Driven

fiction by Mary-Kate Sims

I don’t really know what my wife wants me to do with these ridiculous coupons. Half off a colossal size toilet paper pack? Fuck, I didn’t think we went through that much toilet paper. It’s just the two of us. My uncle warned me about this. He warned me that wives make husbands do stupid shit for no reason. He didn’t tell me the stupid shit would be driving in the middle of nowhere, Kentucky for a colossal toilet paper pack because she has a coupon. No one lives here in Murrant, but there are always masses of people whenever the weekend starts. It was my wife’s hometown, where she grew up and all that crap. She was thrilled to move back home to Murrant. She must have been brainwashed as kid to love this desert of a town. I haven’t been able to make up a good enough excuses to go back to Ohio. Once she started reminiscing, about stupid shit like the small grocery store where she used to buy all of her gum when she was a kid—all of my arguments and excuses were null and void.

The leather underneath my fingers is worn out. I like to slide my hands over the smooth material when I drive. It feels like there is less of an effort to slide my hands over it when the material is worn down. There are never any other cars, there’s never any risk. I leave my hands loosely on the wheel all the time. Murrant is a dead beat town.

“Charlotte,” I said to my wife, “I totally don’t want to live in that washed out town with your parents because, let’s face it, if they need help I don’t think we should be the ones to give it. There are some people called psychiatrists though, sweetheart. I bet they can help.” She had her hands clenched on her hips. With a sweet look on her face she reminded me that I was now part of that family and I should shut up and help. It scares me when she smiles and is mean at the same time.

“Darren, where is your sense of compassion?” Whenever she pulls the ‘compassion’ card I know I shouldn’t fight it. I’ve figured out that much. I should have figured that she was thrilled to go back to her hometown.

Moving here from Ohio was mostly because Ohio wasn’t close enough to my wife’s family. My in-laws were having some problems coping with the death of a neighbor. My wife knew felt we should be there. I don’t understand senior citizens or my wife.

They wanted their only precious daughter around them for comfort. Their only precious daughter was my wife. Nowhere in my in-laws’ cry for help did they ask us to move. Two hour drive across state lines to see her parents from Ohio to Kentucky, once a week, should have been good enough. She never did anything in Ohio anyway, she just worked part time at a grocery store nearby. The drive would have been no trouble. She instead insisted that we be there for her parents and her hometown.

I didn’t have an argument good enough not to move.

I didn’t want to worry about helping out my wife’s family this early in my marriage. Moving closer to my in-laws and having family emergencies shouldn’t happen until we’d been married for at least five years. It sounds like a dick thing to say, but I have no idea how to comfort someone on a loss. Telling someone it will all be okay is a hard thing to do.

Skinny trees pass by as blurs. I release my right hand from the wheel and place my elbow on the arm rest next to me. I’ve seen this scenery way too many times. Driving endlessly by trees, dirt and rocks on either side just turns into something I can ignore. Unlike that smell of manure that hangs over the whole town. I would much rather live closer to the suburbs, where we were in Ohio, rather than in the middle of nowhere. I see Potter’s Bakery and I know, without looking at the time, that I’ve been driving for twenty minutes. The out-of-business auto shop should be coming up within the next ten minutes. I still have thirty more minutes before I make it to Rusty’s, the general supply store.

I wish my wise ass of an uncle would have been able to tell me how to get out of this one. He always has some kind of advice when it comes it women. He gives a lot of advice, whether people care or not. He comes to family parties dressed in pin-striped suits and ties. He takes the red wine instead of the beer like the rest of my family. We pick at the notion that he isn’t really my mom’s brother. That he’s too sophisticated for the likes of us, him and his seven ex-wives. I always thought he was full of shit growing up, but when I got old enough I started to like him.

I glance at the grocery list sitting in the passenger seat, squeezing the leather wheel under my hands. She writes the list on a pink girly paper that she keeps next to the phone. I hate this pink paper. She calls a slip of the pink paper that she writes lists and chores on a “sweet love note.” I point out to her that sweet love notes don’t have to be pink. They could be red. Red is a better color. All I know is that ”love notes” don’t contain the phrases “take out the trash” or “if you don’t call this person back you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.” I don’t need a ”sweet love note” to remind me.

I run my own painting business—Color Coordinates. “Whether it is houses or fences, we cover it.” My wife gave me the idea for the name and the corny slogan. She would see my work and my schedule if she was around more. She wouldn’t leave me “love notes” like that if she knew the phone isn’t my best friend. Instead she knows karate from joining her martial arts club.

Ever since the move I haven’t been able to manage well with my company still based in Ohio. You would be surprised how much of a difference two hours further south is. So I have guys that do all of the dirty work and management duties that I assign them. Business has boomed since my wife mentioned the company to people in Murrant, but the workload is getting out of hand.

I am stuck talking to clients all day about what they want because people in Murrant are constantly changing the color of their fences or houses. I guess they are trying to support my wife by supporting me, yet the people in Murrant are starting to piss me off. Customers rarely ever know what they want but it gets harder when your ass of a client has already gone through fifty of your fifty-one colors and starts complaining that you should have more variety. I should tell her my ear is glued to the phone and I deal with a lot of trash.

The drive to the Rusty’s always takes a long time. My eyes try to focus on the road ahead of me. The yellow line is just one straight line I’m following into the middle of Murrant.

Giving asshole comments back to her about how I don’t need her attitude wouldn’t work. I can’t talk freely with her. Even after dating for so long. My uncle told me I always had to be careful of the dating period if I really liked a girl. Charlotte and I respected each other’s space and when we went out somewhere. I was careful of our relationship because I knew I wanted to marry her. My mom saw this. She always squealed after I brought Charlotte over to visit them.

“You both just seem so happy when you’re together.” My mom said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It’s the way you look at each other that makes me think you’re a great match.”

Charlotte and I went out for her birthday one year to her favorite restaurant. I surprised her by bringing red velvet cake and candles. Red velvet cake is her favorite. The restaurant got mad, but then they sang happy birthday. I told them I would pay them extra later. They didn’t seem to mind when I popped the question after she finished her slice of the cake.

If I tried anything like that now that we’re married, she would tell me it wasn’t original. A guy only has so much material to work with. I can’t bring home diamonds. They’re expensive. Bringing her flowers now is not romantic anymore. It seems like it’s so hard to woo her. She says she just doesn’t have the time to be interested. She tires herself out on Monday’s with karate, on Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s with the crochet club, Thursday’s are yoga days, Friday’s are when she goes bowling and the rest of the time she spends with her parents.

She gives friends and neighbors catching up time and spares some time to meet new people. She barely meets with me anymore or gives me the time to talk with her. Most days she cuts off my sentences with a “goodbye” and walks out the door.

My uncle did warn me about marriage, telling me that when you get married the only person who recognizes your freedom of speech and independent thought is your dog. I don’t have a dog but sometimes I feel like her dog, a leash wrapped around my throat and that collar that zaps me if I bark. I don’t feel like I’m allowed to bark some times. I should be able to bark if I want to. If I’m lucky enough, my wife will throw me some scraps off of the table. My uncle has been married seven times and still seems as though he’s searching for the woman who will let him un-tape his mouth and speak his mind. He says it’s all about trial and error.

I lean back in my seat. I’m contemplating turning some on music. There are no good radio stations that reach this area. I glance over to the passenger side of the car for my CDs. The empty seat next to me makes me think my wife must have taken them. She must have taken them for her yoga class. It is Thursday.

I miss the days that I had with my wife when there weren’t things like the crochet club to get involved in. The ladies at the club tell me I have the funniest things happen to me. I’m sure they’ve heard every last story about my grocery trips. Sometimes it’s like my wife prays for misfortune to happen so that she can gossip about it. She gets more from me entertainment wise than anything else. It almost seems like she has no interest in me at all.

I had to make sure she wasn’t sending me out for tampons again. Fucking tampons. A man has to prepare himself for that crap. The last time she sent me for them I picked up a box with no sticker. Since it’s a small town they don’t use bar codes, everything is stickered. They called over the radio for a price check on the super plus tampon box. That’s right, the big ass super plus box. I just had to grab a box without a sticker. The radio was ten times louder than any radio I’ve heard. I stood, humiliated in the one checkout lane that they have. They should really make another lane.

Four women giggled as they waited in line behind me with their groceries. One man stole a glance at me from the back of the line and then turned his head. I saw the carton of eggs and gallon of milk in his hands. Lucky bastard. All the other times I would have gotten away with just walking straight to the checkout line and then leaving. No fuss or anything like that, just a clean getaway. No one answered the radio, they called over again.

This time it’s just the colossal toilet paper.  I’ll be thankful when it rings up okay. The only things I’ll have to be embarrassed about are the coupons. I can live with pulling out a large stack of coupons. If they fall all over the floor, I won’t be ashamed picking them up. As long as that asshole cashier isn’t calling someone over the radio again, I’ll be fine.

My fingers tap on my thigh and then run through my short hair. My hand starts skimming over the buttons for the windows of the car. I should crack the window. I should push the buttons and let some breeze in while I drive. I would, but I know what I’ll smell in that breeze and it isn’t worth it. It’s already bad enough that the smell of manure seeps in through the car like the smell of a skunk.

Charlotte goes to her family’s house to help out every day with her mom and dad. With her busy schedule, she still finds time to visit them for most of the day. She tells me when I see her that they’re doing better with her there. She tells me that she’s afraid their getting too old to live on their own. I’m never sure what to say when she says that. She always leaves me standing there before I can respond.

I go over to my in-laws house every now and then when my wife has a one of her meetings, usually karate or the crochet club. They make me earl grey tea and feed me cake. Their stories are the same every time. They’re just a record on repeat, talking about the good old days and how I look so much like a younger version of Charlotte’s dad. They tell me they are grateful for me moving out here to be with them. They always worry that they are an inconvenience. I tell them that they are family and they shouldn’t worry about it.

At night when I crawl into bed with my wife, she’s already asleep. She goes to club after club and participates with old school mates and friends. She catches up and feels at home again. She tells them stories of her life, including mine, but somehow we can’t find the time for us to be together alone. Every morning I ask her what she is doing that day. I get the same shitty ass response.

“You know I do the same thing every day,” Charlotte says. “Why do you have to ask all the time?” She lifts the covers over her face and turns away from me.

I start to tap on the bottom of the wheel. I want to tap the wheel harder but I feel if I don’t stay relaxed I’ll just start making shit up that isn’t true. I’ll just let my head run with mindless crap. I don’t think the grocery store is where I should be most of the time, but that’s where she sends me. So I go.

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Mary-Kate Sims received her Bachelors of the Arts in Creative Writing as a December graduate of 2010.  She founded adn was president and secretary of the Anime & Manga Association while she attended Susquehanna.  She likes to read and write as much as possible and learns from one of her favorite short story writers and novelists, Amiee Bender.

Coming next week: nonfiction by Rob Rotell