Ted

Ted

The blonde woman said yes. I’m surprised. You’d think she’d be more careful. But people are trusting, I guess. We wrote each other all night. It’s so good to meet someone who loves the ocean as much as I do, she writes. I might not have been completely honest about that but I’ll explain when we meet.

But when and where do we meet? What do I wear? Will she actually show up? The questions come and suddenly everything is terrible. I look down at my clothes. My shirt is really old. It’s from the auto shop where I used to work. The burgundy colour has faded almost to pink, the cotton is soft and thin as paper in places. And of course, it has my name across the pocket. This is handy in case I forget, ha, ha. But I don’t think a woman would like it. My jeans are grey with age except where they are spattered with dark splashes of something, ketchup, I guess. There are holes in both knees but it doesn’t look cool. Everything is so faded. I want to be colourful, like my nice bright orange rug.

The woman is making me feel terrible, with her blue eyes and blonde hair. How can she put me through this? Why did she pick me to talk to, to meet? I can already imagine her expression when she sees me. She’ll probably just turn around and leave.

Mommy and Daddy watch from inside their silver frame. It’s heavy sterling silver. I’ve been putting this off but I think it’s time. I take the photograph of Mommy and Daddy out carefully. I give it a kiss and then I roll it up and tuck it safely into the depths of the music box. The little ballerina lies broken and dead in her musical coffin.

I learned how to pawn things after Mommy went. Silver spoons; Daddy’s pocket watch, which he got from his daddy. They are all gone, now. There are bare patches, empty places all over the house. The picture frame is the last thing.

The shop is dark on the warm dusty street. The man there gives me the money for the frame. It is much less than I need. But it will have to do. I like places where people don’t ask questions. The bills feel good in my hand. I try not to think of Mommy’s fading face, staring into the dark of the music box.

I walk west until I see a store with clothes in the window, and I go in. There is a lot of stuff here. Rods, flies, bait boxes, rubber boots, guns, bullets, flashlights, portable stoves, tents, water purifiers, yellow pants, green pants, red pants, blue shirts, check shirts, T-shirts, reflective jackets, big shoes, little shoes, brown boots, black boots … I have only taken a quick look. My heart is going too fast. There’s too much. I can’t choose.

The man behind the counter wears a brown check shirt with brown jeans and a green coat thing but without sleeves. He has a beard like me, maybe even looks a little like me, so that’s what gives me the idea.

‘Can I buy those clothes?’ I point.

‘What?’

I am a patient person so I repeat myself.

He says, ‘The ones I’m wearing? It’s your lucky day, we have all this in stock. I guess I wear them well, huh?’

I don’t like his clothes particularly. But so long as I don’t have to go on a date with my name on my shirt like a kindergartener, fine.

‘I’ll take the ones you’re wearing,’ I say. ‘If you just go take them off.’

His neck goes thick and his pupils go small. Mammals all look the same when they’re angry. ‘Listen, buddy—’

‘Kidding,’ I say quickly. ‘Gotcha, buddy. Um, do you sell dresses? Like, maybe in different colours? Maybe blue?’

‘We sell outdoor gear,’ he says, giving me a long hard look. I have messed up bad, it seems. He fetches clothes from the rails in silence. I don’t wait to try them on; I throw the dollars on the counter and go.

I get to the place early and take a seat at the bar. On either side of me are big guys who drive for a living, wearing trucker hats or leather. In my new clothes I look like one of them, which is why I picked this place. It’s good to blend in.

The bar is just off the highway, with long benches out back. They do barbecue. I thought it would be good because it’s been so hot lately. They put lights in the trees and it’s pretty. Women like stuff like that. But I see quickly that it is the wrong place to meet her. It’s raining tonight – a hot miserable thunderstorm. Everyone has been forced inside. And without the benches, the warm evening, the lights in the trees, this place looks very different. It’s quiet apart from the occasional belch. There’s no music, the fluorescents overhead are aching bright, casting glare on the aluminium tables which are littered with empty glasses and beer cans. The linoleum floor is slick with the tracks of muddy boots. I thought it was, you know, atmospheric, but now I see that it’s not nice.

I order a boilermaker. There’s a mirror behind the bar, which is another reason I chose this place and this particular seat. I can see the door perfectly.

She comes in, fresh with rain. I recognise her straight away. She looks just like her picture. Butter-yellow hair, kind blue eyes. She looks around and I see the place even more clearly, through her eyes. She’s the only woman in here. There’s a smell too, I hadn’t noticed before. Kind of like a hamster cage that needs changing – or a mouse cage, perhaps. (No. Don’t think of that.)

She goes to an aluminium table and sits. So she’s optimistic or maybe desperate. I wondered if she’d leave straight away, when she saw that the guy with the white smile from the stock photo wasn’t waiting for her. (I don’t use my own picture; I learned that lesson quickly. I found mine on the website of some accounting firm. The man is pretending to sign a document, but also looking at the camera and smiling with big white teeth.) She orders something from the tired waitress. Club soda. Optimistic with common sense. Her hair falls, hiding her face in a creamy swing of blonde. And she’s wearing a blue dress. Sometimes they come in jeans or check shirts, which isn’t what I want. But this woman has done the right thing. It doesn’t float, exactly, the dress, it’s not organza, but made of some thicker fabric like corduroy or denim and she’s wearing boots not sandals. But it’s close enough.

I set it up carefully as we exchanged messages. I talked about that album by that woman, that singer – it’s called Blue. It was my favourite album, I told her. And I loved the colour, because it was the colour of my daughter’s eyes. When the talk got warmer between us I told her it was also because it was the colour of her own eyes. Like a calm, kind sea, I wrote. I was just telling the truth, they are nice eyes. She liked it, of course.

‘Why don’t we come dressed in blue when we meet?’ I wrote then. ‘So we can recognise each other.’ She thought it was a great idea.

My flannel shirt is brown and yellow. I’ve got a green cap on. Even my jeans are brown. My new clothes are itchy but at least they don’t have my name on! I couldn’t stand the idea of her doing what the first one did – come in, take one look at me and walk out again. So I’m cheating. I feel bad about it. But I’ll explain when I go over there, in just a second. Just like I’ll explain that what I really need is a friend, not a date. I’ll apologise and we’ll laugh about it. Or maybe we won’t. My head pounds with the stress of it all.

She looks at her phone. She thinks I’m not coming. Or rather that the man with the white teeth isn’t coming. But she waits because it hasn’t been twenty minutes yet, and you always give a late person twenty minutes, that’s universal. And because hope is always the last thing to die. Or maybe she’s just warming up before heading back out into the driving rain. She sips the club soda with a grimace. Not her usual drink. I order another boilermaker. Nearly time to go over there, I tell myself. I just need this one last drink, for courage.

After thirty-five minutes exactly she gets up. Her eyes are small with disappointment. I feel awful, having made her so sad. I mean to get up and stop her but somehow it doesn’t happen. I watch in the mirror as she winds a blue silky thing around her neck. It’s too narrow for a scarf, more like a ribbon or a necktie. She puts a five-dollar bill down on the table and goes. Her movements are decisive and she walks fast. She heads out into the vertical spears of rain.

The moment the door closes behind her, it’s as if I’m released. I throw my drink down my throat, put my jacket on and follow. I’m so sorry I left her alone like that, let my nerves get the better of me. I want to make it right. I hurry, slipping on the wet linoleum. I mustn’t let her get away. I can explain and she’ll understand, I’m sure she will. Her eyes are so kind, so blue. I imagine the food I will cook for her. I’ll make her my chocolate chicken curry. Not everyone appreciates it but I bet she will.

I run out into the storm.

It’s still late afternoon but the cloud casts shadow over everything so it looks like dusk. Rain hits the puddles like bullets. The lot is filled with trucks and vans and I can’t see her anywhere. Then I do, at the far end of the lot, sitting in the warm-lit bubble of her small car. Her face is wet with rain, or she’s crying. She still has her driver’s side door open, as if even now she hasn’t quite decided to leave. She adjusts the blue thing around her neck, fumbles in her purse and finds Kleenex. She dries her face, and blows her nose. I am very moved by her poise and her courage. She stood up to life by coming out to meet me – life knocked her down, of course, because I didn’t show up – but look at her. She’s drying her face, about to pick herself up again. That’s the kind of person Olivia or Lauren could rely on. Those are the qualities I’m looking for in a friend. Someone who would be there for them, if I disappeared.

I bow my head into the billowing rain and go down the row of parked cars towards her.