Crabspirits Returns: "Well Done"

All readers welcome

The man wore a tattered rag that had started life bright and Smurfy. The way the shirt had fitted itself taut over his pronounced paunch suggested a place of permanence. The blue creatures in white attire emblazoned upon the fabric danced in a lark while vanishing into ghosts under the passage of time. He was pitted out from the heat, with oblong streaks that saturated the cloth’s hue. It carried the accompanying stinging reek of onion, sautéed in hot dumpster swill, a stark contrast to the creatures’ glee. Rob sat across the counter. He pushed his glasses up and crinkled his nose, picking up the signature aroma of a man with no shame and some disposable income. Rob knew his clientele, and while he could embrace this stinky man for his faults, he couldn’t extend the same courtesy to his wife for her own flaws.

The customer crouched, exposing 20mm of dilated ass crack. Rob was quite near at this point, doing the sort of half-breath reversal at the sight that one does when they better not. The customer was now practically slapping the Rose Tico action figures aside irritably as he dug for gold.

“We have the Gen1 figures over here if that’s what you’re looking for.”, said Rob, gesturing to the jewel case. The customer moved like a vapor apparition towards vintage Kenner plastic. Rob’s phone buzzed on the counter. He flipped the device over, displaying a smiling Valerie, dressed to the nines during a healthier time. Rob silenced it. She would understand. On the other end of a cellular thread, the lack of receipt told his wife everything she needed to know of deceit and marital neglect.

The condition of the R2D2 did not please the client. Before Rob could get another word out, he was left alone in his store with just a lingering whiff of disappointment. He reached for the cell, then dropped it back to the counter, diverting instead to one of the many fidget spinners from his crushingly overweight inventory. The books needed to be looked at again. Rob actually had a lot to say to Val, but he was very uncomfortable with being heard.

She probably wants to know how it’s goin’.

Rob gazed through the peephole for possible threats and then exited the rear door of the coin and collectibles shop, arming the alarm. It was now 90 minutes post-close, and he struggled to comprehend where the time went from doing absolutely nothing. No matter. Behind the wheel of the Jetta, he was traveling from one point of adversity to another. What was the point of being timely? Rob sniffed, an olfactory query.

Fuel? Gasoline?

Must be from the gas station.

Rob turned down Strawberry Fields to see if he could smell it better, so fried was his mind.

Fumes abated briefly while the Jetta queued for the intersection. Other motorists were puzzled about the extremely large gap left between the VW and the car in front of it. Five cars back, a BMW wagon was unnecessarily prevented from entering the turn lane, infuriating it’s operator. Rob pulled a swig of cola through closed teeth that filled his mouth with a bitter foam. He stared, glazed and wide-eyed.

Rob took this moment to listen to Val’s voicemail. Her detached presence inspired apathetic treason in his full being. She sounded deflated, irritated, whelmed. Some choice items from Costco were requested. When the light changed and he didn’t notice, a polite beep was all it took to throttle his stress level. The standard single digit salute was offered in return. The Jetta then resumed course towards Aldi, because fuck Costco.

Fuck Costco. She sends me to Costco because she also hates going there.

Always in some sort of mood.

His footwork was attuned to his resentment and the VW’s gas pedal was prodded between OFF and ON without compromise or consideration. The torque converter bolts wanted a word about this. Rob looked to the passenger floorboard, concerned. He remembered that letter Val had thrown in his lap, after the argument about the considerable Lego investment.

I know she knows about the recall, but if I can just keep it going a little bit more, everything will be fine. I just can’t find the right time.

Rob parked the Jetta and relaxed in the relative peace after giving the loose transmission hardware due respite. He sat there, letting the overthink take hold. Erson Coin and Collectable’s bottom line had reached a -32.33, repeating of course, figure of severely fucked.

I need to tell her.

It didn’t work and she told me so.

She will think I’m a failure.

Because I am.

I fail at everything.

I am a burden.

Everything is bad.

I only make her sad.

She already hates me.

I can’t do it.

No need to upset the apple cart tonight.

He hit the door opener and dragged 40lbs of groceries immediately up steep stairs into the multi-level urban condominium, wondering why he lived here. The boxes of groceries were dumped on the counter. Valerie was in her usual spot on the sofa, mirroring her disjointed dysfunctional reality of some skinwalker duality with both a handheld device and Netflix programming. Rob craned behind her for a kiss. You can tell everything from a kiss.

“Is that a new scent?”

“Yes”, said Val, “I just got it.”

“It smells pretty.”

Rob sat down next to his wife.

Perhaps this is the time?

The guilt and shame were so overpowering, he felt his scrotum retract. Valerie then noticed the reused cardboard cartons full of goods on the counter.

“Ohhh, you went to Aldi? But their bread isn’t that good. You know I hate it.”

He knows I hate it. And he hates me.

Maybe it’s worse? I’m not even appreciated enough to hate.

A ghost.

“Oh,” she continued, “did you remember the paper towels?”

Rob rose from the sofa like a Terminator about to spend the next 105 running minutes murdering anyone in his way. He was soon outside, flooring his Jetta down the street. Val wept briefly, then posted a glowing review for the pheromone perfume on Amazon about how it made her husband want to sit next to her.

Robert finally pulled back into the garage, parking next to the Taos, at 10:06PM.

There’s that fuckin smell again. The whole garage reeks.

He ensured the gas cap was tight.

He found Valerie inside doing the dishes.

“I’m sorry, Val. I love you.”, he said, stowing the paper products.

The words floated as well as the defective cork in Titanic’s life preservers. Val was somewhat startled by this weakly expressed affection. She pulled a hand from the sink, then gestured to the backsplash as if slowly waving away the stench of it.

I’m just going to bed. We’ll start over tomorrow.

I’m afraid that if I pull the trigger, the guilt will never end.

I miss the days when he would ask how my day was.

The kids don’t even want to go to the store anymore.

His dream is very heavy.

All that money Dad left me…turned into buffalo nickels and a case full of He-man. Maybe I should have gone with him to that stupid show. Then I would feel better, seeing if people who like this crap actually exist.

Valerie eyed the pile of buffalo nickels intruding onto the counterspace, tarnished relics valuable to somebody somewhere. They were laid out like prayer offerings to buttcrack-wielding gods. Gods that never answered. Val scooped them back in the box and cleaned them away to a place she would assuredly be asked about later.

The next morning Rob treated his children to the traditional American breakfast. It came clad in the familiar yellow and brown paper designed for protection, but also for ruin. In less than a minute, these sheaths had completed their initial duties then found their forever home on the Jetta’s floors. Rob rained crumbs, and added his own wrapper. The seemingly weightless paper had formed layers until the bottom was crushed under the pressure of habitual carelessness.

“Look. I’m cooking it.”, said his daughter, holding McFood to Lego flame.

Rob absorbed the moment, knowing the brevity of such things. The Volkswagen jounced, causing the translucent piece of plastic to snap off on the sandwich and ricochet off the windscreen. It disappeared into the void of all things cast off willingly or unwillingly. The three of them continued to consume, filling the VW with an air of buttered specificity.

“Daddy. I smell that gas again.”

Later, in the store, foot traffic was non-existent. Each person walking past outside without so much as a curious glance ratcheted up the pawl, and Robert began taking it personally. Some would cross the street in front of the store with assumed shifty avoidance. Although, a bright, sunny afternoon, the shop had a melancholy malaise. Much of the natural light was blotted out by the desperate attempts at attention Rob had arranged in front of the glass.

He eyed his phone, anticipating some sort of check-in. He might have even answered. Every hour that it did not happen broke him more inside from the waiting and the worry. He wondered when the waiting would stop, when he would reach the bottom of this hole he had dug.

Punji sticks awaited. Tomorrow was their anniversary. Yet another day he would have to postpone his confession. Robert thought about that night when he first met Val in grad school. When he’d asked her for clarity on what that poet said, she’d laughed so hard that they were shushed out of the venue. The memory of that laugh still made him skip a beat, but it was just a memory now. Everything once wholehearted and free-flowing, had been ruined by the quiet-working notion of obligation.

Rob kept the kids busy on the way home by having them assemble Lego set #10328, shockingly unenthused. It was a token of honest appreciation, formed from a tone-deaf heart.

“Come on guys. Put it together right. We’re making this for Mommy.”

“Daddy...um. When you pick a flower, does it die?”

That night, Valerie shuffled her feet until she felt what could possibly be the carpet. The VW dodged a panhandler and took the onramp leading to I-94. Neither said a remark about nearly killing the man.

In a daydream state, Valerie’s thoughts shifted to her co-worker’s husband, Nathan. A man born with a soul who probably actually ended lives in Iraq, yet was soft enough to bring Claire soup that special day in February. That container was so sweaty, holding love still fresh and piping hot. Every woman in the building still talked about it like the second coming of Christ. Claire had shared the soup, and they all took it as if it was the Eucharist.

Val looked at Rob, a man that could barely sit next to his woman, much less talk to her. Compare that to someone who sat for two hours in traffic to deliver soup to his. Plus, Nathan was ripped as shit.

This Jetta is not as good as the old one.

Beatles suck, and I can’t stand it anymore. It doesn’t have to play every time you drive a Volkswagen.

He couldn’t even be bothered to clean his car. Why are we taking it anyway?

I know we’ve romanticized that Chili’s where we had our first date, but I’m tapped out on the icky-sweet margaritas and all the cheese.

He never asks where I want to go.

Val turned down the stereo and offered some idle conversation. “So remember how I told Scott about how we should change our furniture supplier from Russia two years ago? Well, we did. I thought everyone just realized that on their own. I mean it was obvious what was going to happen. But then Michael O. comes down today, sticks his head in, and says “Thanks Scott for voicing your concerns, you know, re-aligning our vendor framework in Russia, and future-proofing us.” Then Scott wouldn’t even look at me. He wouldn’t dare.”

“Well. You should start telling more people when you have important things to propose like that.”, replied Rob,

Ah yes, here comes Mr. Fixit.

“I feel invisible.”

“Well, maybe you should send Michael O. an email.”

“I wasn’t talking about work.”

Robert’s senses suddenly heightened the way it does when a razor slices skin, the body delaying the sensation far too long before the eyes see the wound. The guilt came heavy and hard. It rendered him into a trapped animal, caged behind the wheel of a Jetta. His mouth struggled to form anything of logic. It was about to make a declaration of “bruh!” or “huh.” to release the pressure, but then Valerie stopped staring and the moment was gone.

Unbelievable, she thought. I am so alone.

Is that smoke?

Fire?

The car is on fire.

“Rob. The car is on fire.”

“What?”

“Look! Pull over. Pull over!”

Rob stood fairly composed in the moment, standing next to the K-barrier watching his Jetta immolate. The flames were now forming roots under the engine, exiting the wheel wells. Intensely-bright flames fuming carbon black that absorbed all light in extreme contrast. He watched it climb inside the car. Heat licked the ceiling, making his business cards drop like leaves just before the windshield faded to a sickly yellow curtain. Then, Val’s window burst and released her ghost.

And yet, the man calmly watched. He watched the bumper collapse into goo with surprising speed. The firemen would surely be on scene soon.

Val hadn’t screamed or cursed or cried. She stood maybe ten feet away, calmly holding her phone to her ear. Not even watching. Her voice was low, and measured. Not frantic. Not for him.

He watched the people driving past, some very slowly to take it all in, others at a brisk pace so as not to become involved. Tendrils reached through the grille to the proud roundel in a destructive embrace. The chrome jewelry blistered, then rapidly shriveled up like such prominence was never there. That’s when he could look no longer. That’s when it hit his brain.

“Oh my…GOD!”

Some things aren’t as motivating to exit as a Volkswagen burning on the side of the Edens.

They didn’t fight anymore.

They were just too tired.

Tired enough to leave.

Tired enough to stay.

That’s when you know it’s the end.