Stories (2011) (105 page)

"No one tried to stop me. No one seemed to know I was
there. I didn’t bother with the concession stand. No one would have waited on
me anyway.

"Well, that was the first time of the complete
fadeouts. And I remember when I was leaving the movie, I got this funny idea. I
went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I swear to you, Doc, on my
mother’s grave, there wasn’t an image in the mirror. I gripped the sink to keep
upright, and when I looked up again I was fading in, slowly. Well, I didn’t
stick around to see my face come into view. I left there and went straight
home.

"That afternoon was the corker. My wife, Connie, I know
she’s been seeing another man. Why not? She can’t see me. And when she can I
don’t have the presence of a one-watt bulb. I came home from the movie and
she’s all dressed up and talking on the phone.

"I say, ‘Who you talking to?’"

Merguson crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the
psychiatrist’s desk. "Doesn’t say doodly squat, Doc. Not a word. I’m mad
as hell. I go upstairs and listen on the extension. It’s a man, and they’re
planning a date.

"I broke in over the line and started yelling at them.
Guess what? The guy says, ‘Do you hear a buzzing or something or other?’ ‘No,’
she says. And they go right on with their plans.

"I was in a homicidal rage. I went downstairs and
snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it across the room. I wrecked
furniture and busted up some lamps and expensive pottery. Just made a general
wreck out of the place.

"She screamed then, Doc. I tell you she screamed good.
But then she says the thing that makes me come here. ‘Oh God,’ she says.
‘Ghost! Ghost in this house!’

"That floored me, and I knew I was invisible again. I
went upstairs and looked in the bathroom mirror. Sure enough. Nothing there. So
I waited until I faded back and I called your secretary. It took me five tries
before she finally wrote my name down, gave me an appointment. It was worse
than when I tried to get the meat from the butcher. So I hurried right over. I
had to get this out. I swear I’m not going crazy, it’s a disease, and it’s
getting worse and worse and worse.

"So what can I do, Doc? How can I handle this? I know
it’s not in my head, and I’ve got to have some advice. Please, Doc. Say
something. Tell me what to do. I’ve never been this desperate in my entire
life. I might fade out again and not come back."

The psychiatrist took his hand from his chin where it had
been resting.

"Wha... ? Sorry. I must have dozed. What was it again,
Mr.... uh?"

Merguson dove across the desk, clawing for the
psychiatrist’s throat.

Later when the law came and found the psychiatrist strangled
and slumped across his desk, his secretary said, "Funny, I don’t remember
anyone coming in or leaving. Couldn’t have come in while I was here. He had an
appointment with a Mr.... uh." She looked at the appointment book. "A
Mr. Merguson. But he never showed."

Jim watched as the plane filled up. It was a pretty tightly
stacked flight, but last time, coming into Houston, he had watched as every
seat filled except for the one on his left and the one on his right. He had hit
the jackpot that time, no row mates. That made it comfortable, having all that
knee and elbow room.

He had the middle seat again, an empty seat to his left, and
one to his right. He sat there hoping there would be the amazing repeat of the
time before.

A couple of big guys, sweating and puffing, were moving down
the aisle, and he thought, Yep, they'll be the ones. Probably one of them on
either side. Shit, he'd settle for just having one seat filled, the one by the
window, so he could get out on the aisle side. Easy to go to the bathroom that
way, stretch your legs.

The big guys passed him by. He saw a lovely young woman
carrying a straw hat making her way down the center. He thought, Someone has
got to sit by me, maybe it'll be her. He could perhaps strike up a
conversation. He might even find she's going where he's going, doesn't have a
boyfriend. Wishful thinking, but it was a better thing to think about than big
guys on either side of him, hemming him in like the center of a sandwich.

But no, she passed him by, as well. He looked up at her,
hoping she'd look his way. Maybe he could get a smile at least. That would be
nice.

Of Course, he was a married man, so that was no way to
think.

But he was thinking it. She didn't look and she didn't
smile. Jim sighed, waited. The line was moving past him. There was only one
customer left. A shirtless bear in dungarees and work boots, carrying a hat.
The bear looked peeved, or tired, or both.

Oh shit, thought Jim. Bears—they've got to stink. All that
damn fur. He passes me by, I'm going to have a seat free to myself on either
side. He doesn't, well, I've got to ride next to him for several hours.

But the bear stopped in his row, pointed at the window seat.
"That's my seat."

"Sure," Jim said, and moved out of the middle seat
and out into the aisle to let the bear in. The bear settled in by the window
and fastened his seat belt and rested his hat on his knee. Jim slid back into
the middle seat. He could feel the heat off the bear's big hairy arm. And there
was a smell. Nothing nasty or ripe. Just a kind of musty odor, like an old fur
coat hung too long in a closet, dried blood left in a carpet, a whiff of
cigarette smoke and charred wood.

Jim watched the aisle again. No one else. He could hear them
closing the door. He unfastened his seat belt and moved to the seat closest to
the aisle. The bear turned and looked at him. "You care I put my hat in
the middle seat?"

"Not at all," Jim said.

"I get tired of keeping up with it. Thinking of taking
it out of the wardrobe equation."

Suddenly it snapped. Jim knew the bear. Had seen him on TV.
He was a famous environmentalist. Well, that was something. Had to sit by a
musty bear, helped if he was famous. Maybe there would be something to talk
about.

"Hey," the bear said, "I ask you something,
and I don't want it to sound rude, but..'. can I?"

"Sure."

"I got a feeling, just from a look you gave me, you
recognized me."

"I did."

"Well, I don't want to be too rude, sort of leave a
fart hanging in the air, though, I might. . . deer carcass. Never agrees. But I
really don't want to talk about me or what I do or who I am, and let me just be
completely honest. I was so good at what I do ... well, I
am
good. Let
me rephrase that. I was really as successful as people think, you believe I'd
be riding coach? After all my years of service to the forest, it's like asking
your best girl to ride bitch like she was the local poke. So I don't want to
talk about it."

"I never intended to ask," Jim said. That was a
lie, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

"Good. That's good," said the bear, and leaned
back in his seat and put the hat on his head and pulled it down over his eyes.

For a moment Jim thought the bear had gone to sleep, but no,
the bear spoke again. "Now that we've got that out of the way, you want to
talk, we can talk. Don't want to, don't have to, but we can talk; just don't
want to talk about the job and me and the television ads, all that shit. You
know what I'd like to talk about?" "What's that?"

"Poontang. All the guys talk about pussy. But me, I'm a
bear, so it makes guys uncomfortable, don't want to bring it up. Let me tell
you something, man, I get plenty, and I don't just mean bear stuff. Guy like
me, that celebrity thing going and all, I can line them up outside the old
motel room, knock 'em off like shooting ducks from a blind. Blondes, redheads, brunettes,
bald, you name it, I can bang it."

This made Jim uncomfortable. He couldn't remember the last
time he'd had sex with his wife, and here was a smelly bear with a goofy hat
knocking it off like there was no tomorrow. He said, "Aren't we talking
about your celebrity after all? I mean, in a way?"

"Shit. You're right. Okay. Something else. Maybe
nothing. Maybe we just sit. Tell you what, I'm going to read a magazine, but
you think of something you want to talk about, you go ahead. I'm
listening."

Jim got a magazine out of the pouch in front of him and read
a little, even came across an ad with the bear's picture in it, but he didn't
want to bring that up. He put the magazine back and thought about the book he
had in the overhead, in his bag, but he hated to bother. Besides, the book was
the usual thriller, and he didn't feel like bothering.

After a while the flight attendant came by. She was a
nice-looking woman who looked even nicer because of her suit, the way she
carried herself, the air of authority. She asked if they'd like drinks.

Jim ordered a diet soda, which was free, but the bear pulled
out a bill and bought a mixed drink, a Bloody Mary. They both got peanuts. When
the flight attendant handed the bear his drink, the bear said, "Honey, we
land, you're not doing anything, I could maybe show you my wild side, find
yours."

The bear grinned, and showed some very ugly teeth.

The flight attendant leaned over Jim, close to the bear, and
said, "I'd rather rub dirt in my ass than do anything with you."

This statement hung in the air like backed-up methane for a
moment, then the flight attendant smiled, moved back and stood in the aisle,
then looked right at Jim and said, "If you need anything else, let me
know," and she was gone.

The bear had let down his dining tray and he had the drink
in its plastic cup in his hand. The Bloody Mary looked very bloody. The bear
drank it in one big gulp. He said, "Flight drinks. You could have taken a
used Tampax and dipped it in rubbing alcohol and it would taste the same."

Jim didn't say anything. The bear said, "She must be a
lesbian. Got to be. Don't you think?"

The way the bear turned and looked at him, Jim thought it
was wise to agree. "Could be."

The bear crushed the plastic cup. "No 'could be.' Is.
Tell me you agree. Say,
is."

"Is," Jim said, and his legs trembled slightly.
"That's right, boy. Now whistle up that lesbian bitch, get her back over
here. I want another drink."

When they landed in Denver, the bear was pretty liquored up.
He walked down the ramp crooked and his hat was cocked at an odd angle that
suggested it would fall at any moment. But it didn't.

The plane had arrived late, and this meant Jim had missed
his connecting flight due to a raging snowstorm. The next flight was in the
morning and it was packed. He'd have to wait until midafternoon tomorrow just
to see if a flight was available. He called his wife on his cell phone, told
her, and then rang off, feeling depressed and tired and wishing he could stay
home and never fly again.

Jim went to the bar, thinking he might have a nightcap,
catch a taxi to the hotel, and there was the bear, sitting on a stool next to a
blonde with breasts so big they were resting on the bar in front of her. The
bear, his hat still angled oddly on his head, was chatting her up.

Jim went behind them on his way to a table. He heard the
bear say, "Shid, darlin', you dun't know whad yer missin'. 'Ere's wimen
all o'er 'is world would lige to do it wid a bear."

"I'm not that drunk yet," the blonde said,
"and I don't think they have enough liquor here to make me that
drunk." She got up and walked off.

Jim sat down at a table with his back to the bar. He didn't
want the bear to recognize him, but he wanted a drink. And then he could smell
the bear. The big beast was right behind him. He turned slightly. The bear was
standing there, dripping saliva as thick as sea foam from his teeth onto his
furry chest.

"Eh, buddy, 'ow you doin'.'' The bear's words were so
slurred, it took Jim a moment to understand.

"Oh," he said. "Not so good. Flight to
Seattle is delayed until tomorrow."

"Me, too," the bear said, and plopped down in a
chair at the table so hard the chair wobbled and Jim heard a cracking sound
that made him half expect to see the chair explode and the bear go tumbling to
the floor. "See me wid dat gal? Wus dryin to roun me ub sum, ya know."
"No luck?"

"Les'bin. The're eberyware."

Jim decided he needed to get out of this pretty quick.
"Well, you know, I don't think I'm going to wait on that drink. Got to get
a hotel room, get ready for tomorrow."

"Naw, dunt do 'at. Er, led me buy ya a drank. Miz. You
in dem tidht panss."

So the waitress came over and the bear ordered some drinks
for them both. Jim kept trying to leave, but no go. Before he knew it, he was
almost as hammered as the bear.

Finally, the bear, just two breaths short of a complete
slur, said, "Eber thang 'ere is den times duh prize. Leds go ta a real
bar." He paused." Daby Crogett killed a bar." And then the bear
broke into insane laughter.

"Wen e wus ony tree . . . three. Always subone gad ta
shood sub bar subware. Cum on, eds go. I know dis town ligh duh bag ob muh
'and."

They closed down a midtown bar. Jim remembered that pretty
well. And then Jim remembered something about the bear saying they ought to
have some companionship, and then things got muddled. He awoke in a little
motel room, discovered the air was full of the smell of moldy bear fur, alcohol
farts, a coppery aroma, and sweaty perfume.

Sitting up in bed, Jim was astonished to find a very plump
girl with short blonde hair next to him in bed. She was lying facedown, one long,
bladderlike tit sticking out from under her chest, the nipple pierced with a
ring that looked like a washer.

Jim rolled out of bed and stood up beside it. He was nude
and sticky. "Shit," he said. He observed the hump under the sheet
some more, the washer in the tit. And then, as his eyes adjusted, he looked
across the room and saw another bed, and he could see on the bedpost the bear's
hat, and then the bear, lying on the bed without his pants. There was another
lump under the blanket. One delicate foot stuck out from under the blanket near
the end of the bed, a gold chain around the ankle. The bear was snoring softly.
There were clothes all over the floor, a pair of panties large enough to be
used as a sling for the wounded leg of a hippopotamus was dangling from the
light fixture. That would belong to his date.