Fiction by Brian Longacre

Brian Longacre is many things, but the letters of “Brian Longacre,” even the big ones, have little to do with who he is. He is rather short and soft in the middle, but that's not really who he is. He is a husband, father, brother, and son, and that explains the historical bits. His mother said he was smart (once), and his wife said he was handsome. He is a teacher, writer, coach, and artist, but those have only ever mattered to hiring committees. He rarely speaks about himself in third person. Right now, he is considering how he can be more kind, more loving, and more helpful towards those around him and those farther away, and that, after all, is where identity lives. We are not the reflection in the window, but rather we are the everything beyond it.

Mallory

Inside the space of an hour, she had decided God was an asshole, men were mosquitos, and life was a long, lazy way to die. So, she left, grabbed two bananas, a few granola bars, her phone, and her purse. She chose to leave her hoard of Lindor Truffles and Skittles because she hoped not to need them, their sweetness a distraction from hollowing loneliness. Twenty-eight years of marriage hung on her like the combined weight of a busy elevator. She had carried countless, careless people up and down like a machine meant to carry great weight without anyone noticing. She only ever wanted to carry children, which she couldn't. She had wanted children when she could've had them, but unlike the loud, verbose man she married, God was slow and said nothing. His nothing took years to mean no.

Unspoken in her mind’s leaving was the probability that she’d drive toward Ohio, toward Cleveland, where her only friend moved two years ago, a friend she hadn’t done well to keep up with. She left a long note, explaining ways he had hurt her, most recently telling her while drunk that the only difference between her and a dairy cow was that the cow was good for milk. It was the “good for” that hurt her the most. It was in the echo of that comment when she decided that her years of doing good had become nothing more than a pathetic pile of woman who relied on the pulse setting of her showerhead to feel a few moments of womanhood. In her note, she told him not to look for her, explained to him how and why she needed a fresh start, then she ripped the note into little squares and wrote “Fuck you” on a napkin instead.

She was done choosing good and “good for’s,” no more Diet Cokes and rice cakes. From now on, she’d choose fat food and stupid things, dangerous things, and her first opportunity came minutes after she got on the highway. He was walking with the flow of traffic, his left hand barely showing a raised thumb as if he'd almost given up on someone helping him. She pulled over well ahead of him, her tires crunching gravel as she slowed.

As he got closer, walking faster with the possibility of a ride, she could see that he was filthy and imagined how terrible he would smell in her car on her seats. But this was stupid, maybe dangerous, and the possibility excited her. She put the passenger window down as he leaned in.

“Are you stopping to give me a ride, ma’am?” his wiry, stained beard moved with his words.

“Where ya headed?” she asked as casually as she could manage.

“Honestly, anywhere but here. Louisville, maybe?” He was more articulate than she expected, his voice deep and tame, pushing through his feral image, surprising her prejudice.

“Get in. I'll get ya closer. Sit in the back, take a nap if ya like.”

“Thank you. Thank ya thank ya thank ya.” He got in, leaned on the door and exhaled, staring out the window, smelling her, her washed clothes, her clean car, the life of someone air-conditioned. Quiet moments lingered as she sped the car quickly back into the flow of traffic.

“My name’s Mallory,” which wasn't her name.

He was staring at the blur of trees and trash flashing by like something only he could see, something he didn't need his eyes to see. Mallory, he thought. Sounds like malaria. “I'm Larry.”

She was right about him stinking.

She read him through the little mirror, quick glances to grab details. Thin, filthy, maybe 60, woodsy smell, sweat, pine, piss maybe, smoke. But he didn’t radiate danger or wonder the way she imagined an intruder in her bedroom at night might, the way her husband used to when they were first married and he would come home quietly, guiltily, not the kind of quiet with nothing to say but rather the loud and crowded quiet of too much he shouldn't say.

“You hungry?” She reached back with a granola bar.

“Always.” He opened his eyes. “Thank you.” He tore open the packaging and took a shark’s bite. “Can I ask you a question?” he said with his mouth full.

“You’re wondering why I picked you up,” she said. “Well, why not? You needed a ride. I have a ride. Why not, right?”

He finished the granola bar, which he was only now beginning to taste. “Actually, I saw the ring on your finger and wondered if you’re really married or one of those women who wear a ring to keep men away.”

“Oh. Well, I…” She liked being Mallory but hadn’t thought through who Mallory was going to be. “I suppose I’m…both maybe?”

“It’s no matter to me. I’s just trying to figure you out the way I do everybody I meet.” They were both quiet, chasing ideas and weighing whether they needed saying or not. “You know,” he started again, “I’m just a fragile, handsome man out here on my own, and I can’t be getting into cars with homicidal housewives.” They both laughed, she first then he as if she had to let him in, and they laughed a little more than they would have but for the tension.

“If married means I have a husband, then yes. But the only murdering I might do is him.”

Larry didn’t reply, didn’t say the obligatory “I see” or “I understand” because he didn’t. Then, pushing through the silence, she added, “How about you? You married?”

“Nah, Never. I had a few togethers years ago that felt more like cellmates than married. Never lasted any longer than it had to. I might have a kid though. Might not.”

“Thank God I never had children. I can’t imagine...I just can’t.”

After another long silence, he pushed through, “I was surprised that you offered me a ride. I’ve never had a woman traveling alone stop to give this beleaguered old man a ride.”

“Beleaguered? Damn,” she said out loud, not recognizing the insult until she heard it.

“I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to use them big words, am I?”

The idea hung in the air where she could see it and put it next to what she assumed. When he first got into the backseat, she wondered if he had teeth not words.

And now that he seemed perfectly safe, she was disappointed. She was expecting an abused pit bull or a storm cloud full of heat lightning, not a polite man who only needs a granola bar and a bath and uses words like “beleaguered”.

“We’re two hours from Lexington. When we get there, I am going to get us a big, hot dinner. And whatever you want to drink. On me. Sound good?” He was already sleeping, curled up against the door like he was nestled into the root flares of an old tree. In the silence, she kept thinking about the words “On me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Larry?” she said gently to wake him. “Larry? We’re here. Lexington, Kentucky.”

He didn't stir, so she left him alone for a few more minutes while she looked at her phone, thinking about texting her friend, not sure if she wanted to commit to that yet.

Him lying there, a stranger, gave her the space to practice her new commitment to being bad, but the harder she tried to picture him on top of her or pulling her hair or his hands around her throat, she kept seeing herself, her naked bulk pocked with cellulite, her breasts lost among rolls of fat. She could hear voices shaming her, her mother’s and men’s voices like her husband’s, even strangers’, until they were like her own, saying things she was already thinking, and it made her want to put on imaginary clothes and more clothes until she had tricked herself into believing that her girth was simply layers of ill-fitting fashion, a game she pretended to misunderstand.

She probably had more coats than blouses, more shawls and wraps than most because they covered her the way several inches of snow can cover anything and make it pretty. Besides, Larry was thin, probably frail. He would want to fuck her from behind, which meant he’d bang his pole bean body against her ass while she waited for him to make some growl or “oh shit” to know he came.

“Larry!” she said angrily.

“Janine?” Larry groaned, suddenly awake and afraid. He unfurled himself from his fetal sleep. “Where are…?”

“Lexington. C’mon, let’s eat.”

She got out of the car first and pretended to look for something in her purse while she waited for him to gather himself and get out. This Marriott had a bistro, and she planned to drink. As he closed the backdoor and walked around to her side, he told her he hadn't been in a restaurant in years, hadn't really been around people either in almost as long and preferred it that way but a hot meal with real meat, cooked, “...well, damn, people can't be that bad.”

They sat at the bar and ordered their food. He asked her to order him something because he didn't understand the menu. He just knew he wanted real meat “cooked.”

He got a beer, and she said she'd start with a Bloody Mary and a shot of bourbon. After she swigged the bourbon and allowed it to settle, she turned to Larry like she was finishing a sentence. “So, who’s Janine?” Larry froze, his longneck halfway to his mouth. “When I woke you in the car, you said ‘Janine?’”

He finished his gulp, swallowed the beer and the surprise, and said, “I lived with her for a while in Quincy.” His mind thumbed through the pages of their short book until he landed on a later chapter. “You know how some people save everything and clutter the rooms they live in? Her head was like that. One day, she was crying, and when I asked her what was wrong, she said it was me, that I was wrong. So, I left. Not sure if anybody could be right in a head that crowded.”

Mallory threw back another shot, grabbed the edges of the table and held on until the burn fully arced. Then she sipped the Bloody Mary and motioned to the bartender for another shot. She and Larry talked about the mean things people do, the stupid things. They talked about Tennessee, the worst parts of winter, and what the hell “Bonvoy” might mean, and it didn’t take long for her world to wobble, for the basketball game on the television above the bar to blur, the players sloshing up and down the court like waves.

“I'm gonna tell you a secret, Larry. But first,” she belched and giggled. “That's not it,” and giggled again. Larry looked around the room. “The secret is in this tiny little envelope,” and she slid it over to him. A room key. She looked away then whispered loudly, “Shhhhh, it's a secret.” He didn't grab the envelope with the card key inside, but he could see the room number written on it. “I'm going to my room now before this room flips all the way over. When you finish your beer that you're nursing, you can…” she stopped as the Mae West memory took over, “...you can come up and see me sometime.” She cackled, impressed with her impression and unsteadily pushed away from the bar, grabbing Larry’s thin forearm, squeezing it and snarling.

Larry stayed, heard her bump into a few things, heard the elevator chime. He thought about Lexington, couldn't remember if he had ever been there before, watched the rest of the basketball game on the television, finished his beer, and then walked over to the front desk and asked if they had any complimentary toiletries for shaving and such.

When he arrived at the room, Mallory was lying on the bed nearly naked except for her socks and panties, snoring. Her wedding ring was on the nightstand, and he thought it strange that she thought to take that off. Her clothes were piled on the chair and the floor. He looked at her, her large breasts and nipples leaning with her to the right, her left breast resting on the bed. It had been a long time since he had entered a woman, a long time since he had gotten hard, and he wondered if he was still capable of both at the same time.

He took his complimentary bag of toiletries into the bathroom, closed the door, shaved, then showered. After, he combed back his wet hair, brushed his teeth, and smeared deodorant all over himself, starting at his armpits. He wished he could get a haircut. Mallory was still snoring, smothered in clouds of alcohol, so Larry positioned the pillow better under her head so that she wouldn’t wake up with any cricks or cramps, and pulled the sheets up, tucking them under her breasts and resting her hands on the sheets over her belly. Then, he grabbed her wedding ring and gently twisted it back on her finger until it nestled into the pale indent where it had made a home. She had not woken up at all, and he stood back to look her over, lingering again at her breasts, which he ached to knead. Then, he left on only the bathroom light in case she woke and worried where she was. He put his key by the phone, and as he left the room, he looked back and listened to her still sleeping.

Lexington’s dark was cool and damp and held an optimism he had forgotten. His freshly shaven face welcomed the chill, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel hollow. The sky was beginning to blue, and soon, the sun would rise, its kind, forgiving light warming him as he walked. He thought he'd start this new day with a haircut and then maybe find some work to do for a while.