Every morning he dipped his toast in his hot black tea. He watched the eddies of margarine, or whatever you called it, this new-age, healthy-for-you oil balance stuff, swirl, congeal into circles, squares, triangles, lines, or milky ways--his fortune for the day. Then, he would drink his fortune or dump out the tea, depending on whether he liked what he saw in the margarine. He ate his toast from the crust to the inside. He operated around the center because he figured he didn’t like the crust very much. He wanted the worst of it over with. Why didn’t he just not eat the crust? He had heard somewhere as a kid that it was healthier for you, but who knew if that had any scientific backing. That morning he looked at the oil slick and knew it would be the worst day of his life. He threw the whole mug into the recycle bin, then moved the bin to the curb two days early. His cat rubbed against his leg.
He drove like his wheels were stuck in super-hold hair gel, except when one of two things were happening: when he was on his way to have sex or when he was on his way somewhere where he thought there was a good chance he could have sex. He’d had a professor, or better yet a teacher, in a high school class on spirituality and religion, who seemed to favor Buddhism over other forms of religion. This teacher had once told him that he or more specifically, the class in general, was more likely to die in a car accident than anything else at the age of seventeen, and that they should try to be bodhisattvas of the highway. “A bodhisattva of the highway,” he thought.
Every time he went out there, he should try to leave himself enough time so that his emotions would not overtake logic and basic sensibility of right and wrong. He should keep in mind that he was driving an object that could kill many people in an instant with one wrong decision. His lessons from high school fluttered away in the wind like butterflies, except for the bodhisattva-driving lesson. He couldn’t even recall the teacher’s name, although he could see his face; glasses, scraggly white beard, balding, with the matted ponytail in the back that somehow tried to make up for the baldness on top. Mr. Fox was it? The –ox ending sounded correct.
The rotary-dial phone on the mosaic table fluttered as the hammer hit the stainless steel bell. Tara cried softly and asked him to come over. They had not had sex yet, and this added nitro to his sex driving: the possibility of sex with someone different who did not demand payment in the form of cash. Maybe it was going to be a good day despite what his swirling oils said. Good move tossing the cup.
He popped the hood and checked the synthetic oil, as he did every morning. It was golden and within the acceptable range. He inspected the windshield wipers, wiping the black smudge off the blades with a wet sani-wipe that he ripped fresh from a Costco pack in the glove box. He noted with some trepidation that the remaining sani-wipes numbered less than ten. Sex first, then he could swing by Costco on the way back. He’d stay in the rest of the day so as not to toy with fate.
He leaned in and sniffed the driver’s seat. He pulled out a bottle of CK1 and spritzed the leopard print seat cover. He quickly wiped the steering wheel’s wooden surface and gave the parking brake a brief once over. He checked his mirrors, signaled with both the blinker and his outstretched arm, then proceeded off the curb.
A cat, his cat darted across in front of his purring Cobra, just as he accelerated. He smashed the brake pedal as Snuggles darted up the driveway into his backyard. He should get out and shuttle her into the house, but the lure of naked breasts pulled his right Doc Martin sideways to his gas pedal with an audible swoosh of his slacks.
He reached the first stop sign without further incident. He tapped the black knob and Metallica filled the cab with electric guitar and deep, angry vocals.
I guess the oil in my tea was wrong this time. Nothing bad happened to him and the day ended with him crawling into bed, tired but contented that he'd gotten to have sex with a beautiful if distraught girl. He’d even remembered to stop at Costco and replenish his sani-wipes. Nice work guy.
Then the call came, three months later. He wondered why she had not called again. He had heard once that having sex with someone you don't really know intimately is unsatisfying, particularly for women. She seemed to enjoy it, but then again he never got that level of ecstasy they always describe in Cosmo or Maxim. Some kind of screaming that seems a little out of hand. He'd seen pictures of women in some mask they called orgasm, but it looked like most of them were dying. Anyway, he supposed it wasn't so bad, 'cause here she was on the other end of his rotary dial phone wanting some more lovin' no doubt.
They exchanged hellos then the dirty word came, pregnant. Why you calling me? You are the one who impregnated her she claims. Ha. A woman looking like you must have sex round the clock, no offense, he says back with a laugh and a wink in his chest. Did you wear a condom she shoots back? What's a condom he retorts? Are you retarded she asks in a voice one octave lower.
She started throwing up and wanting to eat more food, although it's not weird food combos like they claim in movies, just more of the standard peanut butter and honey sandwiches along with a draught of orange juice. She claims to be thirteen weeks preggy. Kids that are mine. The only time we had sex was that day he says. She says that's the only time she's had sex in the last six months, so it has to be his or some ogre who pillaged her in the middle of the night while she was ruffied.
He looked at the tea he was drinking and dunked some of his toast into it. The oil eddied around a bit as steam wafted into the seventy degree re-circulated air. That's funny, it says today could be the best day of my life, but the oil sometimes shifts to the same worst day position it had thirteen weeks ago. There wasn’t even any wind.
Are you still there she says? Yes, he's there. According to my teacup, this is going to be the best day of my life, he tells her. She waits. He guesses he'd better go over to her place again so they can get to know each other.