	RodMer Short Story Package JJ Working Out
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Here is Short Story Package JJ -- a short story by Rod Anderson.

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All material is copyright. Some of the stories in these packages have appeared in literary journals. Where the rights involved were other than first serial rights, we are grateful to the respective publishers for permission to offer this material on the Web

This short story, written in 1983, was one of the first I wrote after leaving the business world to take up writing. Of course, like many downtown urban treadmillers (today life is thankfully slower and I live in the country) I tried to work out several times a week -- in my case at the excellent facilities of the Adelaide Club in Toronto. But this story is about a different kind of working out -- or not working out. On reading it (and its companion piece 'Taking Charge'), my daughter remarked: "Into disorientation, are we?"

WORKING OUT

Approximately 2,200 words

"Listen, Paul, this isn't going to work out."

Karen's eyes are focusing on some imaginary point two inches over your left shoulder. A 'whyyy' goes off in the tight nerve clusters at the back of your neck and shoots up six chromatic scales into your scalp. You know what the alarm means. But it catches you and shakes you rudely. Shakes you awake from a dream in which fires were never imagined. It just keeps screaming and screaming. The blue eyes continue their icy vigil over your shoulder. Little flecks of mascara wait in neat line-ups along each lash. Hard to think. Try to find some logical words.

"What do you mean - not work out?" You try to meet her eyes. She won't let you. Turns away.

"Just isn't. That's all. Forget it, Paul." She starts walking toward the car parked at the curb thirty feet away. Tap tap tap tap tap. Her heels hammer across the concrete. The tiny insistent hammer of a stooped white-haired coffin-maker. Everything should be made to fit into place. Tap tap tap.

What place? The alarm's still screaming in your head. People are standing around in groups laughing and talking. Can't they hear the alarm? David and Anne, Alex and Fiona, and George. Don't they notice? Doesn't even George notice? No. Tap tap tap tap. You can't believe this is happening. You want a rewind. A replay. At least freeze the screen for some thinking time. Tap tap tap tap. The passenger door opens. Karen turns around. Finally her eyes look directly at you. Maybe she'll change her mind? She's going to come back. No. No she isn't. She gets in. The door closes soundlessly. They drive off. Who's she with? Can't see. A large red Coke delivery truck pulls up, scraping its front tire along the curb. Full of empties. Completely obstructs your view. They must be a block away by now. That's all. Game over. You're standing on the steps leading down from the . . .

No. Tap tap tap tap tap. The little hammer works its way along meticulously. Tap tap tap. The heels hammer around to the driver's side of the car. Yes, the driver's side. The car is empty. She opens the door. But doesn't even look back. Looks mad. Slam. Off she goes. Lips pressed tightly together. Exhaust blasting dust and leaves from the curb. Why? Brother, you must have done something terrible, man. You're left sitting on the bench where you'd been talking. Dark red oak leaves drifting down in random flight paths toward the ground.

Wait. What colour was the car? Green? No, blue? Come on, didn't you notice? Yes, it was blue. God damn it, she's taken your car. You feel in your pocket - the keys are gone. What do you do now? Your papers and all your clothes for tonight were in the car. Damn. But why? Why would she leave you like that? You get up and pay your bill. The cashier in the oriental black dress places the change lightly in your hand. Her fingernails graze your palm. Like a ceremony - but you don't remember how it goes. You turn to leave and meet Karen coming up from the washroom.

"Listen, Paul, this isn't going to work out."

Quickly you fire back, "What do you mean - not work out."

"Just isn't. That's all. forget it, Paul." And out she walks. Tap tap tap. Leaving you staring through the glass door stupidly into the headlights of passing traffic. Damn. That's it. Game over. And you don't know what to do. Ten years. And suddenly bang. It's over. Just like that. Ciao. What do you do? The passing headlights catch the sparkle of a few early flakes of snow.

Already? You remember you haven't put on the snow tires yet. So what? It's over.

That's the way it happens now. Wherever you are, wherever you go, she keeps leaving you. Over and over again it happens. Listen, buddy, you've got to get this into your head. She's gone. Understand? Gone. Now if I were you I'd start thinking about something else. You're going to lose any will to do anything if you just carry on like this. Paul, are you listening to what I say? You look up. I don't think you're listening. But I'm going to get your attention. I turn off the alarm.

.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.

Silence. I'm in the living room. A number of friends. Others I don't know. Who are all these people? Well there's George, anyway. George. We went to college together years ago. And he's been a close friend to both of us since we married. George comes over.

"Karen's going off, you know, Paul. She's going off to do social work with . . . ." I don't catch the name. Some social worker from the university, I think. Is he her lover? I'm not sure. What's Karen know about social work anyway? She's in advertising.

"Here, I've got pictures of . . . ," shouts someone in the room. Again I can't catch the name. I'm pretty sure they're talking about the social worker.

Exclamations around the room. "There she is with her new baby!" "God how awful!" "No I think it's great. Good for her." "It's gross." "A cow. Stupid waste." "Let me see, let me see." General laughter. I gather it's a woman. Well then, probably not lovers. But where are they going? And what's going off to do social work got to do with Karen leaving me? A tall man in a dark brown turtleneck sweater is standing in the corner. I don't know him. He's very tall. Smoking. He turns and looks down at me. "You can't seem to get it into your head, can you. She's gone. Left. Try to understand that one fact. What seems to be the problem? It's simple enough. Gone. G - O - N- E." He turns away again.

Well the immediate problem is tonight. The Jacksons had invited us weeks ago. We kept putting it off. But finally agreed on tonight. Really the Jacksons are more Karen's friends than mine. What do I do? Maybe phone and say 'Hello, Carl, it's, well, it's just going to be me tonight. It seems Karen's gone out. Not quite sure where. Yes. Strange isn't it. Well we'll talk about it when I arrive.' No. That's tacky.

'Hello, Carl - well Karen's upset about some things and under the circumstances I think it's best we don't come. I know you'll understand. I imagine you may hear from Karen directly.' Or maybe better to stall for time. 'Carl, I'm awfully sorry, this business meeting blew up at the last minute and we won't be able to make tonight. Yes. We're both fine. Of course we are. What? Karen's with you now?' No, that's no good. Better to come straight out with it. 'Hello, Carl, well the fact is Karen's left me. No, I don't know why. Yes, of course I'm upset. No. I didn't understand anything. Well, let's talk about it when I arrive. What? You don't want to see me?'

Just then the telephone rings. George picks it up. "Hello. Yes he's here. Paul, it's a Carl Jackson. For you." Scrap all previous plans. Tear them up. Neat little torn scraps. Throw them away. You're on your own, buddy. Take it from here.

.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.	.

You stare at the phone in George's hand and take it from him slowly. "Hello?"

"Paul, it's Karen. I think we need to talk about this. The whole thing. Coolly and rationally." Well that's sure what you think. In fact, admit it, you don't know what the hell's going on with her, do you. What's happened? Why is she so mad? What is all this? But a talk is a good idea. Why talk to all these other people? Completely irrelevant. It's Karen you've got to talk to. Thank God you're now going to understand what's been getting into her. Or who? No, you don't believe that. Well, on the other hand. . . . No. She wouldn't have.

But on impulse you shout into the phone, "I'm not interested. Is that clear? As far as I'm concerned you can drop dead." Click. You hang up. Ten years and now this. But you did it, buddy. You're no longer the victim, see? Doesn't that make you happy? Tap tap tap. Almost finished.

You stare at the phone in George's hand and take it from him slowly. "Karen, I don't know what to say," you begin. What will you say next? Don't know. Don't know. Maybe she'll give you a cue. No. Shouldn't delay any longer. Say something.

But Karen cuts in. "Oh maybe I'm wrong. No, I guess it wouldn't be any use. We're too far apart now. Sorry, Paul. forget it." Click. Damn. You're the victim again. How do you always get yourself into this position?

Look, it doesn't matter who's the victim. It's the sense of loss, isn't it? Yes. What will you do tomorrow? 'Wake up. Have a shower, Cook breakfast.' Can you do that? Do you want to do that? 'No.' What do you want to do? 'I don't want to do anything.' Are you opting out? 'Yes.' Maybe that's why Karen left you. 'Fuck her.' Hey buddy, you've never spoken about her like that in your life. You don't even use that word. 'Fuck her.' Why are you doing this? Paul? Hey buddy. 'What else is there to do?' Oh?

"Hello, Karen? I'll do anything to patch things up again. Just tell me what I've done."

"Is this Paul? Paul, are you out of your strange little mind? I've been living with George for the past two years. And we're very happy, thank you. And no I don't want to rehash old arguments with you."

No, that's not going to work.

"Hello, Karen? I know I'll never see you again but I just wanted to know you were the one great love of my life."

No. Nothing but melodramatic words. Need action.

"Hello, Karen? I've got these pills beside me and I'm just about to take them. My last thoughts will be of you."

Wait a minute. Wait. Wait. Do you have any kids?

"Hello, Karen? Do we have any kids? You know we really should think about their needs in all this too. We don't? Damn!"

Should have thought of that sooner.

"Hello, Karen? Let's make love tonight and for the next two hundred nights so you'll get pregnant and we'll have lots of children and then when you leave me we can fight over their custody. OK?"

No. Scratch that. Impractical. Short of time. Try another approach, buddy.

"Hello, Karen? It's Paul. You remember, I met you at Andrea's luncheon yesterday. Say I was wondering, well I mean, would you by any chance be interested in dinner and a show tonight? You would? Great. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock. I'll be in a blue car."

Now that's more like it. Paul, you're definitely getting somewhere. But the phone rings again. It's Karen calling back. You answer. "Yes Karen. Yes I meant tonight. Yes. Your husband? Well - well sure, bring him too. Why not? We can all talk about stamp collecting together." Click. Shit.

The phone rings again. "Hello? Karen, you again? Oh. Ha ha. Well yes I know I'm your husband. Sure, of course, I know. Yes. OK. It'll be the two of us. Just like old times. Just like twenty years ago. Great." Or was it five years ago?

You hang up the phone and run to the elevator. What a relief, eh, buddy? Down the elevator to the parking garage. Off at Level One. Hurry. Over to the blue car in the corner. Someone's sitting in the driver's seat. It's Karen. She rolls the window down. Icy blue eyes look out. "Listen Paul, this isn't going to work out." The seat belt alarm goes off with a whine.

But you're not going to get caught with that one again, are you buddy. Tap tap tap. All finished now, he grins. You reach for the nail scissors in your pocket and quickly begin to slice into her. You think of the black oriental dress the cashier was wearing. "Sorry, Karen. But you're really starting to bug me."

The front fender slams into your knee cap. Your head is bounced against the oily concrete floor. You feel the left tire mounting your neck. Never got the snow tires on. There's just time, before you lose consciousness, to hear Karen's throaty laugh as she calls out, from miles away, "Forget it, Paul."

And you just keep slicing and slicing away. Little jagged pieces of old photos float downwards catching in your trouser cuffs. You did it, buddy. She's gone. And then your cuffs slice off too. And now both your legs. finally the rest of you. G'bye old buddy.

First published in
Waves
Issue #15/1&2
Fall 1986

Rod Anderson
'SwallowHill', 1940 Hill 60 Rd., R.R.5
Cobourg, ON, K9A 4J8
Canada
rod@rodmer.com