By Any Chance
Chapter 6:
A Cold Cup
of Sumatra
by: Nicholas Nocketback

When Evan was eight, his aunt had brought him back a pocket watch from her travel to Belgium. A small piece with a gold chain, it had a photograph of a sheep on the front. Evan hadn’t a fascination with sheep, nor had his aunt ever given him a token with such farm stock on it before. Nevertheless, he felt a keen attachment to it. Often times he’d chain it to his shorts even when drawing at home with no particular place to go. Every half hour he’d put down his mechanical pencil—another gift from his aunt—and check the time. It was such an important and grown up maneuver, he thought; making sure that noon still meant noon, which meant lunch—tomato soup and grilled cheese on whole grain bread. Who else did he know that ate whole grain bread? Lucas got the delicious white stuff with no crust, cut rectangular; Noah had tortillas, but Evan would always bring his “healthy crud,” as the kids called it at school. The watch never left his sight. In the event that he had to participate in PE or another physical affair, he’d wrap the watch up in a paper towel (toilet paper, if need be) and hide it on the field somewhere no one would find it. And so it was for the next two years. Evan was always the one with the time. If anyone ever needed to know what time it was, Evan had it. He enjoyed being depended upon. It was mainly adults who asked, often the question not even directed toward him, yet he’d still chime in. It’s three forty seven pee em, he’d say aloud. Thank you, Young Man, was often the response. “Young Man,” Evan felt like an adult every time it was uttered.
One rainy Wednesday afternoon in March, Jill Harris, an unusually tall girl for the fifth grade, asked to see the watch while the rest of the class was in the throes of Heads Up, Seven Up. His initial reaction would’ve been a sly laugh or perhaps a snicker with head shake, but Jill was different. She was a woman to most everyone else in the fifth grade, so he felt it fitting that she could see it; he was a Young Man after all. She accepted it and chained it with care to her white Jordache jeans. Evan, fully smitten, thought it looked nice, gold chain against tight white pants, and said so. As the day came to a wet conclusion, yellow buses dripping outside his school parking lot, Evan waved to Jill and boarded number 34. It wasn’t until he got home did he realize that Jill still had it. The next day, she wasn’t in class. Friday also found Jill absent. On Monday, at this point terrified he’d never be able to tell the time again, his suspicions had been confirmed. After math facts, something Evan excelled at—100 problems in under two minutes—he asked Ms. Chimes if Jill H. was sick. I am sorry, Evan, she transferred to another school district. It was a feeling of complete loss. He never thought about asking where, or inquiring within the administration about her whereabouts; what was the point? He’d neglected to hold on to what mattered. In a moment of weakness for the female creature, he’d lost sense of agency. That feeling, which took until adolescence to overcome, came flooding back. A torrent of anxiety filled him. Put your trust in women and watch it move to another school district, he thought.
Realizing he was nude in the middle of the day outside of a person’s house he didn’t know in a city he was unfamiliar with, he darted back into the house, half fuming, half disheartened. Closing the door behind him, he walked to the kitchen where a phone was ringing, a lime green piece, antiquated by today’s standards, spiral cord and rotary dial; it hung from the wall above the microwave. Instinctively and without thinking, he picked up the receiver. “Hullo?”
“Do you always answer other peoples’ phones?”
“Is this Janelle? Where’s my car?”
“Take it easy, your car’s fine—handles nice. You’re just noticing, huh? You’ve been asleep for forty-eight hours, Rip Van Winkle. I am surprised you’re just taking notice.”
Evan couldn’t think of a thing to say. He’d been caught off guard, literally with his pants down, yet he felt his rage quell as he stood there naked in her immaculate kitchen. It wasn’t like he didn’t have anymore money. “Well, I need it back, I have personal belongings,” he said, deflated.
“You’ll get your money back, no worries.”
“I know you don’t need it so I am not worried.”
“I see January told you my tale. What’d you think?”
“I am sorry for your loss…”
“Don’t be. My mom was a tweaker and my dad never talked to any of us. So, whatever, how much did she say I was worth?”
“Uh, four million give or take.”
He could hear muffled laughing on the receiving end. “Wow, I love that. Every friend has a different amount. I must say I am quite flattered. It’s all bullshit; I keep ‘em guessing, though. I’m certainly not worth that, but I’m not hurting. How was she?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, she’s pretty charming. And by charming I mean a slut.”
Evan fell silent and could feel his cheeks burning.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be home soon. We’ll get some coffee, you can drive.”
}(_){
January was nowhere to be found. Her room was silent, only the whir of the ceiling fan above stirred the air. Evan found his clothes, piled neatly on the bed, and dressed hurriedly. It wasn’t that he felt in danger, but he surely didn’t feel comfortable. Opening the mirrored medicine cabinet, he noticed myriad prescription bottles, all with the name Ida May Rupert. The items read like a spreadsheet from Merck: Ritalin (Methylphenidate), Prozac (Fluoxetine HCL), Sertraline, Paroxatine, Nefazodone, Mirtazapine, Bupropion, Venlafaxine, Presynaptic 5-HT, Trazodone, Nalbuphine, Dezocine, Pentazocine, Codeine, Oxycodone, Levorphanol, Fentanyl, Phenylbutazone. That concluded the top shelf; several more translucent orange bottles populated the first and second shelf as well. Along with the sundry polysyllabic prescription meds were various vitamin and mineral supplements (the entire alphabet apparently represented). The cabinet was probably worth several thousand dollars, Evan thought. After wading through the narcotics, Evan found a toothbrush, brand new and sealed, still in its package. There were six just like it, all navy blue with soft white bristles. He cracked open the back of the package and extracted the brush. Such a curious household, could this represent Fresno as a whole? He was consumed with inquiry about this new land. Sure California was odd, he knew that much from friends who have visited or gone to college here, but was the entire citizenry off its rocker? Evan selected the Crest Ultra Whitening paste and smashed a liberal dose onto his brush. Looking in the mirror, he noticed a striking image. He hadn’t grown a beard ever. Although it wasn’t exactly full (commander Riker came to mind), it was rather noticeable. He was no longer the Evan Chance from Worcester, Massachusetts he loathed. He had a new location, a new look, and a new tax bracket. Besides, these were the first two people he’d met here so far, Fresno surely had more to offer; he felt certain.
Once in the car he noticed his backpack was where he’d left it, presumably untouched. Janelle smoked a cigarette in the passenger seat and sang along to the radio, something about once in a lifetime by The Talking Heads. Evan followed her directions to the freeway and kept silent about the time spent with her roommate. Janelle, to her credit, said little as well. He was directed to take the forty-one freeway and head south.
“Where’d you get the cash? I wasn’t snooping or anything, I was actually hoping to learn more about you by going through your stuff,” she said after several minutes of silence.
“Isn’t that the definition of snooping?”
“Ya, I guess so. Well, it doesn’t matter; it’s really none of my business. It’s just that you know so much about me and I know absolutely nothing about you.”
“That’s not entirely true.”
Janelle, turning in her seat to face Evan, reached out and touched his shoulder, as if preparing him for some bad news.
“Okay, I know your name, Evan Chance; I know you’re from Boston and you have a nice car with thousands of dollars in a black Jansport knapsack.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Is that all there is to you?”
“It’s all I am willing to give at the moment.”
“Are you running from something?” she said, lighting up another cigarette with a metal Zippo.
“Yeah, I am on the lam. Does that change things?”
“Not in the least. If anything, I know I can trust you. You won’t be after my money like most of these assholes. Remember when I told you I was a good judge of character?”
“Yes.”
“You have to become aware of the people around you, especially when you have money. I’ve extinguished many a friendship over it. It really sucks. Like my parents dying wasn’t bad enough, right? Anyhow, I learned to listen to what folks have to say. It works the best in an airport, but a coffee shop’s a good start. Just pretend as if you’re reading or writing and you’d be amazed by what you hear others say when they think you’re not listening.”
“Kinda like eavesdropping?”
“I guess. But you really get an understanding of where a person stands when you can observe them without them knowing. Let’s try it out. You’re new in town and I am sure you’re aching to find out what the typical Fresnan is like. Trust me, you’ll learn more here than you would at the library,” she spoke as if giving directions to a seven year old. Without waiting for a response, as if the matter had been closed, she turned up the stereo and reclined her seat back.
[}|{]
The Revue, a far cry from the progressive coffee dins in Boston Evan had frequented, housed only a few patrons as it was midday on a Wednesday. They chose a table next to the window and pulled up seats across from one another. The room smelled of roasted beans and damp newsprint. “I’ll get us a couple ice coffees. Take this book and pretend to read it. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t hold your interest anyway. Look like your engrossed and no one will be the wiser. I have work to do for this nonprofit I’m involved with, so I won’t bug ya,” she said, tossing Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s World: a Novel about the History of Philosophy on the table in front of him.
Diagonally from where he sat, an older man, significant balding requiring him to comb over the sporadic tufts of salty hair, was immersed in a book of nonfiction—sterile and informational from the looks of it. The man, weathered, with mountainous veins stretching across the back of his hands, resembling a US interstate map, read lines from his book with yellowing carcass and dog-eared pages. Instead of sitting still, he moved his head from side to side as he ingested each row of text, almost pushing his shoulders with the ebb and flow of his reading cadence. Three people, one employee actually manning the register, or so Evan guessed, talked behind the breast high wooden counter where Janelle was waiting to order.
“What do you think is the worst way to die? I don’t mean moneyless or alone, I’m talking physically,” said the employee, a thin man in his mid twenties with black button-up and apron. The name scribbled in green Sharpie on his handmade nametag read Kevin.
“A lion, yo. Getting eaten is bar none the worst. And it’s much worse than like a shark. Look, in the water you are out of your element, probably cold and numb. But on land, on land you feel it all. Plus, the lion’s gonna take longer to snack on your ass. You know, savor the rump roast, nibble on some tricep first. With a shark, it’s one bite and your toasted, even one swallow depending on the fish. Have you ever seen a gazelle getting’ it from a lion, a female one? I mean, its legs start twitching and it gasps for breath something fierce—fuckin’ brutal.”
“I got it beat. The lion is noble and feared. It’d be mad respectful to go out like that. Look at all the peeps that turned out for that crocodile fucker. Just imagine what they’d say at your funeral. Damn, did you hear Preston was eaten by a lion in Kenya or some shit? I hope it’s not an open casket. Much respect to that kid though. I only wish I’d spent more time with him. You see, it’s too fantastical. Now, getting meat-lumped in the dome by a sock filled with hot nickels would surely be the worst. No respect. In fact, whoever’s there to see it would really blow it out of proportion. Yo, that kid Preston got bitch-slapped by a crusty-ass three striped tube sock and died. What a sucker. Now that’d be the worst.”
Raucous laughter ensued and black button-up—Kevin—slapped his chest with his right hand, bending over to laugh, as if bowing to the orator. Evan felt a wave of delight fall over him. It was as if eavesdropping allowed him to watch a play—none of the characters knew him, could tell he was listening, or even cared. They just continued on with their dialogue as Evan listened and watched out of his peripheral. Unexpectedly, the old man closed his book and got up to leave. His motion seemed out of the ordinary given how old he looked. He moved with a quickness befitting a teenager late to class. Packing his things and exiting, he passed Evan and dropped a napkin folded in fourths on his table. Evan watched him walk out, get on a bike, and ride away. He opened the napkin and found a beautiful calligraphic script in blue ink. On it was written four words: you will die tonight.