Sal

Ryan Richins

“That is, if you want to, and I mean that. I’m not trying to be weird,” she blinked, “You know?”

He didn’t. And he said so. And she blinked again.

“Really, I’m not opposed to it, never have been.” She continued. She blinked. “It’s really rather simple. If you want to, then I want to—I’d be happy, really—and if you don’t want to then I really would rather not. Do you actually want to?”

He told her that he did. He told her that that was why he had asked her. And the slight hope that she might decline pulsed and died in the lower left area of the back of his mind. The disappointment dripped from what he was sure was his cerebellum over his brain’s rather ugly, wrinkled folds and then off the end of what was arguably his medulla. It landed finally in his stomach, where it belonged. Not a very potent solution of disappointment mind you. In fact, had Sal Rednav not been so in tune with the inner-workings and chemical exchanges that took place within his skull, he might—he thought—have even mistaken the subtle secretion of disappointment for something akin to a complacency, or balancing enzyme.

“Okay then. If you’re sure, then I’d love to. Really. Thank you, Sal.”

Thank you, Stacy. Drip.

Sal stood on the sidewalk and watched Stacy climb the steps to her apartment, his eyes following her hand as it opened and closed repeatedly and uncomfortably all the way up. He turned. He pushed his hands further into his jacket pockets, and he walked west. Sal lived west of Stacy, and had for several years now. He had actually composed a song in his head that he would have titled West of Stacy—had he titled it. The song was not particularly catchy, nor did the lyrics ever stray far from the obvious chorus “west of Stacy,” but Sal sang it in his head every time he walked home from Stacy’s apartment. He did this mainly because it was composed to last exactly the amount of time that he needed to arrive home.

And still I’m living west of Stacy; Sal opened his front door as the song ended, closed, and was slipped saved into the warm folds of his frontal lobe.

Reddish sunset spilled through the front windows of the modest townhouse. Sal went to the dry erase calendar that hung next to the phone and penned Date w/ Stacy in the square marked March 10th. In the square marked March 9th he scribbled out the note he had written to himself earlier that day which read Ask Stacy out for tomorrow. Just above Sal’s right ear a strain in his brain’s cortex loosened and gurglingly relaxed. Drip. He went to the living room. He sank into a green chair positioned opposite the house’s front windows; he closed his eyes, and he laid his head back. The sunset’s reds turned into diffused yellows, then grays. Sal’s jaw relaxed; his mouth drooped open slightly. What Sal would later be sure were pesky loafing neurons began to run-amuck with the trinkets and reminders that he had so meticulously placed during the day. He slept.

Sal had a housemate. Sal had lived at home until he was twenty-four, at which point his parents decided that it was time that he make it on his own, so they rented out their room, and moved to California. Sal didn’t feel abandoned by the gesture. He liked the house a great deal, and this way he didn’t have to bother moving twenty-four-year’s worth of little league trophies and term papers. Furthermore thirty-year-old Ethan, who had rented his parents’ room, was far less strict and never nagged him about his dirty dishes.

Ethan wasn’t Ethan’s real name. Before he was Ethan, he was probably Steve. He spent seven consecutive summers working at a Boy Scout camp before renting the Rednav’s room. His move to the townhouse was part of a personality overhaul that required what he termed “a significant increase of thug appeal.” It also required his abandoning an impressively large boondoggle collection.

boon·dog·gle (bndôgl, -dgl) n.
    1. An unnecessary or wasteful project or activity.
    2. A braided leather or plastic cord worn as a decoration especially by Boy Scouts.

“Boondoggle’s for pussies, yo.”

Sal was uncomfortable with the word “pussies.” He was also uncomfortable with the many variations of it that Ethan was so prone to use. It would cause slight tremors in some unstable synaptic gap.

“Puss.”

Tremor.

“Pussy.”

Tremor.

“Pussy-Whipped. Puss-Pal. Pussy-Whacker.”

Tremor. Tremor. Tremor.

At night Ethan would come home late with a woman he’d recently met. He’d find Sal sleeping in his green chair. He would make a hilariously quiet ordeal of explaining to the woman that she should be silent. They would laugh and shush each other and try not to wake Sal. Sal would always wake, but he wouldn’t move.

“It’s my retarded brother,” Ethan would whisper. He would tell her how he had to take care of him.

“I have to take care of him. He’s retarded. And kind of a puss.”

Tremor.

They would laugh and shush each other and go upstairs and have sex in the Rednav’s old bedroom.

March 10th: Date w/ Stacy. The white morning light leaked through the kitchen windows spilling off the dry erase calendar.

“Good work, my man.” Ethan slapped Sal on the back. “She’s that skinny broad around the corner. Am I right?”

He was.

“Way to go little brother. I was worried that you might be an f-n’ queer, yo.” Sal sat at the table working on an onion bagel, while Ethan went about amassing the obscene amount of ingredients and supplements that made up his daily weight-gain shake.

“Ya spend all that time with her, but never go for the piece. Yeah, I had you pegged as the f-n’ fag friend for sure.”

Sal wasn’t the f-n’ fag friend. He had told Ethan that he wasn’t. He told him again. Stacy is the girl next door. Stacy is his Winnie. Sal explained that you’re never really trying to just get a piece from the girl next door.

“You mean, she’s like your Winnie the Pooh? Dude you are a fag.”

Sal explained about The Wonder Years, and about Winnie the Girl. From somewhere between Sal’s occipital and temporal lobes, Fred Savage began to deliver some nostalgic narration. It echoed hollowly across his skull creating static as it collided with his articulation about what a girl next door is worth. Sal tried to defend innocence but Ethan joined the static. Fred and Ethan won. Sal was quiet.

“Listen. I think I remember. Did that Winnie chick have huge jugs?” Ethan said.

“Growing up happens in a heartbeat,” Fred said.

“Dude, don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean by jugs. Jugs are key, bro.”

“But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul.”

“Hey, if you’re into those super-skinny boy-hoes that’s your business, but give me some substance. You know what I mean?”

“And the thing is, after all these years I still look back with wonder.” Fred ducked back into some crevice and the nostalgia that had seeped out about his feet was absorbed by Sal’s spongy grey matter.

“Way to go man, seriously. You are the man!” Ethan finished his shake. He gave Sal one more slap on the back and rushed off to offer some much-needed technical support over the phone for eight-fifty an hour.

Sal usually worked at the new Pet Barn from ten to six every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It was Friday. He called in sick. When it came to lying to his place of work, Sal produced a high concentration of what he was certain was a powerful guilt suppressant. He wasn’t sick. He had a date. He needed time to prepare. Dates are hard.

Sal likes girls who can run really fast. He used to like girls with large breasts, but that turned out to be a shallow reason to like girls. He decided that liking girls because they can run really fast seemed more unique, and thus more respectable. Furthermore, the ability to run really fast—he reasoned—seems to be inversely related to breast size; keeping him that much further from being regarded as shallow. Stacy can run pretty fast. Fast enough, thought Sal.

That afternoon was hot. Sal slept a lot. He needed to prepare.

Gil didn’t die in the war.

“They died like dogs. My buddies did,” Gil said, “but I didn’t die like a dog.”

Gil’s son didn’t care. His name was Charlie.

“I don’t care, Dad,” Charlie told Gil.

“Like dogs, Charlie, my boy. That’s how they died.”

Gil sat next to Charlie who sat next to Sal Rednav who sat next to Stacy. They sat in the kind of reclined chairs with headrests that you find in a dentist’s office. These chairs, however, were found in the South Ridge Valley Community Plasma Donation Center. Gil, Charlie, Sal, and Stacy were donating plasma. Stacy had expected dinner and maybe some bowling, and wondered why Sal took her to donate plasma. Sal wondered in which war Gil’s friends had died like dogs.

“Sal, are you short on cash? If you are, that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it, really. I’m happy to do anything. Are we here because you don’t have enough money to go somewhere nice? Because I’m fine with just going to the park, really.”

Sal had money. He worked at the new Pet Barn. He told Stacy.

“I know you work, Sal. I just thought we would do something other than donate plasma.”

Sal had always assumed that “the war” was World War Two. Gil seemed too young to have fought in World War Two.

“Can it really even be considered donating plasma?” Stacy wondered aloud. “I mean, they pay you for it.”

Sal couldn’t see much of Stacy. He imagined that she blinked. He explained that dating was hard, and that he wanted to do something that would not be superficial; something that would benefit others while they spent time together. He also explained that they could get some ice cream afterwards.
Sal could see Stacy’s hand open and close. He considered reaching out to hold it, but his brain stem protested the notion, ordering more labored breath and an increase of blood flow to his head. Sal blushed, and decided against it. Besides, the needle in his arm restricted his range of motion.

“This is nothing, Charlie. You know nothing of discomfort. My buddies knew about discomfort. Dying like a dog, Charlie, that’s uncomfortable.”

Vietnam couldn’t be “the war.” There were other wars surely, Sal thought. Stacy leaned closer to him. He could smell her shampoo, and he considered holding her hand again.

“They make me uncomfortable.” She whispered.

Sal explained that the machine was just a spinning device and that her platelets were ostracizing her plasma. He didn’t like the idea of his blood circulating outside of his body either. He felt out of touch.

“No. They make me uncomfortable,” she whispered, indicating Gil and Charlie. “I’d like to go, if that’s okay. When can we go?”

They couldn’t go yet. They weren’t done.

“Hey there. Nurse,” Gil called. “You’ve probably seen some gruesome things haven’t you? I’ve seen some pretty gruesome things myself.”

When all their blood had found its way back into their bodies, Sal and Stacy left.

“Ice cream would be great. I love ice cream.”

Sal loved ice cream too. They went to Poppy’s. Poppy’s is kind of a dump. It had been a low-budget 50’s-themed ice cream parlor, but seemed to be transitioning into one of those clutter joints with celebrity photos and lacrosse rackets mounted on the walls. Sal chose Poppy’s because he and Stacy had been there together before. It wasn’t where they met for the first time, nor had anything eventful happened there. They had simply been there together before—a long time before. Sal hoped that Stacy would feel the nostalgia, too.

“This table feels a little sticky to me. Like it hasn’t been washed. Does it feel sticky to you?”

The table was sticky. Sal suggested they move outside.

“I’m fine either way. I just thought it felt a little sticky, that’s all. Outside would be nice, too. If you want to.”

They sat outside. Sal asked Stacy about things he already knew. They talked about her degree in sociology and how it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. They talked about how much she was paying for rent. They talked about her increasing fascination with old musical movies. Sal explained that it is illegal to sell turtles shorter than four inches long—that kids put them in their mouths and get salmonella.
As the sun set Sal’s retinas sent word that the cones should pull back. Rods were sent forward and Sal’s pupils dilated. They enjoyed themselves and the conversation got quieter.
Sal asked Stacy about things he had only guessed. Stacy hates her job. She sees little good coming from her efforts to organize benefit packages for employees of the cotton-ball factory. She wants to do some good for the general public. She laughs at motivational posters.

Stacy told Sal things he didn’t know. She is often sad. She has a prescription for it. She hasn’t told her parents.

Sal had heard somewhere that depression was caused by the inability of serotonin to clear the synaptic gap. It was called reuptake—he had heard—the serotonin are sucked back to the ledge they jump from. Sal knew better. Though it is true that some serotonin never reach the opposing face, it is not true that they end back safely where they began. They leap. They miss and plunge to the bottom of the gap. They don’t writhe or scream, they’re much too optimistic to carry on like that. That’s probably why no one believes they fall, Sal imagined—because they don’t fuss.

They went back to Sal’s townhouse.

Surprisingly, Sal Rednav has a Rubik’s Cube lodged in his brain. This is surprising even to Sal. He can manipulate the puzzle—can rotate the cubes—but the game seems to be in charge of initiating itself. It crowds out Sal’s more proactive thoughts. The sharp edges and inorganic gears pinch and poke his softer tissue. When put to use it occupies his thoughts enough to paint an interested expression, but is mind-numbing enough to allow him to utilize only his sensory memory. It was put to use that evening.

“Hey there, kids! Good to see you got home safe, I was worried, bro.”

Ethan had had a long day at work. He told them about it. Stacy—it turned out—had also had a long day, and she empathized. Sal didn’t explain that he had slept for most of the day, and his Rubik’s Cube began to completely overwhelm his frontal lobe. Sal sat in his green chair in his living room. On the couch to his left sat Stacy and Ethan. Ethan liked fast cars and so did Stacy. So did Sal, but he didn’t say so.

“Fast cars kick ass!”

Stacy giggled. She blinked. An unexpected brooding agent saturated Sal’s cortex. He dozed off. The Rubik’s Cube had made his head ache. Ethan and Stacy laughed. When they noticed Sal sleeping they made a hilariously quiet ordeal about not waking him up. They shushed each other, and Ethan offered to walk Stacy home. They left.

The quiet helped Sal’s head. Thoughts of work the next day at the Pet Barn began to scratch and kick up dust, clouding out the evening’s events. The cube slowed. Music lingered faintly in the dust—West of Stacy perhaps—twice through and Ethan should return. Sal would wake; Ethan wouldn’t know.
The front door opened, clearing the dust. The music ended prematurely while neurons scattered like cockroaches.

“Sal,” she whispered, “Sal, are you awake?”

Sal was awake. He didn’t say so.

“Sal, I’d like you to walk me home. If you want to.”

Sal wanted to.

“Sal, if you’re too tired, I understand.”

Sal was awake, but he didn’t move. Stacy blinked, he was sure, and the door closed. Drip. Sal thought about serotonin. He thought about them falling happily, or complacently—quietly at least. He had explained to Ethan about them once. Explained how they fall unnoticed. Ethan thought it over awhile.

“No, I think they just puss out, dude.”

Tremor.

Back to Top