Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,26

sipping from the Coke.

“How’s that?”

“I seem to be in the process of ruining everything.”

“Are you going to knock it off? The ruining, I mean.”

“I’m trying.”

“Men love to say that they’re trying. But really, you either do something or you don’t. Trying is for babies learning to walk.”

In principle, Coffen agrees with what Tilda is saying—trying is the most tired excuse out there. The worst part is that it’s not even true, in Coffen’s case. He’s not trying. If he had been trying, Jane wouldn’t have had to stoop to a magician for marital help.

“I miss babies,” says Bob. “I loved napping with my daughter asleep on my chest.”

“How old are yours?”

“Twelve and nine.”

“Those ages are still fun,” Tilda says. “Wait until they shack up in Roy’s car with a bun in the oven and a meth habit. Then we’ll talk.”

Bob loves Tilda’s honesty. When do you cross paths with somebody who so freely talks about their family’s dirty laundry? First, the intercom-sex scam and now her daughter squatting in Roy’s car. Her honesty makes Bob feel that he can confide, too. He says, “My kids aren’t the problem. I’m the problem.”

“Wait until you hand your daughter a notice for jury duty through Roy’s car window.”

“I’m glad to hear it gets worse.”

“Everything gets worse,” Tilda says. “It’s one of the perks of being alive.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“More often than not.”

“Thanks for the free food,” Coffen says. “And for talking to me. I needed to talk and you’re wrong, you are a sort of therapist. Truth is, I’m lost.”

“You’re trying and you’re lost. That’s not a winning combination.”

“I just need one thing to go right in my life.”

“How’s this? I’m giving you a free lifetime supply of Mexican lasagna,” she says, “and if you’re a perv, you can have a trial-subscription to my intercom-sex operation.”

Beggars can’t be choosers, Bob thinks. Beggars also can’t get enough Mexican lasagna, so this is really working out in Coffen’s pathetic favor.

“Do you remember the magic words I told you?” Tilda asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’m alone here from ten to three most nights. Any time in that window is fine, just say the magic words and drop your trousers.”

“Can I talk to you about non-dirty stuff? Can I come by and chat?”

“My gifts of gab are of the more pervy variety. But I can make an exception for someone who’s trying and lost.”

“Thanks.”

“And it’s not all bad,” Tilda says. “There’s still fun in life.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’ve got to look real close.”

“Look where?”

“Between the cops and monsters,” she says.

Rum: the other white meat

Bob hopes that a coding bender might take his mind off the fact he’s bedding down at Dumper Games tonight. It’s past 3:00 AM, though the plock, which sits on his desk, reads midnight. Regardless of the time, sleep feels impossible, so he’s up and at his computer, laying the framework for Scroo Dat Pooch. Of course, he’d rather be building anything else, but even this schlock is a distraction, busy-work for his brain, a way to shove aside what happened earlier with Jane and Björn. Yes, even the asinine premise of Scroo Dat Pooch allows Bob to find escape from the shame of how he acted.

That’s how it’s always worked for Bob. There’s always been escape while he coded. It’s like alcohol or pills or whatever vice somebody else uses to block away things about their own lives they can’t deal with. Bob uses computer code. Bob uses games. He uses his characters, the art of constructing entire worlds. He finds a swaddling delight in the fact he can use his imagination to create another reality, no matter how other aspects of his personal reality seem to tell him how he flounders or spoils things: how he’s so painfully average; how he often feels unfit for the simplest tasks.

For example, other human beings seem to find pleasure in getting up and going to work—others seem to be able to abide by the five days a week of an insipid job that does nothing except automatically deposit funds in a checking account; others have let the selfish, artistic dreams from their twenties crumble and slough, embracing the realities of life in their late thirties. But not Bob: His coding used to offer him pure time-stopping happiness, and now nothing feels pure. Nothing is naked. Everything is spurred by duty. There’s private school to fund from kindergarten through senior year. There’s a mortgage. There’s the tyrannical arm of the HOA, which loves to spend the money of those entrenched in