The Phil Collins was bouncing off the hard wood floors as I sat and thought about her. Her name wasn't Sussudio, but I just wanted to say the word. It had been a week since she left me sitting in my El Camino with nothing left to hold onto except my own fading sense of self-worth. But Phil was there for me again. Just like he had been there for me in sixth grade, when Courtney wouldn't dance with me at the fall formal. And in eleventh grade when Kerry abandoned me for the Eagles Reunion tour. And after prom, when Jane dumped me on the dance floor, I found Phil Collins and we wished for the rain together. That's just the kind of guy Phil Collins is—he’s there for you on the days when you feel like you cannot stop the tears. I know guys in my line of work are supposed to be tough, and I am when I have to be, but sometimes just hearing "In the Air Tonight" will make me cry like a little child.
But that's a digression. She left. And there I was throwing myself recklessly into my work. They say any distraction is a good one when you're trying to forget someone, but I gotta tell you, scanning over life insurance documents to try and figure out some bullshit about what I can't even remember is no way to feel better. I thought I took this kind of work because it was interesting. Still, doing work is better than a lot of other options I have tried in the past.
The lamp on my desk flickered and the streetlight, bright and constant outside my second-floor window, was the only source of light in my office for a minute. The lamp kicked back up and that's the night my new client walked into the boring, semi-depressed party that I thought I only invited Phil Collins to. He seemed a slight man, my new client. Everything about him said small, and it only said that because saying timid might be overstepping the bounds. He was wearing a pair of glasses that were barely bigger than his tiny green eyes. His suit was well-worn and he had already loosened his tie after a day that, if I had to guess, was another in a long line of mental and psychological beatings. His eyes were small, as I said, but they were sharp. There was still a flicker of something in there. It was too soon to know whether it was hope, or brains, or just a couple pints.
"You're [the gumshoe]?" he asked as if the name on the door wasn't assurance enough.
"Yeah." And then a silence settled in for a second. He was either having second thoughts or he didn't know how to start. "Why don't you sit down and tell me your name and your problem and I'll suggest ways I can help."
"Yes." He sat quickly, setting a briefcase neatly beside the chair and folding his arms into his lap as I reached for the stereo and turned the Phil Collins down. "My name is Simon Flettering and. Well. It's my wife, Selma. I think she's left me."
"You're not sure?" I've been dumped many, many times, and I've always been sure that I was dumped. But then, maybe I just dated women who were extremely communicative that way. Maybe.
"I came home from work yesterday and she was gone. Her closets were cleared out and the suitcases were gone. There wasn't a note, but...she wasn't there." His eyes shifted nervously as he spoke. It's never easy to tell another guy you've been dumped. No matter how many times it happens, you just hate to have to tell other guys. It's not so much the judgment or the possibility of getting emotional, it's the weird vulnerability. It's that moment of telling your buddies that there's a way to get to you, right to your core.
"Have you been having trouble lately?"
"A little." Another quiet stretch as he considered what to tell me and I thought about what the best way to ask my questions was without chasing him, and his wallet, out of the room.
"Can you tell me about it? The more you tell me the better I can tell you whether it's best to search for her or wait for her to return. Or let her go." The last sentence caught him in the gut, I could see it in his eyes. But he got it together quickly.
"Well. We'd been having a lot of arguments lately. She'd gotten herself a new boyfriend and I he was treating her--" He'd said it so casually.
"Excuse me, did you say 'new boyfriend'? As in she's had others?"
"Sure. We're. Well, she has boyfriends and it's okay with me. As long as they treat her nice, which this last guy didn't."
"You're not the jealous type, Simon?"
"No, not really. We're a different type of marriage, [gumshoe]. She has boyfriends and it's okay." His face turned red and his eyes stared out the window behind me at the streetlight that dropped into view from seemingly nowhere. And I thought it was hard to tell another guy you've been dumped.
"Sure. I've read about those in Penthouse."
"Well. Regardless." He swallowed. "This new guy was taking up a lot of her time. And I asked her about it. And there was yelling."
"Uh-huh. How did you ask her about it?"
"After dinner. She'd made steak and was just about to go see him again, and I asked her about it."
"I see, but what did you say?"
"I just asked why she was seeing so much of him?"
"Sure. Well, why don't you tell me his name?"
"She didn't tell me his name. She just told me he had a huge, um."
"I see. Well, it’s good to have an identifying characteristic, but that’s not really the kind of searching I like to do."
"But you're gonna look for this guy?"
"Seems like. I get $200 a day plus expenses. Why don't we start out with a week and we'll meet again next week."
"That's fine." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a checkbook. It's a beautiful sight to watch someone write you a check. This insurance stuff I'd been working on paid most the bills, but it wasn't gonna get me to retirement. Or the new car I needed. Still, the way he agreed to my price so quickly made me wonder if I sized him up wrong. The briefcase said he had money, but the worn-out suit said not much. But here he was writing me a check for $1,000, like it was nothing. I quietly kicked myself for not asking for $250 a day. But I waited until he handed over the check before I asked if he'd involved the cops yet.
"No. I don’t think they’d…well, my story is a little unorthodox."
"It is.” I said and let a moment of silence shroud the room. “Okay. Well. I'll get back to you if I find anything. If not, we'll meet a week from now."
And that's how this shitstorm started.
But that's a digression. She left. And there I was throwing myself recklessly into my work. They say any distraction is a good one when you're trying to forget someone, but I gotta tell you, scanning over life insurance documents to try and figure out some bullshit about what I can't even remember is no way to feel better. I thought I took this kind of work because it was interesting. Still, doing work is better than a lot of other options I have tried in the past.
The lamp on my desk flickered and the streetlight, bright and constant outside my second-floor window, was the only source of light in my office for a minute. The lamp kicked back up and that's the night my new client walked into the boring, semi-depressed party that I thought I only invited Phil Collins to. He seemed a slight man, my new client. Everything about him said small, and it only said that because saying timid might be overstepping the bounds. He was wearing a pair of glasses that were barely bigger than his tiny green eyes. His suit was well-worn and he had already loosened his tie after a day that, if I had to guess, was another in a long line of mental and psychological beatings. His eyes were small, as I said, but they were sharp. There was still a flicker of something in there. It was too soon to know whether it was hope, or brains, or just a couple pints.
"You're [the gumshoe]?" he asked as if the name on the door wasn't assurance enough.
"Yeah." And then a silence settled in for a second. He was either having second thoughts or he didn't know how to start. "Why don't you sit down and tell me your name and your problem and I'll suggest ways I can help."
"Yes." He sat quickly, setting a briefcase neatly beside the chair and folding his arms into his lap as I reached for the stereo and turned the Phil Collins down. "My name is Simon Flettering and. Well. It's my wife, Selma. I think she's left me."
"You're not sure?" I've been dumped many, many times, and I've always been sure that I was dumped. But then, maybe I just dated women who were extremely communicative that way. Maybe.
"I came home from work yesterday and she was gone. Her closets were cleared out and the suitcases were gone. There wasn't a note, but...she wasn't there." His eyes shifted nervously as he spoke. It's never easy to tell another guy you've been dumped. No matter how many times it happens, you just hate to have to tell other guys. It's not so much the judgment or the possibility of getting emotional, it's the weird vulnerability. It's that moment of telling your buddies that there's a way to get to you, right to your core.
"Have you been having trouble lately?"
"A little." Another quiet stretch as he considered what to tell me and I thought about what the best way to ask my questions was without chasing him, and his wallet, out of the room.
"Can you tell me about it? The more you tell me the better I can tell you whether it's best to search for her or wait for her to return. Or let her go." The last sentence caught him in the gut, I could see it in his eyes. But he got it together quickly.
"Well. We'd been having a lot of arguments lately. She'd gotten herself a new boyfriend and I he was treating her--" He'd said it so casually.
"Excuse me, did you say 'new boyfriend'? As in she's had others?"
"Sure. We're. Well, she has boyfriends and it's okay with me. As long as they treat her nice, which this last guy didn't."
"You're not the jealous type, Simon?"
"No, not really. We're a different type of marriage, [gumshoe]. She has boyfriends and it's okay." His face turned red and his eyes stared out the window behind me at the streetlight that dropped into view from seemingly nowhere. And I thought it was hard to tell another guy you've been dumped.
"Sure. I've read about those in Penthouse."
"Well. Regardless." He swallowed. "This new guy was taking up a lot of her time. And I asked her about it. And there was yelling."
"Uh-huh. How did you ask her about it?"
"After dinner. She'd made steak and was just about to go see him again, and I asked her about it."
"I see, but what did you say?"
"I just asked why she was seeing so much of him?"
"Sure. Well, why don't you tell me his name?"
"She didn't tell me his name. She just told me he had a huge, um."
"I see. Well, it’s good to have an identifying characteristic, but that’s not really the kind of searching I like to do."
"But you're gonna look for this guy?"
"Seems like. I get $200 a day plus expenses. Why don't we start out with a week and we'll meet again next week."
"That's fine." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a checkbook. It's a beautiful sight to watch someone write you a check. This insurance stuff I'd been working on paid most the bills, but it wasn't gonna get me to retirement. Or the new car I needed. Still, the way he agreed to my price so quickly made me wonder if I sized him up wrong. The briefcase said he had money, but the worn-out suit said not much. But here he was writing me a check for $1,000, like it was nothing. I quietly kicked myself for not asking for $250 a day. But I waited until he handed over the check before I asked if he'd involved the cops yet.
"No. I don’t think they’d…well, my story is a little unorthodox."
"It is.” I said and let a moment of silence shroud the room. “Okay. Well. I'll get back to you if I find anything. If not, we'll meet a week from now."
And that's how this shitstorm started.
No comments:
Post a Comment