The Fight Within (8 page)

There was nothing ‘cutesy’ about it—the shit stunk of old and new blood money, all tangled together like a bunch of antediluvian boating knots. The ‘Have’ and ‘Have Nots’ knew which end of the pier they stood on, and it was above everyone else, looking down and over at the rest of the world with their noses jammed in the air. The whole damn village was pretentious, snooty and élite. The only thing he saw as worthy were the tree-lined streets, a nice break from the brick, mortar and concrete that surrounded him on a daily basis back home. Another perk was, the pickings were good…

It did afford him to find something worth a dollar or two on occasion; so much so, he sporadically sold the shit on eBay to supplement his income. This was his tenth month in the area after he replaced Daniel Parker, a hefty guy with the personality of a dead squid who’d quit Johnny on the spot once his SSI checks kicked in.

With his ear bud headphones securely pressed in his ears, he drifted back into the task at hand and simply did his job. The stormy melodies of Cypress Hill, ‘How I Could Just Kill a Man’, played until the tune transitioned into the upbeat harmony of Foster the People, ‘Don’t Stop’. Bobbing his head along to the catchy song, he held tight to the slowly moving truck, hitching a ride to the next turn, right down Lyons Place. As they stopped and moved up the roadway, he’d wave here and there as if he were the attraction in the Macy’s parade. Men and women dressed in freshly dry-cleaned business suits slid their overpaid asses into their expensive cars and undoubtedly forgot about seeing him as fast as their wave dissipated.

Invisible.

Ya think ya doin’ me uh favor by waving, don’t cha? Think that’s your good deed of the goddamn day? Fuck you.

He smirked as he hauled another trashcan from the sidewalk, this time with a bit more oomph as he turned the damn thing upside down and watched the wrinkled and smashed contents spill inside the angry, stinking mouth of the electronic metal beast. Moving a bit farther up the street, he came across the vocational bane of his existence—a sprawled fucking mess. The cans were set topsy-turvy, some with the lids half off and others with jagged things sticking out of them, as if wooden arms were stretching up toward the sky begging to be struck by lightning.

“Look at this shit!”

Broken glass, posts with mangled, jutted nails and other tetanus shot worthy items were there for his viewing dis-pleasure.

“It’s always
one
! I’d be likely to get an infected wound with a complimentary doctor’s visit co-pay!” Not only that, he’d have to shell out funds for a drugstore prescription too…but this was not as uncommon as he’d like.

“Fuck! I hate when they do this shit,” he continued to complain as he waved toward the front of the truck to the driver. “Yo’, Roy, stop a minute, man. Gotta leave a damn note.” The driver nodded, put the thing in park and rested his hands on the steering wheel. Sean ensured the break lights appeared before jumping off the back of the damn vehicle, slamming down onto the dark gray rubber of his soles, previously white, now tarnished with time and gunk. The bottoms of his feet burned from the harsh impact, but he paid it little mind. He rushed across the sidewalk, picked up each can, his chin raised high to avoid getting scraped in the face from all the serrated debris, then slammed the things back down, now empty, in their proper spot. Slicking a pad of paper out of his jumpsuit pocket, he gripped an old BIC ink pen with one hand and filled out a company Post-It note:

Larchmont-Mamaroneck Joint Sanitation Commission:

Address: 25 Lyons Place

Reason for notification: Trash is not confined in containers properly and exceeds weight requirements. Please note, this serves as a warning. We reserve the right to refuse to remove rubbish due to a hazard to ourselves and/or violations of the Larchmont-Mamaroneck Joint Sanitation Commission laws and bylaws.

He scribbled his name beneath the hand-written information, dated it, then slapped the orange sticker onto the side of the dented, plastic can that smelled of old chicken noodle soup and rotten beef guts. Jumping back on the vehicle, he rode shotgun, holding onto the steel grip as he bobbed his head to his music, enchanted, delighted, removed from the situation and place via the tunes of one of his favorite bands. Best thing ever to quiet his savage inner beast…

*

“He looks like
a duck.”

“Oh stop it, Treasure! Look, Quincy and I thought you two would hit it off, be real compatible. He is divorced as well, has an adult daughter, and makes a good living. Besides, looks aren’t everything.”

“No, you’re right, they aren’t, but he has also only talked about himself this entire damn time, Erin. I guess since these stories he shares are from his own personal life. We could title those, ‘Duck Tales’…”

Erin cackled on the other end of the phone, though she knew her friend was serious and wanted her to give the man a fighting chance. Treasure sat in the quasi-dark restaurant, set aglow with vibrant candlelight, a romantic dream. Only, she was alone, waiting for her blind date to return from the restroom…no doubt ruffling his fowl-like feathers in the latrine.

“This is one case where I wish I’d been deserted. I hope he bailed on me, Erin, flew the coop!”

“Treasure, I refuse to laugh, do you hear me? Now you stop this.” The woman sounded about as sincere as a prostitute begging a john to keep his money.

“If he left out the back door of the kitchen…maybe the chefs caught him and cooked him up? Me paying the duck bill would still be well worth it.”

“Treasure, he is a good person! I refuse to be a part of this terrible conversation.” She could tell the woman was chewing on the end of a guffaw, but refused to let it out of her mouth since the man was a friend of her family. “Now listen, you are
really
acting up. Stop being so negative! Look, it’s been a long time since you’ve been on a
real
date…not this crazy stuff where you meet a guy and he tries to have sex with you then runs off. It’s time for you to get out and live a little, have some gentlemanly company. You’re only forty-three years old!”

“Forty-two. You aren’t slick Erin, tryna age me a bit faster so you can feel cuter.” Her girlfriend burst out laughing.

“Anyway, why give up on a love life now?”

“I have a boyfriend named Bob that causes me no grief. He costs me approximately three dollars a month.”

“In batteries?”

“You got it. My Battery Operated Boyfriend is wonderful.” She smirked. “I’m just tired of this, Erin.” She looked around the restaurant, and her heart sank a bit…so many couples. So many smiles across strange faces… “Another reason is because I no longer have the patience to deal with this mess, girl. And besides, the men out here are so full of themselves…the Quentins of the world are long gone. Your husband is a rare breed. Knowing my bad luck, I’ll end up with another Jackson.”

“No, trust me, there is only
one
Jackson. That sort of bastard only comes around once in a lifetime. The devil needs him on the main line. He is a rare breed,” Erin teased, bite in her sardonic tone.

“You can say that again.” Treasure smirked. “Oh, gotta go. Here he waddles and quacks now, he is about that Pond Life.”

“Stop it!” Erin burst out laughing. “And stop using all that crazy jargon from Asia and Brian…so silly. Call me when you get home.”

“If I have it my way, that’ll be in five minutes. If he tries to kiss me goodnight, I’ll be duckin’ and dodgin’.”

“Goodbye, Treasure!” Erin disconnected the call.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Disney’s Donald, also known as Trevor, said smoothly.

He’s gotta voice for radio, and a face, too…

“Oh, no problem.” She picked up her glass of wine and gave it another swig, fighting the overwhelming longing to gulp the entire thing down like a damn Jell-O shot from her college days, but decided against it.

I know I’m no model, but this right here is abusive. What did I do to deserve this? Does he want me to toss him bread and crackers?

The man started to talk again, and he picked up right where he left off, much to Treasure’s chagrin.

“So, as I was saying.” He laughed garishly as he slicked his hand across his beige lapel. She strained in the dimness to see if she could catch any webbing on his fingers. “I’ve worked there for over twenty years, twenty-three to be exact. Now how many men do you know that have the same job they got right out of college that much time after?” He nodded at her, his deep-set eyes hooded, as if she were to suddenly grow moist in the crotch at his vocational revelations. Instead, she shook her head, leaned forward, and gripped her wine glass with both hands as if it were a bowl of chowder. She looked into the glass, sloshing the contents a bit as she turned it from one side to the other, trying to wish the damn thing into something else, make it morph into a magical genie vase and grant her wish to disappear into thin damn air.

“And I decided at this time, you know, hey? I said to myself, just because one woman didn’t appreciate you doesn’t mean others won’t. Hell, I’m a great catch and I know it.”

…Yeah, for culinary experts…Maybe for a French chef wishing to make foie gras…

“Now, I was impressed with what Erin and Quincy said about you. You’ve got a successful business as a decorator and—”

“Interior designer…I’m an interior designer, Trevor.” She threw on a smile and winked, suddenly feeling the liquor putting her at ease.

“Yeah,” he dismissed. “Interior Designer, and Quincy said you had some celebrity clients.” He raised a brow as if he didn’t quite believe the hype.

…And this is the part where he asks like who…Finally! It gets back around to me, well, in a roundabout way. I now will have the floor to talk.

“And now, you can add my name to the list!” He pointed at himself and gave a light chuckle.

…And I was wrong. So you ARE Donald Duck! Erin, your butt is mine. You and Quincy will pay dearly for this mess!

“You see, I’ve done some modeling and voice over work for many local commercials and it just so happens…” He looked down shyly at the table, as if he were almost embarrassed about his great fortune, “I want my master bedroom redone. I’d like to see your portfolio first, of course…”

“Of course.”

I imagine he’d like the walls to be painted with cattail plants and lily pads for when his frog friends come over to play…

She rolled her eyes and jetted her hand in the air, frantically waving the waitress down. The woman approached her, and before she could say a word, Treasure blurted, “I want the
entire
bottle of this.” She pointed to her empty glass, tapping it with her index finger, creating a clinking sound as if to make an announcement. “Not a refill, not another glass or two more, no ma’am. I want the
whole thing
, thank you and please hurry.”

She didn’t miss the way the Trevor’s beak dropped open, as if he were
clearly
dealing with someone uncouth. She smiled wide at him and lifted her glass in the air as if to make a toast, when she actually no longer gave a crap.

I bet his favorite show is the one about those racist wannabe hillbillies, ‘Duck Dynasty’…

“Trevor, I wish to thank you for your company this evening and also for being our designated driver.”

“Erin didn’t say you drank like a fish.” He laughed a bit, making it sound cheery, though his furrowed brows showed the truth. He was disgusted with her.

Mission accomplished.

…And Erin didn’t tell me you looked like marine life. So I guess we are one and the same, Quackenstein…

I hope that with enough liquor, I can forget the whole goddamn night!

“Cheers!”

‡