The Cart Pusher
by Frederick Frankenberg
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
It’s a late night, and I can’t sleep. The air conditioning doesn’t make the room cold enough for me to avoid thinking, damn it. Take a deep breath and a sip of ice water. I can lie in bed, but I can’t sleep.
Nick has the nicest angles and clear, pure face. He’s so skinny and pretty. His hair is semi-messy; the individual strands stray all over, but they follow a general form. He’s always wearing those black jeans. His broad shoulders jut out relative to his frame like he’s growing into them. He’s the epitome of youth and beauty. I want to see him smile again.
Sure, I’m just a hebephile. Pedophile to everyone else. It’s hopeless that I can get into anything like a healthy relationship. I’m way too sick. I only get off to abuse. Nothing gets better, it only gets worse the more I get to know myself.
Cook up some tea. Drink a Red Bull. Anything to think happy thoughts. God, what am I doing wrong to deserve this?
I could overdose on my lithium. My kidneys would fail, and I’d be dead. I could swallow too much cinnamon; I’ve got a whole vial of it in the cupboard. Jumping off the Hudson Walkway is always another idea. Throwing myself in front of a truck on 9W would work. Borrowing a gun and blowing my brains out is a glimmer of hope. I’ve already outlived my prime. Drinking antifreeze is a fetching idea. I’ve got some rat poison that the mice didn’t eat before they left. I’m filled with poison already. What are some better ideas?
The sun isn’t even up yet. Time for sleep. I may not succeed at offing myself completely and end up a worse mess than I am now.
* * *
The sunlight shimmers around from passing cars in this waiting room. I’m going to date this kid when he turns seventeen. No harm done since he’s legal. He’s the only one for me.
Dr. Jansen opens the door and motions me in. His office is compact, and the computer screen sits atop a raised metal platform on his desk. I’m taking a seat.
“How’s work? Are you adjusting well?” he says.
“I’m doing okay,” I say.
“How are you getting along with people there?” He locks eyes with me.
Maybe I should tell him. Probably the best time to lead in with this. Hopefully he doesn’t get skeeved out like before when I talked about child porn.
“I’m obsessed with a sixteen-year old boy,” I say.
He sits farther upright, and his eyes widen a barely perceptible amount. He knows how to keep a straight face, so people can detail dark things to him. “What have you done with him?” he says.
“I’ve talked to him only a few times.”
“Do you want to have sex with him?”
“I do. But it’s a crime. I’ll wait until he’s seventeen. He says he turns seventeen ‘very shortly.’”
“That’s still child abuse.”
“But he’s at the age of consent!”
“Has anyone ever sexually abused you as a kid?”
What a distressing question. My mother once commented on how flat my ass is, and she bragged to her friend that she was sleeping in the same bed as me. Her friend got me to sleep in another room.
“Tommy?”
“I don’t remember. I did have an abusive brother before my parents kicked him out. And I don’t know for sure about my mother.” Another social worker was confident I would remember it.
“Usually people that want to abuse kids have been abused themselves. A lot of people don’t understand that.”
“But he’ll be at the age of consent.”
“If you have sex with him, he’ll be harmed for the rest of his life.”
“So it may be legal, but it’s still abuse?” Damn!
“Yes.”
“So what should I do?”
“Talk as little as possible to him as possible. Let him be a child. Date someone else.”
“So should I go for this old lady I work with? Would it protect me from going for him?”
“How old is she?”
“She must be fifty-five or something.”
“You should date someone your own age. Find another target.”
“I have no interest in women my own age. I like that boy. He’s the best thing I’ve ever seen since Trevor. But I do give that woman a passing thought as an incredibly weak alternative to him.” I don’t care about her at all.
“What do you know about her?”
“She says hi to me and waves at me when I look at her. I imagine if I asked her out, she’d likely say yes or say no and be flattered. My question wouldn’t likely disgust her.”
“Surely there has to be someone your age.”
“No one. Only those two boys for the past five years or so have moved me.”
“Society doesn’t accept big age differences for a reason. It’s different levels of consent. It’s unusual to go after someone twenty years older than you. Even an eighteen-year old doesn’t have as much ability to consent as someone your age. They just can’t understand things at the same level.”
“If I cared about what society thought, I’d have jumped off a bridge with a gun in my mouth already.”
“Society is reasonable about this. There’s great disapproval of men or women dating younger people for the reasons I just told you. And the same thing about child abuse.”
“And I have no emotional connection to anyone except that boy. I did with Trevor. He was twenty-four, and I was thirty-three at that time.”
“That wasn’t that bad. Not nearly as bad as what you’re thinking of doing now.”
“This really sucks. I’ve got to let go of that kid.”
“Are you bisexual? People in the arts sometimes are.”
“I don’t know. A social worker told me to have sex with a man, but that hasn’t happened. I probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. I don’t know whether I’ll enjoy having sex with the kid either, but I suspect I would, and that would give me the selfish confirmation whether I’m gay or not.”
“You don’t have to have sex with a man to figure out if you’re gay; it’s in the emotions. If you do that with him at seventeen, you’ll have done a terrible thing. It’ll harm him for the rest of his life, but not you.”
“It’ll hurt me, too. My sponsor says I won’t remain sober if I do that. I may die as a result.”
“How so?”
“If I do terrible things, I’ll drink again.”
One of his eyes narrow. He’s unfamiliar with this concept. I imagine he doesn’t encounter a lot of people in real sobriety. I guess he read in textbooks that sex offenders don’t suffer if they don’t get caught.
“I don’t enjoy sex with anyone either.” Why am I saying this?
“People like being touched. You could acclimate yourself to it. It would be healthy.” Dr Jansen pushes up his glasses and frowns in severity.
“Have you been considering suicide because of this?” he says.
“No!”
If I told him, he’d send me to the psych ward involuntarily. This is a suicidable offense. The only one I care about is this boy... My eyes are teary. “I’ll throw myself at that old lady to get away from that kid.”
“It’s not a good idea to date someone you don’t like.”
“There’s such a stigma attached to this.”
“It’s for a reason. Unequal relationships are unhealthy.”
“I...” I’m sniffling. “I really like this boy.” I’m sobbing like a baby.
“My advice is to stay away from him as much as possible. It could lead to other crimes. I work at the jail, too. I don’t want to see you there.”
“B-But I’ll go to p-p-prison for it.” Sniffle.
“You’ll go to jail first.”
I try to tamp up my composure. I wipe my eyes. I sit silent.
“Are you going to go out with him as a sixteen-year old?” he says.
“No!” I say. “NO!” He’ll call the cops if I answer yes to that.
I wipe another tear gathering in the corner of my eye.
“Our session is over,” he says. He failed at hiding his anger and disgust. Society has zero understanding and hates me.
He does get skeeved out by this. But I got good advice from him. If I can’t find someone else, my life is hopeless.
* * *
There’s a whole box of Coca-Cola Cherry bottles on top of the garbage. I’ve got to bring it to customer service to clean this place out. I’m not the porter, but the porter is busy. The big boss asked me. I’ll do whatever it takes to please him.
I’m fixed on the customer service girl: a dimple on her chin, a gentle, thin nose, and brown highlights in her dark hair. Her backside casts a penumbra over the tiled floor in the bright light. The thick lenses of her bottle-cap glasses glare back at me. She’s a little stout but dainty in a childlike way. She’s young but can’t be that young.
And she smiles and presses numbers on the screen behind the desk. There’s nothing better than a happy associate.
Great! I’ve got to talk to her on business. Put the stuff on the desk like so.
Why is she looking down? Wow! She’s reading a book. I’ve got to ask her what it is. She’s short like a little girl and wears a black hoodie. It gets cold inside with all the fridges running and such. Her name is Alice. Alice!
“I like to read... Just what are you reading there?” I say.
“Fourth Wing. It’s a fantasy. It’s really good.”
“I’m a writer who’s writing a book. Are you a student in New Paltz?”
“I am.”
“I graduated from there with a Creative Writing degree.”
“I’m a senior there,” she says. “I want to be a speech therapist.”
“Good goal,” I say. “I work here because...” Don’t tell her you work here to stay on the rolls. “I can work part time and pursue writing.” This sounds reasonable.
What a relief! She’s not jailbait.
She grins with her white teeth.“What do you write?”
“I write depressing stories.”
“Oh. I like happy stories, but can I read what you write?”
“Go ahead, google ‘Tommy Pepin writer’ and you’ll see.”
“I see you’re on Twitter.”
“Yeah, I rarely use that.”
“Oh. I’ll check it out.”
She seems quite normal and can pick up on my body language, perhaps.
Aha, she’s in the break room. She’s reading the book. I don’t have to analyze and cross-analyze what I say to her like Nick to avoid committing a crime. Sexual overtures are okay here as long as they don’t come across as harassment, I think.
“How far are you into it?” I look at the spine. “Fourth Wing?”
“Two-hundred and eighty pages,” she says. “It’s a great book. I can’t get to schoolwork because I can’t put it down.”
I’m in the supermarket to check my schedule. Gasp. There’s Nick! He’s got such a thin waist and a dainty body under his reflector vest like a string bean wrapped in wax paper. He must be punching in. He is going up the stairs to the breakroom. I’ll follow him and look down. He seems not to see me behind him. I’m at the top of the stairs, and he keeps walking away.
He puts his finger on the clock and punches in. Take out the cellphone and take a picture of the schedule away from where he’s looking. Don’t say a thing.
He’s leaving. A success!
* * *
God help me. God help me. God help me. I have to talk to him. It’s time to split the parking lot with him. Remember to say as little as possible and be formal. He’s still sixteen and, even at seventeen, I want to remain sober. I’m approaching him. Pay little attention to how he looks. Don’t smile.
“What side do you want?” I say. “And when’s your shift over?”
“Either one,” he says. “Five-thirty.”
“Oh. I’ll take this side. So go over there.”
Totally platitudinous and uneventful. Hopefully I don’t lose it.
* * *
I just got Fourth Wing by Yarros or whatever her name is. The cliches aren’t taking me out of the action-packed story. She’s a New York Times Bestseller; what the hell am I doing wrong here? Eccentric, dense prose style? Get high art or go home, baby!
I want Violet to become a dragon rider in this conveniently-dangerous-for-an-action-fantasy world she lives in. Alice is happy I’m reading her book. I’m shocked I’m enjoying a romance written for twenty-something-year old girls. It’s like I’m kissing Xaden, that bad boy.
I’m in the parking lot and there’s Tre-Nick. He’s going in for his shift early. I’m pushing two carts. Ack!
“I’m seventeen now,” he says. “My birthday was yesterday. You want me to take you out for a hamburger at the diner? I’ll show you my ID. It’ll say seventeen after my name on the schedule next week.”
“I-I... No!” I say. I feel a blush coming on. My face is probably all red.
“Why? It seemed like you wanted this before.”
“Even at seventeen, it’s child abuse. Date someone your own age.” The lines for the parking spaces are worn. I can’t look him in the eye.
He frowns and walks into the supermarket.
He’s someone’s son and not mine. He hasn’t even grown all the way. He’ll be a big scruffy guy that towers over me. And he’ll beat me up after I abuse him.
No one around my age or older than me’s really important. But there’s Alice! My dear Alice!
My feelings for her are healthy. I’m not considering how I’m going to lie to her like how I want to manipulate the boy. I’d tell him: “I’d worship you,” and “I’m a big time gay guy” and have no chance at remaining sober. “Look me in the eye, my darling, and you’ll remember me for the rest of your life.” Child-like beauty makes me licentious. Instead, I just want to talk to Alice and see what drives her. She’s like an angel here to save me.
* * *
I gotta go to the vestibule and tell Nick to vacuum because I didn’t get a chance to get it done this porter shift. The cart pusher must do it if the porter didn’t.
There he is... He wears greenish-black corduroys, must be Ralph Lauren. He’s got a haircut and his hair is long on the top and short on the bottom like a lot of his coevals. Calm down.
“Nick.” No excitement in my voice. “I couldn’t vacuum, so I need you to.”
“Anything for you. Whatever you want.” Handle this correctly and don’t feed into it.
“I’m not your boss.”
Walk away. I’m trying not to be rude but have to act detached. I’m drenching the forest in water so everything doesn’t burn down. Be the ice king.
I got out early on my night shift to push carts; it’s 6:53 at magic hour. The sun is setting. Nick is walking out of the sliding doors on the pharmacy side. When his parents don’t drive him, he probably goes home by foot. He has a black tank top on. He changed his clothes in the locker room. He’s a little boy, but his biceps are bigger than mine.
There’s Alice exiting out the produce side. She’s holding a large Fairweather Markets tote bag as a purse. She wears tight stretch pants she also changed into in the locker room, leaving nothing about her lower body to the imagination. Her slender hand holds her car keys to her Carolla.
I’m walking towards her. Behind me, Nick walks across the parking lot. Now I’m running.
“Have a great night!” I wave at her. “I’m going to figure out whether Xaden really likes Violet. I hope I’m not left at a cliffhanger at the end of this book.”
“The second book comes in February sometime,” she says.
That book had a lot of four-letter words.
* * *
Is Alice a target? Hmm... No! No-she’s not! But that Nick is. She’s working behind customer service again. 2:00-7:00 shift. I’ll tell her my age slowly.
“You’re doing a lot better than me in New Paltz. I messed up Binghamton my first try in 2005. I smoked an ounce every four to five days.”
“I was two in 2005!” Her jaw drops and her wide eyes indicate horror.
“Back then I was nineteen which makes me thirty-seven now.”
“God! I thought you were in your twenties!”
“You flatter me.” Hide the hurt; she’s not trying to compliment me, she’s expressing shock and disgust with herself. Ouch. She’s not going to date me.
“My mother is forty-four, and my boyfriend is twenty-five. He’s five years older than me.”
My doubts are ripped open, gutted, and thrown into traffic.
“Oh.” I can’t talk. This tiny, powerful girl has shut me down.
Time to force a smile and walk away. Don’t forget to say goodbye.
The break room needs to be cleaned. Someone spilled a sugary drink and a trail of gook has stuck to the floor.
There are more romantic prospects. There’s that boss I have. He looks like he could rip my arm off and throw me into the ceiling. I’ll ask him if he’s doing anything after work. Or maybe the shapely grayed cashier with frizzy hair that works the morning shift. Or that tanned night operations manager.
Copyright © 2024 by Frederick Frankenberg
