Good People

Good People

ONE OF THEM, the one who is driving, says, Pussy’s pussy, and looks at the other one, the one in the passenger seat. It’s a kind of challenge.

The other says, Pussy is not pussy.

The two work together and are considered good people. That’s how they were introduced. Their boss is the one who introduced them this way, palming each on the shoulder as the two shook hands, both uneasy about this particular introduction, the intimate and public nature of it, the informality, the three of them all touching one another in the middle of the office like that, neither of the two looking the other in the eye, both noting the other’s grip, one limp and ladylike, the other deliberately firm, like he was trying to inflict pain, like he had something to prove.

One is tall and the other short. They both have hair and eyes and wear suits and shoes. Although they both are good, they are not friends.

The one driving, the one who says that pussy’s pussy, is recently married. The woman he married works as a receptionist for a dentist. She is a good woman. She was born and raised in Wisconsin. She has alabaster skin. She is hoping to become pregnant soon and is unaware of her husband’s thoughts on the similarity of female genitalia.

The one driving turns the radio down and says, Then what is it, then?

The one in the passenger seat says, You have to open your eyes, man. The answer’s obvious.

The one in the passenger seat is not married, never has been, and probably never will be. He does not have any siblings or close friends. He considers himself average in every respect and most agree he is correct in this, as he is neither handsome nor unhandsome, bright nor dull, witty nor humorless. He talks to his mother on the phone every day, roughly the same time every day. He tries to eat vegetables every day. There are other things he does every day, but they aren’t worth noting.

The two of them are on their way to a meeting across town.

The one driving will buy his wife flowers once a month. Dendrobium orchids are her favorites, and he made an effort to remember this the first time she told him. They were at a restaurant when this conversation took place. It was their second encounter. Certainly there was wine, an appetizer, salads, entrées, dessert, premature emissions from both parties. At one point she said, Surely there has to be, and he agreed.

Later they retreated to separate corners. The following week nothing in the world happened for either. Rather, they both slept, showered, maintained personal hygiene. They worked, ordered lunch, and commuted home, checked mail, exercised, watched television, roamed and repeated daily, but not with each other or in consultation. Both thought of the other, alone at night, and periodically through the day, wondering this or that, wondering if the other was likewise alone at night, up beneath the blankets, not sleeping, maybe getting out of bed to turn on an air conditioner or a sound machine, something that would make noise, take up space, provide a distraction, still wondering what the other might be doing and with whom, both thinking ultimately it was none of their business, that there was no actual bond between them, spoken or unspoken, no implied covenant, but still there was something, though perhaps it wasn’t mutual, perhaps it was entirely one-sided, but even still, they wondered if the other was up wondering the same things, still curious, still uncertain but excited, still hopeful. Both considered calling the other but then reconsidered. One or the other maybe even picking up the telephone, maybe even dialing the first few numbers, but in the end doing nothing, putting the phone back down, thinking it inappropriate, too forward. Both consulted friends on the next best move throughout the week and were confused by what they heard, how they were counseled. Then, finally, one did call the other, deciding enough was enough, and after a few false starts and the requisite back-and-forth, they came to terms.

The one driving says, What do you know about it?

The one in the passenger seat looks at the one driving. He says nothing.

The one driving likes to hold his wife’s hand when they go out walking. They make it a point to go for a walk twice a week after dinner. She always chooses the path and he follows. This is how they both want it. Once she let him choose the path and they ended up on the wrong side of nowhere.

Their first outing was a walk through the park. During this walk they did not hold hands, though the one driving briefly considered doing so or trying to do so. He realized she might get the wrong idea, that the gesture could be misinterpreted. He thought people from the Midwest were more likely to misinterpret certain gestures. He put his hands in his pockets instead, playing with the loose change he found there. On this particular walk neither led the way, rather, whenever one seemed to meander down this pathway or that one, the other was only too happy to follow, thinking nothing of it, like what could happen if they ended up on the other side of the park after sundown, knowing that people are sometimes harassed on that side of the park at night, even mugged at knifepoint. Nothing like that happened during their walk together, but it could’ve. Had that have happened, had a mugger actually pulled a knife on them, demanding their undivided attention, their wallets and jewelry, their full cooperation, the one driving would like to think he’d have risen to the occasion, that he could have played hero, staring the mugger down, unblinking, the look in his eye telling the mugger that he’d better move on, take his business elsewhere. Otherwise, he’d have to relieve the mugger of his knife, take it off him, getting up real close, daring the mugger to make his move, to flinch. He’d say something like, I’ll take that for you, or You won’t be needing this. Then he’d put the mugger in a headlock or pin his arm behind his back, effectively making a citizen’s arrest, telling his future wife to call the police. He’s pictured it before, many times. But nothing like this happened on their walk together. During this walk each of them looked mostly at the path in front of them, turning every so often to smile at the other or see if the other was smiling back. More often than not, each was smiling when the other looked, except for once when the one now driving mentioned his father, how he’d been arrested once or twice, was never around much, and how that he’d never actually known the man.

Both were pleased with the outing, how it went, and what it promised.

The one driving says, What’s the difference?

The one in the passenger seat says, If you have to ask. .

At home, they divide the chores evenly. He cooks most nights and is responsible for going to stores — hardware, grocery, whatnot — though he is always overwhelmed in a store. He never can decide which item to purchase, which brand is best. Recently he has asked his wife to make lists, this way, he will not have to make any decisions himself.

It takes him twice as long to shop for groceries as it does the average person.

Once she thought something had happened. She thought he’d either run off with someone at work or been killed. He used to mention one of the sales representatives by name. He said something once about her eyes and legs. When he said this about the sales representative, she said, I think we have to get something straight here. She was removing a brassiere, arms twisting around her back, hair down around her shoulders. He was watching. He likes to watch his wife disrobe. Sometimes he lingers on the other side of doorways. He will put his eye against the space between the door and wall. Once he dropped outside the bathroom to look under. He lay down on the carpeted floor, making sure that the floorboards stayed quiet as he did this because sometimes floorboards advertise one’s presence. He can always hear her when she is on the move from the bathroom to the bedroom. She is light on her feet, but that doesn’t matter, apparently, at least not to the floorboards. Once on the floor, with his right cheek pressed tight to the carpet, he got to see those light feet, how she rose up on her toes to drape a towel over the shower rod, almost like a ballerina. Sometimes he will handle himself through his pants, but he never takes himself out, never tries to finish. He is always hopeful that they might have a go afterward. She is usually a good sport concerning his need for a go.

The one driving says, It’s like the old joke: Take my wife. She’s a good woman, but my dick isn’t going to suck itself.

Unbeknownst to him, she is aware of his voyeurism. She hasn’t confronted him about it because she doesn’t mind him spying on her. She would rather he spy on her than on a neighbor, though she is worried that he does this, as well. There is an attractive woman across the street and she has noticed her husband observing her. The first time it happened was on a Sunday as they were getting into the car to go shopping. On Sunday, they shop together instead of walk together. They both think it important to do things together, for the marriage. In truth, the wife doesn’t like to shop, but she also doesn’t like it when she gives the one driving a list and he fails to acquire every item listed. Sometimes what he forgets is the one thing they need most, so Sunday is reserved for them to pick up what he’s forgotten during the week. On this particular Sunday as they were getting into the car, she noticed him glance several times across the street, and there was the woman. She doesn’t know who this woman is, doesn’t know her name, her occupation or if she has one, whether she is single or married or what. She looked at her husband after his second or third glance across the street and told him to get in the car.

She has searched through his closet and the downstairs garage, looking for binoculars or a telescope or a camera with a telephoto lens. She searches approximately once a month, usually when he is out at a store. She has yet to find anything incriminating.

She doesn’t want to humiliate him about this particular predilection, the voyeurism. All in all, he is a good man. Every good man has something wrong with him, something fundamentally unwholesome and feeble. She told him early on that she was open-minded, and enjoyed the look on his face afterward. She said this before they were intimate, before they’d even kissed good night.

Topless, she said, Are we clear?

He hasn’t mentioned the sales representative since.

Before, when he was single, he would go to a store only if it was absolutely necessary. Now he lives in them. He tells his friends that it’s awful, that it’s the death of some essential part of himself, but he does not actually mind. He knows he has to do something. He is a man.

She does everything else around the house, both inside and out. She is always dusting, cleaning, building, caulking, grouting, finishing, fixing. She mows, trims, weeds, gardens, waters. He does not like to be around when she is doing any of these things. Whenever she is out there, he will try to think of a store he should visit, something they might need for the house. Plumber’s tape or clippers or something she mentioned over dinner or during a walk the past week.

He will come home with the plumber’s tape or clippers, proud of himself. He knows not to make a production of it, however. He knows he shouldn’t come bounding through the door exclaiming, I got the plumber’s tape or clippers you wanted. He did this once on a Saturday when his wife was in the downstairs bathroom fixing both the showerhead and toilet tank. The showerhead had been leaking water for some time, since they’d moved in. But the chain connecting the handle and ball cock in the toilet tank had come unhinged the night before. He was the one who broke it. She’d told him repeatedly that he had to be gentle with the handle in the downstairs toilet. She told him the chain was about to come unhinged. To his credit, he’d tried to remember this, and for weeks he was gentle in the downstairs bathroom. The trouble is, he is never gentle with anything, at least not for long. He always finds himself slamming cabinet doors shut, violating keyholes while opening locks, gripping a toothbrush like he’s strangling a garter snake.

There she was in the bathroom, wearing overalls and a bandanna. The lid of the toilet tank was resting on the bowl and she was hunched over, with her arms submerged in the very cold water, fingers manipulating the rusted chain, growing numb.

I got the plumber’s tape you wanted.

What did you say to me?

Still, both are satisfied with the arrangement, their respective roles.

The one driving says, I don’t know, man. He is aggressively changing lanes whenever there is an opportunity to pass a slower car like he is in a race. The one in the passenger seat doesn’t like it that he comes right up behind the car directly in front of them, leaving only a few inches between back and front bumpers, tailgating this way for a few seconds, before changing lanes to pass. He thinks about telling the one who is driving to relax, asking him, Where’s the fire? but he says nothing. Instead, he looks out the window and peers into the cars they are passing.

A few months ago, the one in the passenger seat walked into a supply closet at the office. He was looking for a colored binder but found the one now in the driver’s seat leaning back while a young girl was kneeling in front of him. The one in the passenger seat couldn’t tell who the young girl was, but she most likely worked in another department. The one in the driver’s seat looked at the one in the passenger’s seat and winked.

This is the first time they’ve been in each other’s company since it happened.

The meeting is about a new account and who is going to be responsible for it. The one driving insisted on driving to the meeting, though the one in the passenger seat offered to drive, as well. The one driving told the one in the passenger seat not to worry about it, though the one in the passenger seat wasn’t worried. Now that they are actually in the car, the one in the passenger seat is concerned they will get into an accident. He wouldn’t want to die this way, in a car accident, next to the one who is driving. He doesn’t mind that they are associates at work, one can’t help such a thing, one cannot pick one’s colleagues, after all, but he wouldn’t want to be associated in death with the one driving. The one in the passenger seat wouldn’t mind dying in some other kind of accident, something he was responsible for himself, with his own hands on the wheel, at his own hand even, but not like this, not next to the one who is driving. About this, he is concerned, but he isn’t actually worried. Both of them, however, are worried about the meeting. They are worried about what to order for lunch. Both contracted food poisoning from this restaurant and both missed work because of it. The one driving had bad clams and the one in the passenger seat had bad chicken salad.

The one driving woke twice in the middle of the night, once at 1:30 and again at 3:30. He scared his wife on both occasions because when he throws up, he throws up violently, screaming the poison out of him. It sounds like someone being tortured, perhaps with a cattle prod or thumb screws. Or maybe it sounds like an animal dying from a gut shot, he doesn’t know. He’s never heard anyone tortured and he’s never seen an animal die from a gut shot, though this is what he imagines. He also doesn’t know why he throws up this way or if other people do it the same way. He has never heard his wife throw up, and for this he is grateful. He does not like to think of his wife in regard to her bodily functions. The first time she told him about her period, he said, I get this way around blood. In this case, this way meant queasy, it meant he didn’t want to know about it. He said it had to do with his father, that once he saw him get punched in the face in a street fight, saw his father drop to the pavement after he was hit, blood pouring out of his nose. He didn’t like it that he was sick in front of her.

The one in the passenger seat got sick right there in the restaurant. It was during another meeting with the boss, this one about a new campaign for a new client, something that was important to the boss but not to the one in the passenger seat, although he is good at seeming interested, invested. The one in the passenger seat is adept at feigning team spirit. He will always use the words we or us or our when discussing company business. He is always punctual, courteous. He never complains. The boss considers him his best employee, the most reliable and most dedicated. He is none of these things. He is good at his job, or rather, he is competent, fair, but he never excels at anything, his work is always acceptable and on time, yes, his assigned task or tasks, whatever is assigned to him, he does it, always, but he rarely shows initiative, rarely goes any extra miles. He is wholly without ambition. He has never sought a promotion or raise. He shows up, he does what is required, he leaves. He is there. That’s how he was, too, in the restaurant when he got sick. He didn’t tell anyone he wasn’t feeling well, didn’t mention it afterward, either. The one in the passenger seat knew something was wrong shortly after his last bite of the chicken salad sandwich. He could feel something inside himself, in his innards, something moving itself around, looking for a way out. So what he did was excuse himself to go do what he had to in the rest room. He rose up from the table, clutched the napkin placed on his lap, folded it, laid it down on his chair and said, Pardon me, please. No one paid attention to him as he said this or as he left the table. There was no urgency involved, judging by his demeanor, though he wasted no time walking directly to the rest room. Once there, he acted accordingly and finished without drawing any attention to himself. There were two other men in the rest room, though neither was aware of what was happening in the first stall. He thought this episode was a sign of his good health, of his improving health, that his body so quickly rejected what wasn’t good for him. Later, he returned to the table, but skipped dessert.

Neither is keen on eating lunch today, but both realize they have no choice. More than that, though, more than worrying about food poisoning, neither wants the new account and both are hoping the other gets it.

The two of them never interact at work. When they see each other in the hallway or lobby they will sometimes nod. The one in the passenger seat is certain the one in the driver’s seat must think this lack of interaction is related to what happened in the supply closet. The one in the passenger seat is fine with the other one thinking this.

The one who says that pussy is not pussy does not like to hold anyone’s hand. Once he had dinner with his mother’s neighbor. His mother’s neighbor worked as a nurse, was handsome around the face, save some old pockmarks and acne scars, and shaped like a field hockey player. The mother arranged for the outing, said the nurse was perfectly suitable, and instructed her son to pick up the neighbor and walk her to the restaurant. He did this. At dinner, they discussed her job, her background, her plans for the future. He shared nothing of himself, instead asking questions and smiling when he thought it appropriate. On the walk home, she slipped her hand in his. She did this casually. There was no call for such an action, no reason for it. There was nothing about his body language or demeanor or anything he may’ve said during dinner that would’ve indicated such a thing would be welcomed. He always sweats when he comes in contact with another person. He sweats, too, whenever he eats or is active for more than two minutes. Every day, he has to change out of his shirt after lunch. He keeps five freshly laundered shirts behind the door in his office. He does not like going to a doctor but promises to do so whenever he talks on the phone with his mother. His mother worries about him and is correct in doing so.

The walk home with the neighbor was a long one. Still clutching his hand, she prattled on about one of the doctors at work, remarking that one was a letch. The one in the passenger seat said every so often, That’s terrible. He also said once or twice, People are different. He wanted to talk about the one who says that pussy is pussy, what he saw in the supply closet. He wanted to know what could be done about it, how he should proceed.

The one in the passenger seat now says, There are different kinds.

The one in the passenger seat rarely leaves his apartment unless it’s to commute to or from work. On weekends and holidays, he goes to breakfast at the diner. He eats pancakes and bacon, almost always. He spreads the butter all over each cake, however many pats he is offered, then pours a generous amount of syrup onto the plate. He likes the pancakes drenched but not soggy, and he likes it when syrup gets on the bacon, too. Inside the diner, there are always well-dressed people, people who’ve come from church, people who are related to one another, families, loved ones. He always finds a table facing away from these people. He doesn’t want to listen to their conversations, the righteousness.

The one driving talks about the one in the passenger seat with his wife sometimes. He talks about the shirts behind the door. He remembers when his boss introduced them, how his hand was damp. He points out that he never socializes with people in the office, how he always keeps to himself. He tells his wife he thinks the one in the passenger seat is half a fag. The wife asks why he would think such a thing. He tells her he isn’t sure, that he’s heard it around the office, that it’s the scuttlebutt.

Whenever the wife initiates sex, she likes to ask her husband about his special friend at work. She calls him a fairy because she doesn’t like the word fag. She wonders if he would like to join them sometimes. The one who is driving feigns anger when she talks like this, but the truth is, he doesn’t mind.

The one in the passenger seat almost never discusses his work or his colleagues when talking on the phone with his mother. When his mother presses him, he tells her that everyone is cordial. He tells her they are all good people. He has never mentioned the one who is driving by name to his mother. He did say once that he saw something he wished he hadn’t. But when his mother asked what, he told her she wouldn’t want to know.

He doesn’t tell her that he thinks about quitting sometimes but doesn’t know what else he could do for work. He doesn’t tell her that he imagines certain crimes, committing them, things he could do in the workplace, things he could maybe get away with, things that happen all the time, all over the world. He doesn’t tell her how bored he is by everything. He doesn’t tell her that he visits Asian massage parlors every so often on the way home from work, that he knows which ones are good and which aren’t, which try to rob him and which seem like they are genuinely happy to see him, to service him. He doesn’t tell her he’s visited two transsexual prostitutes during lunch breaks, doesn’t tell her that he’s touched their parts and that they’ve touched him and that he wants to do it again. What he does tell her is what goes on in his apartment building. He tells her about the front door, how that the buzzer won’t work for weeks at a time, and how that he has to go downstairs to let the deliveryman in whenever he orders dinner.

The two are in the car together.

The one in the passenger seat says, I’ll say. He rolls the window down a little.

The one driving did not formally propose marriage to his wife. After several months of misinterpreted conversations and endearing gestures, they found themselves in front of an ordained minister and two paid-for witnesses. The ceremony was simple and brief, as there was a line out in the corridor waiting to do likewise.

The bridal night included a mutual decision to forgo the threshold ceremony but was otherwise traditional. Once inside their room, the ersatz honeymoon suite, she spent a solid hour in the bathroom while he examined his genitals under the covers. He was hoping they would go twice, once she came out, if she came out. He wondered what would happen if she didn’t. Wondered what he’d do if she had done something to herself in there, maybe with pills or a razor. He waited. He thought about them going twice again. They’d gone twice only a couple of times before, once during a memorable evening that involved take-out Chinese. He was hoping she would come out wearing something special, something he hadn’t seen before. That is, if she were to come out at all. If she didn’t come out, he’d have to go in after her, break down the door, find her like that, dead in the tub. He’d have to call the police and explain the whole thing, the wedding, the witnesses, the threshold. For the rest of his life, he’d be the one whose wife committed suicide on their wedding night. He’d have that story to tell over and over to all kinds of people, all kinds of empathetic women. Eventually she did come out, and when she did, she wasn’t wearing anything special. She came out naked and said something like Are you ready for me? He was, as anyone might expect, devastated.

Afterward there was the standard back and forth, give and take, push and pull.

All of which has led the one driving here, a block or so away from the restaurant. He is looking for an indication from the other one, something that would telegraph his intentions. He wonders if he is about to be blackmailed. He wonders how it would work, if he’d pay. Maybe the one in the passenger seat would demand sexual favors. There is no way of knowing. He likes to think that he could kill the one in the passenger seat instead, if it comes down to it.

The radio news is on and they are about to do the sports and weather. He turns the volume up so he can hear the scores. He cannot account for what has happened in his life, how he’s gotten to this point. He remembers playing football with his father once. His father had a rocket for a throwing arm, which surprised him. He didn’t think his father would be much of an athlete. He was almost always gone, the father, only showing up once in a while, maybe every five years or so, when he needed money. And now he is married and about to eat lunch at a bad restaurant, hoping to dodge food poisoning, this new assignment, and the forthcoming blackmail.

This morning, he told his wife he wasn’t sure about having children yet. He told her he didn’t think he was ready, that he wasn’t sure about the prospect, how he would fare. He said they didn’t have enough saved, that he needed his sleep, that he didn’t have much of an arm. He said they were young, that they had plenty of time. His wife didn’t respond to any of this. Instead, she went downstairs, into the bathroom, maybe to fix something, otherwise to kill herself.

The weather this day goes unnoticed. Neither of the good people looks up at the sky or catches that a light rain has started.

The one driving turns into the restaurant’s empty parking lot and parks the car close to the entrance. The one in the passenger seat unfastens his safety belt and makes a sound with his mouth. The sound probably means something, but the one driving doesn’t hear it. The one driving is busy turning off the ignition and says, This is where you’re wrong, man.

Getting out of the car, he says, This is where you’re dead wrong.