Curmudgeon For a Day, Part 1

Bruce McGee drifts off to sleep just a few minutes before 10 PM. The central heating system is circulating thick, fire-like air through his ten thousand square foot, two-bedroom, two-bath 30th-floor condominium overlooking the Hudson River in Lower Manhattan on an ice-cold December Sunday evening. He curls his 250-pound, hairy, flabby core underneath his thick, gray, duvet wrinkled beyond ironing like a piece of scrap paper. The duvet has appeared crinkled for what seems like an eternity. Bruce has purposely left it crinkled not only when he wraps himself underneath it, but when he tosses it to the opposite side of his king-sized mattress like a swatted fly after he awakens. He hasn’t made his bed in six months. He shuts his baby-blue eyes, furrows the stubble on his light-brown beard with a few stray white hairs sprinkled about, and fruitlessly attempts to drift off to sleep. The beige mattress cover underneath him is laden with sweat and ejaculation stains, and the three memory foam pillows behind him lack covers. Bruce just no longer cared.
Bruce’s unwillingness to neatly tidy up his bed is just one sign of the deep depression he has been in. Another sign is his utter refusal to turn on any lights in his condo. When the 70-inch 4K ultra-HD TV mounted to the silver drywall of his bedroom – which incidentally, has not been sanitized, disinfected, or dusted in the same six-month timeframe – is turned on, its myriad of flashing colors provides the only artificial illumination he allows anywhere in his home at any time. He hasn’t spoken with nor seen any of his friends in the past three months, and he hasn’t spoken with nor seen his parents in the past five weeks. He hasn’t returned any of their phone calls, text messages, or emails, many of which have expressed deep concern for his well-being or anger for not returning messages. Bruce just no longer cared.
The white noise of commentators and crowd noise during a football game playing on the television helps Bruce drift into a comatose slumber, which is one of his little solaces in life – and his only hobby aside from binge-watching TV shows. Six months ago, Bruce’s life changed forever. His fiancée, Karen, with whom he was poised to wed exactly one weekend from this day, left him. On a rainy Monday morning, while Bruce was happily perched at his trading post at his office just steps away from the New York Stock Exchange, Karen, whom had been living with Bruce for the past two years following his proposal to her, gathered up all of her belongings, including the furniture she had purchased for the apartment, and departed without any warning nor a declaration to her fiancée that she had a modicum of desire to terminate their relationship.
For an entire month following their separation, Karen refused to return any of his 245 phone calls, nor reply to his 55 voice messages or 133 text messages. Bruce also typed an email to her that may as well have been the treatment for a cheesy Hollywood break-up story, complete with mea culpas, idle threats, and overzealous begging. It took him nearly six hours to type. Three days after Karen’s disappearance, and after not having heard from any of her friends or family members, and following hours of constantly refreshing her Facebook profile for a status update, Bruce filed a missing persons report. A day later, police got back to him. It was the moment Bruce no longer felt fearful for Karen’s life, but indignant that his relationship did not end immediately after it started.
Bruce focused his full attention on his phone’s receiver when he received the call, postured upright in anticipation of what was about to be said.
“Mr. McGee, this is officer Buckhorn of the NYPD, 25th Precinct. We have some information on the missing persons report you filed on one Karen Gork.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, as if the officer were a drill sergeant commanding him.
“Yes, um, well, there is some good news, Mr. McGee,” Officer Buckhorn strangely stammered. He didn’t sound like a man ready to gleefully confirm good news. “Ms. Gork is alive and well. We were able to reach her by telephone yesterday.”
Bruce was stunned, not only because he was thrilled Karen was alive, but because he was incredulous that she was not injured or lying on a hospital bed. “Is she okay physically,” Bruce asked.
“Yes, sir,” Officer Buckhorn replied. “In fact, there is no record of Ms. Gork receiving medical treatment or being admitted to a hospital.”
“Where is she now?” Bruce desperately pled.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McGee, I can’t confirm that information.”
“With all due respect, Officer, I am her fiancée. I think I have a right to know!”
“Mr. McGee, due to privacy laws, I am not permitted to divulge that information.”
“Well, I’m sure your superior officer is!”
“I’m afraid my superior officer is bound by the same parameters, Mr. McGee. And…so is his, and his, et cetera.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. The only thing I can do for you is confirm to you that Ms. Gonk is alive.”
“Ummm…yeah…thank you, sir. There’s nothing else you can tell me?”
A pause ensued. Bruce’s heart fluttered more during that pause that he did while anticipating the NYPD’s response to his report, or any other time in the previous three days.
Finally, after a deep breath and a few extra seconds, Officer Buckhorn somberly yet bluntly spoke. “Listen, pal… if I was you, I’d keep in mind one of the greatest truths society has ever produced – there’s plenty of pussy in this world. I think you should just move on. Have a great day, Mr. McGee.”
Bruce kept his phone firmly pressed against his ear for the next ten minutes, nine minutes and thirty seconds of which produced loud, deafening beeps.
Despite the shock of this sick episode of dark humored-irony, Bruce, once he could regain his wits, was not deterred. He knew Karen was alive, but the answer to the question of “why” was too heavy of a burden for Bruce to bear. He continued to persistently bug Karen’s family and closest friends. The next day, he finally received a text message from Karen’s sister.
Her message: SHE DOESN’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU.
Again, Bruce was not deterred. Now that her own family confirmed Karen was alive and angry, Bruce continued his quest to get answers from the course. Weeks and weeks passed. Still no replies. Karen eventually posted on her Facebook page, but she never mentioned a word about the separation nor provide any hint to her unhappiness. All she posted were pictures of cute puppies and humorous work memes. Finally, three weeks later after her first post, he and Karen finally spoke on the phone on a cloudy, rainy Wednesday evening at approximately 9 PM. What ensued was the most Earth-shattering conversation Bruce has ever had in his life. He distinctly remembers every single word of it.
“Why now?” a gravelly-voiced Bruce asked. He lay in complete darkness on his brown leather sofa, curled up under two black blankets – television off, blinds drawn, the only light glowing in his living was the display on his phone. His lungs felt as if they were deflating air, and his stomach felt twisted. Sweat dripped down his neck, and the pulse in his left ear was so heavy, it vibrated his horn-rimmed glasses. “Why is this the first time we are talking in a month?!” Bruce shouted. “How…how could you do this to me?”
Bruce’s trachea popped in anticipation of Karen’s answer. Not only was his breathing out of whack, but the nervous pulse that had first reverberated on his ear had filtered down to his throat, as if the jolt of electricity through his wavelengths had switched from a stable transformer to a box prepared to spontaneously combust. He had waited a month for this moment. All the anticipation, all the speculation, and most importantly for Bruce, all the hope he had gathered in his mind, had come down to this. Was Karen going to say she was sorry? Was she going to tearfully and remorsefully explain her actions?
“Shut the fuck up, Bruce,” Karen bluntly replied. Her deep, gruff voice sounded like it had been infused by an overdose of testosterone. It was the angriest tone she had ever mustered.
Suddenly and strangely, the nervousness that permeated Bruce’s inside vanished. Replacing it was complete and utter shock and disbelief, with a dash of anger scattered in between.
“Excuse me?” he furiously asked. “What the fuck…”
“Bruce,” Karen interrupted. “In the past month, I’ve been the happiest I ever have in my entire life, and it’s all because I left your sorry ass.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Bruce growled. “I finally get a hold of you to get your explanation as to why you left me without warning or even a discussion, and you have the audacity to act like a fucking jealous, conceited Miss Popular cheerleader-type to the man you called your pookie for the last five years, lived with for the last two, accepted a ring from last year, was ready to fucking marry me a couple of weeks ago, and you expect me to sit here and just accept you telling me to shut the fuck up with a smile on my face after I beg you for some answers?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“Be grateful I didn’t leave you at the altar,” she guffawed. Bruce creased his upper lip over his lower one, pressing both tightly against each other. Simultaneously, he clenched his left fist, causing the arteries in his wrist to bulge outward, as if he were inducing an aneurism. The indignation Bruce was expressing was palpable. He had never been more angry in his entire life.
“You ungrateful bitch…you rotten little…” Bruce growled, as he unclenched his fist and robustly grabbed the royal blue memory-foam mini-pillow next to him, nearly disintegrating the foam beneath the velvet covering.
“That’s right, show your anger, Bruce,” Karen scowled. “It’s the first time you’ve probably ever displayed raw emotion!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“When was the last time you stood up for yourself? When was the last time you protected me? When was the last time we actually ripped each other’s clothes off and fucked, Bruce?”
Bruce’s jaw dropped. He was completely confused at Karen’s intentions.
“So, suddenly, you have a problem with me being myself?” Bruce glowered.
“That’s the problem, Bruce,” Karen calmly replied, feigning a smile. You being yourself.”
“Give me a fucking break!” Bruce shouted.
“No, give me a break!” Karen screeched, causing feedback on the phone’s receiver. “Do you remember that party at Tom and Brittany’s house? Huh? The one a couple of years back? Yeah, you do, don’t you! That one bald cocksucker, Larry, that was flirting with me and calling me a sexy mama? Who was harassing me all night? Do you remember standing up to him? Huh? Do you remember defending me?”
Bruce froze. He remembered the party, but not by Karen’s recollection.
“Was he touching your boobs or something? You suck his dick?” Bruce replied, defensively. “I don’t remember that!”
“Of course, you didn’t!” Karen snapped. “You were drunk!”
“So were you! Where’s your credibility? How do you remember what happened?!”
“Here were Larry’s words, exactly, Bruce: ‘hey baby, whataya say we go back to my place for some fine wine and jazz music, and we’ll empty out my golden box of condoms!”
“Bullshit!”
“Or what about this: ‘Hey Karen, your balloon boobs make you the sexiest angel to ever come out of New York City! I can’t decide whether to suck out the air or expand them!’”
“I thought he was just complimenting you!”
“Oh…my…God!” she shouted. “Do you know how dumb you have to be to even think that?! How could you possibly not think he didn’t want to fuck me that night?! You know what a real fiancée would do? Punch him out!”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
“That’s your job!”
“I don’t remember bodyguard being a part of the significant other job description!”
“That’s just common sense, dickweed!”
“Alright, slut, you wanna compare notes?! Well, do you remember…ummm…do you remember…”
The chuckling on the other end of the receiver made Bruce’s ear bleed. He knew he was stuck, and he knew he had botched his opportunity for a similarly hurtful comeback.
“That’s what I thought,” Karen sneered, grinning with malicious glee.
“I’ll ask again – if this bothered you so much, why bring it up now?” Bruce snarled. “Why didn’t you bring IT UP TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO?!?”
“Because I was stupid, okay?!” Karen defensively replied.
“Exactly…you’re a fucking moron!” Bruce bellowed, vibrating the mahogany coffee table adjacent to the sofa.
“I should have known better months ago! Thank God I didn’t walk down that aisle…thank God!”
“What the fuck happened to you? You used to be so sweet…I…I can’t begin to fathom your thought process!”
“I’m never happy.”
“Clearly.”
“And you never fucked me enough!”
“Fuck you, slut!”
“Every single night, you’d sit in front of that damn TV or fall asleep at 9 PM! I was wide awake at that time every single damn night ready for love, and all you could think about was sleep and work!”
“You know I have a demanding job! You KNOW this!”
“You work on Wall Street, dipshit! You’re home by 5:00! What do you do the rest of the day? You don’t go to the gym, you don’t go to happy hour, you just go home and do nothing!”
“Do you know what the concept of communication is?!”
“What the fuck does that have to do with my last statement?”
“Again, you couldn’t have brought up your issues to me before we got engaged, or especially after your supposed grievances occurred? You dragged me through the mud for all that time, and you rubbed your anger in my face by refusing to tell me you wanted to leave me, and making me think you were dead! And like the immature skank you are, you are making fun of me! Why did you accept my engagement proposal in the first place? How long have you been planning to embarrass me like this?!”
“You know what I’ve realized in the last year, Bruce? Not only are you a pussy, but I’m just…just a horrible person, but I’ve accepted it! I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I don’t need acceptance from anyone.”
“Why don’t you go eat your own pussy out, you contaminated vasectomy bag! You seem to know a lot about being a pussy!”
“You’re a push-over, Bruce! Remember how you refused to challenge the credit card company for that nine-hundred-dollar fraudulent charge, and we had to end up shelling out all that money for nothing, money that we were supposed to put towards our honeymoon?”
“I was too tired and drained to wait on the phone for hours! What do you want me to do?”
“How about when you were side-swiped in the parking lot, and you didn’t want to deal with the drama of exchanging insurance information with the perpetrator, and I had to end up doing so for you while you sat back in the car and stared blankly into space? Huh?”
“Oh, come on…”
“And let’s not forget the time at the mall where my foot was run over by some bitch with a stroller, it was bleeding profusely, and you didn’t say a word to the woman nor did you call security? You recoiled in shyness! Do you have any idea how that felt for me? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?”
“Shut the fuck up, Karen, I get the point!” Bruce threw his memory-foam pillow in a tomahawk-like motion toward the floor. His hand flapped forward upon release, like a little girl throwing a softball like a shotput. “Now,” Bruce continued, “let’s get to the point of how wretched, scummy, and pathetic of a human being you are!”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be happy to, Bruce,” she delightedly declared. Karen’s voice was slowly transitioning from a rabidly indignant tone downward into a dramatic, ominous one. “I hope you’re sitting down for this one.” What she was about to declare next would leave an irreparably-damaged wound inside Bruce’s heart forever. “Remember…the night we celebrated our engagement…in our top floor room in Atlantic City? We got so into it, you never put on a condom?”
Bruce’s baby blue eyes widened. He nervously anticipated Karen’s next statement.
“Well,” Karen continued. “For the next month…I woke up after you departed for work…and…I vomited. Sooo…” Her diction began to mirror that of a spiteful sadist – one relishing the opportunity to say words so hurtful and traumatizing to their recipient, that they celebrate the misfortune and suffering of the one they intend to hurt. “I went to the doctor that morning…and…yup! Pregnant!”
Bruce’s heart sunk. His hands turned cold. He leaned forward, creasing his belly over his waist, nearing the fetal position.
“Preh…preg…pregnant?” Bruce quivered.
“That’s right, my dear,” Karen connivingly replied. “But it gets better…”
“Did you throw yourself off a roof?” Bruce snapped.
“Far from it,” Karen replied, chuckling. Bruce felt as if he were the protagonist of a superhero movie, and the supervillain, Karen, were planning to reveal her plan for world domination. “Right after I left the doctor’s…I… went down the street to the abortion clinic.”
Bruce froze. He felt nothing. His bodily functions ceased. He didn’t have to ask Karen another question. He knew what was coming next.
“You…you wouldn’t…” Bruce trembled.
“Oh…yes, honey,” Karen replied. “I did…”
Tears formed in Bruce’s eyes. “I…how…how could you? How…WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
“I wasn’t going to be the mother of a child I shared with you,” she calmly replied.
“You murderous bitch…you fucking little…”
“Bruce, I did you a favor, so shut the fuck up and be grateful! You can sit on your ass all day, eating junk food, watching TV, or just spend all day at the stock exchange, since that’s what you love most, isn’t it?”
“How could you…I can’t believe this,” Bruce tearfully replied. His body remained numb, and the dark room appeared like a vortex transporting him into another dimension, which he surely would have accepted in that moment. “You knew I’ve always wanted to be a Dad! You knew that!”
“And I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction.”
“You cunt…you conniving bitch…you are so lucky I’m not next to you right now, because…”
“Because, what? You’ll strike me? Shoot me? Throw me out the window?”
“If I were you, I’d come back here and dive through that window and fall head-first thirty stories. You deserve the most painful death one can imagine. God help whatever non-respecting sap crosses your ugly path again, you fat, ugly skank!”
“Bye, Bruce!” Buzzing ensues from the receiving end of Bruce’s phone. Instantly, he threw his phone at the adjacent double-paned sliding door out to his balcony, causing a crack in the thick glass.
“DIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE…” Bruce screamed as he leapt to his feet, arching his arms inward like a martial artist preparing for a duel. Staring into darkness, and only seeing the faint glow of the city lights outside his now-broken door pane, he looked back and forth, panting for air but unable to control his already-rapidly-accelerating heart. “That bitch thinks I’m lazy?” he muttered to himself. “I was faithful…I was loyal…and she…aborts my baby! She aborted my baby! That…fucking bitch! I swear to Christ, she’s gonna pay…she’s going to regret this…so help me, I’ll figure out how…”
Suddenly, Bruce paused, began frowning, then after a few extra seconds of staring into space, he sat back down on his couch.
“Right after Law & Order…”