As I’m trying to piece together some kind of pattern in the [...]]]> The car bumps and shudders over broken pavement and rutted dirt. It makes a lot of turns. I try for a while to track our route, but I lose count after only a few minutes. I have no idea how long I was unconscious.

As I’m trying to piece together some kind of pattern in the few available clues, we make a turn uphill and onto a smoother road. The car picks up speed. Unless I was out for more than an hour, it seems likely that we’re on the Via Nacional, which means that we’ve left the city and we’re headed north parallel to the coast.

I return to the question: What would anyone want with me? My family doesn’t have money, and I think it’s common knowledge that the network is on the verge of financial collapse. The union that represents my camera crew agreed two weeks ago to a 10-percent cut in pay in exchange for a promise from the network execs to keep layoffs to minimum.

The State Department under the present administration isn’t keen on lifting a finger to help journalists who stray outside the “safe zones” and get themselves in trouble. And that’s assuming you consider what I do journalism. Some of my critics call it “infotainment.” Others aren’t so generous.

If my captors have kidnapped me for ransom, they’re in for a big surprise when they discover what a worthless hostage they’ve taken.

Still searching for clues, I think back to lunchtime in the Libertador Hotel dining room. I sat at my usual table, ate my typical meal. I’m billed as a culinary adventurer, but the truth is that off camera, I like predictability in my foodstuffs as much as the next guy. Maybe more than the next guy. I like the Libertador because two or three of the waiters speak passable English. Also, the dining room features an “American menu”—tough steaks cut as thin as the tongue of one of my shoes, but still identifiable as beef, and served with French fries made from the little purple potatoes they grow in the mountains around here. They also serve bottles of Budweiser chilled to something less than 98.6 degrees, which passes for cool in this climate.

No, I’ve been overlooking something important. Before lunch. Something that happened this morning.

This is the sequel to Exercise #35 and precedes, by some indeterminate amount of time, Exercise #34. (I know, the numbers don’t make much sense, do they?)

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

“Which shirts?”

“The ones I took last week. Your favorite blue one was in there.”

“Which dry cleaner did you go to?”

“Across from the oil-change place.”

“The oil-change place on 15th?

“No, over by the school.

“Mm.”

“You’ll never guess who I ran into at Walgreen’s while I was refilling [...]]]> “I picked up your shirts at the dry cleaners today,” she said.

“Which shirts?”

“The ones I took last week. Your favorite blue one was in there.”

“Which dry cleaner did you go to?”

“Across from the oil-change place.”

“The oil-change place on 15th?

“No, over by the school.

“Mm.”

“You’ll never guess who I ran into at Walgreen’s while I was refilling my prescription. Oh, by the way, they had Zest on sale, so I bought you some.”

“Oh, who?”

“What?”

“Who did you run into?”

“Oh, guess. But you’ll never get it right.”

“Judy?”

“No, guess again.”

“Mrs. Benderson?”

“No, but you’re closer. Guess.”

“Do we have to play this game?”

“What do you mean?”

“This whole guessing-game thing. Who did you see at Walgreen’s?”

“You don’t have to be like that.”

“Look, I’m sorry. Who did you see?”

“Diana, and she was out with the baby for the first time.”

“Oh wow.”

“Yeah, she looks great.”

“Mm.”

“Oh, did you see that David and Lee Anne got a new minivan?”

“Yeah, I saw it out there. When did that happen?”

“Friday I think. Oh, no wait, Saturday. Oh, no, it was Friday, because I was just coming home from the meeting at school.”

“Uh-huh. What are they doing with the old one?”

“I haven’t asked Lee Anne yet. There’s a ‘For Sale’ sign in the back window of it, so I guess they’re selling it.”

“I guess so.”

“I think they liked it.”

“What? The new one?”

“No, I meant the old one. Lee Anne told me once they were pretty happy with it.”

“Uh-huh. Oh, are we going to that party?”

“What party?”

“The anniversary thing.”

“At the Wassermans?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Do you want to?”

“I feel like we ought to.”

“Yeah, probably. We have a bag of chips and an unopened jar of salsa, so we don’t have to pick up anything.”

“Are chips and salsa enough?”

“Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“I wasn’t saying that, I just didn’t know whether we should get something else.”

“We’d have to stop somewhere, because we don’t have much in the way of party food.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t love me any more,” she said.

The sound of the back door slamming echoed a moment in the empty kitchen. Then I listened to the silence for a while.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I had a weird sensation, [...]]]> I think I was half asleep. You know how sometimes you’re lying there, and you think you’re still awake, and then all of a sudden, you feel like you’re falling? And then something brings you up to wide awake again. You think, Was that my own voice? You know that feeling?

I had a weird sensation, not exactly like that, but close, and then I sat up and looked over at her pillow. I might have even called her name before everything came rushing back at me. She’s gone, oh God, oh jeez, goddamn, she’s gone. Get a grip, Mike, get it together. How many more times will you be surprised to remember it?

What time is it? I have to be up at seven, as much as I don’t want to get out of this bed ever again. I have to sign papers at 8:30, and I don’t even know where to go.

Celia will know the address. She’s been great—nothing but business since she picked me up at the airport. She refuses to fall apart, and she won’t let me either. I’ll crash and burn without her consent.

I can’t see for shit. Where are my glasses? As soon as I put them on, all I want to see is something of Sarah’s. Anything. Rooting around in the drawer, but everything in here is mine. She didn’t live here very long, but you’d think there would be some artifact—a book, a hairbrush.

It’s only ten after five. What was I dreaming just now?

My feet are on the floor, on that ugly rug. That was her idea of a homey touch, not mine. It’s not what I’m looking for now, either.

I wash and dry my face. I look a thousand years older than when I left here last week. A thousand years, 7,000 miles, something like that. Then in a flash I’m doubled over the sink because I know she’s gone, and it might as well be the first time I’ve realized it, and, Oh no, oh God, why didn’t I see this coming? Maybe it was never in the cards for me to be happy.

What are the chances that I’ll sleep before the alarm goes off at 7:00? I’m hungry. What time is it in Italy? It doesn’t matter. No one is there to answer my call.

Where are my glasses?

Where is she now? Is she thinking about me?

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

The Fixer knows who should and shouldn’t park in handicapped spaces. He lets the air out of a tire. In a hard case, the Fixer lets the air out [...]]]> The Fixer works mostly at night. The Fixer addresses his attention to problems that no one else has the time, the power, or the will to solve.

The Fixer knows who should and shouldn’t park in handicapped spaces. He lets the air out of a tire. In a hard case, the Fixer lets the air out of two tires.

The Fixer calls the police to report the noisy party that’s keeping you from sleeping on the night before your big presentation. He tells the dispatcher that he’s pretty sure they’re serving booze to teenagers over there. He waits around to make sure that the patrolmen break up the festivities.

Or say some asshole cuts you off in traffic, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. The Fixer follows the guy for six or eight blocks, looking for an opportunity to get the guy back. Or sometimes the Fixer follows the bad driver home, trails him all the way into his driveway, then flashes a menacing glare, backs out, and drives away with a screech of rubber on pavement. The Fixer knows how to send a message.

The Fixer climbs over a fence to dispatch your neighbor’s yappy rat of a dog. He kills without pain or cruelty. He makes sure you don’t have to listen to that racket any more.

The Fixer goes to the office after the cleaning people have gone home for the night. He lets himself into your rival’s office using the key the receptionist keeps hidden in her desk drawer under the rubber bands. He sends a client an e-mail containing a piece of information that your rival is not supposed to know—a minor but troubling fact. He deletes the copy from the “sent” folder to complete the deception.

The Fixer resolves troubles of all kinds, very large or very small. He puts an end to an embarrassing situation before your friends suspect a thing. Then for good measure, he fixes a surprise for the no-good boyfriend who should have been by your side.

The Fixer says he believes in Divine Justice. He just doesn’t have the patience to wait around for it. The Fixer never hurts anybody who doesn’t have it coming.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

You’ve gotten me in big trouble now. I know you’re a good-hearted and thoughtful fellow, but I think maybe you’re too chatty.

I keep getting sad looks from all the other bunnies. I try to explain that the haiku I wrote was a gift for all the rabbits in the park. Sure, you and [...]]]> Dear Bunny Rabbit,

You’ve gotten me in big trouble now. I know you’re a good-hearted and thoughtful fellow, but I think maybe you’re too chatty.

I keep getting sad looks from all the other bunnies. I try to explain that the haiku I wrote was a gift for all the rabbits in the park. Sure, you and I have a special bond, but I feel a lot of fondness for your whole species.

Anyway, I’ve started work on an epic poem with a bunny hero and a bunny maiden and all kinds of stuff about warm days and green grass. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Can you help me get the word out so your friends will stop looking at me like I ate their mother or something?

Yesterday, an armadillo looked like he was trying to get my attention, and then as soon as I went to talk to him, he went shy and nervous the way they always do. But the look of reproach on his face was unmistakable, so I went home and wrote something for him and his people, too.

The armadillo
bravely crunches the dry leaves
on the twilit path.

It’s not much, but I hope they’ll appreciate the gesture.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

“So we took [...]]]> “We went to the Half Moon after we got off work. Lorraine wanted a drink ’cause she says it’s all over with Bobby, there’s no way she’s gonna take him back again. I said no, I’m due back here at 7:30, and she said, oh come on, just come with me for one.

“So we took her car, and I left mine behind the diner where I always park it. ’Cause you know I’d always rather ride with somebody else, especially if I’m gonna be drinking. And it was Lo who invited me to this party, so I figured she could make sure I got home.

“That guy with the arms was working the back bar at the Half Moon, so Lo and me went back there to get a couple beers. He said, ladies, can I get you started with a shot of tequila, and next thing I know, Lorraine is slamming her shot glass on the bar, and her and the bartender were saying, drink! drink! drink! and baby, you know how fucked up I get on tequila.

“We partied for a while after that, dancing and drinking a few more beers. I don’t know how many. I said to Lo, can we please get something to eat, or else I’m gonna be too hung over to work in the morning. So we walked over to Sonic and shared a burger and some fries sitting on one of the picnic tables in front. And I felt okay after that.

“We went back to Lorraine’s car, and she said, honey, are you okay to drive ’cause I could give you a ride home, it’s not that far out of my way. But I said no, I’m really okay. I really thought I was, I swear.

“She dropped me off by the side of the diner. I remember I saw Manuel’s truck was still in front, so I went the long way around to my car. I didn’t want another run-in with him the way I was feeling.

“And then I drove home, and nothing happened, I was really okay. I thought I was, and then I was almost home, and I slowed down for the blinking yellow. There wasn’t no one else on the road, not a soul in sight. I swear, baby, I was awake and sober and there wasn’t another car anywhere. And I put on my signal and made the left turn, and there was this horrible crunch on the right side, oh my God, something hit me or I hit something, I didn’t know, and I was so scared ’cause I was thinking about the tequila and the beers, and I didn’t see nothing but I felt the weight of whatever it was like a hard thump on the passenger door, and then I wasn’t thinking, just driving and driving, fast up the street, and looking around to see if anybody saw me, and I was crying and I was sure someone would be coming after me. And when I got to that sharp turn at Manassas, I was going too fast, and I went up on the curb, and I heard metal like something broke off the car….”

After that, she fell apart again, and it took me 15 more minutes to get her to stop crying. She told me that she’d left the car eight blocks away, parked next to the Baptist church, and walked home. From her driveway, she could see lights flashing over on Beaufort Street, so she walked around the corner and down to where a streetlight was out and she could try to get a look without being seen. But she was too scared to get close, so all she saw was the flashing lights of two patrol cars and an ambulance, and shapes of people moving around in front of the headlights and flashers.

She came home, locked all the doors, and sat on the living-room floor, crying her eyes out and waiting for a knock on the door. She was sure someone would come to arrest her as soon as they found her banged-up car. After two hours, she went back outside to find that all the lights were gone. That’s when she called me.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I felt again the pain of being separated from him. [...]]]> He was in that state where you’re not quite asleep and not quite awake. I tried to wake him, but found that I couldn’t form words that would mean anything. He sat upright in the bed and called out my name. He couldn’t hear my answer.

I felt again the pain of being separated from him. His face looked as if he were struggling to remember something.

He turned away to reach for something on the bedside table. I wanted to say, “Please, no, Michael, don’t turn your back on me.” I heard him pull out the drawer. I wondered what he could be looking for at this hour of the night.

He went into the bathroom. I sat on the corner of the bed nearest the window and contemplated the rug. I remembered the weekend in Pennsylvania when I talked him into buying it. I don’t think he ever liked the shaggy old thing, but he hasn’t had time to make changes yet.

I thought of the last time we spoke—his phone call from Milan. It was Saturday morning there, still Friday night here. I wasn’t ready to answer his question, but if I could talk to him now, I wouldn’t hesitate.

Oh God, how I wish I could say “yes.”

When he came back to bed, I could have sworn he was looking right at me as his eyes filled with tears.

March 25, 2008—See also Exercise #49.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick