Contributors »

Fiction»

A Story About Bob By Alexander Ligyron, New York, NY

This is a story about a boy named Bob.

Bob was in a hurry. It was almost seven twenty seven, and after a little quick math, he realized that he was forty two minutes late. But Bob wasn't making any excuses for this, no, it wasn't his fault, he reasoned. Fat baby was late, was always late, and Bob should have known this by now. Instead of placing the call earlier and thereby allocating the proper amount of time to make it downtown, Bob was stuck huddling underneath some noname bodega on 47th street, its tattered awning not even sufficiently sheltering him from the steady, fat droplets of rain streaming forth from the Lord's good home. So there was Bob, late, a little wet, but not particularly ruffled by his predicament. Cool, that Bob.

A little Asian man, the back of his tan pantlegs soaked up to the knee, darted by, somehow managing to balance a briefcase, three Duane Reade shopping bags presumably filled with little odds and ends for the kids and an umbrella rather large enough to provide protection for an entire Chinese or Korean or Laotian fishing village. He narrowly missed poking Bob in the eye with one of the umbrella's spokes, but Bob would have barely noticed. Bob was intently looking at his cell, an ancient Nokia model, its screen scarred with a sharp crack across its midsection, its edges knicked and knacked from the many, often daily, beatings it received from streets. He never let go of that phone, never for too long, and never went anywhere without. He was attached to that phone, like it was fixed onto his body - Bob's second penis, he often referred to it as, but never out loud.

Bob squinted hard at the screen, almost as if he hoped that if stared at it long enough the < RESTRICTED > phone ID will magically appear, heralding Fat Baby's imminent arrival and allowing him to get on with his life. But nothing of that sort appeared and Bob was forced to wait longer. He tried to keep himself occupied. He played Snake. He deftly weaved that little digitized bitch round and round, interrupted only to field calls from Lilian, his mindful, later worried, and then downright cunty ladyfriend. He ignored the calls earlier, habitually hitting the silent function to avoid her voice, a shrill, piercing, onlygoodforfucking voice, but couldn't keep the charade going after as much as a half dozen calls. Don't tear the envelope, he thought to himself. It was Bob's mantra. Bob always had a mantra, and for good reasons too.

"Where the fuck are you, Robert. It's almost been an hour. What the fuck is the matter with you. My parents, they are walking in right now - this, this is nowhere near how to make a good first impression."

She stammered a bit at the end. Bob was taken aback. Maybe, he thought, they're wrong, maybe she really does have some sliver of soul, however tiny and charred it might be.

"Baby, come on. I told you that I'm stuck at the office," swinging open the bodega doors just as he completed the last syllable. Smooth, that Bob. "I'll be down in like fifteen, tops. I swear. Just go ahead and order some appetizers, I'll be right in when they're about to be brought out. Promise."
"Get down here now, I'm not kidding," she hissed before hanging up. It was barely audible, but Bob could detect the venom. The parents must have been almost at the table.
Fuck. Fuck, where the fuck is this motherfucker. This fucking fat baby motherfucker. Always pulling this late shit. Irresponsible piece of shit. Fuck. Bob was, you guessed it, getting upset, and rightfully so. He called Fat Baby right before he shutdown his comp for the night, right before he unraveled his near-neon pink tie, right before he said goodbye to Dylan, the dimwitted, no, developmentally disabled, mail room attendant, and walked right out of his work. He texted Fat Baby again about fifteen minutes later, which simultaneously served to confirm the location and as a pointed written reminder to not bail. The message was cordial, but most of all unrevealing: Be at the spot in ten. Lookn forward to seeing u. Just like any text you would send to an old college buddy or a former flame. Cryptic, that Bob.

Bob precariously fingered a loose cigarette from the right pocket of a his navy peacoat, a pretty little number he accidentally swiped from some unsuspecting innocent at some bar last weekend. He didn't remember how the kid looked or, initially, how he wound up with the coat. He stitched together the events of the evening slowly in the morning after, sorting through his blurred recollections, investigating the night's incoming and outgoing texts and calls, and gently, subtly prodding his friends for answers. They knew what he was getting at, but dutifully played along, if only to prevent having to hear the all too familiar tirade about Bob was done with drinking, done with this way of life, ready to turn over a new leaf, walk throw the narrow gates, find Jesus, grow up, etc, etc. Consistent, that Bob.

'You were really fucked, totally faced. A manimal. A manimal with a pink scarf. I think you just mouthed off at the bartender and got tossed, but I can't be sure. I wasn't with you for a good portion of the night. You could have reached behind the bar and tried to help yourself to some Crown, or hell, maybe even one of those cherries behind the bar. The usual, man. Anyway, you just grabbed the wrong coat on the way out, simple as that. You have a nice coat, it's a similar cut, I'm sure the dude is fine with his new gear. Change it up a bit, ya know? Kinda like trading sandwiches at lunch during --

'I didn't wear a coat to that bar that night. I left it at Hannah's apartment before we went out. She texted me this morning.'

Silence. Bob was getting tired of this, hearing these bullshit accolates, spoken through probably some twisted and forced smile that only veiled what he thought, accurately for once, his friend was really thinking: Get your shit together. You're twenty three. You've been outta school over a year now and you still dont know how to operate like a halfway decent fuck in this city. Grow the fuck up already.

'Oh. I guess you should track him down, or maybe just donate it to the Red Cross or something.

'Yeah, you are probably right.'

Unconvinced, that Bob.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bob flicked his half-smoked stog into the intersection, flipped up the collar of his stolen threads and hailed a cab. He was almost an hour late. He called Fat Baby, to give him a piece of his mind, but the voicemail popped up after just two rings. Two rings. Fat Baby, you guessed it, deaded the phonecall. He loved Bob, loved Bob like anyone would love a fourth or fifth cousin would, but he had other, bigger plans that night and didn't have time to swing by and drop off a G for Bob.

He thought about sending his little brother Mike to drop it off for him, but he remembered the last time he served Bob - the fucking kid handed him a stack of one's, like he was some sort of coke-delivering stripper. And his eyes, his eyes just glazed over when I pounded him with the bag., like he was already geeked up. And the way he was looking at it, moving his fingers over the edge of the plastic, outlining the rocks, sizing it up to see if it was a good weight or if I mighta fucked him. Fuck him, junkie white boy motherfucka. Fuck him and that nose of his.

Bob, of course, did not know this and was now undeniably upset that his beloved Fat Baby hadn't arrived. Fucking Fat Baby.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
< LILLIAN <3 > flashed once on Bob's member/jack. He hated how she fucking put added her name into his phone with a heart at the end, like she was some Hello Kitty! bitch. She was from Long Island. Close enough. < LILLIAN <3 > flashed again. Finally, Bob decided to pick up as he entered a cab, one of those juiced up minivan ones, designed to hoard as many vacationing Swedes and Italians and NYU freshman as ever.

"I'm a few blocks away, we're just approaching Chelsea now. I'm really sorry about this, it couldn't have been helped. I was totally swamped and I -- "

23 blocks and two avenues away.

"Where are you?" It was shriek, a shriek that definitely audible to the rest of the restaurant. Maybe even the one next door too. Yup, this did not look so good for Bob.

"I told you, I'm a few blocks away" Bob pleaded innocently, with an ever so slight hint of exasperation rolling off at the end there, the same kinda frustrated tinge that a fourth-grade teacher has after repeatedly citing the same directions to some ESL student who still doesn't get it.

21 blocks and two avenues away.

"You're lying, You're lying." More shrieks. A little more panicked this time, but still, definitely shrieks. The maitre d' must have been almost at the table.

"I swear to God, I'm not lying." Invoking the Almighty, the classic move, the last line of defense. Bob was getting desperate now.

19 blocks and two avenues away.

"GOD KNOWS THAT YOU ARE LYING. WE'RE LEAVING."

Blocks and avenues away, that Bob.

Alexander is a recent NYU graduate and former staffer for Obama's presidential campaign. Following the election, and after a brief road trip out west, he began concentrating on a few creative projects, including a novel that deals with the conflicting experiences of his double-life: all-star athlete and scholarship student-cum-drug addict, alcoholic, drug dealer, fake ID maker, and overall scumbag.

Featuring America
Contact editors at featuringamerica@gmail.com.