Page 49 of Check Me Out

Those inconsiderate noisy neighbors. He decided that the next time they kept him up all night with their stomping and music, he’d park himself outside their door early the next morning and pound as loudly as possible. Hell, he’d bring a portable speaker, press it to the door, and play “Macarena” over and over at full volume.

Now, though, what he really wanted to do was go back to sleep. He twisted around and eyed his pillow, his good sheets, his cozy blanket. There was an early meeting scheduled. He could cancel it, though; nobody would die. He’d say he was feeling under the weather.

But dammit, then several other people would be inconvenienced, his boss would have a tantrum, and… and it just wasn’t worth it. He decided to caffeinate heavily instead.

Although he kept the shower water frigid, it didn’t rouse him. After shaving, brushing, and dressing, he stumbled into the kitchen and stood yawning while a pot of coffee brewed. The scent, while delicious, didn’t shake his stupor.

Last week he’d bought a new thermal mug that looked like a camera lens. He got it out of the cupboard and was about to fill it when he had second thoughts. It was sort of… silly, wasn’t it? Perhaps too frivolous for an insurance company project manager. He’d save it for weekend use. He filled his old muginstead, a plain slate-colored one with a tricky seal around the lid.

Shoulders drooping, he slowly trekked to the parking lot, where his faithful gray Honda awaited. He made a mental note to get the tires replaced over the weekend. He’d been making the same mental note for something like two months now, but this time he vowed to remember and follow through.

He got in the car, set the mug in the cup holder, and started the engine.

And then… he sat there for a minute.

Had he remembered to floss his teeth this morning? He didn’t think he had. It could wait until tonight. Except…. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Something didn’t feel quite right. Last night he’d eaten popcorn while watching a stupid movie on Netflix, and he probably had a hull stuck between his molars. That would drive him nuts all day.

Sighing, he turned off the car and went back inside.

He flossed.

He had his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave again, when he froze. For absolutely no reason, he remembered a commercial he’d once seen. The ad actually predated him—it had run in the seventies—but he’d seen it on a YouTube video that compiled funny old advertising. There had been a grouchy koala complaining that it hated Qantas Airlines.

Why the hell had that popped into his brain?

Because he was sleep-deprived and not especially clear-headed, that was why. But if so, why was he dragging himself in to work, in to a meeting where he’d spend hours trying desperately to stay awake?

“My boss can go screw himself,” said Joe. He sent off a quick email, describing a fictional malady. It felt like the most daring act ever.

He returned to his bedroom, shucked his clothing, and climbed back into bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

When he woke up three hours later, he felt decadent and well-rested. And hungry. He got up slowly and gave a huge stretch that made his joints crack in satisfying ways. He was going to make himself French toast for brunch, he decided. And he’d drown it in butter and syrup. Or maybe he’d do an omelet instead, and some home fries, and—

No, better yet, he’d take himself out somewhere nice to eat.

Grinning, he put on jeans, a tee, and sneakers. But once again he stopped himself before leaving his apartment. If he was going to play hooky anyway, he should make the best of it. He should do somethingreallyfun.

“Like what?” he said out loud. It had been a long time since he’d planned anything purely for enjoyment. Then his gaze landed on the framed photo hanging next to the door. Taken while on a nighttime walk, the photograph of the grocery store had been snapped from across the street and through the window, where fluorescent lights shone on an aisle empty of customers. It was sort of an artsy image. Some might see it as melancholy, symbolic of abandonment or alienation, reminiscent of Hopper’s famousNighthawkspainting. Others as hopeful, an oasis in the dark. He liked its ambiguity.

Joe had taken the photo years ago, when he used to wander the city with a camera.

God, he’d loved doing that.

Now he went back into his bedroom, rooted around in the closet for several minutes, and emerged with his beloved old Canon. It used actual film—and there were still a few unused rolls left in the case. Yeah, they were fifteen years old, but they might produce some interesting effects.

Joe hummed to himself as he walked to the car.

When he sat down, he noticed the mug of coffee, which by now would be room temperature despite the insulation. It was the most boring-looking mug in the world but he’d used it for a couple of years nonetheless, dragging the thing to work and back every damned day. Recently the seal had started to degrade, which made it hard to screw the top on correctly, and yet he wasstillusing it because he worried about what people might think of the new one that looked like a lens. How stupid was that? Nobody cared what he drank his coffee from.

He got out of the car and tossed the mug into the nearby trash bin. It was an unexpectedly satisfying action, even though the lid came loose and, in a final act of malice, ended up splashing him with a little tepid liquid. He swore a little, decided the small spatters on his shirt weren’t worth going inside to change, and got back into the car.

His first inclination was to go downtown, but there was the small but not insignificant chance he’d run into someone from work. So instead he drove pretty much at random, turning here or there, keeping his speed slow because he was mindful of his bald tires. It was a fun diversion, but eventually his stomach grew demanding. He parked in a neighborhood that included a couple of blocks of funky shops and hip restaurants, then took several shots of a power pole covered in endless layers of flyers that formed a colorful sort of sculpture. He also photographed a crow perched on a tree branch, a vintage neon bar sign, and abright mural. Finally he stepped into a restaurant called Dina’s Café.

It proved to be a tiny place with a half-dozen tables, a glass pastry case filled with pies and cakes, and an aroma of baking bread that was so delicious he was practically drooling as he approached the wooden cashier counter. The beautiful woman who stood there smiled and handed him a laminated menu. “Sit wherever you like,” she said. “I’ll come take your order in a few minutes.” Then she disappeared into the back room.

Joe looked around. Five of the tables were occupied, which left one for him. Except… there in the corner. A man was staring at Joe, brows drawn as if he was trying to figure something out. He was gorgeous, with waves of golden-brown hair and the kindest brown eyes Joe had ever seen.

He also looked familiar, although Joe couldn’t for the life of him figure out how or why.

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