Playing: The Man Behind the Mirror by Skinshape
12:07 am. Los Angeles, California.
“Hey. Are you up?”
“Seriously, not again. Go back to sleep. It’s late.”
6:05 am.
The coffee pot is screaming in the background. The cord of the iron tangled in a million loops around the ironing board, knotted around a half-ironed button-up shirt, drooping alongside the board. It was a nice shirt. Oxford plaid, slim fitted. It was Ron’s favorite shirt, and also Lizette's.
It was a one bedroom apartment. The city’s honks & vrooms destroyed any existing ambiance of the morning bird song.
The scurry of the scattered man was enough to add another layer of noise to the living space.
“Shit. Why the hell do I always do this?”
“Honey, you’re going to be fine. This is a normal routine for you. You should make it on time. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
“Is Anthony still asleep?”
“Why do you act silly, Ronald? He’s always awake at this time. He’s been waking up mid-night as well for the last couple of weeks now. Haven't you noticed?”
“Hm, can you make sure he takes his medication before heading out please?”
Struggling to button up the last button to his collar, sliding in his left foot into his left shoe, all simultaneously, to complete his work-day attire, as if multitasking was his only option at this point. He was obviously not great at multitasking—also horrible at jigsaw puzzles.
Five delicate minutes later, and he was able to piece himself together.
His wrist watch ticks to the next second, introducing the new minute.
7:12 am.
“I gotta run. Bus arrives in a few!”
The door almost makes it shut. Ron’s momentum wasn’t quite enough to seal the door closed. One more push, and it seals shut. The slam of the door was loud enough to cover the parade of scampering footsteps making their way down the hall.
Her mug reads “Cafe-fornia”—it was one of those have-to-have-it buys when grabbing coffee at the local cafe at the corner of Sunset and Hyperion. The motto never caught on; the shop closed its doors a couple weeks after purchasing the mug. She resorted to making coffee herself from home. The mug remained the memorabilia. The mug fills with her share of coffee Ron left for her that morning. Ron hadn’t sipped a single glass of coffee that morning. Wasn’t like him. The French press still filled to the rim. Coffee at this point was lukewarm. She pours the brew, knocking over the plastic capsule that remained sitting on the counter with the back end of the French press. The label torn slightly.
….Use daily.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Her alarm goes off.
“Okay! Time to hit the weekly market.”
Half a cup remains in her mug. A dried coffee ring is left where the mug first sat.
Her nightgown was enough to play as a day-dress. Birkenstocks slipped onto her feet (they all had a pair). She was lucky too—her hair was never an issue of inconvenience, as she brushed it twice to even the creases of minor bed head. Cate Blanchett in Heaven, as she peers at her mirror reflection for self approval. She grabs her keys off the key rack.
“I’ll be back Anthony! Don’t forget about your appointment today.”
No answer. She assumed he fell back to sleep. It was still rather early.
8:11 am.
“Ron! Have you checked the time? You are late, once again.”
“I'm sorry Scott. I really am. I just can't seem to catch that damn 7:15 802 on time.”
Metro seemed to have perfected the art of “arriving on time”.
“You’re a very lucky man your father’s a good friend. Thank him for being the reason your ass still has a job. You’ll find a stack of documents needed to be filed through on your desk. You got quite the workload today.”
12:41 pm.
Her phone rings. She quickly answers.
“Hey babe, how’s your day going?”
“You on break now Ron? I’m at the market right now grabbing stuff for dinner tonite.”
“Doesn’t the market close at 1? You’re running rather behind schedule today.”
“I know, I know. I knocked out on the couch a bit before heading out this morning. Not like me to do so, but hey ...let me call you back? I’m a damn balancing act right now.”
Her hands full—bags of fresh potatoes, greens, avocados, and fruits. Nearly drops her French baguette as she slips her phone back into her purse pocket.
“That’ll be twelve dollars, and some odd cents of forty-five. By the way, taking a bold move with that dress today. But heck, fits you well.”
“Oh hush, please don’t start. This morning has been quite the rat race, you have no idea.”
“Los Angeles definitely brings out the Angelina in Brad Pitt sometimes, I must say. Anyways, always a unique surprise seeing you.”
1:05 pm.
Apartment engulfed in a pleasant early afternoon silence.
“Hey, mom! Dad! Anyone home?”
1:10 pm.
“Charles, have you seen Ron? He should’ve been back from break by now.”
“Yeah last time I saw him, Scott, he was headed out the door. He did manage to complete all his filing, however. Quite a remarkable feat. Take a look at his desk and you should find those documents.”
“Hm, let’s give him 10 more minutes, then I’ll be giving him a call.”
1:15 pm.
“Holy. You look like you just came back from a wild night in the cow fields while bouncing around with the hyenas. Did you just wake up?”
Lizette throws her purse on the couch, and hangs her keys on the hook alongside the front door. Door closes behind her.
Anthony tries to make sense of the cheesy metaphor his mom just made.
The goods from the market laid carefully placed atop the countertop.
“Yeah I don't know mom, woke up feeling pretty under the weather today.”
The door slams open.
The keys fly off the hook with the gust of the swinging door, landing towards the couch where her purse lay.
“Ron?”
“Dad!”
As if never losing that antsiness from the rush of the morning, Ron scurries across the apartment toward the countertop.
Two dried coffee mug rings engraved next to Lizette’s tense hand on the countertop. The French press brew is now room temperature.
“I got us a lot from the market today.”
She keeps a monotone voice, to ease the anxious tension in the room. Her hand slowly relaxes on the countertop.
“...I might just start going later in the day. The best vendors seem to set up tent late morning …try a piece of that baguette, Ron. It’s delightful.”
“Hey dad. Something’s really eating at me. I’m not feeling all that great today.”
Crunching sounds amplify his every step, as his antsy feet dance around the wooden floor near the countertop. The white powder scatters around his feet, shadowed by the light that lacks around him.
“Hey Ron, when are you going to change that bulb on that lamp right there? It would really bring back some life to the granite top.”
Ron kicks something at his feet while turning towards Lizette in acknowledgement.
1:19 pm.
“Ron, why are you home? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“...also, you would've never guessed what one of the vendor guys said to me. Apparently this dress looks…”
“Dad, are you listening? Mom. My stomach... My head…”
“Anthony, relax. Hey Ron, you would’ve never guessed my day. Phew, such a rat race.”
“Mom. Dad!”
“Ron, hunny, try the French baguette. The best in town.”
“Lizette, where are they?”
The whole emotion of the room is in full spiraling motion. Left windows become right. Floors become waves of stormy currents. Piercing sunlight burning through the entire living space.
Anthony’s head starts to spin. Dizziness becomes an uninvited friend.
Ron’s anxiety reads through his racing eyes. Sweat engulfs his whole upper head.
“Ron, honey...”
The phone rings.
Ron peers the name on the display—Scott Odalle.
1:25 pm.
“Dammit Ron. You better answer your goddamn phone. I’m growing tired of this shit!”
Call answered.
“Hello?”
“Ron?”
“Oh no, this is his wife Lizette. Would you like to speak to Ron?”
“Hey Scott, sorry about that. Had to rush on home. My son wasn’t feeling all that great. Is everything okay around the office?”
“Ron, what the hell is going on?”
“What do you mean, Scott? I made sure to wipe out that pile of work before heading out. It was left on your desk before I left.”
“Cut the crap. Charles back at the office noticed you acting rather funny today. And I did too.”
Ron finds the plastic capsule, lying alongside the snow of powder now surrounding his sandals.
He slips down one of the remaining pills.
“Explain to me this: your father never told me you had a son. And who’s this Lizette that answered the phone? I’m growing a bit concerned about you.”
Ron nearly chokes with the unfamiliar size, washing it down with the remaining coffee.
1:31 pm.
“Ron, babe, do you need me to talk to him for you?”
“Ron! Hey Ron. Are you there?”
“Oh yes Scott, sorry just dozing off a little.”
“Listen. This hasn’t been the first time. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Dad, I'm starting to feel a little better now. Anything to eat?”
“Yes Scott, feeling great. Don’t worry.”
“Who’s that talking in the background, Scott? And why the hell is he calling you “dad”?”
“...Oh also, I managed to pick up some really great things at the market today during break. You should stop by after work, Scott. I’ll chef something up for us. Bring the family.”
“Uh, going to have to raincheck. And hey, take tomorrow off. By the sound of things, I think you might need the extra day’s rest.”
Call ends.
“Hey dad, wanted to ask you. Have you noticed you’ve been waking up every night around midnight for the last week or so?”
“You know son, sometimes life just gets the best of the pattern of things. And I’ll let you in on a little secret, son: the moon looks amazing at that time.”
He lays down the plastic capsule.
The sunlight is enough to warm the room. Calm is the melody flowing in motion. Ron’s heartbeat in slow tempo to compliment the calming medley. Sunbeams streaming through the cracked blinds illuminate the label fully.
Clozapine. Take prescribed doses. Required use daily.
“Honey, what should I chef up for the family?”
“Lizette, surprise us.”
Ron strolls to the couch, kicks off his Birkenstocks, and clicks on the television set.
The Kings and the Ducks. The Kings were up by two.
“Hey Lizette, honey, you would've never guessed the comment the vendor guy made about my outfit today at the market. Don't know what the hell I was thinking leaving the house with a nightgown on.”
“Can you turn up the volume dad? The Kings better win this one!”
“Grab yourself a beer, son. How are you feeling?”
“I feel fine. Why do you ask?”
Phone rings.
The crackling of the French baguette conceals the first ring, as Lizette slices into the first cut. She slices a few more on the cutting board.
Answered after the second ring.
“Hello, good day. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?
“Oh, hello Doctor. What a surprise. How are you?”
“Hun, who is it?”
“Dad, you’re missing the game!”
“I hope all has been well. Calling in regards to your condition. I noticed you missed your appointment today, Mr. Odalle. How has everything been since the diagnosis?”
“Strange. That was Doc on the line. He called just to ask how we were all doing.”
The echoing of Doctor’s voice can be heard faintly from the phone left on the counter top, until the call ends.
“Alright guys, I hope you’re all hungry! Dinner should be ready around 4.”
“Mom, shh! Looking like the Kings might just have this one.”
The doorbell rings.
“Oh Scott, what a surprise! A pleasure seeing you. Did you just happen to be in the neighborhood? Please do join us for dinner. You remember Anthony right?”
“Hey there, Scott! Apologize for my little fiasco there at work today. I hope we can move passed it and start on a better foot tomorrow. By the way, loving the Birkenstocks.”
“As I say always, Ron. You’re a lucky man your dads a good friend of mine. Consider yourself off the hook this time. The space smells great, Lizette—what’s cooking?”
In the dining room, there sat a table set for one.
The phone vibrates on the counter top, until no longer—the screen reads “one missed call” from Doc.
3:27 pm. Los Angeles, California.