By Logan McMillen

i. Kansas City, Missouri— 1983

Every morning before the store opened, Rubén tempted George into smoking a cigarette by the loading docks—which had a clear view of the highway and the sunrise. Today was no different.

“You’re the devil,” George said—with his lighter already pulled out.

George owned the home improvement store where Rubén worked.

The missionaries were quick to find a job for Rubén. And even though it wasn’t in his field of study, or anywhere near his relatives in New Jersey—Rubén liked it. It gave him a casual sense of purpose.

“We don’t really follow that one,” Rubén said. “Do we?”

Rubén often pretended that he didn’t know anything about Mormonism, even though he’d been “practicing” for over two years. He thought of the religion mainly as a way to stay social in an unfamiliar place. That and he felt like he owed the missionaries something. If they wanted his soul, so be it.

But Rubén wasn’t going to follow their weird rules.

“Are we going fishing this weekend?” George asked.

George inhaled deeply and coughed.

Rubén once made the mistake of telling George that he’d never been fishing.

“What’s the point if you don’t drink?” Rubén asked.

“The point is patience,” George said. “Contemplation.”

George was overweight and he had a ruddy, pockmarked face. It was difficult for Rubén to judge whether George was unduly lighthearted or preternaturally wise.

“I don’t have anything to contemplate,” Rubén said.

“Give it some time . . . Youth is like cruise control.”

Rubén looked at George again; George couldn’t have been more than five years older than him.

While they were talking, a semi truck pulled off of the frontage road and into the parking lot. As it approached the loading docks, George stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it into a can.

“Don’t let me do that again,” George said.

*

Outside of work, Rubén spent most of his time with Anne.

Anne had left the church. Separated—but not divorced—from her husband of five years.

That night, Rubén met her at a bar off of Interstate 70. And after having a few drinks, they went back to his apartment.

“How old do you think George is?” Rubén asked.

They were laying in bed with the sheets kicked onto the floor.

“Why don’t you just ask him?” Anne said.

“We don’t really talk,” Rubén said. “We make jokes in one another’s direction.”

Rubén had met Anne at the home improvement store. One day, she came in to buy curtains—for the trailer she rented outside of Kansas City. In the checkout line, he noticed that Anne took a candy bar and stuffed it in her bag. Rather than confront her, Rubén asked George about it.

“Oh, that’s Anne,” he had said. “Don’t worry—she’s harmless.”

There was a traffic jam on the street outside Rubén’s apartment; he could hear the horns blaring and people arguing. If he closed his eyes, it reminded him of Mexico City. New York. Buenos Aires.

These were places he’d probably never visit again.

Anne traced her finger around Rubén’s stomach and then poked it.

“Do you have anything to eat?” She asked. “I have the spins.”

He pointed in the direction of the fridge. Rubén thought for a moment about how much his life had changed in two years. The type of person he thought he was in Mexico. No one cared about that in America. It managed to feel both freeing and insulting at the same time. For instance, Anne didn’t care that he had read the complete works of Heidegger. Or that his family once owned the largest opera theater in Mexico City.

Anne returned with a pink Tupperware full of rice and beans.

“Do you think I’m fat?” Rubén asked.

Lately, Rubén had trouble remembering what he used to look like.

Among the things he left behind were all of his Polaroids.

“You look the same,” Anne said. “But I haven’t known you that long.

“I think I used to be good looking,” Rubén said.

Anne grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

“You talk about yourself too much,” she said.

The Grand Ole Opry was on. The women all had fake up-dos and sequined dresses.

Rubén pulled the sheets and covers back onto the bed.

That night, he slept restlessly and woke up with a bed full of leftovers.

Anne had fallen asleep with the pink Tupperware in her lap.

*

When Rubén first arrived in Missouri, the missionaries put him in touch with Dallin and McKay. They were a Mormon couple who attended his church. And for the past two years, they’d been inviting Rubén over for weekly dinner. That night, they ate pork chops with applesauce and funeral potatoes.

Then they moved to the living room to watch Dynasty.

“I can’t believe you watch this show,” Rubén said.

What amazed him most about the US was how hokey and glamorous it could be.

“It took forever to get Dallin into it,” McKay said—with her eyes glued to the TV.

“I do it as a favor to my beautiful wife,” Dallin said.

The touch of sarcasm was so light that Rubén couldn’t be sure if it was there at all.

Dallin was a “teacher” in the church. And part of his role was to teach Rubén the history of Mormonism: from the early years in New York, to the promised land in Utah. He was also responsible for Rubén’s “moral formation.” Other than George and Anne, he was Rubén’s best friend.

“Did you read that book I got you?” Rubén asked.

“Haven’t got around to it,” Dallin said. “But I will.”

Rubén had gifted Dallin a copy of Journey to the End of the Night.

“I want us to have a conversation about it,” Rubén said.

“Shh,” McKay said—turning up the TV.

“I’ll let you know when I finish,” Dallin whispered.

There was just a bit of discomfort that lingered between Rubén and Dallin.

He had a way of noticing whenever Rubén got antsy or depressed. Invariably, he prompted Rubén to make some changes in his life—usually to quit drinking.

But Rubén felt that his problems weren’t superficial ones, like drinking.

They were deep and psychological.

Through the living room window, Rubén watched some kids bicycling around in circles.

“I have to get going,” he said—standing up. “But let me know what happens in Dynasty.”

After that, Rubén closed out the bar on 18th and Cherry. Across the room, he thought he recognized someone from Mexico City—but it was just an apparition.

*

The next night, Rubén was feeling more guilty than usual about his affair with Anne.

So much so that he wasn’t able to perform when she came over.

“I feel like this goes without saying,” Anne said. “But we don’t have to do it every time.”

“That’s tricky,” Rubén said. “If we’re not doing that, then what are we?”

A few weeks after they met, Rubén realized that Anne’s husband still went to church. His name was Jarom and he usually sat in the pew right in front of Rubén. Sometimes, Jarom even brought his mother.

“We…” Anne started to say. “We…”

Rubén hopped out of bed and retrieved his clothes from the dryer.

Anne was flipping through channels. Her nails made a clicking sound on the remote.

“We are . . . ?” Rubén asked.

He was worried that without sex, their relationship would become stagnant. That Anne would become bored and leave. Or, that she would start wanting more.

Rubén wanted desperately to maintain the status quo.

“Do you remember what you were like when we first met?” Anne said.

Rubén stepped into a pair of underwear. He prepared himself to be embarrassed.

“You made all these crazy pronouncements and promises. You wanted my attention so badly. Now you have it and you’re not doing anything with it. And that doesn’t bother me either. I’m fine with the way things are. But don’t ask me questions like that. It’s unfair.”

Anne landed on a channel that she liked and set the remote down.

Rubén felt chastened by what she said. She was more observant than he gave her credit for.

Rubén climbed into bed and racked his brain for ways to make them both happy.

But he could only come up with things that would make him happy.

A little after midnight, Anne turned off the TV and said goodnight.

But Rubén lay awake long after that, watching headlights pass on the ceiling.

*

The next morning, Rubén arrived early to the home improvement store. He wanted to catch a first cigarette, drink a cup of coffee, and then spend an hour reading in the strip mall silence.

But George was already there. He was sitting on a chair near the loading docks.

He seemed depressed. Rubén thought he might’ve been crying.

“Is something wrong?” Rubén asked.

Rubén and George rarely opened up to each other.

And when they did, it was never in concrete terms.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” George said. “I’m just having a blue day.”

George had an odd habit of pulling on his bottom lip.

George had a long scar there. Over the years, Rubén had been told many stories about it.

That a dog bit George on the face. That someone punched him so hard that his tooth went straight through the lip. That a Haitian woman told him it was good luck.

“I’m going to make us some coffee,” Rubén said.

“Coffee-mate,” George said.

A month after Rubén moved to the states, he received news that his mother had died. At the time, he didn’t know George very well. Fortunately, George was sympathetic. Rubén got some time off. But he wasn’t able to attend the funeral. Instead, Rubén spent the week alone in his apartment—drinking and listening to sad country-western music.

Rubén returned from the break room with the coffee.

“Here you go,” he said.

After taking a sip, George launched into another story about his scar. Apparently, when George first met his wife, she called his scar “distinguished.” And when he asked her what that meant, she said it was a polite way to call someone ugly.

George laughed at his own punchline.

His humor was corny and his wisdom was trite, but Rubén couldn’t deny that there was something folksy and magnetic about George. Rubén sat there listening until another employee pushed a train of carts past the loading docks, which was long time after sunrise.

ii. Mexico City, Mexico— 1981

Looking back it will seem like providence to Rubén. How when he finished packing his mother’s house in Coyoacán, how when all of the boxes were taped shut and pushed neatly into the corner, how when he was sitting on one of the boxes and smoking a cigarette—thinking, these things are really bad for me—there came a knock at the door.

The men on the front step were dressed in white button-up shirts with black pants and black ties. They wore name tags and carried hard-bound books and glossy pamphlets.

Rubén opened the door. Just enough so he could focus on the man standing furthest to his right. The man had a tidy beard and his hair was slicked down with oil.

“Hola señor,” the man said. “We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Do you have some time to discuss your faith and the prophet Joseph Smith?”

Rubén said nothing for a moment.

Normally, Rubén was dismissive of missionaries. He thought of himself as an academic. An agnostic. But today, Rubén was feeling abnormally receptive. Generous, even.

That very morning, Rubén had moved his mother to an apartment downtown—with windows facing Chapultepec Park. For the past six months, he had been preoccupied with her arrangements. Meanwhile, the last of the Vallejo fortune—Rubén’s inheritance—had dwindled to nothing.

“Sí jefe, come in, come in,” Rubén said—opening the door.

There were three missionaries in the group. Two older men and a young man who was being trained. The young man stood behind the others and observed quietly.

Rubén led them into the house. It was old and tasteful and empty. Built in the 1920s.

He wondered what the missionaries were thinking. In this neighborhood, they probably expected to find a successful family with children—spiritually misguided, but happy.

At the very least, they expected furniture.

“Are you moving?” The man with the tidy beard finally asked.

“Signed the documents this morning,” Rubén said.

“How exciting!” The man said. “Jose, isn’t that exciting?”

The young man being trained looked up from his feet.

“I suppose that is exciting,” he said. “Where are you moving?”

“I’m not sure,” Rubén said. “To be honest, I don’t even know where I’m sleeping tonight.”

The man who had yet to speak chimed in at this point. He was the skinniest of the three missionaries and he had a splotch of vitiligo on the right side of his face.

“We’ll be praying for you,” he said.

The three missionaries said nothing for a beat. They seemed unpracticed to Rubén, as if he was the first person who had invited them in.

“Well,” Rubén said. “I know a little bit about Joseph Smith . . . ”

“You seem preoccupied by other things,” the man with the tidy beard said.

Rubén realized that this was their approach. To spring on people who were distracted, depressed, or at a crossroads. But still, it felt nice to know—even if they had ulterior motives—that the three men were observant enough to notice Rubén’s unhappiness.

“My mother just moved into an apartment,” he said. “And I can’t find space for these boxes.”

Rubén looked around. There were veins of dust floating in the air. There were cobwebs in the corners. When the bank took possession of the house, Rubén fired the cleaning staff.

The missionaries each pulled up boxes and sat on them.

“Change is difficult,” the man with the tidy haircut said. “But you seem like a good son.” Rubén laughed. No one had ever described him as a good son.

In his late-twenties, Rubén spent his time traveling through Europe and the United States. In his thirties, he collected degrees in South America. Rubén overstayed his welcome as a young bachelor and returned to Mexico City a bitter man, quickly approaching middle age.

That’s when he moved back home and started looking after his mother.

“If you don’t know where you’re spending the night,” the man with the tidy beard said. “We have temporary housing at our church. And we know people in US immigration…”

Rubén had not considered it, but he did have family in America.

His mother was no longer well enough to recognize him. And even if she were, she would be sympathetic to his dilemma. Without money, Rubén was just an educated bohemian.

“You could donate the boxes” the young man said. “If there isn’t space…”

The other missionaries gave the young man a stern look.

But Rubén was no longer concerned by their motives. By his assessment, they were kind and earnest people. Besides, he wasn’t in a position to turn down help.

So in that moment, Rubén decided to surrender to their kindness—to drown in it. Not that he believed in what they believed; not that he believed in anything at all. “I like that idea,” Rubén said. “Your church must have a truck right?”

iii. Kansas City, Missouri — 1983

That evening, Rubén returned to the bar on Interstate 70. A few minutes after he sat down, he noticed Dallin standing by the front door. It was one of the few times Rubén saw him wearing street clothes: jeans and a button up shirt with pearlescent snaps.

The bar was full of smoke and noise, but Rubén managed to get his attention.

“I didn’t want you to think that I slithered out of here,” Rubén said.

Dallin ordered a club soda from the bartender and tipped him a dollar.

“They wouldn’t let me in if I had that effect,” Dallin said.

“You’re not here spreading the good word?”

Dallin laughed. “This is one of my old haunts.”

Shortly after they met, Dallin had told Rubén that he was an alcoholic.

Later, Rubén learned that Dallin and his wife were actually childhood friends with Anne.

But they lost touch after Anne got married.

“If I’m being honest, this place seems a little roughneck for you,” Rubén said.

“What about you? Aren’t you more of a wine bar sophisticate?”

Rubén cleared his throat. He wiped the condensation from his glass.

“What did they tell you about me?” He asked

Rubén had been wondering this for a while. What preconceptions Dallin had when they met.

“They told me you used to be rich,” Dallin said. “And that you were a college snob.”

Dallin sipped his club soda. “But to be honest, I figured that out when we first met.”

Rubén stared into his beer. That assessment seemed appropriate; he didn’t take it personally.

“Did that intimidate you?” Rubén asked.

Dallin laughed. “You think you’re so much better than everyone here.”

“But there’s so many things I could have done. I could’ve been a professor. I could’ve been a director…”

“Yet you absolve yourself of the things you have control over.”

Dallin must have been referring to Rubén’s relationship with Anne. The two of them rarely discussed the affair in clear terms, which Rubén’s always assumed was for Dallin’s sensitivity.

Of course, now it occurred to Rubén that Dallin may have been avoidant out of respect for Rubén’s own avoidance.

“She says she’s happy with the way things are,” Rubén said.

“Then you should meet with her husband,” Dallin said. “Affirm the status quo.”

For years, the church elders wanted Jarom to sign divorce papers so they could begin the process of excommunicating Anne—apparently the church was sick of both of them.

The neon beer signs flickered. Rubén ordered another drink.

“Here’s his number,” Dallin said—scribbling on a napkin.

“Jarom will come around,” he added. “He just needs a push.”

Rubén watched as a cowboy filled the jukebox with quarters.

“Everyone reacts differently to being pushed,” Rubén said.

He took the napkin and stuck it in his jacket.

Rubén drank for another hour or so, until the bartender cut him off.

“I was about to say goodnight anyways,” Rubén told him.

Outside, in the cool distance: the skyline of Kansas City was shimmering like a gas flare.

*

Rubén avoided spending time at the trailer park where Anne lived. But that had the consequence of making Anne feel like he didn’t understand the realities of her situation.

So Rubén drove the half-hour to Anne’s house the next night.

“Do you still think about the future?” Anne asked.

They were sitting on her vinyl couch and smoking.

“Not like how I used to,” he said.

Rubén could hear the awning flapping against the trailer.

The night they first had sex, Rubén had woken up in Anne’s trailer with a terrible hangover.

He had peered out the window and saw a dog chained up in someone’s backyard.

Anne was standing there in the kitchen wearing an oversized t-shirt.

“There’s not much food,” Anne had said. “Do you want to split an egg?”

Now they were sitting in the same trailer, watching Dallas and talking about the future.

“You don’t like it here?” Rubén asked.

“Gets a bit stale.”

“What do you want to do?” Rubén said. “Realistically.”

“I don’t know…” Anne started. “Maybe move to Oregon.”

Ruben was pretty sure that he was done with the itinerant part of of his life, and on a certain level he enjoyed Missouri. He enjoyed having an audience of normal people.

Anne took the ashtray and dumped it out the open window.

“Is this with or without me?” Rubén asked. “Oregon, I mean.” “It would be a bigger conversation,” Anne said.

Rubén didn’t sleep well that night. Anne’s bed was too small. So was the bathroom. Rubén peed all over the rim when he got up in the middle of the night. At five, he went and sat on the front step.

Rubén wondered if maybe Dallin was right.

Whether affirming the status quo could make everyone happy.

Rubén reached in his jacket and thumbed the napkin with Jarom’s number on it. After looking for a half-hour, he managed to find the only phone booth in the trailer park.

*

That same morning, Rubén met Jarom at an old-fashioned diner across the Kansas border.

Though they’d never met before, Rubén assumed that he was unfriendly and intimidating.

But now that he was standing in front him, Rubén wondered where he got that idea from.

Jarom was sitting in a red and white booth, eating toast and a half-grapefruit.

“Sit down,” he said—sliding over to make room.

Ruben sat down and ordered a coffee from the waitress.

It was clear to Rubén that Jarom was once good-looking. But his hands were wrinkled and chapped. And it was difficult to distinguish the blonde hairs from the grey ones.

Rubén let a few moments pass in silence before he started talking.

“I want to talk about Anne,” he said. “This is uncomfortable.”

Jarom covered his toast in peanut butter and then dunked it in coffee.

“What is it that you want to talk about?”

Rubén couldn’t form a response.

First, he wanted to say that he loved Anne. But that didn’t sound right. Then he wanted to tell Jarom to move on with his life and sign divorce papers. But that sounded like a platitude.

“Did you tell Anne you were coming here?” Jarom asked.

It didn’t occur to Rubén that he should.

“Should I have?” He asked.

“The two of us are pretty much the same. We do and we don’t talk to my wife . . . ”

Rubén said nothing.

But he did wonder: If Jarom was so comfortable naming his problems to a stranger, why can’t he fix them?

But Rubén knew the answer, because he was the same way.

In fact, he was worse—because he wasn’t even comfortable naming them to anyone.

“I’ll meet with the elders and sign papers,” Jarom finally said. “Any reason for the rush?”

“I don’t know,” Rubén said. “We’re talking about Oregon.”

“All nuts roll west.”

With that, he passed Rubén the bill and gathered his coat.

“You’ve got this one,” Jarom said—walking away. “I’ll treat you next time.”

*

The next night, Rubén had Anne over to his apartment.

They ordered Chinese take-out and had sex on the living room floor.

Now they were laying in bed, watching Bullitt on one of the premium channels.

“Do you think Steve McQueen is still cool?” Anne asked.

Rubén shrugged. “I like The Thomas Crown Affair.”

On the way back from Kansas, Rubén stopped at work and left a series of desperate messages for Jarom—begging him not to go through with it.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Anne said. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to run off.”

“It’s fine,” Rubén said. “Water under the bridge.”

“I really am fine with the way things are.”

Anne opened the window and lit two cigarettes; she passed one to Rubén.

The outside air was full of humidity and shouting.

About a year prior, Rubén had visited his family in New Jersey. And while it was mostly warm and loving, one of Rubén’s cousins did accuse him of manipulating his mother. Of taking money and hiding it somewhere he could find it later. He had said that Rubén had always cared about himself too much.

It wasn’t true that Rubén had taken money. But there was obviously some truth to what his cousin said about his character. For the rest of the visit, Rubén’s family played it down—even apologizing on behalf of his cousin. But it was out there. If people cared to look, it was obvious. Even Jarom saw it.

“Maybe we should go on vacation,” Anne said. “That would be nice.”

She turned off the TV and looked at Rubén.

He could his reflection in Anne’s eyes. He was older. The hair on his face was peppered with grey and not red. The man he was in Mexico was gone. The things that made Rubén feel like Rubén: Vanished. Now all that was left were his flaws.

“Vacation does sound nice,” he said.

*

When Rubén arrived for work the next morning, he noticed that George was idling his truck in the parking lot. Rubén hoisted himself into the passenger’s seat and closed the door.

“Are you coming in?” Rubén asked.

George barely registered his presence.

“Just clearing my mind,” George said. “Last night I took a piece of paper and held it against the wall with my finger. Then I spun the paper around with my other hand.”

“Are you teaching yourself magic?” Rubén asked.

“No, I read about it in a Dharma book,” George said. “You’re supposed to picture yourself as the spot where your finger meets the paper meets the wall.”

As a matter of principle, Rubén was impatient with New Age thought, but he was happy to indulge George.

“. . . Were you able to?” Rubén asked

“No,” George said.

A few months after Rubén arrived in Missouri, George told Rubén that his wife had died in a car crash about a decade ago. George had converted for his wife when they were quite young. Now he stayed in the church—not out of sincere belief—but for her memory.

“They don’t like me,” George had said. “They do a good job of pretending, but they really prefer people who were born into it. But they keep me around because of the store. Because I help out people like you… I don’t mind it. They can take me if they want.”

Rubén fiddled with the power windows, rolling them up and down.

“Maybe there’s something else in the book…” Rubén said. “Another trick.”

“No tricks,” George said. “I’m inwardly tuned . . . I thought that letting go and allowing the world to unfold would get me somewhere new. But letting go is not the same thing as being open.”

George kept toothpicks stuck in the soft felt of his drivers seat; he grabbed one and chewed on it.

“I don’t think you’re inwardly tuned,” Rubén said.

“No offense intended… but you’re not the best judge.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the highway.

For the first time in a very long while, Rubén considered how fragile his existence was. It’s not clear what would happen to him if George died suddenly, especially if the church couldn’t, or wasn’t willing to, find him another job. These thoughts were overwhelming, so Rubén decided to ignore them.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, hoping to get a rise out of George.

But George said nothing; he didn’t even call Rubén the devil.

---

Logan McMillen works in information services and is a graduate of the University of Oregon MFA program.