Lurch

Lurch

A Short Story by Paul Crehan

NOTE: There are two brief but possibly upsetting images of gruesome death in war.

Popping a zit, Laurens thought, I’m pretty philosophical about everything.

He had hoisted his feet up onto the desk and crossed his ankles. He had clasped his hands at that area where people usually had a belly but where Laurens had a concavity. When he took his Marine Corps physical at 18, the doctors ran tests because there was no way a kid who was 6’3” should only be a buck forty in weight. But they found nothing wrong with him. He just didn’t gain weight. Ate like a horse and didn’t gain weight. And that was still the story. Two years after discharge—honorable discharge—and at 26, Laurens still looked like he looked, and, in fact, still kept his Jarhead cut. High and tight.

6’3”, skinny like a skeleton, acne like a sumbitch all over his chin—why? when it was nowhere else—and that military haircut—yeah, Laurens looked like a dweeb, a scary dweeb. Huge hands, huge feet, cheeks all sunk in, too, and now these dark half-moons under his eyes—lack of sleep—maybe ghoul was the right word. More than once he overheard people calling him “Lurch,” like the butler from The Addams Family.

Laurens didn’t mind. He wondered why he didn’t. Shouldn’t he? Perhaps the Marine Corps had taught him what to care about and not care about. Perhaps seeing women and babies (he gave fuck-all about the men) mooshed under tank treads and mulched by rapid-fire gave him perspective.

So he could be philosophical about this. Lurch. Okay. He really stood out. People gawped. It probably had something to do with why he was a night watchman. Or not at all. Because he really couldn’t find in himself that he cared that people gawped. He could not find it. But did that mean it wasn’t there—the caring?

Being a night watchman wasn’t any kind of job. Not here, anyway. Nothing to watch. There was a guard shack at the entrance gate to the studio, and Marv took his job seriously—good man—giving everyone who entered at night a real good look and studying their faces as they answered his questions. Not because he was a petty man trying to get attention by being an asshole. But because he took his job seriously. Nothing bad was going to happen on his watch.

Laurens was second line of defense, here in the main building, the executive building. Big, modern, half-circle desk, modern but comfortable swivel chair, an almost wrap-around line of surveillance screens and a big, complicated phone console. He wasn’t supposed to take his holster off—gun, baton, taser—all that—he wasn’t supposed to take it off, but he always did. If anybody knew anything about retrieving what you needed fast and, like, dexterously, it was Laurens.

He wasn’t allowed a TV or his phone, radio or reading material. If he couldn’t do his job, which was being alert and always-watchful, and listening to everything and assessing what it was and meant, then he could find another one. The building supervisor had made that clear when he hired him last year. He wasn’t supposed to engage with the employees, either, beyond the usual pleasantries—all the executives and polish editors brought in at the last moment, and always the writers—he was supposed to say a word or two to them, then go back to his work.

It was two writers pushing through the glass door, like, twenty feet beyond his little station, who one night laughed together when one of them said, “….Lurch there…”

And he wasn’t at all mad. Or hurt. Or anything.

Sometimes he got a skosh lonely in the night—in the early morning, 3a, 4a—so called Marv on the walkie. He liked the crackle of it, broke the silent boredom.

Marv would say, “Yeah? What’s wrong?” Said it every time. “Nothing,” Laurens would say, “just thought I’d check in with you to see if all was square there.”

“You mean,” Marv once said, and his tone got relaxed as once in a blue moon it did, “am I dead, and the bad guys are coming your way.”

“Something like that,” Laurens said, not wanting to say, “Nah, just called to hear your voice.”

But tonight when he reached for the walkie to call Marv, he took his hand back. Didn’t feel like it. Not yet, anyway. It wasn’t much past 2a.

He heard the elevator ding behind him. Big bank of elevators—six of them—in the sleek, marble, echo-y elevator vestibule or whatever that elevator area was called. He heard clattering heels. Swift little clatter. That would be Ms. Schelling. Margot Schelling. VP of something or other. So many VP’s here—of this and that—like, 20 of them. A few of them were brusque, and a few were condescending. Most were okay, though. Nice people. Very busy, very driven, minds fully occupied even at this late hour, or very early hour. He could see having a few beers with a couple of the guys, everyone enjoying themselves for real. Like Mel Portnoff, big burly Jewish guy, big beard, big laugh, VP of god knows what, always sesame seed shells somewhere on his clothes. Had some horribly crippled wife. Laurens couldn’t remember how he knew that, but know it, he did. Crippled wife that needed 24/7 care, and yet Mel managed to keep it together every single day. Of course, maybe she was the reason he worked so long every day, you know? Because work was less hard. Being here was easier than being at home.

Ms. Schelling was one of the okay ones. Genuinely sweet—you could tell. Could have a boyfriend or husband, whatever, or girlfriend—who knows, everyone seemed to be gay now—but he just knew that she didn’t. How could she? He knew from his computer logs that she was in before 8a six days a week and out whenever it would be. Like tonight, 2:26a.

He turned quickly, for just a moment, away from the screen to say good night as she passed, and that’s when he saw her drop. Purse flying as if she’d flung it but she hadn’t, that crazy-green water bottle she had all the time bouncing and clanging away, one shoe flying and hitting his desk, her dress—he’d have to do something about that for her—pull it back down or something.

He raced over. “Miss Schelling?! Miss Schelling!” Man, she was out. He tugged her dress back down but not before—how could he help it?—noting her underwear—practical black panties—for all-day wear or whatever, but nothing sexy.

She made some kind of sound, and he ran through his field casualty protocol. He did a fast full-body assessment—no visible blood, she hadn’t convulsed, no vomit—no apparent broken anything, nothing had fallen on her, this wasn’t epilepsy. He gently raised her up to sitting position, gently pushing her legs back to where they needed to be to help support the weight of her raised upper body. He held her at the sides of her shoulders to keep her from toppling over. Diabetes? Heart…?

“What happened?” she asked. She braced herself—straight arm out and hand to the floor. He got around to her other side. Checked her face—nothing droopy. Her speech wasn’t slurred. “Any discomfort in your arm?” he asked her. She shook her head no. This wasn’t a stroke. He’d have to hear more, but this wasn’t a stroke.

“You collapsed, Ms. Schelling,” Laurens said. She took that in for several moments. “You fainted,” Laurens added, in case ‘collapsed’ was too broad a term.

Ms. Schelling—Margot—nodded. It looked as if that tracked for her. “Can I just sit here for a minute?” she asked Laurens.

“Of course,” Laurens said, and only after he said it wondered why she was asking his permission to do that. “Can I call somebody for you? I think you’re okay, but ideally, we’d call 9-1-1.”

“No,” she said. “Thank you. I just fainted. I’ve been doing that.”

Should he ask why? He was just the night guard; dude she saw for the amount of time it took her to cross the big marble echo-y lobby to get to the doors. “May I ask why?” he said.

“Work. I don’t hydrate enough. I try to hydrate, all day, and it’s never enough. And you know, stress. All that shit. This is the third time in a month.”

Was she pregnant? His cousin Bettina, God rest her soul, had fainted a lot during her first pregnancy. But sure as shit he wasn’t going to ask anything like that.

“Can I bring you a chair? Or maybe—do you want me to help you to that couch by the door there?”

She thought this through. She nodded. “Couch,” she said.

They made a moderately paced way across the lobby. She held his hand tight, her hand so small in his. He helped her down. “I’ll get your things,” he said.

“It’s trouble,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

“It’s not. It’s two seconds.”

He brought her back her purse, her shoe, and her water bottle.

“My shoe?” she said, looking at it in his hand as he walked back. “I lost my shoe?”

He said nothing and put her things by her side. “We keep little bottles of water and snacks in the desk,” he said. “Can I bring you a water?”

“I don’t know,” she said—she was actually trying to figure out whether she wanted or should have a water. “Yes. Please,” she finally said.

He got her a water and brought it back. Handed it to her.

She nodded thanks. Twisted off the cap and drank—a very little. Then a very little again. She put the cap back on. She looked around at the entirety of the lobby. “You don’t realize how big this place is until night, when all the people are gone.”

“It always looks big to me,” Laurens said.

Ms. Schelling looked at him—for the first time looked at him square. She smiled; made a little laugh. Little but genuine. “Do you get lonely here in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes,” Laurens said, “but it’s my job, right?—to keep an eye on things, and listen. It’s a strange job, though. Harder than it looks—to be on high alert, when you know the odds of anything bad happening are slim and none. I leave exhausted. Sounds crazy, I know.” He had said way too much. He wasn’t supposed to chat. And anyway, he had shared way too much with someone he didn’t know, and who wouldn’t have any basis for giving a damn.

“It doesn’t,” Miss Schelling said, “sound crazy. Sounds like…I don’t know what it sounds like. My mind still feels grainy. But it sounds like a lot of life. Like anyone’s life. I don’t know.”

Laurens gave her the courtesy of a meditative nod, but also began to think that it was an interesting thing to ponder, what she’d said. He’d do that after she left. And he wanted her to stay, but he had to get back to work; to his desk, and screens, and being alert.

“Will you want to drive?” Laurens asked. He had been careful about word selection. You didn’t want to say, Do you think you can drive? Or Do you think you should drive? Women were different these days, especially here, in Los Angeles. Younger women. Mansplaining. Patriarchy. There was all of that to consider. Not so much in Knoxville.

Miss Schelling nodded, then looked at him again and laughed. “I like the word choice,” she said. “It’s just so careful. You poor guys. But I appreciate it. It’s very thoughtful.”

Laurens wasn’t sure what to say about this, or really, wasn’t sure what to say next, if anything. And he did have to get back to work. But he wasn’t about to say, “Well…” or anything like that, like someone wrapping up a conversation. Let her do that. Don’t make her get up when she might not really be ready.

“Well,” she said. Was she feeling his vibe—that he wanted to get back to work?

“Okay,” Laurens said. “You’ve got your color back. You’re not shaky. I mean, I can see that. I mean, I wouldn’t have known you fainted. But maybe take just a little more water.” Shit! Mansplaining! “I mean, I was in the military for a while. Hydration. A hydrated force lives to fight another day.”

What a stupid thing to say! he thought. No one in the history of the world ever said that.

Miss Schelling nodded and sipped a little more water. She didn’t seem offended. The opposite, maybe. Like he’d been caring, and she appreciated it. She capped the bottle. “The military,” she said. “Where were you? I mean, where did you serve?”

He pursed his lips. It was an automatic thing in his life—told a lot, that lip-pursing. “Overseas,” he said, “but it’s still classified stuff. I can’t—and I’m not making this up to sound, like, impressive, or whatever, it’s just true—I can’t talk about it. But I can say that we were there in case. We were the just in case outfit.” This might have been true, or a true enough way to put it, but it sure as shit wasn’t the whole story. The PTSD didn’t come from being there in case. He had to shut up now. And anyway, to talk about it was terrible, to think about it terrible. He felt the cold sweat chilling him as it ran down his sides. No stopping things now. His shirt would be soaked, or maybe not soaked, but wet in less than a couple of hours. But he had learned to keep a spare in a drawer. No problems, then. He’d just slip it on. Right there; then, all was well.

Margot looked at him carefully. Lots of questions in her eyes. Did she sense he was lying, though not lying, really, just not saying everything?

She looked away, to some spot almost behind her in the lobby. Was she looking at some specific thing, an object? No, at a thought, Laurens thought. She turned back to him. “We make up all these stories here,” she said. “You know? But it’s incredible how many stories, real stories, are here all about us—in this one building. I sure have mine.”

The way she said it, it was definitely like an opening for him to ask her about it. But he couldn’t! He was getting anxious about work, and getting anxious about the sweating. She said, “But that’s for another day!” She added, “All right?”

His heart stirred up at that. All right? Like she wanted to share more with him. Him! Like, she was even asking his permission.

“Of course,” he said. “I look forward to hearing it.” That sounded a little lame, a little perfunctory. Should he add something else? But the moment passed. She was reaching for her shoe, to put it on, but he said, anyway, he shouldn’t, but he did, “Very much.”

She got her shoe on. “All right, then,” she said. But it could have been an all right meaning, all right, then, it’s time for me to go, or an all right, I’ll definitely tell you more. I’ll definitely come and talk to you. I want to talk to you.

Laurens stood up, poised to help her up if she required help. Maybe she’d extend a hand…? She didn’t. She pushed herself up, putting her purse over her head and across her body. She tucked her water bottle under her arm. She looked all put together now. Like Ms. Schelling.

“Well. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll have to figure out a way to say thank you.”

You can just talk to me one night, Laurens thought. He wondered if he were communicating that to her with his eyes, his vibe. Would that be good, if he was? Or bad?

“Oh. Gosh,” he said. “That’s not necessary. Please. It’s just what we do for one another, right? In life? Help each other up?”

Looking at him square, she nodded. “It is.”

He escorted her to the door and held it open for her. She flashed him a smile and turned and headed down the steps and to the right toward the parking structure. He watched her disappear.

He went back to his desk. Scrutinized the screens. Then back-timed them. Watched what he had missed at 2x time. All was well.

She hadn’t asked for his name. Hadn’t volunteered her own. I’m Margot.

She’d forget what she’d said, and there would be some engagement, more than ever before—a way to acknowledge that they had shared something; a moment; and eventually that would taper off, back to the usual, “Good night!”

This is what Laurens thought. Because it was the most reasonable thing to think. Anybody and everybody could have a moment, a moment of human connection, and then you move on.

But Laurens thought wrong. That’s not how it would turn out.

                                                      The End