Y’idiot

I’VE BEEN HOLED UP IN THE APARTMENT, waiting for eviction or my ex-girlfriend to return and pick up her things, when the phone rings. She didn’t leave much; just imitation jewelry, one bottle of blue and one bottle of red nail polish, a five pound barbell, a chipped coffee mug, and fancy soap. It all fits into a shoebox that I shoved beneath the bed.

The ringing is coming from the land line on the kitchen counter hiding behind a wall of cereal boxes, not my cell. My cellphone is inoperable after I threw it into the ocean yesterday. The wind was blowing shoreward and I didn’t hurl it with a ton of conviction. This morning I woke up with regret. I lugged the waterproof metal detector into the shallows and retrieved the damaged phone. I also discovered eighty-five cents and a toaster. Both the toaster and the cellphone are drying on the windowsill. My plan for today is to wait and see which one works first. I’m hoping it’s the toaster. I’ve got a half-loaf of bread in the freezer.

I’d forgotten we had a land line, to be honest. It was the ex’s idea. Her mother doesn’t trust technology and will only use something she can plug into a wall. As a show of support, I gave our phone number to my mother, too. I guess the person calling now is a solicitor, the phone company threatening to turn off the phone, a mother, or the ex.

Because I don’t have an answering machine the phone just keeps ringing. It sounds precisely like the telephones from my youth. My childhood was fine, so the noise isn’t an unpleasant one. After a while it’s all I can hear.

Probably, the person on the other end is a robot. Some confused android trying to process data. What’s an automaton to do when nothing or nobody picks up? Is it possible for a robot to lose its patience? I don’t know but I’m prepared to find out.

I pour a bowl of Corn Flakes and sit down at the kitchen counter. I don’t have any milk. I believe the flakes are stale but I can’t really remember what stale tastes like. Without milk, they still have an impressive crunch. I chew in the intervals of the ring and swallow in between.

There’s a trickle of seawater streaming from the toaster onto the floor. It’s forming an impressive puddle. I coiled the electrical cord into a tight bundle, tucked it into one of the toaster slots, and emptied the sand from the crumb catcher.

What I should do is yank the line from the jack, scuttle to the beach, and hurl the phone into the drink. Then it won’t be a land line anymore. The ex would have hated this joke. All my jokes—even good ones—were met with a scoff and eye roll. Sometimes she’d scratch my arm with her sharp nails. Eventually, I quit trying to be funny and now I’m not.

After finishing my cereal I set the spoon down, pick up the receiver, and say hello.

“Y’idiot?” the man on the other end says. The only person who calls me the name is Frank, the fry cook at DinerLand. I bus tables there. Rather, I used to bus tables. I didn’t quit or anything but I’ve missed many shifts. He’s probably calling to fire me.

“Hey,” I say. “How’d you get this number?”

“Phonebook.”

“Really? I’m listed?”

“Yeah. You’re the only Rick Brickman in Broward County.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“But you’re not the only idiot.”

“Good-bye, Frank.”

“No, wait. Don’t hang up. I need your help, Bricks.”

Bricks is the nickname I told him to use in place of Y’idiot. “I’m kind of busy today,” I say.

“Listen,” Frank says.

The air conditioner is running. The upstairs neighbors are stomping around. They are either dancing or boxing. A car horn blares intermittently. The water dripping from the windowsill to the tile floor makes a soft, pleasing plop.

“You hear that horn?”

“Yeah.”

“Look out your window.”

Outside there’s a white van idling at the curb. Frank’s behind the wheel waving. He’s a big man with big hands.

“How do you know where I live?”

“Just get your ass down here. I’ve got a crisp Benjamin waiting for you if you help me out with a thing.”

“An illegal thing?”

“Slightly, but mostly not.”

“I don’t know.”

“I can do a Benjamin and a Grant.”

“A grand?”

“Grant. A Grant. That’s one-fifty. Not bad for an afternoon of work.”

“I’m boycotting money.”

“Please,” Frank says. “You can do it for free if you’d like.”

Standing over the toaster I can see rust on the metal coil. The lever is crooked. I’m not sure it will depress. I don’t have time to test it now. Frank’s waiting for an answer.  “I guess,” I say, grabbing the cellphone. “Let me put my shorts on.”

On our way to Food Leopard, Frank explains the job.

“You remember Sharma?”

I’m in the passenger seat. The sun is so bright outside I have to pinch back tears. I used to own sunglasses. The clock in the dash reads 12:34. That’s my second favorite time. The van smells like home fries and soggy paper. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, before he arrives at DinerLand, Frank delivers newspapers to Blue Zephyrs, the retirement village. I’m not sure how big a village can be before you call it a town, but Blue Zephyrs is huge. It’s like a retirement city. I read online somewhere that life expectancy is on the rise and that this poses a problem. The Earth can only handle so much of our kind. Frank has to get up at like four in the morning. Sometimes I go to bed then. He must be asleep before the sun has set. The ex was a morning person, like Frank. She was also a jogger. I don’t run unless I’m being chased. Anyway, I didn’t think people read papers anymore.

“Old people do,” he said when I mentioned this to him a month ago. “For the obits.”

“Oh,” I’d said.

“You don’t know what obits are, do you?”

“I thought you said orbits. For the orbits.”

“Why would I say orbits? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Right,” I’d said.

“No, Y’idiot. Obits are obituaries. It’s where they list dead people. The elderly are friends with a lot of the deceased.”

That comment didn’t make sense to me. I assumed he meant that old people know lots of people who die. Once they’re dead, they’re no longer your friends. They’re ex-friends. Unless you believe in ghosts and pretend that the spirit of your dead friend is hovering nearby. I didn’t correct Frank. Back then, encouraged by the ex, I was practicing the art of shutting up.

Now Frank’s talking about Sharma. She supplies eggs to the diner. “You guys had a thing,” I say.

“Have a thing, Bricks. We still have it. She’s the regional manager for Cluck-Cluck Incorporated. They’re the fourth largest egg company in Florida. Recently, there’s been a salmonella outbreak. I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the news.”

“I lost my remote.”

“Nine counties have reported incidents. The bad eggs have been traced back to one of Cluck-Cluck’s farms. Now Cluck-Cluck’s fucked.”

“How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“Popped into my head this morning.”

“Well, there it is.”

“There’s been a major recall. The FDA inspected the farm and found rats and roaches crawling everywhere. Nasty shit. Everything shut down. Corporate is buying back all the eggs in an effort to avoid lawsuits. Customers are getting fully refunded even if they’ve already eaten eleven eggs. Not a bad deal. Grocery stores have been collecting them. We’re in charge of all the Food Leopards in Broward. Technically, we’re supposed to drive the rotten eggs to Orlando and drop them off at a special incinerator. Sharma says the brass are too busy putting out fires and don’t really care how they’re destroyed as long as they disappear. So, we don’t have to drive mid-state.”

“Wait, what are we doing?” I say. I’d kind of tuned Frank out. Sometimes I get motion sickness.

“We’re like a sinister Easter bunny. We gather eggs and dump them where they’ll never be found.”

“All right. Where to?”

“There’s this place in the Glades where I fish sometimes. It’s remote. We’ll unload them into the swamp. The gators will be pleased. It’s a win, win. Plus an extra win. Everyone’s happy. Maybe even you.”

The eggs are neatly stacked on pallets in the back by the loading dock waiting for us. Frank tells me to be careful. He’s spread newspaper on the bottom of the van in case they break. While I get to work, he enters the store to track down the manager. He mentioned there’s paperwork involved.

One thing I know how to do is lift properly. This isn’t something everyone knows. I learned my lesson the hard way when I first started bussing. I’m pretty thin and am getting thinner. My muscles are puny. When I flex my biceps you can’t tell that I’m flexing. It looks like I need to use the bathroom. I keep my spine straight and lift with my knees to avoid back strain. These eggs are a piece of cake. They’re in light-blue colored Styrofoam cartons. I stack them in the van like a pro. I used to be decent at Tetris. Dad always counted on me to arrange the luggage in the trunk when we’d go on family vacations. If I ever let money back into my life I should get a job at the airport loading cargo. Or maybe I could become a bricklayer. I’d get thick arms. Eventually everyone would call me Bricks.

Right around the time I’m done, Frank returns. He does a quick inspection to make sure the stacks are stable, pats me on the back, and says, “Eggcelent work, man.”

“Oh, Christ,” I say. “How do you still have a girlfriend?”

“I’ve got skills,” Frank says, winking. “Sharma would dig that joke. It’d crack her up.”

Back in the van, on the way to the next Leopard, the stench is heavy. A lot of people think that rotten eggs smell like sulfur but I don’t think that a lot of people have smelled sulfur. I haven’t, that’s for sure. If anyone asked me I’d compare the scent to vinegar or maybe formaldehyde. Like the frogs we dissected in high school.

“Hey, Frank,” I say, “did you do the egg drop when you were in school?”

Frank has a weak chin which he tries to hide beneath a patchy goatee. He scratches the back of his neck and leaves a streak of newspaper print there. “Yeah. From the bleachers,” he says. “Mine busted.”

“Same. Did they make you carry an egg wrapped in tissue paper and pretend that it was a baby? To scare you away from sex?”

“No. We used a bag of flour. It didn’t work.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. It was a flour baby. Mine was punctured by lunch.”

At the second Leopard I ask Frank to get me a bottle of water when he disappears into the air-conditioned store and leaves me in the sweltering heat. A few of the employees lounge on a dilapidated picnic bench near a canal. They smoke and glare at me. A gang of mean-looking ducks pick at discarded butts. They don’t want to have anything to do with me and these bad eggs.

On our way to the next store Frank announces that we have three more stores to go. It’s only after we’ve arrived at the third Leopard and he is disappearing again that I remember that I asked for a bottle of water that he and I have both forgotten. Luckily, there’s a worn, gray-colored garden hose coiled poorly next to a dumpster. The hot water burns going down and I am not thirsty afterward.

One time when I was a kid I found an Easter egg under our china cabinet that the Bunny had hidden the year before. The blue dye had faded to gray. It was lighter than the other eggs and tiny hairs of mold, which looked like fur, covered the shell. I delicately carried it in cupped hands to my mother. Horrified by the sight of the moldy egg, and incredulous that no one had noticed it all year, she declared it rotten. “Get rid of it,” she said.

But I didn’t get rid of it. I stood over the garbage can in the kitchen turning it over in my hands. The egg was unusual, but it didn’t seem spoiled. When I put it under my nose, I couldn’t smell anything. It had lost its odor. When I placed it next to my ear and shook it, I heard a faint rattle, as though the yolk had shriveled to the size of a coin. When I licked it, the egg had a coppery flavor, like tasting pennies, or blood.

Though I wanted to know what a bad egg looked like inside, I couldn’t bring myself to crack it open. I put it back exactly as I’d found it. My plan was to inspect it again next Easter, but I couldn’t wait. When I checked a few weeks later, it was gone.

On our way to the fourth Leopard Frank’s cellphone rings which reminds me that I have mine in my pocket. I keep it on vibrate and haven’t felt anything. He’s got a jaunty Bob Marley ringtone. When he picks up and talks to Sharma—I can tell it’s her by the way Frank softens his voice—I inspect mine. It’s still dead.

“All right,” Frank says before hanging up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Frank’s quiet for a while. I can tell he’s thinking about something because he keeps stroking his goatee. A fly alights on my elbow. I don’t know if it flew in from outside or if it was hiding with the salmonella-flavored eggs. Finally, he says, “That was Sharma.”

“Yup,” I say, swatting.

“She’s waiting for me at our last stop.”

“Cool.” The fly positions itself on the dashboard. There’s a section of newspaper at my feet which I roll into a baton. If I move quickly I can mash the fly.

“It will nearly be dinner time when we get there.”

“Already?” I say, distracted. When I spring, the fly darts away.

“I haven’t seen her in a week.”

“Oh.” I concentrate on the empty spaces inside the van. In my experience, it’s better to anticipate where a fly might go rather than trying to track where it’s been.

“Look,” Frank says. “I thought I might take her to dinner and then crash at her place for the weekend. We both have off, which is rare. She needs to unwind from the egg debacle.”

“You guys sound serious.” The fly lands on Frank’s headrest. It’s inches from his ear.

“I wonder if I could trust you to finish the job on your own. I could kick you an extra Grant. Could you be the Bad Bunny for me? For us?”

In order to crush the fly I’d have to whack Frank across the head. If I did that, he’d lose control and we’d flip and roll into the ditch. Then our big, white, van-egg would crack and we’d drown in a pool of yolk. “Sure,” I say.

I fight back the urge to murder that fly.

Frank helps me load the eggs at the remaining stores. Suddenly he’s in a hurry. By the time we get to the final Leopard, the van is completely packed. I even have to jam a carton in the glovebox. There must be five thousand eggs inside. It’s probably some kind of record.

Before hustling to meet Sharma, Frank hands me the keys and a map he’s scribbled in the margins of a newspaper. “I appreciate it, Bricks,” he says.

“No problem.”

“You know, Blue Zephyrs is busting at the seams. It’s nearly impossible for me to keep up with my newspaper route. I have enough business to deliver all week. Maybe you’d be interested in picking up Tuesdays and Thursdays and sometimes Saturdays. You can borrow my van until you’re able to buy your own ride.”

“Maybe,” I say, staring at my shoes.

“Leave the keys in the glovebox. I’ll swing by early Sunday.” When he pats me encouragingly on the shoulder my shoulder disappears beneath his huge hand. “Think about my offer.”

I do think about becoming a newspaper delivery man as I drive slowly south along I-95. The squeaking from the Styrofoam cartons rubbing together sounds like helium balloons having an orgy. From the interstate, I take a highway. Off the highway is a county road. A half-mile from a gas station I find the unnamed dirt road that Frank sketched on the map. I see a crooked cypress with branches in the shape of a number four which is where I’m supposed to turn and begin the off-road portion of the journey. The dirt road is one-way and rutted with tire tracks. It’s the kind of path that motocross racers and monster truck enthusiasts frequent. I have to slow to a crawl to keep the eggs from tipping.

I don’t know how I’d accommodate the super-early hours if I take Frank up on his offer. That’s only part of the problem. I’d also be forced to interact with old people and old people frighten me like nothing else. When I used to bus tables at the diner I became intimately familiar with the bits and pieces of half-masticated morsels that old patrons couldn’t quite swallow and left in a wet lump upon their plates. No amount of scrubbing can clean those dishes from memory. Also, old people are the only generation who still uses pennies. They like to leave a nest of them for a tip on the sticky tabletop.

Still, I’m not really in a position to turn down a job offer. Moping around doesn’t pay well. I suppose I could rearrange my sleep pattern. I’d probably see sunrises. Outside of the diner, Ancients might be better. Like they say about sharks and snakes, maybe the elderly are just as scared of me as I am of them. Perhaps, once we’re acquainted, we’ll find that we have things in common. They’ve been abandoned by their families and I was abandoned by my ex. We could bitch and moan together and then get over it by playing Bingo and shuffleboard. I’d make a temporary friend. The two of us could eat poached eggs and sip Ovaltine. I’d read him the obits and study his leathery parchment face when I mentioned a name he recognized. I’d listen to him shape stories around his fleeting memories. And when my friend died I’d befriend another soon-to-be dead old dude and explain how swell my most-recently-deceased old friend was. Then the new friend would die and I’d make another old new friend, and so on and so forth until one day I was gone. Maybe I’d meet someone willing to say something nice about me.

Beyond a tight corner the road opens up and the swampy shoreline unravels around a vast expanse of water. A weather-whipped pier juts into the murk. People probably launch their airboats and canoes from here. This is the place where Frank has drawn an X on the map.

I make a neat semi-circle and back to the water’s edge. Then I get out and stretch. Above, serious clouds interrupt the sky. Rain is on its way. Daylight squeezes through Mangrove trees and purples the calm water. Something sizeable splashes near a cluster of swamp knees. It could be a bass. I don’t fish but I’m willing to learn if Frank invites me.

Walking to the shoreline, I notice that I’ve backed up too far. I can’t open the van doors without standing in the water. Luckily, it’s shallow enough for me to wade in. I ball my socks, stuff them in my shoes, and cram them between the stacked eggs in the passenger seat. Then I step in and throw the doors wide. I pluck an egg from a carton and hold it in the fading light. It’s too bad nothing is going to hatch from it. Then again, the Everglades is no place for a chicken. I can think of a dozen animals that would devour it in a heartbeat. Up close, I see that the shell has pores and microscopic veins. It’s moist from all the humidity. I guess it’s diseased but it looks fine to me.

Winding up, I hurl it as far as I can. It soars through the muggy air like a comet and makes a pleasant-sounding plop in the water when it lands. Turning back to the van, I get to work. I fling two, three, four eggs at a time. When they crack, the goo runs through my fingers and streaks down my arms. I hear a rumble of thunder. Mosquitoes drape me with lust. I smash them with my eggy hands. Soon, I’m a bloody mess and tired as hell and I’ve barely made a dent. I rest for a moment on the bumper.

About five yards out, all the broken yolks in the water have formed a stain kind of in the shape of a body. It’s got outstretched arms, long legs, and a watermelon-sized head. Feasting minnows disturb the skin of the swamp causing the figure to shake and dance. It’s yearning to come alive. I wish it would rise up, skim to shore, and have a seat next to me. The Stain and I would soak it all in: the psychopathic crickets buzzing like chainsaw murderers; the sharp, ragged screech from a raptor soaring beneath the blanket of clouds; the intimate mosquitoes happy in the hollow of my ears. There’s vibrancy in the very air. An electric anticipation crackles from the sky, a pulsing thrum bubbles up from the swift fish, and a quivering bloodlust radiates from the nocturnal predators in the brush hungry for impending darkness. Everything is buzzing and humming. Even me.

Then I realize my cellphone is vibrating.

Standing, I take the phone from my pocket. Sure enough, the screen is bright. I have two voicemail messages. The first one is from my mom. She hasn’t heard from me in a while and is worried. The second is from Mr. Oliver, my boss at DinerLand. I’m fired. That’s it. Nothing from the ex. Nothing from her because there will never be anything from her. I’m an idiot to think otherwise.

“Cluck it,” I say, and throw my phone again. This time I cast it with conviction. It flies further than any egg and plunks loudly near a family of water lilies. Good riddance. Let it rot in the muck.

The rain begins to splash down as if it was politely waiting for me to finish my tantrum. It feels refreshing. I get clean. My yolk-stain friend is obliterated.

I snatch entire cartons of eggs and dump them in the shallows at my feet and jam the empties back in the van. The storm rages above. I’m drenched in the downpour. By the time I’m done, it’s dark and drizzling. I’ve created an enormous egg island which rises out of the water and looks like a tombstone. May all this wasted food rest in peace.

After putting my shoes back on, I crank the engine and prepare to head home. When I hit the gas the van doesn’t budge. I lean down on the accelerator and the motor growls but I can’t move forward. My rear wheels are stuck. I throw it in reverse and quickly shift to forward hoping that I’ll be able to rock out of the pit I’ve created. The tires spin and I only move an inch before sinking again. Clicking the headlights on, I step outside to survey the damage. It’s difficult to see in the dark. Then a bolt of lightning illuminates the night and my attention is drawn to the water where I see many marbles of light dotting the swamp that instantly wink off in the aftermath of the flash. I’m not certain what the hell that was. I’m no swamp expert. It could have been some kind of optical illusion or a flock of pixies. Maybe it’s the will o’ wisps, whatever those are. When the sky brightens again from a fork of lightening, the marbles return. This time, two of them a few feet in front of me don’t disappear. In the red glow of the taillights I figure it all out. These are alligator eyes gathering in the light and spitting it back at me. A congregation of them is advancing.

Hurrying inside the van, I remove the keys so I don’t drain the engine and then climb into the back. If I had my phone I could call for help. Really, though, who would I call? No tow truck would drive back here. And I can’t call Frank. He’s out having a romantic evening; the last person he wants to hear from is me living up—or down—to my nickname. There’s nobody to call and nothing to call nobody with. I’m stuck in the mud surrounded by alligators chomping diseased eggs. I can hear them grunting and hissing as they thrash and gorge. Their thick tails could lash out and bust the van open. A dark, tired, helpless part of me wouldn’t mind if they did. In fact, I could save them the trouble. I’ll kick the doors wide and dive into their furious feasting. Let them hug me into a death roll, rip me to shreds, and turn me into a stain.

Of course I won’t do this. What would Mom think? What would the ex think? I’m more afraid of them than they are of me. All I can do is shiver myself into a ball and rock back and forth.

I awaken to sunlight and birdsong. Despite a pinched nerve in my neck, the angry spray of mosquito welts, and a deep hunger, I feel rested. Empty egg cartons make a good pillow.

Outside, morning is underway. The alligators are gone as are the eggs. A few shell fragments cling to weeds along the shore.

The tires are nested deep in the mud. There’s no way I’ll be able to shove my way out of the mess. My limited experience with cars came when I was in an Auto Mechanics class in high school. For a short while, my parents encouraged me to pursue a career as an automotive technician. Then there was an incident when I tried to yank out an oil plug and kicked over the jack stand and nearly got my head crushed. After that, Mom and Dad steered me towards less dangerous occupations like accounting, business administration, and real estate. Turns out I’m no good at math, memorizing facts, or convincing people to do something they don’t want to do. I was awful at school. All day I’d fidget in my seat and mumble the wrong answer when asked. After school mercifully relented, I put everything behind me. That was five years ago. Back then, when my parents asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I’d say I didn’t know. I discovered that when you wait long enough without wanting to be anything you eventually become a disappointment.

One thing I did learn before getting kicked out of Auto Mechanics is if you slide the car floor mats between the mud and rubber tires you can create traction and get unstuck. It takes a few tries, but eventually I angle them right and, with a little coaxing, guide Frank’s van out.

Now that I’m free, I drive to the Food Leopard with the hose. I toss the empty egg cartons and soiled newspaper in the Dumpster. I wash the mud from the van.

My next stop is DinerLand. The Saturday rush is underway and all the waitresses are in the weeds. I wait patiently in line until Mr. Oliver, who sometimes serves as host, sees me.

“Rick,” he says, “what are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?”

My ex-boss is a short man with a soft tuft of white hair on his head. Many times I’ve had to resist reaching out and stroking that fluffy shock to confirm that it’s as silky as I imagine it to be.

“I got it,” I say. “I’m here to eat. Party for one. Seat me in Belinda’s section.”

Frank’s nemesis Leon works at DinerLand when he has off. Leon’s a pale imitation of Frank, if you ask me, so I order flapjacks and bacon; food that’s difficult to screw up. Belinda serves me coffee. She’s as thin as me and twice as strong; I’ve seen her carry eight plates and four glasses of orange juice on a huge oval tray. She’s old enough to have lived when it was perfectly fine to call young people like me Honey or Sugar. Once, she said she’d set me up with her niece. It’s too busy for her to stop and talk with me this morning so I’m unable to tell her that I’ve mustered the courage to take her up on that offer. It’s probably better this way. I suck at chit-chat. Plus, I’m too ravenous to speak convincingly. When I’m done eating I jot down my land line phone number on a napkin with a note that reads: I’d love to talk to your niece sometime. To show that I mean it, I leave Belinda a twenty dollar tip.

Back home, I park Frank’s van in a spot where I can see it from my window and keep an eye out for thieves. When I open the glovebox to put the keys inside, I find the carton of eggs I’d jammed there. I’d forgotten all about them. This is a surprise I’ve accidently created for myself. As I climb the stairs to my third-floor apartment an idea dribbles into my head from wherever ideas are hatched.

Only five of the ten eggs in the carton are intact. After discarding the ruined ones, I place the others in a pot and turn the burner on. While the water boils, I grab the nail polish bottles from the shoebox beneath my bed and set them on the kitchen counter. Once the boiled eggs have cooled, I sit down and paint them. I’m going to hide them in places that will astound me when I stumble upon them later.

I draw blue and red stripes on one egg and stick it in the air vent. On another, I create zig-zag patterns and squeeze it behind the refrigerator. I write Hi! on an egg I slide under loose carpeting in the hall closet. I drop the one with a smiley face into the toilet tank. The last one I paint solid blue and place in the shoebox. I toss the empty bottles in the trash, return to the bedroom, and shove the box back under the bed, leaving the egg to fester, fuzz up, and fade to gray. This is the one I’ll crack open next year.