A Final Evening Out

A Final Evening Out

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

Melody Campbell came home clutching a pink slip.

Her husband, Artie, looked up from his bowl of soup and said, "We'll get by."

Two months passed. The phone didn't stop ringing. The mailbox filled with bills. Artie and Melody Campbell felt like two cats trapped in a cardboard box. A small and dark and cold box. A box without breathing holes punched in the top.

Finally, one evening the Campbells sat down and examined their finances. After jotting numbers down on paper they stared across the table at each other. Big eyed and wide-mouthed. Neither spoke. In the backyard, their two pugs, Bonny and Clyde, began to howl.

Trying to keep anxiety out of his voice, Artie said, "We gotta tighten our belts." He put his elbows onto the table and rubbed his face with the balls of his palms.

"We'll work through this," Melody said. She fanned the bills out on the table and jabbed at a few of them. She suggested to Artie they could live without the country club and gym. Even the cable television and internet services could be temporarily nixed.

But as the weeks went by, the Campbells realize they hadn't sliced aggressively enough.

Artie told Melody they needed to get rid of Bonny and Clyde. The two pugs were a drain on what little money Artie's security guard job brought in. Melody shook her head. She'd had them since they were puppies. Even longer than she and Artie had been married. Artie threw his hands into the air and said, "Guess even though you're the one who lost your job, I'll get rid of the Mustang my father gave me."

Melody began to cry. Artie asked her where the pink slip for the Mustang was.

"Okay," she said. "We'll let Bonny and Clyde go."

Artie got on the phone and called Animal Control. He made arrangements for Bonny and Clyde to be picked up.

Outside, Artie held the clipboard against the side of the big truck and signed the necessary forms. Melody stood off to one side of him, chewing a fingernail. While he waited, the uniformed Animal Control agent played with his keys. He glanced at Melody and said, "Times are tough. Everyone seems to be giving their pets up these days."

Melody said, "What if no one adopts them?"

The agent shrugged. Then he grinned, and slowly dragged a finger across his throat.

Melody burst into tears. She crouched down and hugged her babies, buried her face in their fur. "Can we not do this, Artie?" she begged.

Artie didn't answer. He finished up the forms and handed the clipboard back to the agent. One after another he helped the agent hoist the pugs onto the caged truck. When the dogs were safely behind the bars of the cage, the agent slammed the door shut. Both of the dogs started to whimper and Melody started to cry some more.

Artie stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Honey," he said, trying to comfort her. "We gotta do this."

They stood together on the sidewalk and watched the truck drive off.

During the following weeks Artie began noticing more and more foreclosed signs popping up on the front lawns of homes in the neighborhood. One evening at the dinner table he told Melody, "Sure are a lot of folks losing their homes."

They exchanged worried glances and sat quietly sipping their coffee.

On Friday of that same week, while Artie stood in front of the time clock at the security outfit he worked at, his boss came up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Artie," his boss said. He reached past Artie and snatched his time card off the rack. Then he asked for Artie's badge. "Losing lots of clients right now. Times are tough."

Instead of going straight home, Artie drove his father's Mustang around the neighborhood. He took note of all the boarded up windows, empty homes with lock boxes dangling from doorknobs. He drove through the center of town. Panhandlers hustled at every stop light. Entire families tucked back in the coved entryways of closed shops. Passing the tent city that had popped up at the edge of town, Artie grew frightened. So many people, he thought. He felt sick to his stomach.

Finally, Artie pulled into a lot full of shiny new cars. Four men in ties raced out to greet him.

"I wanna sell the Mustang," he said. All the salesmen rolled their eyes. One of them laughed and said, "Nobody's buying cars, my friend. How about trading it in?"

Artie said, "I don't need a car right now." The man shrugged, made Artie a ridiculous offer. "Take it or leave it," he said.

The offer might get him and Melody through a month, but then what? No. He passed on the offer and the men in ties all shrugged without smiling.

At dinner that night Artie couldn't eat. He pushed his food around his plate. He had to tell Melody about being laid off, but couldn't find the right words.

Melody was saying something. Artie looked up. "What?"

"Aren't you listening, honey? Is something the matter?"

"Yeah," Artie said. Then he raised his voice, "Chicken. Why do we always eat chicken? I'm sick of chicken."

Melody stared at him a moment, then got up from the table and ran into the bedroom. He didn't mean to make her cry.

Without finishing his dinner, Artie went outside and sat on the porch. The neighbors across the street were loading a U-Haul. When he went back inside, Artie found Melody lying face down in the bed. "I didn't mean to jump at you," he said. He ran his fingertips down her arm. He leaned forward and kissed her neck. "I love you," he said.

Melody rolled over and swiped her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong, Artie. What is it?"

He told her.

She closed her eyes and Artie said, "Melody. Let's go out tonight."

"Where?"

Artie answered, "Anywhere. Let's just go out."

***

Artie pulled into the gas station, got out of the Mustang and stared up at the station logo, a fat green hippo. The Hipster Fuel Mart. He shook his head. What a stupid name.

When the numbers on the gas pump window quit spinning, Artie didn't take the nozzle out right away. He kept the trigger depressed, kept jiggling it until he was sure he'd drained every drop from the hose. He tried to remember when he'd first stooped to doing that. It was just after Melody got let go from the factory.

Melody stuck her head out the window. She said, "Something wrong, Artie?"

He shook his head and smiled. How long since they'd got rid of the two pugs? he wondered. It hadn't been that long ago, had it? Maybe he'd try and get them back for Melody. If they hadn't already been put down. Artie removed the nozzle from his car and slammed it in the cradle. He put his fingertips against the cold steel of his father's Mustang.

Everything would soon be gone, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Melody said again, "What's wrong, Artie?"

This time Artie didn't reply.

Melody stuck her head back inside the window. She crossed her arms and planted her feet on the dash. Artie stood next to the Mustang with his hands fisted on his hips. He scouted the station islands. Near the garbage he spotted a bucket of water, a red handle poking out of it. He went over to the bucket and grabbed the squeegee. He came back to the Mustang and began to scrubbing the windows. After he'd scoured the front and back windshields, Artie opened the trunk and tossed the squeegee inside. He yanked some paper towels off the dispenser and dried the windows off. Then he opened the driver's side door and slipped behind the wheel.

"What's got into you, Artie?"

Artie turned and glared at Melody without saying anything.

Melody said, "You're scaring me." Artie turned the key in the ignition and gunned the gas pedal, listening to the Mustang roar.

Melody sighed and closed her eyes. She leaned her head back against the headrest and said, "I'm scared, Artie. Really scared."

A big SUV pulled up behind the Mustang. Artie squinted into the side-view mirror. The driver behind the SUVs wheel leaned on the horn and flashed his brights.

"God Dammit!" Artie said. He opened the door and got out of the car. He walked slowly around it, pretending to examine the tires. The driver of the SUV tapped his horn again, stuck his head out the window and shouted, "Come on, buddy. Move up a little so I can get some gas."

With his fists clenched, Artie started toward the SUV.

The driver backed up in a hurry, shifted gears and shot past Artie so fast and close Artie could feel the heat of the big vehicle's engine. It screeched out of the lot and fled up the street.

Melody got out of the Mustang. She shook her head. "Let's go home, Artie."

Artie's body tingled all over. He moved within a couple inches of Melody's face. "Don't you get it?" he said. "In a few days there won't be any home for us to go to."

"You're scaring me," Melody said, wrinkling up her face.

He didn't answer. He whirled around and strode across the parking lot toward the mini-market.

"Artie, where you going?"

When he didn't answer, Melody hopped back into the car, rolled the windows up and locked the doors.

Inside the mini mart, a grinning kid stood behind the counter. Artie pressed his damp palms against his thighs. "I need to use the bathroom."

The kid smacked his gum without replying. He reached under the counter and came up holding a Pennzoil jug with a key attached. He laid the jug down next to some lighters and said, "Round back, man."

Behind the kid were some Marlboros. On sale. Buy one, get one free. Artie used to smoke Marlboros when he was a kid. "Give me one of those Marlboro specials," Artie said.

The kid snatched up two packs of the cigarettes. He slid them across the counter and punched some keys on the register. "Six bucks."

Artie's face twitched. He shook his head. "Sign says four bucks a pack."

"You're getting a deal, man," the kid said.

"But one's supposed to be free. The sign doesn't say, 'buy one, get one at half price.' It says buy one, get one free."

"Six bucks," the kid said again.

Artie took a deep breath. He tried to calm himself. He took his wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open and peeled six one-dollar bills out. He slapped the money onto the counter, smiled, and said, "Go fuck yourself, punk."

The kid shrugged, crossed his arms. He gestured with his chin to the big cardboard hippo next to the entrance. "Complain to the boss, man. I just work here."

Artie stuffed the smokes into his coat pocket. He grabbed the Pennzoil bottle off the counter. On his way out the door, he raised a fist and smashed it into the cardboard hippo's smiling face. The display toppled onto the floor and Artie stomped and stomped and stomped the stupid, finger-snapping animal's smiling face was separated from its fat green body.

The kid behind the counter picked up a telephone and said, "Oh, man. Oh, man. Now you've done it."

Artie reached into the inside of his coat, pretended to be holding a gun. The kid put the phone down and raised his arms in the air. "I didn't see shit," the kid said. "Not a fucking thing."

Shoulder against the glass, Artie pushed out the front door. He glanced back and pointed his finger at the kid. He then went around the corner of the building and unlocked the bathroom door.

Inside the bathroom he leaned against the wall a moment to try and slow his racing heart. When he'd calmed, he stood at the sink and looked at himself in the cracked mirror. Who was this distorted person staring back at him? He brought a glob of phlegm up from his throat and hawked the chunk at his reflection.

Then he saw the two rolls of toilet paper – still wrapped – on the floor next to the toilet. He smiled, picked them up and stuffed them inside his coat.

As he headed back to the Mustang, Artie tossed the Pennzoil bottle into one of the steel garbage cans next to the pumps. Hearing it thud against the bottom made him smile. When he got to the Mustang and found the driver's side door locked, he tapped the window. Melody studied his face through the glass. She shook her head. Artie slowly turned his back to her. He raised his right arm and in one quick motion, smashed the glass with his elbow. He reached in and raised the knob.

Melody screamed.

"Get out," Artie said.

She backed herself up against the passenger's side door.

In a softer tone, Artie said, "Please, Melody. Get out of the car."

For a long time Melody stared at Artie, her lower lip quivering. Finally, with tears in her eyes, Melody said, "I'm going with you. Wherever you go. Whatever it is you're going to do, I'm going with you."

Artie's eyes were wet. He reached into his coat pocket, took one of the Marlboro packs out and tossed them over the console to Melody.

Melody nodded. Still sniffling, she tore the cellophane off the pack and opened the flip-top box. She opened the glove compartment and dug some out some matches.

Artie noticed Melody's shoe prints on the dashboard. He took a roll of the toilet paper he'd stolen out of his coat and handed it to her. "Free," he said. "Didn't cost nothing."

Melody's voice broke. "What happened to us, Artie?"

"Use that toilet paper to wipe your face," Artie said. He started the Mustang and drove the vehicle out of the lot.

They got onto the highway. Artie rolled his window down, broken glass fell away from the frame. The wind felt good on his face. Without taking his gaze off the road, he said to Melody, "Fire up one of those smokes."

Melody took a Marlboro out of the pack. She bent low to screen the wind that was blowing through the Mustang. When she came back up, a puff of smoke streamed from her lips. She handed the cigarette to Artie.

He took a long drag and stared out the windshield. Then Artie laughed and some tears came to his eyes.

"Oh, Artie," Melody said. She reached over and cupped his trembling knee with her hand.

Artie jammed the gas pedal and watched the needle on the speedometer swing: Fifty - sixty -seventy -eighty. The Mustang shook. Everything under the hood rattled. Beneath the pedal, Artie could feel the hard floor.

They heard in the distance the wail of sirens.

Melody squeezed Artie's knee. She brought her hand up and plucked the cigarette from his lips. She sucked in deeply and blew the smoke out. She straightened in her seat and said,

"We ain't gonna let 'em get us, are we Artie?"

Artie leaned back and shook his head.

The Mustang was moving at just under a hundred. The crosswinds whipping in through the open windows thrashed both Artie's and Melody's hair. Paper snapped and whisked inside the Mustang.

Artie looked over at his wife. Melody was smiling, staring straight ahead out the windshield, the cigarette burning red between her tightly pressed lips.

A pebble shot up off the road, pinged against the windshield and webbed the glass.

Melody glanced over her shoulder and saw the two sedans, their lights flashing, their sirens shrieking. The police vehicles came up behind the Mustang. Melody reached across the console and dug her fingernails into Artie's arm, just above the wrist.

He grinned broadly, twisted the radio to full volume, then stomped the accelerator as far as it would go.