Wipe the Clock

Wipe the Clock


         There's a bench by the river that sits parallel to Main Street. An advertisement for an insurance company may or may not be on this bench. Across the sidewalk facing the bench is a wide grassy area, predictably perfect for flying a kite, if that's your thing, followed by another stretch of sidewalk and then the river. The river, which by normal river standards, is a narrow one, eventually hits at the base of a mid-size, Midwestern city.
         The bench never seems to occupy two single persons at once. Benches rarely do.
         A man who just recently acquired a low limit, high interest credit card stands at the base of one of the bridges on the eastern side of the river. Among other items in his wallet are out of date pictures of his young niece and nephew, a library card, a tattered social security card (that was once laminated), his drivers license, an old unused condom and eighteen dollars in cash. A dog barks in the distance.
         No it doesn't.
         The man arrived at sunset at the base of the bridge on the eastern side of the city.
         No he didn't.
         He was only at the base of the bridge because his car broke down, and he felt he had to get out of his car and distance himself from the impending explosion. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. He decided to go for a walk and ended up by the river. Even if his car exploded (it never did, it just overheated), the man felt good. He had a little cash, some three hundred dollars on his brand new low limit, high interest credit card, a nice pair of corduroy trousers and his favorite navy blue hooded sweatshirt. Oh yeah, and thirteen cigarettes, although he always hoped that each cigarette he smoked would be his last. But he lit up anyways and enjoyed his cigarette.
         With his dying car out of sight and mind, he walked back toward it, but away from it, to a street that would lead him to a part of the bridge he could walk across. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he's never walked across this bridge. He was too reliant on his car, or other people's cars.
         The murky river below ruffled with movement: a couple cargo ships and what looked like a high school rowing team. The bridge is more steep walking it than driving it, obviously. With the long walk up in front of him,  he decided to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather of early December. Halfway up the bridge, the peak disclosed downtown and its mid-size glory, and his phone rang.
         "Dickey, hey," he answered.
         Now came the easy part of the walk, the downhill trot. He continued with Dickey.
         "No, no, I don't want to fuckin' go to Bobby's party. Cause he's an ass wipe, that's why. Dude, he always hits on my mom whenever he goes to the gas station, and it's fuckin' creepy. He thinks she's fuckin' into him!" The foot of the bridge neared, he continued with Dickey.
         "No, man, that's cool. I don't need a ride because I'm not going. Because I got kind of drunk last night and passed out watching Blind Date. I think. Yea, I know, Roger Loge reminds me of the mid 30s guy who hangs out in college bars. No, man, I'm just kickin' it tonight." He finished crossing the bridge and headed toward some kind of gas station for Gatorade. Cars reared through intersections in typical mid day fashion. Lunch goers and second-shifters made their way through traffic efficiently and casually. He finally finished up with Dickey.
         "Alright, man, I'll call you this week and we'll hook up. Ha, yeah. Go tell Bobby to go fuck himself, and that I'm going to fuck his mom. Yeah, right. Later, dude."
         The lady at the gas station was in her mid-20s, light black and not very friendly. Not mean, but more indifferent, although she did say goodnight while handing back the change. The Gatorade he got was blue and called "Tidal Rush," or something, but he also bought Rolaids for the thickness he felt in his esophagus. Walking out the door, he nearly bumped into two cops walking in. He noticed the cops didn't notice him and he overheard the following:
         "So this fuckin' guy starts cryin'! 'Please don't take me in! I'm only like, a mile away! My dad sir, he's gonna fuckin' have my head!' Jesus, I came this close to bustin' the little shit in the head."
         "So, he had how much on him?"
         "Gram and a half," said the first one, and that's all the man with the Gatorade heard.
         The wind shifted rather about-facedly as he left the gas station, it was now in his face and much more brisk. Now, this, is December weather, he thought. Then his phone rang.
         "Hello?" he answered mock-surprisingly. It was a girl he dated a couple months back at the end of the summer. "What? I don't have that CD. No, I borrowed it for a couple weeks and left it in your car. Sarah, I don't have that record, for chrissakes! I didn't even like it that much! What? Hello? Bitch!" He continued walking downtown, lighting a cigarette.
         He didn't mean what he said, though. He did like that record (it was by this band Strokefolk), and she really wasn't a bitch. The fact is, he thought about her all the time, sometimes dreaming about her three to four times a week. After noticing this pattern, he became remorseful and embarrassed that he felt this strong for a woman he only saw consistently for two months, and who in the not too distant past, broke his heart into approximately 2.3 billion pieces. What was also true about this conversation was that he didn't have her CD, although he wished he had, just so he could use it as an excuse to see her again.
         "Then we could maybe talk, get some food, hug, talk some more, kiss, talk some more, I could beg to be taken back, it be awesome!" he actually said out loud.
         "Yeah," he said in a near whisper.
         By this time he was in the thick of downtown, near 13th and Oakpark. The bar down on Oakpark is called Patton's. It's dark and grimy, with a jukebox that has some Allman Brothers, Cheap Trick, a Tammy Wynette collection, and rather conspicuously, Ry Cooder. The drafts are cheap; the lady tending bar was probably good looking years ago; the conversation was minimal. He grabbed a stool and placed his remaining fifteen dollars and eighty nine cents on the bar.
         "What'll ya need, hon?" the bartender asked, looking up at the TV behind her.
         "Bud, Dewars on the rocks, please." She got his drinks.
         "Four fifteen, hon," she said. He gave her five dollars and quickly took a swig of his beer and a healthy pull of the scotch. On the TV there was a movie about an alligator or a crocodile attacking campers. The sound was turned down completely, of course.
         He watched and he drank. He did this for the next two hours, until his money ran out. After sucking down the last ice cube of scotch, he stumbled off the stool and walked out the door. He still hadn't touched his low-limit, high-interest credit card, but he didn't want to touch it.
         "I'm hungry," he said to no one in particular, as he walked directly into traffic.