Authors: Mike McCrary
Remo Went Rogue (9 page)
18
As if in slow motion, Remo drags his troubled bones through the streets.
The rest of
New York City
moves at its normal, infamous energetic pace, paying no attention to this guy who can’t get out of first gear. They pass him by, moving around him like water rolling around a rock in its path.
It’s all lost on Remo.
He walks down block after block, trying to piece together some plan of action. Aimlessly stares into shop windows. With glassy eyes he watches as street performers and homeless do their thing. He doesn’t even bother scanning for Chicken Wing.
Knows he’s out there somewhere.
If he wants to kill me, I’m here.
While roaming, he passes a homeless guy holding a sign that reads, THE END IS UPON US. Remo stops in front of him, engrossed by the sign. He glazed stare is stuck on the words, as if not even reading them. More like he’s studying the inside of his own head and his eyes just have to look at something while he’s doing it. His stare bores through the crude sign, all in route to a spot in his mind, a hopeless little corner of the universe that only Remo can see.
Homeless guy asks, “You okay?”
“No.”
“World’s on a freight train to hell, brother. You ready?”
The question—You ready?—sparks an idea in Remo.
The answer is an overwhelming, No!, But at the same time, Remo wonders why if he can’t stop his death, can’t he at least be ready to die? Is that the way to look at this? Is that the angle to play? Like those movies where the character is told he has cancer or some shit and they go through a journey of self-discovery blah, blah, blah…yeah, those. Now, of course, Remo and self-discovery are like a porn star and virginity. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but Remo chooses to look at it differently.
I’m going to die, and that sucks, but now what? What’s the play? What’s my move with this?
Remo’s wandering has brought him to a coffee shop, where he’s now sprawled out in a corner booth meant to seat six. A pot of hot coffee sits on the steel-topped table, his flask of Johnnie at the ready. Balled up wads of napkins are scattered among the salt and pepper shakers and the jelly tower. He works feverishly at writing something on a fresh napkin. He writes fast, pouring his mind out on the page, then stops. Crosses everything out and wads it up tossing it to the side to keep company with the other scraps of ideas.
A young, hipster-punk waitress walks up topping off his coffee. Tattoo sleeves wrap her arms and cover her neck. Mermaids or some shit. She could be very attractive, but damn that’s a lot of ink. Nose and ears look like a pincushion.
She takes note of Remo’s struggles with his writing then asks, “Whatcha working on?”
Remo offers her nothing in the way of a response.
Undaunted, she tries again. “Looks like it's giving you some stress.”
He pours from his flask into the coffee and spins it with a spoon, working to get the mixture just right. Takes a sip, adds some sugar. He'd rather not engage in conversation with this person. Drinking is a better way to spend his dwindling time on this earth.
“Oh come on, boss, I've been on since
You're the closest thing to interesting I've got.” The waitress is almost begging him to engage. Remo can’t take it. As if he doesn’t have enough troubles, now he has to entertain this person with the remaining sand in his hourglass. He reluctantly replies, “List of shit I want to do before I die.”
“Oh my God, are you dying?”
Remo covers. “No, no, heavens no. I'm good. I saw that damn movie the other night, you know the one? With the before-you-die list? I was flipping around, it got me thinking . . . not getting younger and whatever the fuck.”
“ Oh.” She gives it a think, wondering what she would want to do before she bit the big one. “
Sunrise
in
Thailand
?”
“No.”
“
Paris
?”
“Could give a fuck.”
“Three way with some black guys?”
“Look, I appreciate your input here. I do. But I don't really have the kind of time for big event type things.”
The waitress pulls back, confused. “Don't have time? You said—”
“I mean, if or when you find out you're dying you really don't have a lot of time to spend. In theory.”
She gets it. “What would you do if you only had, what? A couple of days, maybe only a day left?”
“Bingo.”
“I'd call my Mom.”
Remo thinks, dig deeper kid.
The waitress picks up a couple of the wadded up napkins. “Well, what do you have so far?”
Remo tries to stop her. “Those are really just notes.”
“They all say, Meet Sean.”
“Rough draft,” says Remo, hiding the new napkin he’s working on. He looks down the table so she can’t see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t know you, but it seems to me if that’s the one thing you have on a bucket list, then maybe you should go meet this guy. Who’s Sean?”
Two words have never hurt more. “My son.” This is the first time Remo has said this to anyone. Sure, a lot people knew, but Remo never discussed with anyone openly. Not with friends or co-workers or anybody. For some reason, at this moment in life Remo feels the need to share this with a complete stranger. All of this washes over Remo in an instant.
His first instinct is that he’s losing it.
Going soft in a moment of weakness.
Then he realizes something, something so clear…something so clear that even this dumb-fuck with shit stuck in her face and retarded pictures drawn all over her body can see it.
The waitress gives an understanding nod, decides to share. “My dad left us when I was a kid, but I got this P.I. guy I was dating, well not really dating, more like a fuck buddy situation… Anyway, he found my dad a year or so ago and I just haven't had the cojones to actually go see him . . .”
As the waitress rambles on, her voice fades into the background noise. For the first time in days Remo’s thoughts become focused—for the first time in a few years, really.
The answer to at least part of his current dilemma has just become easily identifiable. Ideas fall in line behind his distant eyes.
19
Remo arrives at a downtown office tower.
He plows through a floor filled with bustling cubicles in full swing, hunting for someone in particular. He looks like hell as he sticks his head in cubicle after cubicle with no success, rudely interrupting corporate drones from their tasks, coffee, and three-hour Internet breaks. A few get pissed, and a few more get really pissed. A dull murmur about the visitor buzzes around the floor.
One employee asks, “Can I help you, buddy?” Remo ignores him. Heads pop up like prairie dogs to get a look at the nuisance of the floor.
He checks the Men’s Room.
Then the Women’s Room, where he’s met by a shriek and the inevitable, “Asshole!”
Across the floor. Anna sips coffee as she returns to her desk.
Anna is a naturally beautiful woman, with that rare light of happiness that seems to surround some people. It’s a light that she can, and does, share with. Some people have it. Not Remo, but some people. Not to say her life has been peaches and cream, not even close, but Anna is able to put things in perspective. Everybody has their baggage, their cross to bear and all that. But she’s able to look at the world with big picture mentality and understand her struggles are nothing in the grand scheme of things. Through the years she’s been able to gain a healthy view of life.
She thinks having a child has helped her put things in their proper place. Sean is really what fuels her light
.
Unfortunately that light gets extinguished as she turns and notices Remo.
Her eyes widen, then harden at the sight of Remo disrupting the work day. She gets a sinking feeling, one she hasn’t experienced in awhile. Anna never knew she had a bad side until she married Remo. He was a project, of course. Most women have one—at least one—they are convinced they can change, positive that the right woman can turn the guy around. They’re completely certain there is a good, good man in there and that other people just don’t see it like they do.
Sometimes these women are right.
They never married Remo.
As Anna’s eyes find Remo, her defense mechanism takes over. She drops down into her cubicle looking for cover, shrinking lower and lower as she hears the sounds of Remo on the hunt. She’d dig a hole under the cheap, carefully chosen corporate carpet if she could.
Shit.
This is her worst fear; this guy showing up at work. This motherfucker, here? Anna rarely resorts to f-bombs. Not that she judges those that do, it’s just not her thing. Something about Remo turns her vocabulary into that of a hostile longshoreman.
She stands, closes her eyes, finds the strength to utter a quiet, “Remo.”
He doesn’t hear her and keeps searching the floor like a man possessed. The entire company hates him by now. She swallows big, then tries in a louder voice. “Remo.”
He stops a few rows over. The floor goes silent. Anna locks her eyes firmly on Remo.
Remo knows she’s not happy to see him, but something in him melts all the same. It always did when he saw her. Even when he fucked things up, it never went away.
Remo says, “Anna. You look—”
“What…,” she begins in a burst of anger. Noticing the entire company is watching, she pulls her rage back, begins again. “What do you want?”
“Can I have a word?”
“No.”
“Just a few words. You can count them, then I’ll leave.”
Anna would rather talk to a drooling mental patient armed with a chain saw. With zero desirable options, she points toward a private conference room.
Remo stumbles, shoved into the conference room by Anna. The company’s version of posh is decked out in bad art and a long, polished table surrounded by ten empty Herman Miller chairs. There’s a projection screen at the far end of the room, with a ceiling projector just waiting to beam out PowerPoint genius. Anna slams the door shut.
Remo decides he should try to sooth things first by saying, “Now. I realize—”
Anna doesn’t want to sooth anything. A woman scorned and ready to unleash. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“It’s good to see you Anna—”
“Oh, cut the shit, you complete fucking asshole. We agreed. The courts agreed. This . . . does not happen. No more drunk phone calls at three in the morning. No more just happening to bump into me on the street. No more motherfucking Remo.”
Remo resets. “I understand I’m not your favorite person—”
“Did that just come out of your mouth? Are you fucking kidding me? Get out.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, really, I do.”
“Really, you don’t. Leave before I call security.” She moves to a phone on the conference table and picks up the receiver.. Remo scrambles for the best way to say what he needs to say.
“I’m dying.”
Anna takes those words in, asks, “What?”
“I’m dying.”
She puts down the phone. Sure she hates this guy, but doesn’t want him dead—well, not literally. “How?”
“It’s not important how, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
She collects herself, her thoughts, and finds her natural feeling toward her ex— animosity— resurfacing. “What the hell I’m I supposed to do with that information? You walk in here after years of shit and tell me, what, you’re dying?”
“You’re feeling mixed emotions, I get that.”
“Fuck you,” she paces. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Remo Cobb. Look at you. I can’t tell if you’re lying, dying or just looking for a pity blow job.”
“I’m not looking for a pity anything. I’m going to die. It’s true. I just want . . .” pauses. Says it. “I’d like to see Sean before I go.”
Anna takes that like a steel-toe boot to the gut. In a way, she knew this day was coming. That some day he was going to want to meet their son. She hoped it wouldn’t, but in the back of her mind she feared it. Carrying that fear just underneath the surface was her baggage, and her baggage was now standing in front of her.
“I’d like to at least meet the kid before I check out. Ya know?”
She fights the conflicting emotions pulsing through her. “You agreed to not be a part of his life, remember?”
Remo knows.
“You asked to not be a part of his life.”
“I know what I said.”
“We don’t need you. We don’t want you.”
Remo recoils. “You hate me.”
“You don’t think I’ve earned the right?”
“Don’t you think he would want to meet his dad?”
“I’m not even sure I believe you’re dying.”
“It’s going to happen. Soon.”
Anna’s bitterness takes over. “He’s already infected with your shit
Remo takes the hit. It hurts, and Remo’s natural instincts kick in—to cut down whoever is in front of him. “Technically, our son.”
Absolutely the wrong thing to say.
“Please go away,” Anna says, ice in her voice.
“Anna.”
She looks to him, eyes begging. Please, leave us alone.
“I only want to say hello to him.”
She gives her final answer in the only way this guy will understand. “Remo, go away and die.”
Her words cut, hurting even worse because he knows they were completely justified by the years of hurt he’s caused, driven by all the things he’s done to her . . . to Sean.
It’s a crushing moment of realization about the life he’s carved out for himself.
He gathers the battered remains of the hope he had at the coffee shop, thinking he should have known better. It was a fool’s errand while the clock is ticking on his final days, a waste of what little time he has left.
He gives an understanding, accepting nod to Anna as he exits.
Anna hates herself.