In hindsight, I’m not sure where I was directing the statement. It certainly wasn’t my intention to alert an unsuspecting passenger of the city bus I had spent the night riding, but I guess privacy is elusive when you’re both enclosed in a 40-foot vehicle at one in the morning. I was aimlessly wandering the streets of Las Vegas a few hours prior, and erratically hopped onto the bus with a harebrained notion that I could escape my life by means of physical distance. I’ve come to realize, though, that no matter your definition of life— be it existence, circumstance, mere survival— it takes more than a 50-mile bus route to escape.
“You good, bud?” the passenger asked, his tone betraying equal parts confusion and concern. The subtle cock of his head requested permission to butt-scooch across the empty seats that divided us, and after I nodded my consent, he obligingly closed the gap.
“I’m Manny,” he said, reaching out his hand and giving mine a shake. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, and between his cream-coloured hoodie and his unkempt stubble, he looked like some kind of albino predator. I found myself inadvertently leaning away. Besides if anything, the Las-Vegas-late-night-bus-rider archetype validated my fear.
“Hi, um, Manny,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Just talking to myself, I guess.”
“It’s cool.”
We rode on in silence for a couple of minutes, staring at the neon billboards and street lamps racing past our window, which were the only signs of life in the otherwise sleeping city. Finally I interrupted the permeating stillness. “Do you ever feel like your entire life is crumbling? And all you can do is watch?”
Manny hesitated, clearly formulating his thoughts. “Sounds like you’ve got a heavy load. Something goin’ on?”
“I don’t know, nevermind.” Suddenly the prospect of dumping my trivial problems on this unassuming soul seemed a little selfish. For all I knew he was on his way to see his girlfriend or live it up with his friends, and the last thing he needed was some random killjoy spoiling his fun. “Sorry, man.”
“S’all good.”
Once again, we sat in agonizing quiet. I leaned my head against the windowpane, and the bumps in the road seemed to amplify straight into my skull. Maybe the awkward silence finally got to me, or maybe deep down I was intrigued at the thought that someone— even if it was a bedraggled stranger— might listen. Whatever my reason, I eventually gave in. “I’m starting to hate the sound of my ringtone,” I sighed.
Manny tilted his head slightly and looked at me through quizzical eyes. “Uh… your ringtone?”
“It’s a bit of a long story.”
* * * * *
I know they’re just automated messages, but every phone call feels like a personalized attack. It’s as if my worst vices are literally being called out with these constant, unavoidable reminders that my life is shambles. It’s the same thing each time: “This prerecorded message is intended to notify you of an unresolved debt. Please contact your creditor to—”
I always hang up before the mechanical voice can get any further.
Everytime my iphone starts playing that loathsome default marimba tune that I never had the motivation to change, all I can hear ringing through my head is: failure, failure, failure.
And it isn’t even my fault. I mean sure, technically I decided to hook up my credit card to that first slot machine all those years ago. But I didn’t ask to be born in a gambling-based megalopolis any more than I asked to be born with natural habit-forming genes, and once I had begun, it was like this vicious, unescapable cycle. The more debt I was in, the more desperately I needed a victory.
Anyways, my cell phone came to spend a lot of time on Do Not Disturb, especially during my daily afternoon naps (which I always took on the stained, run-down polyester sofa I found with an “up for grabs” sign by the side of the road). This particular nap stemmed from having just gotten off an 8-hour bartending shift. I had to rest up my vocal chords before another few hours of exercising my peppy, high-pitched customer service voice at a closing grocery store shift later that night.
As I was dozing off, my girlfriend texted that she would be home late, and since I’m so dismally antisocial, I didn’t have a reason to expect anyone else to contact me that day. So when I woke up to 5 missed calls and a lengthy voicemail from my father, well, to say I was surprised would be putting it lightly. My old man hasn’t spoken to me (let alone by phone) since I moved to the city and took up gambling, and I’m honestly amazed his number was even in my contacts.
As shocked as I was to see his name pop up in my notifications, though, I was all-the-more surprised to learn the intent of his call.
“Hey. You didn’t pick up so I’m just gonna leave a message to get this over with,” the voicemail started. His voice was warped with static through the receiver, but I could still pick out resentment in his tone. “I just got the results of an MRI I took a few weeks ago. Not that you’ll care to know, but I tested positive.” After a brief pause, he continued. “I have leukemia.”
To erase message, press 3. To reply to message, press 4. To save message, press 7.
That was it. No “good bye, no “I miss you,” no “I want to see you one last time before I die from this largely incurable disease that’s eating away at my blood cells as we speak.” Well, of course he didn’t say the latter. It would have been a lie.
I dialed 3 on my keypad and layed back down on the couch.
My father has never been the typical baseball-playing, pun-telling dad. Don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t a child-abuser or a cheater, either. If anything, when I think about my childhood, his name just doesn’t seem relevant. The bar was like his second— or first— home, and most nights he would sooner sleep on the floor of his buddies’ apartment than with his own wife.
Mom was better off when he wasn’t around anyways. The days he spent at home weren’t without their share of swearing, and yelling.
Now that I think about it, that’s probably why my relationship with my girlfriend isn’t the healthiest. I didn’t exactly grow up with a gentlemanly, woman-respecting influence, so how could I be expected to do better? Sure I’m not the most compassionate partner ever, but for having spent the first two decades of my life watching my father behave the way he did, I’d say I’m doing pretty well.
She certainly doesn’t think so, though. A few weeks ago she accidentally pocket-dialed me, and I’ll just say this: it doesn’t get much worse than spending your lunch break listening to your girlfriend of three years make out with someone you don’t even know.
Neither of us mentioned the unintentional phone call, and I don’t think we ever will. I know I can’t really blame her, but if she can’t handle our relationship without a freaking affair, then she can go ahead and leave me for—
* * * * *
“What ended up happening to your mom?”
“Huh?” I was so absorbed in my complaints that I had entirely forgotten Manny was still listening. At the sound of his question, I was snapped out of my own thoughts, and suddenly I was back on the almost-empty transit bus, riding down the streets of Las Vegas.
“Your mom.” He repeated patiently. “Where did she end up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I dunno, man. It seems to me your father never really owned up to his mistakes.” He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the cushioned backs of the next row of seats. “Hard to imagine her getting out of that relationship and moving on if he was always running off to the bar.”
“No, she didn’t,” I confessed. “They’re still together as far as I know.”
“Cool.”
Something about the stillness that followed made it pretty evident that neither of us found their lasting marriage ‘cool,’ and the more I thought about their relationship, the more I clued in to what Manny was trying to say.
“Look, I didn’t come here to be preached at by someone I just met.” I could feel my face going red.
“I know,” he answered coolly. “You came here to get away.”
“I guess so, but it’s not like I’m—” I started, before realizing I had nothing to say. Instead I turned away from my accuser and stared at my feet.
“You can’t just erase your voicemails and hang-up on your debt collectors forever. At some point you’re gonna have to pick up.”
Just then, the bus driver’s weary-sounding voice called out from the front. “Last stop of the night!”
As we were getting up to leave, Manny placed a hand on my shoulder. “I know you don’t want anything to do with your cell phone these days,” he chuckled “But I’m only a call away.” At that he reached into his wallet, pulled out a surprisingly elaborate business card, and handed it to me. “I hope things turn around for you, man.”
I turned the card over in my hands. It was made of stiff cardstock, and everything from the font to the layout seemed unexpectedly professional.
Emmanuel Jacobs
Las Vegas Restoration Services
555.248.9203
ejacobs@gmail.com
I folded my wallet and tucked it into my back pocket. “I don’t know how to thank—” I started, but when I looked up from my wallet to see the recipient of my gratitude, he had already left.
* * * * *
One year later
Somehow each impulsive decision I’ve made over the past year has brought me to where I am now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my now-empty apartment, surrounded by nothing but four alabaster-white walls and the roof over my head.I broke up with my girlfriend last spring. It wasn’t some kind of vindictive punishment; it was actually the opposite. It was pretty clear we weren’t right for each other, and instead of allowing her to spend who-knows-how-many miserable years stuck in a begrudging relationship, I called it off for her sake. I’m only sorry it took so long for me to do so.
Pretty instantaneously after that, I made the trip down to Morgan City where my father’s been doing chemo in the hospital. During the two hour drive, I kept running scenarios through my head. I knew he didn’t want to see me, and who am I kidding, I didn’t really want to see him either. But I also knew if he passed away still holding onto the bitterness between us, I would never forgive myself.
Once my unannounced Chevy was parked in the driveway of my parents’ condo, it didn’t move for almost half a year, and while they certainly weren’t the most pleasant months of my life, I truly believe they were some of the most crucial. Because when my father eventually passed, I think we had unspokenly made amends and were both ready to move on— him with whatever was awaiting him after his time on earth, and me with whatever was left of mine.
I knew it would be difficult to fully move on with the gambling debt constantly hanging over my head, though, so before I could change my mind, I called up an auctioneer and sold all my belongings. Soon enough, everything down to my ratty road-side furniture was gone. All I had left was my wallet, my cell phone, and the shirt on my back.
My apartment was empty, my slate was clean, and I didn’t know how to start the rest of my life.
So there I sat amongst my vacant walls, mindlessly flipping through my wallet and reflecting on my options, when I happened upon an old crumpled business card. I didn’t exactly remember the context of the card, but something deep inside me associated it with a surreal sense of comfort.
I spontaneously picked up my cell phone and dialed the number scrawled across the center of the cardstock.
“Hey, what’s up?” the man on the line answered.
When I finally spoke, my voice seemed to echo across the barren apartment.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
so good!
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