SHORT STORY

The boredom of his life as a husband and a father of two, soon to be three, faded away as James chatted to the fascinating redhead at the pub after work. Would he do something he’d live to regret?

Think, think, think by Joe DiStefano.

He had always been told by his mother to think before he acted. “Think once, so you don’t have to think twice” she had said.

“Think, think, think, boys and girls!” had been the cry of Mrs Simpson, his Year 9 teacher. A person whose bra made visible ruts across her back as it grimly hung on to her large breasts.

She should have shouted at herself, “Think, think think” as she swallowed down another cinnamon bun, another lamington. Where was her “Think, think, think” as she sucked on another cigarette. Pulling on it like a dying man sucking in oxygen.

“Think!” he shouted at himself as he hit the wheel of the car. “Why didn’t you think?” he said to the dark walls of the garage lined with tools rarely used, a tricycle his son had outgrown, a pile of shoes peeking through a plastic container, and a case of beers left over from the weekend with the in-laws.

How many beers had he drunk tonight? One? No, more than that. Much more. Ten? Ten! Impossible, how could he have been driving at …

What time was it? 1.45am illuminated the dashboard clock in all its mockery. He switched off the car engine. Sat still.

His head reclined on to the steering wheel. His eyes closed. He was so tired.

How many beers had he had?

She had smiled at him after the second. What was her name? Mary, Cherie? What was it? He had seen her climbing the office stairway, remembered her from the office kitchen, from the copier room.

She had always smiled at him in acknowledgement. A smile that said, “Oh I know you

work here somewhere.” But it had never gone further. Never. Think! Had she not mentioned her name? Red hair. Red lips, grey suit, sensible shoes. She had smiled at him tonight again, but it had been different to the copier room.

It had felt different. He had caught himself looking at her ring finger. Why?

It was just a dumb male thing to do, surely. He had been married 15 years. Two kids, a mortgage, personal loans on cars, an ‘entertainment unit’, a second mortgage on a just completed renovation. And soon, soon there would be another addition to the family, another mouth to feed. Another tax deduction coming along, he had joked.

He had “the full catastrophe” as Zorba the Greek had referred to it. The full catastrophe. At work he had been elevated to management. His group was now responsible for international finance. He seemed pegged for advancement and he worked long hours.

But she had smiled at him. She smiled at him a little differently tonight. She, in her grey business attire and sensible shoes. With her red hair let out she gave him the impression she had just escaped from work.

And there was no ring on her finger.

They had talked in the noisy bar. What was her name? She had said it over the loud din. She had leaned over and said it. What was it?

He had felt her breath, warm and soft. He had smelt her perfume, fruity and subtle. He had told her his name: “James, my name is James.”

“Hello, James.” Her breath on his ear. “My name is Rachel.”

Rachel, her name was Rachel. Of course. He had asked his friend Mark about her.

Over a bowl of soup at lunch, Mark had told him Rachel had come into the company as a head of design.

He had referred to the work she was doing as “HumanCentred Design”, whatever that meant. He had never asked him for details.

“She’s an important member of the design department,” Mark had continued. “Can’t you see it? Have a look at her closely next time. What she wears, how she presents herself. Everything about her has a creative touch. She’s very good.”

He had noticed something in the copier room, but nothing that he could put his finger on.

“He felt her breath, warm and soft. He smelt her perfume, fruity and subtle.”

Nor did he have the words to describe that something. Maybe that was the creative “thing”, he had thought.

Her name was Rachel. He had noticed a beer bottle in his hand. Was it number three or four? They were pushed together by a tall man carrying three large pints high over his head. “Excuse me, excuse me!” the man had shouted as he worked his way through the crowd to a group further on who were awaiting their refreshments.

As the man squeezed through bodies behind her, she’d moved closer to James. Close enough so that her breasts had brushed against his arm.

“Sorry,” she had said at invading his space.

“No worries,” he responded, totally engulfed by the electricity of her touch, her scent, the situation. How many beers had he drunk?

They had talked about … about what? Shit, he supposed. It had been about work. People she hadn’t liked. Projects she had been working on. “Have you seen the new brand designs for the company ID?”

“Oh, that was you?” he said, impressed. The new identity work had been highly praised and it was being recognised amongst other financial institutions as innovative and desirable.

“Yes, I headed up the work. Two years of my life. About six months of discovery and design, and then the rest of the time trying to sell it to lawyers, and finance people and accountants, and even international traders.”

“That would be people like me.” He had said it with a smile. She had grabbed his arm to steady herself as she laughed, “I am so sorry, I didn’t realise you were one of ‘those’ people,” she added with an exaggerated emphasis on the word ‘those’.

He had also talked … but about what? He couldn’t remember.

He was fascinated by her red hair, her fair skin, her long neck, the sound of her voice when she laughed. It lit up the room and … and … made him feel like … something he thought had disappeared long ago, behind dirty nappies, and plates in the sink, and tired bodies too tired for sex or anything else.

She leaned over in his direction and asked “So, James, you have a ring,” she had said, pointing at his finger with her eyes. “Are you married?”

Think, think, think! How many beers had he drunk?

He tried to bring back the scent that lingered in the air when she leant over him, the electricity of her breasts

brushing against his arm. How it had engulfed him. How many beers had it been?

“Are you married?” she repeated, softly whispering the question into his ear. Luring him in. He suddenly felt faint.

“Please excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

What happened then? He had escaped. He had run to the car. Made a thousand apologies to others he pushed past.

“You okay, Jimbo?” It was Mark, his eyes glowing in the dark, looking at the man pushing past a mass of bodies. “Hey, make sure you catch a cab.” Mark had shouted as he continued to the door, “don’t drive, okay?”

He turned back and gave a thumbs up to the suggestion. He looked back through the crowd to Rachel (that was her name, Rachel). He saw her smile quietly break through her red lipstick lips.

He’d seen her look of resignation, one that understood the answer to her question.

The cold night air offered a sobering, but forceful slap in the face. He was relieved. He was so relieved.

Was he sober enough to drive? “Yes,” he told himself. “Yes,” he only remembered two beers. Maybe three. Easy. He felt sober. He felt good.

He had been a good husband. Yes, he had done the right thing.

On his way home he had chosen back streets where silence and darkness covered everything. Where he wouldn’t get stopped, he wouldn’t be seen. He wouldn’t lose his licence. Or lose his job.

He would be home soon. It had been a good night.

Tomorrow there would be the copier room again. A smile of recognition, the shared memory of their meeting. “You’re the married man at drinks”. “You’re the woman from the design department”. Her name was Rachel.

He had lifted his head off the steering wheel and looked up. The garage was still there.

Something else had happened tonight. When? What? “Think, think, think!” he asked himself. He demanded. “Where did it happen? Where was he? Where had he come from?”

“Who had come from where?” The memory slowly returned. He had closed his eyes for a second while driving.

Tree branches stretched their limbs across a narrow street. They watched him pass quietly below. Their red autumn leaves burning bright in his headlights.

Calm. Safe. He had closed his eyes for a second. Just a second. It was so nice, just that purr from the engine and every now and then a speed hump to help you stay awake. Until you get home.

That’s when he heard something different. Another noise, deeper and earthy. He had hit something at the front of the car. He heard a muffled scream. The crunch against metal. Had he hit a bike?

The left side of the car tilted up on one side as it went over something. It wasn’t like a speed bump. It had been like a balloon that crumpled slightly as the vehicle veered over the obstacle. “Think, think, think.”

He had stopped. Turned off the lights. There had been no noise. Quiet surrounded him like a fog.

In front of him he could see a dark, alien landscape. Still. All the houses had been dark. There was only the colour of the leaves. In the soft glow of the streetlights he could see their autumnal glow of red.

Had he hit something? Someone? Where was that blinking light coming from?

He looked slowly at the street behind, through his rear-view mirror. A misshapen bicycle, its rear light blinking red. A body lay still beside it.

Was that a body? He would lose his job, his wife, his family, his licence.

What was her name tonight? He had done the right thing, hadn’t he?

“Think, think!”

There had been no lights in any windows. Hadn’t that been the case? No lights anywhere.

Had he got out of the car? Had he gone up to the boy? How did he know it was a boy? He couldn’t have been older than a teenager. There had been blood spilling from the boy’s nose. He hadn’t moved.

How did he know all this? And what had happened to the red blinking light? It was no longer there in the rear-view mirror as he drove off quietly. His lights out.

“James? … James? Are you okay?” His wife stood in the doorway of the garage, looking at him, her arms cupped under her pregnant belly.