One of the Guys

by Renee S. Jolivette

Red taillights glowed through the windshield, guiding my path. They turned right towards Chico State. I continued straight, forced now to stretch my head and shoulders out the driver’s side window. Icy rain pelted my face. It vanquished my hangover but drenched my wool suit, making me smell like a wet dog.

I cursed the jackwad who stole my wiper arm.

The west side of our grey cinderblock office was saturated. The storm was tapering off. Another would follow in the coming days. Typical weather pattern for the northern Sacramento Valley. Once the rainy season started a person could mold while waiting for spring. I hated the rain just like I hated this town.

I got my engineering degree from the University of Arizona in 1979. A recession was creeping across the country back then. It hadn’t reached California yet and I’d been lucky to find an entry-level position here. The companies who were still hiring were anxious to add women to their professional rank and file. My employer’s recruiter said there would be plenty of opportunities for advancement and relocation. Hoping for an upgrade to their San Francisco office, I moved from Tucson to Chico sight unseen. That was five years ago. Five years of working my butt off in the same construction management job, no promotion in the offing.

The recruiter said Chico was God’s country. Also a lie. God’s country would have a better shopping mall.

I tucked my purse into my gender-neutral briefcase and hurried inside.

#

“Got time for a cup?” Mickey stood at my desk in his dress shirt and jeans. It was ten a.m.

“No,” I said. “But I could use one after last night.”

He flashed that grin of his. I checked my conscience. I was fine. I pushed a stack of paperwork aside and followed him out the back door.

 “Let’s take your truck,” I said. “My wipers are out of commission.”

Mickey winced when he saw the Mustang. The jagged aluminum remnants of the driver’s side wiper arm pointed skyward.

“I couldn’t see shit comin’ in this morning,” I said. “I swear the guy who broke it was trying to kill me.”

Mickey placed his palm on the small of my back, steered me towards his orange F-150 and pulled a mangled windshield wiper from the bed.

“What the…?” I backed away.

“I didn’t do it, darlin’.” He unlocked the passenger side door. Knew better than to open it for me.

Inside the cab, he handed me the broken wiper arm. “Stacey tried to beat the crap out of me with that last night. I was wondering where it came from.”

 “Oh my god. What did she say?”

“She wasn’t in the mood to talk.”

“I’m sorry.” My skin prickled, my neck burned. My conscience not so fine now.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

“I thought she and her friends were going dancing.”

 “They decided not to drive in the storm.”

“Probably a good call.”

“They got into our stash of coke instead. That stuff always makes Stace’ a little crazy.” His upper lip twitched as he talked. Like he couldn’t decide whether or not to smile. It was one of my favorite things about him. When the grin finally bloomed, it lit up his round face and formed small lines at the corners of his denim-blue eyes.

#

I slipped into my side of our usual booth at Perko’s, tugging at my skirt to protect my nylons from the cracked vinyl seat. “You don’t think Stacey saw us?” My hands shook as I reached for my mug.

“She saw my truck at your place.”

“She knows we go drinking together.”

“Doesn’t mean she likes it.” He poured cream and way too much sugar into his coffee. “You heard from Dale?”

“No.” I crossed my arms to stave off an internal chill. “I’m a little worried. The storm hit the Delta pretty hard. I called the paper and left a message. The receptionist said he wasn’t available. Guess he’s on deadline.”

“He still living on your boat?” Mickey asked.

I nodded. “Must’ve been a wild ride last night.”

Dale ran the Isleton Gazette—a weekly newspaper—for an absentee publisher. The job didn’t pay much. He was living out of his truck when I met him. I let him stay on my 26-foot cuddy—an older Sea Ray that I’d bought on the cheap at a government auction. It was docked at a marina on the Mokelumne River, two hours south of Chico. The arrangement worked out well. I got down there about once a month to go fishing.

“Poor guy,” Mickey said. “When are you going to make an honest man out of him?”

“We like things the way they are. We have fun when we see each other but we can still live our own lives.”

“Those long-distance deals never seem to work out.”

 “Like I’m going to take relationship advice from you.” I flicked a wadded napkin at him. He chuckled and batted it away.

 Back in his truck, I plucked a cassette from the dash. Pancho and Lefty. The album had come out the previous year.

“You remember singing along with that last night?” Mickey said.

“Vaguely. I believe you were doing most of the singing.”

“It’s a talent.” A smile lurked beneath his deadpan expression. “But you insisted on listening to the radio. Don’t ya like Willie and Merle?”

“You kept playing the same two songs.”

 “You tried to throw the tape out the window.”

I didn’t remember that. I did recall hitting the preset button for Chico’s country and western station.

 “So I had an early meeting this morning,” he said. “When I start up the truck, the Farm and Ranch Report almost blasts me out of the cab. Some guy shouting about rice futures.”

“Drunk volume.” I had to laugh.

Mickey’s life was an anthology of barroom tales, most based on his own foibles. I achieved a degree of immortality each time I featured in one of his stories. And his joking always dispelled the stale-whiskey fog of self-loathing that would envelope me the morning after a bender.

Back in the office parking lot, he pointed to my car. “I can help you fix that. Maybe Sunday?”

“I’ll be in Isleton this weekend. But thanks. Anyway, you should probably stay close to home for a while.”

“Stacey went to the City to visit her sister.”

 I bit my lower lip and studied Mickey’s face. The impish grin was gone but his gaze was level, his brow smooth. I couldn’t tell if he was serene or resigned.

“We’re okay,” he said. “She’s pissed right now and needs a break from my sorry ass. She’ll take it out on our charge cards and everything will be back to normal when she gets home.”

I phoned Dale again that afternoon. The receptionist said he was busy.

“Could you tell him that Reggie Andersen called?”

“He has your message from this morning. I’m sure he’ll get back to you when he can.”

“Okay, thank—” I heard the dial tone— “you.”

Bitch.

There were no other gals in my office, save for the boss’s secretary. I liked it that way. Women scared me. Having a conversation with one was like playing three-dimensional chess—things happening on several levels. Guys were more straightforward. They said what they meant. And I could usually tell what they were thinking. I preferred to be one of the guys.

#

Friday. Quitting time. A pack of us walked down the hall to the back door. Half of the people I worked with were engineers. The rest were in the trades. Most were at least eight years older than me.

Mickey was talking about the 49ers’ performance in the playoffs and their prospects for the 1984 season. The guys crowded around him. Everyone wanted to be his friend. His confidant. It felt good to be part of his inner circle.

“You headed to the Delta tonight?” Mickey asked me. A couple of the men moved closer to hear my answer.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “It’s supposed to rain tonight and the wiper arm is back-ordered at the dealership.”

“You want to go to the Towne Lounge with us?” Arnie was a right-of-way acquisition agent. Slim, soft-spoken, thirtyish. Divorced, with male pattern baldness. “You can ride with me.” He looked at Mickey as if for permission.

“I’m going to sit this one out, fellas.” I’d had enough excitement for one week.

#

The Isleton paper was in my mailbox that night. Articles and photos by Dale Bixby. The pictures were startling. Untethered boats drifting in the current. A broken dock lodged against a bridge abutment. Three RV parks were flooded, their full-time residents displaced. One photo showed people packed inside the western-themed dining room of the Rio Bar and Grill—an impromptu shelter. The cover story asked readers to bring donations of food and clothing. I always stopped at the grocery store on my way to the boat to keep the cuddy’s fridge stocked with food and Dale’s favorite beer. I could pick up some additional canned items before I went to the marina.

The marina.

I called the harbormaster’s after-hours number. No answer. Nothing I could do until morning. I burrowed under the covers, hugging my pillow while sheets of rain slapped at the windows.

#

Early the next day, I threw my duffle and fishing gear into the car and headed south on State Route 99. The sun broke through a low layer of clouds, forming tule fog in the pastures. A red-tailed hawk surveyed the dormant surroundings from its perch on a split rail fence post. A winter groundskeeper ready to remove any bit of life that dared disturb the season’s desolate landscape. I missed Arizona. Wished, not for the first time, that I’d gotten a job there.

I turned onto Highway 160 and followed the Sacramento River downstream. The shot rock lining the channel was barely visible above the water line. Huge snags floated in the mud-brown torrent. An orphaned red and white ice chest bobbed in the mix.

The counterweights were down on the Isleton drawbridge, allowing a sheriff’s vessel to pass. Usually a boat that size could clear the underside of the bridge. Today the water was too high.

 I drove down off the levee road and onto Main Street, past the Tong building. Built in the 1920’s, the abandoned, corrugated metal structure was once a meeting place for the area’s Chinese immigrants. A green sign marked Isleton’s city limits: Pop. 900. Elev. 10.

#

Jack’s Country Market in Isleton was smaller than the IGA store in nearby Rio Vista but more convenient. Its warm air carried the aromas of freshly ground beef and Pine Sol. I strolled the narrow aisles amidst the humming of refrigerated cases and fluorescent light fixtures.

There was one checkstand open. The cashier was a plump girl, maybe twenty-three years old. A few years younger than me. She was helping the only other customer.

“Can you believe all the damage?” The customer spoke with a slight drawl. She wore a hot pink warm-up suit, the jacket unzipped to reveal a tight white tank top and a gold filigree necklace. Her porcelain hands sported manicured nails, polished to match her outfit. Her big hair was meticulously feathered, curled and highlighted.

She glanced at me as if trying to discern whether I was impatient. Either I didn’t look it or she didn’t care. The cashier smiled at me. She and her friend continued their conversation.

“I’ve been helping out at the shelter,” the pink gal said. “Doing some of the ladies’ hair. That kind of thing can be so important at a time like this.” She looked at me for affirmation. Her eyes turned to my wispy blond coif which was stringy from the damp air.

She pouted.

“Is you-know-who working there too?” the cashier asked.

“He is. He’s been making meals for the evacuees. He’s such a good cook.”

“Dipsy, you are one lucky girl.”

“Don’t I know it. Of course, there are certain formalities.”

“He’s still with that other woman?” the cashier said.

“He’s too nice to break up with her on the phone. Not that she doesn’t deserve it.” Dipsy began bagging her own groceries.

 “You gotta tell me when you two go public.”

“Gonna be soon, I hope. I think he sees her this weekend.”

“Her loss.”

“It is. But you know, I wonder if she’ll even care. He says ‘she has scar tissue instead of a heart.’ He’s just so poetic.” Dipsy’s voice rose to a squeal. She scrunched her shoulders and gave me a winsome smile—an apparent apology for her exuberance. She hugged the cashier. “Bye, y’all,” she said to me, waggling her pink fingernails.

“Where’s she from?” I asked the cashier.

“From around here. Same as me.”

“But that accent…”

“She got it from watching Mama’s Family.”

“On purpose?”

The cashier laughed. “Daisy’s a self-made woman. She’s smart. And determined. She decided in high school that guys don’t like brainy girls so she dumbed it down. All us gals teased her. I even gave her that nickname.”

“Dipsy.”

“She loved it. It fit her… persona? Is that the right word? All I know is that she had a date every Friday night. I was so jealous. But you can’t hate her. She’s a just such a sweetheart.”

The cashier rang up my last item, a cold twelve-pack of Coors. “Looks like you’ve got plans for the weekend,” she said, hoisting the beer into my shopping cart.

“I need to check on my boat. And my boyfriend.”

“In that order,” the cashier said with a laugh.

I laughed also, trying to be polite. “But first I’ve got to take some of this food to the Rio.”

“Bless your heart. I know they’ll appreciate that.”

I’d bought steaks for Dale and me. For dinner. I put them in my ice chest along with the beer and parked my car in front of the restaurant-turned-shelter.

The Rio’s wagon wheel chandeliers provided only the dimmest of lighting. Nice ambiance for dining. Depressing if you’re forced to spend your days here waiting for the flood waters to recede. All the tables were occupied. People played cards, or cribbage. Some tried to read. Volunteers in matching blue sweatshirts buzzed around the perimeter.

A grey-haired woman intercepted me. “You can put those here.” She pointed to a six-foot long folding table with ISLETON ELEMENTARY stenciled on it. I added two cases of beans and franks to the haphazard stack of donated items.

The room smelled of body odor. I was anxious to leave when I heard Dale’s voice. “Reggie, over here.” I turned. And stared.

“What’d you do to your hair?” I said.

Dale had an enviable, thick brown mane. It used to fall loosely around his shoulders, framing his square jaw.

“You like it?”

 “You got a perm.” I’d never had a perm. I hugged him and sneaked a hand through the artificial curls. It was possible to hate Dipsy.

 “I’m starved,” I said. “Let’s get some lunch.”

“It’ll have to be Chinese. No one else is open.”

I looped my arm through his and we walked out into the chilly morning.

“What happened to your car?” he asked.

“It was vandalized. Tuesday night.”

“Jeezus. Who would do something like that?”

“I have some ideas. Mickey offered to fix it but I’m going to take it to the dealer.”

Dale unhooked his arm from mine and took a few quick steps towards the restaurant. He walked inside. I caught the door before it swung closed behind him.

 “Sit here, okay?” The host pointed to a table overlooking the street.

“How about back there?” Dale motioned towards a horseshoe-shaped booth.

 “Romantic.” I smiled at Dale.

He took a seat on the left side of the table. I scooched around the center of the booth and leaned into him. “I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried when you didn’t return my calls.”

 “I didn’t know you called.”

“I swear that woman hates me.”

“Who?”

“Your receptionist? The one who didn’t give you my messages?”

“I’m sure she just forgot. Work’s been crazy. We actually got some real news in this town.” He patted my shoulder, nudging me upright. “I could use some elbow room,” he said.

I slid back over the red Naugahyde until I was facing him. My stomach growled at the smell of stir-fried garlic. We placed our order and sipped weak tea from small, handle-less cups.

“Have you been to the marina?” he asked.

“Not yet. Is it bad?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone? What about the boat?”

“I was able to get it out. It’s on a trailer, behind the newspaper building.”

 “Thank you.” I reached across the table and squeezed his hands. “So where are you staying?”

 “At the shelter. With half the people in town.”

Our food arrived. I took the rough wooden chopsticks from their paper pouch. Broke them apart and picked up a steaming morsel of chicken drenched in garlicky oyster sauce.

“Why don’t you stay with me? At least until I can find another slip.”

“I thought of that.” Dale chased a slice of black pepper beef around his plate. His uncalloused hands were large and uncoordinated. He abandoned the chopsticks for a fork. “I called you Tuesday night. I guess you weren’t home.”

“I was in Redding for a workshop. Got in kinda late.”

“Bixby! What the hell is this?” Vernon Banks sauntered up to our table and cuffed Dale lightly on the head. The resilient curls sprang back into place.

Most people wouldn’t have spotted Dale and me in that booth. But Vern had cop eyes. “Looks like a big brown sheep crawled on your head and died,” he said. He turned to me. “You like this look?”

 “Of course. It’s au currant.”

“Maybe I should get mine done like that.” Vern took off his police cap and rubbed his thin grey crew cut. “S’pose they’d give me a discount?”

A little bit of Vern went a long way, but I liked that he was almost always laughing. Dale wouldn’t make eye contact with him. I beamed at the genial officer, trying to compensate.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, missy,” Vern said.

“I’ve been really busy.”

“Your boy here’s been busy too.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Aw, let’s see that pretty smile again… There ya go.” He rapped his knuckles on the table under Dale’s nose. “This one’s a keeper, son.”

“Your order’s ready, Chief,” the host said.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“He’s funny,” I said after Vern ambled away.

“Most clowns are.” Dale sneered. “Just look at him.”

Vern shadowboxed with a paper lantern that hung above the cash register. The host handed him a white plastic bag with red Chinese characters that I assumed said “Thank you for your business.” But it could have said anything. None of the restaurant’s patrons would know the difference.

#

The waiter brought our check on a small black tray. “You coming to the parade next weekend?” he asked.

“Lunar New Year,” I said. “I almost forgot.”

“I have to cover it for the paper, but I wasn’t planning to stay long,” Dale said.

“I’d like to go.”

“It’s supposed to rain.”

“We can sit in Sullivan’s and watch it from the bar.” The Irish pub was one of our favorite haunts—the place where we first met.

“The parade only has five entries. They’ll just march up and down Main Street a half dozen times to make it seem like a bigger deal.”

“So it’s provincial. C’mon. You have to make your own fun in a small town.”

“I guess you’d know all about that.”

I squinted at him. “After living in Chico, yeah.”

He exhaled heavily through pursed lips. His gaze, at first plaintive, turned fierce. “I drove up there Tuesday night. I was wet and cold and tired and I needed a place to stay. I went to your apartment but you had company.”

 “Just Mickey.”

“I thought you were done with him.”

“I was. I am. What happened last fall was a mistake. I told you that.”

“But you’re still seeing him.”

“I’m not seeing him,” I said. “He’s my best friend—”

Dale placed his forefinger on the center of his chest, his mouth agape.

“At work,” I said. “We hit the bars on our way home from Redding. I invited him for dinner because we needed to eat.”

 “I saw you with him. On your balcony.”

“Grilling burgers.”

 “Don’t bullshit me. I thought I’d need a garden hose to separate you.”

I laughed. Dale didn’t.

“It was harmless,” I said.

“I don’t believe you. Not about Mickey. Not about anything. Hell, for all I know, you’re still screwing half the guys in your office.”

I shrugged. “We never said we’d be exclusive.” My voice seemed small.

He slumped back, arms crossed. Silent. The sound of someone trying to control his temper. I missed the Seventies, when no one expected monogamy.

“It hurt to see you with him,” he finally said.

“Guys don’t hurt.”

“The world according to Reggie.”

 “It’s true. And besides, feeling hurt is a choice. People only hurt you if you let them. I figured that out in the tenth grade.”

“When your boyfriend raped you.”

“You’re over-simplifying. We were just fooling around and things went too—”

“You told me he forced himself on you.”

“Only that first time.”

Dale ground the heel of his palm into his forehead. “And that guy in college? Idiot?”

“Eliot.”

“Whatever. He just kept you around to impress his fraternity buddies. Until he could finish med school and marry a nice Jewish girl.”

 “She is nice.” I poured some tea and gathered my thoughts. “All I’m saying is once I learned men only want one thing I never had to feel hurt about it again.”

“Do you know how insulting that is?”

“Not you. You’re different. You’re more in touch with your feminine side.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You used to think it was.” I tinkered with my chopsticks, trying to balance them on the edge of my plate. “Most men only want sex,” I said. “I have strong empirical evidence.”

Dale smiled and shook his head. “When we got together I thought, what’s this beautiful woman doing with me? You fed me, gave me a place to stay, put gas in my truck.” His voice cracked. “You took care of me like no one ever had.”

“Because I love you.”

“I don’t think so, Reggie. And that’s the one thing I really needed from you. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re capable of love.”

A lump formed in the back of my throat. I extinguished it with tepid tea and contemplated the dragon painting on the wall—its red and yellow body coiled and contorted. Its fiery tongue aimed at Dale’s head.

“Guess I’ve got scar tissue instead of a heart.”

He shifted in his seat. It was satisfying to watch.

I reached for the check but he slapped his hand on it. The black plastic tray rattled and flipped upward, sending the fortune cookies to the floor.

“I got this,” he said.

#

I challenged the 55-mph speed limit on the way home. Dark clouds rolled in from the west, like the inverted surface of a roiling ocean. I felt a combination of relief and sadness.

The office Christmas party was coming up. The organizers, tired of trying to get everyone together during the holidays, had moved the event to late February. They’d decorate a tinder-dry tree. My boss would dress as Santa. We’d exchange gag gifts. After dinner, there’d be a DJ and dancing. I’d been looking forward to having a date this year. Without Dale, I’d have to find some guy on the fringes of the gathering. Chat him up, take him home. The only way to keep from feeling alone in a crowd.

My face felt heavy. Inside my hollow chest a teenaged girl sobbed, her tiny shoulders convulsing. I gripped the wheel, taking deep measured breaths. Trying to replace the air that she was sucking out of my lungs.

BIO

Renee S. Jolivette is a retired engineer with a fiction writing certificate from the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. Her work has appeared in The Union, Current, Cruisin’ News, Microfiction Monday, Bronco Driver and Portage Magazine. She lives in Northern California’s Sierra Nevada foothills with her husband and their small but authoritative dog, Rascal.