February 24, 2008

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  Kevin Goes Crazy

  I parked in front of the dock and went around to the back of my car, lifting the tailgate.  There was a bicyclist approaching, so I waited to let the dog out of the crate.

       “Hey, I used to work on that car,” he yelled. 

  By now he was off his bike and coming my way.  He had the hood of his sweatshirt up so I didn’t recognize him, but I knew who it was. 

       “Kevin?  I half asked, half exclaimed.

       “I forget your name,” he said, uncharacteristically unsmooth.  We were standing close enough for him to recognize me, and I don’t think he did. I’d taken vehicles to him for years, but he’d only worked on this car twice, which didn’t occur to me until just now. 

       “Prudence,” I reminded him.

       “Oh, yeah.  And you were with…”

       “Henry.”

       “That’s right.”

       “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”  I asked.  His shop was way across town. 

       “I just got out of jail.  I’m a three-time felon now,” he said, broadly.

       “What!?”

  I’d wanted to get the dog off the road and down onto the grass, so we were already on the trail when I stopped to get a closer look at him.  I was trying to bridge the gap, thinking of all the times I used to stand opposite him, watching him work on my front end.  He always wore gloves.

  Kevin was handsome then, lean and young.  He’d had an air about him and the kind of vocabulary that made coveralls seem an odd choice.

  Once Henry and I ran into him and his wife at Nordstrom, and I was surprised.  I’d always wondered who he’d be with.  She was a travel agent , blonde, and very sexy. I remember thinking she didn’t seem good for him; all flash and no substance was the hit I got.

       “Henry was the one who ended up with my silver.  It belonged to my grandmother.  He gave me a lot of money for it, too.”

       “He probably just wanted you to have the money.”   

       “Yeah, I had to sell everything.  I got involved with this model — Well, she wasn’t really a model but she looked like one.  She ran out on me, took my Grandma’s wedding ring and all my cash.  I saved her life once and everything.  We’d gotten pretty strung out on OxyContin and, you know, your heart gets so slowed down you can die.  Then I switched to heroin but now I just use meth, the drug of choice around here.” 

       “That stuff’ll mess your brain up good,” I cautioned, realizing why his speech pattern was so different.

       “Where are you living?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

       “I’m homeless now.  I lost everything.  But I found God.” 

  He was acknowledging the cliche but was sincere, and he described sitting with his cellmate, reading the Bible.  We had reached the end of the trail, and I took him down to the fire pit. 

       “Last summer a homeless guy set up his tent here every night and packed it up every morning.  I’d come through here with my dog around 7:30, and he’d be sitting up in front of his tent, still in his sleeping bag, doing the crossword puzzle”

       “Wow,” he said, “look at these boulders.”

  It was a picturesque spot, right above the river, hidden from the road.  While he was maybe figuring out a way to get a tent I was regretting my big mouth.  I always take my dog down on the dock after we walk the trail, and she’d gone on ahead without me.  Now she couldn’t hear me calling.

       “After my girlfriend took off I lost my shop.  That’s when I sold Henry the silver.  I’ve got nothing now but I’ve never been happier.”

  I was thinking his good spirits had everything to do with the chemical high he was on.  He was all revved up, talking gibberish.  We had reached the end of the dock and stopped to look back into the sun, where he was pointing out the location of his P.O.’s office.  That’s probation officer, for those of you who don’t hang out with felons.  I was trying to act like I do around German Shepards that are high strung.

       “The jail was too crowded, and they had to let a bunch of us go.  Monday morning I woke up free.  It was like Christmas morning only better.”

  He always did have a way with words.

       “I think God has a whole new plan for me.  I don’t think I’m going to be a mechanic.  I don’t really care to do that, I just liked helping people with their cars.”

  It was true.  He had worked a lot of overtime and would always stop whatever he was doing to listen to your car troubles.

       “I was a workaholic; that’s all I ever did.  Now I’m havin’ a ball.  I like to gamble.  I have to steal sometimes, though.” 

  He’d stopped at the other end of the dock, just below the ramp up to the street, and now I was anxious to get to my car, but he was standing in the way. 

       “Bridget,” I yelled, “Let’s go.” 

  It must have sounded urgent because he said,

       “What’s wrong?” 

       “Nothing.  I just need to get home before the stock market closes.”

  I hurried up the ramp to the road, finding the car key in my pocket. 

       “Do you want my phone number?” he asked, dead serious.

       “No,” I said vehemently.  “You’re crazy.  I remember the old Kevin, that’s who I want to talk to.”

  He looked confused and hurt, as I scurried to my car.  I quickly shut the door and drove home, horrified.  To think how much life can change us and how quickly. 

  He’d worked so hard building up his business, moving to a bigger, better space.  Now he had nothing to show for it, trading his life for the model’s.  It confirmed my conviction about being careful who I spend time with.  I never in a million years would have believed he could ever have a drug problem, but he’d spent the last few years chasing from one high to the next. 

  My lonely life was looking better.  Nothing wrong with plugging away day after day, taking care of business.  I may not have a whole lot to show for it but I’ve managed to hang onto — Well, that’s not entirely true, I’m down for the year.  The point is I am living a responsible, healthy life.  That old axiom about moderation in all things ccomes to mind.  And I am reminded that it’s never good to put too much energy into the opposite sex, at the expense of your self.

  Question:  I’ve never tried to write dialogue before where the person was messed up.  And this was subtle, like if you hadn’t known him before you wouldn’t notice the truncated speech.  He would just plunk a short sentence down and not elaborate, already jumping to the next thing.  Reading it now, seeing the lack of flow, I am wondering if it holds up.

     

  • 10:45 pm
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