The Hummer

Get on board.

 

 

 

            They are merely numbers, blue marks scrawled in two columns, yet they persist in rebelling. Frank runs his pen down the register, dotting the figures he remembers as being accurate, and again, he stops at an amount that has been circled.

Here. What happened here?

             The register has no answer.

Frank throws the pen down. Perhaps more violently than necessary, but a part of him hopes he’s hurt the pen. He sits back and rubs his eyes, sighing, almost trembling. He would like nothing more than to shuffle the papers into a pile and sweep them into the wastebasket, but he knows he cannot stop. Not until he finds the solution. He must continue, but first, he reaches for his soda. His hands are shaking just a little, and he fumbles with the cap, but when he finally gets the bottle to his lips, the liquid is not as sweet as it should be. It has gone flat.

Its an expensive brand, an indulgence, really – perhaps a lesser brand would taste as good? He realizes his thirst is not quenched. He is not satisfied, and he has to get away. Just for a little while. For perspective.

Instead of going to the fridge, Frank finds himself pulled to the front porch, and to the comfortable swing where he sits with his wife to relax in the evenings. If she were here now, she’d be bugging him about the messes he’s made, and the dishes he’s left unwashed, but she’s not, and she won’t be – for how long, she’s not yet said.

He collapses into the swing. And tries to breathe. The sight of the houses along the street is usually calming, but all Frank can see right now is that the lawn needs to be mowed and possibly watered. It is yet ‘one more thing’, and he covers his face with his hands. In self defense.

A moment later, he hears music. It is distant, but getting closer: a song from his high school days, when life was a golden unknown, spreading to the horizons before him. Normally a car with such loud music would annoy him, but this afternoon, he needs to hear that song – that song stirs memories. It resurrects ghosts. He tries to grasp hold of them, and press them to his chest, but they are slippery. Curiosity forces him to drop his hands, and at least look at the car.

And Frank is surprised by what he sees.

It is a rolling contradiction: a long Hummer, bright red and gleaming chrome. It has been stretched like a limo, but not towards the middle. It has been stretched towards the rear, clearly to allow space for the unexpected object it carries. A hot tub. His eyes are drawn first to the two girls: young, bikinied, laughing girls. There is a middle-aged gentlemen lounging with them, all of them have different sorts of tropical drinks, and steam is curling up between their bodies from the hot water meeting the cool afternoon air. The Hummer is slowing.

When it rolls to a complete stop in front of his house, Frank realizes with a start – he knows the driver. Ted Murphy. The man smiles and waves, and jumps out of the Hummer with a youthful spring. Doors slam and others join him. Ted looks good, like he’s spent a month at an all-inclusive somewhere near the equator: deeply tanned, broad white smile, and a Hawaiian-print shirt that mostly hides the few pounds he seems to have gained. Frank is confused for a moment; the last he can remember hearing of Ted is that his house had been foreclosed on, and he’d gone out of state to stay with relatives. Supposedly his wife was living with one of his coworkers whose position hadn’t been eliminated. But here he was: Ted – looking happier than Frank had ever seen him.

He and his entourage approach the porch, and most of them still hold drinks. Frank realizes, with a horrible sinking feeling, that they cannot come into his house, not now. It is dim and squalid at the moment – unfit for the shine they wear about their persons.

“Hey buddy, how the hell are you?” Ted reaches out his hand, as if for a handshake, but when Frank stands to take it, he is pulled into an enthusiastic bear-hug. Then he is thumped repeatedly on the back. 

Ted’s friends are already filtering into the home. Before Frank can protest, Ted is speaking again, sweeping him along inside amongst the tide of partiers.

It’s mostly small talk, but oh-so-happy. “Really, it’s good to see you… been too long… what’s new with you anyway… oh man, wait’ll you hear what I’m into these days…”

Frank cannot get a single word out of his mouth.

Soon he and Ted are seated in his kitchen. There are four others, rummaging through the cupboards, pulling down booze and snacks. Ted is gushing with happy words, and launches into a pitch about an ‘unbelievable investment opportunity’, but Frank is distracted. The two girls are drunk, swaying against one another suggestively. He knows that within another drink or two, these young woman are going to give in to their urges, and they won’t care who’s nearby.

Ted notices him staring.

“That’s Abby and Carla, they’re interns. They’re coming with us to the convention in Madison, and let me tell you… they alone are worth the trip.”

“Trip… what trip?”

“Haven’t you been listening, buddy? The trip to the convention. The one where I made all my money. The party-Hummer is on the way there now, but I told them, ‘no way, we are not doing this thing – not without my good friend, Frank’.”

“What? Doing what?”

“You just have to come and see. It’s obscene how easy it is. Whaddya say, buddy?”

“Say to what?”

“Coming with us. To the convention. In the party Hummer.”

“Oh, I don’t know… I mean, I’ve really got a lot of…”

“Come on, Frank. This is exactly what you need. I promise it’ll be worth your while – hell, just for the partying alone.”

“But Ted…”

“No ‘buts’. You want to do this. I can see the hunger in your eyes.”

“What ‘hunger’? Wait… I mean, it’s kind of sudden, don’t you think?”

“Well yeah, sorry about that… but opportunity’s knocking, my friend. S**t or get off the can.”

Frank blinks at him, aware that he probably looks stupid. “Uh… how long would I be gone?”

“Does it matter?”

 

 

 

Soon the revelers are tumbling out of Frank’s house. They pour into the party Hummer, but the passenger cabin is full, so Frank climbs into the back. He takes a seat on a metal bench over the wheel-well, facing the hot tub. The engine roars to life, and the music is re-ignited. The same ghostly melody from Frank’s teenage years.

There are five people in the hot tub now, three of them women, only one of which seems to be wearing a bikini top. They hold their drinks high and cheer as the Hummer pulls away from the house. Frank isn’t dressed for a hot tub. He senses that if he strips down and jumps in with them, they’d love him for it, but for now, he is still an outsider. He wonders where all the drinks keep coming from.

“Hey buddy, what’ll it be?”

Frank is startled, and looks around. The voice has come from the back window of the Hummer. There is a man there, polishing a glass with a white rag, and he appears to be standing in the passenger compartment with the window at chest height. A bartender?

The man repeats himself, shouting to be heard over the music. “What can I get you to drink?”

“You have a bar back there?”

“What?” The man yells.

“You’ve got an actual bar back there?”

“Sorry buddy, can’t hear you over all this music. Why don’t you come on down?”

Frank is a little bewildered, yet he stands up in the back of the moving Hummer. The motion is smooth; he is in no danger of falling. He notices a short set of steps descending into the passenger compartment, much like the entryway into the interior of a cabin-cruiser. He is surprised by the apparent dimensions of the Hummer, but his thirst for a stiff drink draws him on.

The cabin looks very much like a tavern or pub, albeit a very small one. There is barely room for two tables, a jukebox, and a bar, yet it has perfect ambiance. Track lighting, neon signs, wooden barstools with heavy padding – Frank immediately feels comfortable here. The stocky bartender is wearing a Hawaiian shirt like Ted’s, and despite his shaved head and earring, his eyes are friendly. He motions Frank over.

Frank drops himself into the barstool, suddenly feeling a little more relaxed. There are only two other occupants in the bar, a couple guys in their early twenties, shooting pool and sharing a pitcher of beer.

“So what’ll it be?” The bartender asks.

“You know, I’d kill for a white Russian.”

The bartender does a thing with his thumb and forefinger, like he’s shooting a gun at Frank. But it is in no way threatening. In fact, it is hospitable and charming. The bartender turns to mix his drink, and Frank takes another look around. Just in time to see a group of six girls traipse across the threshold. They are hooting and laughing, and holding their drinks high – clearly not their first drinks. The young men playing pool call over to them, but the ladies merely wave and blow kisses. They are headed towards the bar.

Suddenly Frank is crowded by slim, sweet-smelling bodies. They are swaying to the music and ordering drinks, and do not seem to be aware of the body parts that are brushing up against him. One girl, a brunette in tight jeans, slides her body in front of his stool to lean over the bar in front of him. As she’s slurring out her drink order, Frank cannot help but look down.

She is between his knees, touching them with her hips – practically in his lap.

He thinks of his home and his wife, but that is somewhere else.

This is here. 

That was another time.

This is now. 

Then the girl takes her drink and leans back into Frank to guzzle it. Frank receives his own drink – by snaking his arm around the girl’s neck. She seems to like it, and snuggles closer. 

So he leaves his arm there.

 

 

 

 

Later on, Frank is playing cards in the back room. It is smoky and dark, but the pile of cash in front of him lights up the whole room. All of the men have a pile of cash in front of them. Girls are draped all around like curtains and pillows, two of them are holding onto Frank. One might have been the same girl from before, but Frank cannot remember – he has had too much to drink.

Ted is at the table, and he is dealing the cards and laughing. Frank has forgotten the name of the man that is supposedly on the upper deck, driving the Hummer, but Bill Troy is also at the table. Bill Troy with the two first names.

“Never trust a man with two first names,” Frank had said. Perhaps more than once – he cannot remember – but everybody laughs when he says it. It makes Frank feel a little proud, because after all, picking up Bill had been Frank’s idea. And now they are all on their way to the convention together.

The men are smoking and playing cards and joking; everything they say is funny. Nobody is upset because nobody seems to be losing. They sometimes talk about the investment opportunity, and when they do, Frank feels excitement quiver along his bowels. They are all going to be rich. Filthy, stinking rich.

The drink has long since gone to his head, and each time he thinks of the future, he feels a little more giddy. Eventually, a sort of a turning point occurs, and the giddy switches to dizzy. Frank stumbles to his feet, excusing himself to go to the bathroom. His voice sounds incoherent, even to him, and everybody laughs like it’s the most endearing thing in the world.

He stumbles across the back room and pushes through the swinging door to the restroom. He has pushed perhaps a bit too hard, and nearly loses his balance. He shuffles to the urinal and begins to relieve himself, and realizes that he isn’t doing a very tidy job. But it doesn’t matter. The stream flows on and on, and Frank finds himself staring at the white tile before him. It takes on a hyper reality, and begins to throb towards the edges of his vision. Maybe because he is drunk. Maybe to remind him of what is real. For the first time in hours, he has a fleeting memory of his home and family, but it seems so far away now. There is so much time and space in between. His old life seems nothing more than last Tuesday’s dream.

And suddenly he wants to sleep – sleep would be just the thing.

There is a machine in the room with him, and it is making a hellish screeching noise, but the volume seems to have been turned down to one click above mute. The sound doesn’t bother Frank: he could sleep here.

He looks around the white-tiled room, but sees no place to rest. The machine looms large in the corner, but the only available horizontal surface is the conveyer belt leading into it. And suddenly the fatigue convinces him – it’ll be comfortable enough. There is already a line of men passed out on the conveyer belt, and they seem to be sleeping restfully, peaceably. Their expressions are bliss.

There is one gap in the line, just large enough for Frank’s exhausted body. He staggers over towards it. He is still lucid enough to realize that lying here will eventually take him into the machine, but that suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. At least he’ll be able to rest. And the machine doesn’t kill – it merely changes.

Frank rolls himself over the side of the conveyer belt, settles into a comfortable position, and lets his eyes drift shut.

Reviews

[Wez Hardyn]

Is this a political metaphor - a consumer hell? I like the idea that rich people drive around in circles for ever, doing nothing and getting nowhere. A very smooth and accessible writing style. I'll have to read more of your stuff to see, as we used to say in the 70's, where you're coming from.