tom eubanks

Out of the Blue, Gone

I’m shot. It’s bad. I don’t know how long I have left.

God, it hurts.

. . .

I’m, I’m using that voice-thing on your computer. I’m not technical, like you. I hope you get this . . . when I’m gone.

Oh. Oh god. It freakin’ hurts . . . gimme a sec. . . okay. Okay, I’m ready.

I have to tell you why. It’s not what you’ll think.

Listen. I’m sorry. Believe me.

Oh god, oh god, have to speak faster. Or you won’t know the truth. It hurts, but here goes.

I saw you tonight. At the restaurant. Yeah. Called in to cover for Dylan. Whose mother passed away. For the second or third time.

After you leave, I call all night. You don’t pick up, not once. I leave messages. A ton of them, go look on your phone. There has to be twenty, at least. Maybe more, go look at your phone. I tried to get hold of you.

You know what? It’s been 123 days. Yeah. I keep count. So let’s go back that far–oh god, it hurts.

Gimme a sec.

. . .

So, um.

. . .

Okay. Let’s go back to when I waited tables – when we first met.

. . .

You freaked me out. Going along with my lie to the manager. Never thought he’d go over and talk to you. Not in a million years.

Anyway. Okay, yeah, so Doug – Douchebag Doug – that’s what I call him – Doug, the night manager, doesn’t like me. I don’t know why either. Won’t give me enough hours. And the hours I get are the worst shifts.

Anyway, you and I. Only see each other in class. Twice a week. And you’re so kind to me that day when I forget to bring a pen. You notice I’m frantically looking through my stuff for something to write with and then suddenly there you are handing me a pen. With that amazing smile. And then you go back to talking with that guy – Kyle something. On the swim team.

Oh god, my arms are getting numb. Good thing I listened to you. That day you showed me how this voice-thing works. Good thing. I hope it’s working.

. . .

Okay, let’s keep going.

Bottom line with Doug? He hates me; I hate him. Only difference is that he thinks I like him, but I don’t. I double-hate him. How he treats everyone, he deserves to be dishwasher not the manager.

And then there you are. Sitting in a booth. The girl from drama class. Effortlessly beautiful. Cliché, maybe, yeah. In your case, it’s true. I haven’t been around a lot of girls. Remember, I went to an all-boy, military academy—I think I told you that—so I never dated – parents were pretty strict about that, too, being principled people of faith.

. . .

I’m glad. I’m grateful my parents are like that, too, I am. It’s not their fault I’ve become gratuitous. They’re good people – the best. They didn’t have a lot of time, though. As professionals, there’s not a lot of spare time for kids – I understand that, right? My sister gets most of the attention, being deaf. Mom and Dad aren’t to blame. At the time, I didn’t know that; I blame them, big-time. But no, I know now. They make money to pay for everything. They take personal time together—of course, right? They also have to take personal time alone, individually, one at a time.

The point is I was ignored—maybe I’ve told you this before.

And now, first year in college, first class I take, there you are. Set construction, drama department. And I think you’re . . . maybe you’re too attractive, too animated to just build sets. I think you should be the one on stage. You’re glamorous. You parade. Not like you’re conceited, no. Not at all. It’s natural for you to walk like that, with a purpose. At the time, I don’t have one, but I’m desperately looking.

I try everything. I’m really not talented at anything that matters. I can’t play an instrument, weld, fix things – nothing like that. I even fail at being a good son. By allowing my good parents to take the blame for my inadequacies.

And then, wow, I fall so massively hard for you that first day in class – building flats, remember? And the way you talked to me, so easy, so simple. And when I see you round campus, I watch you from a distance, staying in the background.

But then the next semester we both take Photography I. Then there’s our firstassignment. And I don’t understand why you choose me. You have so many guy-friends.

I’ll never forget. I’m reading a book, alone, on the quad, sitting on the grass under that mulberry tree. On a very sunny day. You come out of nowhere, out of the blue. Sitting beside me, putting your hand on my leg. Your fingernails are painted red, white and blue – on each nail. I think you’re being patriotic. But it’s because the Language Department is holding an annual French Day Luncheon.

. . .

That was funny. Can’t laugh. Hurts too much in some places. Getting numb in other places. I think . . . I think death is—this is . . . this is morbid, but death is eating me slowly. As life slowly bleeds out.

And my jaws are fighting me. I’ll do my best. To keep talking.

. . .

Photography. Okay. You sit down. You put your hand on my thigh. You leave it there. I don’t know how to react. This is the closest we’ve been to each other; we’ve been mere vessels of ignorance passing in the hall. You say hello to me maybe twice – no, four – I’ll give you four. The rest of the time I just . . .try to get your attention?

It hurts. Somewhere. I can’t tell. . . I’m, I think I’m going. . . .No.

. . .

I . . . I have to finish this. Oh god.

. . .

Look. You knew what you were doing. I realize that now. You knew, you know. You ask me to pose for you. For the class assignment. I choose a building. You choose me. I don’t tell you I’m photographing the old fire station. My friend’s uncle is a fireman there. Well, not truly a friend—just someone I used to work with. And when you ask me to be your subject, it’s flattering. I suggest we do it at the fire station. To kill two birds.

I barely remember taking my shots of the fire house. Because you make me pose. Wearing only the fireman’s hat and yellow turnout pants, bare chested. It’s not comfortable – I’m not comfortable doing that. But how you look at me, your eyes dropping down, all the way down my body, makes me feel like a man. Vulnerable, sacrificial. Not like active duty mortality but in a good way.

And then you show up at the restaurant where I work. Making me think there’s something going on – not between us but mystically. I realize you’re with your sister and don’t know I work there. With Douchebag standing there asking what you want to drink. Then you recognize me and wave. I bring your drinks and your sister says “hi,” and you look up from the paper menu in your hand. And there’s that smile, and I melt. I’m pathetic, okay? I know. But I don’t know what to say. Your sister says she’s forgotten my name—we met, remember, opening night. I wait for you to introduce us again, but you don’t. Instead, you say, “I didn’t know you worked here,” smiling again, going back to the menu. I leave the table before telling your sister my name.

. . .

Right now, I feel . . . different. I have, like, a what-you-call-it? A peaceful feeling—with lots of energy—whoa. I’ll keep going.

Anyhow. Where am I? Doug. So I walk back to where Doug loiters at the kitchen door and he asks, “Who’s that?”

I’m feeling about – I don’t know – two inches tall. From what just happened at your table. So, I don’t think it through. I’m impulsive under stress, as you know by now. Telling him you’re my fiancé is a joke. On me. In my head. I admit, it’s also a wish, but more of a joke. With a straight face, “She’s my fiancé,” and it’s my way of getting back at Doug for treating me like – I don’t know.

“Her? Really?” Doug says—and then he walks straight to your table.

I’m mortified. Absolutely mortified. I get angry, go back in the kitchen. Hide myself in the freezer. I’m serious. I did that. And then Doug finds me in there, asks me what I’m doing, and I tell him something – a lie, I don’t remember exactly, something about the ranch dressing. And I’m ready for it. I’m ready for the shame of being caught in a lie – a pathetic, uncreative lie, that a woman like you would ever marry a boy like me.

Instead, Doug goes, “Wow, she’s hot, man. Good going.”

I can actually see his envy. In his eyes – naturally green already. When I glance at your table, you’re looking at me with a grin, the kind that says we’re sharing this lie. I don’t think I’d ever had the perfect emotion I was feeling at that moment.

Doug says, “When’s the big day, lucky dog?”

“We’re still sorting it out,” I tell him.

“Few years older than you, isn’t she?”

I just say, “She likes younger guys.”

Time goes by; I’m bumped to assistant manager at the restaurant. Don’t forget. How one night you show up on foot—walking over a mile to get to me at the restaurant—going boot-stomping or whatever you call it. Wearing tight jeans and a powder blue button-up cowgirl shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons—yeah, I know, I remember everything you wear. Okay, so out of the blue you show up dressed like a cute little cowgirl, smiling at me, needing a ride somewhere.

I leave work, jeopardizing my job, to give you that ride. This is one of those blessings. Hiding behind one of those sacrificial acts. The kind a man will make.

This is where things speed up, too. In my head, they speed up. I’m driving, you’re in the seat beside me, headed for the fairgrounds. Where you’ll meet some girlfriends at the dance concert. You tell me to park, so I pay to park – when I’m only supposed to drop you off for free – but I pay and we park. And then you reach down, pull up the lever to make my seat go back. Out of the blue you kiss me. You unbutton your shirt and kiss me more. We make out in the parking lot. For at least ten minutes. I try to be a gentleman. I know I don’t deserve to be with a woman like you. I’m out of your league—I’m minor, you’re major. I don’t push it, though, do I? Taking advantage. Not once. I let you take the lead. We kiss, we touch a little. Nothing more than that. I want to do everything with you, but I feel blessed. Satisfied to receive anything you’ll give me.

The next few weeks are . . . a damn dream. Because that night in the fairground parking lot you turned me into a man. No exaggeration. My therapist jokes that I grew a big crop of purpose right in the middle of my fallow striatum. I don’t have a lot of time to explain what that means. Let’s, let’s just say . . . I had been looking for purpose and found it. In you.

Sharing you torments me.

But I’m fortunate. To have my last 123 days with you.

Our infrequent lovemaking—which was plenty—and our road trips to Seattle and San Diego, and nights at the lake, flow like – I don’t know – a confluence of certainty? That you love me, want to be with me?

. . .

And so tonight. When you come into the restaurant. You don’t know I’m there working. Writing up next week’s schedules. When Cecily, the cashier—you’ve met her—she comes to tell me you’re here, and I’m thinking you didn’t find me at home and maybe I didn’t hear my cell and you’ve come looking for me. To tell me something. Everything you say is important to me.

But no. You come in to where I work and meet another man – out of the blue. Who is that guy? You show up at my place of work. Where my co-workers know who you are, know that you’re mine. And I watch you from the commotion of the kitchen. And people I work with are failing to hide their snickering and whispers. While you sit drinking, drinking wine with your hand on his leg, massaging it—something reserved for me. Like you mean to humiliate me.

. . .

. . .

I don’t remember . . . I don’t remember where I shot myself.

. . .

I . . . got a gun. Borrowed it. From someone who thinks they know me. I come to your apartment and sit. At your computer.

. . .

And Google. How—where to shoot myself. And survive it.

. . .

Either Google has it wrong . . . or I missed the spot.

. . .

. . .

I don’t want to die. On your floor.

. . .

I just want—I just need . . .your attention. That’s all.

. . .

Attention.

. . .

. . .

Can’t reach . . . keyboard. How . . . how do I save this now?

. . .

If I screw this up, too. It’s on me.