Bill parked on the loading dock but did not get out of his car. He sat awhile, lit a cigarette, smoked.
Wrong-think gets you nowhere was his first thought.
He was filled with wrong-think. That was his second thought. He was filled with wrong-think and he was filled with anger. On top of wrong-think and anger, he was filled with alcohol at the moment. That, the alcohol, was usually compounded with weed, speed, coke and sometimes other things. All the substances did not lead to better-think or anywhere near good-think. At best they couched wrong-think, made it so it didn’t feel so bad, hurt so bad. But it led to bad things. Wrong-think led to bad things. Substances led to bad things. Bad things and substances led to worse things.
What leads to good things? Bill asked himself this. He didn’t know why he asked himself this, at least not now, not after he’d had a good late, late after Christmas with his wife and a good morning with her, her for once leaving for work before him. They’d had some quality, if late, time together and that time had reminded him of what a relationship was, what love was, except he wasn’t sure he actually loved his wife. Oh, he loved her. He just wasn’t sure he knew what love was, really knew. Sometimes when he thought this he thought fake it till you make it.
Goddamn, he thought. He hadn’t been here in a while, in this thought, and he couldn’t figure out how he got here or why. He just knew good-think, good-do, do-good, didn’t get you anywhere either. Wrong-think and substances got you nowhere. Do-good and do-right got you nowhere too. It would become his one overriding question, one he hadn’t formulated yet and wouldn’t formulate for a long while yet, his sixty-four thousand dollar question: how come one dog in the pound gets a great home and the one next to it gets euthanized?
But he wasn’t thinking that now. He was thinking about going in to work in a job he never dreamed of having in an occupation he’d never considered as one for him, had never thought about at all, ever in his life.
And then he thought why now. Everything was good when his wife brought him the coffee, him still in bed. He’d kissed her, laughed with her, fondled her, teased her. They’d played, had a fun moment.
So why now?
He thought he hadn’t thought what he’d thought. He’d thought, and this was all he’d thought, he’d be a writer. He never thought about how he would make a living, what his life would be like, would look like. He never considered those things, and of course maybe he should have. Maybe if his mother hadn’t died he would have thought of those things, maybe she would have brought it up to him and made him consider it.
He wasn’t looking to meet anyone when he’d met his wife. He was happy being alone, all by himself. He didn’t have to think about supporting anyone, taking care of anyone. He didn’t have to think about a job or an occupation. He just had this one simple idea. He would write.
That’s all she wrote.
So here he was parked on the loading dock of the Sheraton on the Square going in to do a little cooking for upcoming banquets and then cook the dinner in The Falstaff Room.
How the hell did this happen? How the hell did he find himself in Cleveland, married, doing something he wasn’t really suited for?
Why this? Why me? Wrong-think.
Outside his car he crushed out his cigarette. He could see a bakery truck at one of the loading platforms. Other than that, the dock was quiet. Cold swept over everything, a strong ugly cold that blew in from the Great Lakes. His first stop would be the laundry. He needed all clean uniforms today.
