THE FIVE OBSTRUCTIONS
I keep the engine running to stay warm, my company BMW the last in a row of vehicles idling in the valet lane outside the five-star hotel where our office Christmas party is taking place.
It’s snowing hard, and I shiver despite the warm air blasting from the heater. My phone rings, Abramovich texting me again—WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??—But I don’t answer because I texted earlier I was sick. I’m supposed to join him on the podium—his speechwriter, sidekick, and right-hand man—to introduce him, my remarks to be perfunctory so he might better shine.
By now, I should be a senior partner, not my boss’s lackey. So fuck him. (ILL-WILL.)
A valet arrives, and I get out and enter the hotel lobby. I avoid the main ballroom where the dinner’s taking place and look for a pub where I might drink and contemplate my next move. The large hotel has several such pubs, and I know of one that’s especially secluded and private.
The style is Art Deco: stained glass portals, checkered black-and-white floor, mirror-paneled ceiling. The only customer there. I order a Scotch, then stare morosely at my drink, my third or fourth of the evening. I’m trying to pace myself.
The bartender smiles broadly. I knock back the scotch and gaze out the window at the hotel’s terrace and sculpture garden outside. Enveloped in snow, the statues slowly transform into unrecognizable lumps. The bartender thumbs a remote, and electric flames leap in the convection fireplace. Then on the jukebox Nat King Cole sings “A Cradle in Bethlehem,” though Christmas is over and New Year’s fast upon us.
I order another scotch. I wonder if it’s too late to join the others at the dinner. But I don’t think I can stand seeing Abramovich’s face, and I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.
Next on the jukebox plays a novelty song by the Five Obstructions, an obscure early-90s grunge rock band, the song a one-hit wonder that stayed atop the charts for several holiday seasons.
I know the group. I was once a member, and I wrote the one-hit wonder.
The bartender must be one of those aging fans who still recognizes me in public. He looks at me, thumb still on the remote. But then I see a young woman next to the jukebox who’s scanning the selections, and I wonder if she asked the bartender to play that song.
She approaches the bar and takes the stool next to me. She wears black boots and a black leather jacket over a white evening dress. I’ve seen her at the office; she’s new to the company. Our temp pool often gets such types, especially during the holidays. As a major PR and entertainment firm, we tolerate and even encourage such youthful exuberance.
She’s tall, slim, with hazel eyes. I thought her hair was blond, but tonight it’s black, and I wonder which is her natural color or has she dyed it? No matter, the woman’s beautiful. (SENSUAL DESIRE.)
She smiles, says my name, and I apologize for not knowing hers.
“Why apologize when we’ve never been introduced?”
But I think we’ve met outside the office. Twice she says her name, but I still don’t catch it. Another affair has let out somewhere, and the bar grows noisy and crowded. She orders a cocktail and I order another scotch, and when her drink arrives, I see it’s a frothy green concoction with a lime twist, sprig of mint, and slice of kiwi.
“It’s called a Laughing Yoda,” she says.
“I like my scotch straight.”
“You should try leaving your comfort zone now and again.”
I wonder if her glibness is because she feels nervous around me, even though we work in different departments. (RESTLESSNESS-AND-WORRY.) Neither am I a senior partner. It’s my close relations with Abramovich (though perhaps no longer) that make her so chatty.
We’ve kept our disagreements quiet, my boss and I, or at least I think we have.
“So you prefer a Laughing Yoda to the company dinner?”
The woman shrugs.
“I don’t know why they invited me, I’m not a regular employee.”
“An invitation to the dinner means they like you, temp or not. If you stick around, they’ll probably hire you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she says. “I’m not interested in being an administrative assistant.”
“I don’t think you’d be one for long. You’re obviously smart.”
The Five Obstructions still plays on the jukebox, the song nearly six minutes long—five minutes and thirty-five seconds, to be exact. I know, because I wrote it. Did the woman ask the bartender to play it twice?
I order another scotch, but my new companion is still working on her first. She excuses herself to go to the restroom. While she’s gone, the room begins to spin, and I clutch the edge of the bar. Was I drunk before I entered the pub? I thought I was pacing myself..
The woman returns from the restroom. She’s applied fresh makeup and lipstick, and I wonder if she did that just for me. I ask how she knows about the Five Obstructions.
“My older brother used to be a fan, and he gave me all his records: Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins—”
“The Five Obstructions.”
“Yes,” she sighs.
“I take it your brother no longer likes grunge rock.”
“I don’t know, we haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Did you request that song because you’re feeling nostalgic?”
“Something like that,” she says coolly.
We sit silently for a while. She doesn’t ask how I know about the Five Obstructions because she already knows. Maybe she wanted to impress me or have some leverage over me.
I don’t care, I’m leaving the firm anyway, and I’m enjoying the company of a beautiful woman. (SENSUAL DESIRE.)
To brighten the mood, I switch to music lore, though I still wonder how she knows about the band or if she even has an older brother. “Do you know why the group’s called the Five Obstructions?”
She smiles, which I take as encouragement.
“No, why?”
“In Buddhist meditation practice, the Five Obstructions are hindrances on the path to Awakening.” I count on my fingers. “Sensory desire, ill-will, sloth-and-torpor, restlessness-and-worry, and faithlessness.”
She stirs her cocktail, the ice melting, the drink mostly water.
“And which member was which?” she says.
“What? I guess a person can experience one, several, or all of them.”
“But wouldn’t one hindrance stand out?”
I shrug. “Maybe, I don’t know.”
“What about yourself? Which hindrance do you identify with?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Okay, but why did the group call themselves the Five Obstructions? Were they Buddhists or what?” she says.
“Maybe they chose the name because Kurt Cobain already took the name ‘Nirvana,’” I said jokingly. (FAITHLESSNESS.)
“My brother was a Buddhist,” she retorts.
This again?
“We all have our youthful transgressions.”
“It was a lot more serious than that.”
Her eyes harden as she fixes her gaze on me. I feel my palms sweat, and the room begin to spin again.
“Maybe we should leave,” the woman says.
I glance at the neon clock above the bar, then check my phone, although I didn’t feel it vibrate earlier. No new messages.
I think about Abramovich and the others in the grand ballroom. I look out the window. The snow has changed to rain, the statues morphing into even more bizarre shapes.
She leans toward me, her breath sweet and peppery; her hazel eyes limpid, guileless. But weren’t her eyes blue last week? A deep flush rises from the back of my neck.
“I could use some air.”
“Let me take you outside,” she whispers in my ear.
I don’t protest. I can barely stand, and she helps me off the barstool. With her arm around my waist, we leave the pub.
I can hear applause rippling from the ballroom, the speeches about to begin. Outside, beneath the hotel’s canopy, we linger, sheltered from the rain, the cool air bracing.
“Where’s your car?” she says.
“With the valet.”
“Leave it here tonight, we’ll share a taxi. My place is on the way.”
How does she know that? A taxi is hailed, the driver is given directions. We climb into the backseat, and I roll down the window and feel the wind and rain on my face as we drive away. I lean back with eyes half-closed, tongue lolling, and shirttails out. (SLOTH-AND-TORPOR.)
We pass cafes, bistros, and restaurants that are busy despite the weather, jazz music wafting from open doors. The taxi heads toward the warehouse district, where I live in one of the many buildings converted to loft apartments. But when we reach mine, she tells the cabbie to keep driving.
I’m confused, and so is he. Brow furrowed, he glances at us through the rearview mirror, trying to understand our relationship. Are we a couple? Father and daughter? But the affection the woman showed me earlier has cooled considerably, and we now sit apart.
“What’s the address again?” the cabbie says. His glance in the mirror is directed at her, and when she answers, he shakes his head. “I thought you said you lived in this neighborhood.”
“I’m only a few blocks away.”
He slams on the brakes.
“Too dangerous! You’re trying to trick me!”
“If you let us out here,” she says, “I’ll report you for endangering our safety, and you’ll be fined or lose your license.”
He continues to drive, but scowls at us through the rearview mirror. We pass razed buildings, empty lots, chain-link fencing. The driver curses under his breath.
The taxi stops in front of a decrepit warehouse set back from the street, the windows broken and the front door chained and padlocked.
She pays the driver, then turns to me.
“Come up if you like,” she says. “We can call a taxi later.”
The cabbie glares at me, doubtless thinking, You’re on your own, no one’s coming for you.
She leads me to a side door, which she unlocks with a key. Inside, the walls are graffitied, and the floor is pitted with loose gravel, cement blocks, and coils of copper wiring. The air reeks of peeling paint and gas fumes. Wrecked vehicles hunker in the corners. We get in the service lift.
“I used to share the building with squatters,” she says as the lift rises. “But they’re all gone.”
The lift takes us to another locked door, which she opens with a key. We grope in the dark. In the next room, she turns on a light, revealing tangles of wires and cables, obviously illegal, and which snake along the floor toward a hole in the wall. There’s a floor lamp, a threadbare sofa, two armchairs, and a table. She fires up a space heater, which dissipates some of the draft that leaks through cracks in the walls and windows.
Along one peeling wall, tattered and faded posters hang—Sonic Youth, Radiohead, Joy Division, the Five Obstructions—and on the floor sprawls a small crate of albums and tapes. There’s also a record-player, a receiver, and two ancient, beat-up speakers.
A 45 sits on the turntable. She turned the record-player on. First comes a man’s voice, then a young girl’s, and laughter and banter. Then the man starts playing an acoustic guitar and the young girl starts singing.
Daniel and his kid sister Eva.
The rest of the band joins in—Otis on bass, Nick on electric piano, Teddy on drums, me on electric guitar.
“I forgot we recorded this song.”
“It was a demo, we didn’t show it to anyone,” she says.
Eva says.
“Why not?” I ask.
“It would have been pointless with Daniel gone.”
After his death, I should have spent more time with Eva and her family, but I felt too guilty and ashamed. The accident happened fifteen years ago, nearly to the day.
The stylus skips, the record scratchy and worn, but we let it play to the end.
“Why pretend you didn’t know me?” I ask.
“Why pretend you didn’t know me?” Eva retorts, cheeks flushing.
“I didn’t recognize you.”
“I recognized you as soon as I walked into the office.”
“Were you stalking me?”
“No!”
The space heater glows, rattles, but the warmth doesn’t travel far, and our breaths cloud before us. With our coats still on, we move to the couch near the window. Rain sluices down the broken glass, snow melts in the street below.
What do I recall about Eva? That she had a crush on me when she was fifteen and I was twenty-five, that soon after the car accident her family moved to another city, and that I lost touch with Eva and everyone else. I even stopped playing music and turned my songwriting skills to writing jingles and advertising copy.
“Why are you squatting here?”
“It’s temporary,” Eva says.
“I didn’t know you returned to the city.”
“I didn’t know you still lived in the city.”
“Why am I here, Eva?” I ask, exasperated.
We sit down on the couch, nearly touching. From here, I can see a battered acoustic guitar propped against the wall. It’s Daniel’s.
“It was to kill you,” she says brazenly. “I wore a wig and tinted contacts so I wouldn’t be recognized. And I didn’t attend the dinner because I quit the job days ago. I did follow you to the pub, though.”
The dilapidated warehouse is a perfect place for a murder. How did she mean to do it, knife, gun? But I don’t see either nearby. Push me down the elevator shaft?
But I wasn’t drunk the night I crashed my car and killed my best friend. The drinking came later.
Eva and I sit together on the couch, looking at Daniel’s guitar. Our hands brush, but shyly we each pull away. I remember her as a child, shy around her brother’s friends and hiding while we practiced. But her voice was lovely, and Daniel caved finally and let her sing with us, though the only recording of Eva with Daniel was that one time.
Her dark hair flying, her singing fearless, her blue eyes sparking in the dark.
Joseph E. Lerner’s micro-fiction and poetry have appeared in 100 Word Story, Alternate Route, BlazeVOX, decomp journal, Fictive Dream, Gargoyle, matchbook, and elsewhere. He lives in Montpelier, VT.