Cube Sleuth (13 page)

The thought of bugging Harry’s cubicle gives me the dry heaves. His cube is a cacophony of old man noises, the kind my dad makes when he stands up from the couch, only Harry makes them all day long. Reading an interesting story, he grunts like a hungry caveman stalking bison. Eating a pack of TastyKakes, he moans like a whore hoping for a good tip.

Harry once asked me to help him with a rudimentary task he should’ve mastered years earlier, and I said I’d be over in five minutes. When I got to his cube, he was sitting with his head tilted sideways, pouring a gravy boat of water up one nostril and moaning while it drained out the other into a basin on his desk. He said he was neti potting, whatever that is.

Having to listen to his
Animal Planet
noises on tape means bugging his cube is out of the question. Plus, Cody took my tape recorder. Instead, I decide to tail Harry home from work. I already know what his car looks like. He’s unobservant enough not to see me pull out right behind him, and I can use the tailing practice. I figure it won’t be much harder than following someone to a party when you don’t know the directions.

* * *

I tell Suzanne that I need to leave early for a dentist appointment. I leave a few minutes before Harry usually leaves, pulling out of the lot and backing up half a block from the exit. My headlights off, I wait fifteen minutes for Harry to drive out of the lot, then roll out behind him.

The portrait parle for Harry’s car: VIN ?????, license plate EB8410D, Oldsmobile, Silhouette, gray. A minivan that looks capable of seating twenty.

I can’t see Harry’s rearview mirror clearly, so I have no way of knowing if he’s spotted me. He drives slowly and deliberately, the same way he speaks. My driving instincts make me want to pull out in front of him and give him the finger in my rearview, but I refrain. I leave just enough space between us so that another car can’t cut in. I really should be five or six cars back, but that seems like advanced tailing to me.

On 476, we stay in the far right lane, which is good since we’re doing forty-five. The speed limit is fifty-five, and the cars in front of and behind us are going sixty-five or faster. Cars blur past, honking and giving us the finger. Years of driving in Philadelphia has taught me that driving too slow is far more dangerous than driving too fast.

I’m not surprised that Harry has inadvertently found a way to make “tailing” mean driving obnoxiously slow. We’re moseying on an expressway. The forty-minute drive to Harry’s house should’ve taken less than twenty-five. My face must be purple with misplaced road rage. Harry turns into his driveway. I keep driving, turn at the next stop sign, go around the block, and then park across the street from his minivan.

I scan the windows of Harry’s house with my binoculars and find him sitting in a recliner under a lamp holding a model ship, some Word War II replica that he probably built from a kit. He stares at the ship. Doesn’t turn it or examine certain details. Just stares.

His eyes glaze over as he worships his molded plastic idol. My eyes glaze over watching him. What kind of insane freak comes home, doesn’t change out of his work clothes, and just sits and ogles a toy?

Minutes go by. Days maybe. We’re having a staring contest, only he can’t see me. This is a test of wills: who will blink first? Will he sit there all night in his battle cruiser coma? Is he asleep with his eyes open?

I blink first. I yell “Motherfucking shitstain!” as I throw the binoculars on the passenger seat and start my car. I screech out of my spot and zoom away from Humdrum Headquarters.

Harry isn’t a suspect. If he were, I wouldn’t be able to bring him down, not if it meant spending even one night eavesdropping on his leaden lifestyle. Unless he starts waving a gun at work, or talking about how Ron is rotting in hell where he belongs, I am closing the Harry Brody file. Staring into the abyss of his mind threatens to strip me of the last sliver of sanity I have left.

I drive as fast as I can, bursting through yellow lights, weaving in and out of lanes. After a while I realize I paid no attention to the roads I took from Harry’s exit to his street. I don’t even remember what the exit was.

Luckily, after driving for a half-hour in the wrong direction, I find an entrance to 476. Halfway through my hour-long drive home, Helen texts me: ARE YOU DEAD?

With one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, I text back: NO, BUT YOU’RE DEAD TO ME.

Helen: I’M REALLY SORRY.

Me: FUCK OFF, SNATCH FUZZ. Immaturity is totally worth it when you can come up with a phrase like
snatch fuzz
.

Helen: HOW CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU?

Me: DOUBLE TEAM ME WITH A HOT FRIEND.

Helen: GUY OR GIRL FRIEND?

Me: BYE-BYE. CLICK.

I don’t read her response. She won’t know I didn’t read it, but it gives me a sense of one-upmanship.

* * *

I walk into the lobby of my building mumbling to myself about what a jackass Helen is. Taking out my mail, I hear Helen say my name behind me. I must’ve walked right by her.

I glance up at her just long enough to make eye contact, then turn back to my mail. “Go home.”

“Talk to me.”

“I’ll call you next week. We’ll catch up on old times. Go home.”

Helen walks in front of the door that leads into the hallway. I try to look obstinate, but she looks so bonery that I immediately want to bury my face in her no-no. I’ve never hate-fucked someone before, and it’s always sounded fun. Although I don’t actually hate Helen. But I’m definitely mad enough to spit in her face. Mad-enough-to-spit-in-your-face sex also sounds hot.

I try to unlock the door through her arm, a perfect excuse to be close enough to smell her strawberry hair. She leans in until her lips touch my neck just below my ear. “I’m sorry. I felt guilty. Couldn’t look you in the eye.” Her wet lips tickle my earlobe as she speaks. “Let me come in.” Her breath is a tiny steam bath on the pressure point under my jawline.

I can’t win this. I have no will power. In fifteen minutes I’ll be upstairs, naked, with my eyes rolling in the back of my head thanking God for blessing me for not having any. “Not tonight, Helen.” My voice cracks. “I’m tired and frustrated. I need to be alone.” I have to make her hustle for it, just a little.

She kisses my neck. She sucks on my earlobe. Her tongue presses the thin skin behind my ear. That’s enough hustle for me.

I unlock the door and open it without warning. I wink at Helen as she stumbles backwards and falls on her ass with a carpeted
thud
.

I offer her my hand. She flicks me in the balls before hopping up on her own. For most of the walk to my apartment (the frigging elevator is broken again), I feel like I might throw up from this brief attack on my testes. Those little fellas are sensitive.

Luckily, my attacker kisses my wrinkly victims until they feel better. Helen apologizes with a nice game of Put It Where It Doesn’t Belong—a game where everyone wins, if you ask me. Though not double-teaming me with a hot friend, this is a very close second.

By this time, I’m completely drained of my resentment, and I decide to let bygones be bygones.

Helen lies on me, soft and warm, her chin resting on my chest. My chest hair makes it look like she’s starting to grow a goatee. She smiles, innocent and vulnerable. I want to take care of her. But my brain has other ideas. “I would’ve agreed to go on the date with you if you had told me the truth. You can even call me “Ron” when we do this. Close your eyes and picture him. I don’t mind. I want to help you.”

From her prone position, Helen’s punch doesn’t have the angle and force I assume it would have if we were standing. Her fist pops against my nose from the side. I wince like I have to sneeze, eyes welling with tears. If we were standing, I think my nose would be broken.

By the time I wipe my eyes, Helen’s anger has melted. She rubs her face against my chest and weeps. Her hot tears mix with the cool sweat on my skin. Her voice muffled by my chest, she says, “I love you.”

“You don’t even know me.” I sound bored. I don’t mean to be this cold but I can’t help it. Being without her was so painful; I hate the power she has over me. I need her, and I resent that, even if she might need me, too. I want to destroy her.

“I do. I do know you and I do love you.”

“You’re afraid to be alone. I’m the closest thing you have. Don’t trick yourself into thinking it’s more than that.”

“I love you.”

“You said that already. I get it. You think you love me. It’s—I get it. Can we move on?”

“Do you love me?”

I laugh at this preposterous idea. “No. You don’t care if I live or die. How could you love me? How could I love you?”

Helen lifts her head from my chest, her face soaked and creased. “You weren’t gonna die, idiot. I left you in a major city with buses and cabs. Your hometown. We were probably within walking distance from your parents’ house. Don’t blow it out of proportion. I didn’t leave you in Tehran in the middle of an uprising. Drama queen.”

“Go wash your face. You look like a drowned rat.”

Helen pushes on my chest to lift herself up, forcing the air in my lungs to wheeze out of my mouth. She flips on the bathroom light and I steal a quick glance at her supple rump before she slams the door.

Not much a fan of being naked when not showering or fornicating, I start to dress. This familiar scene, dressing while my lady primps herself in the bathroom, tricks my brain into believing it’s Nancy behind the closed door. Like déjà vu, this only lasts a second, but I feel disappointed when I look at the woman’s clothes crumpled up at the foot of my bed and know they aren’t Nancy’s.

If Helen and I had pet names for each other, they would probably be Not-Ron and Not-Nancy.

I’m watching TV on the couch when Helen finally comes out of the bathroom. She dresses and sits beside me. I don’t apologize and she doesn’t ask me to. She lights a clove and I wonder if I have any lunchmeat in the fridge, particularly imported ham. After ten minutes of silence, the TV flickering on our faces, she curls up beside me, her head in my lap. I pet her hair, knowing that we’re stuck with each other.

Two days after my emotional clusterfuck with Helen, it starts to rain and doesn’t stop for two days. When I get home from work the first day, my bedroom ceiling is dripping beige-looking water onto the corner of my bed. Terribly annoying on its own, but made worse by the fact that this is the fourth time my bedroom ceiling has sprung a leak.

My apartment complex is owned and run by a family. Mother, father, son, daughter. You’d think that “family-run” would mean “special care,” but these people are nothing more than glorified slumlords. Edison himself probably installed the wiring in my building and most of the inspection documents are dated “B.C.” I suppose the owners bribe inspectors to overlook this.

The first time my bedroom ceiling leaked, the handyman patched it up and my landlord said they were getting a new roof in the spring.

They didn’t get a new roof in the spring.

Ten months later, it leaked for the second time. The handyman patched it up and my landlord said they were getting a new roof in the spring.

They didn’t get a new roof in the spring.

The third leak happened a few months before this one. Another patch, another promise that the roof would be replaced in the spring. Call me cynical, but I guess it’s not happening.

I strip my bed and slide it away from the leak. I still have one of the handyman’s buckets from the last time this happened, so I slide it under the drip. The water has already stained an entire ceiling tile with a brown circle.

I put fresh sheets on my futon, while the loud pings of water hitting the empty bucket make my eyes twitch. The
drop… drop… drop… drop-drop… drop
is a super fun reminder that my poker debt is keeping me from moving into a nicer—and therefore drier—apartment.

The message I leave my landlord is equal parts angry and apathetic. I know they’ll replace the tile and I’ll get to see it stained brown again in another few months. I hate patching things up that need to be
fixed
.

* * *

As I drive past the Paine-Skidder building on my way into the underground lot, I see Eve half-climbing into her trunk, digging for something. She has a flat tire.

I haven’t spoken to Eve since ruining her lunchtime walk. I’ve wanted to apologize for being such a creep, but I never knew how to initiate that conversation; what better way than helping her change a flat?

I park my car, and after going to my cube and turning on my computer, I tell Suzanne that I’m going to help one of the AA’s fix a flat. Suzanne makes a carefully-worded, politically correct statement applauding my chivalry.

Sleeves rolled up to my elbows, I march out to Eve’s car to save the day. I find her standing on the tips of her Reeboks, still half in the trunk, ass facing me. Context aside, this is actually a familiar approach for us.

“Hey, let me help you out.” I try to make my voice sound good Samaritan-esque.

Eve spins around, a tire iron held up in front of her like a crucifix. From the look in her eyes, you’d think I was wearing a mask of human flesh and wielding a chainsaw. “No, I’m fine. No thanks. I got it.”

“Come on. I owe it to you. Let—”

“I got it. I’m fine.” Her eyes keep darting up to the Paine-Skidder building.

“Do you have a spare? Or a donut?”

“Just go back inside!” Her shrill voice surprises us both.

I take a step back, hands up in surrender. “I’m just trying to help.”

Again she looks up at our building. God, does she think I’m going to strangle her when no one’s watching? “Then please leave right now.” She turns her back and squats in front of her flat tire. I can tell from how she’s holding the tire iron that she has no idea how to use it.

“I’m sorry. It was a terrible time for me. Still is, kinda.” I start to back away. “You need to pop off the hub cap first. That’s what that one flat end of the tire iron is for. And then jack up the car.”

Eve nods, flipping the tire iron around with a sigh. I watch her, walking backwards, glancing over my shoulder occasionally to keep from falling on my ass. She turns toward me and I immediately spin on my heel, falling on my ass.