todd of tacoma

Brenda’d had the guy yell at him once a day for three weeks, and then the summer, and also apologize each of those days twice. Her colleagues would look on in amazement at the yelling, and look away embarrassed at the apologies. Brenda preferred the yelling to the apologies, if for nothing else the sheer time each apology took.

The sorries

The first apology was always an explanation. The same explanation. His dad had killed himself, recently, finally, after twenty long years of threats and warnings, and it’s terrible but it wouldn’t be so terrible except you should see what people write about him on Facebook and now that my dad’s gone I’m the Dad of the family so it’s all about me! The posts and everything bad.

Our family is not loved, he’d say.

I’m sorry, she’d say.

Now my brother is in court-ordered rehab, he’d say.

I’m so sorry.

My doctor says I should go, too.

I’m sorry.

She spent more time saying sorry during his sorries than he did. What else was there for her? He wouldn’t give her space to use the full arsenal of words at her disposal. And if he did leave her space, would it matter? She was low on energy by the time his apologies came around.

You are having a day with him!

Her coworkers, new ones especially, would always ask if she needed some time off the floor.

It’s not over, she’d say.

Not over?

Apology two. The rhetoricals.

Why was his family like this? Were they cursed? Sins of the father passed down? It wasn’t just his father that sinned, though, it was fathers of fathers before. One father killed a man, but that father was an uncle, another father was driven out of the family for beating his wife when he got sober, but he was his father’s brother. If Facebook’s right, his father was also awful, even more than he remembered, not just the temper but also rumors about young women and girls.

We have all these bad men, a whole line of them, but they’re men, too, you know. Hu-men. We don’t deserve all this.

His family history required more expounding than The Brothers Karamazov.

I’m sorry.

Oh, don’t be sorry for me. My brothers have it worse than I do. They don’t have their wives no more.

I’m sorry.

I do.

I’m so sorry.

Huh?

Sorry, I mean, that’s good.

He laughed. The cafe hushed. Laughter was not natural to him.

Did you want your free refill in a to-go cup? a coworker tried to help.

No thanks, I’ll drink it here.

His toothy smile was missing teeth, lots of them, and the ones left holding his lips perpendicular to the ground looked pretty rotted out and brittle. A fair to moderate wind could knock that canopy down flat.

Would he stop talking then? Brenda imagined.

Did you want your danish reheated? another coworker tried to help.

Is it cold already?

Three or four chapters ago, said Brenda.

I knew it! You read, don’t you? Lotsa books, I’ll bet.

I sometimes do. Not that much.

I bet you’re smart.

She would pray for the urgent text from his wife, from one of his brothers, from his whore sister, or any one of his frequently jailed uncles, anyone at all, the urgent text that would whisk him away.

You know what, this is embarrassing. I don’t think I ever got your name.

She tapped her nametag that said Brenda.

Oh, ha! I don’t notice anything!

The saga

This same day, a couple hours later, this day in particular when he got Brenda’s name off her nametag, when he didn’t notice anything, was like any day, like any other, until the sorry man left the cafe at the same time as Brenda.

She usually stayed past closing so she could get that extra hour of work every day on her paycheck, it builds up, but she didn’t close today. She had a massage appointment to keep.

Fancy seeing you out here, the man said in the parking lot. I’d give you a ride but it looks like you have a car.

Oh shit! Brenda said and jumped. She hadn’t noticed him leave.

For some reason I had you pegged as a bus person.

I’m not, she said, heart rattling its cage like a lunatic.

Too many creeps on the bus, usually, huh?

Have a good night.

You bet, see you tomorrow, Brenda! If not sooner, Brenda.

What?

See you tomorrow, if not sooner.

How would you see me sooner?

It’s just an expression.

Okay, well, you should be getting home.

Yeah, too bad, too bad.

Brenda had to be escaping, but she had to be going, too. She would be late if she didn’t leave now, as she had just decided to take a circuitous route to her massage, a route that in no way was the fastest to the parlour and which in no way resembled her route home. That had to be important now.

The massage was a coupon her two besties gave her. They pooled together their tips for an entire week to purchase a Set. That is, a three massage package, from an upstart business fifteen or twenty minutes from work called 40-Love. The owner and masseur of 40-Love was a former tennis pro and his three massage gift packages were aptly named Game, Set, and Match. Today was Brenda’s Game 1. She would have three Games spread out over the next eighteen days. The Game schedule was apparently data-driven, with little to no wiggle room thanks to sports science and, inexplicably, ancient traditions.

One listed benefit of the Set, her besties had read, was a prolonged uplift in mood and a renewed vitality, and Brenda needed it all. Her life had been no picnic lately thanks to a death in the family, her grandma, Dad’s mom, the matriarch and captain of their family ship, five sons and daughters, twenty-two sons and daughters of the sons and daughters, some husbands and wives, some of whom came and went and were always welcomed back on conditions and who eventually became inspiring redemption stories, prodigals, and there, too, were friends of the family, vetted friends who were allowed to be your sisters or brothers in name once consecrated Family by Grandma.

It was a happy family where everything was up to Grandma and it was all about to unravel. And there seemed to Brenda to be little in life more unsettling than the days and weeks preceding a family’s demise. Watching her dad try to get a grip on his emotions long enough to understand he must take up the mantle of leader of the family, and watching him panic and cry in fits like he was fourteen years old, and watching him then reject the idea outright that his mom was even dead, was unsettling. Maybe worse for Brenda than if he had died, too. If he were more ancillary to her, just a cousin, say, let’s say his youngest sister’s daughter, he would be living in a facility for a season, preferably summer.

Instead, he was the family’s rock.

Tied to their ankles.

If Brenda were younger, still living at home, she daydreamed, she would run away. But she couldn’t run away because she was already away. She had to face her problems.

Lebanon cedar

Her car had been making this sound, and she didn’t put much stock in sounds, especially sounds that signaled an imminent repair that costs money. It was making this sound now and probably worse than ever, as things that worsen often get. It was a skerrch! when the wheel corrected left, only left. Not right and not really on turns, only when driving straight and correcting left, or changing lanes left, or making very slow left turns.

It only made the sound, that is, when she was driving.

In her rearview, Brenda could see she had a tail. She was driving west into a western sun that was firing these little dancing glares ahead of her and projecting bluish-white anime fight scenes onto windshields behind her, so she couldn’t tell who it was exactly that was tailing her at a perfectly fixed and obvious distance since she’d left her cafe.

But it was obvious, wasn’t it?

She never got his make and model.

No way, Brenda said. And she meant a few things by this. One, no way, I think it’s that customer from work. Two, no way to tell. Three, no way I’ll make it in time. Four, no way, is he really tailing me? Five, no way he lives out here.

You can’t tell where a person lives just by looking at them, but you can tell where they don’t live.

Brenda’s uncle was going to live in Grandma’s house, for instance, and it was killing her dad a little every day. He didn’t belong there. He was the family problem and was supposed to be the family’s best redemption story one day. Grandma was his check, to the annoyance and eventual jealousy and eventual pity party of Brenda’s dad, who really could have used some of that attention. She always found a way, Grandma did, to sit near him, Brenda’s uncle, within eyeshot and earshot of him always, with questions to distract him from what he was and to steer him into goodness and benignness, and to distract the family and anyone hanging around from the very fact of him as a problem and from the fact of all that he could destroy if left unchecked. Now, he was alone in her house unchecked.

What had he done?

The worst thing of all: nothing with his life.

Brenda put her phone in her lap and tapped her Phone icon and Contacts and 40-Love was the first in her contacts list because it was the only contact beginning with a number and she tapped it and tapped Call.

While her CarPlay dialed and rang her masseur Brenda observed with little stretches of observance and strained and tired eyes, observed the car in her rearview mirror to see if she could make out a face when tree shadows broke up the projections on the windshield.

Skerrch!

She couldn’t move her head, that’s what she decided, couldn’t let her tail see she knew he was tailing. That’s when women become prey, by acknowledging they’re prey, when they run because they think they have to run, she remembered from every movie she’d ever seen. Killers run when you run. They sometimes get bored and sulk away when there’s no chase. You can only get lucky if you ignore them.

Could that be right?

Their joy is in the journey, she thought. And she might have thought it aloud given the confused hello from her car speakers.

40-Love?

Hi, she’d forgotten what she was doing.

40-Love.

Hi! she remembered. It’s Brenda.

Hello, Brenda. You’re our…three o’clock?

I am!

I hope you’re not calling to say you’re running late. The joy is not in the journey when you’re running late, the voice joked.

I am running late. I’m sorry.

Skerrch!

Don’t be sorry. It’s just, we may have to reschedule you given the time constraints. And our next available is a long way out. Let’s see…

Oh, don’t worry! I don’t have any time constraints. I’ll be there really soon.

Kevin has an appointment directly after yours and the last appointment of the day after that. We can’t have him late to those appointments, ma’am. I’m sorry.

I wouldn’t want to do that.

So sorry, we’ll have to reschedule. When is good for you? Let’s start there.

Brenda was at a Stop sign. There was no traffic, but she was waiting. She turned her air conditioner off because she felt like she was talking loud. Then she turned her blinker on left and watched behind her. He’d turned his blinker on right, but he hadn’t taken the bicycle lane beside her to make his right. He was trying to throw her off the trail of his tailing!

Genius.

She put her blinker on right. He switched to left, which made no sense but showed he was attentive. Three cars were now behind him, one honked. Not a fuck you! honk, but a polite maybe you didn’t notice, let me help you, we’re all in this together honk.

The car behind Brenda honked, too. That was kind of a fuck you.

It’s not a light, bitch!

Yep.

Are you still there? 40-Love said. When is good for you?

I can still make it today, Brenda told the receptionist. I’m going to be later than the start time, but Kevin can finish when we’re supposed to finish.

She talked folksy when she was nervous.

Skerrch!

I don’t need the full time.

Skerrch!

She strained her eyes backward. Was he still there? The whole street and the sun and the sky conspired to hide him.

Skerrch!

What’s that noise?

It’s this thing I have. That my car has.

Who has a stalker? It’s too absurd. She couldn’t get rid of that thought.

I can still come in, Kevin can finish whenever. I’m not fussy.

I’m afraid that won’t work, ma’am. Kevin is very particular about his massage cycles. Just as he was in his famously methodical volleys in the 2016 Slams. He is meticulous and detail-oriented. He wins because he does not rush.

Maybe he can rush just one day, Brenda joked. I don’t mind.

You want me to tell my boss to rush you! He has standards, standards I myself uphold or I wouldn’t work here. If I tell him to rush you, how long do you think I’ll last in this office?

Maybe I can tell him? Get him on the phone.

He’s beneath the Lebanon cedar.

What?

Preparing.

Preparing?

For you.

Great, then he won’t mind taking a call from his client.

She was mere blocks from the massage, but she was toying with getting on the interstate and back off again, maybe a couple times. She drives like Joan Didion when she’s on I-5 and can probably lose just about anyone.

Unless the sorry man drives like Joan Didion.

She could feel sweat form at her hairline and goosebumps skirt her neck and spread over her shoulders.

Can a man drive like Joan Didion?

Maybe I’m not explaining this well. We have to uphold the spiritual standards of a business that harnesses ancient traditions, in tandem with the time constraints of a modern world. The moon and the stars and the tides dictate what we do, and the calendar of Pope Gregory when we do it, and the Egyptian clock why we do it, and our rest and recovery intervals are inspired by those suggested by Dr. David Altchek. It’s all in the pamphlet! Our scheduling is not just an idea but a notch cut in ivory. We have to be precise because what we do is lasting!

That sounds great! I’m going to be there!

Ma’am, your tone. Sarcasm is terrible energy.

I’m going to be there. Kevin can start halfway through his cycle, I don’t care. I have to be there, for my safety.

Skerrch!

That noise!

Can’t be helped.

You should get it fixed!

A problem for another day. I gotta get to you!

Brenda, Kevin’s sessions are a full cycle, no deviations. On that we will not bend. For your safety, do not come here today.

What Kevin does sounds very interesting. I’ll be in to speak with him if nothing else.

I’m locking the doors.

Just a consultation.

His consultations are on a separate calendar.

Find it.

The list is long.

There’s no one in right now, I know that.

He’s beneath the cedar.

I’m being followed! That’s what’s going on! A man since I left work. I was hoping to shelter in your business until it’s safe to go out again!

Have you tried calling the police?

I will! But right now I’m calling you.

That’s irresponsible.

Can you get Kevin for me? Maybe he has a fucking conscience!

Language! He’s meditating.

He’s supposed to be giving me a massage!

But you’re not here.

He doesn’t know that!

I’m going to hang up now. Unless you want to reschedule.

Do you have the right calendar?

I’m hanging up.

I hope someday you’re the only person on Earth who’s lost somebody!

What does that mean?

That people die.

Skerrch!

40-Love’s shared parking lot was full except for three motorcycle spots, all of which Brenda took. They got her closer to the front entrance than any of the handicap spots would have. She had just enough time to observe that and sort of chuckle before the man from work who’d been tailing her swerved and braked between her and the 40-Love entrance and jumped out to say he was sorry for everything.

You shouldn’t be here!

For everything, I’m sorry. It’s been a summer.

You’re sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry! Your dad and Facebook and brothers and wife and summer and sorry! But, sorry? Fucking sorry? For what? Say it!

For everything.

I’m calling the police! said 40-Love through the window.

Thank you, Brenda said.

Thank you? said 40-Love.

Birdsong

40-Love refunded Brenda’s friends their gift card but asked that Brenda never come back. They didn’t want the energy. The restraining order on the sorry man the sorry man honored almost every week. He was making strides, he said, in his mental health stuff.

What was humiliating to Brenda, and she was able to express this to the therapist that her besties had found for her, what was humiliating was that he was now in her orbit. His name was a name legally tied to hers, as a man who’s no longer allowed. As if she had once allowed him, as he was but not how he is, however he is, she doesn’t know how he is, she’s not supposed to. He was once allowed, though, and that’s what’s so absurd, that that’s implied, that she once allowed him in, and she decided he wore out his welcome.

He was never welcome! she had told the police when they asked how she knew him.

Ma’am, he says he’s sorry.

He always says that!

Like she knew him.

Sounds like he’s had a real rough couple weeks.

She never wanted to talk about him again, but she kept having to explain him, and would be forced to for the foreseeable future. Like he was family.

Two weeks after her first therapy session, the day of her third session, Brenda woke up to birdsong, a kind of magical birdsong, like too much of a good thing. Her vision was blurry, too, happily so, like a Sunday mimosa kind of blurry, the edges of the world evanescent, like a waterfall at the edge of a flying island.

Is this what it’s like when you get to talk about yourself?

She remembered her conversation with 40-Love. No fucking way they had a Lebanon cedar. That space was a nail salon.

No way.

She checked her mailbox. In it was an envelope from the City of Tacoma. Speeding ticket. Fifty-five in a school zone. Five-hundred-forty-eight dollars! There was a picture to prove it was her. There she was in her car, on the phone, the sorry man three cars behind her visible in an evergreen reflection stretched across his windshield.

Shit, she said.

She’d been saving a little money here and there to get her car fixed but now she had this.

Lucky for you the City of Tacoma offers a few installment plans, her therapist said.

They do? Brenda said.

Are you going to pay it?

I guess. I’m tired of letting things hound me.

Let’s talk about your grandma.