Where it Brakes - Chapter 1

Where it Brakes

"I wished for a pony," she said.

"Chloe, you're twenty-seven years old," said Jack.

"I know," she said.   "It was all I could think of."

The only thing that could have made her birthday any worse was if Rico the Party Clown suddenly walked in the door of the bar.   Le Maquereau was a well-dressed hornet's nest where the depthless came to prey on each other over complicated cocktails--a portentous place to walk in to.  Some people found the bar intimidating because the stylish decor only accentuated their own personal lack of verve, but Chloe felt intimidated because it was such a grown-up place, and she still felt like a kid most of the time. Even in her late twenties she was still mildly surprised when someone served her an alcoholic beverage or told a raunchy joke in front of her.  She and her best friend Jack sat at a small table in alpine chairs that only someone eleven feet tall could sit in without looking stupid. Electronica was being piped in though tiny black speakers. The entire place was lit with red light bulbs.

"Well, I'm pretty sure this is what hell will look like," she moped.

"Hey, I asked you where you wanted to go and you had no suggestions," said Jack.

She picked the sticky acrylic menu stand off the table.  "I've been out of college for almost a decade and I'm looking at a drink special list that includes "Sex on the Beach" and "A Buttery Nipple".  A buttery nipple?  Who orders this?! Oh, and did I mention that they're nine dollars each?"

"Don't worry, I'm buying.  It's your birthday and I got a sales bonus last week."

"You're in sales?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"How come I never knew this?"

"Chloe, you barely understand what it is that you do."

She eyed all the voguewits fluttering around.  No one even looked her way, even though she had on her lowest cut dress. "Sometimes I feel like there is absolutely no need for me on this planet.  If I spontaneously combusted right now, would anything even change?"

"Well, I might start having a better time because you wouldn't be sitting here complaining anymore."

She slid down off her chair and disappeared into the smoky red lights, only to return a few minutes later holding two shot glasses brimming with evil and her mouth hanging open like a wooden nutcracker solider.  She handed him a tiny glass.

"Please tell me that you found someone you like in here and please, please, please tell me that it's that unnaturally tan guy in the child-sized t-shirt and prefabbed holes in his jeans so you can stop acting so superior every time I want to come here."

She gently batted his head and then pointed to man wearing a denim jacket, striped scarf that looked to be knitted by hand, a bronze grommet belt that held up his jeans with a hole in the thigh that had actually come from actually wearing them.  His ensemble was capped off with perfectly mussed bed head.

"Did you try talking to him?"

"No.  But I heard him order a sloe gin fizz- with an English accent."

"A sloe gin fizz?  Do you know how worldly you have to be order that drink if you're under seventy-five years old without sounding like a jackass?  Chloe, go back over there and talk to him."

"My disappointment tank has been topped off for the day, but thanks." She clinked the tiny glass against Jack's and threw the shot down her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Besides, he's not that cute."

Jack moved a few steps closer to the bar and squinted.  "Chloe, I'm a heterosexual male and even I think he's cute."

"I'm still not going over there."

Jack watched her glance over at the bar in Bedhead's general direction, and every time she did her shoulders collapsed in on themselves even more.  "What's the biggest regret of your life?"

"Not saying ‘hi' to River Phoenix when he came out of the men's room at LAX."

"Exactly.  And I'd like to avoid hearing about this for the rest of my life too.  So you better go over there and talk to him before someone else does."

As soon as the vibrations from his mouth traveled hit her cochlea their waitress had approached Bedhead and whispered something in his ear.   "See what I mean?"

            Chloe watched the woman and immediately staged a mental play staring bed-head and his perfect love, Hot Stupid Waitress.

INT. THE COOLEST LOFT APARTMENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD - NIGHT

HOTSTUPID WAITRESS is sprawled out on a hardwood floor wearing nothing but flowers in her hair.  She has splashes of paint on her face, arms and legs.  She paints a brilliant oil painting.  When she finished adding the last stroke she heads into her European Cottage Modern kitchen where a full-on exotic meal bubbles on the stove.  She playfully holds out a wooden spoon for Bedhead to taste.  She laughs when some sauce spills down his chin.  She looks the prettiest when she laughs and Bedhead realizes that he truly is the luckiest man on earth.

END SCENE.

Chloe was always attracted to men who were with the kind of woman she wished she were.  The kind of woman who wears high heels and tilts their head back when she laughs.  Hot Stupid Waitress's black hair was so shiny that it sparkled even in the dim red lights.  She leaned in and whispered something in Bedhead's ear, but Bedhead shook his head and smiled across the bar at Chloe. 

Jack became a shark who just sensed the faint vibrations of a fish in trouble.  "I can't believe this.  He just shot her down and smiled at you."

"Do you have to sound so shocked?"

"You are going over there and I am not taking no for an answer."

"What am I gonna say?  Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Definitely not.  No.  Ask him if he has the time."

"What if he just tells me that it's nine and then stops talking?"

"Then ask him if he knows the temperature too.  I don't know.  Whatever.  You'll think of something."

"I can't."

"Chloe, two words.  River. Phoenix."

            The moment she slid in next to Bedhead at the bar she felt a rush of blood in her torso that gushed through her heart and seized a hold of her neck in a kung-fu grip.  She could barely breathe when she ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender.  Her hands were tiny jackhammers while she raised the tiny pink straw to her lips.  She kitten glanced up at Bedhead and was confronted with a striking pair of Sinatra-blue eyes.  To her surprise he was even better looking up close.  He stared back at her reticent, forcing her to make a move-so she did. 

            "Don't I know you from somewhere?"  The second she heard herself utter the tackiest sentence ever constructed in the English language her heart slipped from third gear into overdrive.  Could she be more idiotic?  Bedhead smiled.  It wasn't a regular everyday smile.  It was the sexiest skeptical smile ever delivered in a bar in the history of the world.     

            With the most elegant English accent he asked her if she thought she knew him from work.  She barked, no.  He asked her if maybe they had seen one another at the gym.  She shuddered and told him that she hated the smell of public sweat.  Then she silently berated herself for bringing up BO. 

            "That was a line, right?" he asked.

            "If I was giving you a line, I would have asked you something like, "What's your sign?"  

            He took a sip of his drink, looked her dead in the eye. "What sign do you need?"  The perfect reply.  Flirty.  Witty.  Showing interest.  He was good. 

            She wanted to say something equally charming to pinball back at him when he truly did start to look familiar.  Very familiar, actually.  She couldn't place his face but she was certain she had seen him before.  "I'm sure that I've met you before."           

            "Look, it's blindingly obvious you were trying to chat me up and the good news for you is, it worked."

            She canvassed his face, his whole body.

            He saw her eyes moving downward and opened his jacket.  "You can search me, if you like."  

            "This is so annoying," she said.  "I know I've seen you before."

            "Well, I have a gift for remembering faces and you don't look the least bit familiar to me.  What's your name?"

            "Chloe Horowitz."

            Bedhead took a step back and bumped into the woman standing behind him.  "Forgive me," he said.

            The woman smiled and turned back to her conversation.

            Digby turned back to Chloe.  "Are your parents called Patty and Morris?"        

            "What?  How the hell...how the hell could you know that?"

            "Patty and Morris are your parents?"

            "Uh-yeah."

            "Well, bloody fucking hell-you do know me."

            It was one of those moments in life that would give pause to even the most scientific of minds and force them to reflect on the more mysterious side of the universe.  Philosophers, romantics or theater geeks could have debated endlessly on whether this meeting was a result of some divine pre-arranged fate or merely a coincidence.  The only thing that about the whole affair that was absolutely impossible to deny was that Chloe had just run across the very first boy she had ever loved.

            The last time he saw her she was a tiny girl with golden hair, twinkling eyes and chapped lips.  He wondered what color her lips were now, lipstick never entered into it before, back then it was all Popsicles and bare feet.

            "So, you know my parents?"

            "I know you, too.  And I know that you hate wearing shoes and you adore rainbows."

            "Okay, I haven't worn anything with a rainbow on it since I was six.  Well, okay, ten."

            "I used to watch you spend blissful afternoons chasing imaginary unicorns round your backyard." 

            The right electrical impulse traveled across the synapse to the right neuron and bingo!  "Digby?" 

            "Actually, I go by Digger now."

            She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him with all her might.  When they reached that intangible moment when the hug goes on too long, she released him and took a step back.  "Speaking of Patty and Morris, they will not be thrilled to hear I ran into you."  

            "Still holding a grudge, are they?"         

            "Well, you did burn down our house."  

            "It wasn't the whole house.  Just a room, really.  Two if you count the half-bath."

            "Oh, they count it."    

            She pointed across the dark room.  "See that guy over there?  The one in the yellow shirt?  I'm with him." 

             "Oh.  Well, I don't want to keep you from anything," he said.  

            Chloe rolled her eyes, grabbed the cuff of his jacket and tugged.  She had done the exact same thing when she was a child.  Always grabbing him by his sleeve and dragging him about, like he was her favorite rag-doll, showing him all of her favorite things.   This time her favorite thing was called Jack.  Digby had a very loose moral code, but ruining a bloke's date was one thing that he just wouldn't do.  But seeing Chloe again was such a surprise that he decided that it would be all right just this once.  Digby's initial hesitation soon retreated.  He was an unusually perceptive person and after a few moments spent watching their eyes, their hands and the space between them, he knew that there was no romantic undertone between them.

            "What do you do?" Jack asked. 

            "If you asked my father that question he would tell you that I'm a cracking failure to family and friends alike."    

            "Okay.  But, I'm asking you."

            "I'm a musician."

            "Oh.  Are you a drummer?"

            "I play guitar.  Why, do I look like a drummer?"

            "I don't know what a drummer looks like."

            "Not like me."

            "Are you in a band?"

            "Yeah, but you wouldn't have heard of us.  And what do you do?"

            "Me?  I'm in sales."

            "What do you sell?"     

            Jack's left eyelid fluttered.  "Um, I, uh... sell... time.  Sort of.  It's hard to explain."  Jack cleared his throat and looked down at the table.

            Digby put his hand on Jack's forearm.  "Don't worry.  It's hard to be a bricklayer in an abstract world, right mate?"

            Jack nodded and felt inexplicably relieved even though he had absolutely no idea what that sentence meant.

            "That's exactly what we were talking about earlier.  I have no idea what any of my friends do between the hours of nine and five.  And it's not for lack of asking.  No.  I've asked.  It's just that they always tell me that it's too confusing or hard to explain.  It seems like ever since the American workforce traded in pitchforks for white collars, everything became a lot more complicated," said Chloe.

            "And what do you do?" he asked her.     "Wait.  Don't tell me.  You're president of the United States."

            "Huh?"

            "I realize that you were only seven years old when you told me that was your aim, but I have to admit, you had me convinced."

            "I did?"

            "I still to this day have never met a more interesting child.  So, come on.  Out with it.  What is it that you're doing with your life, Chloe Horowitz?"

            "It's nothing that great.  As a matter of fact, I actually have no idea what I do all day.  And I'm not even kidding.  I've been working for the same company for what, six years now, and my responsibilities are no clearer to me than they were on the day I read the convoluted ad for the position in the Sunday Tribune.  When I start to think about all the time I've wasted in that beige cube.  I can't even think about it without my throat closing up.  Please.  New topic."

            "Okay, then.  How's Cal?" Digby asked.

            "Wait.  He knows your brother?" asked Jack.    

            Chloe kept her focus squarely on Digby.  "Great.  He's a writer now.  A poet, actually."

            "I'm not knocked a bit to hear that," he said.  Digby had always thought there were certain people he met who seemed to have their destinies written all over them from the time they were children.  It wasn't apparent in everyone, but there were definitely some who seemed to have their futures running through their tiny bodies from the very beginning, and there was never a question that they had what it took to get there.  Digby thought those people were the luckiest people on earth.

            "So, wait, how do you know her brother?" asked Jack.

            "Cal was a foreign exchange student and I was the crap end of that bargain."

            "Oh.  So you lived with them in California?" asked Jack.

            "Exactly.  Which begs the question, what are you doing in Chicago?"

            "I came here to go to Northwestern and I never left."

            "Chloe used to write 'I love Digby' on the soles of her shoes," said Digby to Jack.

            "Did not," she said.

            "Oh, I saw the writing on the rubber."   

            "Yeah, well you probably had 'I love Patty' on the soles of your shoes." 

            Digby had completely forgotten how his hormonally marinated brain had convinced him that he had a shot at shagging her mother, Mrs. Horowitz.  He blushed from adult perspective.  He hadn't been particularly handsome back then, but being a foreigner in high school made him something of a novelty, which made it possible for him to slide his paws up more than a few American girls' shirts.  Many years had passed since brassieres were so completely alien to him.  Those early fumbles through life seemed so sepia-toned to him until that moment. 

            It is always a strange feeling to talk with someone we have not seen in some time.  They force us to pull up memories that have been dormant, nearly forgotten.  If we're lucky a river of lost moments comes crashing through our rusted cerebral floodgates. The human brain is endlessly strange and magical, but thinking about exactly where those memories had been stored for all those years can pop a vessel if one isn't careful.

            Digby marveled at the adult woman across the table from him.  She had done a lot of growing and changing without him.  Her eyes were the same, but they were also different.  Something missing, perhaps?  He didn't know. 

            Chloe studied a dangerously skinny woman standing perpendicular to a guy allowing her to show off exactly how dangerously skinny she really was.  The guy was still hip enough to have a cool haircut, but it was written all over his smug face that he was one pay raise away from evil.  The skinny woman pawed at the guy's chest.  Another mistake brought home from a bar.  Chloe wanted to puke.  It wasn't that she was a morally pious goody-two-shoes.  She didn't think that she was better than these people who filled their nights with impersonal, dirty, drunken sex.  She just hoped to fill her bucket with something that didn't create an even larger whole at the bottom.

            A techno-song came on that didn't allow one bass note to go unnoticed.  She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a nearby window.  No matter what clothes she bought she was never dressed in the style of the person she felt like.  Maybe she needed to try some new stores.

            Digby watched her examine herself in the mirror.  "Tell me what you're thinking about," said Digby.

            Chloe shook her head, snatched a shot of tequila from under his deft hand and threw it down her throat.  She wiped her mouth with that back of her hand.

            "Tell me what you're thinking or I'll glass ya."

            Normally, Chloe didn't like people seeing through her candy coating to how she really felt inside because how she really felt most of the time was--like a lunatic.  But there was something about his imperfect hair and his crooked bottom teeth that made her feel that it was okay to let her cracks show.  "I was just wondering if there was anything on the table I could kill myself with."

            "Well, please don't top yourself before you pay the bill."           

            "Thanks for your concern," she said, and pouted into the corner like a little girl.

            "Actually, I am quite concerned," he said.  He slid off his stool and extended his hand.  "Come with me." 

Digby told Jack that it had been nice to meet him and before Jack could even fake smile he was left alone at the table.

© Renee Stock

Author: Renee Stock