sees me in the doorway. “How’s it going today?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine? That’s awesome.”
“Yes,” I say. “Everything is fine. The world is fine. The air is fine. The stars, the fucking moon, the fucking sun, all the pieces of dull cutlery in every dirty kitchen drawer, frozen yogurt, toasted sandwiches, all of it is fine.”
Zack tosses his hair back and gives me a grim nod of the head. “I’ve been there, bud,” he says. “I’m beginning to think that life doesn’t really hold the same meaning for me that it used to. Some days, seriously, I wake up and it’s a wonder I don’t hang myself with dental floss.”
“Would that work?”
“Oh, yeah,” Zack says. “Sure, sure. You have to wind it up some. Really get it into almost like a rope, but that stuff is tough. It’ll slice right through your skin, sever a couple arteries, and then you’re just chum for the flies.”
“That sounds painful,” I say.
“Well,” Zack says, “it sure isn’t the way to enlightenment, but it’ll get you to that next stage eventually. Hey, is there something I can get started for you?”
I give him my order and for a while I just watch him work the espresso machine. He’s a fine boy, really, lots of energy and panache. At night he often leaves the house and meets a friend named Skylar for a drink. She’s a pretty girl, nice teeth, a tattoo on the small of her back, also of a sunburst, oddly. Zack has had her over for dinner a few times. They’ll barbeque steaks on the small grill he has on his patio, and then they’ll sit outside talking or laughing or not speaking at all. She spent the night yesterday, and when I woke up in the morning I saw her out in my garden, stooping to smell the roses Joanne planted last season, only now fully in bloom. I wonder if Zack would like me to hire her for the second shift. I wonder if she has another friend, perhaps a girl slightly older, someone without any tattoos, who might be interested in working on the weekends. It would require more casitas. Or not.
“Here you go,” Zack says, handing me my venti double-pump mocha and a piece of crumble coffee cake in the center of a white plate. “You have a great day, Jason.”
“Tell me something,” I say. “Do you have a family?”
“Everyone has a family,” Zack says. “Am I right, or am I right?” He turns his back to me and begins wiping off the counter around the espresso machine with a damp white towel. “You have a good one, now, okay?”
“Sklyar seems nice,” I say.
Zack stops cleaning the counter and slowly turns to face me. “Excuse me?”
“Sklyar,” I say. “The woman with the tattoo on her back. The woman who spent the night last night. The woman who was outside this morning smelling my roses. Skylar.”
If I met Joanne today, I imagine she might look a bit like this Skylar. Though I suppose women have always looked the same, it’s the clothes and the body ink and the scars that change them. That and children. You keep another human inside you for nine months, and I think it’s fair to assume you might leave the experience slightly different. It’s such an alien thing: a beast that grows inside you until it crawls out bloody and screaming. If sperm came out of men like angry rainbow trout hooked through the lip, I believe we’d be less cavalier about the whole subject matter. I imagine Skylar might be the kind of woman who wouldn’t want to be invaded in such a way. Zack is lucky to have her.
“I need to go on my lunch,” Zack says abruptly. “Is that all right?”
“I’ve offended you,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no, you haven’t offended me,” Zack says, but I can tell he’s lying. You don’t practice medicine—or at least pretend to practice medicine—without being able to spot obvious self-delusion. “No worries at all, bud.”
“I’d like to make you permanent,” I say. “I’d like to wave the next two weeks of probation. I’d like to
“Fine,” I say.
“Fine? That’s awesome.”
“Yes,” I say. “Everything is fine. The world is fine. The air is fine. The stars, the fucking moon, the fucking sun, all the pieces of dull cutlery in every dirty kitchen drawer, frozen yogurt, toasted sandwiches, all of it is fine.”
Zack tosses his hair back and gives me a grim nod of the head. “I’ve been there, bud,” he says. “I’m beginning to think that life doesn’t really hold the same meaning for me that it used to. Some days, seriously, I wake up and it’s a wonder I don’t hang myself with dental floss.”
“Would that work?”
“Oh, yeah,” Zack says. “Sure, sure. You have to wind it up some. Really get it into almost like a rope, but that stuff is tough. It’ll slice right through your skin, sever a couple arteries, and then you’re just chum for the flies.”
“That sounds painful,” I say.
“Well,” Zack says, “it sure isn’t the way to enlightenment, but it’ll get you to that next stage eventually. Hey, is there something I can get started for you?”
I give him my order and for a while I just watch him work the espresso machine. He’s a fine boy, really, lots of energy and panache. At night he often leaves the house and meets a friend named Skylar for a drink. She’s a pretty girl, nice teeth, a tattoo on the small of her back, also of a sunburst, oddly. Zack has had her over for dinner a few times. They’ll barbeque steaks on the small grill he has on his patio, and then they’ll sit outside talking or laughing or not speaking at all. She spent the night yesterday, and when I woke up in the morning I saw her out in my garden, stooping to smell the roses Joanne planted last season, only now fully in bloom. I wonder if Zack would like me to hire her for the second shift. I wonder if she has another friend, perhaps a girl slightly older, someone without any tattoos, who might be interested in working on the weekends. It would require more casitas. Or not.
“Here you go,” Zack says, handing me my venti double-pump mocha and a piece of crumble coffee cake in the center of a white plate. “You have a great day, Jason.”
“Tell me something,” I say. “Do you have a family?”
“Everyone has a family,” Zack says. “Am I right, or am I right?” He turns his back to me and begins wiping off the counter around the espresso machine with a damp white towel. “You have a good one, now, okay?”
“Sklyar seems nice,” I say.
Zack stops cleaning the counter and slowly turns to face me. “Excuse me?”
“Sklyar,” I say. “The woman with the tattoo on her back. The woman who spent the night last night. The woman who was outside this morning smelling my roses. Skylar.”
If I met Joanne today, I imagine she might look a bit like this Skylar. Though I suppose women have always looked the same, it’s the clothes and the body ink and the scars that change them. That and children. You keep another human inside you for nine months, and I think it’s fair to assume you might leave the experience slightly different. It’s such an alien thing: a beast that grows inside you until it crawls out bloody and screaming. If sperm came out of men like angry rainbow trout hooked through the lip, I believe we’d be less cavalier about the whole subject matter. I imagine Skylar might be the kind of woman who wouldn’t want to be invaded in such a way. Zack is lucky to have her.
“I need to go on my lunch,” Zack says abruptly. “Is that all right?”
“I’ve offended you,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.”
“No, no, you haven’t offended me,” Zack says, but I can tell he’s lying. You don’t practice medicine—or at least pretend to practice medicine—without being able to spot obvious self-delusion. “No worries at all, bud.”
“I’d like to make you permanent,” I say. “I’d like to wave the next two weeks of probation. I’d like to
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