind of knock made with a clenched fist and what sounded like maybe brass knuckles. 

Meg buried herself under the covers. I wanted to follow suit, but she pushed me towards the window where I inched back the curtain and looked out in the direction of the door. Nobody. 

The knocking sounded again, several apartments down the way. A drunk? A home invasion? We’ll never know, although Meg and I lay there for at least another hour pondering the many possibilities of who and why until sleep finally took over some time past midnight. 

***

The next night was even scarier. Just as our upstairs marathoner finished on the treadmill,there was a gunshot. One solitary, spine-tingling gunshot, followed by the sounds of running, shouting, doors opening, doors slamming, more running, more shouting, more slamming. I slipped on a pair of jogging pants and joined the fray. 

When I returned to the apartment, I had bad news. “Someone’s been shot” 

“Who?”   

“Sammy.”

“Who’s Sammy?”

“Sammy. Our Sammy.”

“Our Sammy?”

“Yes, Sammy Subaru. Right through the windshield. Driver’s side.” 

                                                                         ***

In the morning, we feasted on orange juice and Pop Tarts. A little quick energy and a few vitamins before tackling the commute and the pursuit of work. Nothing was said about the gunshot or the wound inflicted on Sammy Subaru. At times like this, Meg doesn’t like to talk. She tells me if we don’t say anything, maybe all the bad stuff will go away. Classic avoidance. But truth be told, I didn’t want to say anything else about the night’s events.. Nor those of the previous night. This whole chapter in our relationship was getting too weird, and we seemed to be sliding from bad into worse, with ugly the only logical prospect remaining after that. 

As I drove off to the BART station, it was hard not to notice the bullet hole. It was right in my line of vision, a twinkling star of a reminder that the world is not always a good place. The officer who came to investigate that evening told me I was going to have to get the windshield replaced before the next smog check. “Thanks, officer. You’ve made my day.”

From that day on, I kept hoping in secret that our mystery shooter would come back to take out the gas tank and leave Sammy Subaru to immolate himself, playing out his final, pathetic moments in an East Bay apartment house parking lot. I had no idea what we’d use to get around after that, but I’d grown to detest that vehicle with the passion one reserves for the kind of people who sucker punch you in bars. 

                                                                         ***

We hadn’t bothered to check the mail for the first several days at the new place. Meg didn’t want her past due bills to catch up with her. More avoidance, but understandable given our money situation. That Friday morning, something told me to check the mail, just in case, not knowing what to expect. There was a form letter from the police department, describing the gunshot incident, with case numbers and contact information, along with an advisory that we should make ourselves available for a formal interview if requested. 

I said, “What? Do they think we have some kind of gang connection?”

“It’s just a formality. Don’t be so serious.”

For once, her avoidance was actually reassuring. 

At the office, I did a Google search of crime statistics in our zip code, along with addresses of known sex offenders. I wouldn’t have to go far. Several lived not only in the zip code but under the same roof as Meg and I. For a nanosecond, I admonished myself for not having done this before handing over our last $800 for a rent deposit. But I came back to reality before closing the website. 

                                                                     ***

It was unusually hot for the Bay Area and everyone on BART, myself included, looked sweaty. Not a glamorous, sexy, athletic sweaty, but a beaten down kind of sweaty. At our stop, we slithered past each other, hoping to avoid all unnecessary bodily contact as we flocked towards our awaiting vehicles. When I entered the apartment, Meg was already there. So was Brad.     Brad had made himself comfortable on the couch, a can of what turned out to be my Modelo Especial on the coffee table in front of him. Meg was sitting cross-legged on the futon, the only other piece of furniture, if you can call it that, in the room, save for the TV that was propped up on a U-Haul box. Meg had changed out of the business suit she’d worn that morning, trading it for a short smock. The scene looked oh, so grad school casual. 

“Brad, this is Chad. Chad, meet Brad. Hey, that’s funny. Chad and Brad.” Brad and I managed the same weak smile, exchanging a short handshake. Brad was gracious enough to move to one end of the couch to accommodate me, sliding the can of beer to his end of the coffee table.

Brad was the ex of somebody who Meg roomed with after leaving Reed. They’d all moved to a house somewhere in East Portland, a place she and Brad jokingly called the “group home.” Brad was down on his luck (again) and needed a place to stay, and Meg said she owed it to him to pay him back for something or other that happened at the “group home.” It was too complicated for her to explain for now and she would maybe tell me all about someday. 

While Brad was out in the parking lot retrieving his belongings, I said, “Look, we need to talk over things like this in advance. We’re living on air as it is. Unless he brings something to the table, literally, like money or food, we can’t have him stay here. Especially when he’s drinking my beer.”

“It’ll only be for a few days.”

“Define ‘few’ for me, please.”

We never got to a definition as Brad came through the door with a couple of big boxes, one of which fell open in the middle of the living room, spilling its contents. Books, shoes, clean clothing, dirty clothing. Leaving the pile in hopes it would disappear by magic, I suppose, Brad turned to me. “Hey Chad. Can you help me bring in my computer desk? It’s a little heavy.” 

                                                                      ***

Another day at the grind completed, I was beginning to think the worst part was just getting there and back. I fumbled with my keys, dropping them and hitting my head against the apartment door as I went to stand up. Once I finally got the door open, the smell of dog mixed with just a hint of cat urine hit me full on. The pair on the couch winced, not at the odors but at the shaft of outside light that penetrated the otherwise darkened room. A row of beer cans stretched across the length of the coffee table. The table had a little ridge on all sides. Good thing, because that little ridge was holding back a small lake of spilled beer. My apartment, my girlfriend, my beer. 

Today, Megan was wearing a short house dress—I guess that’s what you’d call it. Brad had on shorts and a t-shirt. I held back my first impulse and forced myself to ask in the calmest voice possible, “So, Meg, how did the job hunt go today?”

“Oh, I decided to give it a rest. Something about today just told me I wouldn’t find anything anyway.” 

“And what have you been up to today, Brad?” I spied a copy of Nostradamus’ Les Propheties on the couch beside him. 

“Me? Just vegging a bit. Went online for a while—I signed up with a couple of job search sites. Nothing that matches my skills.”  

I was tempted to enumerate what I thought those skills were, starting with freeloading, but held back once more and headed into the kitchen to see if there was anything left in the fridge.One blessed can of beer remained. Not my Corona, of course. I grabbed it anyway and took a long drink without closing the refrigerator door. Meg came up behind me.

“You seem upset.” 

“Why? What would ever make you think that?”

“You are upset…”

“What else do you expect? I’m working while you’re here babysitting that lazy asshole who, by the way, I still don’t know that much about.”

I slammed the refrigerator door hard enough that a ceramic garden gnome poised on top crashed to the floor. I headed towards the living room. Meg called after me, “That belonged to Brad. You owe him a new one. That’s the least you could do. He put it there for good luck.”

I turned to make sure I heard what I was hearing. She looked at me for maybe half a minute. I gave no response. Finally, she asked, “Aren’t you going to clean up your mess?”  

I said, “You are kidding, right? Tell Brad to do it. Around here, we pick up after our own gnomes.” 

                                                                       ***

I was standing next to the coffee table, deciding my next move, when Mother Nature made that choice for me. The curtains and venetian blinds began to sway, the whole building rocking, shaking and making groaning noises. I looked outside and saw the water in the apartment pool sloshing up and over the edges. The lake of beer in the center of the coffee table sloshed back and forth in concert with the pool. We all made for the door at once. Brad jumped in front of us, squeezing past Meg and me in the narrow doorway. I gave Meg my what-the-fuck? look. I could see her forming some kind of lame excuse for Brad before it even left her lips. I said, “Never mind, just get out the door before this shit hole comes down around our ears.”

Somebody pulled a fire alarm and those who hadn’t already vacated began to come out onto their balconies. Others gathered alongside the pool. I was thinking, what a sad ass bunch of losers. And I’m sure there was someone on the other side of the pool looking back at us, thinking the same. 

Brad was clearly traumatized by all this. “Never been in an earthquake before. We don’t get them back East.” 

The fire department showed up after several minutes. They told us to stay out of the building until they could inspect for structural damage and gas leaks. Brad suggested we all go to pizza. Meg agreed. It was the first thing Meg and I had agreed on since I got home. We went out into the parking lot. I saw Brad’s car and started towards it. Brad said, “Hey, we’d better take Meg’s. I’m driving on fumes.”

We drove several blocks until we found a pizzeria that was open. Brad ordered the extra large with everything on it. Thanks for asking our preferences first, Brad. But then again, getting pizza was his idea. That had to mean he was buying, so I figured I could put up with pepperoni and onions, even though I’d taste them for hours afterward. On the TV set over the bar, they were showing a news conference. The audio was just at the threshold of hearing, enough to be annoying but not understood. I could see someone who looked like the fire chief, someone who looked like the police chief, someone who looked mayor-ish, with a whole bunch of people who looked somewhat important—albeit bored— standing behind them. I couldn’t read the closed captioning without my glasses, but from the body language I sensed all was well, that matters were under control, and we wouldn’t be sliding into the ocean, at least not that night. 

We were sitting there waiting for the pizza, talking about nothing when Brad jumped up, spilling half my beer into my lap, and stuck his arm out in the direction of some unknown male coming in our direction. He recognized Brad and the two shared a celebratory moment, hugs and all, right there in the middle of Pizza Pub East. 

“Hey, bro, been too long.”

“It’s the Bradster. Whazzup, dude?”

Brad turned to Megan, “Meg, this is Robbie.”

“Robbie, Meg’s the girl I was tellin’ you about. She’s lettin’ me crash at her place for a while.”

Meanwhile, the server bobbed and weaved her way around Brad and Robbie, plopping the pizza in the middle of the table. I may as well have been invisible through all of this, so I turned my attention to the pizza and poured myself some more beer from the pitcher to make up for the beer that was soaking its way down the leg of my jeans. 

Playing the role of generous host, Brad proceeded to invite Robbie to join us. At least Robbie   brought over his own pizza from his table somewhere in the back of the place. The Great Brad and Robbie Reunion lasted several minutes, during which they consumed another pitcher and ransacked two plates of wings. All the while, no one bothered to introduce me or include me in their conversation. Irritated at first, I came around to accepting the fact and eventually was grateful for being left out. I just wanted to go back to the apartment now that the TV was showing a large CHIEF SAYS: ALL CLEAR. That’s when Robbie took his focus off Brad and began staring at Meg. He swallowed whatever he had in his mouth at the moment, leaned halfway across the table and said, “You know, I really like redheads. And freckles. Anybody ever tell you that?” 

I responded on her behalf, “Yes. I have.”

Unacknowledged,I faded once more into the background. Two or three rounds later, the server dropped off the check. Thank god. My sense of relief was short lived as Meg reached for it. I’m not given to violence, but I’ve never wanted to kick anyone in the shins so much in my life. She ignored my searing glance and pulled out our Wells Fargo card. 

The server came back in a couple of minutes. “I’m sorry, but they declined your card. Do you have another we can try?” 

Meg looked at me. I turned and looked at Brad who was seated between the two of us. He shrugged his shoulders and looked over at Robbie who, at that moment, found it convenient to excuse himself to go to the restroom. I put an end to the drama and pulled out my Mastercard. The drive back to the apartment was quiet. Beyond quiet. The Subaru’s radio didn’t work, and normally there’d be lively conversation to make up for it. On this day, car noise, road noise and nothing else. Meg was staring straight ahead. As for Brad, who knows what was going on inside that head of his. I opened the door of the apartment. Brad’s shattered gnome was also still there, its severed head staring upwards at me.

                                                                              ***

By now, Brad had pretty much converted our living room into his own efficiency apartment.  Besides the computer desk, he happened to have one of those mini refrigerators in the back of his car. The hotel inventory number stenciled across the top told me it hadn’t always been in his possession. He plugged into the wall next to the TV and it emitted a loud buzz whenever the motor came on, usually in the most important moment of whatever we were watching on the television. I’m not sure what function it served; there never was much in it. Some cold cuts, a slice or two of cheese, milk. Never any beer. Brad left that up to me—with Meg’s tacit approval. 

“Chad honey, can you run across to 7-11? I saw a sign in the window. They’ve got Miller Lite on sale.” 

At times like this, Brad would voice his preference, one way or another. A vote up or down determined the nature of the purchase, though never the purchaser, which was predetermined. Coming back from the 7-11 one evening, I could hear noise coming from the apartment as I rounded the corner of the building–voices. Loud voices, soft voices, a man, a woman. The shouting ceased as soon as I entered, the sparring parties each taking a neutral position at opposite ends of the couch. 

“Dare I ask what’s going on? I could hear you two practically at the curb.” 

Neither said anything. Then, they started talking at the same time. Ever the gentleman, Brad yielded the floor to Meg. 

“It was nothing. It’s about something that was over long ago.” She threw a sharp glance at Brad. “Or should have been.” 

Brad shrugged and went back to reading Nostradamus. I motioned for Meg to come into the kitchen. She didn’t budge. She knew I wanted to speak in private and was playing dumb, which she liked to do whenever it was convenient. I paused a moment, then went into the kitchen alone. I took my place at the table and waited. I’d be damned if I was going back into that living room. Meg needed to come in there and explain what was going on, or for that matter, what had apparently been going on between her and this Brad character for however long. 

In the morning, I mentioned cleaning the carpet to the manager as I handed him the new month’s rent. He said he’d see about it” I reminded him that he said he’d check with maintenance about it when we first moved in. 

“That was under the previous ownership. The new owners have a different policy,” he said.

“Has the place changed hands in the last month?”

“No.”

“Then, you should make good on your promise. I moved in at the beginning of July. Remember?

 “I’ll see about it.”                                     

Coming home that evening, the pet odor was the least of it. A small dog of dubious lineage camdashing towards me, barking furiously and nipping at my right ankle. 

“Pancho. No.” 

“Pancho, here boy.”

Pancho was now circling my left ankle, moving in for the kill at any second.

“Where did this damned dog come from? You know we can’t have dogs in the apartment. And besides that, he bit me.”

“You’ll be fine. He’s just a little dog—Chihuahua mostly. And he’s just playing. Lighten up.”

“Easy for you to say, Meg. Has he bitten you yet?” 

She was now cuddling the dog, whispering in its ear in a most maternal fashion.

“So again, where did you get this dog? Whose is it?”

Brad remained silent, waiting for Meg. 

 “Doug’s.

“Doug who?”

“You don’t know him. He’s a mutual friend.”

“A mutual friend of who?”

“Of Brad and me. Brad owes him a favor, so we’re dog sitting for the rest of the week.”

“Does anyone around here ever think to get my opinion first?”

I realized upon saying it that I’d made a tactical error. I subconsciously included Brad in the decision making process. It didn’t matter anyway because no one responded. The dog came around my ankles again, hoping to get yet another chunk of my flesh. I moved my leg quickly. It let out a yip, yip and ran across the room. 

“You didn’t need to kick him.”

Meg was glaring at me like I was some kind of horrible beast. 

“I didn’t kick him.”

“That’s not what it looked like from here.”

“Put on your friggin’ glasses then.” I grabbed my jacket and bolted out to the parking lot. I wanted to get as far away from there as fast as I could. I felt in both jacket pockets. My extra set of car keys wasn’t there where I’d left them. I reluctantly turned around and went back into the apartment. 

“Where are my other keys to the Subaru?”

“Brad has them.”

“Why?” I looked over at Brad who remained silent. 

“His car is still out of gas.” 

 We were both talking as if Brad weren’t present, but it gave me an opportunity to say what was on my mind. 

“Still?” 

No answer from Meg. No visible reaction from Brad. 

“So, what does he need it for? Is he out hunting for a job? Or a new place to stay? You could have asked me first before giving him the keys.” 

                                                                           ***

Every time I came through that door, there was a surprise. Never a good surprise, never anything predictable beyond the fact that it was not likely to have a happy ending. This time was no different. The place was dark. Very dark. Darker than usual. And I could smell something new: weed. 

At one end of the couch sat Brad. Brad, as usual, didn’t acknowledge my entrance, let alone my existence. Seated where normally I’d find Meg was an unknown female. She looked at me, curiously at first, then, no doubt having figured out who I was, turned back to whatever it was on TV that commanded more attention than the mere tenant of record, the guy who paid the rent and the utilities. 

Meg was in the kitchen. She’d cleared off the table and dusted it liberally with flour. A large pile of dough occupied the center of the table. Three or four pans of bread sat to the side of the table. I looked over to the oven. On top, other loaves were cooling. “What is all this about?”

“It’s what it looks like. We’re baking bread.” 

I wasn’t sure who the “we” was, as Meg was the only person in the room. “The reason being ?”

“I haven’t been able to find work, so I thought maybe I could bake some bread and you could go around to the other apartments and sell it.”

“In my spare time, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s not even six o’clock. There’s a couple hours every night you could make the rounds. I mean, I’m doing all the real work.”

Fatigue, exasperation, whatever you could call it, I felt it. Time to change the subject.  “So, who‘s the fair damsel in the living room?”

“That’s McKenna.”

“McKenna. Okay. Um, tell me more about McKenna. And just for grins, is that her first name, nickname or surname?”

“It’s a family name. From back East. Anyway, she’s a friend of Brad and Robbie. You know, theone you met at the pizza place.”

“Hard to forget him, yes. And her role here is?”

“She came to visit Brad for a few days?”

“A few days,Brad has been here a few days, too. More than a few. We’ve added an animal in the meantime, and now another we have another stray in the form of McKenna.” 

“You don’t need to get all hostile about it.”

“Hostile? I just would like to know why we have to live with these other people and a dog and whatever.” 

At least the smell of baking bread had momentarily overwhelmed the animal odors of our cramped space—even the weed. I’d have to be content with that for now.

                                                                          ***

Just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard muted voices from the living room. Then louder voices, then shouting. McKenna came flying into our bedroom without knocking. 

“He’s crazy. He’ll kill me. I just know it. He gets this way.” 

Meg started asking all kinds of questions, which only prolonged the inevitable from McKenna,      “Can  I stay in here with you guys for the night?” 

My first impulse was to make a joke about a threesome, but before I could embarrass myself, Meg stepped in. “Sure, Chad can move out to the living room.” 

“Am I supposed to trade places with her on the couch? I hate to remind you, but I’m the only one around here with a job and a real need to get sleep.” 

“Can’t you improvise?

“Improvise? What the hell does that mean? Crawl in with the Chihuahua?” 

                                                                     ***

I left without ceremony. No explanation on my part. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, just that I’d be by later for whatever I couldn’t carry out the first time Meg wasn’t there when I returned the next day, simplifying matters greatly. Brad said she was at the drug store. McKenna insisted she’d gone to Safeway. While they debated the matter, I slipped out the door. Rather than move east, I managed to move in with a friend from work—actually, my department head—who had a small place in a somewhat less seedy part of West Oakland. By small I mean exactly that. An oversized closet with two cots, a hot plate and a bathroom. We minded our own business. No other bodies, no animals or animal smells. Fifteen minutes from the office. We could catch BART together at the last station before the bridge. 

Two days later, Meg called and I relented.

“You haven’t been answering my calls or texts. I hope you’re still not mad at me..” 

“What, me? Mad?” 

“I want you to come back. Please. Don’t be mean to me.”

“Not until Brad and the dog and his cohorts from hell are gone. For good.”

“I need you and you need me.”

Silence on both ends.

I held out a little longer than Meg. The click, then the recording, “if you want to make a call, please hang up and–”

After a week, another call. 

“Hi. It’s me. Listen, I have an old friend. Kyle. Actually, I guess you could say he’s sort of an ex-boyfriend. Anyhow, he’s a little down on his luck. We’re running out of room here. Do you think he could stay at your place for a couple of days?” 

“Where have I heard that ‘an old friend down on his luck’ bit before, Meg? You are totally insane? No way. Besides, what about the space I left?” 

“That’s been taken by Miguel.” 

“Who, pray tell, is Miguel?” 

“Miguel’s a friend of Kyle.” 

“That explains everything, Meg. For sure. Anyway, I still have my key, I’ll be by tonight to get the rest of my shit out of there.” 

                                                                       ***
I knocked on the apartment door. 

Someone unknown responded with a muffled, “Who is it?” 

I put the key in the lock. A figure on the couch said “hello,” nothing more.

The voice belonged to Kyle, I guess. Or Miguel. Who knows? I returned the greeting, if you want to call it that, with a grunt and made for the kitchen. No Meg this time, either. And no signs of her foray into the world of commercial baking. It must be hard to find good help these days. 

Another voice, one I clearly recognized, emanated from the darkness. “Hey bro. You leavin’? I mean, for good?”

“That’s what it looks like, Brad. Doesn’t it?”

“I mean, don’t get snarky, dude. Just asking. But before you go, one thing.” 

“What could that possibly be?” 

“You still owe me for the gnome.”
                                                                        ***

San Francisco was becoming ugly scar in my life, and I had to get out of there. Through a friend of a friend, I managed to catch a ride up to Grants Pass. Some guy driving a dump truck took me from there to Salem where I was able to spend a night with some other friends of friends, of other friends. The last lap into Portland came courtesy of two Mexican immigrants in a 2003 Saturn. My high school Spanish teacher, Mrs. Fletcher, always said Spanish would come in handy someday. You were so right, Mrs. Fletcher. Muchas gracias. 

Besides my backpack and a small satchel, I had the proceeds from my last two weeks at work. My Mastercard was probably just useless plastic by now, seeing as how I hadn’t paid off the pizza emergency, let alone the accumulated interest. Getting a job was  priority. I made up with my little brother Tony and moved in with him and his flavor-of-the-month girlfriend. That bought me a little time to decide my next move. Within a few days, I was doing payroll for a tech company in Beaverton.

                                                                       ***

From time to time I think I see Sammy Subaru. Then I remember this is Portland. There’s a little twinge beneath my ribs, but it goes away as fast as it comes.. I haven’t heard from Meg and haven’t tried to contact her. Well, only a couple of times. 

I’ve settled into my new work routine and begun to venture out socially, whatever that means. 

Mostly, it consists of getting reacquainted with a few old friends from rehab. We usually meet at one of the coffee bars along Northeast Alberta. No, I rarely think about Meg. And I’ve set out to retrieve my books from Agoraphobic Arthur before he dies from lack of sunshine and oxygen. The first address, which looked vaguely familiar when I arrived, turned up no sign of Arthur, nor the volumes entrusted to his care. 

Monday was Meg’s birthday. The only reason it probably even comes to mind is because mine is this Friday. Anyway, I’ve consumed most of three more weekends now tracking down the ever elusive Arthur. For someone who feared the outside world, he sure can get around. 

                                                                      ***

My brother’s apartment is only a block from a small bakery. I can’t afford to be a regular, at least not yet. On weekends, I make breakfast stretch itself into lunch and spend a few hours, often sitting by myself. There’s a girl who works there. We chat when there’s no customers. Not that it matters any, but she reminds me a little of Meg. I mean just physically. And maybe a couple of things she’s said, little expressions she likes to use. Things like that. I try not to let any of that get in the way of getting to know her better.. 

I’ve been wanting to ask her out, but what do you do without a car? Yesterday, I finally broke down and explained my transportation dilemma. She said, “no worries.” We’ve made plans for next Friday night. Dinner somewhere cheap and a movie. She has to work Saturday nights.That’s fine with me, I have no other weekend plans except to keep searching for Arthur and my books. 

                                                                         ***

Bingo! At last I located the elusive Agoraphobic Arthur. I heard he’d moved out to Gresham and even got what looked to be a legitimate address. I talked Tony into driving out there Tuesday night when he got off work. No time to waste. Given his recent history, Arthur could be on the move again any day. 

We knocked. We knocked again. Minutes passed. The venetian blinds moved slightly. Another minute. A light came on. A large silhouette approached the door through the darkened hallway. Arthur. 

Once inside, I got right down to the reason for my mission. “I’m here to pick up my books.” 

Arthur gave me an odd look, so I thought I’d clarify the situation for him.  “You don’t remember me?” 

“Sort of.”

“Sort of yes, or sort of no?”

That line of questioning led nowhere fast, so I got to the point. 

“The books you’ve been keeping for me and your—my—old girlfriend. You know, Meg. Megan Forrest.”

 “I don’t have your books anymore.”

“So then who does? 

“She does. Megan. Or the dude.”

“Since when?”

“Since a couple weeks ago. Last time I moved. She and the dude with her came to get them.”

“Why did you give them my books if I wasn’t with them?”

“She assured me it was okay. Then the dude—somebody named Chad or Brad—” 

 “I’m Chad.”

“Okay, well, then this Brad said you owed him some money. You’d broken something of his—like a valuable statue or something— and you could never pay him cash for it, so the books were his payment .” 

                                                                         ***

Friday night finally comes. I hear a familiar-sounding horn out in front of Tony’s apartment. It’s a Subaru. An Outback=. I try to put the images it reawakens out of mind. Getting into the vehicle only reinforces those images, and before we’ve driven two blocks I feel compelled to ask, “Does you car have a name?” 

The girl is not surprised at the question. “Of course. She’s Sally. Sally Subaru.” 

I look over at her. The late afternoon sun shines through her hair. Reddish. Plus a freckle or two on her face and arms. 

“You hungry for pizza?,” she asks. “I’m always up for pizza.” 

Why not? I think. Why not? 

John Timm holds a master’s degree in Spanish from Marquette University, a master’s in Portuguese from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and a doctorate in Spanish from the latter. His literary fiction has appeared in 300 Days of Sun, Bartleby Snopes, Euphemism, Fiction Attic, Flint Hills Review and Flyover Country, among others, as well as several anthologies.