Not Here (Short Story)

On the eve of his departure, Michael sat across from his Mother on the kitchen counter. 

“I’m not kicking you out,” she said. 

“Yes you are, “he said, “but I don’t want to have that discussion again.”

She slid a check for 190 dollars across the spotted marble. 

“I need you to close that account before you leave,” she said. 

Michael sighed and patted his breast-pocket. He revealed an empty pack of cigarettes.

“And here’ something extra. Buy yourself two packs this time.”

*

Michael stood on the porch: Doesn’t this suck ass? He walked around the façade, passing the water fountain his mother decided to install at the end of driveway (ridiculous, he judged) and knocked on the small studio door. Inside, he heard Brian, the tenant, scrambling to put his pants on. Coins rained from the pockets of a frayed pair of Jeans. The door opened. Brian flashed a tobacco-stained grin. 

“Going to get cigs. And close this account,” he said, waving the check. “You want to come for the ride?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brian said, “Let me get some money. You mind stopping at the 7/11? I’ll get you something.”

The two men boarded the aging Dodge Neon. It couldn’t be described as red anymore, the paint had by degrees faded and chipped. 

The car drove three blocks and stopped in a lot facing a convenience store. Brian offered Michael a cigarette and they smoked one each before Michael bought more cigarettes.

“So when you leaving?” Brian said. 

“Soon,” Michael said.

“Yeah, this city sucks—although I’m sure they’re all the same right now. Except Malibu, maybe. The Real Estate never goes down over there.”

Conversation as such was an unusual concept for Brian. He merely said the first idea that came to mind, tangential or not. 

“But you got a few gigs,” he said, something relevant.

“That’s the silver-lining, but I sure as fuck didn’t think I needed to study French to make a living as a musician. I could have done that and not steeped myself in student loans.”

“You got farther than I did,” Brian said. “That’s for sure.”

The two men crushed the butts beneath their heels on the asphalt and walked inside the store. 

Michael bought two packs of cigarettes. 

*

The car stopped in the busy shopping center. Michael and Brian walked across the lot and veered in disparate directions. The former needed to close the account at the bank; the latter wanted to check out the new stuff at the smoke shop. They disbanded. 

For once the bank was empty. Two tellers stood behind the plexiglass partition like wax mannequins. Michael was the first, and only, person in line. (Jesus, is the economy this bad? he thought.) 

“Next,” one the mannequins, a woman, called out. 

He advanced and presented the smiling woman with the check and bank statement. 

“One moment, please,” she said.

The teller typed on her computer, picked up the phone and dialed a local extension. She listened to the voice on the line for some moments, screwing her lips this way and that, never meeting Michael’s eyes. At last she put the phone down. 

“Our manager would like to speak with you,” she said. 

“Why?” he said. 

The question, simple as it was, gave the teller pause for thought. 

“Um, I don’t know,” she said.

“Because this was all arranged beforehand. I only needed to hand in this check and my bank card…” 

“Well…”

“Why does this asshole want to see me? I’m not a captain of industry or anything. I’m sorry, lady, but I have shit to do. Have the Corporate Manager call me if he wants this check.”

Michael walked out the bank. Brian waited for him by the car. 

“What happened?” Brian said. 

“I got a little upset,” Michael said. “I have a lot on my mind.”

*

“Oh, thank Heaven,” Brian said, sitting on the curb in front of 7/11. 

Michael walked in circles, sipping on a slushy, and puffed on a cigarette. 

“That’s the thing,” Brian said. “It’s alright to live in this town, but it ain’t no place to die.” He laughed. 

“I’ve always said that,” Michael said. 

“What?”

“I’m not dying in this town.”

*

Michael pulled into the driveway. Brian disembarked and walked back to his rented room. Michael waited a little before pulling the key from the ignition switch. He concentrated on the rumbling of the car and a surge of anger tainted his awareness and he punched the steering wheel. He didn’t know what to think of his life anymore. Suicide was an option but it just didn’t feel right…

“Did you leave the check at the bank,” his mother said, as soon he appeared in the kitchen.

“No,” he said, coldly. 

“Why not?”

“I’m not going back there. And I’m not coming back here.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

But the son disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Renewed with an unknown rigor, Michael checked the belongings he had packed and the instrument cases. 

“I’m not going to die here,” he said. 

(c) 2013