The Deadbeat Club Ch. 01

"…I had to re-arrange their faces

and give them all another name…

B. Dylan "Desolation Row"

Prologue: Regret

My wife – she divorced me around 20 years ago.

It's not something I tell many people about. Why make myself seem even shittier than I am? Plus, I really don't like going into the story for someone else's amusement.

On the other hand, I wouldn't want to bore them with it either. After all, it's a pretty typical hard luck story.

Average guy meets international model. Average guy gets international model. They marry and have two girls. International model is now done with average guy.

Oh, yeah…average guy gets dumped.

No, I prefer telling people I was never married. Better they wonder if you're gay than how you lost the most beautiful woman in the world.

Like so many average, dumped Dads, I spent little time with the kids…missed visits, missed payments, etc. Not a pretty story at all. Somehow, though, my daughters, now in their twenties and models themselves, forgave and came to love their deadbeat Daddy.

Nothing worse than being forgiven. Nothing…

Never let it happen to you.

Second worst is having beautiful, forgiving angels as daughters. Obviously, they got their Mom's genes.

My gene-pool would have never let the past go.

For me, the past never let go. Why should I?

OK, enough explication…

Chapter I: Compulsion

It was a sunny morning…the sunlight was annoying as it glared through the large windows of the local coffee shop—home for the downbeat, lonely and bored.

As I looked out the large plate glass window, little Jeremiah was across the street doing his famous two-step at the curb.

The strange, little guy was out there furiously crossing himself in prayer, while putting one foot gingerly out into the street. This was a regular morning show he unknowingly performed for the people-watchers at the shop.

I watched each morning with amusement as the little oddball felt around with the one foot he was placing in the street, brow knit in concentration, like he was frightened the pavement would give way any minute. Where he felt he would fall to, I have no idea. Either Hell or China, I guess.

Jeremiah's clothes were a total mess. He lived out of his broken down car, permanently parked in the lot across the street. (I don't think he'd gassed it up since Clinton was in office.) In fact, he only washed when he'd cross the street to use the coffee shop's restroom each morning – bridging what he must have seen as the chasm of eternal damnation.

I sat there and watched Jeremiah crossing himself and whispering a prayer, as he tested the reality of the pavement beneath his foot. And it occurred to me that no one trusts his God as little as a man of prayer.

But the show wasn't over yet.

As always, when Jeremiah got to the front door of the shop, he first passed it, then turned around and came back. He peered in the window and then proceeded to do the same two-step tester in the doorway before entering.

You might say his ritual entrance to the shop was somewhere between meandering and loitering. At any rate, it took him a long time to finally get his ass in the place.

Once in, Jeremiah nervously glanced around to see if anyone was watching and then surreptitiously entered the Woman's Room to wash up. And let me tell you, the women did not appreciate it at all. The employees at the shop were hesitant to tell him to stop doing it, though. They knew he was a clinical case and felt he wouldn't understand them anyway.

But the women were the funniest. Many who were typically Californian liberals, and very sensitive to the 'plight of the homeless,' became a lot less sensitive when they got walked in on by little Jeremiah. After all, he was filthy. He was probably 50 and bald. His head was partially crowned with long, red hair that stuck out this way and that from lack of washing. It appeared to have the consistency of old straw.

For these poor women, the 'plight of the homeless' quickly became the 'blight of the homeless' after Jeremiah got through sharing the room with them. I'm sure there were a number of political conversions that took place right there in the Ladies Room. Liberal to Reactionary, after one walk-in with their panty hose wrapped around their ankles.

I can't really blame Jeremiah, though. He just wanted to wash up. And, hey, if he caught a little glimpse on the side, what guy could really blame him. He wasn't any different than the rest of us in that way. He just didn't have a laptop to do his peeking with, is all.

Even after visiting one of these strange encounters upon some unsuspecting babe, when Jeremiah exited the washroom, his countenance would still remind me of an old, despondent clown's. His face had that Emmet Kelly sadness to it, while his bright red hair seemed tangled and snarled with the worries of the world.

This little man's world was very different from ours, though. The lens he saw us through viewed a world that was very different than ours. Perhaps, we should have seen those frightened eyes as mirrors our bewildered little prophet held up to us and our world…eying us, trying to find the last 10 righteous ones among us.

But as they say, a prophet in his own town…

Chapter II: Perfection

Monica came in with a flourish, already a little pissed at having seen Jeremiah exiting the Women's Room.

Monica was a well to-do, hot looking, mid 40-ish babe. Her time of life was at the crossroads where Scarlett O'Hara meets Blanch DuBois, but doesn't recognize she's looking in a mirror.

Monica had money and dressed with taste and style. She was eyed by most of the guys in the place.

"Damn this place is always so filthy!"

Monica was nearly as compulsive as Jeremiah – at least when it came to cleanliness. She'd often come into the place, notice crumbs, and start cleaning the joint up.

I thought that maybe she and Jeremiah should hook up. The little nut case would get the girl of his dreams, and Monica could keep his derelict Chevy immaculately clean.

Marriages have been built on less.

Whenever I'd kid her about it, though, she didn't find it too damn funny. It was the kind of joke she'd always ignore and keep talking like she didn't hear it. I think she figured if she ignored the comment, it would go away. I admit, very mature. Actually, a lot like my ex. She ignored many of my comments, too. And eventually they went away…along with the rest of the carcass.

Monica and her husband lived in an upscale community called 'The Preserve.' It was built over a forest reserve. I don't know what it was supposed to be 'preserving;' it sure wasn't the forest.

And it didn't do so good with Monica's marriage either.

"Well, today's the day," she said, happily. "John and I sign the papers."

"So, it's finis for good, huh?"

"Yep. I'm a free woman."

"So, is freedom just another word for 'nothing left to lose'?"

She gave me that blank look. It meant I'd annoyed her, and she was about to ignore my comment:

"I want to see the new 'Spider Man.'"

"We can do that…" I said, then admired her ass as she sauntered off to get her coffee.

Outside I could see Joan getting out of her truck. Joan was never off more than a few minutes of Monica's arrival.

When Joan entered, she immediately went over to Monica, gave her a hug, and the two waited on line for their coffee, whispering and giggling.

Joan was short and thick. She liked wearing bib overalls and had traits that would make John Wayne seem like a dandy.

When they came back to the table, Monica was in an effusive mood:

"Yeah, let's go see 'Spider Man' today…nothing like a man in tights.

"Except a woman out of them," I said, trying to lead the conversation back to subject matter I was interested in.

Then I added:

"Don't you agree, Joan?" It was a cheap shot. But I always liked to get a little interplay going between Monica and Joan.

"Damn straight!" Joan affirmed, giving Monica a hungry glance.

Monica lifted the coffee to her lips slowly, while she gave me 'the stare' over the rim of the cup. "Okay, you two. Let's keep on the subject of movies."

"Sorry, honey," Joan said, stroking a strand of Monica's hair and then putting her arm on the backside of Monica's chair.

"It's alright," Monica said, and then added: "Joan, you know I'm straight, right?"

"Yeah…I know. We've covered that," Joan answered with resignation.

Joan's arm came off the back of the chair. It was one in a string of rejections she received from Monica. In a weird way, she seemed to like the pattern of pursuit and rejection that her relationship with Monica had taken on. I think she felt that even a rejection was an acknowledgement of there being some possibility.

We've all been there… You're crazy about this person, but you don't feel good enough for them. So, from the first, you've got one foot on the gas, one foot on the brake. After a while you settle for just being a part of their life. You just want acknowledgement, some sort of recognition from them. And before someone can reject and abuse you, they at least have to recognize you exist – right?

Before long, you confuse the two.

Joan was there. And I felt a little ashamed I'd gotten the whole pattern going again.

But a little shame never stopped anyone, least of all me.

"Maybe you two should kiss and make up."

Monica shot me a long glance that read, "Fuck Off!" all over it.

"Sorry," I apologized. "Bad joke."

Chapter III: Ambition

"Edmund," a voice boomed my name.

It was Jay, our resident big picture guy. Jay was always working on something "big…really big. Can't discuss it."

Usually this was referring to the big, "really big," screenplay he claimed he was writing.

In actuality, Jay was a small businessman. He ran a small insurance firm, but also made money on a website for insurance comparison-shopping, which he sold to some company for a nice down payment on his mortgage.

Like so many of us in the Bay Area, Jay had a wife, three kids, three cars, and three mortgages.

He was in hock up to his neck.

But Jay dreamed, like his namesake, of the far-off green light that beckoned him. He was, after all, working on that screenplay. And it was, "…big, really big."

"I got a new idea!"

"Jay, for you, a really new idea would be to stop having 'new ideas.'"

"No, really, listen to this! A guy gets in an elevator, but somehow he hits a combination of numbers that takes him to a secret floor. The guy that built the building has been hiding on this floor for years. And he has secret cameras, so he can see into everyone's rooms…whadda ya' think?"

"Yeah…so, let me get this, nobody's ever hit that same sequence of numbers before? And when the building was built, no one noticed a whole floor without windows in it?"

"Well, I haven't got it all figured out yet. But don't you think the premise is really good?"

"Well, I think it needs a little work."

"I'll tell you this, though," he said, looking me in the eye, completely serious: "I get the starring role – period. I'm not going to pay some big star a fortune for something I could do just as well."

Then he took a swig of his coffee and looked away. There was a finality about his last comment. It was as if he were already role-playing the part of movie mogul. In his mind, he had a million dollar-plus property on his hands. He had all the leverage – not those pikers at the studios.

"Well, Jay, give it some thought. You might want to develop the idea a little more before you start demanding top billing and a percentage of the gross."

"Don't worry; me and a guy I know in LA have got it half done. We're already talking to some big names about it. Trust me…it's sellable."

"Yeah, well good luck with it."

Jay was sweating and perfuming the place with the previous night's Gentleman Jack. I was glad. It trumped the Seagram's that reeked from my pores.

"Look at that loser back there," Jay remarked to the girls, and nodded toward Jeremiah who was sitting alone at a table in the back.

"I don't know why they let him in here," Jay continued. "He just stinks the place up."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "What was he drinking last night?"

Jay glared at me.

Jeremiah was oblivious. He sat at his table, hunched over his coffee, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun with cupped hands. He looked a little like the monkey that 'sees no evil.'

Sometimes it's better that way, I thought. What he doesn't know can't hurt him.

Now if Jay could just mimic the monkey that 'speaks no evil,' I thought, things would be fine.

Chapter IV: Salvation

In the back of the place, I could see Tracy and Sofia whispering to each other. They sat in the two stuffed lounge chairs the coffee shop provided for patrons that were planning to stay for a while.

Tracy and Sofia were just those kind of patrons. Both stuck in unhappy marriages, the shop served as a home away from home for them.

As they leaned in toward each other, they looked like bookends. But in reality, they were more like two pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly together.

Tracy was a big guy and an ex-marine from Arkansas with a shaved head and an earring. He looked like a model for some gay-biker magazine. The cheery, Southern drawl gave the image away, though.

Then, again, they do say Gomer Pyle was that way…

Tracy was what I'd describe as an 'evangelical atheist.' He was always arguing and debating the absurdity of belief in God. I never got into one of those debates with him, because I always felt it could go either way – although, I admit, I have a lot of sympathy for the believer's side. There's nothing wrong in my book with wanting to believe in a hereafter that's a kinder and gentler place. But Tracy was dogmatic on the subject, and it drove everyone to distraction.

Like most atheists, though, Tracy needed to fill the vacuum his lack of faith had left him. So, he'd taken on an almost religious belief in self-help books, gurus and pop-wunder-kinds. He read them all and was always preaching the gospel of the latest guru. I know he meant well, but God it was boring to listen to.

So, Tracy would come to the coffee shop always ready to save someone. Mind you, he couldn't save his own marriage, but make no mistake, he would save yours.

Sofia was his perfect foil. She was young and had a Mediterranean beauty about her. At 29 she had been married twice, had two kids, and more drama than a library of film-noir.

Sofia went beyond 'drama queen' to 'drama personified.' There was always the latest story. And they all went way over the top where they breached even a child's suspension of disbelief.

There was always a guy that broke into her house in the middle of the night and raped her. Or the casual mention that she was gang-banged by a pack of orangutans when she was 15, etc. But even the more down-to-earth stories never quite added up – or had a hilarious tag line.

I remember one time she told us this long, winding tale of some pervert at work who was sending emails to her super-private email address.

Finally, Jay asked: "Jeez, how do you think he got your address?"

"Oh, I gave it to him," she casually replied.

We looked at each other, stunned for a few seconds, and then we all burst out laughing.

Sofia looked a little hurt and embarrassed, then added:

"He seemed like a nice guy."

It was the way most of her stories went. Unless you were ready to play Perry Mason, you were going to get half the story – the half she wanted you to hear.

So, she was a perfect patient for Tracy, who could be found in the back of the shop regularly, sweating at the brow, furiously counseling Sofia on improving her lot in life.

I was secretly amused to watch Tracy speaking so earnestly, yet lightly tapping her knee suggestively, as he'd make a point…then, occasionally, her thigh. For her part, Sofia didn't offer even tacit disapproval of the mounting intimacy of Tracy's hands. She just gazed into 'the doctor's' eyes, as if it were all as innocent as Jesus preaching to the children.

"I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand…"

An old folk song played throughout the shop. The old songwriters said it all. I couldn't top that.

Chapter V: Possession

While Jay got on line to order his coffee and dream up some new plot twists, Monica went back to talk to Tracy and Sofia. She wanted them to join the group up front. Monica was always organizing things that way.

Joan ignored me and eyed every move Monica made back there with the counselor and his patient.

"Whatta ya' think, Joan? With a little salt and pepper, maybe a garnish here and there, she'd make a nice meal, huh?"

"You're just jealous," she shot back.

"Of you and Monica? Should I be?"

I was more amused than concerned. Secretly, I'd have loved to see Joan flip her. Like most guys, lesbianism was a favorite spectator sport of mine.

"Figure it out for yourself," Joan bluffed.

In the back, Monica was sitting on Tracy's lap. Monica liked to flirt with him. Tracy was a good five to ten years younger than her, and I think she wanted to prove she could still attract younger guys.

Joan's jaw was clenching and unclenching.

"Does Tracy know about you and Monica yet," I whispered, mockingly.

"Fuck you!"

Joan got up and walked back to where 'her woman' was making a spectacle of herself. She held her hands out as if to help Monica off Tracy's lap, but Monica was having none of it. She liked being exactly where she was.

I could see Joan and Tracy jabbering back and forth. Then Joan abruptly turned heel and marched back to my table. She dropped angrily back into her seat.

"Calm down. She's just having some fun," I counseled.

"Can't help it…I'm just a little possessive," she fumed, looking down at the floor.

"Possessive…or 'possessed'?"

Joan was clenching her jaw, on and off, again. She looked up from the floor, over to where Monica and Tracy were still giggling.

As much as she stared at Monica, I don't think she ever really saw her. What Joan saw was not a person…but a quest.

Chapter VI: Observation

"Looks like the gang's all here today!"

Mo had made his entrance. Struggling with his twisted spine, he limped to his chair. Mo had lived with the onslaught of scoliosis since childhood. Now in his mid-fifties, it was destroying him. As few men ever have to, he carried a cross impossible for anyone but himself to bear. No Simon would ever come to his aid.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Not good. Don't sleep much."

"Are you still sleeping on the floor?"

"Yeah. Only place I can."

There wasn't much I could say. So I didn't.

Mo surveyed the coffee shop. He'd spent most of his life as a stagehand specializing in lighting. He knew how a scene should be blocked and how different stage settings indicated different themes. He took in Monica and Sofia vying for Tracy's attention. And he picked up the vibes Joan was conveying, as she sat staring at her grail…still ensconced on Tracy's lap.

Jay was over in a corner having a lively discussion with someone he knew. He saw us and came over.

"Hey, Mo, how ya' doin'?"

"Not bad. Not good."

"Join the club."

Then Jay turned to me:

"Just talked to that guy over there. Get this…what about a play about a coffee shop. Ya' know, it's about us…"

Then he added, a bit puzzled, "…but something's gotta happen in it."