Please Don't Go (8 page)

“
Yeah,” he replied, running his own hand along the book’s cover. “I am, as a matter of fact.”

“
Let me take your mind off all that,” she whispered into his ear, biting at his lobe in a playful manner. Zephyr gave himself an unsanctioned blessing from God with regards to his earlier purchases from the drugstore.

He popped a cough drop into his mouth.

7.

Richter, the high and lauded mastermind of all things grocery himself, had uncharacteristically delivered the new special order from Mr. Charles Rattup. “Same deal as last time. He requested you specifically, though,” he informed Zephyr, handing the slip of paper over with a careless glance. There was some consolation to Zephyr in the fact that Richter had not given the task to any of his slimy yes-men, particularly Karen, who was fortunately not listed on the day’s posted schedule. “Take off before shift change if you want, I’ll punch you out at the usual time,” Richter added, knowing full well that the task would take longer than remained on Zephyr’s allotted shift.

“
I’ll take care of it,” Zephyr replied, hesitant yet hopeful in his task. Since their first meeting, Zephyr had tossed around the idea of revisiting that shadowy and peculiar place again. On one hand, the man was a legend, from a certain point of view. Though he was not a “legend” in the generally accepted literary community, he was something of a big deal to Zephyr, in that he aspired to gain some notoriety and an eventual writing career, much like Rattup had. Of course, there was always that pesky
other hand
. On the other hand, what had transpired at Rattup’s house during the first delivery was something that Zephyr hoped to soon forget, to essentially banish from his sensitive mind. The shattering pitcher. The icy cold extermination of the roaring fire. Rattup turning as white as a freshly washed sheet, ushering Zephyr from his front door with a stiff boot, like the end of a Three Stooges sketch after the boys were found out to be frauds (“Why, you’re not professional chefs at all!”). It was all too unreasonable for such a reasonable world. It sent forth great rumbling quakes in Zephyr’s sanctity.

Scanning over the list of goods, which were almost identical to the previous haul of booty, Zephyr called after the fleeting Richter with a question, “Hey, what do you know about this Rattup guy?” He raised an eyebrow, quite consciously, and awaited his boss’ response with absorbent ears. Rattup was the new definition of
enigma
, and Zephyr hoped to gather whatever slivers from the truth pie that he could easily obtain without making waves in the geezer’s life.

Stopping in his tracks, huffing with annoyance (
so many inconsequential things to do, so little time in which to pretend that he was doing them
), Richter turned and asked of his lowest totem-grasper, “What does it matter to you, Z? Just bring the food, right? Make the old fart happy, maybe you’ll get a tip. I don’t give two shits either way.” Richter shrugged his shoulders. He only begged, with his eyes, that Zephyr not offend their steadily paying customer, and that he would continue to call in hefty orders (especially with the twenty-five percent special delivery markup of all items that went directly into Richter’s happily bloated pocket). Rattup’s happiness was Richter’s happiness was Zephyr’s happiness. There existed a beautiful and symbiotic relationship that was not to be tinkered with by perpetual personal questions.

“
Right,” Zephyr replied curtly, adding, “But have you ever met him? Has he ever come into the market before?”

“
No, as a matter of fact. I’ve never met the windbag, only talked to him on the phone. Sounds like a real piece of work, though. Thinks he’s fucking Shakespeare, always ranting about different foods and where they come from, like I give a damn. What does it matter to you?” Richter repeated. “I don’t pay you to sit around pondering these douche-bags. Just bring him his food and we all sleep well.”

8.

“
The young apprentice returns!” Rattup trumpeted as Zephyr labored through the narrow door, peeking through the bevy of grocery bags cradled in his arms. Rattup patted him on the shoulder enthusiastically, grabbing hold of a bag to lighten his apprentice’s load. Rattup already thought of Zephyr as such, even though they had met but one time in all their lives. He had rolled the word
apprentice
over his tongue several times in practice, in the mirror, while waiting for his delivery. Now Rattup scurried to the kitchen with Zephyr in tow, plopping his bag on the table, and asked, “And how is the blossoming love life of this young man? Does her flower scream for your pollen?” Rattup blushed at the comment, as it had slipped from his tongue without preparation, impromptu and potentially off-color in its nature. His gaffe had mildly embarrassed him, but that feeling soon faded as Zephyr burst into laughter at the wording of his question.

“
I’d say she receives adequate pollen, sir. She is doing just fine. Things are well,” Zephyr replied. “And how are you?”

Rattup gave pause, placing his finger to his lips in contemplation. Zephyr unloaded his burdened arms on to the kitchen island and started to remove the various goods from the brown paper bags. “Please, leave those. I can unpack while I make our lunch,” Rattup noted, returning to his zen-like state of silence, staring at nothing in particular. He squinted his eyes and stated with quiet gratitude, “Splendid. I am doing splendid.” At this, he burst into a more comical response, “Every single day is splendid when you are free of the rigors of mankind! Look about you, son. I am the lone wolf in every sense of the phrase. I only deal with the bumblers and nimrods of the world on the phone, for they are not welcome in this house, unlike you. They are away from me, where they ought to be. There could be nothing more pleasing for a man, you will one day find. Though the soft touch of a woman would be nice, once in a while, I cannot say that it would solve any of my immediate or long term problems. In fact, it would surely create new dramatics for me to handle. I am far too old for that.”

Zephyr grinned at Rattup, “But I’m sure you get lonely. Right?” He had purposefully disobeyed Rattup’s no-unpacking order for one obvious exception, removing the chocolate ice cream from one of the bags, swinging open the freezer, and placing it inside. It barely fit amongst the plague of thick white frost that had overtaken the space.

“
Well, yes. You are correct, my boy. I get lonely, just like anybody would. But is that not why we have begun this new friendship?” he asked, his eyes glimmering.

“
Of course.” Zephyr nodded an uneasy, unnatural nod. Had they arrived at friendship so quickly? He thought then of the narrator and red-headed woman from Rattup’s story- the acceleration of acquaintance, like a runaway stallion, beaten and bruised.

Rattup approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder. He gazed into the young man’s face, declaring, “I am so glad that you chose to return. I would have been hesitant after last time, if our roles were reversed. You’re a braver soul than me, for sure. But everything is fine now. It’s all been taken care of. You know that, correct?”

Zephyr was confused, and his face betrayed him in that regard. “I don’t follow.”

“
Everything is copacetic now. We talked. You’re okay to visit anytime you’d like. She’s approved of you.” He winked at Zephyr, changing the subject so swiftly that the young man dared not to bring up past discussions, though he wanted to desperately, “And so we dine?”

“
And so we dine,” Zephyr repeated, studying the man’s face for the plaguing insanity that seemed to be hiding in the shaky bushes of his mind. He spoke of a woman who did not exist, of a
she
that Zephyr could not detect, but he felt guilt in pointing this out, and so he abstained. The old man had quite simply lost his mind, and Zephyr immediately laid blame upon the wrenching agonies of Alzheimer’s. He had once seen his Uncle Abbot go through a similar downfall, and in those final days of his life the man could scarcely recall his own name, let alone Zephyr’s. The look that had hidden itself behind Abbot’s retinas, though, was not so apparent in Rattup’s. Not yet, at least. Of course, every person responded to their respective illnesses with different results. Perhaps it was still early for Rattup.

“
And so we dine!” Rattup declared with a shout, never known to allow anybody the last word.
Writers
, thought Zephyr, trailing off into his own mind.
And so we dine!

***

For their second lunch, Rattup had prepared something more vegetarian-friendly than before. He waltzed from his kitchen, through the short hallway that connected to his poorly lit library-slash-den, and brought in his wake a trail of pungent steam. “Today, we eat like the brontosaurus did, sans flesh. Portabella mushrooms, the fattest ones you’ve ever seen... well, of course you’ve seen them already, you brought the damn things from your market,” Rattup announced himself, chuckling at the ridiculousness of explaining the parameters of the hearty foods that his grocery ward had delivered. “But you could not have known of the delectable homemade stuffing which I have whipped together. I use stale Italian bread for my stuffing, but sometimes I throw in a plain or onion bagel. Not this time though. I saute some celery, onions, and butter. The secret ingredient is chopped broccoli. I whip that stuffing up good, jam it into the bellies of the mushrooms, then I sprinkle it down with dill weed and salt. It melts in your mouth. A satisfying meal. And of course, I will top off our meal with artichoke hummus and salted pita chips.”

“
Sounds great,” Zephyr replied, rubbing his hands together and smiling with voracious eyes, soon forgetting the strange happenings of his last visit. It sounded and smelled like the ideal meal to Zephyr. Ever since swearing off it-had-a-face foods, Zephyr had searched high and low for desirable victuals to supplement his limited palette. Vegetables became worn out after a while, he had found. And so spicy new additions to his repertoire were always welcomed, and with open arms. Though he had never consumed a stuffed portabella mushroom before, the strange odor that it gave off smelled enchanting. A leathery, dirty smell filled the air, and Zephyr could not explain why that bizarre mixture appealed to him.

“
The tools of the trade,” Rattup informed him, handing over a knife and fork. “And something to wash it down,” he added, handing over a glass of his pitch-perfect lemonade, a subtle reminder of the imploding crystal pitcher from their previous encounter.

“
Thank you,” Zephyr replied, quite thankful for Rattup’s overwhelming generosity. Zephyr leaned forward in his slightly rocking armchair, as did Rattup in his chestnut couch, which seemed to absorb him like a sponge when he became overly settled in it.

There was a dim silence as they ate their meals. The fire, born anew since his last visitation, was roaring at their side, tickling the mesh iron curtain that covered it with undulating flames. It warmed Zephyr all over and made him feel at home, lovely in his shell of comfort, further deepening his forget of what had transpired after their last fireside meal. The chill of the morning had now fully escaped the confines of his rattling bones, and he was grateful for that consolation.

“
So are you enjoying the book? Let me preface that by saying that the kid gloves, as they say, are off. If you loathe my work, do not be afraid to tear it to shreds. I’ve come far enough that it no longer hurts my feelings. I’m a big boy, as they say,” Rattup half-lied. His emotional tie to his writing would always exist at some level, that was undeniable. A writer never abandoned the love for his own words, and when the community at large (specifically his most intelligent and lauded critics, they of the pipe-smoking and brandy-sipping and
I do declare
variety) disagreed... well, that was pain incarnate. “Strike me down where I stand!” he roared with a grin creeping across his face. He sliced into his baked mushroom and shoveled a nub into his mouth, as if to tell Zephyr that he was done talking, for the moment. There were social cues that Rattup employed regularly, and one, Zephyr decided, must only be observant enough to detect them.

Zephyr nodded, placed his fork on his plate, and finished chewing his most recent bite of mushroom. “Okay,” he began. “I’ve only read the first part of your story. It was sort of a rough week since I had two papers due.
Simultaneously
. So I only got a start to it. But I like it.” He paused, reconsidering for a moment, adding, “I like it a lot.”

“
You lie,” Rattup said, his face turning to a mushy wrinkled stone. He sipped his lemonade, as though he needed to wash the rotten taste from his fetid tongue.

“
I don’t!” Zephyr replied, his voice cracking at the defensiveness he could not hide. “Your writing style is very captive. Very visual, as though the city is a character in and of itself. Is that what you intended?” He studied Rattup’s face for some tenderness after his bitter knee-jerk reaction to the young man’s initial analysis.

“
I did. I’m glad you saw that. I’ve always done that. The room, the city, the town, the store, the restaurant. These are characters that live and breathe as you and I do. The cobble stoned streets and the faceless people. They are integral. And you dare not ever forget this,” Rattup explained. As he spoke these words, Zephyr looked about the room they were in, practicing the strategy at the very moment itself, as if he were subconsciously exemplifying his understanding to Charles.