Decency

by

Matthew McFarland

Paul McGannon wondered if he could throw a book hard enough to smash his alarm clock. He was staring at the clock, knowing with dread certainty that it would start blaring in exactly two minutes, but unable to will himself to leave the warm folds of his blanket to turn it off. He hated waking up so soon before the alarm. Fifteen minutes or more was fine; you just went back to sleep. But two minutes was just annoying. No time to reflect on dreams, jack off, nothing. Just two short minutes to try to muster the strength to move. He wanted to throw something at the clock – what the hell, they were cheap – but the only things to hand were books, and he wasn’t sure if a book would do the trick. He was still stewing about this when the alarm went off.

Paul got up and shut off the blaring noise. He hated the alarm, but he always slept through the radio. He threw the sheet off and clambered out of his double bed. He stood and stretched, and fell back to the bed from the resulting headrush. He laid back down, staring at the ceiling, mentally going over his day. He had the day off from the tiny music store, but he was working at his on-campus job at the writing center. Fine, he thought, I can do my reading. Class at noon, if he decided to go. Lately he’d been skipping class a lot, be it to hang out with Tyler, or to take extra shifts at the CD House, or just to vegetate. He knew he should go, but he wasn't sure reviewing for the midterm exam was enough motivation to sit through two hours of mumbo-jumbo.

He got up again, slipped out of his silk boxers, and pulled on his robe. It had once been white, but he’d been wearing it for so long that it had turned a dingy yellow-gray under the arms and the down the back. He held it closed and crept down the hall to the bathroom. Tyler was still asleep, and Paul didn't feel like listening to him bitch about being "waked up."

Paul showered, singing quietly. At one point he’d been a choirboy, but the days of him being an active Catholic - like the days of him singing with any quality - were gone. His mother had complained that he never went to Mass anymore, but eventually she’d stopped. He just told her he had to work Sundays (which was true, more often than not), and she couldn’t complain anymore. After all, if he weren’t working, she’d have to give him more money, and if she did that, his father would complain and they’d argue, etc., etc. If my mother didn’t always take the path of least resistance, Paul had once told Tyler, we probably couldn’t afford this place.

He shut off the water and pulled his dark green towel from the rack. It’s time to wash this, he thought as he dried his face. It’s starting to smell musty. He added laundry to his mental list for the day and pulled his robe on. He pulled his electric razor - a Christmas gift from his uncle - from the medicine chest, and shaved his bristles off. He whipped a comb through his thick hair, checking for the bald spot he knew was his birthright. His father had been balding by twenty-five, and he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps.

He walked back to his room and threw the towel in his hamper and the robe on his floor. The floor of his room was cluttered, but not messy. Most of it was books from past classes that he couldn’t or didn’t sell back, term papers and exams he hadn’t gotten around to filing yet, and other somewhat important stuff. He hated a room with clothes on the floor. It seemed unsanitary somehow. And papers and books just made a better impression if his mother dropped by.

He pulled on his last clean pair of boxers, and opened his closet. He started to pull a pair of artfully torn jeans from the shelf, and then decided to dress up somewhat. Last time he’d had the impulse to do so, he hadn’t, and then he’d looked like a punk in front of the cop that had pulled him over. Should pay that ticket, mused Paul. When’s that due, anyway?

Paul chose a pair of charcoal-gray pants and his "headache" shirt. That’s what Tyler called it, because the weird black-and-white pattern had given him a headache once. Breathing gives you a headache, Paul had snorted, but now even he called it the headache shirt.

He pulled on a pair of dark socks and tucked his wallet in his back pocket, and headed downstairs to get some breakfast before work. He walked down the hall, past the living room, glancing with contempt at the battered footstool that sat in front of their ugly brown couch. Paul’s mother had agreed to help with rent, but not furniture, so they had taken what they could find. The footstool had character, at least, thought Paul, but Tyler’s beanbag was just awful. It was neon green and sat in the corner of the room like a radioactive gumdrop. Not even the cat would lie on it.

Paul was thinking about the ticket again, trying to remember when the pig had said his court date was, if he wanted to contest it, when he tripped over something in the doorway to the kitchen. He caught himself on the bathroom door and barely kept from slamming his fingers in it when it pulled closed. "Shit," he growled. Tyler’s bookbag had been sitting right in the walkway. Tyler did that when he didn’t want to forget it. Paul picked it up and set it on the counter. If he misses it here, too fucking bad, thought Paul. Damn thing almost killed me.

Xerses, Tyler’s old yellow tomcat, yowled at Paul from the kitchen table. "Fuck off, cat," muttered Paul, opening the fridge. Beer, faux orange juice, and assorted foodstuffs in various stages of decay. He grabbed the juice and took a swig from the bottle, deciding to grab a muffin from the coffee shop on his way to the university. Beer, he mused, was once a breakfast drink. Ugh. He was closing the fridge when something on the floor caught his eye.

It was an envelope, lying in the doorway to the kitchen like a subtle hint. Paul guessed it must have been on or in Tyler’s bookbag and fallen when he’d tripped over it. He walked over and picked up the envelope, and scanned the return address. It was from Erika.

"Christ," he whispered in disgust. He should have known - even before reading the address, he could smell the vanilla. Erika always scented her letters with vanilla. She needed a new schtick. Paul tossed the letter onto Tyler’s bookbag walked to the hall closet to get his shoes.

Tyler and Erika dating wouldn’t have bothered Paul. His own relationship with her had ended, "not with a bang, but a whimper", Paul was fond of saying. What bothered was that he knew his housemate, and Erika was just another in a long series of notches in Tyler’s bedpost. Not that I’m much better, admitted Paul, but at least I have the decency to not tell my lays that I love them so as to stretch a one-night stand to a week. Of course, saying anything would make him look jealous.

He pulled on his beaten black loafers, and looked out the window. It was sunny, but it had been unseasonably cold lately. He was debating wearing a coat when the letter slid off the counter again. Grumbling something about foreshadowing, he picked up letter and set it back on the counter.

"What was that about foreshadowing?” Paul jumped. Tyler was standing in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t do that.” Paul sat down at the table. “Gonna give me a fucking heart attack.”

“What are you all dressed up for?”

“The basic hell of it. Why are you up so early?”

“The basic hell of it.” Bullshit, thought Paul. He’s never up this early. More likely he just got home. Paul watched as he put the letter in his bookbag.

“Erika know about Dani?”

“Nope,” said Tyler. He was still focusing on his bookbag.

“Dani know about Erika?”

“Nope.”

“Mmm.” Paul got up and walked toward the coatrack. He dug into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out the ticket. “Shit,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Oh, this damn ticket. It’s due Monday and I don’t get paid ‘til next Friday.”

“So go in and get an extension.”

“Where, down at the court building?” Paul hadn’t thought of this. He’d just assumed they’d send a nasty note or something if it wasn’t paid on time.

“Yeah. You just go in there and tell them you don’t have any money. They’ll tell you to come back in a month and pay it.” Tyler walked to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” He opened the bottle and took a drink.

“Beer this early?”

“Thought you told me it used to be a breakfast drink.”

“That hasn’t been in vogue for a lot of years now, dude.”

“Oh.” He took a longer drink. “Fuck it.”

Paul frowned. He seemed worried about something, and Tyler wasn’t the type to get worried. Maybe one of his women had figured him out. “You OK?”

“Yeah.” He sat on the edge of the counter and stared at the floor. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Bullshit.” Tyler took a long drink. Paul was getting worried; Tyler never just drank. He drank at parties and on dates, and he’d have a beer while just hanging around, but never like this. He looked like a gorilla, sitting there dangling his legs and almost pouting. “What is it, Ty? Down to two women?”

Tyler smiled feebly. “Women. There’s the problem.”

“Problem?” Paul smiled. “What problem? You must have quite a collection going by now.” Tyler shook his head, and looked almost grim. “What’s up, man?”

Tyler raised his head to look at Paul, and Paul thought for a moment he looked scared. “Dani’s late.”

Paul nearly groaned. For a moment he interpreted this to mean she was coming over. Then the more probable significance of the comment hit him. “How late?”

“About a week and a half. Too early to know anything.”

“Oh, hell.” Paul leaned on the fridge. “Shit, man, that’s...” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“It sucks is what it does. I’m not worrying about it right now.”

Paul looked at him sharply. He was aware he was glaring, but Tyler was still staring at the floor. “And why are you not worried?”

“Don’t know anything yet. She’s just late. That doesn’t mean pregnant.” His tone was flat. Tyler always sounded flat when he was trying not to be worried. Not cold, not rational, just flat and monotone.

“She oughta get tested by her doctor.”

“Yeah.” Tyler jumped off the counter. His cat strolled in and rubbed up against his legs. “She is, just not yet. Test isn’t accurate until two weeks, or something. I don’t know.”

“Good luck.” Paul smiled.

“Yeah.” Tyler finished his beer. “I’m going to bed.”

“You going to class today?”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

Paul walked back to the coat rack and pulled on his black cashmere coat. Tyler walked past him to the staircase. “Hey, is it cold out?”

“Cool. Not cold, really. You’ll be comfortable in that coat.”

“Thanks.” Paul pocketed the ticket and checked his pants pockets. His wallet, checkbook, and Swiss army knife were all in place. He looked up at Tyler, who was leaning on the banister, still staring down. “You want to hang out tonight? Go shoot pool?”

“No, I can’t. I’m driving down to visit Erika.”

Paul bit down on his lip. He was suddenly glad that Tyler was on the staircase and not looking at his face, because he wasn’t sure what it was saying just then. “To visit Erika, huh?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah.” Still flat. The bastard.

“Can I ask you something?” Paul started to sweat. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his arm.

“Yeah,” Tyler sighed. He sank to the stairs and sat.

“What’s up with that? I mean, it’s one thing to sleep around, but don’t Dani and Erika both think you’re like a boyfriend?” Paul tried to make eye contact, but Tyler was still staring straight ahead.

“Yeah. They do.” Not so flat anymore. Not tearful, of course, but it sounded like he was getting through to something touchy. Good.

“I mean, I don’t know Dani from a hole in the wall, but Erika’s a good person. You really shouldn’t be –“

“I know I shouldn’t.” Flat again. Damn, thought Paul.

“So why?”

Tyler looked off to his left, as though the wall would tell him the answer to Paul’s question. Then he stared ahead again. “I don’t know. You do the same thing.”

Paul shook his head. “No, no I don’t. I sleep around, yeah, but I never tell a girl I love her and I’ll commit to her when I don’t mean it. That’s one of the problems Erika and I had. She wanted a boyfriend.”

“Maybe I just can’t say no.”

“Yeah, well...” Paul faltered. Tyler stood up.

“Anyway, I never said that I’d be her boyfriend.”

Paul gave him a sidelong glance. Maybe Tyler had never said it in so many words, but he had certainly allowed her to think it. “I think it was kinda inferred, though, y’know?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I mean, what are you gonna tell her if Dani’s pregnant? You can’t just –“

“I don’t know.” The words were measured, forceful. Not flat at all. Much better. “I’m waiting to find out whether or not there’s something to worry about.”

‘That’s brilliant.” Paul felt he should check himself, but the words kept coming anyway. “What the hell would Erika do if she found out you knocked somebody up? She’s already gone through – “

“All right!” It wasn’t a yell. Tyler raised his voice, but only enough to shut Paul up. He looked pissed, though. “All right. I get the point. So what do I do? Tell Erika? Then what if Dani’s not pregnant? I look like a shit.”

“Well, yeah, you probably would. No offense, man, but if the shoes fits, right?” Tyler shot him a look, but Paul didn’t look pissed, and Tyler smirked. “Seriously, though, are you just gonna keep this up as long as you can? I mean, you’re already in a situation where someone’s gonna get screwed over.”

“I know. This isn’t easy for me, either, you know?” Tyler stood up and started up the stairs.

“Easier for you than Erika,” muttered Paul. If Tyler heard, he didn’t respond.

Paul walked back into the kitchen, annoyed. He had a mind to read Erika’s letter but didn’t. Whether he refrained out of respect for his housemate’s privacy or because he knew the sort of thing Erika’s letters usually said, he didn’t know.

He checked his wallet and discovered he still had a five in it. Enough to get coffee and a muffin. He walked out to his car, got in, and adjusted the mirror. He noticed that Tyler had once again blocked the driveway. “Damn it, Tyler,” he muttered. He backed his car out, swerving onto the lawn to avoid Tyler’s beat-up Nissan. He smirked. His car was old and had it’s share of repairs done every year, but he was amazed that Tyler’s survived the two-hour trip to Erika’s as often as it did.

He pulled out onto the street, still mentally organizing his day. He’d have to get downtown before five o’clock. He had to work at the writing center until noon, then class until two, then whatever. Should eat sometime, too, he thought. Now, if I skip class, I can go to lunch at noon, then head downtown, then go do laundry.

By the time he pulled into the coffee shop parking lot, he had already decided what excuse to use for skipping class. He got out and trudged up to the glass door, noting that the sidewalk had not been swept. There were cigarette butts all over it. One was still smoking. Ugh, thought Paul, how can anybody smoke this early? He patted his coat pocket and noted he was out of cigarettes, and made a note to stop at the cigar shop to get a pack.

The coffee shop was small and comfortable, but it played to two totally different groups of consumers. During the day, the college crowd came in to get pre-class coffee, the professionals and senior citizens came in to get lunch, and the place was generally full and chatty. At night, the high school kids came in to drink coffee and act cool, and the place seemed more intimate and real. In the afternoon, with all those old ladies gossiping, the employees had to smile and be "nice." Not so the night crew. Paul smirked at the memory of having his cappuccino handed to him one evening by a very flustered barista, who told him to "enjoy his fuckin' coffee." He'd laughed all the way to his seat. He'd taken her home that night, in fact.

He waited in line, tapping his foot to the jazz on the stereo and noting that the girl making drinks was new. She was short, only five feet, it looked like. She looked younger than Paul, and had short brown hair that flipped into her face when she turned to hand someone a drink. She wore the standard cream-colored shirt and navy apron, and had a thin, studded collar around her neck. Paul watched her, smiling. He loved to watch pretty women. It wasn't a sexual thing, he often said, but it was like viewing art in motion.

The barista at the register was a longtime employee, but Paul had never known his name. He glanced up at Paul and rang in his drink. "Double capp, right?"

Paul smiled. He loved that, loved knowing that he didn't have to think, just had to make his presence known, and they knew what to do. "Yeah, gimme a blueberry muffin, too."

"OK." The barista took his money, handed him his change (not much; prices must've gone up, Paul noted), and Paul headed down the counter to wait for his drink. The girl had no problem making the drink, but cappuccinos were fairly easy. He watched her as she steamed the milk, poured the espresso in the cup, mixed in the heated milk, and dolloped foam on top. Nice ass, he thought. She was small, but well-proportioned. Her breasts were noticeable, but not too large for her frame. He jeans were just well-fitted enough to show off her body without being skin tight. Paul smiled at her as she handed him his drink. He was about to ask her name when he noticed the colorful metal triangles on a chain around her neck. Gay pride rings. Damn, thought Paul, ain't it always the pretty ones. "Thanks," he said, and walked to his car.

It wasn't always the pretty ones, he reflected as he drove away. Erika was lovely. She had long, naturally black hair and soft, pale skin that had drawn the notice of both Paul and Tyler. Paul had remarked to Erika once that she was novelty to Tyler because not only could she spell her own name, but Tyler's as well. Erika had told him to shut the hell up, because she didn't like it when he made fun of Tyler's ex-girlfriends. No matter whether or not they're white-trash sluts, Paul had replied mentally, but kept his mouth shut. He figured she just didn't want to think about his ex’s.

Nor Tyler of hers, actually. It was been strange, after introducing them at the party, seeing Erika and Tyler, an old lover and an old friend, snuggling up. But it wasn't his place to say anything. And the annoying thing was, he wasn't jealous. He just thought if Tyler was going to play musical pajamas, he should at least tell Erika that. Erika had already had problems with life in general, and Paul hadn't helped any by telling her that he wasn't in the market for a steady girlfriend. So is that why I'm being such a hard-on about Tyler telling her about Dani? he thought, sipping his coffee. I feel responsible?

He rounded a bend and found himself stomping on the break to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him. Traffic had stopped for a train, and the train was not moving. "Oh, fuck me," groaned Paul. There was no way it was going to move soon, and he was already pushing time. He looked around, but he was in the right lane, and the left was blocked. He couldn't turn around. Glancing over, he noticed a gas station across the street. He shut off his car and jogged across to the pay phone. He dropped a quarter in and called the writing center, and explained that yes, he would be late, and no, there nothing he could fucking do about it. "Nobody there this early anyway," he said aloud, starting to walk back to the car.

He sat on the hood of his car and ate his muffin, thinking about Tyler and Erika. She was such a cornball. Vanilla scented stationary, sex by candlelight, romantic mix-tapes, whatever else. Dating her was like watching a Meg Ryan movie. She hated to fight, preferring to wait and apologize, even if it wasn't her fault. While that annoyed the hell out of Paul, who liked to make sure that the right person apologized, it probably was convenient for Tyler.

Tyler and I get along, Paul had once told his mother, because we don't talk politics and we don't date the same women. When Tyler and Erika had started dating, Paul had laughed at that comment. Now he was starting to see why he'd said it. Why, he thought, is this pissing me off so much? It's not like I owe Erika anything. It's not like I'd go back to her. Why the fuck should I care?

The train still wasn't moving. It was cool, just as Tyler had said, and Paul stared up at the clouds, wonder what it would be like to see one from the inside. Would you get wet, he wondered? Would they still look white? Would they feel like anything, or just like air? Smoke, after all, you could feel pass through your fingers. He imagined clouds would feel the same way, just wet and cold. That phrase, "head in the clouds", was one that Paul had always applied to Erika. She always seemed dream-like.

Not that she was spacey. A lot of people made that mistake, thinking she was ditzy or even high. Erika was a very intelligent, animated girl, she just acted spacey so people would give her an extra second to react to things. Paul had stopped after a while, because he knew she thought faster than she pretended. That was when things had started slipping downhill. When he'd figured her out, heard her stories, knew her routines. When he'd been more a boyfriend than a buddy and lover. She never asked me to be a boyfriend, he reminded himself, that's just where I thought it was going. There had been her hints about moving down here, of course, but she never said she wanted to move in with me.

There was a man in the car in front of him talking on a cellular phone. Convenient, he thought. He wondered if he could afford one. Then I could call Erika right now and tell her that her boyfriend knocked somebody up. That'll knock her head right out of the clouds, won't it?
He could, he suddenly realized. He had a calling card, and there was a pay phone right across the way. The thought didn't seem so tantalizing until he realized he could do it. I'm being vengeful, he reproached himself. On the other hand, though, he countered, who cares? Wouldn't that be the right thing to do?

But that would really strain things with Tyler, if he found out. And Erika would ask him. She was as much a fan of up-front-ness as Paul. Tyler'd be pissed. Maybe move out. Maybe I should talk with him again first.

He'll just be flat with me again, Paul thought, jumping down off the car, and rummaging in his wallet for the calling card. Funny how my mind carries on this debate while my hands find this little card, as if I already know what I'm going to do on one level before I realize it on others. If nothing else, he hadn't talked to Erika in a while, and he was bored.

Paul ran across to the pay phone, and started punching numbers. It seemed like he had to enter everything from his ID number to his blood type to get this thing to work, and while he did, he thought about why. "Why am I doin' this?", he murmured as the computer voice told him his account was accepted and to make his call.

"Decency." A woman walking into the gas station turned to look at him. He realized he'd said it aloud, but didn't care. Decency. Honest, forthright, behavior, the thing that his parents had drilled into him but never practiced, hence their long, drawn-out fights that began as vague accusations and ended as screaming matches over semantics. The thing that his church preached, but hemmed and hawed over clergy marriage and gay rights, hence his avoidance of all things Catholic. He was simply being a decent human being.

The phone rang a number of times, but no one answered. She must be in class, he thought. No machine, either. Fuck. The train began to move, and Paul hung up and headed back to his car, deciding to call her that evening, before Tyler got to her house. It seemed like an underhanded, dirty thing to do, but in fact, Paul was just being decent.

He started his car, and sat there, waiting for the train to pass.

© 2000 Matthew McFarland

No reproduction is allowed without the author’s express permission.

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