Expiration Date by Eric Wilson Page A

listening up there, it’d sure be nice to get an answer.
    Ding!
Vittles for the ex-husband.
    He peeled the tortillas open to let them cool. The first bite filled his mouth with steam-laced cheese, gave way to still-frozen bean paste.
    Oh, wasn’t this fun? The bland ingredients went limp in his hand. Was this what Bachelor Boy had to look forward to? Years of nuked nutrition?
    He dropped the burritos into the garbage.
    Clay had been back in JC for less than two weeks, and he’d done little more than work, eat, sleep. Besides the sports section, he avoided the depressing content of the newspaper. As for Summer Svenson, she’d never called again—surprise, surprise—and he had been avoiding contact with old friends for the simple reason that he didn’t feel like rehashing his marital flaws for every busybody in town.
    He’d also been skipping church. Didn’t want to spread
the sickness
.
    Of course, there was also that issue of the numbers.
    The less skin-to-skin contact the better. At the grocery market, the gas station, the video store, he kept his hands to himself. At least the bare skin of his elbows and shoulders had conjured nothing out of the ordinary.
    His hands. They were the lone culprits.
    Has Ryker Lost His Touch?
    The irony of it all. If only those Wyoming sportswriters could see him now.
    He poured himself a glass of pulpy Minute Maid, then brought the phone to his ear again. He had a dial tone. Seven little digits, that’s all it’d take.
    Mylisha French had called a few night backs. For what reason? What’d they have to discuss? During his last year of high school he’d shuffled her aside as scholarship offers poured in; he’d let his hopes for the future relegate her to the past.
    Don’t dwell on it, Clay. You’re the man
.
    His hand turned damp as he began to dial.
    What about Jenni? He loved her, no matter what her idiot lawyer assumed.Plus, they were still married. Technically speaking. He dropped the concrete slab onto the counter, drained the rest of the juice, and felt the pulp stick in his throat.
    All his relationships seemed to go down like the OJ.
    Tasty at first?
Check
. Then lumpy and hard to swallow?
Check, check
.

    “Gotta hand it to you, Ryker. You’re getting the hang of this.” Mr. Blomberg pounded a hand into Clay’s shoulder blade. “Didn’t think you’d amount to much, way you dragged your feet around the first couple of days, like you were afraid to touch death. It’s our job, though. You know that now, don’t you?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Day in, day out, important business we do here, smoothing the details for bereaved loved ones. Can’t take that too lightly. Each stone’s a way of reaffirming that individuals do matter in the grand scheme of things.” A meaty finger poked Clay in the chest. “You know God’s up there, right? You think he’s got a master plan?”
    Clay floundered, unaccustomed to this side of Mr. Blomberg.
    From the other end of the warehouse runner, Digs and Wendy focused on their work orders. Brent twisted his mouth in scorn, threw Clay a look that said to shut his trap and let the bossman move on. These co-workers had warned him, and his father had told tales of Blomberg’s religious invective.
    What do I care? Bring it on. I’m in the mood for a tussle
.
    “God?” Clay said. “Yep, I think he exists. Not so sure about a master plan.”
    With the pomposity of a man rarely challenged, Blomberg flattened back a lock of red hair. “Now tell me, how does that make an iota of sense? You take the safe route and agree there’s a God, but you won’t buy into the idea of a master plan. How can he be God if he can’t form a plan?”
    “Beats me.” Clay’s thoughts raced to Jenni, to Jason. Were they part of the plan? Let the small-town boy find love, then let his family fall apart. Some plan. “I think we’re all gonna die, Mr. Blomberg.”
    “And?”
    “That’s my theory, start to finish. Birth. Pain. Suffering.