THE ROOMMATE

Could this be more ridiculous?  Then again, what else was the bright orange hat for?  He felt like a hunter trying to reclaim the city, out there for everyone to see.  The white and black checkered pants they assigned (at least free) weren’t any better.  He was Big Orange Goofy.  He only needed the huge floppy ears and the stupid, oversized teeth. 

Terrance Wattercliffe shook his head.  He put his hand to his head in frustration.  Was he condemned, cursed?

If you have a problem, then change it, he thought.  Quit griping and suffer in silence like the rest of them.  You big, dumb baby. 

“You mean, Big Dumb Goofy!”

This was the drudgery of a killing life: working five days a week, selling his soul, sweating and griping behind the hot stoves, cooking for the unappreciative public.  He could do nothing about it, either.  That was the horror. 

Oh yes you can.  You can do something about it.  You just choose not to. 

Life was trying to tell him something.  It must be.  What was the question?  What was he telling himself? 

The ovens were hotter than usual today.  Despite their normal full blast heat, the grill seemed to roar with fire.  Maybe that was just the month of August, seeping from outside and into the already scorching kitchen.  Even the heat lamps in the ‘window’ were orange cones of nefarious light, reminding him of Big Orange Goofy.  It surprised Terrance light could be so hot. 

He set a plate of food in the ‘window’ (chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, a side of hashbrowns, and four strips of bacon) and quickly snatched his hand back, almost spilling the food because of the heat lamps.  The plate made a clattering sound, moved in an obnoxious circle, and came to a rattling halt. 

He was suffering because of the heat now.   

“Order up!” Terrance called, ringing the bell.  Dainty was the sound of the bell; his voice, a lion’s roar.  Together, they made him chuckle.

Obviously, life hadn’t gone according to plan.  Miracles did not wait for him.  He would always be—and had always been—forgotten by his services. 

That was the role.  He played the public—even his fellow employees—like a fiddle.  Inside, he laughed at them. 

Acne spotted Terrance’s neck and cheeks at twenty-four.  If he worked in a kitchen for the rest of his life, he’d never get rid of it.  The greasy, oily food wasn’t helping either, wiping his soiled hands on his brow and face, reminding him it was the hottest month of the year.  It made working in the kitchen a zillion times worse. 

He wasn’t qualified for anything else.  That was the other horror.  Cooking was the miracle.  For Terrance Wattercliffe, this was as good as it was going to get. 

“Welcome,” he said, with dispassion.  “To The Tasty Station.”

Samantha came back and took the chicken-fried steak from the window.  “Thanks, Terrance,” she said, smiling, trying to flirt. 

Terrance nodded in reply.  His humor came and went.  He couldn’t predict it. 

It was a game, a silent war of division, rambling, debating back and forth like cartoon amateurs without the ears and teeth of Big Orange Goofy.  He played the role, enacting lies by the minute.  He was trying to have fun with the world around him.  Despite his degrading position, Terrance was trying to make the best of things. 

The public bothered him most of all.  He couldn’t believe how—in the lowliest of businesses—they oozed their preponderance like a giant grease stain.  They did it for no other reason than to make their presence felt.  Terrance was tempted to walk out, slam the orange baseball cap on the grill, and watch it burst into smoky (orange) flame. 

The public was the worst, their lives so unfulfilling, why not take it out on the entire staff at The Tasty Station?  Condescending comments on the food, insults toward the waitresses, the cooks, even the dishwashers.  The job didn’t pay well enough to endure it:

“This isn’t what I ordered.” 

“Terrance, I forgot to tell you about the hashbrowns on the last ticket.  Will you save me?” 

“Are you the cook?  Where did you learn how to cook a steak?” 

“This isn’t medium rare.  Do you know what medium rare is?”

The waitresses made mistakes.  Not bad for two-dollars an hour plus stiffs.  Terrance thought the waitresses unnecessarily tolerant.  In all actuality, they performed an undeserved hospitality to the ungrateful, pretentious public.  He backed the waitresses.  He thought they were cute. 

No, I’m dressed like Big Orange Goofy to make you smile, you stupid prick.  You only paid 3.95 for that meal, 7.95 anywhere else.  It wasn’t picked up off the floor, poisoned, spat, puked on, or delivered on a bloodstained plate unless you wanted it rare.  We’re running a business here.  If you want it your way, Burger King’s right around the corner.

It would pass.  It always did. 

Terrance shaped his eight-hour shift into reveries of melodrama, intrigue within the restaurant.  Some of his co-workers enjoyed his antics, too.  Others raised a quizzical brow.  Terrance was only trying to have some fun in an otherwise, disinterested public eye, those gormandizing at The Tasty Station.

Without the job, the kitchen, and the waitresses, the guises would’ve crippled him.  He blended in.  Whenever a role presented itself, he acted quickly.  The job worked.  Big Orange Goofy was part of the act.  The role had its advantages. 

The public, of course, expected Big Orange Goofy.  They (his fellow coworkers, too) wanted Big Orange Goofy.  Terrance delivered, night after night, day after day, like a successful, stand-up comedian.  Bitter grumblings and sarcastic remarks made Big Orange Goofy a success. 

He wanted the world—the public eye—to remember him.  Each face was a challenge, an opportunity.  Big Orange Goofy manipulated the public, gave them what they wanted.  Inside, Terrance laughed because they loved it. 

It was, of course, a big fat, orange lie.

Not everyone took the bait, of course.  Some were too self-absorbed to notice.  He’d developed a talent for spotting them.  He noticed them at a glance. 

His influence on the workplace was so positive, he’d gotten promoted, a boost in pay, and he was now, officially, Head Chef.  Which was funny, he thought, considering he was the only cook who worked mornings.  Perhaps God was telling him to, ‘Go out and play!  Have a little fun, Terrance-boy.  You’ve earned it.’

The last person they suspected, of course, was Big Orange Goofy. 

‘This is a joke, right?’—their faces seemed to say.  ‘You can’t be serious?’

God—or a miracle (perhaps it was chance—depending on how you looked at it) provided Terrance with a special gift.  The miracle said, ‘Here, see what you can do with this.’

Terrance did all that and more.  He proceeded gallantly across the stage of life.  He contemplated glory.  He’d revel in it in good time.

Ding—went the bell when he rang it again.  He snatched his hand away.  Steak and eggs, well done, and scrambled again.

Even the way they ordered unnerved him.  Burning a perfectly fine streak, pulverizing those eggs without a the succulent drippy, runny yolk.  Terrance’s stomach rumbled thinking of a rare steak with the runny yolk, Tobasco, lots of pepper, and mixing it all together.  Spicy slop, he thought.  Great for the digestive system.

“Come and get this char-broiled cow out of my window!” he called.  “Tell them patrons to order something that won’t insult my goddamn talent!  I’m not running a day-care here.  What does this look like?  You tell that cocksucker he’d better leave a good tip, too, Samantha, ruining my steaks this way.  I’m tempted to cut my eyeballs open and pour blood all over this goddamn thing just to make it look pretty.”

The patrons frowned.  Sometimes people complained.  Terrance, despite his promotion, had been warned several times.  It depended on how free he was with his thoughts.  Sometimes, you could just tell when you could get away with it.

Samantha came back, took the plate out of the window, suppressed a smile, and shook her head at him.  “You’re in rare form, today, Terrance,” she said. 

Big Orange Goofy had them right where he wanted. 

*

The choice to stop in Colorado had been powerful, the way the Rocky Mountains stretched across the length of the horizon, the sunsets, and the snow-packed peaks. 

He decided on Louisville , a quaint town a few miles outside Boulder with the Flatirons in the distance.  The Tasty Station, off Main Street , called him only hours after he dropped off his application.  The manager was impressed by his experience.  He started work the following Monday at six am . 

Terrance fell in love with Colorado right away.  He rooted for all the local teams.  He’d never seen such crazy, die-hard fans before.  These people were crazy!  He saw a house painted the orange and blue Bronco colors on a leisurely drive once.  He had to stop the car and look at it for a while just to tell himself it was real.  Crazy, yes, but he enjoyed it here.  He was anxious for the snows of Colorado and summer’s vibrant colors. 

He rented a two-story, four-bedroom house with brown siding on Jefferson Street .  The back was well kept with two large maples shading the yard.  He’d strung up a hammock between the trees.  A durable shed sat at the back of the yard with garden tools and a lawnmower.  He’d also put in a horseshoe pit.  A six-foot wooden privacy fence bordered the yard.  He’d purchased a picnic table, a large yellow and white umbrella, four patio chairs, and two lounge chairs at a nearby Lowe’s.  A croquet set stood next to the sliding glass door beside a cord of wood stacked neatly under the kitchen window. 

Roommates came and roommates went.  It was part of the national fabric.  Not that he needed them.  It was like baby-sitting.  He wondered why he bothered.  In order to keep Big Orange Goofy in practice, Terrance had to present himself accordingly.  Only one roommate at a time.  That was the rule.  More presented complications.  He couldn’t afford the risk. 

He didn’t mind having roommates.  Some were quiet and reliable, but others took advantage of his hospitality, similar to the public at The Tasty Station.  When placing an add in the paper, he should keep it simple: RELIABLE ROOMMATE NEEDED URGENTLY!  MUST BE RELIABLE!  RELIABLE IS WHAT I NEED!  OTHERS NEED NOT APPLY.  RUN OF THE HOUSE!  KEEP THINGS SEPARATE.  CLEANING UP AFTER ONESELF A MUST!  CALL TERRANCE AT—

His previous roommate, Max Defontaine, had mooched Terrance’s food, drank all his beer, and was always late with the rent.  Max was a virtual slob, and Terrance liked a spotless, orderly household.  Cleaning up after people wasn’t part of the plan.

It was hard to trust people these days, even disheartening.  Most of the world seemed manipulative, selfish, and untrustworthy to begin with: the lack of respect, unconcern for another’s feelings and possessions.  He might as well place an add that announced: THIEVES WANTED!  ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!  FREE ROOM AND BOARD!  RUN OF THE HOUSE!  EAT ALL MY FOOD!  HOW CAN YOU GO WRONG?

He was lost in the reverie of these thoughts, still in the kitchen at The Tasty Station.  Terrance turned a burger with a grease-slimed spatula, pressing it firmly onto the grill.  Smoke rose and curled around his head, the strong smell of charred meat.  Pressing patties onto the grill in this fashion was not a rule in restaurant cooking.  The meat stuck to the grill, fell apart, and became virtually inedible.  If that’s how they wanted it, however, he was happy to oblige.  It made cleaning the grill more difficult later, though.  Terrance shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Thank you for coming in, you royal pain in the ass.  Please have the decency to keep your mouth shut, and don’t stiff the waitresses.

Terrance smiled.

He put the plate in the window under the heat lamps and rang the bell several times just to be annoying.  He felt like he was slacking on Big Orange Goofy lately. 

*

Later that day, at home after a hard day’s work, he called The Denver Post, and placed an add for a new roommate.  The chorus from the radio advertisement trilled in his head: We’ll-sell-it-ten-or-we’ll-run-it-a-gain.  Call eight-five-one, seven-one one-ooonnneee!  We’re really kind of brainless, but we’re having lots of fun!

He dialed the number, rolling his eyes.  He was sitting in his plush, silvery blue recliner, his favorite piece of furniture in the house.  A cold bottled beer left a ring of condensation on the table next to him.  Wheel of Fortune was on the television.  He pressed the phone into his ear. 

After a patient wait, a female voice welcomed him to the classifieds with sensuality, a perfectly sexy air. 

Terrance closed his eyes, imagining a stunning knockout.  The phone was an incredible instrument of seduction, he’d always thought.  Just as quickly, however, he lost his enjoyment in the moment when he imagined what she must really look like: colors of layered make-up a child could build a sandcastle on, bright yellow hair.  Not blonde, but yellow.  The woman he was talking to pretended to love and admire him.  Under the circumstances—the woman asking him to repeat everything he’d said—he lost heart and grew impatient. 

“Look,” he said.  “The words I’m saying are not too complicated.  It flows like a flowery wine.  It’s just as agreeable.  Wattercliffe is not spelled the way it sounds.  Watter—as in agua—is laced with two T’s—like otter—but Watter.  Cliffe is much the same with two F’s—one word, but ending in E.  ‘Terrance’ is spelled with two ‘R’s, replete with an A, N, C and, also, ending in E.  Therefore, when it’s all said and done, you have T-E-R-R-A-N-C-E.  W-A-T-T-E-R-C-L-I-F-F-E.  It’s big; it’s beautiful; it’s boldly brimming with life.  How much is this gonna cost me?”

“Twenty-six seventy-three for the first two weeks.  Then we’ll run it again, if you don’t get a call, Mr.—uh—Wattery-cliff-ies.”

Terrance sighed.  He said thanks and hung up, not wanting to argue.  In three days, he’d check the paper and make sure they spelled his name right.

“Just give me a good duck, will ya?” he said, aloud. 

He picked up the beer and took a swig.  He looked at the television and wondered why this putz, Gregory, was buying a vowel, and an A no less.  Anybody in his right mind could see the answer was, Taj Majal.

Terrance stood up to get another beer.  Sometimes, he wished he could eradicate the entire human race. 

*

Four year ago, when Terrance was living in Minneapolis , he’d walked into a Common Cents store for a Diet 7-up.  An un-cola sounded delicious at the time.  He was at the counter waiting to pay when a sudden inspiration to gamble came over him.  Before the clerk finished ringing up the soda, Terrance chimed in with: “And one ’a them lottery tickets, please.”

Peeling one at random from the large roll from half a dozen others, the cashier—a short, yellow-skinned man with glasses—dropped the ticket on the counter.  Terrance paid, wondered if the man had jaundice, and pocketed his change. 

He put the ticket in his breast pocket and walked out of the store.  He forgot about it until he was sitting in front of the television later that night.  An advertisement for the local Minneapolis lottery aired.  He pulled the ticket out and stared at it as the commercial ran:

“ Minnesota ’s newest lottery!  Run with Eight.  You have grreeeaat chances of winning when you play Run with Eight!  Simply scratch the ticket, and if the numbers equal eight, you win!  So run run run down to your nearest convenient store and buy a winning lottery ticket!”

Terrance frowned.  He scratched the gray film with a penny until three numbers stared up at him.  His brows came together.  Something was amiss.  His teachers must’ve wrongly taught him how to add.  Maybe all the tickets equaled eight, he thought.  Maybe he’d misheard the commercial.

The numbers, 6-1-1 stared up him as if to say, “Congratulations, you lucky bastard!  What are you gonna do with all that cash?”

“Cornhole the scarecrow,” Terrance said, in disbelief, and laughed uproariously. 

He was awarded four-hundred-thousand dollars in a cashier’s check.  They’d wanted to take his picture, let the entire city of Minneapolis know he’d won, but Terrance declined.  His personal fortune awarded him more when he invested half his winnings in Multi-track Advertising.  After taxes, he now had 1.5 million. 

Terrance’s life, even to him, always seemed a mystery, but he wasn’t about to let it change who he was. 

Why do you play roles like Big Orange Goofy anyway? he thought.

Lady Luck loved him, held him, and squeezed him tight.  Terrance wasn’t one ignore her kindness.  He let Lady Luck nurture him.  Terrance Wattercliffe—being the obedient child he was—suckled like a babe.

*

The call came two days after his add hit the paper.  Several people had reached him through the course of the week, but this was the call he’d been waiting for.  He could feel it. 

The phone came to life, shrilling with obnoxious flair as he was dozing in the chair after a couple of beers.  It startled him.  Terrance jerked in the chair, arms sailing out in front of him as if he’d been having a bad dream.  He must’ve turned the volume up louder than he’d thought.  The nap made him cold, gruff, and irritable.  After the disappointment of not finding the perfect roommate, he was a trifle uneasy.

“Hello?”  Terrance said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hello.”  The voice seemed miles away, but agreeable—overly pleasant—reminding him of one of his characters.  “I was calling about the add in the paper?  For a roommate?”

Terrance sat bolt upright.  He was wide-awake now.  “Yes?” he asked.

“Is it still available?”

“Yes,” Terrance said. 

This was the one, he thought.  Something about it, the pleasant invocation, a male voice showing just a smidgen of femininity. 

“Tip-top shape, it’s in,” Terrance said, adding color to his invitation.  “Would you like to come by and have a look?”

“Sure,” the voice said, excitedly.  “I think I can make it out there today.  Would that be okay?”

“All right as can be,” Terrance said.  “All right for anyone here.”

“You have more rooms to rent?”

“Just trying to break the ice,” Terrance explained.  “That was a joke.”

Terrance could virtually see the caller smiling.

“Ha ha!” the man laughed.  “Of course!  How about an hour?”

“An hour is excellent.  An hour is splendid.  What is your name, sir?”

“Adler.  Norson Adler.” 

“A pleasure, Mr. Norson.  You a drinking man by chance or nature?”

“Both,” Norson said, and they both laughed again.  “Not a problem, is it?”

“Not by chance or nature.  I’ll have a beer waiting for you.”

Terrance wished he could read Norson’s mind.  He gave the man his address.  “Perfect then.  I’ll see you some time this afternoon.”

“Sure thing.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  Sometimes, it was just an easy feeling. 

“See you then,” Terrance said to the empty phone.

Already, it was a good start, a nice end to a rather boring, lusterless week.  Too bad summer was coming to an end. 

“There’s a new kid in town,” Terrance said, wanting to tidy up before his new roommate arrived.  “And his name is Norson Adler.”

Terrance giggled.  One more beer before his guest arrived wouldn’t kill him.

*

Norson Adler had eyes similar to a liquid blue fantasy.  His smile was wide on an extremely handsome face.  He had short-cropped, brown, wavy hair.  He wore a fashionable brown jacket with a white shirt underneath, tweed pants, and Italian shoes.  Norson Adler dressed in style.  In the light of an August afternoon, Terrance looked over Norson’s shoulder, after he opened the door, and saw a red MG with the top down parked at the curb. 

This is the kind of guy who could be an athlete, a movie star, a GQ boy, Terrance thought.  What the hell does he need a room for? 

A tan paw shot out and greeted Terrance.  Norson proved to have a firm, bold handshake.  It wasn’t clammy or soft.  Terrance shook his hand and ushered him inside. 

“Hello, Mr. Adler.  Glad you could stop by.”

Norson nodded.  “Thank you, Mr. Watter…”

“Cliffe.  Please call me Terrance.”

“Sure.  And I’ll answer only to Norson.”

“Fair enough, Norson.  Come on in and have a look around.  I’ll get you something cold with lots of bubbles.”

Norson nodded.  He smiled as if he heard this sort of thing everyday.  He and Norson were of the same ilk, Terrance realized.  He came back from the kitchen and handed Norson a beer. 

“Thank you,” Norson said, taking the beer, and looking around.  He took a drink.

“Real nice place you have here,” he said.

“Thank you.” 

Terrance relished the beer after a long pull.  “ Colorado ’s finest,” he said.  “Brewed right here in the Rocky Mountains .  Cold Coors Light could belong nowhere else, am I right?  Why, ever since I moved here, it’s been one, long, beer-filled extravaganza after another. 

“Well, anyway…Let’s show you around the place.”

Norson followed Terrance up the stairs to the second floor.  They surveyed what would be Norson’s room just down the hallway.  The house and the room were spacious, affordable, warm, and inviting.  Rent was an even $300, including freedom of the house, barbecues, the patio, horseshoes, and cable television. 

“Tidy up the place every now and then, and we’ll get along fine,” Terrance said.  “Just a little cleanliness, and we’ll go a long way.  I like to come home to a clean house, Norson.  That’s the only house rule.”

“Sounds easy enough to live by.”

Terrance shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.  Norson Adler looked around and nodded in approval at everything he saw.  They walked back downstairs and into the dining room.

“Well,” Norson said.  “I don’t have a whole lot.  Just a bed and a television, a small dresser.  A desk and a computer.  Everything else is in storage.  I write a lot, travel, find reasonable places to live, and try to jot something fashionable for the magazines that know my name.”

Terrance raised his eyebrows, intrigued.  “No kidding?”

Norson looked pleased and nodded vigorously.  He reminded Terrance of an over-eager child. 

“Girlfriend?” Terrance asked, and before Norson could go on, he said, “Not that I mind if you’re gay.  Gay types don’t bother me.  You ain’t a switch hitter, a power performer, doing both sides of the spectrum by any chance?”  Terrance elbowed Norson and winked.

Norson blushed under liquid blue eyes.  He looked surprised and embarrassed.  “No.  I have a girlfriend,” he said.  “Her name’s Dana.  No problem if she stops by every now and then, is it?”

“You give her all she can handle.  It’s a deal then?”

“You bet,” Norson said.  “Can I write you a check?”

“It’s what I live by,” Terrance said.  “Another house rule.  Checks are fine.”  He was comfortably at peace with this transaction.

Norson pulled out a checkbook from inside his jacket.  He bent over the dining room table and made out the first months’ rent.  He handed it to Terrance after ripping it away from the checkbook.  Colorful hot air balloons decorated the check.  Terrance raised his eyebrows, suddenly wondering if Norson were gay. 

“You need any help moving your things in,” Terrance said, “don’t be afraid to ask.  I’d be glad to help.”

“Thank you,” Norson said.  “That’s very kind.”

“To a partnership between friends!” Terrance said, holding his beer out to Norson. 

“A partnership!” Norson said. 

They clanked bottles, laughing like men unafraid to be children.

Soon, Terrance saw Norson Adler to the door, and bid his future roommate goodbye. 

*

It took four whole months before any problems arose.  In all that time, Terrance thought he’d acquired the perfect roommate. 

Once Norson settled in, things ran smoothly.  The man kept to himself, clicking away on his laptop behind the closed door of his bedroom, not bothering Terrance at all.  Sometimes, Terrance could hear classical music coming from the room.  Dana, a demure and sensuous blonde, stopped by two, sometimes three days a week to visit Norson.

When August turned to September, things were still moving smoothly along.  Terrance was surprised how well they got along, better than expected.  Not a single difficulty arose at first.  The perfect roommate? Was such a thing possible?

When September came, they watched playoff baseball together.  A sleek move into autumn announced an obvious drop in temperature.  Terrance and Norson continued to get along well, respecting one another’s privacy.  It was a roommate match made in heaven.

October came and they celebrated Halloween, dishing out insane amounts of candy to all the neighborhood goblins, ghouls, cowboys, and princesses.  Of course, things did run their course.  The inevitable was bound to happen, right?  Dana was simply an added bonus. 

October turned to November.  They celebrated Thanksgiving, cooking a turkey, making mashed potatoes, rolls, and watched the Lions and Cowboys play.  Dana had come by to help with the pumpkin pie.  Terrance was surprised how pleasant all this was.  He and Norson could hang out together without getting on each another’s nerves.  Sometimes, after a hard day’s work, they’d go to the bar and watch an Avalanche game.  On Sundays, they watched the Broncos play.    

November turned to December and near the middle of the month, they toasted the publishing success of one of Norson’s magazine articles. 

For four months now, things had been running smoothly between Norson and Terrance.  There were no problems at all.  Four months, however, seemed to be the limit.  You could figure people out in four months, Terrance thought.  Four months was usually enough time to decide if someone had to stay or go. 

The snow came, another obvious shift in temperature, and things continued to move along at a steady, unproblematic pace.  Terrance was happier than he’d been in a long time.  But maybe it was time for a change.  After all, Big Orange Goofy couldn’t last forever.  He didn’t like always having to take his work home with him.

*

“Terrance?”

On an early morning in late December, Terrance sat in the recliner downstairs watching Saturday morning cartoons.  His eyes were still puffy from sleep, blond hair in corkscrews.  He was wearing his favorite, frazzled blue robe with a small red rose embroidered over the heart.  Spoonful after spoonful of colorful Froot Loops disappeared into his mouth with a loud crunch.  Terrance was like a machine shoveling them in.  A dribble of milk collected on his chin but failed to fall. 

Norson had come downstairs after a long hot shower, and was now fully dressed.  He was standing in the dining room. 

Terrance hadn’t heard Norson address him.  He could smell the man’s aftershave, though.  He chuckled at the television, pointing at Sylvester and Tweety with his spoon as Froot Loops rolled down his robe. 

“Hey, Terrance,” Norson said, a bit louder.  “I was thinking of having a little party over here with Dana on New Year’s Eve.  Little festivities, you know?  You don’t mind, do you?” 

Terrance tried to speak through a mouthful of cereal:

“O-tay,” he said.  “I ’ave t’work tha’ ni ay-way.”

Norson frowned.  Something about having to go to work that night anyway?

On the television, Tweety and Sylvester traumatized each another.  Tweety was winning with sticks of dynamite, of course, and Terrance was the kind of person who rooted for Sylvester, Tom, on Tom and Jerry, and Wile E. Coyote on the Road Runner cartoons.  One of these days, he thought, all three of them were going to get what they wanted, and that goddamn bird, that fucking mouse, and the bastard road runner were going to be shish-ka-bobbed, roasted over open flames, and succulently dipped in a spicy sauce while Tom, Sylvester, And Wile E. toasted each other over the picnic table on a job well done.   

The crunch of Froot Loops was loud in Terrance’s head.  He swallowed the cereal as if something had just occurred to him.  Why was Norson being so amiable lately?  Hadn’t they talked about this months ago?

“You don’t have to ask me, Norson,” Terrance said.  “We’ve talked about this before.  Have fun.  Dana seems quite the slender catch.”

This amicable role was starting to make him ill.  When he was home, he forgot he didn’t have to play the role of Big Orange Goofy anymore.  That was only for work.  Norson must have other characteristics, he thought, besides being such a goddamn gentleman all the time. 

“Well,” Norson replied.  “I just wanted to let you know.  In case things are a little crazy when you come home.”

“Sure,” Terrance said.  “Hope the festivities are still in full swing when I get here.  Have a blast.  Ring it in!”

Norson smiled, nodded as he always did, and walked through the living room, glancing at the television where Sylvester’s face suddenly exploded.  Norson told Terrance to have a good day, opened the front door, and closed it behind him. 

Terrance stood up, went to the kitchen, and put the bowl in the sink.  He looked at the calendar.  He wiped his mouth on his robe, suddenly not so child-like.  New Years Eve was only three days away.

Four tedious months, Terrance thought, smiling.  Time for a change.

*

Much like any alcoholic, all he needed was an excuse.  It was progress.  One thing led to another, and those things had been piling up for weeks now: Dana’s shoes in the bathroom, the lipstick, the curlers, beer bottles lying along the kitchen counter.  It confirmed his suspicions.  Things happened for a reason.  It was only a matter of time.

He’d been meaning to have a long talk about these things with Norson, those liquid blue eyes. 

On New Year’s Eve, Terrance giggled to himself, and dressed for work.  He’d traded with the night cook, Vince Cabanero, earlier in the week, even thought the restaurant closed at 11:00 pm .  Vince wanted to ring in the New Year with several friends without having to worry about the job the next day.  Terrance was fine with that, he’d said.  He had plans of his own.  And working New Year’s Eve wasn’t a problem.  He’d be home before the celebrations started anyway.   

*

He made it through a virtual, hassle free shift, ringing the bell, getting on people’s nerves whenever the mood struck.  The only thing he had to get used to was cooking dinners instead of breakfasts and lunches.  Hardly a dilemma. 

At the end of his shift, he punched out, left The Tasty Station, and drove his Cavalier through a cold, blustery, snowy evening.  The grease from the restaurant and the heat added a layer of sweaty grime to his skin.  He looked forward to coming home, relaxing with a cold beer, and unwinding in front of the television.  He’d take a shower first.

The scene throughout the neighborhood—when he parked the Cavalier in front of the house—was the purest of festivities.  Faithful arrays of colored lights ran along windows and doors.  Lights lay embedded in bushes and trees in front of several houses.  A nativity scene told the story of Jesus on the front lawn across the street.  Pictures in windows of Rudolph and Santa were cheerfully displayed, decorations of stars, and every kind of angel imaginable.  A pure, six-inch blanket of snow draped the entire neighborhood in a cold, winter mantle.  It was still snowing when he shut off the car. 

Terrance smiled, humming Noel.  He stepped out of the car and shut the door.  The caking sweat and grease froze to his skin when the cold hit him.  Yes, a shower would do him wonders. 

Norson and Terrance had exchanged gifts on Christmas morning.  Norson had bought Terrance a thick blue sweater Terrance wore for the entire day.  Terrance had given Norson a scarf with piano keys on it because Norson was always typing in his room to the sounds of Chopin.  Norson had loved it.

Terrance sighed with the maudlin reality of it, stepping over the curb, and onto the snow-laden sidewalk.  Flakes descended from a slate driven sky tinged copper from the sodium lamps. 

It was the music first, the thump and bass bumping from the windows.  The front door was ajar, too, he saw. 

Norson was ringing in the New Year with a slight lack in self-discipline.

Wasn’t the New Year still twenty-minutes away?  Was Norson trying to blow the speakers in his stereo?

Terrance walked up the path to the front door, the thumping bass growing louder with each step.  Snow crunched under his feet.  He couldn’t recognize the song because the volume was so loud.      

Anyone in the world could make off with his stereo, even the television.  They could grab the goddamn Froot Loops if they wanted. 

Terrance pushed the front door open.  The television was on along with the stereo, some movie—like the song—he couldn’t recognize.  It wasn’t a replay of Times Square ringing in the New Year two hours earlier, nor was it Las Vegas with Dick Clark.  Did Dick Clark do Vegas anymore? 

The house was in virtual chaos.  He raised his eyebrows, more amused than angry.  Pastel colored streamers lay across the recliner, the coffee table, the dining room table, and the railing leading upstairs.  Silver and gold glitter covered the floor like a powdered treasure.  It would be hell trying to vacuum.  An open box from Blackjack Pizza lay on the floor beside the recliner with half a pizza still inside.  Mushroom, olives, artichokes, and pepperoni, it looked like.  Scattered from the kitchen to the living room stood various beer bottled, some half-full.  Two champagne bottles stood on the kitchen table.  A fire blazed and crackled in the fireplace with the safety gate set to the side.

Was it more than Norson and Dana?  Had they thrown a party?  Were others here, too?  If so, where was everybody?

The sliding glass door leading to the back patio was open as well.  Shards of wood and dirty footprints made a trail through the dining room, across the living room floor, and stopped at the fireplace.  A tube of lipstick lay smeared into the carpet.  The air was replete with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. 

The man was good; it was too good.  Terrance felt like clapping.

Going to the stereo, Terrance hit the power button.  The noise died instantly.  He took a deep breath.  He turned the television off, too.  Silence breathed into the room.  All was quiet except for the sound of muffled laughter upstairs, a drunken Dana twittering away at something Norson said.

As if on cue, Terrance turned, and Norson’s door opened.  A drunken Norson Adler wavered in the doorway, a bright pink smear of lipstick on his cheek.  His pale blue shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a hairy chest. 

“T’rence!” Norson tried to say.  “We’s nist-nin’ t’ dat myoosnic!” 

Terrance smiled.  “Now, we are listening to silence,” he said.  “And, when you get a second, Norson Addlepated, I need a word.”

Norson cocked his head, not grasping what Terrance meant.  Behind Norson, a sultry, tan leg came into view.  A slender hand with sleek red nails slid around Norson’s chest stroking his nipples and hair. 

Terrance was impressed.  Dana, he realized, was completely naked behind Norson, trying to pull him back into the room. 

“You can leave the little hot rod alone for a few seconds, Norson-honey,” Terrance said.  “Just a word I heard could I relate!”

Swaying drunkenly to his own rhythm, Norson turned to Dana, as if he’d just remembered something, and pushed her back into the room.  A golden spill of hair came into view behind Norson’s head and shoulders, lipstick matching the nails.

Norson said something to Dana Terrance couldn’t hear. 

“Oh, Nor-baby!” Dana said.  “Don’t be a minute!  Please, a minute is about all I can take!”

Terrance threw his keys on the recliner and walked into the kitchen.  “Time’s wastin’, Nor-baby,” Terrance called.  “We’re working a tight schedule!  Gotta beat the clock!”

Terrance opened a drawer by the sink and pulled out a six-inch cooking knife.  He concealed it behind his back. 

Big Orange Goofy with a knife, he thought, and smiled. 

Terrance returned to the living room just as Norson was making his way downstairs. 

“How many drinks have you had tonight?”  Terrance asked.  “Do you have a problem with alcohol, Norson?”

“No, ovz-ifer.”

Terrance laughed.  Norson could—at times—play the role to perfection. 

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, Norson,” Terrance said, looking around the house, “it seems we’ve had a breach in contract.”

Norson tried to smile.  He fell short, wavered, and grabbed the banister, trying to right himself. 

“Trence,” Norson said.  “New Y’rs, Even.  Having some fun.  Thought it was—” (hiccup!) “—o’tay?”

“One thing,” Terrance said, “I cannot stand is a broken contract, Norson, a breach in business partners.  Is that understood?  I would think it clear as crystal.  If it’s not clear as crystal, perhaps something needs to be established.”

“Sumtin’ neeww?” Norson played along. 

“Yeah, something new,” Terrance said.  “Like, you break the contract, and I get to stick a very sharp piece of steel through your Adam’s apple.  How’s that, Nor-baby?  Sound fair?”

Norson looked on the verge of tears.  Terrance almost felt sorry for him.

The next moment whizzed by in a blur for Norson Adler.  He barely had time to register the following seconds.  It was all a dream.  A drunken nightmare. 

Terrance pounced, his hand swinging into view from behind his back.  A flash of bright silver emerged in front of Norson’s eyes followed by a searing bolt of pain in his neck.  Norson gasped for air, fell back, and gagged on his own blood.  His eyes went wide with shock.  Blood erupted from his jugular like a geyser.

Big Orange Goofy rammed the knife repeatedly into Norson’s throat until it resembled a shredded, mutilated mass of flesh.

Terrance whooped with glee!  He emphasized his words as he shouted, driving the knife now into Norson’s chest:

“Like this!” he cried.  “Like every time you screw something up, I get to pull out the knife and do terrible damage to your body, Nor-baby!  See how that goes?”

Terrance stabbed Norson twenty-seven times.  In seconds, the act was over.  It was strangely quiet in the house.  Terrance couldn’t hear anything except the muffled television in Norson’s room.

A surprised countenance, a lifeless gaze stared up at Terrance. 

In a demented moment of reverence, Terrance Wattercliffe knelt at Norson’s feet.  He bowed his head and closed his eyes.  He offered up a prayer.  Let the knife do the talking, he thought. 

Terrance said, “Amen,” and opened his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed, but in the time he’d been praying, Dana had emerged at the top of the stairs.  She was wearing one of Norson’s shirts, red panties.  The bedroom door was open behind her.  She’d come out to see what was taking Norson so long.  Instead, she’d found Big Orange Goofy splattered in blood, crouched over her dead lover. 

Dana screamed in hellish terror and retreated to the bedroom.  The door slammed shut.

Terrance stood up and smiled.

Of course, he thought.  Lady Luck.  The added bonus. 

Terrance stepped over Norson’s body and ascended the stairs.

A single window in Norson’s room provided ample room for Dana to crawl through should she try and escape.  Terrance wasn’t worried.  Two feet of snow covered the ground.  Dana was virtually naked, and it was too high to jump.  He didn’t think she’d take the risk. 

Terrance grabbed the knob and threw the door open. 

Dana continued to scream, huddled in the corner of the room.  She grabbed the lamp beside the bed and threw it, missing Terrance by several inches.  Green ceramic shattered against the wall.

On the small black and white television on the other side of the bed, a large crowd cried, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

He couldn’t have timed it any better.  What a way to ring it in! 

Terrance moved around the bed. 

Dana’s screams made his ears ring. 

At his feet, Big Orange Goofy kicked aside a beer bottle.  He advanced with the knife.  Sometimes, it was disappointing how easy it could be.  

*

Driving the road, seeking some place new, the idle hum of the Corvette purred under him.  He wanted to get out soon, stretch his legs.  The drive had been long, but it was good to be in the car again.  He’d always had a thing for ’Vettes.  The one he was driving now was a vintage 1961, red and white convertible.  With the winter, the top was up.  He’s kept it in a garage for the last year.  The Cavalier was only part of the act.  He only drove the Corvette until he absolutely had to.  He didn’t like the attention it brought.

He wanted to get a bite to eat, a cup of coffee before he drove farther…

Leaving Colorado wasn’t terribly difficult.  The sights of new places made it worth it, but it always left him feeling sad. 

He’d rolled up the carpets, taken the bodies into the mountains, and spent a day digging a deep grave.  Because of the snow, the task had been long and arduous.  He’d burned the carpets and scrubbed the blood off the walls.  He spent another day painting Norson’s room (coat after coat), the wall by the stairs where he’d killed him.  He ordered new carpet to replace the old.  The house actually looked better than when he’d moved in.

He had to leave before people started asking questions.  If they did, he put on his long ears and the bucked teeth of Big Orange I-don’t-know-a-damn-thing Goofy. 

Mexico would be his final destination, Canada perhaps.  He was a gypsy, but even Terrance had to quell his appetites at some time.  Settling down was inevitable.  He had to savor these moments while they presented themselves.

The restaurant was, The Happy Belly, outside of Cleveland , Ohio , home of the Indians, the resurrected Browns.  It was two-thirty in the morning.

He parked the car in the empty lot and stepped outside.  He locked the door of the ’Vette and sauntered across the snow-filled lot to the entrance.  He pulled the door open, feeling a blast of warm air against his face.  He shivered, shaking off the last of the cold.  He picked a booth by the windows.  He wanted to look at the Corvette while he ate. 

A young, short, Hispanic waiter came up to his table, setting down a glass of water.  “Something besides water?” the waiter asked. 

A silver diamond shimmered in the waiter’s left ear.  These days, that could mean anything.  Terrance didn’t pay attention to trivialities, only roles.

“Coffee,” Terrance said.

The waiter nodded and walked away.

Terrance picked up the menu and looked it over.  Biscuits and gravy sounded good, chicken fried steak and eggs.  Fried, of course.  Lots of Tobasco, yolk, and pepper.  The way a man should order. 

Terrance tuned his ear to a sudden conversation between the waiter and the cook.  Something about a girlfriend, no place to stay…

The waiter broke off his conversation, returning to Terrance’s table, and set down a steaming cup of coffee.

“Decided?” the waiter asked.

“Chicken-fried steak,” Terrance said, setting the menu on the table.  “Over easy on the eggs.  Wheat toast.  Hashbrowns instead of pancakes.” 

According to the badge, the waiter’s name was Demitri.  Demitri wrote the order on the ticket, nodded, and was about to walk away when Terrance held up his hand.

“Hold it,” he said.  “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

Demitri raised his eyebrows.

“You know someone,” Terrance said.  “Or you’re looking for a place to stay?”

“I’m looking for a place to stay,” Demitri said.  “It’s a long story.  Why?  You know a place I can shack up?”

Terrance took a sip of coffee.  He winced.  It tasted like charcoal.  “I have an extra room at my place,” he said.  “I just got into town, found a place yesterday.  Rent’s cheap, too.  Need to tidy it up a bit first, though.  I can give you a deal since you’re having trouble with your old lady.  Say…two-hundred a month?”

The Good Samaritan, usually a good role, but easily tiresome.  He’d have to think of a name.

The waiter smiled.

“You playin’ with my emotions, dawg?” Demitri said.

Terrance laughed.  “No,” he said.  “I’m not playing with your emotions.”

“Damn,” said Demitri, with obvious relief.  “That’s just what I need.  I gotta get out of my place.  Girlfriends, man.”  Demitri shook his head.

“I know too well.”  Terrance sipped the coffee again, despite the taste. 

Demitri seemed to think it over.  “What the hell,” he said, shrugging.  He scribbled his phone number on the ticket pad, ripped it free, and handed it to Terrance.  “Here ya go.” 

Terrance took the number and nodded.

“I can afford that,” Demitri said.  “A price like that.”

“Sure,” Terrance said, nodding.  “I haven’t…hmmm.  Can’t seem to remember the address off the top of my head.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Demitri said.  “You just moved in.”

Terrance laughed, folded the number, and put it in his pocket.  “I’ll get the place set up and give you a call.  ’Couple of days okay?”

“Sure,” said Demitri.  “Just enough time to get my things together and get out.”

“I’ll give you a call,” Terrance said.

“You’re a life saver, man.”

Terrance grinned and nodded. 

“Hey, what’s your name?” Demitri said. 

Terrance wiped his hands on his pants, discarding the old and donning the new.  He put his hand over the table.  “ Franklin .  Franklin Bonner.”

Demitri shook his hand.  “Demirti Sanchez.”

“Glad to meet you, Demitri.”

Demitri turned and gave the cook a ‘thumbs-up’ as if all his problems had just been solved.  He walked away from the table.

Franklin Bonner looked at his Corvette through the restaurant window and wondered what name was on the registration.  He might have to check his driver’s license.  He couldn’t remember.  Sometimes, he got the roles mixed up, and couldn’t remember who the hell he was.  The idea made him laugh.

While he waited for his meal, he sipped at his coffee, moving his head to the muzak coming from the restaurant speakers.  He tapped his feet under the table.

Who’s Franklin Bonner? he thought.

It didn’t matter, he supposed.  He’d find out soon enough.

He shook his head and chuckled to himself.  He didn’t know who he was.  He shrugged, not caring one way or the other.  Something about Lady Luck… 

He finished his coffee and waited patiently for his meal to arrive.

Life certainly had a tendency of taking care of itself. 

Perhaps he was immortal.