Through the Kaleidoscope

“This is Michael from Travel Wonders, where all your travel dreams come true. You’ve just won a free vacation of your choice from one of our—”

Dial tone.

Next.

“This is Michael from Travel Wonders, where all your travel—”

“Remove me from your calling list.”

Dial tone.

Sip of coffee.

Next.

“This is Michael from Travel Wonders, where all your travel dreams come true. You’ve just won a free—”

“Fuck off.”

Dial tone. 

The walls of his cubicle were a bare sea-foam green. Unlike everyone else, he had not hung any pictures of loved ones, or a cute kitten calendar, as he did not have any loved ones, nor did he find kittens appealing in any way. All that was inside of his cubicle was his cup of coffee from the place downstairs from his apartment, his company mandated computer, a pen but no paper, and a phone. 

From 9am until 5pm, Monday through Friday, Michael called strangers and read a script that was given to him by his overweight red-headed manager, Malinda. She smelled like cigarettes and whiskey at all times of day, which Michael always appreciated; he knew when she was coming. People regularly hung up on him, and he preferred it that way. When someone actually showed interest in a time share swindled by Travel Wonders, he had the unfortunate task of talking to them. 

“This is Michael from Travel Wonders, where all your travel dreams come true. You’ve just won a free vacation of your choice from one of our superb time share packages.”

Muffled rustling. 

“Don! Don! We won one of them vacation deals! Get your ass out here!”

More muffled rustling.

Michael’s eyes drifted to the ceiling. 

“Our packages have beautiful homes in exotic places like Costa Rica, St. Thomas Island, Chile, and southern California.”

Resting the side of his face on the desk, he let his arms dangle between his knees. At this point, anything the woman on the other side of the headset said was white noise. 

[INCOMPLETE]

He sat on the curb of the street, knees up against his chest, staring at the house in front of him. Rubbing his leg nervously with his hand, he knew it would only be a few moments before they realized what he had done. The curtains in the living room whipped around beneath the flames, illuminating the window so he could see in. They were his servants, obediently guiding him through this experience.

No sign of anyone waking up.

The adrenaline sank into his blood stream. He felt light, like he could be picked up by the breeze and taken away to his next destination. There was no better feeling, really. 

The smoke alarm should be going off. 

He was concerned, but not enough to lift his body from the concrete. He thought about Shelly in her room. She was probably half naked, in only a t-shirt and panties. Probably a band t-shirt, one of those pseudo-vintage ones that was actually made a couple months ago, but looked like an old Van Halen tour shirt that someone had spilt beer on. Her panties were probably black. Everything she wore was black. She was a fake. She had no intellectual insight to the world; she merely recited drivel she heard on NPR and passed it off as her own. 

The furniture was falling apart. Pieces of cloth were shooting up into the air, ash falling to the ground beneath them. There was pleasure in the impermanence of it. Everything she had quietly said goodnight to was in ruins, and she had no idea at this point. 

A firetruck siren squealed in the distance. One of the neighbors must have called. He got up from his front row seat on the curb and nodded his head to the house. 

Goodbye, Shelly. 

He could feel the heat on his back when he turned around. 

He licked the salt off his lips with a sense of longing before taking his next sip. It was as if it had been his first drink in years. Holding the glass like it would break at any moment, he spun it around on the Guinness coaster in front of him. His eyes never left the ice cubes twisting around in the tequila. 

“She loves me, you know? Like, really loves me.”

I nodded. A nod was really the only polite way to respond. 

“We have a great marriage. I mean, its been twenty years.”

He took a large gulp after he spoke; one that would have made me cough.

“I’m really lucky.”

Never once looking up from his drink, he somehow managed to have ordered another because the bartender placed one next to him. He immediately squeezed the lime, clenching his hand enough that I could see the veins beneath his skin, and then flicked it across the bar. 

“Where is she now?” I asked with hesitation. 

He took another drink, followed by a sigh. He didn’t answer, but kept on the train of thought he was working on before. 

“My daughter left for college last year. She’s studying art. I asked my wife, ‘what’s she going to do with a degree in art? She’ll be homeless within five years.’”

I saw him look up at me out of the corner of his eye. He was drunk enough that he could barely keep them open. The bags underneath sunk halfway down his face and it was obvious to just about everyone that he hadn’t slept well in a long time. 

“She’s in Spain now. Apparently she’s a prodigy of some sort.”

Another large gulp. 

“I haven’t talked to her since she left, but my wife has. She promises that she’s happy.”

“Are you happy?”

This time he turned his head and looked into my eyes. He was the remnants of a once handsome man. I could see what he looked like when he was younger. I could see what once was a glimmer of hope that had been put out slowly with each fight, and more so with each unloving word. He was calloused, perhaps even broken. 

“Its the American dream, right? I certainly should be happy.”

He put his hand on my thigh, and moved it up the inside of my leg until it was under my skirt. I wondered when the last time his wife let him touch her there. I suppose that’s why men pay women like me. I thrive in the unfortunate circumstance of failing marriages. 

He had stopped talking at this point. There was really nothing left to say. 

Her skin paralleled the appearance of milk powder; it was almost as if it had never been grazed by the sun. In the west coast, this was a rarity. Most women resembled a warn out leather hand bag; but not her. She was about as close to perfect anyone ever got. Running about halfway down her back, her hair was smooth and naturally wavy; it was the color of iced tea, a little red, a little brown. There was something relatively somber about her face; her grey eyes always seemed to look through everyone she spoke to, and her smile, though perfect, seemed slightly tired, as if she’d done it one too many times. 

Nonetheless, there she was, tangled within his bed sheets for probably the fifth time that month. She never really heard from him any other time than when he wanted her to spend the night. Though she recognized his charm was merely theatric, she always came when she was called. She worried about what she looked like compared to the other women who shared that bed. Monday night probably had bigger breasts than her, and she was sure Thursday night had a flatter stomach. She understood that she was good looking, but always assumed she was second or third pick in a lineup of most women. She supposed second or third wasn’t anything to complain about.

The experience wasn’t bad. He played the part of a gentleman well: he made jokes, offered her drinks; he really made an effort to make her feel comfortable. He often revealed subtle nuances of his personality that he swore no one else knew about, only her. They had intimacy.

The morning came and she slid on her jeans and pulled her sweater over her head. She said a sweet goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, walked to her car, and chain smoked the entire drive home. She knew she would not hear from him again for about a week. She felt slightly used, but that was okay, right? That’s how life is in your twenties. Don’t worry, some day it’ll be different. Someday someone will want you. You were promised that.