Jerry crawled along in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 80 near Berkeley heading towards the Presbyterian Synod Hunger Committee meeting in San Francisco. He glanced at his watch. Even if this traffic cleared up, he was going to be at least a half hour late. His body broke into a sweat. The sides of the car pressed in upon him. Why hadn’t he started sooner? They would all be so mad at him. He was such a fuck-up.
Enough, some voice announced inside his head. Blow it off. They’ll survive. Don’t even call. Just don’t show.
Could he do that? another voice wondered. He’s shirking his responsibilities. He’d be in trouble.
He recalled Thomas’ words, “You gotta save your life, Jerry.”
He veered off the highway onto the exit ramp and headed straight into Berkeley. He found a parking spot immediately – good sign, he thought – and in the shade – Woo hoo! Bonus points. He got out of his car, giddy with new found freedom. As he walked along literally singing a song, he spotted a Gap store.
He perused its shirts and pants, delighting in their bright colors and youthful styles. One pink shirt with ivory snap buttons caught his eye. Do real men wear pink? Fuck ‘em, as Adam Goldner would have said. But does he really need a new shirt? Does he have the money?
He bought it and giddy returned. He tripped out of the store, bag in hand, whistling.
He veered into a book store and bought a leather bound journal and jade colored ballpoint pen with gravitas weight. At a coffee house, he purchased a cappuccino and croissant and found an outside table. Eucalyptus trees spiced the air; a cool breeze caressed his face. The sun sparkled. He cracked open his journal and readied his pen.
It was truly euphoric.
I blew off a meeting.
I stepped off life’s conveyor belt,
the one that carries you to your grave
and doesn’t give a shit about you.
I stepped off.
From now on, I bushwhack to heaven
a trail that will lead me back to my soul
It’s do or die.
* * *
Jerry breezed into the Co-op. As he turned down aisle seven, he spotted David Bernardstanding next to Chloe, too close.
David left before Jerry arrived. “What was that all about?” he asked Chloe.
“What’s your problem?”
“There was a vibe.”
“We’re friends. Stop worrying. You’re better than that.”
A few nights later Jerry popped by Chloe’s place. David’s car was parked in front of her house. Jerry parked down the street. He dashed back up, avoiding the spill from the street lights. Cloying humidity blanketed him. His head pounded. He skulked up her driveway and peered through the dining room window.
Inside, candlelight. Remnants of dinner remained on the table. He zoomed around the front of the house and stared into the living room window. Down the hall, silhouetted against her bedroom light, stood the two of them, kissing.
Adrenaline surged through his body. He sprinted back up the street and jetted home. He grabbed the phone and dialed and redialed, refusing to let it go into her answering machine, until she picked up the phone.
“I’m coming over,” Jerry panted.
“Not a good idea,” said Chloe.
“I’m coming over.”
“What’s so urgent?
“We need to talk.”
“Look, I have company, OK? It’ll have to wait.” She hung up.
Jerry floored it back to her house, including running a red light. He punched the doorbell. No answer. He hammered the door. Chloe spoke from the other side.
“Jerry, I told you this is not a good time.”
He barged through the door. About ten feet back was David, eyes wide.
“What’s going on?” Jerry demanded.
“We’re just having dinner,” answered Chloe.
“Why wouldn’t you answer the phone.”
“I never answer the phone when I have guests.”
“Bullshit.”
“Jerry, sit down. You want some wine?”
He grabbed a chair at the dining room table. His head throbbed. His tinnitus, which had been plaguing him lately, buzz sawed. Dave, opposite him, forced a smile. Chloe slipped into the kitchen.
“You two are up to something,” said Jerry.
“Jerry, you’re just being paranoid,” said David.
Jerry lifted up the entire dining room table and slammed it down. Glasses crashed onto the floor.
“DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”
David recoiled. “Whoa. Hey. No problem.” He stood up.
Giving wide berth, he maneuvered around Jerry, nodded Chloe’s way and left.
“What the fuck is going on, Chloe?”
“I just wanted to have a nice dinner with a good friend without any stress and strain. Is that so bad?”
“Chloe, Jesus Christ, I saw you two kissing.”
“You snooping around?”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Jerry, this thing of ours,” and she started crying. “You’re so serious all the time. You’re not yourself. Ever since the abortion.” And with slow emphasis on each word, she said, “I need a break, from you. I’m sorry.”
Jerry stood up and glanced at a toppled glass. Red wine, like blood, trickled onto the hardwood floor. He righted it. Chugged the last of it. Placed it back on the table. Then grabbed it again and hurled it across the room. Shards of glass rocketed everywhere. Chloe stood riveted in the living room, her palms open to him.
“Please leave,” she said sternly, not moving a muscle.
The door clicked shut on his way out.
Once home he forced himself to sit, stood up, paced, perched on the sofa back, stared out the window, stood up, paced, steadied his breath, failed, tromped out the front door, left the door open, lit a cigarette, kept moving, past the hospital, kept moving, past the emergency ward, red lights swirling, kept moving, past homes bedecked with Christmas cheer.
He couldn’t bear the prospect of losing Chloe. More, he couldn’t bear the prospect of being alone. That fucking dark was coming to get him.
But she was wrong, what she did.
Still, if they could just talk, they could work this out.
He forced himself into bed, like a zookeeper corralling the crazy hyena into its cage. His insomnia raged, his mind roared, his heart revved with a force that could have broken stone.
He lurched out of bed, dressed, kept moving.