The Mess We Make of Things

The Mess We Make of Things

Peter McWinigan grimaced as he bit into a tofu slab on whole wheat. The girlfriend had already created a hole in his head and at night in bed seemed to coil like a snake to pounce on his heart and devour any last shred of self-respect. But he loved her. Hamlet at her college auditorium was fine, even though amateur hour lasted far longer than one hour. He eventually became okay with the bulldozer job to his apartment and its change to the décor – a cute little “makeover.” His mother later asked him if he was a metro-sekksual.

He barely withstood when she called him honey bunny when they were at the grocery store, the mall, the movies... But this business of charred rubber in his mouth – which could only be disguised as not charred rubber by dumping an entire bottle of Mrs. Dash on it, then deep frying it – made him think he might want to reevaluate his palette for women.

He chewed through it, even though he took the lettuce off and threw it down. He chewed just like he chewed through years of sweating and bleeding to learn his trade. He was capable of and regularly did things that people have nightmares about. Acrophobia was not on his resume.

Iron working – something about standing on a long metal rod at thousands of feet in the air warmed his chest and gave him pink bubblies in his tummy. He felt like he could finally escape life’s troubles, like everyone talks about in those self-help books, or on Oprah featuring Eckhart Tolle telling you the “Power of Now” is already within you. Well, he knew that power was above everyone’s heads from nine to five, right in his veins – even if he was chewing on a sponge.

He was on top of the world.

“Yo, you just gonna waste that?” Joey Fairchild, son of Magnus Fairchild, the CEO and founder of Fairchild’s Playhouse children’s toy stores – a Fortune 500 company – was every bit as entitled as a junkyard dog without a leash. But there was an air about him that was cool and suave, with his slicked back hair and leather air bomber jacket.

They had been friends since the fifth grade. The magical moment began with Joey holding his face down in the dirt demanding to hear uncle. Peter never said uncle. That’s why they got along. Both tough as nails and ready for action at any moment. Ever since then, they were chummy through it all – thick as thieves – and now sitting next to each other in the air, legs hanging off the edge of a metal platform four feet wide.

And eating from metal lunchboxes just like back in fifth grade.

Peter’s face scrunched up like he’d bit into a lemon. “You want it?”

“No, I like my barbeque.”

“Lucky fucker.” Peter punched him on the shoulder playfully. Joey, alarmed, nervously punched back.

Peter was a red head from a family of read heads. He once asked his dad when he was eleven if they were Irish. His father began to tell a long drawn-out story of how they had rich heritage in the Fraser clan of Ireland. Once they were kicked out of their homeland, they settled in Scotland. At that point Peter was satisfied with the answer and stopped listening.

Something about his last name, McWinigan, made him want to win – again and again. He would always play Monopoly like a tycoon, lending out money to his grandma, for a small fee of course. His grandma taught him everything he knew about money. His great grandparents were as poor as a starving artist, but somehow managed to provide for seven children. Somehow was actually that great grandpa worked two full time jobs and won regularly at poker late at night while his wife was at home clipping coupons and crocheting her next sale.

Peter thought he was going to be a businessman. A big shot. A wall street wolf, or a real estate mogul, or the owner of an empire that imported products from China. His first job at a tire mounting company was the start he needed to build up capital. He would save up enough money to really make something happen, then bust out of the scene and start making waves. Until that terrible day.

His coworker accidentally mounted his hand one fine morning – came clean off. He tried to sue the company for making a faulty mounting brace. He knew it was faulty. His boss knew it was faulty. And his boss’s boss knew it – and didn’t care because he was getting them cheap… from China.

Peter was asked to sign a form that declared all company equipment had been up to snuff from day one and always. He knew this wasn’t true and wouldn’t sign the form. That’s when he lost his job for being a “good guy.” He’d do it all over again if he had to, even though it was harder to find a job in his Montgomery, New York farmland country town than it was to get laid. And it was slim pickins in that department. That’s when he decided it was time to move to the Big Apple.

He spent all his money relocating, but Joey came with him because the women in New York City were fabled to be killer dynamite as he would say. They would give em hell until the money flowed into their bank accounts – and then keep giving hell. They had it all planned out – go to a biker bar, find a big burly man with a metal tool tattooed on his arm, and buy him a beer.

The rest is history.

“Yo Pete, I was gonna tell you… a buddy from the other union shop invited me to his niece’s wedding. Said it was a come one, come all typa thing. You interested?” Joey was devil may care, but when it came time to play the field, he was all business. Plenty of good-looking women all dolled up and ready to be swooned.

He had pick-up lines, one-liners, a lighter to spark a lady’s smoke behind the building, and a shiny suit with a handkerchief in the front pocket to dry the tears of his would be next ex-girlfriend. He was young and full of ambition, ready to climb the ladder into the big bucks one day, but he had a weakness. He couldn’t remember half the women he’d been with, and the other half he didn’t want to remember. They raise wild ones in the farmlands, full of protein in their diets and testosterone in their blood.

Pete was more reserved. He had a hot streak in him now and then, but he could keep his cool when the going got tough. He was conservative with his words, just like with his money, but if it was time to buckle down and do what needs doing, he would.

“I think I might sit this one out.” He was staring at the sky.

“What’s wrong Petey boy? Scared of a little good time? Like we’d do back in the day?”

“No it’s just… “Peter turned and looked Joey in the eyes and saw a playboy. A real whippersnapper, as the old people in town used to say. “I know we used to mess around like that, but man, now that I’m steady with Elaine… I don’t know man. Even though I bitch about her, I think she might be the one.”

Joey smirked. “Nah man, you got plenty of miles left in you before all that happens. C’mon, what she don’t know won’t hurt her right? Say you’re going to the lake with me and the other fellas, take your fishing gear, and your flash suit because I know you still got it, and if you’re serious about this girl of yours, this can be our last time.” He was a real salesman.

He had once convinced one of his teachers in school that he had a condition known as tensive tremor syndrome – that made his hands shake whenever he got overwhelmed. Sold it to her with details and she bought it. Just a forged note from the doctor, a little acting from time to time, and he got to take his tests at home where he would then convince his older brother take it for trading cards that he stole from his younger brother. A real class act.

“I’m going to sit this one out man. Don’t ask again.” Peter’s voice was deep and husky. “And another thing, I have never cheated on a girlfriend, and I never will. I’m not like you.”

Joey stood up and fluttered his jacket, accidentally kicking his lunchbox over the edge into the abyss of cars and passersby down below. Peter got up just as fast.

Joey was playing it cool. He laughed. Then his face hardened, he pointed, and said, “You think you’re better than me? Yeah, you do! Always have too, mister golden boy!”

Peter was bigger than Joey. He could have been a defensive linebacker.

“Actually Joe-Joe, if by better than you, you mean making hard decisions like not taking the cheap way out, not stepping on people to get what you want, not leaving a woman who loves you behind because you’re a damned ‘free spirit who can’t be tied down,’ then yes. I am better than you.”

They were both hot by now. Joey had a vein sticking out the side of his head and Peter’s fists were clenched. They had gotten into it over the years, but this was different. Maybe it was pent up anger Peter had from putting up with Joey’s selfishness over the years. But something popped in Peter’s head, and he was ready.

Joey spat into the air. “You know what, motherfucker. If you’re so perfect and I’m such a dirtbag then why did she come with me to the pool house and let me tickle her like I did?”

Peter stopped breathing for a second. “What are you talking about?” He glared at Joey with a darkness in his eyes, as if he had been tortured for years by a captor and finally had the chance to get revenge. “Who are you talking about?” He was breathing heavy now. His shoulders rising with every heave.

Joey laughed in his typical way, like a spoiled, evil, rich kid laughs at a hobo. “Oh, you know, just some slut. You remember that last wedding we went to? Oh, what fun! How much fun you had when you kept drinking even when your hot new girlfriend, who just had to come along, kept telling you enough was enough… You remember that?” Joey’s eyes were black and red, waiting to make Peter explode by using his daggered words

“What are you saying…”

“I’m saying, when you passed out on the beach, me and your sweet, angry lady, Eleanor, was it? I can’t remember now. Well to tell you the truth I don’t blame her. While your sorry ass was laying right behind us on the other side of the wall, I was pulling her hair and dogging the glitter right out of her!”

The air froze. No breeze. Peter’s heart stopped this time, just for a moment, and he felt a sickness in his gut. His skin was almost purple, and his eyes were made of fire. He took a step closer to Joey, within arm’s reach, and tightened his right fist. He knew what would happen if he did what he wanted to do. He knew it meant a terrible thing. It was just the two of them anywhere in sight.

He tasted blood on his tongue where he had bitten his cheek in anger without knowing it. He wanted more blood now.

Joey saw that look in his eyes, knew what he wanted to do. He backed up. “I’m just playing, Pete. Just joshin ya, you know? Like we always do. Just getting your gizzard, that’s all…”

Peter put his fists up.

In a fight or flight response, Joey was all fight. He took a step forward and swung at Peter.

Peter, being a Scotts-Irishman at heart, had taken up boxing at an early age. He figured if he was big and redheaded, he might as well know how to hold his own in case someone calls him a damned ginger or a freckle face. He kept at it and his coach wanted him to compete. But it was just for back up, as he would say. Just in case.

Peter dipped out of the way of the swing and stepped back again. “You know I could have always beat you. Just like right now!” He bent his back leg, ready to jump into the punch, one right in the gut to drop this fly once and for all. He pushed off.

Peter’s boot, made of genuine real leather, metal-toed, and extra slip-proof, had found a small piece of lettuce laying on the smooth metal band they were standing on. As soon as he made his move he slipped and fell into the abyss.

Joey spat after him. “Serves you right, golden boy!”