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What Next, Buck?

Ian Bowman

    His name was Buck Bradley, and he was thinking stuff.
    Like, Do I eat enough healthy fat?
    Like, I’m glad I don’t own a station wagon.
    Like, I incorporated an inclined bench press into my workout. Why haven’t I seen results?
    Like, Do I know anyone who crashed their Volvo?
    Buck sat, sweating. He wore boxer shorts. He was in his apartment. It was a significantly off-white apartment. One thing not that color was his chair. It was Pleather. It was Faux Masterpiece Theatre. It was Goodwill. His laptop was sliding off his lap. He was horny.
    He was obsessed with Gloria.
    He knew she read his blog but not if she liked him.
    He verbalized this uncertainty.
    “Gloria reads my blog. Does she like me?”
    Despite having thought out loud he was not any closer to unraveling this mystery. So, he asked Google.

    How do I know if Gloria really likes me?

     The first result was for modernromance.com. From there he became distracted and clicked on an ad for chickswithdicks.com. Then he thought about his mother. Then he thought it was weird to think of his mother at that particular moment. But he missed his mother. She had died. He could not choose whether or when to miss her.
    He closed chickswithdicks.com. Back at modernromance.com he looked at a list entitled, “Modern Romance: Frequently Asked Questions.”
    Question number eight was, “How do I know if she really likes me?”
     More clicking brought him to, “Modern Romance: Indicators of Interest.”
    And there it was. “IOI 53: She reads your blog.”
    His exuberance manifested itself physically.
    Like for example, he jump-kicked the air.
    Like for example, he high-fived an imaginary friend.
    Like for example, he said, “Thank you! Thank you!” and accepted an invisible award.
    Like for example, he snorted a nonexistent line of coke and visualized himself just having banged three chicks with expensive pedicures. In a limo, that is. Driving down Ventura Boulevard.
    Like for example, he formed a pretend gun with his hand and pointed it at his full-length mirror. Then he pulled the trigger.
    He was going for the gusto.
    But then, standing in the mirror he asked himself a very pertinent question.
    “What next?”
    She likes me but what next? She likes me but what do I do? Should I call her up? No, that’s too weird. Talk to her friend? No that’s wimpy you got to go for the gusto Buck Bradley!
    But still there was that question.
    “What next?”
    He knew a friend of Gloria’s named Stephanie, so he phoned her.
    “Hey Steph. Gloria reads my blog every day.”
    “How do you know?” she asked.
    “I check the stats.”
    “Eww, that’s creepy.”
    “Yeah, whatever. She reads my blog everyday. Isn’t that great?”
    “I guess. Obviously she’s in love with you.”
    “She is? And it’s obvious? How is it obvious?”
    “I don’t know! Does the conversation always have to revolve around you?”
    Buck coughed. Then he asked, “Oh. How is your day going?”
    Stephanie’s answer was centered on a theme of sexual recidivism and romantic indecisiveness. Buck did not listen. He set down his laptop. He stood up. He walked to his stereo. He increased the volume of his high energy dance mix. Then he danced. Then he gazed at the moves being gloriously reflected in the full-length mirror. Someday he would bring that mirror to the back of the limo with the chicks and the well pedicured feet and perfume and soft hair as they said, “I love you Buck. You are so funny!” And he would take that mirror and snort coke off it. And he would remember back to when the full-length paraphernalia was merely a functional cosmetic device. And he would say, “Well I love you ladies, too. And I hope you like this high energy dance mix. I know I do.” And the mountain of coke in Buck’s lap would transform him into a sexual power-horse filling the emotional and physical holes of any woman who tried to get in his way. Or in his pants. Which was going to be like, a lot.
    At the end of Stephanie’s monologue, Buck half listened.
    “So now I’m like, ‘Never again. And this time I mean it,’” she said.
    “Oh. Well, good luck with that. Bye Steph.” Buck hung up.
    What next? What next? Think, Buck Bradley. She reads your blog. Write something that touches her. Personally. Like your hand. Like your hand will touch her physically, softly as you caress her skin with your tongue and smile inside. After she reads your blog, call her with hilarious banter and invite her to your place. Once you get the smell of your roommate’s mutt out of it.
    But what would he write about? He remembered Gloria’s conversations on the bus.
    Like when she said people lied about preferring rain to sun in order to sound interesting.
    Like when she said she did not talk on the phone in bed. Doing so gave her insomnia.
    Like when she said Volkswagen Bugs were for girls.
    Like when she said the same thing about the 49ers.
    Like when she said her Hawaiian uncle had cooked Spam for her and at first she hated it. But then she liked it. And now she loved it. She loved Spam.
    There it was. Item 5. Buck would write a review and comparison of different types of Spam.
    But there was a problem. Earlier in the week, The New York Times had published an article on Spam. And Gloria read it. Later her interest in The Times would eclipse her readership of Buck’s blog. She would become disinterested in Buck as a person. Buck would become devastated. He would visit my office. Then he would attend my couch, weekly. He would tell me many things, and I would tell him more than that. But no matter what I said, I could not prevent Buck’s descent into a delusional reality.
    Buck woke up early Thursday morning to begin the review.
    What next, Buck? How should I start the blog entry? Should I just tell the truth: I’m trying to impress Gloria? No that’s weird! Then how about I make up a story about talking to people about Spam on the bus? No that’s contrived.
    Finally, he began writing.

FOR THE LOVE OF SPAM

    Something was missing from my life. I knew it. Goddamn it I knew it. So many gaps. My heart was alone, even when my body was not. Going to sleep I was abandoned, even when I lay with another.
    And what was it that was missing? Pork? Yes. Pork. Or well, a pork derivative. But that was about to change when I stumbled upon the answer to my prayers. Spam. Spam!

    Continuing in this manner, Buck completed the article and posted it.
     Then he checked his blog’s stats.
    On Friday morning, he saw that Gloria had read the entry.

    Good. Yes. Good! Now for the carefully crafted phone call.

    “Hi Gloria, this is Buck!”
    “Oh, hi!”
    “What are you doing tonight?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Oh. Well in that case, how would you like to come over to my apartment?”
    “Sorry, no thanks.”
    Buck thought on his feet. I should have put some pants on. This is so distracting talking with hairy legs sticking out. But come up with something.
    “You sure?” he asked. “I just shampooed my carpet and everything?”
    “Sorry Buck, no thanks.”
    She was supposed to want to come over. It hadn’t worked.
    “Oh. Okay. Hey, did you see my Spam review? Sweet, huh?”
    “Yeah, I did. That was pretty funny. But it’s like the review in The New York Times.”
    “What? Really?”
    “Yeah, check out the article in The Times. Totally funny. I thought you read it and got the idea from there.”
    “Oh. No, I didn’t.” The carpet was itchy on Buck’s feet. He sat down and switched ears with the phone. “And I didn’t know you read The Times.”
    “Well, I don’t normally. But Abe Mortenson wrote the review. And I know Abe. He’s a family friend. He told me to check it out. He is so funny! And cute. Get this: he got the idea from my uncle.”
    Close open. Close open. Buck’s blinking annoyed him.
    “Yeah,” he said.
    “And Buck, not to be mean or anything but your piece is kind of weird. Especially the intro. I mean, the idea that Spam is going to solve all of your problems – isn’t that like, an extreme form of consumerism?”
    She didn’t get it. “Well, I was just joking around. Tongue in cheek. I know the most valuable things aren’t for sale.”
    “You think you’re smart, huh? You should read Abe’s writing then. You might learn something.”
    “Okay.”
    Neither of them said anything for a while.
    “Aw! Hey Buck!” Gloria said finally, laughing.
    “No, it’s fine,” he said. “A little constructive criticism is good. And please have a good night.”
    “Thanks. You too. And don’t worry, some day they will hire you back. See you on the bus.”
    “Goodnight, Gloria.”
    He set the phone down, walked to his bedroom and fell onto his bed. Then he stared at the wall.
    Yes. I will indeed see you on the bus.
    And then after her stop, still in his seat Buck would see the landscape rolling by. Gloria would sweep into the afternoon sunlight behind him. She would walk up the steps to her college. She would be at the rear of his head, where he had no eyes. And she would become an idea. And then he would have to pick up that mop in the corporate shed. Back and forth, across the tile of the building to make it spic-and-span. Floor by floor to the top. He would pause on the executive level at 12:30 AM. He would eat his lunch. It would be a sandwich that he prepared himself. He would see the lights of the cars on the streets below going places. And at 3 AM, in the dim green light of the exit sign he would lift those weights in the company gym. If he heard, “You can do it!” it was because he said it. But he hoped his mother also heard him. He hoped his mother knew that even though he lost his previous job, he still washed his hands before eating.
    But that was on Monday. Tonight he had a case of light beer and his roommate’s television. He had “Twilight Zone” reruns. He had a shampooed carpet. He had his full-length mirror. It was the same mirror his mother had given him. Someday he would be famous and he would carry that mirror with him into the limo. And he would tell his driver, “Bring me back to where I am from. Bring me to see my mother.” And his driver would say, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to do that, Sir.” And Buck would tell the driver, “Yes you do. All the way. I’m famous. Fuck flying!” And after all that driving Buck would step out of the limousine carrying the mirror and on those streets paved with gold they would be yelling his name, “Buck! Buck! Buck!” Then he would knock on that small door of that small house in the clouds and he would hand his mother the mirror. He would say, “Mom, you can have this back. Sorry, I used it as paraphernalia. I hope you don’t mind.” But she would just laugh. They would all just laugh. And they would love him. And he would say, “I missed you, Mother.” He would say, “I love you, Mother.”
    And at precisely that moment, he would not think to himself, What next, Buck? At precisely that moment, he would breathe the words, “I am home.”

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