A Handshake with Rollo (a Short Story) Part A
Note: This is three part story, as I'm amid a dash to finish up final edits on my Novel. Also an experiment in breaking longer stories into more digestible chunks. Better, Worse? Let me know.
Rollo’s handshake left something moist—thicker than sweat—on my skin after we shook hands. He was middle aged, but not in the sense you’re assuming. Rollo might have been twenty-five years old, thirty at best, but I was certain he’d already passed through the mid point of his life by that handshake alone.
That evening in the damp living room of my rented flat, I shook hands with the type of man who will quietly leave this world in a substance-enhanced sleep years before his time, likely in some public place—hopefully not too close to any schools— his over-worked body in a rush to see its final convulsion as if it mistook the backfiring pickup truck he was born in, for a starter gun.
I winced when his body odour sheened back pressed itself against the living room couch before I had a chance to offer him one of Prue’s fabric protecting pillows. His white singlet didn’t offer much by way of separating his curly back hair from the red suede fabric. Sure, we picked the upholstery up from the Chica-Raindrop outlet at a steal, but we’re talking Chica-Raindrop here. Still not cheap!
When he’d entered my home I gestured to our stack shoe rack out the front. “Na, I’m fine mate.” He’d muttered as he stomped his white gumboots into the room.
I remained standing as I willed Prue’s hatchback to turn into our driveway. Headlights flashing through the kitchen blinds in all their comforting glory.
Rollo wiped his nose with his bare forearm. It came away glistening like a snail had made a fast-tracked journey from his wrist to his elbow.
He had a series of amateur tattoos scrawled up and down his arms. A few fish, even more mammals, the rest consisted of timeless quotes distastefully modified with slurs I won’t repeat. I’d suspect these were prison issue, if I could only picture this emaciated creature on my couch generating enough energy to carry out the basic body movements required for any crime. Perhaps mail fraud? The presumably once-black ink on his skin was already fading to a light green.
The only part of his body that didn’t look and smell like it was rotting before me, were his eyes. Have you ever seen a photo of Rasputin? That’s the vibe. Haunting. Disarmingly smug, like he’s got a gift for reading not quite every thought you have, just the dirty ones.
Thin bars of light blinded me. As I blinked away my scolded vision, a moment of comfort plucked me from reality. Prue was home! Then context returned. Prue was home….
She came in in her work gear. Beige skirt, beige top. A colour I could never wear for fear of stains. Lilly-Pad label—not supplied by her company, but heavily discounted.
She flashed a smile at Rollo. Eyes running up and down him. Downloading all she needed to know in less time than I could say, “How was work?”
She ignored me. Immediately launching into her sales cadence. Work wasn’t over for her. “Hello Mr Rollo. I hope you liked the place!” She batted her hand down, hinging at the wrist. “Sorry I couldn’t be here for the viewing. But I suppose you’ve probably got to head off shortly?” Her heels clicked across the floor tiles as she retraced her steps towards the front door and gestured with a sweeping arm. Her face shaped itself into all the versions of regret she thought this strange tenant prospect might recognise. “I’m sure Greg is about to fill me in on what a dream flat mate you’ll be for us!”
Rollo winked from the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “Oh, you betcha sweetie!” He took a rolling paper out of his pocket and wet its edge with a dog sized tongue then proceeded to place something into the paper that wasn’t tobacco.
Prue pulled her lips into the shape of a smile and nodded. “Greg was probably too polite to tell you this, but I’m actually the bad cop around here. So when we find someone else to fill the room I’ll be the one to tell you!”
Rollo’s face fell. Not out of disappointment, but rather in a way that suggested he was being fleeced out of a done deal.
Prue noticed the storm clouds forming and reached out her hand. “Sorry that was a joke! Ignore my sick sense of humour. We’ll let you know if you’ve secured the place, the moment we’ve considered all the other applicants.”
Rollo looked no more comforted after her explanation than before it. He appealed to me. “Mate? You’re not telling me we just waste a good hour chumming it up, waiting for this bird?!”
I would have closed my eyes, if I didn’t think this would make things worse. Prue’s gaze almost had the same intensity as Rollo’s. “An hour?” she asked.
I drew in so much air I thought I might faint. Then released it all in a single sigh. “Yea so…” I stabbed my boot at the floor tile, for some reason feeling a strong urge to make my earlobe meet the top of my shoulder as I did so. Then the words came out by themselves. “Rollo and I were just waiting for you to get home so we could tell you we’ve already signed the tenancy papers.”
Prue walked right up to me, so even my earlobe/shoulder tactic couldn’t keep me from looking at her.
“Signed them?” she asked. In stark contrast to her previous repetition, this mono-word question contained more subtext than a Tarantino screenplay. She stared at me. “Greggy?” she added. “Do you mind if we step into the next room for a quick chat?”
Just as seamlessly, she morphed back into a smile and waved at Rollo. “I hope you don’t mind us leaving you alone for a beat! Feel free to turn on the tellie!”
***
“Please tell me this is a joke.” said Prue. No shop-floor sweetness anymore. I worried for her hips at the sight of how severely her crimson painted nails dug into them.
“We’re out of time Prue. He’s our best option.”
Her head whiplashed back into the room we'd just emerged from as if double checking I wasn’t referring to some unseen second hopeful tenant waiting in the corner.
Rollo lifted his nearest unkempt armpit and offered the variety of unnerving wave that the elderly make towards children from time to time.
“That thing is our best option? Shit, I’d love to see what the other candidates were like!”
I drew my eyes to the black mould on the ceiling. Thinking about the countless fifteen minute slots I’d attended in Prue’s absense. Thinking about the endless last minute cancellations or the “I’m running thirty mins late,” text messages. Thinking about Prue’s insistence that she’d be back to help out every night, followed by her own repeated texted message. “Sorry got to work late, hopefully I’ll catch them on their way out.” I lifted my nose to double check my senses weren’t fooling me. No, they weren’t.
Rollo had lit up whatever substance he’d just rolled into his smoke and proceeded to smoke it in our loungeroom.
Prue stared me down. Further probing what candidates could possibly have been worse than the tatooed crim on our Chica-Raindrop couch.
“You really want to know?”
To be continued…..
Read Part Two here:
