Please Don't Go (5 page)

Next to a hanging spider plant in the western window of the murky room was a long line of thick brown leather-bound books, each big enough to crush a small rat beneath its sturdy mass. Zephyr hazarded a guess that each volume in the series of twelve was upwards of two thousand pages. He opened the first in the series, flipping to the rear of each, pleased at his book-length estimation skills. The first volume was nineteen hundred and twenty six pages. Turning the juggernaut over in his hands, he studied the front cover:
The Classics and The Moderns: Volume One
. Flipping forward to the appendix, he drooled at the wide array of short story authors that filled its pages. Flannery O’Connor, Shirley Jackson, Frank L. Baum, Ambrose Bierce, O. Henry, Anton Chekhov, Charles Dickens, mixed in with various modern (in the 1970’s sense of the word—the publishing date indicated 1976 for this particular printing) authors that he could not recognize. He plodded through the names and came to one that almost took his breath away, helping him to recall what had been itching at the back of his skull earlier in the day—RAT TRAP.

Breakfast In Galway
by Charles Rattup.

Mr. Rattup cleared his throat to alert Zephyr to his immediate proximity, the mark of a true gentleman. “I see you’ve found my favorite prize of the bunch. Isn’t that collection a beauty? I pick a little piece of her up every now and then. I like to close my eyes and reach my hand out. I touch one of the volumes. I take that volume down from the shelf, and I lay it on my coffee table. Then I close my eyes again. I open to a page without looking. Whatever page I land on with my finger, I read that story. It’s like a hot date with destiny every damn time,” he stated, his eyes soft with passion, his lips dancing with excitement. He had as much love for yarn-spinning as Zephyr did. “Volume One is a real gem, my favorite of the bunch,” he added, putting down a bamboo serving tray with a crystal bowl of auburn-colored hummus and a steaming pastrami sandwich for himself, warm onions dangling from between the flaky crusts. Two tall lemonades sat to each side of the tray, chock full of ice, both with slices of lemon floating at the top.

“
Is your full name, by any chance, Charles Rattup?” Zephyr asked, holding the book out towards Rattup as if to say
a-ha, I got you!

“
Guilty as charged. It appears as though I’m not the only who dabbles in destiny when it comes to the literature lottery. How in all of the world, in all these thousands upon thousands of books, would you find your way to discover one of the few instances that I reside within the pages of? An invisible hand, wouldn’t you say?” he asked of Zephyr, who only responded with a confused blank stare. “Don’t be so wordless, my boy. Yes, that is my name. I am Charles Rattup. Sad to say, I can only claim that I am solely in Volume One. Henry and Dickens and Bierce all have several stories apiece in that collection. Of course, I’ve never presumed to be anywhere near their level, but I’ve tinkered with many words in my day. It’s safe for me to assume, in that you avoided my magazines like the plague and went right for my literary library, that you too are a interloper in the great and mighty words of man.”

“
Absolutely,” was all that Zephyr could manage, part of his brain wishing he could find a better word to employ around Rattup, his stomach fluttering that he was in the presence of a possibly renowned author. He had been required to read
Breakfast in Galway
in a literature class during his freshman year at the university- that was where he had first seen the name and stored that nut away. He had skipped that story due to time constraints, though, and now regretted that obstinate path. Had he indulged in the story, per his professor’s advisement, then maybe he would have some material to engage with Rattup on. Zephyr slid the book back on to the shelf, stepping across the room, taking his place in a sturdy rocking chair that Rattup had motioned towards with his liver-spotted hand. As he lowered himself into the comfy rocker, he looked to his right, where a roaring fireplace churned and warmed the side of his legs with instant comfort. In his obsession with Rattup’s unreal book collection, he had not noticed the giant hearth’s commanding presence. The bright orange flames tickled the metal chain link curtain. Though it was spring, the chilly weather had not ceased, and so Zephyr was grateful for the toasty fire. “I love it. I’d kill for your collection,” he noted, looking around the book-laden perimeter of the room with starry eyes.

“
Be careful what you wish for,” Rattup said in his best sage-voice.

“
I never got to read
Breakfast in Galway.
But that’s next on my hit list, you can be sure of that. Now that I’ve met
you
.” Zephyr grinned, starstruck in his geeky way if only for a moment or two.

“
Don’t look at me like that
. I’m just another guy on the bottom of life’s totem pole, just like you. I’m no Stephen King or Sean Connery. Just another fourth generation Irish-American with an affinity for wordsmithing. I shit in a round deep pot just like everybody else,” Rattup replied with a crude sense of humor, plopping into the fabric arms of his dark brown velvety couch. “Please. Eat.”

Zephyr complied, dipping a mixture of wheat and pita chips into the thick, delicious hummus. A hint of red pepper was just the right touch, and he expressed this notion to his welcoming host. Rattup nodded in satisfaction at his creation, “Without the diced red pepper, you might as well not even bother.” Zephyr replied that his girlfriend, Jackie, made homemade hummus as well, but that she had never used anything but garlic and artichokes, which attributed to his usual rotten breath. Mr. Rattup had seemed not to care very much about her hummus recipe, but instead quizzed his young guest on his female counterpart, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull at her mention.

“
And how long have you been courting this young lass?” he asked of Zephyr, his eyebrow arched in curiosity. He bit into his sandwich with a voracious snap.

“
Not very long. Less than a year. I started the university three years ago, but only met her in my literature class last fall. We’re both English majors, so we were always bumping into each other. In a way, I guess it was destined to happen. One day we knew each other as passing acquaintances, the next day our lives were pretty much interchangeable.”

“
And you live together?” Rattup queried, chewing his sandwich still. “Young love, away from the tightened grasp of judgmental parents. Glorious, glorious, glorious.” He snickered in excitement. Zephyr’s domestic situation seemed to speak to his interests.

A tad uncomfortable with the newly crossed conversational boundaries, Zephyr answered, “We just moved into this little apartment over the winter. Right above Jared’s Pizza. You know the place?”

He shook his head back and forth. “I do not. I don’t get out very often. If you could tell me what the establishment had been named forty years ago... well, then maybe I could tell you!” he gurgled with laughter, sipping his lemonade with grateful enthusiasm. It was at this moment that Zephyr noticed the deep crevices grooved into Rattup’s face. They were either laugh lines or worry lines; either would have been at home on Rattup’s face. He exuded a sort of light-hearted spirit about him, Zephyr determined with a dose of guilt that he was being so analytical of another person’s character. Beneath Rattup’s jovial facade, though, was something less pleasant... a sense of defeat. It was difficult to say what had caused this state, or whether his perception of the ancient man was at all accurate, but there was at least a half-truth in it all. Zephyr soon realized that he was staring into Rattup’s aged face, sure to come off as creepy in his wordless gaze. Rattup piped up, “Is there a problem, Mr. Zipper? Did my question disturb you?”

Zephyr shook his head, “Question?” He had not realized that a question had been posed of him.

“
Why yes,” Rattup said, “My question as to whether or not you plan to marry this vixen. Do you? I hope I am not prying. I never really get the opportunity to speak with living, breathing, vivacious young lads like yourself. You intrigue me, Mr. Zipper.” At this, Zephyr realized two things: first, he had sunk into a catatonic state for no apparent reason, void of recognition of the fact or conversational fortitude. Rattup had asked him a question and Zephyr had zero recollection of the moment. Secondly, Rattup had picked up on this state of mind that Zephyr had immersed himself in, deciding that it may be a fitting prod to refer to the boy as “Mr. Zipper” again. Rattup, Zephyr concluded, was the kind of guy that pushed the limits of good taste when speaking with strangers, always working through mental hurdles and testing his fellow conversationalists. He was a poignant razor blade in social banter.

“
Yes. Yes, I do. I haven’t committed to it yet, but I’m getting there, sir.”

“
Charles
, please. Call me Charles,” Mr. Charles Rattup corrected him. “Young love is a marvelous thing, Zephyr. Never let go of it, but be careful to do so with great haste when you discover that there is no future in that endeavor. No matter the consequences, gut her from your life like you would a flopping mackerel on the bottom of your boat. On the other hand, if you truly love this woman with all your bleeding heart, tell her of that swelling love every single day, even if you are cross with her. Love can be taken away without warning, and you’ll only find that you are imprisoned in a very hurtful place. Just a warning from an old man who’s been at both ends of that devastating sword.”

“
Yes, sir.” Zephyr paused. “I mean... yes, Charles. You’re right.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, each lost in his internal anecdotes on the subject.

Breaking that silence, Charles made a suggestion that Zephyr was in full support of from the moment it crossed his lips, “I would like you to take that volume of short stories that you were so intrigued by before. And you dare not turn down a loan from a friend.” At the mention of the word “friend,” Charles’ face lit up with bright white teeth and Zephyr noticed a bit of lemon pulp clinging to his gums, but felt it rude to point that out. “Since you are such a devoted spouse to the written word and a passionate student of literature yourself, I would be as pleased as a hairless cat if you brought that home and devoured it. And don’t you dare forget to read
my
story while you’re wading through the legends within those pages. I may not hold a candle, or even a Blue Diamond match for that matter, to their style, but I would like to think I’m
more than mediocre
. Egotistic enough?” He paused, picking the bit of lemon from between his teeth, discovered during his previous statement, looking to Zephyr to see if he too had noticed, and decided that he had. Rattup continued to finalize the deal before giving Zephyr a chance to respond, “Then, how about this? Next time you return here we discuss what you have read, say one week from today? I, of course, don’t expect you to finish the whole thing—that first volume is an especially bloated temptress. But it would bring me great joy to discuss it with you, however much you can process in that time.”

Zephyr sprung at the idea. To sit and speak on literature with a published writer (not a legend, but a tried and true wordsmith all the same) was more than he could have hoped for, better than any encounter he would experience in his tepid literature classes. Zephyr stammered a bit, “I would love that, Mr. Rattup.” He hesitated, adding in correction again, “I mean... Charles. But make sure when you call in to Richter’s that you request me by name, or I could get assigned elsewhere. I work Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Just so you know. And let me say, right off the bat, that I plan on reading your story, first and foremost.”

Putting his hand up in protest, Charles Rattup replied, “You read whatever you’d like. Whenever you’d like. At whatever speed is best suited to your pinnacle of enjoyment. That said, I look forward to your reaction to
Breakfast In Galway
. Being a young lover yourself, there may be a heated and crafty discussion on the subject after reading my story.” Though Zephyr knew nothing of Rattup’s most famous (
only
famous?) story, he too anticipated the contents and significance of the tale. It was safe to assume, from Charles’ foreshadowing, that it dabbled in the human heart. This was not Zephyr’s favorite subject matter, as he preferred
genre
stories more than anything, but the potential opportunity to speak with an author on his very own story was previously unimaginable. Such a prospect would make most human beings shudder in disgust, but not a bibliophile like Zephyr. “More lemonade?” Rattup asked of him, leaning forward with a small pitcher of reserves.

Zephyr nodded, wondering which of his thirsts were causing such a barren desire. Placing his glass before Charles Rattup in anticipation, his hand trembled as he reached. He had become so very parched, and Rattup’s call for refills was more than welcome.

A snapping noise filled the space of the room, echoing off the walls as Rattup inched closer with the refreshment. This served as a precursor to the crystal pitcher imploding upon itself without warning, collapsing inward as if pressed upon from all sides simultaneously. None of the glass shards fell on Charles’ coffee table or floor. The lower half of the pitcher remained intact, part of the handle included, but the top half had crumbled to tiny bits of sedimentary crystal, sinking in the inch or two of lemonade that remained at the bottom. The demolished upper half of the pitcher looked as though it had been strangled into submission by a gargantuan invisible hand, gripped and choked by a transparent Magilla Gorilla. “Holy shit!” Zephyr yelped in reaction, pulling his glass away, studying the bizarre damage that had been inflicted upon the glassware, still gripped in Rattup’s steady, unflinching hand. “What
the fuck
was that?” He was visible in his embarrassment of his use of cuss words around the older and dignified grey-haired Rattup, but still felt justified in his knee-jerk reaction to the unexpected degradation of the crystal vessel’s composition.