Where You Are

False advertising is a pain in the ass.

I finally got around to picking up a can of bug spray. It was an off brand. I figured I could kill off my roommates the roaches and still have money left for a few drinks. Actually, I would have been content just to kill one. The one. The fat fucker. He didn’t make an appearance as often; mostly I think he came out just to remind me he was still there. Sometimes I’d come in and he’d be there, gimping from the bed to the dresser or making his way across the tile in the bathroom; there wasn’t any skittishness to his movements at all. In many ways, he reminded me of my last roommate; a guy who slept 20 hours a day and smoked more weed than anybody grew in the entire state of Kentucky. When he wasn’t sleeping or getting high, he sat on the couch and ate Cheerios. That roommate – like the roach – didn’t pay rent, either.

After stepping on the roach a few more times, I broke down and bought the spray. It was a large orange can with a picture of a dead bug. I’d put it off because I thought I was making progress; I’d squashed I don’t know how many of them, and I continued to make a conscious effort to keep the room more picked up. Once I accidentally killed one that had managed to crawl into my shoes during the night – don’t ask me how – and from then on I kept my shoes up off the floor, too.

When I was choosing between all the various brands of roach killer, I went with the one with the biggest dead bug and the lowest price. I didn’t think that roaches saw in the way we see things – I remember being told they didn’t have eyes, per say – I still thought that maybe a brightly colored can with a big dead bug might intimidate the fat fucker into dying without my help. Kind of a cockroach coronary.

Too bad there wasn’t a money back guarantee.

I walked in carrying the can in my right hand. In my left hand was a bottle of cheap scotch I’d picked up to celebrate the roach king’s demise. I looked around. The sensation was visceral; I felt alive because I was sure that day would be the roach’s last. Naturally, he was nowhere to be seen. None of his minions were out, either. I set scotch bottle on the small table next to the radio and stood there for a moment, surveying every inch of carpet, tile, corner, light, and shadow. He was pretty wily for a roach; I knew he could be hiding anywhere. He was nowhere to be found. I was annoyed; but I told myself to be patient. That nothing came easy, but when it did, all the frustration was worth it. I gave one more careful look around the room, even looking under the dresser (which I had neglected to do initially). Nothing.

I decided to wait him out. I told myself that if I was quiet enough or nonchalant enough, that the fat little fucker would make his appearance. So I sat down at the table, set the large orange can next to the bottle of scotch, and turned on the radio. It was tuned to station that played a lot of old tough guys. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop. Some World War II music, like the Andrews Sisters. Some Sammy Davis, Jr. Bing Crosby. Music, according to the announcer during one of the breaks, “from when men were men, the drinks were all martinis, and life came up aces.” I suddenly felt like drinking a martini; but (of course) I didn’t have any of the mixings. So I decided to go ahead and open the scotch. A little sip wouldn’t hurt. I told myself that it might even give me something to look forward to.

While I waited for him to make his appearance, I thought about things. I thought about smiling Dave and mean Marta. Mac the Elder and Younger. Adelle and her regular lineup of cocaine and porn hooked boy toys. Loyce and her cop.

I thought Ruby and her offer to go home. Home. Go Home. Sometimes that kind of consistency is nice. You live around people who have known you your entire life. They know all the stories. They know when your birthday is. They know how you like your chicken cooked, how rare you like your streak. They care about how much you smoke, how much you drink. They compliment you if you lose weight and say nothing if you gain it. They make fun of your dimpled cheeks. They put up with you regardless of your lack of fashion sense. You know all the streets and you never get lost. Sometimes you run into the first girl you ever kissed in the bread aisle at the grocery store. You can even visit the old high school and see your senior picture on the wall, all smiling and hopeful, along with the other smiling hopeful faces who graduated with you, as well as those from years past. You find your mother’s picture. Your father’s picture. You start to see the commonality of all things – how much you look like your parents. How much they look like you. How much things never really change. You start to feel the weight of that word. HOME.

And then I thought about how sometimes how easy it is to stay, to accept the weight of the word and all the other words to follow. Family. Life. Wife. Children. Mortgage. Retirement. Death. Sometimes we get so used to having certain people around us because they establish our boundaries; they create and embody the niche our life becomes. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. Like a blanket someone uses to suffocate you. The presence of those certain people confirm for us everything we ever felt about ourselves and everything we were ever told.

Ruby and I had never really gotten along. I guess it was nobody’s fault. She was so much older and living a much different life. We never really got to know one another very well; and one thing I did pick up from her visit was that she was beginning to regret it. But there wasn’t any point to regret. There rarely is. Ruby had made up her mind about me a long time ago; and even with all her regret, spurred on by fresh sobriety and the twelve step morality, her view of me was fundamentally unchanged. Back when I was a kid she saw maybe two or three times a year, she had made up her mind that I was her fucked up baby brother. The spoiled, selfish, and inconsiderate boy who got everything she didn’t and who took and took and took but never gave back. If I took her money – if I accepted her help – there would be strings attached. There were always strings.

I was shaken out of my thoughts by movement. There was a roach skittering around by the foot of the bed. Just a small one. Good test subject. I took a drink (for luck) and stood up slowly. The roach didn’t seem to notice. I crept up slowly. The little fucker didn’t seem concerned at all – had he been, I might have been less pissed off. Little fuckers, I thought. They’re not even scared of me anymore.

When I thought I was close enough, I shook the can – giving the dirty little bastard one more chance to act like the frightened little bug he was. The sound made it stop – but that was all. Then I pointed the can downward and sprayed. Gave it a good dose, too. At first, the roach tried to out run the mist; but the poison must’ve acted quickly, because the little son of a bitch stopped, rolled on its back, and died.

“See that?” I stood and said out loud so that the roach king could hear me. (I knew he could.) “See that? You’re next, you fat bastard!”

I walked back to the chair wrapped in an air of triumph, and allowed myself a generous swig from the scotch bottle – strictly celebratory. But I didn’t get carried away. I knew it wouldn’t be long, though. There’s never just ONE roach. I took another drink and looked at the directions on the back of the can:

Kills on contact. For more effective coverage, spray along base boards and in corners. Do not use as an open air spray. Harmful if ingested. Do not spray in eyes. Do not crush can. Contents under pressure. Flammable.

Hmmm. Maybe I was going about it all wrong. Maybe I was taking the wrong approach. Sitting and waiting for him to appear was giving him the home field advantage. Fuck that. I took another drink and stood up. Then I proceeded to spray along all the baseboards, in all the corners. I sprayed along the bottom of the bed and under the dresser. I sprayed behind the toilet. I sprayed around the sink. I sprayed around the electrical outlets. I sprayed so much that a cloud of bug spray hung heavy in the air and I had to step outside. I shook the can. It was mostly empty, but felt like there was still some more in there. Gotta love that economy packaging, I thought. Try and get that amount when you buy a brand name. Raid, my ass.

My lungs cleared up in a few minutes. I wanted to smoke a cigarette, but I didn’t want to take the chance with all the bug spray lingering in the air and on my clothes. I walked back in the room, but I left the door open. Then I sat down and waited to see what happened.

My mind wandered again and I thought about the last Christmas I was home. I was unusual in that the gathering was a large affair. My sister hosted, of course. Our small family was there – what was left, anyway – me and my mom. Plus, Ruby had invited all of her in-laws and a few of her husband’s cousins. Lots of children running around. Lots of noise and hustle and bustle. My extended family had long developed the common sense not to try and get together except for weddings and funerals; and I didn’t really go to any of those. But there was something in Ruby – something that cried out for normalcy. Or at least, as close to a Rockwellian normalcy as she could achieve. She cooked a huge meal while her husband passed out cocktails with ridiculous holiday names and traded golf stories. My mom offered a few times to help but was shooed away; and she ended up off by herself, sitting in a corner chair near the fireplace. At one point, the men went out to the garage, the women (except for Mom) congregated in the dining room/kitchen area, and I sat on the couch, watch television and drinking Denis’s high-priced beer that he kept stashed in a mini-fridge down in the basement.

I didn’t have any money for presents and I didn’t really know anybody. I hadn’t seen any of Denis’s people since the wedding. I was maybe ten at the time. (He made me an usher – I was too old to be the ring bearer – so I had to go.) I was stuffed into an uncomfortable tuxedo with extremely shiny and uncomfortable shoes. The church was hot and packed to all four walls with hordes of wheezing, whispering, crying relatives. I met a lot of people back then, but didn’t bother remembering them.

When I showed up for Christmas, Ruby introduced me around. Then came the inevitable question/answer exchange. What do you do. Are you in school. What are your plans. After several rounds of not having the appropriate answers, people got the hint and left me alone.

Large family gatherings let you know right away where you are in the pecking order. Typically, level of success (as determined by general consensus) indicated Where You Are. Since the gathering was taking place at Ruby’s, that placed her pretty high in the food chain. The pinnacle, really. Which meant her husband was too, and so were her kids. (Hierarchy and birthright go hand in hand.) Mom filled the Queen Mother role, placing her, by proxy, near the top – though not even close to Ruby’s level. The middle ground was filled with in-laws, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Denis’s brother the cop figured prominently – both by birth and by the fact that he showed up in uniform. (He glared at me pretty early and we kept a safe distance between us. Types always know types, and both of us had our experiences to tell us it was probably better for everyone if we just nodded at one another from across the room.)

As the somewhat disappointing and outcast younger brother I played at a role similar to Richard the Second; though I think a hump back might’ve made me more sympathetic to the uber-Southern Baptist faction that frowned behind their fruit punch at the rest of us.

Bugs also have a pecking order based on function. Every bug has a job. When a bug dies, it is immediately replaced so that the whole colony doesn’t suffer. Bugs. Families. Governments. Corporations. PTA groups. People fill a role and that’s how people identify them. Ruby was corporate. Denis was a teacher. Mom was a housewife. I was the lost drunken baby bother. And when people die, someone immediately takes up the role so that society doesn’t suffer. This seems normal and natural when it comes to accountants, politicians, teachers, and corporate executives. People just don’t like to accept that there’s always some bug in the mix, not giving a shit about any of it.

After I ceased to be of interest, the night went on. Dinner was served. (Seating and pecking order are directly related.) People laughed. Children played. Later on, presents were opened and the carpet turned into a difficult to navigate cesspool of cheery wrapping paper, torn open boxes, and instruction manuals written in every language but English. Lots of pictures. Lots of smiled. I was asked to help once. I held the camera and pushed the button while Ruby smiled and hugged her father-in-law.

My bottle was scotch was almost empty and the roach king hadn’t shown up. Every once in a while I’d pick up the can and shake it, like some pathetic battle taunt. It didn’t do any good.

Patience, I thought. I took a deep breath. Then I smoked a cigarette and waited some more. I took another drink. I smoked another cigarette. I finished off the scotch. Not one single god damn roach.

“They’re plotting against me,” I complained to the empty room. How is it that these mindless little fuckers always one-up me?

Finally I stood up again and turned off the radio. I was tired of waiting. I was tired of listening to the radio. I was out of booze. I was almost out of smokes. I wanted to watch TV and pass out. I closed and locked the door – the room had aired out enough – and walked over to the television. Maybe I’ll find dead roaches tomorrow, I thought. That thought had a certain appeal. The potential for real progress.

I turned on the set; but instead of tuning in to some reality show with fake drama and plastic people, the screen flashed, fizzled, and went dark.

The first thing I did was check to make sure the plug hadn’t come out of the socket. That was fine. I hit all the buttons, thinking maybe I’d accidentally hit the off button. The set was dead. I went back over to the table and picked up the bug spray to see if the back of the can said anything about it not being good for televisions. Nothing. I put the can down next to the TV and started looking around the set to see if I could notice anything. Maybe there was a loose wire, like Dave had said. Maybe I just need to jiggle the set or slap the top of it and it would work.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking; my knowledge of television repair starts with me turning it on and ends with me turning it off. But I was looking around for something, anything. I wanted to pass out and deal the roaches and the TV in the morning. But I kept looking around anyway. I looked at the plug at least five times.

I should go tell them. That would be the normal thing to do. But that wouldn’t do me any good. If Dave was working, he’d shrug and smile. If Marta was working, she’d just give me a dirty look and horde her 13 inch television. Plus, they’d find a way to blame it on me. Fuck all that.

I was taking the tactic of trying to turn it on and off again, when I saw a roach running from under the television across the top of the dresser. I picked up the TV and smashed the roach under it.

“Take that motherfucker.”

Then I saw another roach. This one was climbing out one of the heat vents in the back. And then there was another. And another.

The motherfuckers were IN the television.

“SONS OF BITCHES!” I cursed. I put the TV down, picked up the orange can, and killed the roaches that escaped from the set.

I kept on cursing them for another couple of minutes, when it occurred to me. The nest was IN the television. No more TV. No more roaches. That fat fucker was probably in there hiding and getting fatter chewing on the circuit board. Let him.

I turned and opened the door. The parking lot was quiet. Loyce was in her room, entertaining. The dumpster was behind the building. If I walked down the stairs and turned walked between the building with the rooms and the small house where the office was, I could probably get away with tossing the TV. No one would be the wiser. Who would know? The cleaning staff??

I pulled the plug out of the wall, picked up the set and walked quickly out the door. It was heavier than I expected; but it was worth it. I’d be rid of the roaches once and for all. Let them have the TV. Let them have the whole dumpster. They can have their space and I can have mine. Everybody’s happy. I could probably get a TV out of one of the empty rooms if I really wanted another one.

When I got back to the dumpster, the lid was open. So I hurled the thing as best I could. I heard it crash at the bottom of the dumpster.

“There, you son of a bitch,” I said. “Gorge yourself to death. Have at it.”

When I walked back in my room, the air conditioning felt wonderful. I closed the door behind me and locked the door. Sweet relief. I looked over at the empty bottle on the table. I told myself that after I cooled off for a bit, I’d run and get some beer. After all, I deserved it, didn’t I? I walked over to the sink (I could still smell the bug spray) and splashed water on my face. I wanted to go out for the beer and get back so I could strip and get out of my sweaty clothes.

That was one of those tricks I learned in New Orleans. This guy came up and asked me for a dollar. “For a burger,” he said. But I knew from looking at him that he wasn’t going to buy a burger. He looked like man who valued a bottle of Mad Dog over an overcooked quarter pounder. I gave him a couple of bucks – thinking that someday I’d need the same kind of assistance. It never hurts to build up good karma. When I handed it to him, he thanked me. Then he said, “You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m just not used to the climate yet,” I said.

He cackled. “Don’t let them sweaty clothes dry on your back,” he said. “People do that, they get pneumonia and die.”

I’d never heard that before, but I had no reason to doubt him. After all, if anybody knows how to survive in the elements, it’s probably a homeless drunk.

When I walked up to the liquor store, there was a spring in my step. I bought a six pack and got back to my room as quickly as possible. When I walked into my room, I closed the door, locked it, and proceeded to strip down.

Then I saw him.

It was him. The fat bastard roach king. He was waddling on the tile floor, heading towards the toilet. From the looks of him, he was only using three of his legs. The shell, which had been cracked, was starting to call off. I rushed over to the dresser, grabbed the big orange bottle, and held it right over the little fucker. He didn’t even bother to stop.

When I pushed down, the only thing that came out of the bottle was air. I shook the bottle. There’s no way this fucker’s empty. I sprayed again. That time nothing came out.

“FUCKER!!”

I threw the can and thought about stepping on him one more time. Surely to god one more time will kill him!

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t have anything left. I let him go and cracked open a beer.

“Fuck it.”

Even Whores Need a Holiday

The next time I saw the fat cockroach I was coming back from the bar. I’d managed to stick with one job for an entire week and I needed relief. The job was doing grunt work for a professional landscaper in Scottsdale: digging up perfectly good lawn to plant bushes, trees, and flowers; hauling rocks and dirt in wheel barrows; pruning trees and weed wacking for condominium communities where the guy had contracts. He basically hired me because I was first guy who spoke English that applied for a job for as long as he could remember. (He inherited the business from his dad, he told me, and Mexicans always did the grunt work.) It did his heart good, he said, to give a job to someone he knew was from America. Not that the guys he had weren’t good guys, he said. He was SURE they were all legal. “I sure am glad though,” he winked and smiled, “that I don’t have to worry about that with YOU.”

His name was Zack. He let me ride in the truck with him to the first job site. Along the way he told me to keep an eye on the guys in my crew.

“So I can get the hang of it?” I asked. I didn’t remember there being anything complicated about back breaking work.

“Naw,” he nodded. “I hire all of ‘em TEMPORARY – until I hear back about their status.” He lowered his voice, like there was somebody else in the cab listening. “I think one or two of those boys may be border jumpers.”

“So when you find out,” I asked, “you let them go? Or do you turn them in?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t call the cops?”

“Ahhhh,” he winked again. “Naw. I get them ‘special status.’ They stay so long as they work for me. But if they cause one bit of trouble, it’s back to Mex-ee-co they go!” He laughed at his bad rhyme.

Uh-huh. How much of their checks do you keep? “Nice truck,” I commented.

“Yeah. Thanks. You know,” he said, looking at me very earnestly, “landscaping is a good job. It’s hard work sometimes, but it keeps you strong. A smart fella can make a good living at it.”

Really Mr. Man? Geez, even ME? “I can see that.”

“Yep,” he said. “You work hard,” he said. “A guy like you can make a life out something like this.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. So, just WATCH ‘em. Let me know if they’re goofing off or getting lazy. If they’re not doing what they’re s’posed to be doin’, you let me know. Okay, brother?”

Brother. I puked a little in my mouth and swallowed it. I wanted to ask him if those white hoods and sheets got hot in the summer. Instead, I stuck it out a week and ignored the other guys on my crew. At the end of the week, I collected my pay (he paid in cash) and I never went back. Suck my left nut, brother.

So by the time I got to the Dutchman, I was feeling pretty good. Better than I’d felt in a long time. I was a week ahead on rent. I had a little cash in my pocket. Adelle hadn’t been at the bar (Dino was looking for her) and it had been Suzy’s night to work. She told me she was going to name her baby Isabella. I told I thought that was a pretty name.

And when I opened the door, there he was. It? He? Anyway, there the LITTLE FUCKER was – gimping his way towards the bathroom from the edge of the bed. I walked in and turned on the light, and he (it) didn’t even slow down. He kept on at his half dead pace.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” I roared. What was there about this place that kept squished cockroaches from dying? After I started seeing them, I made more of an effort to keep the room clean. I picked up. Made sure there wasn’t any food left lying around. I took out the garbage more often. I mean, I didn’t go NUTS about it; but I did TRY. Really.

Apparently, it hadn’t worked. I stood there watching it (him?) make his way. I was at a loss. Stomping didn’t work. Swatting him with a rolled up paper didn’t work. Cleaning didn’t work. I’d managed to take out more than two dozen of his minions; they went down easy, the way bugs are supposed to.

Frustrated and losing my buzz, I walked up to him and stepped on him again. I heard the crunch and I thought, surely THAT will do it. Then I lifted my foot. He (it?) didn’t move. I watched for a second, holding my breath. No movement. Satisfaction washed over me and I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked around for something to sweep him up with; I considered taking him down to the office and showing whoever was working what I had been contending with. I wanted to say, You see this? THIS roach had to get stepped on three times before it died. You think maybe you should put out for somebody to come here and SPRAY? I found a copy of the local free alternative weekly paper – The New Times. The cover had some band on it. They all looked twelve, and the lead singer, a girl, looked like a hooker.

I turned back to scoop him (it?) up. God damn if he wasn’t moving! I swatted at him with the paper. He stopped for a heartbeat and then kept moving. I swatted him again. Again, he tried to fake me out. I screamed and swatted him again. That time he didn’t even pretend to be dead; he just kept on his pilgrim’s path.

“You’re being so fucking unreasonable,” I said to him. “Why don’t you just fucking die?”

I needed to get out of the room; I couldn’t stand there and watch the roach mock me. Even though it was still hot (even though the sun had been down for hours), I stepped out of the room and lit a cigarette. Loyce was leaning on her door frame smoking.

“What’s your problem honey?” she smiled lazily.

“Fucking roaches,” I muttered, lighting my cigarette. “I think they’re out to get me.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You funny.”

I nodded towards her room. “You got roaches?”

“No,” she said. “but I had crabs once.” She roared, laughing at her own joke. Then she stopped. “No, honey. When I see a bug, I don’t DANCE wit ‘em. I spray the SHIT outta them.”

“Good point.”

She nodded towards the rolled up newspaper under my arm. “Is THAT what you usin’?”

“Yeah.” Come to think of it, a rolled up newspaper is pretty fucking stupid.

“Go buy some of that Raid shit,” she said. “Spray the fuck outta them.”

“I don’t suppose they ever spray for bugs here?”

Loyce laughed. “See? I told you. You funny. Why don’ you go ask?”

“I did?

“What they say?”

“They didn’t.”

“That’s because,” Loyce said as she dropped her spent but and smashed it with her bare foot, “if they sprayed they’d end up killing most of the residents.” She laughed.

I shook my head. “I need a drink.”

Loyce cocked her head at me. “I got a little gin,” she smiled. “An’ a little weed.”

“What about your prospective suitors? Won’t I scare them off?”

“She-e-e-e-it.” she said. “Come on. Even whores get a holiday.”

I turned to close my door. The roach finally made it from the carpet to the bathroom tile. I shook my head, closed the door, and walked over to Loyce’s room. She welcomed me in and poured me a gin and tonic in a plastic tumbler. I guess the finer glassware was reserved for paying customers. “No ice,” she said. Not apologetically. Just matter of factly. Then she rolled a joint, lit it up, and passed it over. We drank and smoked and talked. I felt myself start to relax a little more and the week started to take a positive spin again.

I was surprised to find out that Loyce and I were the same age. Her voice had the sound of an older woman. And she looked older too – especially around the eyes. Even when she laughed there was a deadness to her eyes that made me a little sad. We drank more gin and smoked more weed. She told me she had crack, too, if I wanted some – but she’d have to charge me for that. I said no thanks.

When the gin bottle was almost empty, she asked if I wanted to stay over. “I like you,” she said, running her long nailed fingers through my hair. “I think if I had an old man like you, maybe I’d be okay.”

I thanked her again, but said I should be getting back to my room. “Besides,” I joked, “I’m probably too drunk for anything too aerobic.”

She laughed. “Well, okay honey. Whatever you say.” She stood up slowly, making sure I got a full view of her in her silky night gown and sheer robe. Very little was left to my imagination, and all in all she wasn’t a bad looking woman. She was kind of attractive, really. I briefly reconsidered her offer; but then I remembered her joke about have crabs. Better safe than sorry. When I stood up, she wiggled her finger at my crotch. “If you little thingie needs some exercise, you let me know.” She kissed my cheek. “I’ll have to charge you, though.”

I left Loyce’s room and went back to mine. When I opened the door, two cockroaches were scurrying across the carpet. I stepped on them both. “I’m getting some spray TOMORROW, motherfucker,” I warned the empty room. “Then we’ll see what happens.”

I turned on the radio. It was set to a classic station. Bach was playing. I sat on the bed and passed out before my head hit the pillow.

Inflation

The round bitch was working the front desk when I went to pay my rent. She was plowing her way through a tub of chili con queso using a bulk size bag of generic Fritos and watching The Tyra Banks Show about cheating men and the women who put up with them. When I spoke, she turned her head slowly, using all the force of her triple chins, and glared at me. Then she licked off the dip stuck to her fingers, wiped them off on a napkin she’d carefully laid over one enormous trunk of a leg. Then she stood – slowly – and faced the counter. Each move looked deliberate – as if she wanted to make sure I knew I was disturbing her.

By the time she had the receipt book open and her pink ball point pen with the treasure troll top on it poised, I had the cash laid out and ready for her.

“One more week,” I said, smiling with what I thought was a friendly and gracious smile.

She grunted.

I handed her the money; she counted it, then she looked up at me. Her rotund face was inscrutable. “Price went up,” she spat.

“Huh?”

“The PRICE … WENT … UP.” She spoke slowly and louder, the way people do when they talk to small children, the retarded, or the dying. “Cost you… another ten bucks.”

When she talked or moved at all, her ginormous boobs jiggled and millions of freckles ebbed and rolled like the Mississippi River. Clearly, parts of her enjoyed ruining my day. I stood there a second or more, transfixed on the pale, freckled, rolls of cleavage. There was no way she could buy a bra in the store, I thought. She’d have to special order. I often wanted to ask her if there was an actual size or if the chart even went that big. Whenever I had to talk to her, as much of a bitch as she was, I couldn’t help but fantasize about what it’d be like to fuck those giant fleshy orbs. Just one of them was the size of my head. It was maddening. It pissed me off as much as it turned me on.

She sighed, clearly annoyed. Any woman worth her salt would have had the dignity to be offended; but not her. When I looked up at her face, she was glaring at me even harder.

“Sorry,” I shrugged and smiled, even thought I wasn’t sorry. “When did the price go up?” It’s certainly not seasonal.

“This week.” She was smiling. Like she thought I didn’t have the money. Like she expected me to beg. Like she expected me to kiss her ass.

“You think it might’ve been a good idea to notify people?”

“You’re being NOTIFIED,” she sneered. “Right now.”

“Timely,” I said. “And considerate, too.” I took another ten out of my pocket and held it out to her. Enjoy it, bitch, I thought. Enjoy your little power play. That wouldn’t leave me with much for the week; but it wasn’t like I had a choice. She snarled like a hungry animal and grabbed at the bill. I pulled it back. She grabbed again and I let her have it.

“Listen,” I said as she was writing out my receipt, “I’ve been noticing roaches lately. I’ve killed maybe ten or twelve. When was the last time you got an exterminator in here?” Probably the last time you saw your feet.

She didn’t answer. She filled out the receipt, put the cash in the drawer, and handed me the receipt. “One week.” she said, like I’d expected more.

“What about the roaches?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she waddled over, fell back down onto her chair jiggling, and focused her attention back on Tyra Banks and her chili con queso.

“Listen,” I asked, “how does somebody as pale as you deal with the sun? I’d think you’d burn all the time.”

She turned her head and glared at me again. “I’m Mexican,” she said. Then she rotated her head back into position, facing the television. I didn’t ask her what that had to do with anything. I just turned and left.

I stomped back up to my door. Loyce was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

“Let me ask you something,” I said.

“Yeah, honey?” She smiled at me like she was high.

“Why smoke outside?”

“’Cause,” she blew out a long, thin train of smoke, “some of my clients prefer a non-smoking environment.”

“Oh. Okay.” Who knew?

“I take it you not so picky?”

I didn’t answer her. “Did you know that rent went up?”

She laughed. “You just pay?”

“Yeah,”

“That red headed bitch Marta working?”

“Yeah.” I never knew her name.

“She-e-e—it,” she let out another long train of smoke and chuckled. “It didn’t go up. She just charge you extra.”

“Are you serious?”

She nodded, clearly amused. “Yep. Now you a regular contributor to the Fritos and cheese dip fund.” She laughed.

“Do you pay extra?”

“Fuck no,” she said, almost too matter of factly.

“So why me?”

“She must like you.”

“Well that’s just fucking great.”

“Hey,” she winked. “Them big girls, they need love, too.” She laughed. “If you good enough, you might even get a DISCOUNT.”

“Uh huh.” I unlocked my door.

“Jus’ be sho an’ tie a board ta yo ass first,” she called after me. “You might fall in!” She cackled.

I walked in and closed the door behind me, and flipped on the light. When I did, I saw at least seven roaches spread out over the carpet near the door. I managed to get one. Then another. The rest scattered.

“FUCKERS!” I yelled. “Dirty nasty little fuckers! I’ll kill all of you!”

I looked down. There was one roach left. A big one – must’ve been the size of a fifty cent piece. It was clearly in no hurry and was making it’s way – waddling almost – between the bed and the chest of drawers. I’m not sure what pissed me off more; the red headed bitch’s extortion, the roaches, the fact that I was now paying an extra ten bucks a week for a roach infested room, or the gall of a fat little fucker of a roach who acted like the room was his.

I stepped on him. Hard. “Take that you cocky little son of a bitch!” It felt like stepping on a flat stone or small rock. Then I heard the crunch that usually meant the roach was dead.

There’s an evil sort of joy that comes from stepping on a bug. It’s one of the few ways any person can assert his authority over the immediate environment. Most people become accustomed to Powerlessness. The ice caps are melting and the oceans are rising. Spotted owls and bald eagles are endangered species. The pandas in the Chinese zoo aren’t fucking. The forests are disappearing. The air and the water are polluted. There are wars and rumors of wars, and tragic Hollywood starlets are gang banging D-list celebrities in direct to DVD releases. Unemployment is up. So is inflation and the price of gas. But squash ONE bug – just one – and even the most beaten, downtrodden, henpecked, and kicked around asshole can, for one brief moment, feel like a god.

Not this time.

I lifted my foot expecting to see a dead bug. The roach’s shell was cracked right down the middle and the white, gooey stomach was visible. I thought I saw it jiggle a little. When the roach didn’t move I thought, God, what a fat little fucker! I thought about taking it down and giving it to Marta. Then I turned my attention to looking around for something to scoop it up with. When I turned my head back to look at it – maybe to gloat, I don’t know – it was MOVING. Goddamn if it wasn’t limping; but it continued in the same general direction it had been going when I stepped on it.

I should have stepped on it again. I thought about it. Finish the job, I thought. I had plenty of time. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just couldn’t. I was amazed that something so small and so brainless could survive being stepped on – and I stepped down HARD. I was incredulous. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, and I watched it limp off into the darkness.

When it was gone, I sat down and turned on the radio. It was tuned to a classical music station. Tchaikovsky was playing. I uncapped a half empty bottle of vodka, took a drink, and closed my eyes.

Quiet Please

If I walked three quarters of a mile up to the next main intersection and took the southbound bus, I could get out at the public library and have another air conditioned space to spend time in. I’d worn out the couple of books I brought with me – the only books I owned, anyway, and buying more was out of the question. Besides, living in a place like Phoenix, you learn quickly to jump from air-conditioned space to air conditioned space. I was one of the lucky ones in that I’d still managed to hold onto my room at the Lost Dutchman; but a guy can only spend so much time looking at the same four walls before he starts to go a little nuts. Since I technically didn’t have a permanent address, getting a library card was out of the question; but I could spend a few hours there, reading books off the shelves and relaxing.

There wasn’t a time I when I could remember not liking libraries. When I was a kid, I spent a lot of summers there. I’d wake up, throw on some clothes, and tell mom I was going to ride my bike. Then I’d ride into town (I wasn’t supposed to) and hide out in the library, reading books. I had a card, but I didn’t check anything out to take home, otherwise I’d have to explain it and I’d get in trouble. Mom used to take Ruby to the library all the time, and she asked me a lot if I wanted to go. I always said no. First of all, I didn’t want the little old biddy of a librarian to say something that might get me in trouble; but mostly, I liked keeping it to myself. Nobody knew I went there. I liked being able to go there and not having anybody know where I was. It was like being free. The library was my place. Mom had church. Dad had football. Ruby had – whatever the hell she did. I had the library. It was MINE.

The Public Library had a decent selection of books to choose from, and I jumped around depending on my mood. I was surprised by the large selection of poetry, but disappointed by most of what I read. Sometimes I read fiction. Biographies. If I couldn’t find something I was in the mood to read, I’d read the paper – usually the Washington Post or the LA Times. Never the local rag; I picked that piece of shit up once. That was enough. Local news was easy enough to guess anyway. More foreclosures. Higher unemployment figures. More brown-skinned people harassed. More businesses folding. Fewer places to hide.

I found an interesting read and settled in to an empty chair in the corner, near the historical section. If I wasn’t too conspicuous, I could stay in the library through the heat of the day. The staff didn’t scare as long as you weren’t noisy and didn’t scare the other patrons. I’d even seen people come in with a sack lunch, eat a sandwich, and read for hours. I envied them a little – their little sandwich and their bottle of juice. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a decent sandwich. I didn’t like thinking about it, either.

The book I chose was nothing too heady – a hard-boiled crime yarn by Lawrence Block called A Diet of Treacle. I liked his stuff when I read it before. Crime and detective fiction are good reads when you want to relax and not think about things. They’re unsentimental, bare-boned, and the ending always made sense. Plus there’s an added benefit: you’re less likely to run into people who want to sit down with you can have some deep critical discussion. People like that wander the classics section in search of other unknown self-proclaimed literary critics to commiserate with. I despised that shit in school. I hated it more out of school. Like once, I was there reading Sister Carrie. I’d never read Dreiser and that was supposed to be his best book. It was long, but once you get into the plodding rhythm of it, it’s readable. I was about a third of the way through it when I was interrupted by the warbly, throaty voice of a woman.

“It’s a great novel, isn’t it?”

I looked up, annoyed. Novel. A book is a book unless it’s literature. Then it’s a NOVEL. I never understood that. The voice belonged to a mannishly large woman wearing one of those sack dresses that any woman can wear and no woman looks good in. The thick round glasses gave her moon-shaped face a mole-like look. She was smiling at me. I didn’t notice a staff ID around her neck. I made like was getting ready to leave.

“I was just leaving,” I said, closing the book. “Sorry.”

She laughed. “No, silly. I don’t WORK here. Although I AM here enough that they might as WELL pay me.”

I’m avoiding the heat. What’s your excuse? “Oh.”

“No,” she went on. “I was just coming back here, looking for the new biography on Sarah Hemming and I noticed what you were reading. What do you THINK about it?”

I think you have a gay ex-husband. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s okay, I guess.”

“OKAY?” She was nearly incredulous. “How can you say that it’s just OKAY? You must not be very far into it.”

I was about to say something back to her – what, I had no idea-- and she grabbed the book out of my hand. “Oh,” she said. “You’re getting into the good part of it. So what do you think? I think Dreiser does a good job at painting an objective picture of…”

I tuned her out. I didn’t know what I thought of the book but I wasn’t all that interested her take, either. Everyone’s a fucking expert. She was going on about how Carrie may have been one of the earliest examples of a modern woman in literature. I was looking around for the best way to get around her.

“… and I think it’s just AMAZING? Don’t you think it’s just AMAZING? Wait until you get to the part – no I shouldn’t spoil it for you. But I think you’ll think it’s pretty amazing, too.”

“I think its okay,” I repeated. “Decent read. He takes for fucking ever to say what he means to say, but it’s an okay read. I think he needed an editor.”

She was aghast. “How can you say that?” She pointed to the book. “This is REALISM. He’s painting a GRAND PICTURE. Every little bit. Every detail. It’s all IMPORTANT. Otherwise…”

I pointed out of the large window behind me and interrupted her. “THAT’S real.” Then I pointed at the book in her hand. “That is a book written by a guy who looked at reality through a window. So of course he could pay attention to the color of people’s shoe laces. He had nothing better to do.”

She left me alone after that. I still saw her in the library when I was there, but she was careful to avoid me.


A couple of pages into the crime book I was reading, I looked up and saw one of the staffers go by, pushing a cart full of returned books. She was maybe sixteen or seventeen. She looked incredibly bored. The gig probably didn’t pay that much, but at least she got to work in air-conditioning. Plus, it wasn’t some mindless office job where she was lost in a labyrinth of cubicles occupied by people who were tied to their computer screen for eight hours a day. And it sure as shit couldn’t have been as bad as working in a factory. No a/c, and by the end of the day your feet are sore from being on them all day and your back is killing you because you were standing on a concrete floor all day. I’d had to work a couple of days the week before, and the temp agency had stuck me in a warehouse punching out little plastic parts. I never knew what they were for, and nobody told me. Of course, I thought, she probably has to answer a lot of stupid questions, too.

She looked up and saw me looking at her. She nodded. I nodded. She went back to shelving books. I went back to reading mine.

After another hour or I started feeling the heat pouring in from the large plate glass window behind me. I decided to get a drink of water and take a piss. I left the book on the seat so people would know it was taken; I’d seen other people do that, so I didn’t feel like I was being too much of a prick. The restrooms were near the front door, and the nearest water fountain was in the children’s section near the back wall. I didn’t hurry. The library was filling up. There were kids all over the place; parents who were trying to keep their kids entertained and away from television and video games, but were wearing themselves out in the process. Tables and chairs were full of people like me who were simply trying to stay out of the heat. I took a piss and got a drink of water from the water fountain. The water was warm and tasted like minerals.

When I got back to my chair, it was being occupied by a kid. He’d knocked the book I’d been reading on the floor, and he was sitting there reading a Batman comic. He was maybe eight or nine. I looked around. There was no adult in sight who could be responsible for the little brat. He looked up from his comic briefly, stuck his tongue out at me, and went back to reading.

Sometimes there’s no winning. I knew I was in the right; I’d saved my seat. But I also knew if I said something about it, I’d end up being kicked out of library. Or worse. I was thinking something about a cliché I’d heard before; about how sometimes retreat can be the better part of valor. It sounded like bullshit the first time I heard it. It still sounded like bullshit.

Outside, the heat was really piling it on. The sky was cloudless, and there wasn’t even a breeze. I told myself that it was probably good that the little asshole took my seat; I could catch a bus soon, maybe stop by the bar for a cold beer.


“Excuse me? Sir?”

I looked up. There was a woman standing under one of the trees outside the entrance to the library. She was holding a clipboard and wearing one of those sun visors that women wear when they don’t want to mess up their hair. She looked overly primped, prepped, and fussed over – the way aging wives look when they’ve given up on nutrition and resorted to surgery. She was decked out in red shorts (that matched the visor and her socks) t-shirt with a picture of the American flag on it.

Fuck. I tried to walk by and ignore her. But she knew she’d already made eye contact. There was no escape.

“Sir? Excu-u-u-u-se me? Do you have a moment for your children?”

I didn’t know I looked so paternal. “I don’t have any.”

“But that doesn’t matter; the safety of America’s children is EVERYONE’S responsibility.”

Uh-huh. “I have to catch the bus, lady.”

“It won’t take that long,” she smiled. Her porcelain veneers were blinding in the sun. “I’m sure you won’t miss your bus.”

She had managed to grab a hold of my elbow. I could’ve pulled free and walked away. The only excuse I can give is that her unnaturally large (bought and paid for) boobs hypnotized me. “Are you registered to vote?”

“No.”

“Would you be interested in registering?”

“No.”

“Are you a resident of Arizona?”

Pause. “Yeah.”

“Then you care about our state and the issues that affect it?”

NO!

She hurried on. “Did you know,” she talked like she was preparing to tell me something shocking, “that this VERY library – paid for in part by tax dollars – subscribes to PLAYBOY MAGAZINE?”

“Really?” Who knew?

“Yes!” She clearly thought she had my attention.

“I didn’t see it on the magazine rack.” I definitely would’ve noticed.

“They keep the issues behind the counter,” she pouted and made a face liked she’d just swallowed something bitter. “Hmm! Can you imagine? They HIDE them because they KNOW there’s something wrong with it! Disgusting perverts!”

While she went on with her tirade about how pornography was a societal ill and led to drug abuse and child abuse and date rape and children born out of wedlock – I didn’t bother to ask her how that chain of events tied together – I studied her a little more closely. I wondered if her anti-porno stance was something deeply felt or maybe a response to, oh I don’t know, finding her husband’s stack of porn dating back to the good ol’ days when Suzanne Sommers (Three’s Company years) posed for Playboy? Maybe she found some porn on Junior’s computer during the weekly sneak and peak to make sure he’s not on drugs. She didn’t strike me as a religious freak – but they’re harder to spot than they used to be.

“…and I’m circulating this petition to send to the library insisting that they stop spending tax money on SMUT!”

She paused and took a breath. I took that to mean she was finished and that it was my turn to talk.

“But they’re behind the counter. Right?”

“Ye-e-e-s,” she drew the word out. I could tell by the way she pursed her Botoxed lips and squinted at me that I was responding the way she expected. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“So it’s not like they’re sitting out with the Ladies’ Home Journal and Time Magazine, right? Anybody who wants to look at them has to go to the circulation counter and ASK… right?”

“Yes,” she said. “They’ve turned OUR public library, the repository of all our best cultural ideas, into a dirty book shop!”

Clearly, I thought, you haven’t read anything in a while. “But they’re not going to just give those magazines to ANYBODY? I think the children are safe. The librarians seem like okay enough people.”

“But how do you KNOW?” she countered. “Do they do background checks? How do we know that the people working there aren’t PERVERTS? We have to take the library back! For the sake…”

“...the sake of the children,” I finished for her. “Look,” I said, leaning in, “it’s hot here. You’re not going to get a lot of signatures on a day like today. Why don’t we go somewhere air conditioned, have a drink, and you can tell me why this is so important to you.”

She recoiled from me and screeched. “PERVERT!” she screamed. “You’re one of THEM! A DIRTY DISGUSTING PERVERT!”

“Come on, hon,” I said. “Let’s go get a drink. Relax.”

“I’M A MARRIED WOMAN! AND YOU… YOU… YOU’RE JUST A NASTY DIRTY PERVERT! GET AWAY FROM ME! PERVERT! TERRORIST! COMMUNIST! FAGGOT!

“Now is that any way to talk?” I asked as I walked away. “That’s not very Christian of you.”

She screamed and hissed some more. I got to the bus stop just in time to watch the bus pull away. The thought crossed my mind to run after it; but it was too hot and there was no way the bus was going to stop anyway. Neither of my options was all that appealing. It was too hot to stand there, even under the shelter. It was too hot to walk. As I stood there, considering my options, I felt the sweat evaporate off of my skin. Cars sped by, splashing hot air and exhaust fumes in my face. The lingering stench of exhaust made it difficult to breathe.

I decided to walk.

Once Upon a Time in a Laundromat

Sunday mornings at the Laundromat were generally quiet. When I scraped the quarters together to wash my clothes rather than ring them out in the sink, I tried to get my ass up early and go when all the good folks were at church and all the rest were sleeping off their Saturday nights. It wasn’t like I had a lot of clothes – but sometimes that works against you. With just a couple of shirts, two pairs of pants, some t-shirts, underwear; if I did laundry when everything was dirty I’d be living in a washing machine. You learn to get by.

But my shirts were starting to stand up on their own, and there’s only so much grime you can hand wash out. When I got to the Laundromat, the only person there was the attendant; he looked at me over the top of his news paper, squinting through layers of fat, nodded, and went back to reading the sports section.

It was nearing the end of July. Pre-season football would be starting up soon, and all the fanatics would come out of their summer hiding places decked out in football jerseys, team hats, sun visors, earrings. Most of the jerseys were from some other team because most everybody was from someplace else. Lots of Cowboys fans, Browns fans, Eagles fans. One bar was known for strictly being a Vikings bar. That was just the way it was. The southwest is still the depository for all the people who didn’t seem to fit in anywhere else. But when they come, rather than shake off the memory of the place that didn’t want them, they hold onto parts that become part of their identity. Sometimes they add the city to their name, so they won’t be confused with some one else. St. Louis Steve. Indianapolis Pete. I once watched a guy get into a yelling match over Cincinnati Chili.

Luckily the place I went was running a summer special; that meant I might actually have enough money to toss them in the dryer for a little bit, too. I put my clothes in and sat down. I found a couple of magazines. One of them was an outdated US News and World Reports. The other was a Watchtower Magazine – one of those rags the Jehovah’s Witnesses leave around. Seeing that magazine reminded me of this girl I dated in high school. Lily. She was a sweet girl and had the most beautiful singing voice. She used to take singing lessons after school from the choir director and I’d hang around just to listen. I’d sit in the hall, close my eyes, and focus on her voice. Her family was Jehovah’s Witness – which meant, of course, that they didn’t want her dating me. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere. I couldn’t pick her up. I couldn’t take her home. Whatever time we spent together was in school. And that was ultimately how it all ended. Summer came and we made all those promises that kids make when they think they’re in love. But it ended nonetheless.

I picked up the US News and World Reports.

The cover story was a retrospective of the Bush Administration. Successes, failures. Concerns. Impacts, as always, on business. The recession. The war. In one picture, there was a crowd of protesters (in another country, of course) burning an effigy of Bush. Pictures of New Orleans after Katrina. People wading through torso deep water trying to keep twelve packs of Pepsi dry. People stranded on roof tops and waving signs. rows of cots filling the Superdome as the roof started to collapse.

I put the magazine down. I thought I should’ve brought a book.

The doors opened and a woman with three little kids stormed in along with an arm of the early morning heat. The youngest was crying and the other two were squabbling. The mother was ignoring them carrying a bag of clothes on each arm as well as a basket full of dirty clothes. She looked exhausted and it wasn’t even eight in the morning. She made her way to an empty row of double washers and set to work.

“Shut up!”

“Ma!”

“You’re stupid!”

“Give it back!”

“Make me.”

“Ma!”

“Baby. Cry to mom like a baby, baby.”

“Ma!”

But she would have none of it. I never understood how parents tuned out their kids – especially when their voices hit that ear drum shattering, spine breaking pitch.

“Ma!”

The baby was still crying when she was finished stuffing the washing machines, so she picked the baby up and sat down near the door. Then she shot the kids a dirty look and the settled down immediately and sat around in the chair next to her.

I looked over at the attendant. He was eyeing the woman and kids, but had settled back into the scores after she quieted them down. For a few minutes the only sounds were washing machine sounds. It was almost soothing. I looked over at the woman. Looks familiar. After watching her a little more closely, I realized where I’d seen her before. She lived at the Lost Dutchman, along with the kids and a guy who I suppose was her husband. They had moved in not all that long ago. According to Loyce (who seemed to know everything about everybody) their house had been foreclosed on and the guy had lost his job. So instead of living out in Queen Creek in a two thousand square foot three bedroom two and half bath dream house, all of them were crammed into room seven at the Lost Dutchman. At least it was one of the rooms with a kitchenette. They weren’t the only family living at the motel; there was a family of Mexicans in number three; they were before the sun, didn’t come home until after dark, and they never spoke to anybody but themselves. Loyce thought they were illegal; but I had noticed that she thought anybody who looked Mexican was illegal. I never bothered to find out what she said about me. That was probably a good thing.

When the washer was finished, I put my clothes in an available dryer. One time around was all I’d need. The woman had kept the kids quiet, and now they were playing quietly on the floor. The attendant was back hiding behind his newspaper. What does that fat bastard do all day? I thought. What does he do when he finishes with the sports page? Home and garden? Lifestyle?

A few minutes later, the guy walked in. More like he staggered in. He looked around, saw his family. She saw him immediately, and the look on her face went from exhaust to panic.

“WHAAAT THE FUUCK’RE YOU DOIN’?!”

“I’m just doing laundry Jake.”

“DON’ GIMMEE THAT! WHO THE HELL GETS UP ON A SUNDAY MORNING FOR THIS SHIT?”

She looked over at me briefly; but clearly she had been taught the consequence of not answering quickly. “I just wanted to get it done, that’s all.”

“SO WHY YOU TAKE THE KIIIIDS WITH YA? HUH? WHY YA DO THAT??”

“Because,” her tone took on an edge of bitterness, “you were passed out drunk.”

“BITCH! I CAN WATCH M’OWN GODDAMN KIDS.” He staggered a little. For a second, I hoped he would fall down and crack his head.

“No,” she stood and looked at him with a defiant eye. “You can’t. You’re a drunk and you’re embarrassing your children.”

“SHUD UP YA STOOPID TWAT!”

The kids were huddled around her legs, looking up him all wide eyed and scared. I looked over at the attendant, who was keeping an eye on everything from behind the sports page. I looked at my dryer. My clothes were done. But in order to get to my clothes, I had to walk closer to the unfolding family drama. I didn’t particularly want to get closer because I knew what was coming next.

“Look at what you’re doing to them!” she said. “Will you look at your children? They’re scared to death of you, Jake! You didn’t used to be like this. We didn’t used to be like this! You…”

And that was when it happened. He reached out and smacked her. The sound of his open hand hitting her cheek echoed. The kids scrambled to a corner and put their heads down. Clearly this was a drill they’d learned before. I saw it happen from the dryer. Clearly the guy was drunk. But that was no excuse. Drunks don’t have any business hurting anybody but themselves.

My clothes were still a little damp, but they would dry quickly once I got back to my room. I stuffed them in the cheap laundry bag I’d brought them in and was preparing to leave.

“YOU DON’ TELL ME WHA’ I USED TA BE, HERE ME?? BITCH! YOU THINK YOU GOT TH’ RIGHT TA JUDGE? MISS ‘I GOTTA HAVE FOUR-FUCKIN’-HUNDRED PAIR OF SHOES AND WEEKLY SPA TREATMENTS?”

“You told me it was okay,” she cried. “You said…”

He slapped her again. A little harder this time. I looked up at the fat attendant. He had put down the sports page and picked up the phone. That meant the cops would be there soon and break it up – assuming it didn’t break itself up.

I’d watched the kids play in the parking lot sometimes, and every once in a while the mother would be outside, smoking a cigarette and walking around, or coming back with grocery bags. The husband wasn’t out so much, and I’d never seen him it at the MTP. That meant he was probably sitting in the room all day drinking, yelling like a dumbass and smacking his family around.

Once upon a time I liked to imagine I was one of those heroic guys, like the movies I watched when I was a kid. Superman. Batman. They always seemed to show up in time and the bad guys were always beat down. I thought about the cowboy movies my mom loved to watch. John Wayne. She was also really into the old black and white cowboys. Audie Murphy. Hopalong Cassidy. Roy Rogers. Gene Autry. Lash LaRue. They always did the right thing and shot the black hats in the gun hand so they could stand trial. That was a nice way to picture yourself; everybody wants to think they’re one of the good guys. But mostly, they’re like the fat ass attendant… hiding behind a badly written newspaper, waiting for the evil to pass.

He smacked her again. She started crying. Whatever it was she was trying to say was drowned out in her crying, his yelling, and the rhythmic sound of his hand hitting her face. I looked over at the kids. They were still huddled in the corner, watching. Scared. I looked over at the attendant. He was off the phone, but he nodded at me as if to say “I took care of it.”

I tossed the bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. The most direct path to the door was to pass right by them.

“YOU DON’ TELL ME NOTHIN’!” he was screaming. “YOU HEAR ME WANDA! NOTHIN’! IT’S NOT MY FAULT, YOU HEAR ME?? NOT MY…”

He paused briefly when I walked past. “An’ what’re YOU lookin’ at numb nuts? Huh? Got somethin’ ya want ta say?”

I didn’t answer. I kept my eyes on the fat attendant, who looked like he was looking for good fight to watch. As I walked past Jake, Wanda started crying even more. Out of the side of my eye I saw him raising his hand again. Instead of turning around, I kicked my leg back and hit him in the back of his right knee. This caused him to lose balance and he fell sideways and backwards. He hit his head on the large window, bounced off, and landed flat on his ass. I looked over at the attendant. He was eyeing me. I nodded at him and walked out the door.

Just then the cops pulled up, and I hurried back to my room.

Sarge and the New World Order

I sat for another forty-five minutes, not really thinking about anything. The bar was starting to fill up with the usual cast and there weren’t that many stools open. I ordered another beer. The bartender was busy flirting and pushing her cleavage in the faces of better looking guys who would probably tip better, so I went to take a piss. When I got back, my beer was waiting for me, and the stool next to me was occupied by an older guy with no neck who was as tall as he was wide and bald.

He saw me sit down and nodded in my direction. “How ya doin?”

I nodded back, wondering if there was a sign over my head that read TALK TO ME. I CARE ABOUT YOUR THOUGHTS.

We sat in a wonderful silence until the sports channel pundits started talking politics. As if their thoughts on the latest baseball scores and their insipid need to think they’re entertaining somebody besides themselves wasn’t annoying enough – they felt like they had to talk about politics.

“It won’t be long now,” He said to no one in particular.

Great. I didn’t answer him or even look in his direction. No one else did either.

“It won’t be long boys, til we’re living in the Socialist States of America.”

Fuck me.

But the guy on the other side of him took the bait. “Whadoya mean?” And that was all this guy needed to get rolling. He took a breath like he was getting ready to start a prepared speech.

“It’s just that the way things are going, democracy is going out the window. Take health care for example. They wanna put on us socialized medicine – you know, RATIONED medicine – like they have it in Canada and Britain. But it doesn’t work. We got the best system of health care in the world and it’s going down the tubes.”

The moron on the other side of him grunted something about “fucking commies.” Apparently he took this as a hint that he should keep talking. I was trying to focus on my beer.

“And then there’s the war. The President wants to take us out of the Middle East. But you know what? He’s a Muslim. They have pictures of him attending a Muslim School. And he shouldn’t have even been able to RUN for President! He wasn’t born here.”

The guy whose face I was fantasizing about smashing in nodded his empty head in agreement. “Damn right. Muslims. Kill ‘em all.”

“Yeah,” he nodded in agreement with himself as he sat taller in his barstool and looked around. “Pretty soon we’re gonna be payin’ higher taxes and havin’ the government in ALL our business.”

“Yeah,” said the gruntamatic.

I drained my beer and told the bartender to pour me another. I usually didn’t get involved in political discussions, at the bar or anywhere else. All it ever turned into was a headache. One of the “he said, he said, she said” kind of discussions that never really goes anywhere. Politics was one of those things that people talked about just to sound smart – even if it rarely worked.

“People are lovin’ him now. But wait and see. Pretty soon there won’t be anything left.”

The bartender interrupted him. “You want another one Sarge?”

Sarge. The pieces started to fit together. Ex-military guys all have that same swagger. What was it my dad used tell me? “You can take the man out of the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man.” Never was there a truer thing said. Dad was a retired Air Force Master Sergeant. But the only thing that really changed about him was he wasn’t in uniform. He woke up before dawn everyday – even on the weekends. He shaved every morning. Cut his hair when it hinted at touching his collar. And when he wanted something done – you could damn well count on it being done, exactly the way he wanted it.

Sarge smiled and nodded. “Sure do, darlin’.” He waited until she brought him another beer and walked away before he started talking again. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eatin’ crackers,” he said. The gruntamatic nodded in agreement and eyed the bartender with not too subtle thoughts etched into his face.

“But what was I talking about? Oh, yeah.” He took a drink of his beer. “Not that the last administration was any better. But at least they had the military down right, you know?”

I was telling myself that smacking this old guy in the back of the head would just get me tossed out of the bar. There were other bars I could go to – but none of them were as close. The choice between walking more and listening to more of Sarge’s bullshit was tough. One the one hand, it was clear that he was full of bullshit and that most everybody except the stubble faced dumbass on the other side of him seemed to ignore him. On the other hand, the silence would have been nice.

Politics made me sick. I thought about the recruiters who called me before I was out of high school. They promised me college money, a career, and a sense of pride. They said I had the aptitude to do pretty much whatever I wanted – I guess they based that on some test or another that I’d taken. We filled out so many bubble forms – so many exams, pre-tests, practice tests, surveys – that one more didn’t make a difference. We used to get out of regular classes just to sit in the cafeteria and fill out the forms, so I didn’t really care about anything other than the fact that I didn’t have to sit through algebra. I didn’t even read the questions. I made designs and pictures. Little dots in the shape of boats, cars, smiley faces.

As a kid, political discussions I saw almost always ended in one of two ways. A couple of drunks got together and started talking politics. The President did this. The President shouldn’t do that. Congress should impeach him. Congress is owned by the corporations. Congress is owned by the mega-churches. The entire government is in the back pocket of the World Bank. After a while, the two people talking (it was never a group discussion. Most people have better sense than to interrupt a couple of assholes bitching about politics) would either agree with one another or they’d start yelling and somebody would get punched. The only people who seemed to be able to talk politics without getting punched or punching somebody else were politicians. And nothing they ever said made any sense to me.

Dad wasn’t one to talk politics; not that he didn’t have his opinions, or that he wouldn’t let you know exactly what he thought when he thought you needed to know. But I think mostly he knew there was no point in arguing about it. Arguing politics never changed anybody’s mind. I remember trying to watch debates on TV with him. Most of what they said was some slightly different version of what their opponent said, and for the most part, except for their names, they were interchangeable. As I got older, I started to notice that things changed very little regardless of who was in office. Some things just don’t change. Not really.

I almost managed to drown Sarge out of my head until I he proclaimed with all the authority of his second beer, “The truth is, the most stable form of government is a military dictatorship.”

I looked down at my beer and briefly thought about abandoning it. Fuck that. I wasn’t about to walk away just because of one asshole. I looked around the bar. There were no open stools.

“The problem with democracy,” he went on, “is that it depends on people to do the right thing. Sure there are laws, but people get away with a lot of shit. In a military dictatorship, for example, there wouldn’t be any question about the war, or joining the military. Service would be COMPULSORY. So all these egg heads and intellectuals who run things would have to stop their shit or get mowed over.”

The gruntamatic answered with an affirmative nod and a grunt. I guess neither of them had ever heard of the draft, back when we had one.

Once when I was thirteen, I told my Dad I wanted to join the military. I was expecting him to smile and be proud. The son who wanted to follow in his footsteps. All he did was look at me and ask me why.

I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know. It seems cool.”

“What ‘seems cool’ about it?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered. “I think it might be cool to fly jet planes.”

“You know that not everyone gets to do that, right?”

“I know…”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t other things just as important.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It’s just not as easy as it sounds.”

We didn’t talk about it again after that. But as I got older I think I started to understand what he was trying to say in a round about way. He’d dropped out of high school and joined up when he was seventeen. He got away with it mostly because the teachers were glad to be rid of him and it was one less mouth to feed at home. And he clearly enjoyed something about it. He stayed in for twenty years. But I think maybe he wanted something else for his kids. Something better. Something different. He was always talking about having options.

I wondered what kind of options Sarge had when he was kid. Not that it made much difference. He was still as annoying as hell, and there was nothing he said that he hadn’t heard on Fox News or a.m. talk radio. The mouthpiece changes, but the sound stays the same. He was giving me a headache. It’s amazing how the same shit ideas recycle themselves over and over again. I wondered if Sarge had his own private compound with stockpiles of guns and beef jerky. Maybe he was one of those guys who had a website loaded with misspelled words and wrongly attributed quotes. Maybe he ran a small newsletter out of his house with a circulation of twenty people who had turned their social security cards into the court house.

I used to know a guy like that. Terry. I met him after Dad died. He gave me all these pamphlets and print outs about how the government used military personnel as guinea pigs. I didn’t know what to think about any of it; but it was better to have a reason than to accept all the church-laden bullshit I had been hearing up to that point. Eventually, Terry turned in his social security card and driver’s license, proclaiming to the very confused clerk that he “wasn’t gonna be a tool of the machine anymore,” and that she – a matronly little church going woman with silver hair and spider-rimmed bifocal that she kept on a chain so’s not to lose them – “could tell those mother fuckers” he was onto them and their game. “No one’s gonna own ME! YOU’RE ALL SLAVES!!” he screamed and left before court house security had chance to escort him out of the building. He’d take heavy doses of acid, climb up onto the roof of his house, and point at sky, claiming that the black helicopters were coming to take him away. Terry ended up taking one too many trip, and the last I heard of him he was catatonic in a state hospital somewhere in Kentucky.

Sarge didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who took heavy drugs; but he did strike me as the type who might benefit from trying them.

“And now that they’re getting rid of paper money,” he said, “and with this ‘banking crisis’ (he made parenthetical signs with his hands) look for the World Bank and the IMF to come and consolidate everything. That’s what they’re doing in the European Union. Pretty soon, we won’t be spending dollars anymore. We’ll be spending Euros.”

“Yeah,” the gruntamatic grunted. “An’ we’ll be speakin’ Spanish.”

Sarge laughed in agreement. I drained my beer and paid my tab. The bartender smiled at me, probably hoping for a better tip. When I left, Sarge was still talking and the gruntamatic was still grunting. When I walked outside, the sun was going down in the west. The sky was clear of black helicopters and clouds.