“Are you just out thinking about something?”
I looked over. Joe and I didn’t usually talk much. He tended to drink with Adelle and the crowd of cool kids – though we’d occasionally talk when one or both of us were drunk enough to forget that we weren’t really friends.
“Nah,” I answered. “Just sort of relaxing.”
“Uh-huh.” He must’ve noticed the way I was knocking back my cocktails. I wasn’t so much relaxing as I was avoiding the sunlight. I was also celebrating my first full year of living in the vacuum of the southwest. It’s one of those places were people go and never manage to leave; it’s not so much about planning as it is a magnetic inevitability. In a place with no memory, like Phoenix is, it’s very easy to lose track. Of your reasons for being there. Of your reasons for wanting to leave. After a while, reasons get demolished and built over the way everything else does here, and what you’re left with an antiseptic reality in which life repeats every square mile or so. Strip mall, gated condominium community, Jack-in-the-Box, a gas station. Stop at the light. Go. Repeat.
And whether I’m ruminating or in the process of trying NOT to ruminate, whiskey has pretty much always been my liquor of choice – for as long as I’ve been drinking more than contraband beer and the wine coolers that contributed to more than one teen pregnancy in my hometown. It’s still my preference, even in unbearable climates. There’s something fundamentally warm about whiskey. Something pure and purifying. Something basic. It goes well as a shot with beer or as an additive to coffee. It also does just fine on it’s own over ice. Whiskey – or bourbon as it is sometimes referred to by those who know nothing about history – is a pure Americana. What we think of as whiskey – or bourbon – was born out of the downfall of Prohibition is one of the few things that Kentucky in known for besides tobacco, coal mines, fried chicken, and accusations of inbreeding. People tend to forget, though, that long before The U.S. was a country peopled by patriots, it was a territory built up by lovers of whiskey. Before he was President, George Washington was a distiller – and when he imposed a tax on whiskey (that more or less cut out his less affluent competition) a minor insurrection resulted that is sometimes referred to as The Whiskey Rebellion. That goes to show that even at the founding of the country, people in power were always trying to get one over on the rest of us.
I looked over at Joe; he was sipping a bottle of NA beer. “What’s going on?” I asked. “You on the wagon?”
“Well,” he hedged, “I’m just taking a break. It’s good sometimes to stop –“
“Sure.”
“I, uh, like to make sure that I’m controlling It instead of It controlling me.”
“Sure,” I said. “Makes sense. It’s good to clean out every once in a while. Let your liver rebuild itself.”
He nodded. I drained my glass. The last time I took a break was the last time I couldn’t afford a drink. It was miserable. People who talk about sobriety like it’s something to aspire to clearly aren’t paying attention to the world.
We sat not talking for another half hour or so. Then Adelle came out of the back and sat down next to Joe. She ordered one of her usual froo-froo drink and proceeded to talk Joe’s ear off. She talked non-stop. She didn’t even stop to breathe. She complained about her ex-boyfriend and business partner; she whined about how the distributors were fucking her over and how the pool repairman tried to make a pass at her; she bitched about one or two of the waitresses; she complained that her drink was too weak. She harped on about how she should’ve never gotten stuck as co-owner of a bar to begin with. “This place is bleeding,” she said. “We spend more than we make. And that’s after we let a couple of girls go.” She went on and on about how her talents were wasting away. She should be an events coordinator. She had wanted to open a venue for local bands, but her ex didn’t think it was a good idea. When she ran out of work related things to jabber on about, she started complaining about the new shoes she’d just bought, and how sore her legs were and how doing the books made her head hurt.
For a second I felt sorry for the guy; but then I remembered that he asked for it. I know it’s difficult to turn down pussy, especially when it’s been thrown at you along with free booze and a cafeteria choice of drugs – but that doesn’t mean you have to stick around for it. For a while.
Joe’s eyes were glazed over. He’d nod occasionally like it was an automatic response. After her second drink, Adelle finally noticed what Joe was drinking. She wrinkled her nose.
“Why are you drinking THAT?”
Joe shrugged. “Taking a break,” he said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she whined through her nose. “Why?”
He shrugged and side glanced in my direction.
“Oh,” she slapped his arm. “You’re not thinking about what that DOCTOR said, are you?”
Joe didn’t answer.
“You can’t let people scare you like that, baby,” she cooed. “You just need to change up. All you do is sit here and drink Chivas Regal. I told you that shit wasn’t good for you.”
He shrugged.
“It’s his fucking JOB to scare you, babe. Tell me you didn’t fall for it.”
Joe didn’t answer.
Adelle motioned Suzy over. “Hey,” she said, “Did Joe tell you about his doctor appointment?”
When Suzy waddled over, she shook her head and said no.
“Well, this doctor – this stupid quack who probably gets kickbacks from some drug company – told him he needed to quit drinking. Can you believe that? They wanna make anything fun illegal.”
Suzy didn’t really answer. Joe wasn’t saying anything either. “I mean come on,” Adelle carried on, rubbing up on him. “You’re as healthy as a fucking horse, Joe. A FUCKING horse. Believe me,” Adelle smiled a dirty smile that made my stomach turn just a little, “I should know.”
Suzy waddled off to serve another patron and Adelle kept rubbing on Joe and talking. “You’d KNOW if something was wrong,” she said. “Letting some dumb quack scare you. OOO,” she laughed. “You’ll be dead in a year. Right. What the fuck ever.” She kissed Joe’s cheek. “Let me make you a drink, okay hon? Come on.”
Joe didn’t answer. Then he sighed and nodded his head. Adelle patted him on the shoulder then stood up and walked behind the bar to make Joe’s magic drink. When she came back with it, Joe took one look at it and drank it down. That made Adelle cackle and she jumped up to put money in the juke box.
I motioned to Suzy for another cocktail and when she brought it over I asked her how business was.
She shrugged and tried to look non-committal. “It gets slow sometimes,” she said. “But it’s also summer. We’ll pick up again when football season starts.”
“Sure,” I said. It’s true that summers can be slow for sports bars – but they also had the off track betting, and if I had learned one thing over the years and numerous barstools, it was that even in a recession, people want to drink. Hell, in a recession, people want to drink more so they don’t have to think about all the shit that’s going wrong in their lives. The smart bar owners may have to adapt a bit to stay afloat; but that sure as shit wasn’t Adelle. And it was very clear that she was one who made most of the decisions at the MTP.
“How about a draft?” I asked.
“Uh, which one?”
I told her my preference.
“We’re out,” she said.
“Out? How can you be out?”
Suzy was still trying to be non-committal. She glanced over at Adelle, who was doing everything except openly dry humping Joe. Suzy had a look on her face that I’d seen before; it’s that look stage actors get when they realize they’ve forgotten a line. “It’s the distributor’s fault,” she said, a little quickly. Like she suddenly remembered the script. “They changed delivery days on us and it’s thrown everything off. I can get you something else, though, or maybe a bottle?”
I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll just pay out and drink this.” I set enough money on the counter to cover my tab and a small tip. Then I downed the drink I had and stood up to leave. I looked over at Joe and Adelle; she was whispering something in his ear. He was smiling. Then he caught me watching and his face went dead, expressionless like a fish. When I left the bar, the only thing I heard over the thumping of the club music Adelle was playing was the sound of her laughter.
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
19 June, 2009
17 June, 2009
Tumbleweeds and Killer Robots
The stop over in Santa Fe was a long one – four hours. We were switching busses, and it took that long to empty out the bus, unload the baggage, then hose out the old bus and wait on the new bus, which would have to be cleaned and refueled before we could board. The wait was not so much an exercise in will power as it was in futility. I was exhausted from crossing two time zones, sore from sleeping in a more or less upright position, and I felt disgusting because I hadn’t shaved or showered since I left Cincinnati. Traveling cross country by bus means seeing humanity (or the absence of it) up close and personal. All of people’s bad habits – the nail biting, nose picking, ass scratching, snoring, and sniveling tendencies sweat out of their pores and soak into the seats and thicken the air. Eventually, everything is infected with it. There’s no escaping.
First thing when I got off the bus I made a bee line for the restroom to take a massive shit. I’d been holding it in for miles, trying to avoid using the toilet on the bus. Those things are worse than port-o-potties at a summer music festival. The fan never works so the stench of people’s bowels is always encased in the coffin sized closet and smacks you in the face when you open the door. And, more often than not, the person who used it before you was some sweaty fucker suffering from explosive diarrhea or motion sickness – or it was some cunt who tried unsuccessfully to flush a used tampon. Better to hold it in as long as you can and hope for a long enough pit stop.
I finished up and splashed water on my face after I washed my hands. The water was lukewarm and tasted like old minerals. On either side of me there were guys shaving and trying to clean themselves up. I was a little envious, since I had made the mistake of packing my razor and toothbrush in my suitcase, which was going to be moved from the bus I just left onto the bus I would ride all the way to Phoenix. What a rookie mistake, I kicked myself. I should’ve known better. I thought about going to the store in the depot and buying a disposable razor and at least give myself the appearance of not being a bum. But I didn’t want to spend money on something I knew I owned. I could shave once I got to where I was going, right? Besides, the water did help a little.
It was early morning in Santa Fe. My stomach was empty because I hadn’t had anything to east since somewhere in Wyoming, where I broke down and bought a pack of stale cheese and crackers. But again, I knew exactly how much cash I had and it had to last me for a while. So instead I bought myself a cup of coffee that was colored water more or less, and wandered around the depot trying to eat up the time until it was time to board.
The depot, like the Santa Fe skyline, was antiseptic and brown. Lots of stucco and tile, indicative of the southwestern style. Mexican blankets hung on the walks and over archways. Large prints painted to look like rural art depicting cowboys on horseback surrounded by rocks, tumbleweeds, and cactus; sometimes they were herding cattle and sometimes they were fighting Indians or bandits wearing sombreros. Framed black and white photos of Santa Fe through the years. A picture of Pancho Villa and an even nicer picture of his grave. A copy of New Mexico’s statehood decree. A copy of the treaty that made New Mexico (and Texas) U.S. territories. Kiosks filled with colorful pamphlets to entice the weary tourist into spending money visiting western museums and the “contemporary gallerias and shopping centres.”
The four hours stretched and stretched until finally the bus was ready to board. Before we could get on the bus, though, the passengers had to pass through a check point and have our carry on bags x-rayed. I guess in addition to the graves of bandits, stucco, and the thoroughly modern shopping, Santa Fe was also home to a military base. I wondered if it was some Area 51 deal where the government was making sure extraterrestrials weren’t slipping through the net. I hadn’t seen any check points at any other depot I’d ever been to; but I wasn’t all that worried. It was just one more stupid thing to get through.
When it got to be my turn, I handed the first soldier my boarding pass and driver’s license. He glanced down at it. Then up at me. Then he handed it back. “Place your bag on the conveyor belt.” His tone was emotionless. Almost metallic. I put my satchel on the conveyor belt and the soldier – who happened to be a young woman with a fairly attractive face despite the uniform – pushed it into the x-ray machine. The guard who had looked at my boarding pass motioned me forward. What, I thought, you’re not gonna check my shoes for a bomb? It wasn’t as bad as the airport; the last time I flew I was in line for almost an hour and I nearly missed my flight. I figured this would be pretty easy. Plus, it was working to my advantage. There was only one line, and I was near the front of it. That meant I had a better shot at getting a decent seat. The really good ones would be taken already by the people who had come in on that particular bus; but generally, the busses emptied out at major depots. All I had to do was confirm that I was not, in fact, from another planet, get through the security checkpoint, and board. I wasn’t all that anxious to sit down for another day; but I was looking forward to the end of the trip.
“Sir,” another guard spoke to me, “could you step over here?” My heart sank a little. There wasn’t really a question in his face. When I stepped to the side, they started letting other passengers through. My bag was sitting on the table. It was open. The soldier who pulled me out of line pointed down and asked, “Is this flask yours, sir?”
Fuck. “Uh, yeah. It’s mine.” The flask had been a gift from this girl I used to be friends with. We didn’t have much in common except that we both liked to drink and both hated pretty much everybody else. She was gorgeous, intelligent, and well-read, with fire red hair and a temperament to match; that meant she was completely out of my league. She ended up getting hooked in with a traveling anti-war protest group. She left town and I lost touch with her. The flask, she had told me, was so I would never forget her.
“You are AWARE, aren’t you sir, that alcoholic beverages aren’t allowed on the busses?”
I thought I heard a sneer in his tone; but his face was deadpan and his eyes were colorless. He didn’t even have laugh lines. Of course I knew that. But it wasn’t like I was stinking drunk and being obnoxious. They’d kicked a guy off in the middle of Kansas for it; he was clearly drunk, on his way home from Vegas where he clearly didn’t do well, and he was yelling at people and swinging and empty bottle of vodka around. There are few things more annoying than a Midwesterner on a binge, and everybody hated him. I just wanted him to shut up so I could sleep. The bus driver told him three or four times to sit down and shut up, and when the guy didn’t, the bus driver pulled over, opened the door, and physically tossed the guy off. Most of the passengers applauded. Thing is, he left the poor drunk bastard in the middle of fucking nowhere. There were miles of corn field on either side of the road and not even a house in sight to walk to and use the phone.
But I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t making trouble. I wasn’t bothering anybody. I’d been taking sips to help me sleep and stave off the full impact of my hangover. Passengers walked by me and looked me over on their way to occupy what remained of the decent seats. I looked at the guard. Nothing. Not a shred of humanity in his demeanor. I suspected that there was something about the uniform that drained the person wearing it of the fundamental human emotions – empathy, sympathy, compassion. Granted, they were more trouble than they were worth most of the time; but at that point, I could’ve used one or all three of them.
I smiled my most apologetic looking smile. “Listen,” I said, “it was a going away present. I haven’t even cracked it open yet. I would’ve packed it in my suitcase, but I didn’t want something to happen and end up with it all over my clothes.” I looked sorry and shrugged.
He pulled it out of the bag. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Actually, we could detain you just for getting it this far.”
“But I bought my ticket,” I said. “I’m going to Phoenix.”
The guard shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. We can keep anybody off if they break policy or look like they’re going to be a problem.”
A problem? I wasn’t being a problem. I hadn’t been a problem. “I HAVE to get to Phoenix,” I reasoned with him. “People are waiting on me.”
“Why are you going to Phoenix?” the guard asked. A few more people trickled past. The line was getting shorter and shorter.
“A job.”
The guard handed the flask to the girl working the x-ray machine and she put it in some box under the table. For a split second I thought I detected a slight light of amusement in his colorless eyes.
“Come on,” I said. “It was a gift.”
The guard didn’t answer; he just watched as the last of the passengers walked by. The line was gone.
There was no way I was going to win. I picked up my shuffled through bag and looked at him. He nodded his consent like he was doing me a favor and I headed out the door. By the time I boarded the bus, the only empty seats were the two seats in the very back, directly in front of the pisser. I made my way back, tossed my bag into the overhead compartment, and slid into the seat. I closed my eyes, tried not to think about the smell, and hoped that I wouldn’t wake up again until Phoenix.
First thing when I got off the bus I made a bee line for the restroom to take a massive shit. I’d been holding it in for miles, trying to avoid using the toilet on the bus. Those things are worse than port-o-potties at a summer music festival. The fan never works so the stench of people’s bowels is always encased in the coffin sized closet and smacks you in the face when you open the door. And, more often than not, the person who used it before you was some sweaty fucker suffering from explosive diarrhea or motion sickness – or it was some cunt who tried unsuccessfully to flush a used tampon. Better to hold it in as long as you can and hope for a long enough pit stop.
I finished up and splashed water on my face after I washed my hands. The water was lukewarm and tasted like old minerals. On either side of me there were guys shaving and trying to clean themselves up. I was a little envious, since I had made the mistake of packing my razor and toothbrush in my suitcase, which was going to be moved from the bus I just left onto the bus I would ride all the way to Phoenix. What a rookie mistake, I kicked myself. I should’ve known better. I thought about going to the store in the depot and buying a disposable razor and at least give myself the appearance of not being a bum. But I didn’t want to spend money on something I knew I owned. I could shave once I got to where I was going, right? Besides, the water did help a little.
It was early morning in Santa Fe. My stomach was empty because I hadn’t had anything to east since somewhere in Wyoming, where I broke down and bought a pack of stale cheese and crackers. But again, I knew exactly how much cash I had and it had to last me for a while. So instead I bought myself a cup of coffee that was colored water more or less, and wandered around the depot trying to eat up the time until it was time to board.
The depot, like the Santa Fe skyline, was antiseptic and brown. Lots of stucco and tile, indicative of the southwestern style. Mexican blankets hung on the walks and over archways. Large prints painted to look like rural art depicting cowboys on horseback surrounded by rocks, tumbleweeds, and cactus; sometimes they were herding cattle and sometimes they were fighting Indians or bandits wearing sombreros. Framed black and white photos of Santa Fe through the years. A picture of Pancho Villa and an even nicer picture of his grave. A copy of New Mexico’s statehood decree. A copy of the treaty that made New Mexico (and Texas) U.S. territories. Kiosks filled with colorful pamphlets to entice the weary tourist into spending money visiting western museums and the “contemporary gallerias and shopping centres.”
The four hours stretched and stretched until finally the bus was ready to board. Before we could get on the bus, though, the passengers had to pass through a check point and have our carry on bags x-rayed. I guess in addition to the graves of bandits, stucco, and the thoroughly modern shopping, Santa Fe was also home to a military base. I wondered if it was some Area 51 deal where the government was making sure extraterrestrials weren’t slipping through the net. I hadn’t seen any check points at any other depot I’d ever been to; but I wasn’t all that worried. It was just one more stupid thing to get through.
When it got to be my turn, I handed the first soldier my boarding pass and driver’s license. He glanced down at it. Then up at me. Then he handed it back. “Place your bag on the conveyor belt.” His tone was emotionless. Almost metallic. I put my satchel on the conveyor belt and the soldier – who happened to be a young woman with a fairly attractive face despite the uniform – pushed it into the x-ray machine. The guard who had looked at my boarding pass motioned me forward. What, I thought, you’re not gonna check my shoes for a bomb? It wasn’t as bad as the airport; the last time I flew I was in line for almost an hour and I nearly missed my flight. I figured this would be pretty easy. Plus, it was working to my advantage. There was only one line, and I was near the front of it. That meant I had a better shot at getting a decent seat. The really good ones would be taken already by the people who had come in on that particular bus; but generally, the busses emptied out at major depots. All I had to do was confirm that I was not, in fact, from another planet, get through the security checkpoint, and board. I wasn’t all that anxious to sit down for another day; but I was looking forward to the end of the trip.
“Sir,” another guard spoke to me, “could you step over here?” My heart sank a little. There wasn’t really a question in his face. When I stepped to the side, they started letting other passengers through. My bag was sitting on the table. It was open. The soldier who pulled me out of line pointed down and asked, “Is this flask yours, sir?”
Fuck. “Uh, yeah. It’s mine.” The flask had been a gift from this girl I used to be friends with. We didn’t have much in common except that we both liked to drink and both hated pretty much everybody else. She was gorgeous, intelligent, and well-read, with fire red hair and a temperament to match; that meant she was completely out of my league. She ended up getting hooked in with a traveling anti-war protest group. She left town and I lost touch with her. The flask, she had told me, was so I would never forget her.
“You are AWARE, aren’t you sir, that alcoholic beverages aren’t allowed on the busses?”
I thought I heard a sneer in his tone; but his face was deadpan and his eyes were colorless. He didn’t even have laugh lines. Of course I knew that. But it wasn’t like I was stinking drunk and being obnoxious. They’d kicked a guy off in the middle of Kansas for it; he was clearly drunk, on his way home from Vegas where he clearly didn’t do well, and he was yelling at people and swinging and empty bottle of vodka around. There are few things more annoying than a Midwesterner on a binge, and everybody hated him. I just wanted him to shut up so I could sleep. The bus driver told him three or four times to sit down and shut up, and when the guy didn’t, the bus driver pulled over, opened the door, and physically tossed the guy off. Most of the passengers applauded. Thing is, he left the poor drunk bastard in the middle of fucking nowhere. There were miles of corn field on either side of the road and not even a house in sight to walk to and use the phone.
But I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t making trouble. I wasn’t bothering anybody. I’d been taking sips to help me sleep and stave off the full impact of my hangover. Passengers walked by me and looked me over on their way to occupy what remained of the decent seats. I looked at the guard. Nothing. Not a shred of humanity in his demeanor. I suspected that there was something about the uniform that drained the person wearing it of the fundamental human emotions – empathy, sympathy, compassion. Granted, they were more trouble than they were worth most of the time; but at that point, I could’ve used one or all three of them.
I smiled my most apologetic looking smile. “Listen,” I said, “it was a going away present. I haven’t even cracked it open yet. I would’ve packed it in my suitcase, but I didn’t want something to happen and end up with it all over my clothes.” I looked sorry and shrugged.
He pulled it out of the bag. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Actually, we could detain you just for getting it this far.”
“But I bought my ticket,” I said. “I’m going to Phoenix.”
The guard shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. We can keep anybody off if they break policy or look like they’re going to be a problem.”
A problem? I wasn’t being a problem. I hadn’t been a problem. “I HAVE to get to Phoenix,” I reasoned with him. “People are waiting on me.”
“Why are you going to Phoenix?” the guard asked. A few more people trickled past. The line was getting shorter and shorter.
“A job.”
The guard handed the flask to the girl working the x-ray machine and she put it in some box under the table. For a split second I thought I detected a slight light of amusement in his colorless eyes.
“Come on,” I said. “It was a gift.”
The guard didn’t answer; he just watched as the last of the passengers walked by. The line was gone.
There was no way I was going to win. I picked up my shuffled through bag and looked at him. He nodded his consent like he was doing me a favor and I headed out the door. By the time I boarded the bus, the only empty seats were the two seats in the very back, directly in front of the pisser. I made my way back, tossed my bag into the overhead compartment, and slid into the seat. I closed my eyes, tried not to think about the smell, and hoped that I wouldn’t wake up again until Phoenix.
11 June, 2009
Room #9
Frankie Menendez could get just about anything anybody wanted; but he always tried to steer people to his preferred merchandise, which was crystal meth. He also ran a small trade in spindly, ghoulish meth head girls who let themselves be turned out in exchange for a few moments of chemical happiness. But he tried to steer people away from the girls, he said, on general principle. “Besides,” he’d smile and show his half rotten teeth, “there are better things than bubblegum pussy, anyway.”
I bought weed off him twice and smoked with him once. The first time, I didn’t realize Dino could get me better stuff. The second time, he came by my room at a vulnerable moment; I was a little down in the mouth and had just finished my last bottle of cheap wine. And wine always makes me more social than I ought to be. He had all the manners of a door to door salesman – the kind that scared little old ladies into buying expensive vacuum cleaners they didn’t really need by showing them blown up pictures of bed bugs. Except that Frankie smelled like he hadn’t showered in months and had never been taught about simple things like deodorant or a comb.
“Don’t worry,” he joked when I expressed some hesitation. “I’m no illegal and no chiva, either. I bought my papers like every other Mex here.” He smiled wide at his own joke and I could swear he’d managed to lose another tooth. He looked like a damn jack-o-lantern. Except the light was burned out.
I let him in because, like I said, the wine makes me friendlier than I should be. Cheap wine is a nice warm drunk. A philosophical drunk. Most of the old winos I’d known – the ones who really preferred their rock gut vino – were friendly and talkative. They didn’t remember names or the days of the week. Their conscious memory of the world stopped at the day they started drinking. And they weren’t always aware that they repeated themselves most of the time. But were friendly and honest – until the bottle was empty. When Frankie knocked on my door, I was about to go out and get another bottle.
He came in and sat down like we were old friends. “Hey, man,” he said, “you keep a pretty clean room. You sure you’re not a fag?” He smiled again.
I looked around. The bed wasn’t made, and I hadn’t taken out the garbage in a while – it was mostly empty bottles. But I kept my clothes off the floor; even my shoes. There are few things worse than putting your foot in your shoe only to squash a cockroach that had made its way into the toe. Difficult to clean out, too. I smiled and nodded, signaling that I knew he was joking.
“Listen,” he said, “you interested in anything?”
“Got any weed?”
He whistled through the gaps in his teeth. “Shee-i-t, gringo, I always got that.” His eyes widened a little. “How ‘bout I give you a free taste of meth? Come’on, man. It’s on me.”
I shook my head. “Just weed.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Ok, gringo. But you don’t know what you’re missin’ man.”
I thought of the girls I’d seen wandering in and out of his apartment. Some of those girls didn’t look much older than my brother’s kids. “Just weed,” I repeated. My buzz was starting to wear off and so was my patience for Frankie’s company.
“Cool, cool.” Sometimes when Frankie talked, I got the feeling he was trying to imitate characters from movies he’d seen. When he said “cool, cool,” I heard what I thought was a bad attempt at a Jamaican accent – the kind you might hear in a low budget drug comedy. If he says, ‘Ja-makin-me-crazy!’ I’m going to toss his toothless ass out. I bought a little weed from him. Then he insisted on staying and chilling a little. “Gotta get outta my room sometimes, man,” he said. “People always coming by and driving me cra-a-zy. “ Then he smoked a joint with me from the weed I bought.
We finished one joint together and he offered me a taste of “the good stuff” one more time. I turned him down and he left. Before I closed the door on him, though, he said, “If you change your mind, gringo, come on down to number 9. I hook you up.”
Even after I closed the door on him, his stench lingered. I decided to walk up to the liquor store for another bottle.
I tried to avoid him as much as possible after that. We didn’t really talk, but he’d smile and wave every time he saw me or passed me on the stairs. He was always up in Loyce’s room. I suspected that maybe he was her connection and that maybe his knocking on my door was a last minute decision he’d made on his way back from her place. Loyce didn’t strike me as a meth head, though. She wasn’t all sunken and gray and ghoulish like Frankie’s army of underage whores. I think he knocked on my door a couple of times; but I didn’t answer and he finally stopped coming around.
About a month later, the cops showed up. The Sheriff’s Department. There were eight squad cars and a news truck. I was standing out in front of my room smoking a cigarette, and I watched as they pulled the desk manager off her fat ass and made her unlock the door. Frankie never had a chance. The cops knocked in the door, and a few shots were fired. Girls screamed and ran out of the room, only to be caught by the squads of women deputies who covered them with blankets before putting the hand cuffs on them. It didn’t take them long to drag Frankie out. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“They’ll put him away, I think,” Loyce said to me.
“He won’t make bail?”
She chuckled. “Shit. He smokes all the money he makes.”
“He doesn’t have friends?”
She shook her head. “His kind of friends might not take too kindly to him being picked up.” She leaned in. “You know he gets his shit straight from Mexico, right?”
“No,” I said. “I never asked him.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Aw, come on,” she said. “All them Mex’es get their shit from across the border.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s what he gets for not buying American.”
She chuckled. “Look at him,” she said. “He won’t last an hour inside. He’ll either be clawing at the walls or some big fat queer’ll knock the rest of his teeth out and make him a bitch.” She seemed to enjoy the thought a little too much.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I said.”
Loyce flicked the ash off her cigarette. “Shit. And them girls. Most of ‘em aren’t old enough to drive, let alone work.”
I couldn’t tell if she was disturbed by the thought of teenage girls giving blowjobs to the dirty old men behind the adult bookstore, or if she was annoyed at the competition; so I nodded kept my eyes on the circus down in the parking lot. More news crews had shown up.
“You know they’re gonna talk to us, right?” she asked.
“Who?” What the hell could I tell a reporter? I’m not weepy, sympathetic, or desperate looking enough to make the evening news.
“The cops,” she answered. Her tone was impatient.
“Figured that.”
“You gotta be careful in what you say,” she cautioned me. “Any little thing and they might close this place down.”
I looked at her. I was getting the feeling that she was less concerned about me or the Lost Dutchman as she was what I’d say to the cops about her. I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. Hell, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what happened. After the raid was all over, the plain clothes guys showed up – the Sheriff himself, all dressed up for the cameras and his eleven o’clock cameo, and another plain clothes detective who looked familiar. It was the one I’d seen leaving Loyce’s room a few times. I looked over at her, and she was smiling a satisfied smile.
“They can’t just close the motel, can they?” I asked.
“If they think it’s a crack house they can,” she answered.
“All I can say about Frankie is that he needs new teeth.”
She chuckled and smiled at me. “I like you. You’re kinda cute, you know. In your own way.”
“Good genes and hard living,” I said.
“You don’t look old enough to know what a hard life is,” she said.
“It’s not the age,” I answered, “it’s the mileage.”
She nodded. “True that,” she said. She looked me up and down the way people look at cars or new clothes. “How is it that nice guy like you don’t have a girl?”
I can’t afford them, I wanted to say. I shrugged instead.
Loyce’s attention shifted to the uniforms dispersing and starting to walk up the stairs to the second floor. “Here they come,” she said.
“Yup.”
“If you got anything,” she advised, “you might want to go flush it.”
I didn’t, but I nodded and used it as an excuse to go back into my room. A few minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was a uniform. He asked if he could come in. I let him.
“We just have a few questions about Mr. Menendez in number 9,” he said through his mustache. He had a notebook and pen out to take notes, but he was nonchalantly trying to scope out the room. I would’ve felt sorry for the poor rookie bastard, since he was doing all the leg work and getting none of the glory, except for the way he was looking around to find an excuse to bust me. What? I wanted to say. Did you walk in expecting dirty needles and empty crack pipes lying around? Watch a lot of Kojak reruns? Maybe Law and Order? Maybe you thought I just kept a small pile of coke out on the table… just in case I feel the urge. He did take notice of my empties, though, and after he confirmed my name with the list he had from the front office, he asked me what I did for a living.
“I’m currently between jobs,” I said.
“And how long have you been… ‘between jobs’?”
“I work through Ready Labor sometimes,” I said. “But I haven’t in a while.”
“How do you pay your bills, sir?”
“The same way everyone else does. With cash.”
He huffed and shook his head. I took that to mean that the public service announcement was over. “Did you know Mr. Menendez?”
“I knew him when I saw him,” I answered. “How could you miss him with all those missing teeth?”
The rookie smiled a little at that one. “So you didn’t know he was drug dealer?”
“I don’t know what anybody here does,” I said. “For all I know, they’re all on vacation.”
“You think people would come here to stay at a place like this?”
“You think they wouldn’t?”
“Sir,” he was getting impatient. “So you weren’t aware that Francis Gutierrez Menendez sold crystal meth?”
“I didn’t even know his name was Francis,” I said.
“And you weren’t aware of the string of young girls he pimped out? Twelve and thirteen year old girls?”
“I don’t pay a lot of attention to what people do,” I said.
He looked at me like he didn’t want to believe me. “How much do you drink, sir?”
I shrugged. “Only as much as necessary.”
The rookie looked around my room one more time. “Ok,” he said “Thanks for your cooperation.”
He turned and left the room, and I closed the door behind him. Then I locked the deadbolt and chain, and found a three-quarter empty bottle of whiskey and downed the remains. After the cops left, I took a couple of bucks and walked up to the liquor store for some beer. When I got back, the news trucks were still there, all trying to get Frankie’s room in the shot while the legion of all too pretty talking head told the tale of the daring raid. I didn’t watch the news that night.
I bought weed off him twice and smoked with him once. The first time, I didn’t realize Dino could get me better stuff. The second time, he came by my room at a vulnerable moment; I was a little down in the mouth and had just finished my last bottle of cheap wine. And wine always makes me more social than I ought to be. He had all the manners of a door to door salesman – the kind that scared little old ladies into buying expensive vacuum cleaners they didn’t really need by showing them blown up pictures of bed bugs. Except that Frankie smelled like he hadn’t showered in months and had never been taught about simple things like deodorant or a comb.
“Don’t worry,” he joked when I expressed some hesitation. “I’m no illegal and no chiva, either. I bought my papers like every other Mex here.” He smiled wide at his own joke and I could swear he’d managed to lose another tooth. He looked like a damn jack-o-lantern. Except the light was burned out.
I let him in because, like I said, the wine makes me friendlier than I should be. Cheap wine is a nice warm drunk. A philosophical drunk. Most of the old winos I’d known – the ones who really preferred their rock gut vino – were friendly and talkative. They didn’t remember names or the days of the week. Their conscious memory of the world stopped at the day they started drinking. And they weren’t always aware that they repeated themselves most of the time. But were friendly and honest – until the bottle was empty. When Frankie knocked on my door, I was about to go out and get another bottle.
He came in and sat down like we were old friends. “Hey, man,” he said, “you keep a pretty clean room. You sure you’re not a fag?” He smiled again.
I looked around. The bed wasn’t made, and I hadn’t taken out the garbage in a while – it was mostly empty bottles. But I kept my clothes off the floor; even my shoes. There are few things worse than putting your foot in your shoe only to squash a cockroach that had made its way into the toe. Difficult to clean out, too. I smiled and nodded, signaling that I knew he was joking.
“Listen,” he said, “you interested in anything?”
“Got any weed?”
He whistled through the gaps in his teeth. “Shee-i-t, gringo, I always got that.” His eyes widened a little. “How ‘bout I give you a free taste of meth? Come’on, man. It’s on me.”
I shook my head. “Just weed.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Ok, gringo. But you don’t know what you’re missin’ man.”
I thought of the girls I’d seen wandering in and out of his apartment. Some of those girls didn’t look much older than my brother’s kids. “Just weed,” I repeated. My buzz was starting to wear off and so was my patience for Frankie’s company.
“Cool, cool.” Sometimes when Frankie talked, I got the feeling he was trying to imitate characters from movies he’d seen. When he said “cool, cool,” I heard what I thought was a bad attempt at a Jamaican accent – the kind you might hear in a low budget drug comedy. If he says, ‘Ja-makin-me-crazy!’ I’m going to toss his toothless ass out. I bought a little weed from him. Then he insisted on staying and chilling a little. “Gotta get outta my room sometimes, man,” he said. “People always coming by and driving me cra-a-zy. “ Then he smoked a joint with me from the weed I bought.
We finished one joint together and he offered me a taste of “the good stuff” one more time. I turned him down and he left. Before I closed the door on him, though, he said, “If you change your mind, gringo, come on down to number 9. I hook you up.”
Even after I closed the door on him, his stench lingered. I decided to walk up to the liquor store for another bottle.
I tried to avoid him as much as possible after that. We didn’t really talk, but he’d smile and wave every time he saw me or passed me on the stairs. He was always up in Loyce’s room. I suspected that maybe he was her connection and that maybe his knocking on my door was a last minute decision he’d made on his way back from her place. Loyce didn’t strike me as a meth head, though. She wasn’t all sunken and gray and ghoulish like Frankie’s army of underage whores. I think he knocked on my door a couple of times; but I didn’t answer and he finally stopped coming around.
About a month later, the cops showed up. The Sheriff’s Department. There were eight squad cars and a news truck. I was standing out in front of my room smoking a cigarette, and I watched as they pulled the desk manager off her fat ass and made her unlock the door. Frankie never had a chance. The cops knocked in the door, and a few shots were fired. Girls screamed and ran out of the room, only to be caught by the squads of women deputies who covered them with blankets before putting the hand cuffs on them. It didn’t take them long to drag Frankie out. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“They’ll put him away, I think,” Loyce said to me.
“He won’t make bail?”
She chuckled. “Shit. He smokes all the money he makes.”
“He doesn’t have friends?”
She shook her head. “His kind of friends might not take too kindly to him being picked up.” She leaned in. “You know he gets his shit straight from Mexico, right?”
“No,” I said. “I never asked him.”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Aw, come on,” she said. “All them Mex’es get their shit from across the border.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s what he gets for not buying American.”
She chuckled. “Look at him,” she said. “He won’t last an hour inside. He’ll either be clawing at the walls or some big fat queer’ll knock the rest of his teeth out and make him a bitch.” She seemed to enjoy the thought a little too much.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I said.”
Loyce flicked the ash off her cigarette. “Shit. And them girls. Most of ‘em aren’t old enough to drive, let alone work.”
I couldn’t tell if she was disturbed by the thought of teenage girls giving blowjobs to the dirty old men behind the adult bookstore, or if she was annoyed at the competition; so I nodded kept my eyes on the circus down in the parking lot. More news crews had shown up.
“You know they’re gonna talk to us, right?” she asked.
“Who?” What the hell could I tell a reporter? I’m not weepy, sympathetic, or desperate looking enough to make the evening news.
“The cops,” she answered. Her tone was impatient.
“Figured that.”
“You gotta be careful in what you say,” she cautioned me. “Any little thing and they might close this place down.”
I looked at her. I was getting the feeling that she was less concerned about me or the Lost Dutchman as she was what I’d say to the cops about her. I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know. Hell, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what happened. After the raid was all over, the plain clothes guys showed up – the Sheriff himself, all dressed up for the cameras and his eleven o’clock cameo, and another plain clothes detective who looked familiar. It was the one I’d seen leaving Loyce’s room a few times. I looked over at her, and she was smiling a satisfied smile.
“They can’t just close the motel, can they?” I asked.
“If they think it’s a crack house they can,” she answered.
“All I can say about Frankie is that he needs new teeth.”
She chuckled and smiled at me. “I like you. You’re kinda cute, you know. In your own way.”
“Good genes and hard living,” I said.
“You don’t look old enough to know what a hard life is,” she said.
“It’s not the age,” I answered, “it’s the mileage.”
She nodded. “True that,” she said. She looked me up and down the way people look at cars or new clothes. “How is it that nice guy like you don’t have a girl?”
I can’t afford them, I wanted to say. I shrugged instead.
Loyce’s attention shifted to the uniforms dispersing and starting to walk up the stairs to the second floor. “Here they come,” she said.
“Yup.”
“If you got anything,” she advised, “you might want to go flush it.”
I didn’t, but I nodded and used it as an excuse to go back into my room. A few minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was a uniform. He asked if he could come in. I let him.
“We just have a few questions about Mr. Menendez in number 9,” he said through his mustache. He had a notebook and pen out to take notes, but he was nonchalantly trying to scope out the room. I would’ve felt sorry for the poor rookie bastard, since he was doing all the leg work and getting none of the glory, except for the way he was looking around to find an excuse to bust me. What? I wanted to say. Did you walk in expecting dirty needles and empty crack pipes lying around? Watch a lot of Kojak reruns? Maybe Law and Order? Maybe you thought I just kept a small pile of coke out on the table… just in case I feel the urge. He did take notice of my empties, though, and after he confirmed my name with the list he had from the front office, he asked me what I did for a living.
“I’m currently between jobs,” I said.
“And how long have you been… ‘between jobs’?”
“I work through Ready Labor sometimes,” I said. “But I haven’t in a while.”
“How do you pay your bills, sir?”
“The same way everyone else does. With cash.”
He huffed and shook his head. I took that to mean that the public service announcement was over. “Did you know Mr. Menendez?”
“I knew him when I saw him,” I answered. “How could you miss him with all those missing teeth?”
The rookie smiled a little at that one. “So you didn’t know he was drug dealer?”
“I don’t know what anybody here does,” I said. “For all I know, they’re all on vacation.”
“You think people would come here to stay at a place like this?”
“You think they wouldn’t?”
“Sir,” he was getting impatient. “So you weren’t aware that Francis Gutierrez Menendez sold crystal meth?”
“I didn’t even know his name was Francis,” I said.
“And you weren’t aware of the string of young girls he pimped out? Twelve and thirteen year old girls?”
“I don’t pay a lot of attention to what people do,” I said.
He looked at me like he didn’t want to believe me. “How much do you drink, sir?”
I shrugged. “Only as much as necessary.”
The rookie looked around my room one more time. “Ok,” he said “Thanks for your cooperation.”
He turned and left the room, and I closed the door behind him. Then I locked the deadbolt and chain, and found a three-quarter empty bottle of whiskey and downed the remains. After the cops left, I took a couple of bucks and walked up to the liquor store for some beer. When I got back, the news trucks were still there, all trying to get Frankie’s room in the shot while the legion of all too pretty talking head told the tale of the daring raid. I didn’t watch the news that night.
10 June, 2009
Porn Pretty
I had just drained my third beer when the guy sitting next to me was shaking his head. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“Who?”
He nodded across the bar. “Him.”
There was this gorgeous girl across the bar from us. Cropped dirty blonde hair. Nice curves annunciated by perfectly fitting jeans that fell at her hips left just a bit of a perfectly pear-shaped stomach and a pierced belly button. She filled out her tank top nicely. She moved and talked like someone who was used to be watched; like someone who needed to be watched. She would have been beautful it wasn’t for her face. Hers was the kind of face that was probably pretty once – gorgeous – but had attracted the wrong kind of attention. You see those girls all time – hard bodies with faces like old leather. Too much tanning booth. Too much booze. Too much hard living.
I’d seen her there before. She usually hung out with the good ol’ boys and the waitresses; she could’ve worked there if she kept her hair longer. (The owner, Adelle, had this idea that long hair and ample cleavage equated to more money. It didn’t really bear out, since most of the waitresses were tall on tits but short on brains and usually got the orders wrong; but no one complained, either.) She was sitting on a bar stool laughing and clinging on every word that came out of the mouth of chubby guy everybody called Dino.
They certainly were an odd looking couple, but the set-up was all too familiar. Attractive girl, ugly guy. That’s nearly every porn movie produced since the move to direct to video release. Dino, among other things, was a fairly successful bookie. He also had a decent business trafficking – small stolen items, ripped DVDs, weed, pills, and coke. Most of the time when I saw him, he either one of the three cell phones he carried or he was running out to take care of short errands. His seat was always saved. He talked big and always had a wad of cash. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. He looked like every other fat ugly fucker who walked in the bar. Except for certain times, like Friday and Saturday nights, the bar was mostly a sausage fest – lots of unhappily married or miserably divorced men who came in to drink beer and cultivate a deep and abiding misogyny. Dino was no exception. He looked like the rest of us – like he drank too much beer, exercised too little, and didn’t much give a fuck.
“Maybe he’s really a nice guy down deep,” I said.
My new friend chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve seen him go through four or five different girls.” He took a drink. “And they ALL looked like her. And they all got dumped when he got tired of them.”
“Some women enjoy punishment,” I suggested. “Maybe she thinks she’s going to change him.”
He almost choked on his beer. “Punishment,” he repeated. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
He chit chatted some more while I sat and focused on my beer. Mostly he talked about the girl. Poor asshole, I thought. Maybe if he had a thicker wallet. When I emptied the glass, a fresh beer was already laid in its place. Things were busy, but not too busy. The usual mid-week crowd. He went on about Dino, about the girl. I couldn’t tell who he was more intrigued by as he talked. Sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence and just watch the two of them laughing and talking to everybody else. I was surprised that neither one of them said anything to him about. When he finished his beer, my new talkative friend left. Thank Christ, I thought. It’s one thing to notice odd happenings in a public place; it’s another thing entirely when you sit and talk about somebody when they’re within earshot. I was glad he didn’t ask me my name; that way I could act like I didn’t remember him the next time I saw him.
There was a game on the television above the bar – women’s baseball – and I got involved with that for several innings. Sometimes during commercials my eyes would drift over to Dino and his girl. She giggled a lot, picked bites from his hamburger and fries like a little bird, and sucked down long island ice teas. Dino stepped out sometimes to take phone calls, or to smoke a cigarette, and unless she followed him out to smoke, she simply sat and stared into her drink or talked to the bartender until Dino came back. Then Dino came back and she immediately started smiling and laughing and rubbing up on him like somebody flipped a switch on her back or something. Her smile widened when he pulled a long jewelry box out of his pocket and gave it to her. She clapped with glee and hugged him again, pushing herself right up on him. Dino must’ve caught me watching, because he looked me straight in the face, smiled, then reached over and gently squeezed her left tit. She sighed and giggled, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. One of her hands ran down his leg.
They both finished their drinks quickly and he told her it was time to leave. He called her by name – Izzy. Izzy and Dino, I thought. Dino and Izzy. They stood up and left, holding onto one another. My buddy shook his head, drained his beer, and put cash down on the bar to pay his tab. “That guy,” he said, “gives fat bastards everywhere hope.” A couple of the regulars chuckled in agreement. The fast pitch game was going into overtime and I didn’t want to spend my hard earned forty bucks getting drunk. I finished my beer, paid, and left.
I was back at the bar the next day. I managed to set aside enough money for another week’s rent, and with one more short term goal accomplished, I felt like celebrating. But it was a slow day at the MTP. Nothing worth watching any of the 60 TV screens. Suzy, the pregnant bartender, wasn’t in a good mood. Adele’s nagging and nasal tone carried into the bar from the kitchen, where she was undoubtedly trying to shove another menu change down the cook’s throat. When Dino strutted in, I was almost glad to see him. His presence at the bar provided a sorely needed consistency that the place was lacking. He sat down and the chick behind the bar brought him a drink. He didn’t say much. No one seemed to mind.
A few minutes later, Adele came out of the kitchen. She was wearing the large sunglasses that covered most of her face. She stopped by Dino.
“Hey.” Her tone was sharp. “When are you gonna pay your tab?”
He shrugged. “When are you going to pay YOURS?” He sniffed and rubbed the end of his nose.
Adele shook her head. “Asshole,” she muttered and walked away.
Dino took a substantial gulp from his drink. “Cunt,” he shook his head and chuckled. The bartender didn’t say anything. No one at the bar said anything, either. Adele walked back by on her way back to the office. She didn’t say anything to anyone.
Izzy walked in and sat down on the stool next to his. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes. Suzy brought her a long island iced tea. Dino ignored her because he was watching the baseball game and checking scores on his cellphone every couple of minutes. The Mets were losing. I couldn’t tell if that was what he wanted or not. Izzy tried to get his attention, but he waved her off. Then one of his other phones rang and he stepped outside to answer it, leaving her at the bar with her long island iced tea. She focused on her drink and didn’t talk to anybody, including the bartender, who was filing her nails and ignoring the growing collection of dirty glasses. Before Dino wandered back in, Adele came out of the office and approached the bar. “Suzy,” she spoke to the bartender. “Don’t serve that asshole anymore. Not until he pays up. This isn’t a fucking charity.” She turned and walked back to the office before Dino got back to the bar. He didn’t look very happy. He drained his drink and indicated that he wanted another. She waddled over and told him she wasn’t allowed to serve him anymore.
“What do you mean, you’re ‘not allowed.’? Get me another drink.”
“She said you gotta pay your tab first.”
“What? Are you serious? Are you fucking serious? Are you fucking with me?”
The bartender repeated herself like she was replaying a prerecorded message.
Dino looked over at Izzy, who was just sitting there staring off into space. Then he looked over at me. “What the fuck is YOU staring at, asshole?”
I shrugged and started watching the television above the bar. Dino picked up what was left of Izzy’s drink and drained the glass. Then he looked at here. “We’re going,” he said. Then he looked at Suzy. “Tell her I’ll be back. I’ll be back to settle up.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head. He took hold of her hand, grinned, and whispered in her ear again. She shook her head again. Then he reached over, caressed her face, taking special care around her lips. Then he whispered in her ear again – this time it was something that made her eyes go out of focus. She didn’t say anything back. Then one of Dino’s phones went off and walked out alone, leaving her there.
Izzy looked around the bar. She noticed me, smiled a sad smile that was too far gone to be sexy. I looked over at the door, and wondered whatever happened to that poor bastard who had been so in love with her. I left some cash on the bar, drained my beer, and left without making any eye contact.
“Who?”
He nodded across the bar. “Him.”
There was this gorgeous girl across the bar from us. Cropped dirty blonde hair. Nice curves annunciated by perfectly fitting jeans that fell at her hips left just a bit of a perfectly pear-shaped stomach and a pierced belly button. She filled out her tank top nicely. She moved and talked like someone who was used to be watched; like someone who needed to be watched. She would have been beautful it wasn’t for her face. Hers was the kind of face that was probably pretty once – gorgeous – but had attracted the wrong kind of attention. You see those girls all time – hard bodies with faces like old leather. Too much tanning booth. Too much booze. Too much hard living.
I’d seen her there before. She usually hung out with the good ol’ boys and the waitresses; she could’ve worked there if she kept her hair longer. (The owner, Adelle, had this idea that long hair and ample cleavage equated to more money. It didn’t really bear out, since most of the waitresses were tall on tits but short on brains and usually got the orders wrong; but no one complained, either.) She was sitting on a bar stool laughing and clinging on every word that came out of the mouth of chubby guy everybody called Dino.
They certainly were an odd looking couple, but the set-up was all too familiar. Attractive girl, ugly guy. That’s nearly every porn movie produced since the move to direct to video release. Dino, among other things, was a fairly successful bookie. He also had a decent business trafficking – small stolen items, ripped DVDs, weed, pills, and coke. Most of the time when I saw him, he either one of the three cell phones he carried or he was running out to take care of short errands. His seat was always saved. He talked big and always had a wad of cash. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. He looked like every other fat ugly fucker who walked in the bar. Except for certain times, like Friday and Saturday nights, the bar was mostly a sausage fest – lots of unhappily married or miserably divorced men who came in to drink beer and cultivate a deep and abiding misogyny. Dino was no exception. He looked like the rest of us – like he drank too much beer, exercised too little, and didn’t much give a fuck.
“Maybe he’s really a nice guy down deep,” I said.
My new friend chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve seen him go through four or five different girls.” He took a drink. “And they ALL looked like her. And they all got dumped when he got tired of them.”
“Some women enjoy punishment,” I suggested. “Maybe she thinks she’s going to change him.”
He almost choked on his beer. “Punishment,” he repeated. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
He chit chatted some more while I sat and focused on my beer. Mostly he talked about the girl. Poor asshole, I thought. Maybe if he had a thicker wallet. When I emptied the glass, a fresh beer was already laid in its place. Things were busy, but not too busy. The usual mid-week crowd. He went on about Dino, about the girl. I couldn’t tell who he was more intrigued by as he talked. Sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence and just watch the two of them laughing and talking to everybody else. I was surprised that neither one of them said anything to him about. When he finished his beer, my new talkative friend left. Thank Christ, I thought. It’s one thing to notice odd happenings in a public place; it’s another thing entirely when you sit and talk about somebody when they’re within earshot. I was glad he didn’t ask me my name; that way I could act like I didn’t remember him the next time I saw him.
There was a game on the television above the bar – women’s baseball – and I got involved with that for several innings. Sometimes during commercials my eyes would drift over to Dino and his girl. She giggled a lot, picked bites from his hamburger and fries like a little bird, and sucked down long island ice teas. Dino stepped out sometimes to take phone calls, or to smoke a cigarette, and unless she followed him out to smoke, she simply sat and stared into her drink or talked to the bartender until Dino came back. Then Dino came back and she immediately started smiling and laughing and rubbing up on him like somebody flipped a switch on her back or something. Her smile widened when he pulled a long jewelry box out of his pocket and gave it to her. She clapped with glee and hugged him again, pushing herself right up on him. Dino must’ve caught me watching, because he looked me straight in the face, smiled, then reached over and gently squeezed her left tit. She sighed and giggled, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. One of her hands ran down his leg.
They both finished their drinks quickly and he told her it was time to leave. He called her by name – Izzy. Izzy and Dino, I thought. Dino and Izzy. They stood up and left, holding onto one another. My buddy shook his head, drained his beer, and put cash down on the bar to pay his tab. “That guy,” he said, “gives fat bastards everywhere hope.” A couple of the regulars chuckled in agreement. The fast pitch game was going into overtime and I didn’t want to spend my hard earned forty bucks getting drunk. I finished my beer, paid, and left.
I was back at the bar the next day. I managed to set aside enough money for another week’s rent, and with one more short term goal accomplished, I felt like celebrating. But it was a slow day at the MTP. Nothing worth watching any of the 60 TV screens. Suzy, the pregnant bartender, wasn’t in a good mood. Adele’s nagging and nasal tone carried into the bar from the kitchen, where she was undoubtedly trying to shove another menu change down the cook’s throat. When Dino strutted in, I was almost glad to see him. His presence at the bar provided a sorely needed consistency that the place was lacking. He sat down and the chick behind the bar brought him a drink. He didn’t say much. No one seemed to mind.
A few minutes later, Adele came out of the kitchen. She was wearing the large sunglasses that covered most of her face. She stopped by Dino.
“Hey.” Her tone was sharp. “When are you gonna pay your tab?”
He shrugged. “When are you going to pay YOURS?” He sniffed and rubbed the end of his nose.
Adele shook her head. “Asshole,” she muttered and walked away.
Dino took a substantial gulp from his drink. “Cunt,” he shook his head and chuckled. The bartender didn’t say anything. No one at the bar said anything, either. Adele walked back by on her way back to the office. She didn’t say anything to anyone.
Izzy walked in and sat down on the stool next to his. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes. Suzy brought her a long island iced tea. Dino ignored her because he was watching the baseball game and checking scores on his cellphone every couple of minutes. The Mets were losing. I couldn’t tell if that was what he wanted or not. Izzy tried to get his attention, but he waved her off. Then one of his other phones rang and he stepped outside to answer it, leaving her at the bar with her long island iced tea. She focused on her drink and didn’t talk to anybody, including the bartender, who was filing her nails and ignoring the growing collection of dirty glasses. Before Dino wandered back in, Adele came out of the office and approached the bar. “Suzy,” she spoke to the bartender. “Don’t serve that asshole anymore. Not until he pays up. This isn’t a fucking charity.” She turned and walked back to the office before Dino got back to the bar. He didn’t look very happy. He drained his drink and indicated that he wanted another. She waddled over and told him she wasn’t allowed to serve him anymore.
“What do you mean, you’re ‘not allowed.’? Get me another drink.”
“She said you gotta pay your tab first.”
“What? Are you serious? Are you fucking serious? Are you fucking with me?”
The bartender repeated herself like she was replaying a prerecorded message.
Dino looked over at Izzy, who was just sitting there staring off into space. Then he looked over at me. “What the fuck is YOU staring at, asshole?”
I shrugged and started watching the television above the bar. Dino picked up what was left of Izzy’s drink and drained the glass. Then he looked at here. “We’re going,” he said. Then he looked at Suzy. “Tell her I’ll be back. I’ll be back to settle up.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head. He took hold of her hand, grinned, and whispered in her ear again. She shook her head again. Then he reached over, caressed her face, taking special care around her lips. Then he whispered in her ear again – this time it was something that made her eyes go out of focus. She didn’t say anything back. Then one of Dino’s phones went off and walked out alone, leaving her there.
Izzy looked around the bar. She noticed me, smiled a sad smile that was too far gone to be sexy. I looked over at the door, and wondered whatever happened to that poor bastard who had been so in love with her. I left some cash on the bar, drained my beer, and left without making any eye contact.
09 June, 2009
Dostoyevsky on the Bus
When I stepped on the bus, it was already a sardine can of afternoon commuters, students, and worn out housekeepers making the long trek from Scottsdale and Paradise Valley to Mesa, Guadalupe, and Apache Junction. There were no seats to be had. If it wasn’t for the fact that the walk was a long one and I was double exhausted from being locked up in that warehouse all day, I probably would’ve gotten off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way. It was so crowded that even the usual attempts people make to not notice the people around them failed; most of the time, people will their heads whatever direction they have to in order to avoid looking at someone else on the bus. Avoiding eye contact is one of the first rules. Eye contact – even brief or accidental – implies a certain intimacy. A private joke. A connection of some sort. It doesn’t take much to go from unintentionally catching someone’s eye to exchanging semi-knowing glances. Better not to look anywhere at all.
But that was impossible; no matter what direct I turned my head, there was always someone to look at. My feet and back hurt from standing on cement all day. I felt the cash in my pocket, but it didn’t feel like enough. I knew that the money I got for my day’s labor was only part of the money the agency got for supplying me. Probably not even half. What bullshit. For the money they pay out for temps, that company could just hire some people full time. I tried not to think about it; after all, it wasn’t as if I wanted a full-time job there.
Whenever I have to demean myself and resort to working, I end up thinking about every job I’ve ever had. My first job lasted two weeks. I was still in high school, and I was determined to be independent. So I applied for the first job I found that required me to drive there. I worked at a car wash – one of those automatic scrub /hand dry and detailing places. I didn’t work more than five days out of the week, from 3:30 until the place closed at 8. The boss was a guy named Ted. Ted was friendly. His shirt was always clean and neatly tucked in. Mostly he sat in his office and did whatever it was that car wash managers did all day.
I only got paid if I was actually working on a car. But there was a significant amount of downtime. That meant if there weren’t any cars to hand dry, vacuum, and detail, we sat in the break room and waited. Most of the guys I worked with were out of work carpenters – the economy was slow for construction in the fall and winter, and since they were non-union labor, there was very little any of them could do. They’d sit in the break room, chain smoke, complain about their wives, their kids, and Ted. And when cars started rolling in, we’d get off our asses. After two weeks I earned $40. When I quit Ted wasn’t surprised. I went to give him my two weeks and he let me off without having to wait them out.
What I learned was that a man’s time is only worth what some overpaid asshole says it is; that’s the only truth about work that matters. I knew a lot of people in college who thought, like I did, if we did what we were supposed to do and jumped through the hoops and get the piece of paper, there’d be a nice job waiting for us. What was waiting, though, was another series of hoops. And when you get through those, there’s another series of hoops. Having a career is just a long series of hoops that you jump; it’s intended to keep you busy so that you don’t notice you’re being underpaid, underappreciated, and dehumanized. And when it’s all done at the end of the day, you end up feeling grateful that there’s someone who’s willing to take advantage of you; you end up looking forward to that time clock, that alarm, that Casual Friday and cocktails with the guys from the office after work. And by the time you’re really done, you’re too old to be able to do anything about the fact that your life was stolen in pursuit of some rich motherfucker’s early retirement.
I’d had a lot of different jobs, and all of them had the same problem. They were all mind-numbing, soul robbing experiences where I was constantly surrounded by people who were too dumb to know they were being scammed. Working a regular job, day in, day out, is just a process of underselling yourself to the better bidder. It never matters how much you know or how good of a job you do. As a matter of fact, the people who are most successful are the ones who stop short of brilliance; whether you’re stacking pallets in a warehouse or filing in an air-conditioned office, being successful has little to do with being considered a good employee. All you have to do is look busy when the boss comes by, and look like you’re accomplishing some part of the task set before you. I read somewhere that some report came out claiming the average office worker only does five hours worth of work in an eight hour day. I bet some big company paid for that study; that way they could justify bullying and underpaying people. Well, I’ve been a janitor and I’ve been a file clerk, and I’ve worked in warehouses and in factories making everything from slipper socks to water purification units for the Army. And it’s all the same shit. The company’s got you by the nuts because they know you’ve got bills, kids, responsibilities. You go in every morning tired. You leave exhausted. You collect your pay and it never quite stretches as far as it needs to. And at the end of the day, you end up on an overcrowded bus with no air conditioning and a driver who hasn’t learned the difference between air brakes and disc brakes.
With every stop, it seemed like more people were getting on than were getting off, and the seats always filled up before I could fight my way to it. My feet were starting to throb inside my shoes. It’s never worth it, I thought. I earn about the same amount of money selling plasma as I do this shit. And at least the plasma center is air-conditioned. I had to remind myself that I couldn’t just sell plasma everyday… and I’d probably need to work another couple of days just to build up enough cash. For what, I didn’t know. That’s another thing about work. It never stops. You work because you have bills to pay and you have bills to pay because you need a place to sleep when you’re not at work.
Sometimes people on the bus listen to music as a way to drown out everyone else. Some people do crossword puzzles or read books. The kind and quality of books vary. Escape seems to be the most important quality people consider in deciding what book to read on the bus. Lots of romance and science fiction. There’s also a lot of religious and self-help reading. Sudoku.
I was busy trying not look around when I noticed somebody else trying not to look around. She was standing by the back door, steadying herself on a pole and staring out the window. Lucky, I thought. She was a cute girl. Dressed like she was on her way home from some office job. Jet black hair that was short cropped and carefully styled not to look styled. Pale porcelain skin. The hint of a tattoo stuck out on the back of her neck, crawling up from her back. Her lips were full and perfect and red. Her eyes were covered with large sunglasses that very nearly covered her entire face. Nice curves in all the right places. Even with people pushing past her to get out the door, she stood like statue and let the crowd of people fall on either side of her like water. I wondered what girl like that thought about, staring out the window.
I tried to not watch her. But I couldn’t help myself. It was as if every other person on the bus was pushed into the background. With every stop and inevitable shift in people, she stood immobile. Her refusal was beautiful. It was gorgeous. The more I didn’t watch her, the more I wanted to talk to her; but I didn’t know what to say or where to being. I could never understand how guys could just walk up to a beautiful woman they didn’t know and start talking to them. I could barely hold a long conversation with people I’d been around for months, and most of the time I was perfectly fine to speak to as few people as possible. I couldn’t remember the last conversation I initiated.
Seeing a beautiful woman only reminds me I’m lousy at relationships. I’ve known a few women. A couple of them were even worth taking seriously. I even married one of them. But that didn’t last. The same thing always happened that always happens. Her last words to me were, “You need to grow up and decide whether you want this or not.” I guess that was supposed to cure me of whatever it was she thought my problem was. I didn’t cheat on her. I didn’t even drink that much back then. We’d married young; made that mistake that kids make all too often in assuming that love and passion are enough. We didn’t know what we wanted out of life; we only knew we wanted one another. We used our grandparents as examples. “They married young,” we’d tell people when they looked at us like we were stupid. “And look how that turned out.” We were in college, and had planned to move into married housing on campus. Being independent would qualify us for more student loans. It only made sense. At the time.
When it started to fall apart, everything became my fault. She wasn’t doing well in her classes and it was all my fault because she said I expected her to take care of me. “I have to cook dinner,” she complained, “and clean the house. All you do is go to school.”
“I told you I’d cook,” I would say. “And who said you HAVE to do anything around here?”
She ignored what I said and kept on trying to be June Cleaver. Eventually she decided she wanted kids. But I didn’t; and it became to her a symbol of how much I didn’t love her. So she moved back in with her mother. I moved out of the shitty little house we were living in. Three months later, I got a certified letter in the mail informing me I was divorced.
Seeing any beautiful woman always reminds me of just one. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not much of a romantic. But there’s always that one – the one that sticks. Luna was the one who stuck. She was beautiful and young and she made me smile. But the timing was all wrong. I was still married. Luna was just this side of 18. There wasn’t anything about her I didn’t like. Her laugh was intoxicating. The touch of her soft skin made me forget how miserable I was. When she came around, I thought she was chasing one of my friends – this guy I crashed with when I left my wife. He was a swimmer. All the girls wanted him. But Luna wanted me. I think, given another set of circumstances, I could’ve fallen in love with her – if I can really fall in love with anybody, that is.
That went to hell one night when we were laughing and drinking cheap wine. I don’t really know how it all got started. I don’t remember if I kissed her or if she kissed me. Somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the bottle we were naked. I spent a lot of time just touching her – running my fingers along every bit of her skin. Arms, legs, inner legs, thighs, breasts, neck. I was inexorably drawn to her belly button. I spent a lot of time around her stomach, kissing and touching her belly button as I worked my way down to her pussy. I spent so much time touching her because I was a little too drunk to get it up. Then I kept returning to the same place, her belly button, the most beautiful spot in the world.
But the next morning when I drove her back to her place, we rode in together silence. And she never spoke to me after. I’d see her around campus, or with mutual friends. The last time I saw her, she ran away from me. Like I’d done something wrong. When I talked to friends, they were vague.
I spent a couple of years thinking I’d done something wrong; but eventually the memory and the details fade. I remember less as the years pass. Now it only crops up every once in while – that slight weight in the pit of the stomach that happens when the body chooses to remember what the mind has the courtesy to forget.
That feeling returned on the bus, like it did whenever I saw a beautiful woman. And yet I was also struck with a sudden need to speak to the porcelain skinned woman. A longing. I wanted to know what her skin felt like to touch. I wanted to see what color her eyes were. I imagined them a bright green, like the color of her toe nail polish. Whatever color they were, I knew they would be wide and piercing. I imagined myself working my back to her on the crowded bus. Completely casual. Completely at ease. Small talk. I’d listened to enough of it to know what it sounded like. Make some crack about the crowded bus. Or the heat outside. Maybe ask her about her tattoo. No, I thought. Too personal. What would I talk about, then? I could ask her what kind of work she does. That’s one of those opening lines people use. I decided against it, though, because I would have to answer the same question. Forget it. Don’t talk about work. Talk about something else. Maybe she’s into baseball. I looked for some detail in the way she looked – something to give me an excuse. Maybe she would drop a pen or something. She carried a medium sized purse. I could tell her that her wallet was falling out and then be mistaken. “Oops,” I’d say with a silly smile. “Sorry about that. Must’ve been the way the light was coming in. That’s what I get for losing my sunglasses.” I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses. But she wouldn’t know that. Then she’d smile and we’d start talking.
Nah, I thought. That sounds stupid. A girl like that probably has a boyfriend anyway. Maybe she’s about to get engaged. I didn’t like that possibility. So I changed it. Maybe she’s just working a regular day job because she’s in a band. I liked that one. It would explain the punkish hair and the tattoo. Maybe she has other tattoos – ones with stories. Things she wants to remember.
I was in the middle of creating another life for her when she looked up. She must have noticed me looking at her. I guess I could’ve looked away quickly; but instead, I tried to smile, shrug my shoulders. An apology of sorts. Just then, the back door opened and she got off the bus, along with a bunch of other people. Some seats were opening up in the back.
I considered getting off the bus and following her. Maybe she was waiting for a connection and that would give me an excuse to talk to her. After all, the busses never ran on time. It would be something to talk about, at least. I moved towards the door, still unsure of what I was going to do. When I got to the back door, they slid shut. I could have said something to the driver; but I didn’t. What the hell would I have said to her anyway? I thought. Instead, I took an empty seat next to an older woman. She was reading a book about smart investments for senior citizens.
I looked out the windows across from me. There were still a few more stops before mine. As the bus pulled off into traffic, I looked around to see if the porcelain skinned girl was there – if I had missed my chance.
She was gone. But the weight in my stomach stayed until got to the bar and finished my first beer.
But that was impossible; no matter what direct I turned my head, there was always someone to look at. My feet and back hurt from standing on cement all day. I felt the cash in my pocket, but it didn’t feel like enough. I knew that the money I got for my day’s labor was only part of the money the agency got for supplying me. Probably not even half. What bullshit. For the money they pay out for temps, that company could just hire some people full time. I tried not to think about it; after all, it wasn’t as if I wanted a full-time job there.
Whenever I have to demean myself and resort to working, I end up thinking about every job I’ve ever had. My first job lasted two weeks. I was still in high school, and I was determined to be independent. So I applied for the first job I found that required me to drive there. I worked at a car wash – one of those automatic scrub /hand dry and detailing places. I didn’t work more than five days out of the week, from 3:30 until the place closed at 8. The boss was a guy named Ted. Ted was friendly. His shirt was always clean and neatly tucked in. Mostly he sat in his office and did whatever it was that car wash managers did all day.
I only got paid if I was actually working on a car. But there was a significant amount of downtime. That meant if there weren’t any cars to hand dry, vacuum, and detail, we sat in the break room and waited. Most of the guys I worked with were out of work carpenters – the economy was slow for construction in the fall and winter, and since they were non-union labor, there was very little any of them could do. They’d sit in the break room, chain smoke, complain about their wives, their kids, and Ted. And when cars started rolling in, we’d get off our asses. After two weeks I earned $40. When I quit Ted wasn’t surprised. I went to give him my two weeks and he let me off without having to wait them out.
What I learned was that a man’s time is only worth what some overpaid asshole says it is; that’s the only truth about work that matters. I knew a lot of people in college who thought, like I did, if we did what we were supposed to do and jumped through the hoops and get the piece of paper, there’d be a nice job waiting for us. What was waiting, though, was another series of hoops. And when you get through those, there’s another series of hoops. Having a career is just a long series of hoops that you jump; it’s intended to keep you busy so that you don’t notice you’re being underpaid, underappreciated, and dehumanized. And when it’s all done at the end of the day, you end up feeling grateful that there’s someone who’s willing to take advantage of you; you end up looking forward to that time clock, that alarm, that Casual Friday and cocktails with the guys from the office after work. And by the time you’re really done, you’re too old to be able to do anything about the fact that your life was stolen in pursuit of some rich motherfucker’s early retirement.
I’d had a lot of different jobs, and all of them had the same problem. They were all mind-numbing, soul robbing experiences where I was constantly surrounded by people who were too dumb to know they were being scammed. Working a regular job, day in, day out, is just a process of underselling yourself to the better bidder. It never matters how much you know or how good of a job you do. As a matter of fact, the people who are most successful are the ones who stop short of brilliance; whether you’re stacking pallets in a warehouse or filing in an air-conditioned office, being successful has little to do with being considered a good employee. All you have to do is look busy when the boss comes by, and look like you’re accomplishing some part of the task set before you. I read somewhere that some report came out claiming the average office worker only does five hours worth of work in an eight hour day. I bet some big company paid for that study; that way they could justify bullying and underpaying people. Well, I’ve been a janitor and I’ve been a file clerk, and I’ve worked in warehouses and in factories making everything from slipper socks to water purification units for the Army. And it’s all the same shit. The company’s got you by the nuts because they know you’ve got bills, kids, responsibilities. You go in every morning tired. You leave exhausted. You collect your pay and it never quite stretches as far as it needs to. And at the end of the day, you end up on an overcrowded bus with no air conditioning and a driver who hasn’t learned the difference between air brakes and disc brakes.
With every stop, it seemed like more people were getting on than were getting off, and the seats always filled up before I could fight my way to it. My feet were starting to throb inside my shoes. It’s never worth it, I thought. I earn about the same amount of money selling plasma as I do this shit. And at least the plasma center is air-conditioned. I had to remind myself that I couldn’t just sell plasma everyday… and I’d probably need to work another couple of days just to build up enough cash. For what, I didn’t know. That’s another thing about work. It never stops. You work because you have bills to pay and you have bills to pay because you need a place to sleep when you’re not at work.
Sometimes people on the bus listen to music as a way to drown out everyone else. Some people do crossword puzzles or read books. The kind and quality of books vary. Escape seems to be the most important quality people consider in deciding what book to read on the bus. Lots of romance and science fiction. There’s also a lot of religious and self-help reading. Sudoku.
I was busy trying not look around when I noticed somebody else trying not to look around. She was standing by the back door, steadying herself on a pole and staring out the window. Lucky, I thought. She was a cute girl. Dressed like she was on her way home from some office job. Jet black hair that was short cropped and carefully styled not to look styled. Pale porcelain skin. The hint of a tattoo stuck out on the back of her neck, crawling up from her back. Her lips were full and perfect and red. Her eyes were covered with large sunglasses that very nearly covered her entire face. Nice curves in all the right places. Even with people pushing past her to get out the door, she stood like statue and let the crowd of people fall on either side of her like water. I wondered what girl like that thought about, staring out the window.
I tried to not watch her. But I couldn’t help myself. It was as if every other person on the bus was pushed into the background. With every stop and inevitable shift in people, she stood immobile. Her refusal was beautiful. It was gorgeous. The more I didn’t watch her, the more I wanted to talk to her; but I didn’t know what to say or where to being. I could never understand how guys could just walk up to a beautiful woman they didn’t know and start talking to them. I could barely hold a long conversation with people I’d been around for months, and most of the time I was perfectly fine to speak to as few people as possible. I couldn’t remember the last conversation I initiated.
Seeing a beautiful woman only reminds me I’m lousy at relationships. I’ve known a few women. A couple of them were even worth taking seriously. I even married one of them. But that didn’t last. The same thing always happened that always happens. Her last words to me were, “You need to grow up and decide whether you want this or not.” I guess that was supposed to cure me of whatever it was she thought my problem was. I didn’t cheat on her. I didn’t even drink that much back then. We’d married young; made that mistake that kids make all too often in assuming that love and passion are enough. We didn’t know what we wanted out of life; we only knew we wanted one another. We used our grandparents as examples. “They married young,” we’d tell people when they looked at us like we were stupid. “And look how that turned out.” We were in college, and had planned to move into married housing on campus. Being independent would qualify us for more student loans. It only made sense. At the time.
When it started to fall apart, everything became my fault. She wasn’t doing well in her classes and it was all my fault because she said I expected her to take care of me. “I have to cook dinner,” she complained, “and clean the house. All you do is go to school.”
“I told you I’d cook,” I would say. “And who said you HAVE to do anything around here?”
She ignored what I said and kept on trying to be June Cleaver. Eventually she decided she wanted kids. But I didn’t; and it became to her a symbol of how much I didn’t love her. So she moved back in with her mother. I moved out of the shitty little house we were living in. Three months later, I got a certified letter in the mail informing me I was divorced.
Seeing any beautiful woman always reminds me of just one. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not much of a romantic. But there’s always that one – the one that sticks. Luna was the one who stuck. She was beautiful and young and she made me smile. But the timing was all wrong. I was still married. Luna was just this side of 18. There wasn’t anything about her I didn’t like. Her laugh was intoxicating. The touch of her soft skin made me forget how miserable I was. When she came around, I thought she was chasing one of my friends – this guy I crashed with when I left my wife. He was a swimmer. All the girls wanted him. But Luna wanted me. I think, given another set of circumstances, I could’ve fallen in love with her – if I can really fall in love with anybody, that is.
That went to hell one night when we were laughing and drinking cheap wine. I don’t really know how it all got started. I don’t remember if I kissed her or if she kissed me. Somewhere between the first sip and the bottom of the bottle we were naked. I spent a lot of time just touching her – running my fingers along every bit of her skin. Arms, legs, inner legs, thighs, breasts, neck. I was inexorably drawn to her belly button. I spent a lot of time around her stomach, kissing and touching her belly button as I worked my way down to her pussy. I spent so much time touching her because I was a little too drunk to get it up. Then I kept returning to the same place, her belly button, the most beautiful spot in the world.
But the next morning when I drove her back to her place, we rode in together silence. And she never spoke to me after. I’d see her around campus, or with mutual friends. The last time I saw her, she ran away from me. Like I’d done something wrong. When I talked to friends, they were vague.
I spent a couple of years thinking I’d done something wrong; but eventually the memory and the details fade. I remember less as the years pass. Now it only crops up every once in while – that slight weight in the pit of the stomach that happens when the body chooses to remember what the mind has the courtesy to forget.
That feeling returned on the bus, like it did whenever I saw a beautiful woman. And yet I was also struck with a sudden need to speak to the porcelain skinned woman. A longing. I wanted to know what her skin felt like to touch. I wanted to see what color her eyes were. I imagined them a bright green, like the color of her toe nail polish. Whatever color they were, I knew they would be wide and piercing. I imagined myself working my back to her on the crowded bus. Completely casual. Completely at ease. Small talk. I’d listened to enough of it to know what it sounded like. Make some crack about the crowded bus. Or the heat outside. Maybe ask her about her tattoo. No, I thought. Too personal. What would I talk about, then? I could ask her what kind of work she does. That’s one of those opening lines people use. I decided against it, though, because I would have to answer the same question. Forget it. Don’t talk about work. Talk about something else. Maybe she’s into baseball. I looked for some detail in the way she looked – something to give me an excuse. Maybe she would drop a pen or something. She carried a medium sized purse. I could tell her that her wallet was falling out and then be mistaken. “Oops,” I’d say with a silly smile. “Sorry about that. Must’ve been the way the light was coming in. That’s what I get for losing my sunglasses.” I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses. But she wouldn’t know that. Then she’d smile and we’d start talking.
Nah, I thought. That sounds stupid. A girl like that probably has a boyfriend anyway. Maybe she’s about to get engaged. I didn’t like that possibility. So I changed it. Maybe she’s just working a regular day job because she’s in a band. I liked that one. It would explain the punkish hair and the tattoo. Maybe she has other tattoos – ones with stories. Things she wants to remember.
I was in the middle of creating another life for her when she looked up. She must have noticed me looking at her. I guess I could’ve looked away quickly; but instead, I tried to smile, shrug my shoulders. An apology of sorts. Just then, the back door opened and she got off the bus, along with a bunch of other people. Some seats were opening up in the back.
I considered getting off the bus and following her. Maybe she was waiting for a connection and that would give me an excuse to talk to her. After all, the busses never ran on time. It would be something to talk about, at least. I moved towards the door, still unsure of what I was going to do. When I got to the back door, they slid shut. I could have said something to the driver; but I didn’t. What the hell would I have said to her anyway? I thought. Instead, I took an empty seat next to an older woman. She was reading a book about smart investments for senior citizens.
I looked out the windows across from me. There were still a few more stops before mine. As the bus pulled off into traffic, I looked around to see if the porcelain skinned girl was there – if I had missed my chance.
She was gone. But the weight in my stomach stayed until got to the bar and finished my first beer.
04 June, 2009
Which One Of These Is Not Like The Others?
The rows of uncomfortable looking folding chairs sat off to the right. They were four or five rows deep and most of them were occupied by somebody who looked scruffier and more desperate than me. At least I hoped they looked more desperate than me. It’s probably not a good idea to split hairs when you’re talking about a day labor agency; if you can handle the back breaking work and shitty pay, it’s the best route for the perpetually unemployed, the drunk, and the lay about. It’s a simple process. You register for work, and when you feel like it, you get up and get there early in the morning before the van leaves to go to the job site. At the end of the day, you get paid, and then it’s just a matter of finding a check cashing place. Easy.
And that was pretty much what I was looking for. I’d gone the day labor route in other places, just to get by. I’d been avoiding it since I took up residence at the Lost Dutchman simply because I didn’t want to get put on a road crew in the summer. That’s the kind of work it usually is. You stand out in the middle of the highway, wear a bright orange vest, and wave a flag. Standing on fresh blacktop during the summer in Cincinnati or even New Orleans was one thing. Standing on fresh blacktop during the summer in Phoenix was a whole other thing. But I had to do something. At least for a couple of days. And one thing about day labor – they don’t care what you look like as long as you’re wearing clothes and as long as it looks like you can pick up a shovel.
When I walked in, I noticed the sign with big block letters taped to the door:
NO APPLICATIONS TAKEN AFTER 10AM.
ANY ONE ARRIVING AFTER 10 WILL BE TURNED AWAY.
OPEN @ 5 AM.
I checked my watch to make sure it wasn’t after 10. It was almost nine. I walked up to the front desk to ask for an application. A large black woman was sitting behind the desk. When she saw me there, she looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’d like an application.”
Without saying another word, she gave me a once over and pointed a table to her right that was covered with clip boards. I walked over, picked one up, and managed to find an empty chair in the middle of the back row. No one else had a clipboard. They were just sitting and waiting. Maybe they were taking advantage of the air conditioning. The blue ink pen was taped with masking tape to a piece of string that was tied to the clip board.
When I started to fill out the first page of the application, the pen wouldn’t write. I looked around; it was unlikely that anybody would have there would have a pen I could use. I looked up at the woman behind the front desk; she was flipping through a magazine, using long, razor looking fingernails on one hand to grab the corner of the pages, and using the other hand to grab potato chips out of a bag sitting on the desk. I thought about going back up and telling her the pen was dead. I shook it instead. Still no ink. Then I took out my lighter and heated the tip of the pen. That did the trick, though the ink came out in little globs at first.
The type was barely readable. It looked like it had been copied too many times and that the first copy was off a leaky mimeograph machine – one of those purple printing monsters that, if you got the pages fresh enough, you could take a big whiff and get a little high. The first page was the application itself:
NAME____________________
ADDRESS (required) ___________________________
PHONE or CONTACT # __________________________
EDUCATION __________________________________
COMPUTER SKILLS ________________________________
SPECIAL SKILLS ____________________________________
What the hell do they mean by Special Skills? I thought. Jump rope? Hoola Hoop? Being able to say the alphabet backwards? The space for computer skills didn’t make much sense to me, either. Most of the people sitting in the waiting area didn’t look like the kind of people who couldn’t live without their laptops and iphones. I went ahead and filled it out, along with the I-9, a form stating I was willing to submit to random drug testing, and another form that said I understood, as identified by my signature, that neither the employment agency nor the client company were responsible for any medical bills that may happen as a result of injury on the work place. I wondered if the potato muncher behind the desk had to sign a form like that. Probably not. I tried to imagine her standing by the side of the road wearing a bright orange vest and waving a flag. No way.
After I filled out the forms, I wormed my way out of the last row and carried back up to the main desk. The woman behind the desk looked up from her copy of US WEEKLY and took the clipboard from me. Then she wiped her fingers on her blouse; it was a dark blue and the grease from the chips left small streaks. She looked over the forms, and without looking up asked, “Do you have a driver’s license or state identification card?”
I dug it out of my wallet and handed it to her. She pushed back the small swivel chair she was balanced on, groaned a little, stood up, and walked – with a great deal of effort – to a copy machine about ten paces behind her, against the back wall. After she made a copy of my id card, she waddled back, her bright red lips pursed like she was exerting extreme effort. Then she handed it back to me and fell back into the chair. For a second, I expected it to collapse under the weight and tension.
“Now what?” I asked, looking over at the waiting area.
“Come back tomorrow,” she said, not looking up from her magazine.
“But what about them?” I pointed to the people in the chairs. “Are they waiting for work? I don’t mind to work second shift or…”
She snapped her head up and looked at me. “Come back tomorrow.”
I was going to push my luck, but I didn’t want her accidentally lose my application. I turned around and left, but only after giving one last look to the people filling chairs. I thought for a moment about just sitting down and waiting to see what happened. After all, it wasn’t like she paid any attention to what I look like. I decided against that, though, and walked out into the stale late morning air.
I showed up the next morning at a quarter to five. There was already a line of people waiting to work; There were three vans in the parking lot in front of the storefront – those long mini-bus kind of vans that seated maybe 12 people. 15 or 16, if you squeezed them in and didn’t worry about seatbelts. The chip eater was inside, sitting at the desk, sipping a coffee drink with lots of whipped cream on top. The door was locked.
At exactly five o’clock, three guys came out and opened the van doors. The people who had been waiting started getting in the vans. When the van filled the driver closed the door, and if you didn’t get in, that was your problem. I managed to get in the last van, squeezed in on the second to last bench with four other guys. I was on the end; but that didn’t count for much. The arm of the seat was cutting into my side and the guy next to me smelled like he hadn’t showered since Reagan was in office. Plus, he snored.
Luckily, the trip was a short one. We ended up at a warehouse in one of the industrial parks near the 1-10. The van stopped and the driver didn’t even get out. “I’ll be back here at 3:30,” he said. Somebody opened the van and we piled out. There was a another guy standing there to greet us. He carried a clipboard and wore a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up like he was an extra in a John Hughes movie. I didn’t bother to look and see if his jeans were pegged.
“Ok,” he said. “We’ve got some work inside the warehouse and some onsite work. I need…” he looked at his clip board. “…ten of you onsite. The rest will stay here. Any volunteers?”
Ten guys immediately volunteered; I made the mistake of breathing and missed my shot at working outside… though I wasn’t sure that would be any better than working in the warehouse. It was supposed to be a warm day – above average, even – and I was a little relieved that I wasn’t going to be out in it. Then Duckie asked each of us our names and wrote it down on the clipboard. “I have to call the agency and tell them which of you is here so you get paid.” How magnanimous, I thought. You’re a goddamn humanitarian. After he took down our names – I noticed that nobody bothered to make sure he’d written his name down correctly – the ten who volunteered to go onsite were herded over to another truck and sent off. He shuffled the rest of us into the warehouse.
I was set to work in a back corner, moving and organizing boxes. “All you gotta do,” Duckie said to me, “was unpack the boxes on this side,” he pointed to the right, “and organize the contents over here. It’s pretty self-explanatory. If you have any questions, Karla here will help.” He waved over a short blonde in wearing an olive colored tank top and ass hugging khaki shorts. She nodded at me without smiling. I nodded back.
“It’s real easy,” she said, taking over from Duckie, who had walked away to assign someone else an important task. “We got things organized here. All you do is unpack shit and put it in the proper place. Got it?”
“Sure thing,” I said, thinking about how proud my first grade teacher Mrs. Mills would be if she could see me now. Grouping was always my best skill; I used to win every time I plaid that matching game. You know; that one where you flip over the cards and try to find the ones that match, and whoever has the most matches wins. I might forget birthdays and important phone numbers; but my short term memory was unbeatable.
Karla gave me a box knife – not without a bit of nervousness – and left me to my work. I guess I couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t a question on the application about criminal background. And though I didn’t have one – not really – Karla the Khaki Queen had no way of knowing that. I started opening boxes and putting the contents in the appropriately marked place on the other side. Duckie and Karla were right. It wasn’t a hard job. It was just boring as hell. And as time passed excruciatingly slow, and the temperature in the warehouse started to rise, I started regretting that I wasn’t one of the ten who went to where the onsite job was. Every once in a while Karla would look around the corner to see how I was doing. Sometimes it was Duckie. Neither one of them talked to me. I didn’t bother to rush, since I figured that my task was easier than anything else they might give me if I finished. All I needed to do was get through the day. That was all. It’s not even a real job, I told myself. You’re not coming back here tomorrow. I promised myself a few cold beers once I got paid and kept going.
At some point, Duckie came over and told me it was break time. I wandered followed him into the break room. It was air-conditioned – sort of –.but there wasn’t anybody there. So I wandered outside. The regulars were grouped together on two picnic tables smoking and talking. The other five temps were sitting at another table. I looked over at Karla. She had since decided to tie her tank top up like Daisy Duke. She was the only girl in the group, and all the guys – including Duckie – were fawning over her like she was a Queen. She must have noticed me looking at her, because she looked up at me and arched an eyebrow. I walked over to the temp table and sat down.
“Christ,” I said, “it’s hotter than hell in there.”
“It’s gonna get worse,” one of them said. I immediately recognized him as the guy I was sardined next to in the bus. “It’ll get up to a hundert an’ forty ‘fore the day’s over.”
I lit a cigarette. “Have you worked here before?”
He nodded. “Yup. All of us have.”
They all nodded. “So why did everyone volunteer to go onsite? It’s not going to be any cooler under this sun all day.”
“Nope,” he answered. “But sometimes they feed you real good. Sometimes there’s leftover food and they let us have it. Sometimes.”
“So why didn’t you volunteer?” I asked.
He grunted. “I nodded off.”
After the break we all went back to our designated tasked. Karla’s designated task, apparently, was to rub up on the guys who worked full-time and get them to do her job for her. She was really good at it, because I didn’t see her do anything the entire day. I heard her plenty; laughing, giggling, talking. Cackling like a witch. She came back to check on my progress once or twice – I was pacing myself so that I’d be done by the end of the day, and not a moment sooner – and then she’d go off to some guy. At lunch I saw her go off with Duckie. When she came back 20 minutes later, she stepped out of the car – it was a nice car – tying her shirt back up. For a second, I hated Duckie. I wanted to wrap that pink polo shirt around his neck. Karla worked on him over lunch so she didn’t have to work the rest of the day. And Duckie couldn’t do anything about it. Then I found out why because during second break, a woman who turned out to be his wife showed up and brought him a bottle of water. Poor, poor Duckie. The dumb bastard.
I finished up right before quitting time. Karla came back to check on me. “You all done?” She smiled. It was easy to why Duckie was such a dumbass.
“Yeah,” I said, breaking down the last box and putting it on the pallet. “All finished.”
“This is your first time here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look like the other ones,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “I don’t know. I mean… they’re all smelly stinky drunks. Most of them can barely push a broom.”
“Yeah, well,” I said. “Give it time.”
“You know,” she smiled. “I could put in a good word for you with Craig.”
“Who?”
“Craig,” she answered. “The boss. The guy in the pink shirt.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, starting pay isn’t great,” she said, “but it’s full-time. And I know I could convince him. He listens to me.”
I just be he does. I imagined my future working at the warehouse. One more swinging dick fawning after Karla. Fantasizing about killing Duckie with his Member’s Only jacket. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m just waiting for something else to open up.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised at my lack of graciousness. “Well, ok. It’s just hard to find good guys.” She walked away. I watched her as she walked and wondered how she could walk at all in shorts that tight.
At the end of shift, the van was waiting for us out front. The same guy who had dropped us off that morning was driving. I was tired, sweaty, and I wanted a beer. When we got back to the office, the chip chomper waddled out and gave us our checks. That was when I noticed the check cashing place right next door. I cashed my check – forty bucks – and started walking towards the MTP for a cold beer.
And that was pretty much what I was looking for. I’d gone the day labor route in other places, just to get by. I’d been avoiding it since I took up residence at the Lost Dutchman simply because I didn’t want to get put on a road crew in the summer. That’s the kind of work it usually is. You stand out in the middle of the highway, wear a bright orange vest, and wave a flag. Standing on fresh blacktop during the summer in Cincinnati or even New Orleans was one thing. Standing on fresh blacktop during the summer in Phoenix was a whole other thing. But I had to do something. At least for a couple of days. And one thing about day labor – they don’t care what you look like as long as you’re wearing clothes and as long as it looks like you can pick up a shovel.
When I walked in, I noticed the sign with big block letters taped to the door:
NO APPLICATIONS TAKEN AFTER 10AM.
ANY ONE ARRIVING AFTER 10 WILL BE TURNED AWAY.
OPEN @ 5 AM.
I checked my watch to make sure it wasn’t after 10. It was almost nine. I walked up to the front desk to ask for an application. A large black woman was sitting behind the desk. When she saw me there, she looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’d like an application.”
Without saying another word, she gave me a once over and pointed a table to her right that was covered with clip boards. I walked over, picked one up, and managed to find an empty chair in the middle of the back row. No one else had a clipboard. They were just sitting and waiting. Maybe they were taking advantage of the air conditioning. The blue ink pen was taped with masking tape to a piece of string that was tied to the clip board.
When I started to fill out the first page of the application, the pen wouldn’t write. I looked around; it was unlikely that anybody would have there would have a pen I could use. I looked up at the woman behind the front desk; she was flipping through a magazine, using long, razor looking fingernails on one hand to grab the corner of the pages, and using the other hand to grab potato chips out of a bag sitting on the desk. I thought about going back up and telling her the pen was dead. I shook it instead. Still no ink. Then I took out my lighter and heated the tip of the pen. That did the trick, though the ink came out in little globs at first.
The type was barely readable. It looked like it had been copied too many times and that the first copy was off a leaky mimeograph machine – one of those purple printing monsters that, if you got the pages fresh enough, you could take a big whiff and get a little high. The first page was the application itself:
NAME____________________
ADDRESS (required) ___________________________
PHONE or CONTACT # __________________________
EDUCATION __________________________________
COMPUTER SKILLS ________________________________
SPECIAL SKILLS ____________________________________
What the hell do they mean by Special Skills? I thought. Jump rope? Hoola Hoop? Being able to say the alphabet backwards? The space for computer skills didn’t make much sense to me, either. Most of the people sitting in the waiting area didn’t look like the kind of people who couldn’t live without their laptops and iphones. I went ahead and filled it out, along with the I-9, a form stating I was willing to submit to random drug testing, and another form that said I understood, as identified by my signature, that neither the employment agency nor the client company were responsible for any medical bills that may happen as a result of injury on the work place. I wondered if the potato muncher behind the desk had to sign a form like that. Probably not. I tried to imagine her standing by the side of the road wearing a bright orange vest and waving a flag. No way.
After I filled out the forms, I wormed my way out of the last row and carried back up to the main desk. The woman behind the desk looked up from her copy of US WEEKLY and took the clipboard from me. Then she wiped her fingers on her blouse; it was a dark blue and the grease from the chips left small streaks. She looked over the forms, and without looking up asked, “Do you have a driver’s license or state identification card?”
I dug it out of my wallet and handed it to her. She pushed back the small swivel chair she was balanced on, groaned a little, stood up, and walked – with a great deal of effort – to a copy machine about ten paces behind her, against the back wall. After she made a copy of my id card, she waddled back, her bright red lips pursed like she was exerting extreme effort. Then she handed it back to me and fell back into the chair. For a second, I expected it to collapse under the weight and tension.
“Now what?” I asked, looking over at the waiting area.
“Come back tomorrow,” she said, not looking up from her magazine.
“But what about them?” I pointed to the people in the chairs. “Are they waiting for work? I don’t mind to work second shift or…”
She snapped her head up and looked at me. “Come back tomorrow.”
I was going to push my luck, but I didn’t want her accidentally lose my application. I turned around and left, but only after giving one last look to the people filling chairs. I thought for a moment about just sitting down and waiting to see what happened. After all, it wasn’t like she paid any attention to what I look like. I decided against that, though, and walked out into the stale late morning air.
I showed up the next morning at a quarter to five. There was already a line of people waiting to work; There were three vans in the parking lot in front of the storefront – those long mini-bus kind of vans that seated maybe 12 people. 15 or 16, if you squeezed them in and didn’t worry about seatbelts. The chip eater was inside, sitting at the desk, sipping a coffee drink with lots of whipped cream on top. The door was locked.
At exactly five o’clock, three guys came out and opened the van doors. The people who had been waiting started getting in the vans. When the van filled the driver closed the door, and if you didn’t get in, that was your problem. I managed to get in the last van, squeezed in on the second to last bench with four other guys. I was on the end; but that didn’t count for much. The arm of the seat was cutting into my side and the guy next to me smelled like he hadn’t showered since Reagan was in office. Plus, he snored.
Luckily, the trip was a short one. We ended up at a warehouse in one of the industrial parks near the 1-10. The van stopped and the driver didn’t even get out. “I’ll be back here at 3:30,” he said. Somebody opened the van and we piled out. There was a another guy standing there to greet us. He carried a clipboard and wore a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up like he was an extra in a John Hughes movie. I didn’t bother to look and see if his jeans were pegged.
“Ok,” he said. “We’ve got some work inside the warehouse and some onsite work. I need…” he looked at his clip board. “…ten of you onsite. The rest will stay here. Any volunteers?”
Ten guys immediately volunteered; I made the mistake of breathing and missed my shot at working outside… though I wasn’t sure that would be any better than working in the warehouse. It was supposed to be a warm day – above average, even – and I was a little relieved that I wasn’t going to be out in it. Then Duckie asked each of us our names and wrote it down on the clipboard. “I have to call the agency and tell them which of you is here so you get paid.” How magnanimous, I thought. You’re a goddamn humanitarian. After he took down our names – I noticed that nobody bothered to make sure he’d written his name down correctly – the ten who volunteered to go onsite were herded over to another truck and sent off. He shuffled the rest of us into the warehouse.
I was set to work in a back corner, moving and organizing boxes. “All you gotta do,” Duckie said to me, “was unpack the boxes on this side,” he pointed to the right, “and organize the contents over here. It’s pretty self-explanatory. If you have any questions, Karla here will help.” He waved over a short blonde in wearing an olive colored tank top and ass hugging khaki shorts. She nodded at me without smiling. I nodded back.
“It’s real easy,” she said, taking over from Duckie, who had walked away to assign someone else an important task. “We got things organized here. All you do is unpack shit and put it in the proper place. Got it?”
“Sure thing,” I said, thinking about how proud my first grade teacher Mrs. Mills would be if she could see me now. Grouping was always my best skill; I used to win every time I plaid that matching game. You know; that one where you flip over the cards and try to find the ones that match, and whoever has the most matches wins. I might forget birthdays and important phone numbers; but my short term memory was unbeatable.
Karla gave me a box knife – not without a bit of nervousness – and left me to my work. I guess I couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t a question on the application about criminal background. And though I didn’t have one – not really – Karla the Khaki Queen had no way of knowing that. I started opening boxes and putting the contents in the appropriately marked place on the other side. Duckie and Karla were right. It wasn’t a hard job. It was just boring as hell. And as time passed excruciatingly slow, and the temperature in the warehouse started to rise, I started regretting that I wasn’t one of the ten who went to where the onsite job was. Every once in a while Karla would look around the corner to see how I was doing. Sometimes it was Duckie. Neither one of them talked to me. I didn’t bother to rush, since I figured that my task was easier than anything else they might give me if I finished. All I needed to do was get through the day. That was all. It’s not even a real job, I told myself. You’re not coming back here tomorrow. I promised myself a few cold beers once I got paid and kept going.
At some point, Duckie came over and told me it was break time. I wandered followed him into the break room. It was air-conditioned – sort of –.but there wasn’t anybody there. So I wandered outside. The regulars were grouped together on two picnic tables smoking and talking. The other five temps were sitting at another table. I looked over at Karla. She had since decided to tie her tank top up like Daisy Duke. She was the only girl in the group, and all the guys – including Duckie – were fawning over her like she was a Queen. She must have noticed me looking at her, because she looked up at me and arched an eyebrow. I walked over to the temp table and sat down.
“Christ,” I said, “it’s hotter than hell in there.”
“It’s gonna get worse,” one of them said. I immediately recognized him as the guy I was sardined next to in the bus. “It’ll get up to a hundert an’ forty ‘fore the day’s over.”
I lit a cigarette. “Have you worked here before?”
He nodded. “Yup. All of us have.”
They all nodded. “So why did everyone volunteer to go onsite? It’s not going to be any cooler under this sun all day.”
“Nope,” he answered. “But sometimes they feed you real good. Sometimes there’s leftover food and they let us have it. Sometimes.”
“So why didn’t you volunteer?” I asked.
He grunted. “I nodded off.”
After the break we all went back to our designated tasked. Karla’s designated task, apparently, was to rub up on the guys who worked full-time and get them to do her job for her. She was really good at it, because I didn’t see her do anything the entire day. I heard her plenty; laughing, giggling, talking. Cackling like a witch. She came back to check on my progress once or twice – I was pacing myself so that I’d be done by the end of the day, and not a moment sooner – and then she’d go off to some guy. At lunch I saw her go off with Duckie. When she came back 20 minutes later, she stepped out of the car – it was a nice car – tying her shirt back up. For a second, I hated Duckie. I wanted to wrap that pink polo shirt around his neck. Karla worked on him over lunch so she didn’t have to work the rest of the day. And Duckie couldn’t do anything about it. Then I found out why because during second break, a woman who turned out to be his wife showed up and brought him a bottle of water. Poor, poor Duckie. The dumb bastard.
I finished up right before quitting time. Karla came back to check on me. “You all done?” She smiled. It was easy to why Duckie was such a dumbass.
“Yeah,” I said, breaking down the last box and putting it on the pallet. “All finished.”
“This is your first time here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look like the other ones,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “I don’t know. I mean… they’re all smelly stinky drunks. Most of them can barely push a broom.”
“Yeah, well,” I said. “Give it time.”
“You know,” she smiled. “I could put in a good word for you with Craig.”
“Who?”
“Craig,” she answered. “The boss. The guy in the pink shirt.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, starting pay isn’t great,” she said, “but it’s full-time. And I know I could convince him. He listens to me.”
I just be he does. I imagined my future working at the warehouse. One more swinging dick fawning after Karla. Fantasizing about killing Duckie with his Member’s Only jacket. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m just waiting for something else to open up.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised at my lack of graciousness. “Well, ok. It’s just hard to find good guys.” She walked away. I watched her as she walked and wondered how she could walk at all in shorts that tight.
At the end of shift, the van was waiting for us out front. The same guy who had dropped us off that morning was driving. I was tired, sweaty, and I wanted a beer. When we got back to the office, the chip chomper waddled out and gave us our checks. That was when I noticed the check cashing place right next door. I cashed my check – forty bucks – and started walking towards the MTP for a cold beer.
02 June, 2009
Science of the Arbitrary
“They’re out to get me,” I mumbled.
Mac the Elder chuckled, looked up from the Racing Form, and peered at me over the rims of his bifocals. “Who?”
“The horses,” I said. “They’re out to get me. Won’t come in for shit.”
“If it was that easy,” he said, “they wouldn’t call it gambling.”
I nodded and turned my attention back to the small television above the bar. It was showing the races at Santa Anita in Southern California. I’d lost on the last three races; in the one that had just ended my pick came in fourth. The pile of ripped up racing tickets was getting bigger. So was my bar tab. I looked at my money and considered whether or not I should risk another race.
Whenever I lose I remember what the problem is; I won early. The second race I ever bet on I won on a long shot and a three dollar bet turned into $250. People who win early and get a taste for that adrenaline rush have a hard time giving it up. While it’s true that anybody who knows anything about gambling knows two things – 1) that the house always wins, and 2) you end up losing more than you’ll ever win – that never stops us early winners from believing down deep that these rules of nature don’t apply to us. We learn to justify our losings and winnings through the inexact science of the Racing Form – but in the end, all the numbers, the jockey ratings, the horse lineages, and past performance rates mean only what we want them to mean. When we win, it’s because we were smart or lucky or both; when we lose, it’s always the jockey, the horse, or the condition of the track.
“I need to stop picking nags,” I said. “Every horse I picked today’ll end up in a glue factory.”
“Dog food,” Mac the Elder replied, distracted by his own prestidigitation over the stats of the next race.
“Huh?”
“Dog food,” he said. “They don’t make glue out of horses. They still make dog food, though.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure why dog food was an acceptable alternative to glue or horsehair brushes; I suspected that some animal rights activist was involved. That’s usually why arbitrary rules are made – some well-meaning idealist wants to change one little thing to make the world a better place. All that usually happens, though, is that when the one little thing is actually changed, it’s changed to something just as arbitrary but more politically expedient. Like using horse meat in dog food instead of glue and horse hooves in jello. Or trying to improve carbon emissions in cars by adding the catalytic converter – which really only changed the exhaust into a different toxic gas that isn’t considered as threatening as CO2.
The next race wasn’t looking friendly. There weren’t any strong horses and the field was pretty thin. So was my money. And another weekly rent payment was due in a couple of days. Instead of placing a bet I decided to step out on the covered patio and smoke. I was down to four cigarettes. Fuck. I reminded myself to make them last through the following day.
It’s a pain in the ass to have to ration out cigarettes – but they were so goddamn expensive. One of those arbitrary things. People decide to worry about the health impact of smoking and raise the price to convince people not to smoke. On the other hand, I knew I could get a bag of weed for a decent price – if I wanted. One of the advantages of being so close to the border was that, at least, the drugs were cheap. Weed and pills, especially. The cops and politicians were all worried about suburban and exurban white kids smoking crystal meth – which meant they tended to ignore the habits of the less affluent until some random crime spree broke out that scared all the people in their gated communities into threatening to vote someone else into office. Even with the frequent news of large drug busts at the border, it was still cheaper to get weed than it was to buy cigarettes or booze.
Life used to be cheaper. When I first got my driver’s license, gas was eighty-nine cents a gallon; I used to think it was funny when my parents complained about it. I used to be able to buy a pack of decent generic smokes for a dollar and name brand for a buck and a half. A twelve ounce can of Coke was fifty cents. It wasn’t until I heard myself complain about these things that I realized I was facing one of the foundational rules of civilization – eventually, most of us get priced out of existence. Survival of the fittest meant survival of the richest. All those things I learned as a kid – all those axioms I absorbed in church and in badly written ABC After School Specials were bullshit. The one with the most toys does win – because that means they have the stuff everybody else couldn’t afford to get. Decent food. Nice clothes. Nice House. Health insurance.
“Hey man – can you spare one of those?”
I looked up. Artie was standing there, smiling. He was short and pale and reminded me of a mole. He wore these round wire framed glasses that were taped together at the nose, and he always looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks. Whenever I saw him, he always conveniently forgot that he owed me $50 from the Superbowl. When I reminded him, he would make up some excuse and tell me he’d pay me when he got paid again.
“Hey man,” I said. “You got my fifty bucks?”
“Aw, come on, man,” he said. “You know I’m good for it… I just had to pay some bills. When I get paid again…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I shook my head. “You’ll pay me when you get paid. I’ve that one before.”
He seemed offended. He always seemed offended. “Hey, listen…”
“No,” I interrupted him. I wasn’t in the mood. “You listen. I got bills too, asshole. I got problems. I lost my ass on the NCAA finals, but I paid my debts anyway. The Superbowl was SIX months ago. And you still owe me fifty bucks.”
He was sweating. “But…”
“No buts,” I said. If you ever want SHIT from me besides a kick in the balls, give me my fifty bucks. And don’t look at me like I’m robbing you. You made the bet, remember? You’re lucky I’m not Dino. I hear he charges interest.” I blew smoke in Artie’s face. “I even heard that he turned out one chick who couldn’t pay him back. She’s still paying off the interest giving old men blow jobs down on 40th and Central.”
I could tell by the look on his face that he was familiar with Dino’s collection tactics; there probably wasn’t a bookie in the east valley Artie didn’t owe money to. And he must have believed me, because instead of answering, he dug into his pockets and pulled out some cash. He smoothed it out and counted it carefully. “This is my last fifty bucks,” he said, offering it to me. Actually, it was more like a dare – a pathetic, whiny, stupid dare.
When I grabbed the money from his hand and counted it, he looked surprised by my lack of humanity. “It’s Thursday, right?” I asked. “That means you get paid tomorrow, right?”
He nodded his head weakly. I finished my cigarette and was about to go back inside and pay my tab when he asked. “So can I have that cigarette?”
I was about to tell him that I was out; but he looked so goddamn desperate. I didn’t feel bad enough to give him the fifty back; but I did give him one of my last three smokes. He smiled, thanked me, and shuffled off.
When I went back to my seat, Mac the Elder was just returning from the window. “You win?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. This is my last race, though. Gotta get home. What about you? You done for the day?”
I looked up at the screen. It was five minutes until the next race at Santa Anita. Longer field. Stronger looking horses. It was tempting. But I was still short. The money I got from Artie would barely pay the weekly rent. That wouldn’t leave me much for the other necessities. After my tab, I’d still need to find a few more bucks somewhere just to make it til the end of next week. Getting my money from Artie was probably as good as it was going to get. I nodded. “I’m done,” I said. “No point in throwing good money after bad.”
After I paid my tab and said my goodbyes to Mac the Elder, I walked out. Mac the Younger – the son of Mac the Elder – passed me in the parking lot. He waved. I waved. I got to the end of the parking lot, turned right on the sidewalk next to the 7-11. I missed the light, and while I was waiting for the signal to change, I looked behind me. Artie was standing against the back wall of the 7-11, cornered by Dino. Dino wasn’t a very scary looking guy – but Artie was a flea in comparison. Clearly the conversation wasn’t going well. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the fifty bucks. It almost felt heavy. Then the light changed, and I crossed the street and made my way back to my room. When I got there, Loyce was sitting out in front of her room in one of the cheap plastic chairs that used to sit around the drained swimming pool. “Hey baby,” she said when she saw me. “You wouldn’t have a smoke, would ya?” I got out my pack, gave her one of my last two, and let her borrow my lighter. She sucked the smoke in with relief and closed her eyes. “Thanks, baby.”
“Not a problem,” I answered. Then I turned around, went into my room, locking the door behind me.
Mac the Elder chuckled, looked up from the Racing Form, and peered at me over the rims of his bifocals. “Who?”
“The horses,” I said. “They’re out to get me. Won’t come in for shit.”
“If it was that easy,” he said, “they wouldn’t call it gambling.”
I nodded and turned my attention back to the small television above the bar. It was showing the races at Santa Anita in Southern California. I’d lost on the last three races; in the one that had just ended my pick came in fourth. The pile of ripped up racing tickets was getting bigger. So was my bar tab. I looked at my money and considered whether or not I should risk another race.
Whenever I lose I remember what the problem is; I won early. The second race I ever bet on I won on a long shot and a three dollar bet turned into $250. People who win early and get a taste for that adrenaline rush have a hard time giving it up. While it’s true that anybody who knows anything about gambling knows two things – 1) that the house always wins, and 2) you end up losing more than you’ll ever win – that never stops us early winners from believing down deep that these rules of nature don’t apply to us. We learn to justify our losings and winnings through the inexact science of the Racing Form – but in the end, all the numbers, the jockey ratings, the horse lineages, and past performance rates mean only what we want them to mean. When we win, it’s because we were smart or lucky or both; when we lose, it’s always the jockey, the horse, or the condition of the track.
“I need to stop picking nags,” I said. “Every horse I picked today’ll end up in a glue factory.”
“Dog food,” Mac the Elder replied, distracted by his own prestidigitation over the stats of the next race.
“Huh?”
“Dog food,” he said. “They don’t make glue out of horses. They still make dog food, though.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure why dog food was an acceptable alternative to glue or horsehair brushes; I suspected that some animal rights activist was involved. That’s usually why arbitrary rules are made – some well-meaning idealist wants to change one little thing to make the world a better place. All that usually happens, though, is that when the one little thing is actually changed, it’s changed to something just as arbitrary but more politically expedient. Like using horse meat in dog food instead of glue and horse hooves in jello. Or trying to improve carbon emissions in cars by adding the catalytic converter – which really only changed the exhaust into a different toxic gas that isn’t considered as threatening as CO2.
The next race wasn’t looking friendly. There weren’t any strong horses and the field was pretty thin. So was my money. And another weekly rent payment was due in a couple of days. Instead of placing a bet I decided to step out on the covered patio and smoke. I was down to four cigarettes. Fuck. I reminded myself to make them last through the following day.
It’s a pain in the ass to have to ration out cigarettes – but they were so goddamn expensive. One of those arbitrary things. People decide to worry about the health impact of smoking and raise the price to convince people not to smoke. On the other hand, I knew I could get a bag of weed for a decent price – if I wanted. One of the advantages of being so close to the border was that, at least, the drugs were cheap. Weed and pills, especially. The cops and politicians were all worried about suburban and exurban white kids smoking crystal meth – which meant they tended to ignore the habits of the less affluent until some random crime spree broke out that scared all the people in their gated communities into threatening to vote someone else into office. Even with the frequent news of large drug busts at the border, it was still cheaper to get weed than it was to buy cigarettes or booze.
Life used to be cheaper. When I first got my driver’s license, gas was eighty-nine cents a gallon; I used to think it was funny when my parents complained about it. I used to be able to buy a pack of decent generic smokes for a dollar and name brand for a buck and a half. A twelve ounce can of Coke was fifty cents. It wasn’t until I heard myself complain about these things that I realized I was facing one of the foundational rules of civilization – eventually, most of us get priced out of existence. Survival of the fittest meant survival of the richest. All those things I learned as a kid – all those axioms I absorbed in church and in badly written ABC After School Specials were bullshit. The one with the most toys does win – because that means they have the stuff everybody else couldn’t afford to get. Decent food. Nice clothes. Nice House. Health insurance.
“Hey man – can you spare one of those?”
I looked up. Artie was standing there, smiling. He was short and pale and reminded me of a mole. He wore these round wire framed glasses that were taped together at the nose, and he always looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks. Whenever I saw him, he always conveniently forgot that he owed me $50 from the Superbowl. When I reminded him, he would make up some excuse and tell me he’d pay me when he got paid again.
“Hey man,” I said. “You got my fifty bucks?”
“Aw, come on, man,” he said. “You know I’m good for it… I just had to pay some bills. When I get paid again…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I shook my head. “You’ll pay me when you get paid. I’ve that one before.”
He seemed offended. He always seemed offended. “Hey, listen…”
“No,” I interrupted him. I wasn’t in the mood. “You listen. I got bills too, asshole. I got problems. I lost my ass on the NCAA finals, but I paid my debts anyway. The Superbowl was SIX months ago. And you still owe me fifty bucks.”
He was sweating. “But…”
“No buts,” I said. If you ever want SHIT from me besides a kick in the balls, give me my fifty bucks. And don’t look at me like I’m robbing you. You made the bet, remember? You’re lucky I’m not Dino. I hear he charges interest.” I blew smoke in Artie’s face. “I even heard that he turned out one chick who couldn’t pay him back. She’s still paying off the interest giving old men blow jobs down on 40th and Central.”
I could tell by the look on his face that he was familiar with Dino’s collection tactics; there probably wasn’t a bookie in the east valley Artie didn’t owe money to. And he must have believed me, because instead of answering, he dug into his pockets and pulled out some cash. He smoothed it out and counted it carefully. “This is my last fifty bucks,” he said, offering it to me. Actually, it was more like a dare – a pathetic, whiny, stupid dare.
When I grabbed the money from his hand and counted it, he looked surprised by my lack of humanity. “It’s Thursday, right?” I asked. “That means you get paid tomorrow, right?”
He nodded his head weakly. I finished my cigarette and was about to go back inside and pay my tab when he asked. “So can I have that cigarette?”
I was about to tell him that I was out; but he looked so goddamn desperate. I didn’t feel bad enough to give him the fifty back; but I did give him one of my last three smokes. He smiled, thanked me, and shuffled off.
When I went back to my seat, Mac the Elder was just returning from the window. “You win?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. This is my last race, though. Gotta get home. What about you? You done for the day?”
I looked up at the screen. It was five minutes until the next race at Santa Anita. Longer field. Stronger looking horses. It was tempting. But I was still short. The money I got from Artie would barely pay the weekly rent. That wouldn’t leave me much for the other necessities. After my tab, I’d still need to find a few more bucks somewhere just to make it til the end of next week. Getting my money from Artie was probably as good as it was going to get. I nodded. “I’m done,” I said. “No point in throwing good money after bad.”
After I paid my tab and said my goodbyes to Mac the Elder, I walked out. Mac the Younger – the son of Mac the Elder – passed me in the parking lot. He waved. I waved. I got to the end of the parking lot, turned right on the sidewalk next to the 7-11. I missed the light, and while I was waiting for the signal to change, I looked behind me. Artie was standing against the back wall of the 7-11, cornered by Dino. Dino wasn’t a very scary looking guy – but Artie was a flea in comparison. Clearly the conversation wasn’t going well. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the fifty bucks. It almost felt heavy. Then the light changed, and I crossed the street and made my way back to my room. When I got there, Loyce was sitting out in front of her room in one of the cheap plastic chairs that used to sit around the drained swimming pool. “Hey baby,” she said when she saw me. “You wouldn’t have a smoke, would ya?” I got out my pack, gave her one of my last two, and let her borrow my lighter. She sucked the smoke in with relief and closed her eyes. “Thanks, baby.”
“Not a problem,” I answered. Then I turned around, went into my room, locking the door behind me.
01 June, 2009
You Know A Tourist By His Shoes
My first experience with the southwestern summer came when the Greyhound bus I’d ridden since Santa Fe pulled into Phoenix. When I stepped off the bus, I was tired but glad there wasn’t another uncomfortable bus seat waiting for me. You get a sense of how expansive America is when you travel by bus, in a way that’s different than traveling by car or plane. When you’re driving cross country, it’s next to impossible to see the sights and take in the landscape unless you stop every five miles; and flying, while a lot faster than bussing or driving, is an insulated experience. You board a plane in Charlotte and you exit in St. Louis, and the only difference is that the airports are laid out a little differently. Traveling by bus takes forever, and there are so many things you can’t count on: how crowded the bus is; whether the person you’re sitting next to snores or not; whether they’ve bathed or not; whether or not they want to tell you their life story. The only advantage to transfers and stopovers are that you can, at least switch from an aisle to a window seat; but if you travel enough, whether by bus or by plane, you begin to realize that the view the window affords you doesn’t really compensate for how damned uncomfortable it is.
So I stepped off the bus, glad to be rid of the close quarters – only to be slapped in the face by the southwestern summer heat – a wall of scorched, breezeless air that burned in my lungs. For a few moments, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And while the heat was (as I was told) “a dry heat” I didn’t really have a concept of what that meant until I stepped off the bus. Dry heat is heat that still makes you sweat, but then boils you in your own juices --- so you go around all day like a giant pig cooking on spit.
While most bus stations are all the same, they do vary in size and grandness. Some stations are large and classical, like Union Station in New Orleans – one of those bus stations you’d expect to see in a movie with some inauthentic man saying farewell to an unrealistically stunning woman. Some bus stations are like the one in Cincinnati – medium sized, but not so grand; you instinctively start looking over your own shoulder because there are plenty of shadows for people to hide in and wait to take your bags, your wallet, or your life. The Santa Fe station reflected the image that the city wanted to offer to the world – faux western architecture, lots of stucco and Mexican-inspired fast food. Very arid and stale and untouched by the grime that you normally find in busy urban areas.
The Phoenix Station was an odd mix of grandness, sterility, and denial. Like Union Station in New Orleans, the Phoenix station was also where you caught the train – as if anyone really travels by train anymore, except so they can later tell people they did – and so was quote a bit of space to move around. It was located near the airport, and, I would soon discover, uncharacteristic of most buildings in Phoenix. The architecture was neither modern nor classic southwestern. It was an odd gray pimple on the flat, dusty landscape.
I didn’t quite know what to expect when I stepped off the bus. I mean, no one really told me. I didn’t know anybody who had been there. Any information I had about the southwestern portion of the United States came to me from movies, and all anybody ever sees of the southwest in the movies is desert: giant red rocks, cactus (cacti?), salamanders, scorpions, and the occasional sprig of grass or tumble weed. I seemed to remember from the countless number of cowboy movies I watched as a kid that people moved out west because the air was cleaner. What I found was that the only time the air wasn’t sterile was when a car, truck, or bus sped by blowing exhaust fumes into the already asphyxiating atmosphere. I also found that besides being tired, hungry, and dirty, I was also over dressed. I was wearing a comfortable pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and my beat up brown shoes. I owned exactly two pairs of shoes: my shiny black dress shoes that I wore so seldom that they still hurt my feet from being too stiff, and my brown shoes. I wore them everywhere, in any weather. Most of the people around me were wearing shorts, tank tops or t-shirts, and flip flops or sandals. The only ones who weren’t dressed like this were people like me who had clearly come from a different climate. From the minute my feet hit the cement, I felt them cooking in my shoes.
I stood around and waited for my bag to get unloaded – I only had the one suitcase plus my satchel. The sun was bright, even for the late afternoon. I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock in Cincinnati. That meant it was… I had to think about it and at that point even simple math was difficult, I was so fucking tired … five o’clock in Phoenix. After I retrieved my suitcase, my next order of business was to find shelter – someplace easy, someplace cheap, and something near a bus line.
I’d been trying to sort out where I was going to stay since my first transfer in St. Louis. Before beginning my trip, I’d made sure to look up some numbers. I had the number for the YMCA, and a few cheap motels. I was also given the number of some people who lived in Phoenix – they were relatives of friends from Cincinnati – but I didn’t want to call total strangers and beg a place to sleep. But I also didn’t want to blow all my seed money – which there wasn’t much of – in the first few days, either. And even cheap hotels start to cost after a while. That meant my first option was the Y. I knew it wasn’t glamorous, but there’d be a shower, a bed, and door with a lock. When I called them from the station in St. Louis, still slightly drunk from the going away party right before I boarded the bus, they didn’t have any space, and there was no way I could reserve one.
“Keep calling,” the man’s voice on the other end of the phone told me. “We usually know what beds are empty by four or five in the evening.
I called again – this time from Amarillo, Texas. A different person answered the phone – a girl this time. But the conversation was complicated by the shoddy condition of the payphones at the Amarillo station, and by the fact that somewhere between St. Louis and Amarillo, I lost my voice.
“I can’t understand you,” she said.”
Cough. “I… said… do…” cough “you” cough “have… any… rooms?” My voice came out like a bad Don Corleone imitation. More than two or three simple words and I started coughing.
It was my own damn fault. Before leaving for Arizona, I had to decide what to pack and what to leave, and I didn’t want to carry a lot of stuff with me. A couple of day’s worth of clothes, a couple of dress shirts, khakis, a tie I hoped I’d never have to wear. Toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving kit, shampoo. The one thing I didn’t pack – a coat. Why would I need a coat? I thought. It’s the fucking desert. It’s fucking Arizona. What I didn’t count on, though, was that the bus driver would keep the median temperature of the bus just above refrigeration. I got on the bus drunk and sweating from the humidity of Cincinnati in August and shivered the entire time. By the time the bus reached St. Louis, my throat was scratchy.
“What?” the girl on the phone was getting bored.
“ROOMS,” I managed to push out, but it made my entire throat throb painfully. “DO… YOU… HAVE… ANY… ROOMS… AVAILABLE?”
“Oh.” She checked. “No, not at the moment. Check back. We usually know by four or five o’clock if we’re going to have any empty beds.”
They must have a goddamn script, I thought.
I hung up the phone and looked over my list. The motel numbers I’d written down were chains, which meant they’d probably cost more, even if they were cheap. My mother’s voice crept into my head. “What do you mean, you don’t have a place to stay out there?” she’d asked. “What are you going to do? Sleep on a park bench?” Naturally, I told her I’d be ok. And I knew I would be – it was just a matter of what degree of ok I would be. There’s ok “I found a place to crash” and ok “I found a place to sleep where I won’t get knifed.” I could always go to a shelter if I had to – but I was trying to avoid that if I could. I had decided that if I couldn’t find anything else, I’d call the people who my friends insisted would help me. I wasn’t sure that either scenario was one I would be able to live down.
I walked into the Phoenix station and looked for the payphones. I called the YMCA, only to be told there were no bed; try again tomorrow. I looked through the phonebook and found the number for the downtown shelter. Then I looked at my short list of hotels. I knew I could call one of them and get a room easily. I was in sore need of a shower and a bed to sleep, with food being a distant third. I looked up the list of motels, and focused on the cheap ones advertising weekly rates. I steered clear of the ads that seemed too eager to impress with lists of amenities. Free cable. Swimming Pool. Continental Breakfast. I focused on the small ads – and found one for the Lost Dutchman. All the ad read under the phone number and address was
NIGHTLY AND WEEKLY RATES. CLEAN ROOMS.
I called the number. Someone with a thick Middle Eastern accent answered the phone. “DO… YOU… HAVE… ROOMS?”
“Yees,” the man answered. “Some weeth Keetchenettes. Some not.”
I thanked the man and hung up. I looked over towards the kiosk with the bus schedules; but I was too tired to want to get on another bus, let alone try to figure out the metro schedule. Fuck it. It’s worth the cash to take a taxi and not have to think about it.
The taxi stand was outside, in front of the station. There were three cars parked. A tall black man wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt saw me first. “Where you headed?” I was about to tell him when a short Mexican woman grabbed my suitcase. “I take you,” she smiled. Then she glared at the man in the Hawaiian shirt. “I get you there FASTER, ok? This way.” I was too tired to argue; plus, she did have my suitcase. So I followed her to her car. The black yelled. “YOU BITCH,” he called. “I TOLD YOU, WE DON’T DO THAT.” At first she ignored him. “I’LL GET YA, YA FUCKIN’ BITCH!” Then she turned around, looked at the man, and spat on the ground. I didn’t look back. I was following my suitcase.
“Ok,” she said, opening the trunk and putting my suitcase in it. I tossed my satchel in and she closed the trunk. Then she opened the back door for me, got in, and we were off.
“Where to?” she asked.
I gave her the address.
“Ok,” she said. Once we were pulling out, I looked back. The tall black man in the Hawaiian shirt was watching after us, shaking his head. Then, as if he had an instinct, he turned and saw a woman with two large bags approaching.
The driver spoke to me. “What’s the address again?”
I told her.
“What’s that?”
“Motel,” I tried to answer, “Lost Dutchman.”
“Ah, ok.” she said. “Just so you know,” she added, “I don’t open trunk until you pay. If you tell me you gotta go meet someone at their room and get the money, you lose your stuff.”
“Fine,” I said.
She started chattering on about other things. I don’t know exactly what. I wasn’t paying attention. Something about how I had to watch out for people. How I couldn’t trust anybody anymore, not even cabbies. I wondered how much I was going to have to tip to get the trunk open, but at that point, the only place on my body that wasn’t aching was my little toe. Just get me to the motel, I thought. I’ll worry about other shit later.
After a short trip that probably could have been shorter, we pulled into the parking lot. She turned around and smiled. “$20.75,” she said.
I reached into my pocket, found a twenty and a five, hoping that would be enough. “Keep it,” I said.
She thanked me, then got out to open the trunk. Before she pulled off, she gave her card. “You need ride, you call me,” she said.
I mumbled a thank you and dragged my ass to the office, where I put money down for a week. When I got to my room, I didn’t even bother to shower. I fell on the bed and was sleep before my head hit the pillow. I didn't even bother to kick off my shoes.
So I stepped off the bus, glad to be rid of the close quarters – only to be slapped in the face by the southwestern summer heat – a wall of scorched, breezeless air that burned in my lungs. For a few moments, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And while the heat was (as I was told) “a dry heat” I didn’t really have a concept of what that meant until I stepped off the bus. Dry heat is heat that still makes you sweat, but then boils you in your own juices --- so you go around all day like a giant pig cooking on spit.
While most bus stations are all the same, they do vary in size and grandness. Some stations are large and classical, like Union Station in New Orleans – one of those bus stations you’d expect to see in a movie with some inauthentic man saying farewell to an unrealistically stunning woman. Some bus stations are like the one in Cincinnati – medium sized, but not so grand; you instinctively start looking over your own shoulder because there are plenty of shadows for people to hide in and wait to take your bags, your wallet, or your life. The Santa Fe station reflected the image that the city wanted to offer to the world – faux western architecture, lots of stucco and Mexican-inspired fast food. Very arid and stale and untouched by the grime that you normally find in busy urban areas.
The Phoenix Station was an odd mix of grandness, sterility, and denial. Like Union Station in New Orleans, the Phoenix station was also where you caught the train – as if anyone really travels by train anymore, except so they can later tell people they did – and so was quote a bit of space to move around. It was located near the airport, and, I would soon discover, uncharacteristic of most buildings in Phoenix. The architecture was neither modern nor classic southwestern. It was an odd gray pimple on the flat, dusty landscape.
I didn’t quite know what to expect when I stepped off the bus. I mean, no one really told me. I didn’t know anybody who had been there. Any information I had about the southwestern portion of the United States came to me from movies, and all anybody ever sees of the southwest in the movies is desert: giant red rocks, cactus (cacti?), salamanders, scorpions, and the occasional sprig of grass or tumble weed. I seemed to remember from the countless number of cowboy movies I watched as a kid that people moved out west because the air was cleaner. What I found was that the only time the air wasn’t sterile was when a car, truck, or bus sped by blowing exhaust fumes into the already asphyxiating atmosphere. I also found that besides being tired, hungry, and dirty, I was also over dressed. I was wearing a comfortable pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and my beat up brown shoes. I owned exactly two pairs of shoes: my shiny black dress shoes that I wore so seldom that they still hurt my feet from being too stiff, and my brown shoes. I wore them everywhere, in any weather. Most of the people around me were wearing shorts, tank tops or t-shirts, and flip flops or sandals. The only ones who weren’t dressed like this were people like me who had clearly come from a different climate. From the minute my feet hit the cement, I felt them cooking in my shoes.
I stood around and waited for my bag to get unloaded – I only had the one suitcase plus my satchel. The sun was bright, even for the late afternoon. I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock in Cincinnati. That meant it was… I had to think about it and at that point even simple math was difficult, I was so fucking tired … five o’clock in Phoenix. After I retrieved my suitcase, my next order of business was to find shelter – someplace easy, someplace cheap, and something near a bus line.
I’d been trying to sort out where I was going to stay since my first transfer in St. Louis. Before beginning my trip, I’d made sure to look up some numbers. I had the number for the YMCA, and a few cheap motels. I was also given the number of some people who lived in Phoenix – they were relatives of friends from Cincinnati – but I didn’t want to call total strangers and beg a place to sleep. But I also didn’t want to blow all my seed money – which there wasn’t much of – in the first few days, either. And even cheap hotels start to cost after a while. That meant my first option was the Y. I knew it wasn’t glamorous, but there’d be a shower, a bed, and door with a lock. When I called them from the station in St. Louis, still slightly drunk from the going away party right before I boarded the bus, they didn’t have any space, and there was no way I could reserve one.
“Keep calling,” the man’s voice on the other end of the phone told me. “We usually know what beds are empty by four or five in the evening.
I called again – this time from Amarillo, Texas. A different person answered the phone – a girl this time. But the conversation was complicated by the shoddy condition of the payphones at the Amarillo station, and by the fact that somewhere between St. Louis and Amarillo, I lost my voice.
“I can’t understand you,” she said.”
Cough. “I… said… do…” cough “you” cough “have… any… rooms?” My voice came out like a bad Don Corleone imitation. More than two or three simple words and I started coughing.
It was my own damn fault. Before leaving for Arizona, I had to decide what to pack and what to leave, and I didn’t want to carry a lot of stuff with me. A couple of day’s worth of clothes, a couple of dress shirts, khakis, a tie I hoped I’d never have to wear. Toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving kit, shampoo. The one thing I didn’t pack – a coat. Why would I need a coat? I thought. It’s the fucking desert. It’s fucking Arizona. What I didn’t count on, though, was that the bus driver would keep the median temperature of the bus just above refrigeration. I got on the bus drunk and sweating from the humidity of Cincinnati in August and shivered the entire time. By the time the bus reached St. Louis, my throat was scratchy.
“What?” the girl on the phone was getting bored.
“ROOMS,” I managed to push out, but it made my entire throat throb painfully. “DO… YOU… HAVE… ANY… ROOMS… AVAILABLE?”
“Oh.” She checked. “No, not at the moment. Check back. We usually know by four or five o’clock if we’re going to have any empty beds.”
They must have a goddamn script, I thought.
I hung up the phone and looked over my list. The motel numbers I’d written down were chains, which meant they’d probably cost more, even if they were cheap. My mother’s voice crept into my head. “What do you mean, you don’t have a place to stay out there?” she’d asked. “What are you going to do? Sleep on a park bench?” Naturally, I told her I’d be ok. And I knew I would be – it was just a matter of what degree of ok I would be. There’s ok “I found a place to crash” and ok “I found a place to sleep where I won’t get knifed.” I could always go to a shelter if I had to – but I was trying to avoid that if I could. I had decided that if I couldn’t find anything else, I’d call the people who my friends insisted would help me. I wasn’t sure that either scenario was one I would be able to live down.
I walked into the Phoenix station and looked for the payphones. I called the YMCA, only to be told there were no bed; try again tomorrow. I looked through the phonebook and found the number for the downtown shelter. Then I looked at my short list of hotels. I knew I could call one of them and get a room easily. I was in sore need of a shower and a bed to sleep, with food being a distant third. I looked up the list of motels, and focused on the cheap ones advertising weekly rates. I steered clear of the ads that seemed too eager to impress with lists of amenities. Free cable. Swimming Pool. Continental Breakfast. I focused on the small ads – and found one for the Lost Dutchman. All the ad read under the phone number and address was
NIGHTLY AND WEEKLY RATES. CLEAN ROOMS.
I called the number. Someone with a thick Middle Eastern accent answered the phone. “DO… YOU… HAVE… ROOMS?”
“Yees,” the man answered. “Some weeth Keetchenettes. Some not.”
I thanked the man and hung up. I looked over towards the kiosk with the bus schedules; but I was too tired to want to get on another bus, let alone try to figure out the metro schedule. Fuck it. It’s worth the cash to take a taxi and not have to think about it.
The taxi stand was outside, in front of the station. There were three cars parked. A tall black man wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt saw me first. “Where you headed?” I was about to tell him when a short Mexican woman grabbed my suitcase. “I take you,” she smiled. Then she glared at the man in the Hawaiian shirt. “I get you there FASTER, ok? This way.” I was too tired to argue; plus, she did have my suitcase. So I followed her to her car. The black yelled. “YOU BITCH,” he called. “I TOLD YOU, WE DON’T DO THAT.” At first she ignored him. “I’LL GET YA, YA FUCKIN’ BITCH!” Then she turned around, looked at the man, and spat on the ground. I didn’t look back. I was following my suitcase.
“Ok,” she said, opening the trunk and putting my suitcase in it. I tossed my satchel in and she closed the trunk. Then she opened the back door for me, got in, and we were off.
“Where to?” she asked.
I gave her the address.
“Ok,” she said. Once we were pulling out, I looked back. The tall black man in the Hawaiian shirt was watching after us, shaking his head. Then, as if he had an instinct, he turned and saw a woman with two large bags approaching.
The driver spoke to me. “What’s the address again?”
I told her.
“What’s that?”
“Motel,” I tried to answer, “Lost Dutchman.”
“Ah, ok.” she said. “Just so you know,” she added, “I don’t open trunk until you pay. If you tell me you gotta go meet someone at their room and get the money, you lose your stuff.”
“Fine,” I said.
She started chattering on about other things. I don’t know exactly what. I wasn’t paying attention. Something about how I had to watch out for people. How I couldn’t trust anybody anymore, not even cabbies. I wondered how much I was going to have to tip to get the trunk open, but at that point, the only place on my body that wasn’t aching was my little toe. Just get me to the motel, I thought. I’ll worry about other shit later.
After a short trip that probably could have been shorter, we pulled into the parking lot. She turned around and smiled. “$20.75,” she said.
I reached into my pocket, found a twenty and a five, hoping that would be enough. “Keep it,” I said.
She thanked me, then got out to open the trunk. Before she pulled off, she gave her card. “You need ride, you call me,” she said.
I mumbled a thank you and dragged my ass to the office, where I put money down for a week. When I got to my room, I didn’t even bother to shower. I fell on the bed and was sleep before my head hit the pillow. I didn't even bother to kick off my shoes.
28 May, 2009
The Fine Art of Falling Down
I left towards the end of happy hour, about seven. On the way back to my room at the Lost Dutchman, I always walked by a construction site. There had been a Circle K there before; now it was slated to become an overflow parking lot for the university. Although I doubted that the world would miss one little convenience store, I was kind of annoyed that it wasn’t still there; that meant I had to walk an extra block in the opposite to the am/pm on the corner for any last minute groceries, rather than just stop on my back from the bar. Distance was no one’s friend. Even though it was a short walk from the bar back to my room, the late summer heat made the walk feel miles longer than it was. In heat like that, the sidewalks and streets stretched out in front of you; your feet get heavy and your back aches and your knees are tired of moving up and down. You sweat, but it’s so hot that even the sweat evaporates. Sunset helps, but only slightly, and sometimes at night, I could look out at the pavement and see the waves of heat rising up like old demons from the pavement.
Naturally, I was busy walking and looking at the construction site, and I trusted my feet to carry me back to my bed without any problem. That was my first mistake. What I didn’t count on was the cracked sidewalk; and while I was strolling along thinking about the larger injustices of the world and how small business always gave way to the monster bureaucracies that ran everything, I tripped on a broken piece of sidewalk.
I have a lot of experience when it comes to falling down. It doesn’t take much. My feet, despite the faith I put in them, have been working against me since I took my first step and I’m certain they won’t stop until I’m in a wheel chair or dead. I once fell I stepped on a pebble the size of a pea. One time, I stepped off a curb to cross the street and fell just because of the way my foot hit the concrete. I’ve fallen going up stairs more times than I can count. I’ve nearly sprained or broken almost every bone in my body. My ankles are shot. The cartilage in my knees is scraped almost to the bone, and the left one always hurts when it’s going to rain. My arms and torso are littered with scars from falls I barely remember. Once, at a party in Louisville, I fell down two flights of stairs and came out relatively unscathed – I thought. The only thing that saved me was the large quantities of bourbon that I’d been drinking. The next morning, there wasn’t a part of me that wasn’t sore, and the girl who hosted the party was convinced that I broke my neck and didn’t know it.
The thing that saved me this time was the fence. One of the things about falling is that you learn pretty quickly to go limp. When the ground is rushing towards you, the natural inclination is to tense up. This is a mistake. By going limp, you run a better chance of not breaking any bones or sustaining any serious damage. Stunt men and race car drivers know this. It’s part of the art of falling: knowing when to let go. I’m pretty good at letting go. What I’m not good at, though, is fixing the other mistake that people make when they fall – the very natural inclination to try and catch oneself. When a person falls forward, he instinctively put his hands out to try and catch himself and stop the fall. This never works. Physics and the law of gravity are working against you.
My eyes were closed, braced for impact. When I opened them, I wasn’t on the ground looking up, like I expected. But I wasn’t standing either. I looked over and my hand – specifically the meaty part of my right thumb, had caught on a piece of the construction fence and been impaled. I managed to pull my feet under me and, once I was supporting my own weight, I took a closer look at my hand. It was a single piece of metal that had somehow become separated from the link and was sticking out – and that had been what caught me.
My fucking savior. I stood there for a couple of seconds wondering what to do. First of all, I looked around to see if there was anybody around who might help. I was the only person on the sidewalk, and the late rush hour traffic sped by me without noticing. I had my cell phone, and I considered calling 911; but I tried to imagine that call.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Yeah… I’m, uh, stuck. On a fence.”
“What did you say, sir?”
“I said... my thumb is impaled on a chain link fence. I was walking home from the bar and I tripped and…”
“Impaled, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you tried pulling it off?”
“Huh?”
“Are you intoxicated, sir?”
Fuck that. I’d end up with a hole in my thumb and I’d probably get arrested for public drunkenness. What a crock of shit. If I was one of those rich assholes who lived in a gated community and had a gym membership, I could just drive my drunk ass home and nobody would say anything. So long as nothing disturbed the appearance of peace and tranquility, nobody gave a shit about anything. I looked at my wound again; there didn’t seem to be anything else holding me. I tried to wiggle my thumb. It didn’t hurt. I looked around again. I was still alone on the sidewalk. So I took a deep breathe and carefully pulled my thumb up and off the protruding piece of link fence. The hole in my hand was about the size of a navy bean, and it looked black. That couldn’t be good. I decided to beat it back to my room and clean the wound.
On my way down the sidewalk, my hand started to bleed. A lot. I wrapped it in my shirt and put pressure on it to keep from bleeding all over myself and the sidewalk. I could feel my thumb starting to swell up. It wasn’t as easy to wiggle as it had been when I was still stuck on the fence. While I was keeping pressure on my hand, I was watching my feet to make sure I didn’t fall down again. That was all I needed.
The Lost Dutchman was a cheap thirteen room motel that rented by the day and the week. Some of the room had kitchenettes. Most of the inhabitants rented their rooms by the week. It was right next to an adult book store, so there was quite a bit of shared foot traffic and commerce. If you knew what doors to knock on, and if the people inside didn’t think you were a narc, it was a free market for anything you might want – whether it was drugs or pussy or something a little more on the exotic side. My room was on the second floor. I made my way upstairs without falling. My hand was throbbing. I managed to get the door open, and I rushed in to clean my wound.
My room was one of the ones without a kitchenette. It was small, single bed, the usual plywood motel furniture, a small table and chair, a television that worked most of the time (so long as the owner paid the cable bill) and the bathroom. The walls covered with a wallpaper that had long since lost any color. The central air rattled like an iron lung. On the wall above the bed, there was a painting of a country scene – one of those third generation impressionistic paintings by somebody who had probably never even been anywhere near the natural world. a border of trees opened up into a footpath, a small brook that looked like a miniaturized version of the Grand Rapids, and a pastoral green field littered a bit too neatly with indefinable pink, yellow, and purple flowers. In the sky, high above this roughly brushed scene was what I guessed was a bird. It too was indefinable. The clouds were puffy and white like flavorless cotton candy. The sky was clear blue. Underneath the painting, attached to the cheap faux wood frame, there was a small plaque that may have once been gold plated. The title of the painting, Entrance to Paradise, was inscribed in badly done and nearly illegible cursive. I hated the painting. I hated it because there were no fields like that anywhere; and even if there had been once, there sure as shit weren’t any more. They were plowed under and covered with condominiums and industrial complexes.
But I didn’t take it down. The absence, I think, would have been worse.
I unwrapped my hand. My thumb was throbbing more, and the shirt was ruined. I turned on the cold water and placed the wound under it. Despite my shirt and the pressure I put on it, it was still bleeding, and starting to look more and more infected. The redness was starting to extend up my thumb and down onto my wrist.
“Fuck.” I thought about going to the hospital. But that would mean either walking, which would take too long, or calling an ambulance, which I knew I couldn’t afford. The only time I’d ever seen an ambulance at the Lost Dutchman was when the junkie in Number 9 overdosed. I knew I had to clean the wound properly or the infection would spread. What a way to go, I thought. Death by tripping. I wrapped my hand again and left the room. My only other option was to walk to the am/pm and but the necessary supplies. I still had a little money left that I was saving for food the following day… but what would that matter if I bled to death during the night?
The walk to the am/pm was short, but I was in a hurry. The hole in my thumb had more or less sobered me up, and I was careful to avoid any breaks in the sidewalk. When I got there, I picked up a bottle of peroxide, a bottle or rubbing alcohol, and some band aids. As I was checking out, the girl behind the counter looked at my shirt.
“Are you ok?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m ok. Just a little accident here. No worries.”
She nodded and put my purchases in a plastic. Then she looked at me. “You know you’re not supposed to drink that stuff, right? The rubbing alcohol?”
What the FUCK? I wanted to ask her if I looked like the kind of dumbass who would try and drink rubbing alcohol; but then I realized that I was the one stumbling in with a bloody shirt and a bleeding thumb. And on top of that, I probably still smelled like booze, even though the effects had long since worn off. I nodded, grabbed the bag, and left.
I rushed back to my room. The throbbing was getting worse, but the bleeding was slowing down. As I was digging out my key, the door two down from mine opened. A man stepped out. He was putting on the jacket to what looked like an expensive suit. He had a full face, chubby flushed cheeks, and buzz cut. He was looking around; at first I thought he’d say something to me because I was watching him. But he didn’t seem to care at all. He rushed by me, not bothering look at me, jogged down the steps, got into an expensive looking silver car, and sped off. I didn’t look to see if he was wearing a wedding ring. Just then, Loyce, the hooker who lived in that room, poked her head out, looked at me, nodded, and closed the door. I heard the dead bolt and chain lock click in place. Then I went into my room, straight to the sink, and started pouring the peroxide on the hole in my thumb. I poured it until the wound stopped bubbling up, and then I cleaned it out more the alcohol. Then I washed the area with soap, dried it off carefully, and put the band aid over it.
The throbbing had stopped, but I knew I’d have to clean it again tomorrow. I sat back on my bed and turned on the TV. I flipped around. There was nothing to watch. I stopped at a commercial. It was one of those anti-drop house commercials put out by the Sheriff’s department that encouraged people to beware of any strange looking brown people in their neighborhoods. That was when I saw him – the john who left Loyce’s room. Only in the commercial he was wearing a Sheriff’s uniform. I changed the channel and left it on one that ran old TV shows from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. It was an episode of Father Knows Best.
Naturally, I was busy walking and looking at the construction site, and I trusted my feet to carry me back to my bed without any problem. That was my first mistake. What I didn’t count on was the cracked sidewalk; and while I was strolling along thinking about the larger injustices of the world and how small business always gave way to the monster bureaucracies that ran everything, I tripped on a broken piece of sidewalk.
I have a lot of experience when it comes to falling down. It doesn’t take much. My feet, despite the faith I put in them, have been working against me since I took my first step and I’m certain they won’t stop until I’m in a wheel chair or dead. I once fell I stepped on a pebble the size of a pea. One time, I stepped off a curb to cross the street and fell just because of the way my foot hit the concrete. I’ve fallen going up stairs more times than I can count. I’ve nearly sprained or broken almost every bone in my body. My ankles are shot. The cartilage in my knees is scraped almost to the bone, and the left one always hurts when it’s going to rain. My arms and torso are littered with scars from falls I barely remember. Once, at a party in Louisville, I fell down two flights of stairs and came out relatively unscathed – I thought. The only thing that saved me was the large quantities of bourbon that I’d been drinking. The next morning, there wasn’t a part of me that wasn’t sore, and the girl who hosted the party was convinced that I broke my neck and didn’t know it.
The thing that saved me this time was the fence. One of the things about falling is that you learn pretty quickly to go limp. When the ground is rushing towards you, the natural inclination is to tense up. This is a mistake. By going limp, you run a better chance of not breaking any bones or sustaining any serious damage. Stunt men and race car drivers know this. It’s part of the art of falling: knowing when to let go. I’m pretty good at letting go. What I’m not good at, though, is fixing the other mistake that people make when they fall – the very natural inclination to try and catch oneself. When a person falls forward, he instinctively put his hands out to try and catch himself and stop the fall. This never works. Physics and the law of gravity are working against you.
My eyes were closed, braced for impact. When I opened them, I wasn’t on the ground looking up, like I expected. But I wasn’t standing either. I looked over and my hand – specifically the meaty part of my right thumb, had caught on a piece of the construction fence and been impaled. I managed to pull my feet under me and, once I was supporting my own weight, I took a closer look at my hand. It was a single piece of metal that had somehow become separated from the link and was sticking out – and that had been what caught me.
My fucking savior. I stood there for a couple of seconds wondering what to do. First of all, I looked around to see if there was anybody around who might help. I was the only person on the sidewalk, and the late rush hour traffic sped by me without noticing. I had my cell phone, and I considered calling 911; but I tried to imagine that call.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Yeah… I’m, uh, stuck. On a fence.”
“What did you say, sir?”
“I said... my thumb is impaled on a chain link fence. I was walking home from the bar and I tripped and…”
“Impaled, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you tried pulling it off?”
“Huh?”
“Are you intoxicated, sir?”
Fuck that. I’d end up with a hole in my thumb and I’d probably get arrested for public drunkenness. What a crock of shit. If I was one of those rich assholes who lived in a gated community and had a gym membership, I could just drive my drunk ass home and nobody would say anything. So long as nothing disturbed the appearance of peace and tranquility, nobody gave a shit about anything. I looked at my wound again; there didn’t seem to be anything else holding me. I tried to wiggle my thumb. It didn’t hurt. I looked around again. I was still alone on the sidewalk. So I took a deep breathe and carefully pulled my thumb up and off the protruding piece of link fence. The hole in my hand was about the size of a navy bean, and it looked black. That couldn’t be good. I decided to beat it back to my room and clean the wound.
On my way down the sidewalk, my hand started to bleed. A lot. I wrapped it in my shirt and put pressure on it to keep from bleeding all over myself and the sidewalk. I could feel my thumb starting to swell up. It wasn’t as easy to wiggle as it had been when I was still stuck on the fence. While I was keeping pressure on my hand, I was watching my feet to make sure I didn’t fall down again. That was all I needed.
The Lost Dutchman was a cheap thirteen room motel that rented by the day and the week. Some of the room had kitchenettes. Most of the inhabitants rented their rooms by the week. It was right next to an adult book store, so there was quite a bit of shared foot traffic and commerce. If you knew what doors to knock on, and if the people inside didn’t think you were a narc, it was a free market for anything you might want – whether it was drugs or pussy or something a little more on the exotic side. My room was on the second floor. I made my way upstairs without falling. My hand was throbbing. I managed to get the door open, and I rushed in to clean my wound.
My room was one of the ones without a kitchenette. It was small, single bed, the usual plywood motel furniture, a small table and chair, a television that worked most of the time (so long as the owner paid the cable bill) and the bathroom. The walls covered with a wallpaper that had long since lost any color. The central air rattled like an iron lung. On the wall above the bed, there was a painting of a country scene – one of those third generation impressionistic paintings by somebody who had probably never even been anywhere near the natural world. a border of trees opened up into a footpath, a small brook that looked like a miniaturized version of the Grand Rapids, and a pastoral green field littered a bit too neatly with indefinable pink, yellow, and purple flowers. In the sky, high above this roughly brushed scene was what I guessed was a bird. It too was indefinable. The clouds were puffy and white like flavorless cotton candy. The sky was clear blue. Underneath the painting, attached to the cheap faux wood frame, there was a small plaque that may have once been gold plated. The title of the painting, Entrance to Paradise, was inscribed in badly done and nearly illegible cursive. I hated the painting. I hated it because there were no fields like that anywhere; and even if there had been once, there sure as shit weren’t any more. They were plowed under and covered with condominiums and industrial complexes.
But I didn’t take it down. The absence, I think, would have been worse.
I unwrapped my hand. My thumb was throbbing more, and the shirt was ruined. I turned on the cold water and placed the wound under it. Despite my shirt and the pressure I put on it, it was still bleeding, and starting to look more and more infected. The redness was starting to extend up my thumb and down onto my wrist.
“Fuck.” I thought about going to the hospital. But that would mean either walking, which would take too long, or calling an ambulance, which I knew I couldn’t afford. The only time I’d ever seen an ambulance at the Lost Dutchman was when the junkie in Number 9 overdosed. I knew I had to clean the wound properly or the infection would spread. What a way to go, I thought. Death by tripping. I wrapped my hand again and left the room. My only other option was to walk to the am/pm and but the necessary supplies. I still had a little money left that I was saving for food the following day… but what would that matter if I bled to death during the night?
The walk to the am/pm was short, but I was in a hurry. The hole in my thumb had more or less sobered me up, and I was careful to avoid any breaks in the sidewalk. When I got there, I picked up a bottle of peroxide, a bottle or rubbing alcohol, and some band aids. As I was checking out, the girl behind the counter looked at my shirt.
“Are you ok?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m ok. Just a little accident here. No worries.”
She nodded and put my purchases in a plastic. Then she looked at me. “You know you’re not supposed to drink that stuff, right? The rubbing alcohol?”
What the FUCK? I wanted to ask her if I looked like the kind of dumbass who would try and drink rubbing alcohol; but then I realized that I was the one stumbling in with a bloody shirt and a bleeding thumb. And on top of that, I probably still smelled like booze, even though the effects had long since worn off. I nodded, grabbed the bag, and left.
I rushed back to my room. The throbbing was getting worse, but the bleeding was slowing down. As I was digging out my key, the door two down from mine opened. A man stepped out. He was putting on the jacket to what looked like an expensive suit. He had a full face, chubby flushed cheeks, and buzz cut. He was looking around; at first I thought he’d say something to me because I was watching him. But he didn’t seem to care at all. He rushed by me, not bothering look at me, jogged down the steps, got into an expensive looking silver car, and sped off. I didn’t look to see if he was wearing a wedding ring. Just then, Loyce, the hooker who lived in that room, poked her head out, looked at me, nodded, and closed the door. I heard the dead bolt and chain lock click in place. Then I went into my room, straight to the sink, and started pouring the peroxide on the hole in my thumb. I poured it until the wound stopped bubbling up, and then I cleaned it out more the alcohol. Then I washed the area with soap, dried it off carefully, and put the band aid over it.
The throbbing had stopped, but I knew I’d have to clean it again tomorrow. I sat back on my bed and turned on the TV. I flipped around. There was nothing to watch. I stopped at a commercial. It was one of those anti-drop house commercials put out by the Sheriff’s department that encouraged people to beware of any strange looking brown people in their neighborhoods. That was when I saw him – the john who left Loyce’s room. Only in the commercial he was wearing a Sheriff’s uniform. I changed the channel and left it on one that ran old TV shows from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. It was an episode of Father Knows Best.
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