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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years ago

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Trinity Bluffs - Chapter 1 - RL

From the small bay window at the front of my office, I could see everything worth watching on my block, which wasn’t much. Off to the right, a couple had just come into view, in the middle of an argument. At first, I thought he was going to slap her – right out in the open, right out in the street, just yards from the theater they’d walked out of only a moment earlier. Then I thought maybe she was going to slap him, just barely out of the shadows of the Majestic’s marquee. Neither of them were acting violently, no flailing of arms or even yelling, but there was a wiry, fluid tension between them. It was a steel cable they were both tugging on, one that had been taut for years, and I had no way of telling from my vantage point how many strands had already snapped. I usually get called into a case just before or just after the cable snaps, so I tend to keep my eyes peeled for such things.

They argued briskly with each other, like alternating gusts from a chill January wind, despite it being a particularly warm early June day in Fort Worth. The man’s arms were crossed; the woman’s were clasped together in front of her, gripping her clutch tightly. They stood at the corner, waiting for cars that weren’t coming, waiting for the pedestrian sign to change and allow them across to the far side of Main Street. I guessed that the same thing was restraining all their behaviors. Maybe their respect for rules, which kept them from plunging into the street without official sanction, despite the lack of traffic, was also keeping them from plunging daggers into each other. The crossing sign changed, but they didn’t notice immediately, being so wrapped up in their acrimony.

Aside from their tension, the view from my window was calm and quiet. In 1875, the struggling former Army outpost picked up the nickname “Panther City” owing to a report that the town was so inert that a panther was found sleeping in the street up by the old courthouse. Even nearly 75 years later, at least at that moment, a passing panther could easily have taken a nap in front of my building on the far south end of downtown.

It was too hot to sit in my office, waiting for nobody to walk in and nobody else to phone. I decided to escape. I’m versatile when it comes to that; I can be ignored anywhere, and preferably in a cooler locale. I grabbed my hat, gave a dismissive shake of my head to my two oscillating fans. They were fighting the good fight, but all that effectively meant was rearranging the hot, stale air and annoying the flies. I closed my window half way, and trudged down the stifling stairs to my air-cooled backup detective office. I knew it was air-cooled because it said so in blue, cursive letters shivering atop ice blocks on the pharmacy sign.

Back then, my office was a barely furnished second floor walkup at the front of a short hallway right above a drugstore. The three story building was only slightly older than me, but looked and creaked like it was older than my grandfather. The cornerstone said 1896. I’d have believed it if it had said 1846, except for the fact that the indoor plumbing seemed mostly intentional, and not an afterthought. At any rate, in my backup office, I can sit at the soda fountain almost directly beneath my desk and hear the phone ring through the tin ceiling. As for visitors, unless they’re ballerinas – and I was never so lucky – they’d have been hard put to get five feet up the stairs without me hearing. Even so, through the drugstore window, I could watch them walk right up to my door.

Bob Wills greeted me as I walked in. He and his Texas Playboys had the Cotton Patch Blues. Third time this week they’d come down with them. Jerry always had the radio on WBAP, except if he was there at nights cleaning. At night, he could pick up WGN from Chicago and listen to the Cubs play.

“Jerry – some lemonade when you have a chance – with a splash.”

Jerry leaned his broom against the marble counter delicately, as though the wooden handle might mar the stone. After rummaging about with the lemons, sugar water and ice, and a brief dip behind the counter for a discreet splash, he slid my lemonade down the black and white marble to me. In the weak light, mostly reflecting in off the sidewalk, my eyes couldn’t tell the color was off, but my tongue told me the truth.

“Damn, Jerry, what’s the idea of putting bourbon in this? It tastes like horse piss.”

He shrugged and reached for my glass, but I pushed his hand back.

“Worse than abusing alcohol is wasting it, my friend. You never know when a drought is going to come on. Next one tequila, right?”

He bobbed his head up and down then turned to the back counter, forgetting his broom, and began wiping the soda spigots with a damp rag. He was a good-natured kid, albeit kind of slow, and in the way that never really speeds up. I doubt if he’d have gotten a job if his uncle hadn’t owned the drugstore. He’d have ended up the world’s oldest paperboy, throwing the world’s oldest news. So, his uncle gave him a job cleaning and serving sandwiches and sodas, and asked him periodically about visitors the druggist might have. The last guy there was running a booking joint out of the shop, and he wasn’t having a repeat. He was skittish enough renting an office to a private investigator, but I’d been fortunate, and hadn’t ever dragged any of my messes into the building.

I’d known Jerry maybe three years and for the first six months of that, any time I spoke to him, he flinched like his dad, his mom’s second husband, was about to smack him around some. His dad has since been taken care of by people much worse to cross than me, and with better reason than me, but Jerry still flinched around fellas he didn’t know.

Swirling his rag over the back counter, he lurched to a halt, gave out with a quiet “Oh” and just froze, facing away from me.

I gave him some time, but he stayed frozen. No wiping; no talking; no nothing.

“Jerry - what is it?”

Only then did he turn and with his eyes anywhere but my face, ask, “Uh, did he find you?”

“Tell me who, buddy.” Thinking it might help, I shifted my eyes to the same phone pole his were latched onto. No pressure. I waited.

Once he’d played the “who, what, where and when” again through in his head, he started up again.

“A man, a driver in a uniform and a big car come by before you got here –“

“A cop?” I cursed myself for interrupting. I didn’t care one way or another if the guy’s a cop. I had no particular beef with them at the moment, or vice-versa. I just know better – usually know better – than to mess up Jerry’s concentration when he’s trying to focus.

And then I had to wait for it while he rewound and restarted the reel …

“A man, a driver with a uniform in a big car like a chauffeur, come up this morning. Pulled up right by your steps. Goes up your stairs with an envelope; doesn’t even take off his gloves. I hear him up there, but he just comes back down, which is how I know you wasn’t up there. He comes back down and goes to drive off which is when I see he has a lady in the back seat. She looks at me looking at her and hits the seat in front of her and he stops again. He comes back around and stands by her window and she gives him a note. Then he comes right up to this window and walks in.”

“He asks about you, and alls I say is I don’t know, like you said to.” He smiled at this and I realized he was waiting for me to smile back.

I cut in with a quick “Good boy” which wound him up a bit, and for a moment, I was afraid he’d start back at “A man …” again, but after an extra beat, he went on.

“He don’t like it, but when I tell him how I’m your buddy and how you know you can trust me not to blab things, he figures maybe I’m alright. That’s just what he says, ‘Maybe you’re alright, you and your buddy.’” He practically glowed, repeating it.

Having someone else call us buddies got him cranked up again, so I just nodded like it was a good thing, which it was, and he went on.

“He hands me a folded piece of paper and says the missus would like Mr. Dixon to get this note.”

I gave him time to decide he’s done with the story, then asked, “That’s aces, Jerry, but where is it?”

He looked down in a panic, then slapped the pocket of his apron. “Right here, Dix.”

Relief flooded his face like the Jennings underpass in a storm.

After another slow count, I ask if I could have it. He flushed red and fished it from his pocket.

The half piece of cream colored stationary was engraved ELC in blue flowing script, with Mrs. John C. Conklin printed beneath in black. It held one line of handwriting, a perfect example of the Palmer method. “Please meet with me at my residence at your earliest convenience.”

Being only the upper half of the sheet, the note was missing its address, but everyone knew which house on Quality Hill belonged to John and Evelyn Conklin.

A meeting meant a possible job, however small, and I wasn’t about to balk. A visit could mean anything. Not that I had any illusions about Evelyn Lambeaux Conklin courting me behind her husband’s back. Even if I did, those musings were more for after hours, so I shut them down as fast as they came up.

Anyway, I’d been spending too much time lately tailing dirty husbands or wives, and it was starting to leave a permanent bad taste in my mouth. What I didn’t need was to raise my cynicism up to a new permanent plateau. With the Conklin woman, there was a shot at a change of pace. There was no telling what it might be, but at least there were more options out there than the same old dirt. Maybe some domestic was pinching silver or making long distance person-to-person calls..

I checked my watch as I asked Jerry, still standing in place, “What time, Jerry?”

“Nine … no … nine-thirty. Around there, anyways.”

Three hours. A reasonable delay. I’d appear ager enough for gainful employment, but not so eager as to invite being pushed around. Especially in this business, I don’t know if first impressions can make you, but they sure as hell can break you.

I fitted my hat on my head and pocketed some mints. Bourbon breath might pass for some of my clients, but not the Conklins. Hell, compared to some of my clients, I’m still a kid with my knickerbockers buckled above the knees, but compared to the Conklins, I pretty rough around the edges.

I slipped off the stool and waved back as Jerry called out “See ya, Dix!”

I was half way down the block to my car when I remembered. I turned and trudged back up to the second floor. I stepped down the hall to the second office on the second floor and slipped my head around the half-opened door. Alice was on the phone and fanning herself to beat the band. I pointed down at the floor and made a driving gesture. She nodded and waved me off. Alice didn’t work for me, but for some decrepit insurance shill who officed next to me. He was seldom around, so if there was nothing going on, from time to time, if she was talking to me that week, she’d run down and grab my phone if I was out. Her pay? Dinner now and then, with any stories I could make up about my exciting career as a detective. Sometimes it was actual local gossip, or a slightly harrowing encounter with a poodle. Sometimes it was a story I picked from radio shows and reworked to fit Fort Worth. It was a fair exchange. My phone didn’t ring that often, so I didn’t have to make up that many stories. Cute kid, but a little straight-laced for my tastes. More important, all her cuteness aside, I was all full up on ex-wives at the time, so I was eager for things to stay calm and copacetic with Alice.

Three blocks west on 7th, I decided on one quick diversion.

I whipped right around the next block, up a few streets and around another corner and parked kissably close to a hydrant. All the better to encourage me to keep the visit short. ELC’s invitation was to meet with her specifically, which made me curious about her husband’s participation, primarily whether it was welcome or not. Two minutes of reconnaissance would tell me all I needed. I was on a nodding basis with Conklin, principal managing partner of the Worth National Bank. He recognized me and was known to sometimes nod at me in passing. I was known to sometimes appreciate the gesture. A quick stop at the bank would doubtless tip me to whether he knew of his wife’s invitation.

The nods would end, however, if I simply showed up at his bank to get nodded at, so I came up with a pretext. As the story would go, I was out yesterday evening with some research and saw what appeared to be his very recognizable town car sideswipe a parked car. Before I went to the police, I wanted to stop by and find out whether his vehicle might have been making unauthorized visitations to Como. In reality, I just wanted to read his body language and see if he showed any sign of impending connection. If he knew of my meeting with his wife, he’d mention it in our encounter. His way of staying in charge of all he surveys. One of the ways a man like him stays a man like him. Plus I was going out of my way to show concern for one of the gentry without costing myself too much pride. Just a typical transaction we small businessmen make every day. Sell a little subservience now and maybe get to sell a little business later.

Three steps up to the revolving door, and I was in the ornate lobby surrounded by marble columns topped by Corinthian capitals. The lobby said cattle money every bit as much as the stuffed longhorn tucked away in Conklin expansive office.

“How do, Dix?” Trent, loan officer and my inside man at the bank glanced up just as the slapping-sucking sound of the door died down.

“Trent, pal, how goes it?” I folded myself into the chair opposite his. His feet were up on his desk; mine stayed on the floor.

“Good, if I can sell you some money. Business has been dry and dusty the past month.”

I smiled with half my mouth, and that was all the answer he needed.

“Aww … damn, Dix, you’d think I had teats, as often as you’ve been in to milk me these days.”

“Don’t get your udders knotted up, Trent – just a quick question and I’m gone. The old man in?”

“Conklin, Barlow, or VanTafel?

“Conklin”

“He’s been down in Austin two days now, putting lipstick on some state senator before he screws him.” He ducked his head and glanced around, suddenly realizing how well that last comment had carried in the cavernous lobby.

“… coming back …?”

“Dunno – tomorrow, day after. Based on the size of the stack of movie tattle rags on his secretaries’ desk, I’d have to guess he’s got at least two days to go.”

I nodded, taking the info in, watching his face as he made silent guesses. Eventually, he gave up on silence.

“She call you?”

“Dame Conklin?”

“No, Bess Truman.”

“Might have.”

“On a case for them?”

“Her? Not yet, but that’s my guess. She doesn’t usually have me for tea.”

“Any idea what?”

“Utterly clueless.”

He studied my face, trying to see if it looked like the face of a man foolish enough to cuckold a bank partner, civic big-wheel, and prominent former Klansman. Taking everything he knew about me – which was a lot - into account, Trent couldn’t decide one way or another, so he shook his uncertainty out of his head and moved on.

I fitted my hat to my head, then tipped the brim to him, saying “I think I just paid you back for the info.” He might disagree, but I’d just given him something shiny to play with, which would distract himself for the rest of the afternoon.

He tried to object, but all he succeeded in vocalizing clearly was his sigh of resignation.

I waved; he harrumphed; I was out the door again.

Maggie, diligent and methodical meter maid, was still a full block away up the street. She made me just as I spotted her, and I knew the fist she waved in the air was for me. She told me once how she knew I was up to something – “Dix, if you’re standing upright, and not flat out on a slab in the morgue, you’re up to something.” At the moment, all she could do was watch as I whipped out of the parking spot, abandoning my hydrant-side mooring for more adventurous seas.

My eight-cylinder carriage pulled up the circular drive to the Conklin house at 1:45. No liveryman met me, but then, even in the Conklin’ circles, liverymen had been extinct two generations. I half-expected a prissy and officious butler to meet me at my car and rigorously dust the commonness off of me before permitting me across the threshold. I was disappointed, but not enormously. Such imagination is the result of having spent too many Summer evenings inside refrigerated theaters, hiding from the heat, but simmering inside someone else’s fantasy. A few drinks beforehand in Hell’s Half Acre didn’t hurt that imagination.

A butler did greet me once I reached the door. No, greet is too warm a word. I was there; he was there, and by his intervention, the door ceased to block my entry. He, however, effectively blocked further ingress. I stood in the foyer while he stepped into the parlor on the left to skeptically deliver my tale of having been invited.

While I waited, I glanced around the oak-encrusted foyer and thought of what I knew of the Conklins – more specifically, what I knew of Evelyn Conklin. Her family was fairly recently arrived from New Orleans, recently being last generation. Her father was something in the cotton trade down in the port, but ran into a bit of trouble with a combination of alcohol and someone’s husband. The Lambeaux family moved up here post-haste while Evelyn and her mother were on a tour of France. Evelyn mostly had her Irish mother’s looks, or at least an updated version of them. Definitely not Irish Channel Irish – Doherty or O’Connor or some such name with a little weight was her mother’s family name. Evelyn Conklin had, as best I could recall, red tresses curling down past her shoulders like smoke, grey-green eyes, pert nose and a pointed chin. Her skin was more like Lambeaux skin, clear, but with a touch of olive from his mixed Acadian and Provencal roots. She was a few years my junior; her husband a few my senior, and then a few more after that. Two kids. Boy off at military school; girl somewhere close to graduating TCU.

He returned twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds later. “Missus Conklin asked me to tell you to please join her in the parlor.” Listening as he inflected the verbs left no doubt in my mind as to the social order. He was “asked;” I was “told,” even if “please” was attached to the telling. It was a cordial directive.

I could certainly take a cordial order on the chin if there was the soothing poultice of a job behind it somewhere. Even on a good day, the thing a private dick sells most often is a little slice of his pride. The results we produce are the gravy in the humble pie we eat, making it more palatable and less likely to choke us than failure and the barrel of our own hand guns.

When I breached the double doors of the parlor, her head tilted, and from over her shoulder she said, “Please, join me over here, Mr. Steele.” Her voice was violets and gardenias with a hint of molasses and mint. She curved her “R’s” inward, like a true daughter of New Orleans. I stepped around the room to the horseshoe shaped cluster of armchairs and chaises in front of the hearth.

She was dead center. She set a saucer and cup of tea in front of the chair just to her left. Clearly, that was where I was expected to sit. I sat, but didn’t enjoy it. My hackles were already rising. I have very sensitive hackles. They do that. At first, I perched, then decided “to hell with it” and sat back, teacup and saucer atop my knee.

Her one raised eyebrow suggested that I might have actually muttered the words aloud, rather than just thinking them. For every job I ever won with my tactical obsequiousness, I lost three times as many with my impromptu coarseness.

I raised my eyebrows back. I decided to let her decide on her own if I was doing so in anticipation, curiosity, or impertinence. As I waited, I couldn’t help noticing the way her neck curved down from her jaw and flowed into her shoulder. Like a swan. Once I let myself be aware of that, it was a very slippery slope downward. She was neither buxom nor scrawny. Everything about her body seemed to be moderate, save the glow she gave off. Tough men with guns gave me fewer butterflies than I had in my stomach at that moment. Not all of them, of course, but enough of them.

“You have to be wondering why I asked you to come.”

I nodded into her eyes, then grew very interested in the painting just over her shoulder.

“My husband – who happens to be in Austin at the moment – would never engage an investigator for this, so I feel I have to. As a banker in our recent hard times, he found himself with many enemies, as you can well imagine.”

I nodded my head, as if that were what I was currently imagining.

She went on.

“My husband arises earlier than me, normally, and one of the things he enjoys doing before the day becomes active is strolling our grounds. He says he enjoys the contrast between the tall buildings downtown and the natural beauty of the Trinity down the bluffs.” A belle of the Garden District doesn’t run to conclusions, whatever the tale and whoever the audience, so I listened slowly as the story trickled out.

I flicked my eyebrows to suggest that I thought she had a point somewhere in the distance. Perhaps a point visible from our lofty position atop the bluffs.

She continued.

“Two weeks ago, after a rain, he found tracks around the house – mud from the flower beds tracked onto the sidewalks around the house. He mentioned them to me. Actually, he mentioned them to me in a very accusatory fashion, if you must know.”

Clearly, she was of the opinion that I must know. I was less certain, but at that moment, I was willing to leave the question to her. My brow furrowed as it does when I’m working to focus on troubled words, instead of the heaving bosoms they tend to cause.

“After that morning, he had several other episodes where he felt he’d seen tracks in the dew on the lawn; mud on the sidewalk; a face peering in a window, a wrong number …”

She paused. I stared.

“He suspected me of indiscretions.”

She paused again. I stared some more. It’s handy sometimes, just waiting for the other person to grow bothered by the silence and try to fill it with information they hadn’t intended to share.

“He suspected ... accused … me of indiscretions that I’m innocent of.”

Interesting phrasing, I thought, wondering if he had ever suspected-accused her of indiscretions she was guilty of. While I suspected that she indeed had some indiscretions in her portfolio, I wasn’t there to accuse her. I might be thick, but even then I knew that much about fishing for a job.

She continued as I mulled over the possibilities. I blew on my tea. It wasn’t the nape of her neck, but it would do in a pinch like this.

“He wanted to put off this trip – ‘get to the bottom of things’ – he said, but there were too many appointments set up and too much riding on the trip, so he went on.”

“And?” I asked after her next sad and soulful pause.

Her eyes flitted around the room, alighting here and there on things that needed to be cleaned or straightened. I couldn’t help thinking that her mind was doing the same thing with her narrative.

“And … I wanted someone who could get to the bottom of this. I don’t know if he actually saw someone, or something. I don’t know if someone is actually a threat to us. I don’t know if I understand what is happening. I do know I am already quite tired of him mistrusting me.”

It still didn’t sound like a protestation of innocence to me.

“For my sake; for his sake; for our sakes, this needs to be resolved. I don’t know anything about you, aside from acquaintances who’ve told me that you make things happen.” Acquaintances. She knew someone on her social level who knew someone one level down who knew someone on my level who’d heard of me.

I watched her face, waiting to see what would take its place when this expression of domestic concern and anguish grew passé.

“I want you to make things happen.”

I was sure that she did. At the same time, I doubted everything about her story. Nothing unusual there – it’s part of my job to doubt everything about a client’s story while pretending it’s gospel. I’d sort things out myself once I had a retainer in my pocket.

“That’s a compelling tale you tell” I responded, without elaborating. I also didn’t elaborate on what I felt compelled to do at the moment.

“My rates are twenty-five a day with a five day retainer to start – for work like this.” I lied. My rates were usually fifteen a day, and if I got a retainer, I felt blessed by the gods. This crowd wouldn’t settle for anything that seemed underpriced, however, so I had to make it look good. Twenty five a day and a $125 retainer looked good to me.

“I’ll find out what’s actually going on.” That was a variant on what was normally my first nod to candor when speaking with a client. “I’ll do everything I can to bring it to a resolve that’s acceptable to you.” My second nod. If I can keep the client clean without running myself afoul of the law in the process, that’s my job. If I can’t, that’s their problem.

I emphasized “acceptable to you.” I might find out things she didn’t want found out, but as long as I was getting paid, I’d do what I legally could to work it out for her.

“So – tell me more about the comings and goings here – anyone in residence, etc.”

“We have three people on staff. Holst tends the grounds and drives me where I need to go.”

“He’d be the fella who drove you to my establishment earlier today.”

For some reason known only to her, this statement took her slightly aback, but she nodded to the truth of it. My eyebrows invited her to continue, and she did.

“Malcolm takes care of the house and the staff in general. He has a room here, but also lives elsewhere. He’s always on hand for guests and events. Minnie came with the house. She cooks, does laundry, and cleans.”

“Three people, only one of whom overnights here.”

“Minnie does now and then, when we have an event that runs past the last streetcar, but that’s not but about twice a month.”

“Does your daughter, young Miss Conklin, live at home?”

She shook her head. “Not as anyone would notice. Belinda is Chi Omega at Texas Christian, and spends most nights there. We do keep her room, however.

“House guests, frequent visitors?”

This got a cagy smile out of her, even as she shook her head. “No nothing of that sort, Mr. Dixon.”

“Steele”

“Pardon?”

“Steele. Dixon Steele.”

“Of course,” she nodded. “A good name in your profession. Who would hire a Mortimer or a Clarence?”

“I once knew a private di~ I mean an investigator … his Christian name was Clarence. Davenport was his last name. Sadly, both names fit him. He was a davenport through and through, if you take my meaning.”

“I do, Mr. Steele. And you?”

“Me?”

“Does your name fit you … through and through?” One corner of her mouth turned up at her own cleverness.

“I like to let people make up their own minds, though I can’t say I’ve had complaints …” I wasn’t sure what I meant by that, but it gave me a little distance while allowing me to play along with my brand new client.

Here eyebrows rose slightly. I’d say they were bemused. She was too old for the gesture to be coquettish and too many social steps above me for it to be playful. Or so I thought.

At the edge of a slippery slope, it was time to get back on the rails.

“The … uhh … staff. Any issues? Disgruntlement, unreliability, shenanigans, disloyalty?”

“They’re all quite loyal to me.”

“And Mr. Conklin?”

“He’s dreadfully loyal to me.” There was impatience in her voice and weight to the ‘dreadfully.’ It left her mouth coated with Mississippi mud, and the corners down-turned. Though that wasn’t the question I was asking, I noted the word choice and the tone. The implication was unavoidable.

“What I mean is the staff and him.”

“I have a rapport with them. With my husband out of the house as much as he is, the relationship is different.”

I waited for her to elucidate. I waited in vain, as would often be the case with her.

Wanting to fill the hanging silence, she added, “It’s just different. I’d never say they were disloyal to him. Also, Mr. Steele, there are no shenanigans to speak of amongst my staff.”

I pondered a moment, tugging at the cuffs of my trousers to straighten them, then spoke.

“One of three things is going on, Miz Conklin. The first, maybe your husband is letting his imagination embarrass him. It wouldn’t be the first case of a man with a very attractive younger wife doing so. The second, you’re stepping out and have gotten noticed. Also not the first case of this happening with a man and his very attractive younger wife.”

Her face reddened on cue, and due to no embarrassment on her part. I’ve had innocent, rosy cheeks pulled on me by the best in town before, by some smooth operators, even though as a private dick I can usually spot them a mile off and manage them. I continued.

“The third is that someone is actually stalking you or your house and has slipped up. So, it’s only a matter of time before he’s dealt with. And let’s add a fourth – someone’s playing games with you or your husband. That’s easily the least likely, for what it’s worth.

“And what’s your current theory?”

“I don’t have a current theory, currently. Not about the particulars of this particular case.”

“About anyone involved in the case?”

“I’ll keep those to myself for the present, if you don’t mind.”

She started to pout, then decided to tuck it back away for later. On and off like a light switch.

“What are the odds of any of the four, Mr. Steele? You’ve been doing this kind of thing a while.”

“Well, I avoid these cases whenever I can, but for all the ones I’ve seen, by the time a husband or wife gets suspicious and calls me, it’s already a fact.”

“But I called you myself.”

“That you did, and it muddies the picture. Not beyond resolution, mind you, but it gives me more to think about. A smart chess player might call it a gambit. A smart poker player might call it a bluff. Do they play much of either down in New Orleans, Miz Conklin?”

“Lord, in the middle of summer, that’s about all some folks have the energy to do, Mr. Steele. Though I dare say, I never got that good at either – too many other distractions. Speaking of distractions, I wouldn’t like to think you’re taking my money and not attending to things at hand. Will you be pondering me and my situation, Mr. Steele?”

“That I will, Miz Conklin. That I will.

Then we sat there, neither of us wanting to be the one who blinked.

“And what will you be wanting from me, Mr. Steele?”

I paused too long – long enough for the corners of my mouth to curl. She read me like a pulp magazine.

I didn’t even try to make excuses for what she was now perceiving. The best I could do was redirect. I squinted. It didn’t help, but it’s what I do.

“A retainer will start me off. I’m sure I’ll have questions. Considering your caution about getting this taken care of without your husband’s involvement, we may need to speak at odd hours. You might consider how best to accomplish this, before it becomes necessary.”

We both paused. We stirred our own teas. We peered into our cups.

“I’ll do that.”

I gave a tight smile, stood, and brushed my trousers.

“I’ll be in touch. My girl will bring you a copy of the contract, and can take the retainer when she comes.”

She nodded. I nodded. That was the safest thing to do.

I left. Also the safest thing at that point.

Contrary to my impromptu posturing, it occurred to me when I reached my car that I didn’t have “a girl” to send. I’d come up with one. Alice could be reasoned with, particularly if it meant even a moment’s entry into the Conklin home. She always got a special sparkle in her eye when Quality Hill was mentioned. I don’t think it was the money or power so much as fairy tales her mother indoctrinated her with. Like I said, she’s a good kid, but definitely on the innocent side of my tastes.

“Same old stuff,” I moaned to myself as I flung my suit coat onto the passenger seat of my car and started around the grounds. More who’s cheating on who or whom or whatever. Thirty seconds out of the house and my refinement vanished like a summer shower.

There wasn’t any sign of tracked mud on the sidewalk at that point. The help had probably vanished it the very next morning. Lazy servants don’t find permanent positions on Quality Hill.

Tracks in the dew would be impossible to discover. I figured maybe a couple of stops on mornings when I was actually out of bed close to sun-up would turn something up.

I’d made one loop of the house and found myself on the north side near a recent planting of hawthorns next to the cellar doors. I was all set to walk the fence line when a divot in the hawthorn bed caught my eye. It wasn’t exactly a footprint. There was an old root sticking up an inch, and from the look of it, someone had caught a heel on it and taken a tumble, maybe planting one hand in the dirt about three inches deep. One of the hawthorns looked like it could have been disturbed, so I shook it. The whole plant shifted left to right. Definitely disturbed.

I had on the shoes folks typically refer to as their church shoes. Since church was a purely hypothetical construct for me, I call them my client shoes. I cursed as I stopped in the middle of the shrubs for a better view.

It was nothing a judge would pay a lick of attention to, but I was ready to bet a fiver that some peeper had taken a fall there since the last rain two weeks ago.

It was dry enough not to make a big mess, but nothing looked to be eroded, and that was a good rain we got.

As I was coming back out of the bed, I realized I was being watched. I glanced up, and there was the lady of the house peering down at me from a second floor window. I couldn’t quite make it out from the angle and the glint from the sun, but it seemed more like a dressing gown she was wearing, and not the peach colored dress she’d worn during our meeting.

Her face was blank. I felt like a dull exhibit from some detective museum. The closeted warmth from our recent encounter seemed to have entirely faded.

The only reaction I got from her was when I touched my hat to acknowledge her. She seemed to start, looked like she was going to bolt, and then settle back as she was.

I turned away and smiled to myself, not because of her, but because I’d just caught the butler scowling at me from what might have been a library window, just under hers.

His expression was much easier to read. If I had a shot or two of bourbon in me, I’d have likely stormed back in and one or the other of us would’ve wiped that dark smirk off his face. Even so, it didn’t seem like something I wasn’t quite ready to put out on the table with her yet. I wanted a better idea of what his game was – and to make sure that it wasn’t simply a ruse of her making. Back to the first rule: look like you’re trusting your client, but don’t be crazy enough to actually do it.

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years ago

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when the moon goes wrong - RL

that child stuffed his empty places with the pain that milled around him

~children. ~elders. ~in-betweeners. donors all.

infused agonies seared and softened parched nerves - empathy by immersion

decades later, lives later, the fire sings to him like dram to its drunk

when the moon goes wrong

and the darkness clots and pools between his toes.

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years ago

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I fold my words - RL

I fold my words into a boat they take me past the breakers past the shoals

into deep waters where the dark things are

He's out there in the cold water

Might be you might be me

not home not whole

waiting

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years ago

Text

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet. It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house. Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing. They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block. In the mornings, it was okay. Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in. Fun was fun, but getting run over was not. Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day. New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee. Muscle memory, they called it. He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble. At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox. He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch. He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said. He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti. He drank most of the Riunite and two beers. It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space. He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer. He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it. He needed something burning inside at that moment. Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind. He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters. Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam. What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest. Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong. He took a while before he said "Nothing." It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus. "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?" "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said. He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war. It didn't work. They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere. It had been done. Done to death. Canada? It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some. A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody. Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind. He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy. Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone. Practice was at two and their gig at nine. Maybe they knew someone. He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone. It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window. Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction. He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl. "In a Silent Way" by his namesake. He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up. Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left. His finger. His cousin Greg had found his own answer. Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.] He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't. Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence. There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right. Pool. He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone. Grip the stick tighter. Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him. Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw? Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go? Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with. But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee. Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand. Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right. Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window. He drummed those two fingers on the table. Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers. Left hand? Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam. What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie? Ring and pinkie? Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad. They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said. "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch. Then he laid on the couch. Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone. He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk. His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker. Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center. He got another shot. Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game. Whatever the game was. A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles, what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable. He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus. And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup. He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood. If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then. I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that. I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man. I don't think I've still hit bottom. When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally. Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me. I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts. They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass. It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping. There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry. Little high. Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in. Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab. Least I can do.' Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered. Somewhere. Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink. He finished the drink Carl left behind. He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans. "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded. He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes. He reached, but then stopped. "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom. She held him and he held her. They didn't manage sex. The alcohol and the draft board saw to that. They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat. Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room. He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him. His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together. Layers and layers of masking tape. She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while. A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink. He was at the dinette. "I, uh, threw up a little. Cleaned it up, but some got on it. I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then. She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets. The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her. She remembered and looked at his hand. No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing. I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know." He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know. I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe. Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park. We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded. He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it. The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath. The breeze was soft but refreshing. They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted. It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days. She gathered their sandwich trash. He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies. Cherry and lemon. She took lemon. He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine. Coke for him and Tab for her. He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can. They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids. Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers. His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them. Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths. She kissed him and he kissed back. Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit. His hand was still cold from the Coke can. She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom. Windows were open, but windows didn't matter. She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face. His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her. She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust. She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter. They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest. She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard. She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath. Don't take too much of a risk. Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse. They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now. She also wasn't going to be a single mother. If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed. The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them. He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her. She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche. Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows. Winds slapped the blinds back and forth. All the rage outside was inside, too. This was a fuck. His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass. He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him. Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped. The angle worked for her, and she came and came. Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning. They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons. She came hard like that. Angry orgasms. She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her. She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her. He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave. She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him. She keened and clutched and scratched. Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge. The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there. He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her. He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over. His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength. He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone. His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone. She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen. She came back and shut the door again. The water came back on. He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again. The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more. By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out. Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out. His first thought was she was walking home at 4am. He was about to roust himself to stop her. He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table. Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over. He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night. He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience? Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them. His place, her place, her purse, just in case. Didn't even bother last night. She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop. Just was. Except last night. He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty. She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop. The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine. This confused him more. Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time. She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her. His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing. Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape. Just not engaging. He stepped back and she slowed. Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second. He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind. He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off. He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over. "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze. Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter. "Here comes the shit storm" he thought. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder. She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through. He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did. Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious. Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds. Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root. Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed. At least he'd done something, though. He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over. Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint. She was leaning in to him. They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob. Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch. They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy. They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember. They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other. The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again. Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned. They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something. He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still. It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something. Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams. Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter. The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes. He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House. They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist. He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi. When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat. Chelsea didn't stir. He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do? He just needed someone to hear him. The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard. He could go to [pirate place?]. They were always open to people they knew. A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe. They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door. He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man? Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so. Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown. "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price. You could claim you were a fag, also a price. You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere." Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately. But there was a price. It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything. He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either. He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go. I just wouldn't get to shoot back. That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths. The words filtered down out of the air. When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda? Down at the garage?"

"One and only. He got his letter a year and a half ago." He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam! He still had the stitches in when he reported. Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages. Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded. A moment later, Miles' glass was full again. He reached for his wallet. Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet. The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared. By 8am, Miles was toasted. Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on. Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan. Getting fried was no plan. The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7. The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon. He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said. Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on. Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor. "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?" She went to bed. Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess. He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming. The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there. They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though." She hated it. They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed. He stared at the tree, not sure where to start. Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears? That didn't seem right. Maybe the ones that were way overloaded. No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started. He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy. That gave him confidence. Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one. It had to have 50 pears of different sizes. He held the baby branch and started sawing. He was half way through when things twisted. There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward. The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!" He threw the saw down and jumped back. The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung. He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. I coulda lost my thumb. Son of a bitch." Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers. He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night. What would that have been like? What the fuck can you do without a thumb? He picked the saw up again. He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again. The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious. Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb. Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass. Not the left. The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air. Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang. Then a dog went crazy barking. Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him. Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find. It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint. On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa. His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago. There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually. The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house. He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen. There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam. There were dozens of furniture store commercials. Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked. He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him. Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen. The only light in the house was the tv. Saying something. After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway. People ran around in dumb-ass costumes. Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud. Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why. A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing. He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing. Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane. Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam. Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive. Not just his body, but who he is. Coming back intact. How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam. They'd be casualties. They'd belong there, right? He imagined. Getting a box. Packing it with excelsior. Maybe straw. Straw seemed more appropriate. They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it. Did he know anyone over there? Someone he could send them to? Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor? "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere. Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care. Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones. He savored it. Wanted it right. Do you say it pissed off or calm? Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask? He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning. Had he really mulled for six or eight hours? From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog. She came in and touched his forehead. He stirred. Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch. He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up. She walked through the house. He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall. She touched things. She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair; she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from. Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat. She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard. She walked on down to the bedroom. He heard the bed squeak. Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture. Tapped the frame three times. She glanced his direction. He thought his hand went up in a wave. He wasn't sure. It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry. Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table. He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop. He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone. No glass, just the pitcher. When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back. Restless. Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's. It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef. For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar. He liked Trish. She always had a smile for him. She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair. She shimmied. That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile. She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story. He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else. It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking. And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care. She just wants to know what's going on. She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you. That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else. "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's. He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden. 'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels? I mean, Miss Jackson?' She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air. Her cane had fallen over. He grabbed the cane and boosted her up. The dirt on her hand was warm and soft. The skin on her hand was cold and dry. She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor. He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid. His hand was still cold from touching her. He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest. Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast. He shuddered. Just the thought chilled him. 'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him. She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps. 'Might-a been you, young man. That other day, I mean. No, they wasn't anyone with her.' She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door. 'Do you know anything about water bugs?' He shook his head. 'It's hot out here.' She shook her head and disappeared through the door. He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door. She was right. It was hot out there. Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house. Barbara didn't even open the screen door. That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door. "Damn bitch stinks of rum.' He kicked the screen door. It rattled in its frame. It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him. She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player. Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane. Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath. He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse. The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him. Barbara didn't care, though. She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him. Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman. More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law. That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment. No dice there, either. At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further. But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it. He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue. He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place. He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there. That was good. He wanted a party. He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost. He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed. The beer had to be in the back yard. He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery. Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing. He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence. There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes. At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick. No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard. She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.' There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels. He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes. Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest. He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve. 'Oh, goddamn, man. Wheredju come from? I soooooo sorry!' She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know. The woman with her, though, was Trish. 'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere. She tucked herself under his right arm. Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt. That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people. Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out. Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc. She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone. He was pretty gone, too. Good weed. Better than he could usually afford. One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog. That woman had come back. She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying. Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out. Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some. She was wasted. She tried to smile, but her face just hung there. Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious. She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing. She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him. "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in. "Hey, what I said there ..." He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong. "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick. "I'm not doing anything right now." Her lips reached up and drew his down. They were good lips. Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them. Miles immediately started getting hard. The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly. His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance. Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom. Their bedroom. She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel. She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh. She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt. She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start. Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion. He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault. How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level? he scooped one hand into her top. Her tits were the perfect size. Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat. He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted. She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh. When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair. She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming. Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment. She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body. Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced. He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes. When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside. He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where. Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember. He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way. She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose. He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat. She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels. Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked. She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think. My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then. Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded. "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had. Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't. He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering. I haven't said anything to Reince. Just curious. I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun. You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea. Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it. Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him. That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there. She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra. He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality. The pot hadn't lasted near long enough. Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have. He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around. He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe. I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint. He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from. It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure. Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness. In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss. When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs. Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him. He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor. She was ready, and breathed him in deep. Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him. Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again. The war would wait. He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared. He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done. She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him. They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug. They stood close and looked around. Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued . "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod. Sure could use options. That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket. She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow. She picked a third out and offered it to Hank. He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek. Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon." Miles held it close enough to read. Hank walked off as he focused on the words. Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips. He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper. As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone. He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later. When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead. The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots. It must have been around three o'clock. He could check his watch, but that would've been work. Too early for such exertion. When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs. The humidity was starting to simmer. He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew. Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat. It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow. It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head. They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough. He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room. He wasn't alone. The room sounded different. It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you. I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning. Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her. He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window. There wasn't a lot of warmth there. He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him. "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing. I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair. Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice. It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his stomach. He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe. More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark. He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet. It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen. He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air. He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head. He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding. The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found. Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head. He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom. He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals. It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways. He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping. Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were. He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles. He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was. Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off. She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends. He wanted to see her. He felt like shit for how he'd been acting. Childish, self-absorbed. Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions. Not just sex but relationships, too. Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list. Things were going to sort themselves out, though. They always did. With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end. He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card. He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal. He'd stay here. He'd stay with Chelsea. They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more. He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go. His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation. Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever. Get things rolling. While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack. When he was done, he tried it. There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going. He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market. First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door. Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door. Or she might want to stay in and cook. He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack. Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's. He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. Someone recent. Whoever he was, he wasn't happy. Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite. He lurched side to side as he walked. He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times. Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying? Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score. Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees. Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay. The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you. We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far." As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you." His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest. It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure. Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean. His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up. [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk. One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go. He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife. Jesus, what was his name? He couldn't concentrate. Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something. It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain. Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes. The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time. He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer. At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted. That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair." He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket. The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down. It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was. She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug. That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter. She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards. He'd like a few minutes of your time." She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day. Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk. A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving. He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds. He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles." He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer. Neither spoke. He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter. "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again. Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by. We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders. This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab. It wasn't empty, or anywhere close He glanced through it. One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder. "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little. It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story. Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish." He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue. For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked. Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said. He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t. There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on. He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish. Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear. They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off. When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming. Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him? It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further. He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket. They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys. Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment. “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through. At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him. Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe. The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off. He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him. Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap. It was good shit. The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed. When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district. He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home. She was probably still pissed anyway. Give her more time to cool down. He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine. Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much. He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back. Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle. Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic. He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine. Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know. He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy. He danced around the idea of working for the feds. Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole. The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used. Miles felt better when he left the garage. Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink, sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek." She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep. Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow." The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning. He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting. He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea. He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing. They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing. They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last. He'd wait. If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke. Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes. The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer. It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges. A housecoat backed through. The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee. What was actually there was a Coors fat boy. He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece. She gave a start when he came into view. She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him. She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside. It was ten seconds before the door slammed. She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug. They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound. Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days. He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence. All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing. That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses. She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years ago

Text

Fifteen Booths - Chapter 1 - RL

It’s lunch. On a good day, I have forty-five minutes, no more, and I get it at a moment’s notice from the big Boss Man, Mr. Peters. There’s always something that needs extra hands at the warehouse, so you take what you can when you can, is what he says. Sometimes, I only have thirty minutes, and every once in a while, I have zero minutes and I’m starving by the end of the day. Today, I have a full forty-five minutes as long as I get out of the building before he thinks for something else. I have my sandwich in wax paper. I have my bag of chips in a twist tie bag, and I have my can of Dr Pepper. The lunch bag, which I recycle until it falls apart, fell apart today, so they’re all loose. I find a vegetable bag that someone left behind in one of the cabinets, so I stick all of them into that. Looks like a homeless guy’s lunch, but it all chews the same.

When the weather is good, I’ll go over and sit maybe at the Water Gardens, or I’ll go up over by the courthouse. Burnett Park is about as far away, but there’s always so many streets to cross that it takes damn near forever, so if I want trees, my only good option is the Water Gardens. It’s okay, though. Most of the time, I’ll go sit at the edge of the big pool, the one they show in Logan’s Run. They shot it last year here, and a bunch of friends and I came to watch in the middle of the night. I don’t remember what that pool is called, but I like having all that rushing water in front of me. Sometimes I can get mesmerized, though, and I feel like I’m about to get sucked into the waters, tumbling down the steps to a very wet and sore death. When that happens, I’ll move over to the plaza or go sit on the edge of the quiet pool.

Wherever I end up sitting, which is usually something I don’t figure out until I’m down the sidewalk a ways, the bottom line is that I get some fresh air and a little time away from Mr. Peters, and then I go back and I can get through the bullshit day, y’know?

I put my windbreaker on – it’s only October, but we just got a front come in overnight and it’s sixty degrees with a light drizzle. That’s all we’re supposed to get today – drizzle, so I'm not too concerned. I stuff my lunch into my jacket pockets and head out, past someone with their radio on, the news going on about some trip President Ford is taking to the midwest. Or Middle East or something. I'm too hungry and in too much of a hurry to really pay attention.

I hit the back door and automatically check my pockets for my keys. Doing so, I fish three bills out of my pocket. I have two fives and a twenty, but I don’t see how. Did I get too much in change somewhere? Usually, this time in the month, I only have ten dollars in my allowance pocket, and then I remember. Mary Ellen and I were planning on going out to the movies night before last to see “Oh, God!” which just came out, but she ended up starting her time of the month that morning and didn’t feel like going out. That explains why I have fifteen dollars more than I was expecting.

So, I’m walking out, and I’m going to the Water Gardens, and then, two blocks down, it starts to rain. Not heavy, but if I walked a mile, I’d be soaked. I’m right next to the Greyhound station, and I actually think about going in there. I can sit on one of the benches and just eat my sandwich in peace. I see like three homeless guys wander in, though, and I figure, it’s middle of the day. Place will be full. Chances are, I’ll be stuck next to these guys and they’re gonna smell like wet dog. That would be the best scenario. Worst would be they’d smell like dead dog. Yeah, that always goes good with bologna and American cheese. Not for me, my friend.

So, I keep on walking, trying to stay under overhangs as much as possible, but there’s not a lot of that on the Hell’s Acre side of downtown. The heart has been gone for, I don’t know, ten years I guess, maybe the mid 1960s, but there’s still plenty of run down rat holes around the edges that you’re not going to get a lot of awnings and stuff.

It goes from raining to pouring. Not only pouring, but pouring and blowing – blowing right into my face. I’m half way to the Gardens, which won’t give me any cover, and the same distance back to the warehouse. The next door on my right is an arcade, not a game arcade but one of those dirty movie arcades, with the tiny booths and films running all the time.

Truth is, I’ve never been in one. Some guys at the warehouse talk about going in them after work, watching the 8mm loops or maybe getting a booth with a real dancer. She’s on the other side of a glass, but still, it’s a real woman there, in “all her glory.”

I don’t have a lot of options for escaping the rain, and the one that means getting the least wet is right in front of me, so that’s the one I pick. It sounds like an excuse, but hey, it’s the first time I’ve used it.

I push through the door and before my eyes adjust to the dark, the door snaps shut and I’m left in a skinny hallway with a window and countertop about ten feet down. I walk up. An old guy in a Mets ballcap is on a stool with a cashbox on one side and what must be forty stacks of quarters in front of him.

“Hey … uhh … mister. It’s my first time here. What do I ~”

“Two bucks in quarters gets you through the curtains.”

I hand him a five. He starts to slide five stacks of four quarters my direction.

“Sorry,” I say, “all I really want is two dollars worth.”

He keeps sliding and says “Don’t got any ones yet. Still early.” He cracks the lid of the cashbox about a quarter of an inch and tosses the five in, then scoots the box back a little like I’m about to make off with his fortune. I know it’s a scam. He’s got to have ones in there, but I guess he figures guys will spend more quarters if they’re carrying them around.

I scoop the quarters into my hand and drop them into my pocket as I start to go. Then, I turn back and add “What kind of ~”

“Film booths down both sides. Green light means empty, red means occupied. There's a card on the doors telling you what's showing in that room right now. We got a whole mix of movies depending on your tastes.” He gives me a quick eyeball like he’s assessing what my tastes are likely to be. “The three rooms on the far wall have the models, when they're here, which is usually after lunch.” I nod, then he remembers more “Oh, and the rooms where the projector isn’t working, there’s a big white sheet of paper saying so. We got maybe two out right now. Don’t even think about going into those rooms, ‘cause we have them locked. We catch anyone in there, and it’s his ass.”

He just stares at me at this point, and I think the only thing in his head is wondering what the hell this stooge is doing in there when he has no idea when he’s doing in the first place.

I wait a sec to see if he's going to say anything else, and he isn't, so I turn and walk between the velvet curtains, just like in a regular movie theater. Just before the curtains close, he adds one more thing. “There’s paper towels – don’t leave a goddamn mess!”

It's much darker in there, on the back side of the privacy curtain, and I almost walk into the dead end wall before I see the faint left and right arrows right under signs that say “We have the right to refuse service to anyone at any time” and “No loitering.” The loitering sign has a city ordinance number down at the bottom even though the lettering is the same as the other sign. Official or not, even if I had the inclination to loiter, I don’t have the time. I swing to the right and see the first row of booths. Both sides of the little hallway have something like a pantry door every five feet or so. Half of each wall is made up of doors and there's a sign on each one and a light over each one. Rows of little doors with little lights, like, I don't know, the confessionals at the Vatican, maybe. Plenty of doors, no waiting. I'm immediately embarrassed by the thought, though, and tell myself to add it to my own confession this week.

A guy with a mustache comes around from the far corner and just stops to read the first sign, so I stop and read a different sign. I don't want to give him the wrong idea. The first one has this big swirl of color and says "Swedish Erotica" on it, and there's a picture of a guy and two girls doing it right on the card. He's sitting and the first girl is sitting on his lap facing out and you can see their whole business right between her legs clear as daylight. The other girl is leaning in and kissing the first one, and playing with her breast - the first girl's breast, not her own. And they are all buck naked, of course.

I stare at that one a bit and think about going in, but the light is red. Lots of rooms, I tell myself, and walk down one door. That one has the same big swirl of colors, but this time it says "Color Climax." This card has the same blonde girl that was standing up in the first one, but she's on her knees now, and a dark-haired guy is behind her, holding on for dear life and she's got a face like a howler monkey. They must be about done, it looked like. I think about going into this one. The light is green, but I decide to hang off and check one more.

When I move down, the other guy glances my way and moves a door closer, too, until we're standing in front of adjacent booths not three feet from each other. This one has a big black man and a girl with pigtails. She's on the couch and displaying her altogether to the world and he's leaning in so he can put his enormous thing in her mouth. This light is green.

I look around as if anyone is going to notice or care if I go in, then walk in and close the door. I latch it, too, with a flat kind of sliding latch though I don’t think it’s necessary. It’s there, though, and I’m a little obsessive about locking thing when a lock is offered to me. Besides, that’s probably what activates the little light over the door. There's one wood chair in the middle. Every edge of every flat surface, from the chair to the rim of the projector screen has little burn marks from who knows how many cigarettes left resting there. There’s also a roll of toilet paper on a handmade shelf and a little waste can in the corner. I think that's kinda odd and puzzle for a couple of blinks, then I remember what the guy said about paper towels, and it dawns on me. It's so a guy can do his business right there when he gets cranked up, and nobody's the wiser.

The screen in front is a yellowed grey and covered with streaks that I avoid thinking about. I almost sit down and get ready for something to start, but it doesn’t take me long to decide against doing that. There’s no telling what might be on that damn seat. Actually, yeah, I do have a real good idea what’s on it and I don’t want any of it. I take the toilet paper roll with two fingers though and spin it around so it unspools, then I yank it into pieces long enough to drape over the seat. Not perfect, but close enough. I shift and the quarters rattle in my pocket and I remember what they’re for.

I pump a few quarters into the slot below the screen, being very careful not to touch anything. They clatters down through the machine’s little maze, then the sound seems to rise up from behind the screen. The projector starts flashing a completely naked woman on the screen, brunette with medium size breasts and curvy hips. She’s walking right to left and black lines are worming their way down the screen from left to right, running right over the top of her as she goes. She looks a little like my girl, Mary Ellen, but I’ve never seen all of Mary Ellen. We’ve only gotten as far as second base, but looking at this woman I can imagine what Mary Ellen would look like if she was naked. I’m sitting there watching her start to play with herself on the couch and I just remember that I’ve got my lunch and better get started on it. Before I know it, the rest of the forty five minutes is going to be gone, and I’ll be starving the rest of the afternoon.

I unwrap my sandwich and crumple up the wax paper and toss it into the trash can for two points and start to chow down just as she is sliding a big black fake penis up inside herself. She has all my attention, ‘cause like I said, I’ve never seen any movies like this before, maybe a random picture here and there, but not a whole movie. I’ve for sure never seen a naked woman in real life. The most I’ve ever seen is up Mary Ellen’s skirt to her panties, but even then everything was covered by her panty hose, so she was doubly covered.

As I chew away on my bologna and pickle sandwich her fingers are going wild on her privates and she’s rocking away in wonderland. Before I know it, my chewing is in sync with her rocking. Chomp-chomp-chomp – rock-rock-rock, and I’m completely lost in what’s going on in front of me. I can feel pickle juice running down my the inside of my sleeve under my jacket and shirt and I know it’s going to end up sticky because these are bread and butter pickles, not like my usual dill pickles, and they’re just more sticky like that. But I don’t care, really, because I’m fascinated, y’know.

All of a sudden, the door rattles and I jump and almost choke on a piece of pickle. It’s latched – I latched it when I came in, I remember that clearly, but still it was a noise I wasn’t expecting. I spit my mostly un-chewed piece of sandwich into my palm and call out “Occupied!” like the latched door and the red light weren’t clear enough. I guess they weren’t though, because why else would he be wanting to come into an occupied booth. Dumbass.

Anyway, so I think about it twice, and then go ahead and pop the sandwich bite back into my mouth. It didn’t even have time to get cold. I swallow it, then wash it down for good measure and then I turn and double check that the latch is secure.

I keep watching and in a few minutes, she’s joined by people who I think are supposed to be neighbors, like maybe a couple from next door. There’s no point in really trying to describe it except to say that, if there was a position two women and a man could have sex in, they try it over the next fifteen minutes or so. I can hear latches snapping and doors opening and closing every few minutes up and down the hallway, other guys coming and going from other booths, but I don’t see any big reason to come and go. I have plenty to watch right where I am.

So that’s all I do for the next fifteen-twenty minutes. Eat, drink, watch these three have sex, and feed the machine. A quarter buys two and a half minutes, so eight quarters get me a solid twenty minutes, which honestly is up before I realized it. My sandwich and my baggie full of chips, I practically inhaled, but I still have some Dr Pepper left in my can. I’m trying to be judicious, knowing that it’s only 12 ounces, but this awfully thirsty work, like we say over at the warehouse.

The handle gets jiggled twice more, but since I’m kind of expecting it, it doesn’t startle me. It annoys me, but there’s a big difference.

When the last loop ends, I give myself a minute to get more presentable and then gather up my Dr Pepper can, baggie and wax paper. I’m about to carry it out with me and then I remember the trash can, which I didn’t use for anything else, but it seems kind of tacky to put regular trash in. Not that it’s some special semen box, it just feels weird, suddenly, to have brought my lunch in. Somehow, the “normal” thing is to sit there in the dark, with the bleachy smell and the cigarette smoke smell soaked into everything, and the abnormal thing is to have my lunch with me, and I feel a little queasy. I toss all my stuff in the can and walk back out the windy hallway and right out the front door. The mustache guy is still back there, reading a sign just across the hall from the booth I was in. I don’t look at him, but I can see in my peripheral vision that he glances my way. The manager or owner or whatever the old guy is, is reading the paper and doesn’t even look up as I pass him on the way to the door. No hello or goodbye or “Come again!” which is okay. It’s not a chatty kind of place, y’know? The only way to tell I’d come or gone is the door chime making its “bing-bong” sound as I pass through it. I didn’t notice it when I came in, but I can sure hear it now.

It has actually stopped raining – quit sometime while I was in there. The sidewalks are all wet, but the sun is already out, at least for a moment. The sunlight on the water makes a nasty glare in places, and I’m trying to shield my eyes as I walk back to the warehouse.

It’ll be forty-five minutes on the dot when I walk back into the warehouse, I’m sure of that. Maybe a minute early if traffic is light and I don’t have to wait for a crossing sign.

The afternoon is a busy one. We’re in the middle of adding a little more office space, and so the floor crew, which includes me, is having to move some racks of document boxes around to make space for the expanded walls. It’s not bad. At least there are no chemicals to spill in this move, which has happened to me there before.

Before I walk out, I call Mary Ellen from the break room phone to see if she wants to eat. I offer to come pick her up and we’ll go to the Swiss House, like we planned the other night.

We’re sitting at dinner and I can’t help but think about the girl on the screen, the one who I thought looked like Mary Ellen. Looking at her now, I can see there’s really no resemblance. No real resemblance anyway. Her hair is different, her face is different, nose, eyes, even her breasts. Not that I can see them, but if I glance down while Mary Ellen is looking someplace else, I can tell that Mary Ellen’s are maybe a little smaller. It might be the blouse, but probably not. At the time, though, I sure kinda wanted them to look alike … to imagine Mary Ellen like that. Not that I don’t do it myself sometimes when, y’know, but it seemed like it was a lot easier doing it that way, with the movie.

“What would you like to do after dinner, Brendan?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. We could maybe go to the drive in. It’s going to be nice, but we’d have to pick up a paper and see what’s showing. We could stay on this side of town and go see “Oh, God!” at the Meadowbrook, since we didn't end up doing it the other night.”

“Maybe not the drive-in tonight. I hate walking back to the restrooms on a regular day, and you know, right now …”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Yeah, no, let’s not do that.” I really had forgotten why we canceled the other night, at least for that moment. That time of the month.

We just sit and stare at the picture on the wall next to us for a few minutes.

“Are you okay, Brendan? You seem quiet tonight.”

“Me? Nah. I’m probably just a little tired. Things were kinda busy this afternoon and I didn’t sleep good last night.”

“Oh. Well, maybe we could just go to the Tandy Center for a while and have some ice cream? Maybe there’ll be skaters we can watch.”

I’ll be honest. I perk up a little at the thought of skaters, but I don’t want her to notice.

We drive to downtown and park in the Tandy lot by the river, then take the subway in to the Tandy Center. The whole place is nearly empty, but the ice rink has two skaters, probably a mom and her kid. Maybe a babysitter and somebody else’s kid. He was about ten and she was maybe ten years older than me. Mid thirties seems about right.

We watch them for a while. She’s a good skater. She’s probably had some lessons. She also has the right body for a skater. Curves, but not too many or too big.

“Did you ever skate, Mary Ellen?”

“Me? No, not really. I’d come to birthday parties here when I was younger, but I never had lessons or anything and I never was any good at it? Do you skate, Brendan?’

“No, I’d just fall down if I got out there. I’m not graceful enough on the ground. I’m sure not going to be any better on ice.” We both have a good laugh at that, and Mary Ellen touches my arm like she’s saying “You’re silly, but I like you anyway” that way women do. “She’s good, though, Mary Ellen. You might like it if you had lessons. They probably don’t cost a lot if you do them here.” It reminds me that we’ve never been dancing yet. We could go dancing, Mary Ellen and I. I’m okay with safe things like the two-step, and they made us learn the waltz in P.E. when I was in Junior High.

The son - the boy, anyway - stops and rests against the rail for a bit while the mom or sitter or whatever goes out and really opens it up. She’s really good, and in a way that I have trouble imagining Mary Ellen being. I try to picture her out there, in that body, doing the gliding and the little loops, and it’s hard. I still like it, though. I could give her lessons for her birthday, but that’s not coming up until May.

Or I could make a surprise gift to her. It doesn’t have to be her birthday or anything for me to give her a present. We’ve only been going out a couple of months, since about the time she went back to college, but we’re pretty close for just two or three months. I don’t think she’d say it was too much.

I reach down and squeeze her hand and we watch her some more. When the boy skates back out into the center, we’ve already finished with our ice cream, so I stand to go. She tugs me back down by my hand and says, “Please ... this is so sweet. She seems like such a nice mommy, doesn’t she?”

So we watch for a while, and I’ll be honest, I’m day dreaming a little bit. The boy spins off from the woman and takes a big tumble, then just drifts for another twenty feet, spread eagle flat out on the ice, twirling as he goes. I kind of miss the first part right after he launches, but I look over when Mary Ellen gasps. Almost immediately, though, the mom is there, leaning down to give him a hand up. She’s turned just the right way that someone could see down her blouse maybe, but she covers her cleavage when she bends. She’s no rookie there, either, which I kind of embarrass myself thinking, but hey, it stayed inside my head, so no harm, no foul, I say, right?

We’re both about done at that point. We walk back to the subway and as we’re waiting for the car to show up, Mary Ellen snuggles up under my arm like she’s cold, but she’s not. She just says, “Thanks, this was nice” in a little, soft voice. She stays like that till the subway car comes, and then snuggles back in when we’re on the car, heading out to the far stop where I parked my car. It’s so much better to park out there. You have less congestion around you, both in terms of cars sitting and in terms of cars all tangled up trying to get to the exit and blocking you in until they can move out of your way.

I walk her to her door. Her dad is home. I can tell because just as we get up on the front porch, the porch light comes on. Even when we go up the steps quietly, he knows. She’s twenty two now, and you’d think she was still sixteen the way he watches over her. We sure don’t fool around together much at her house.

When I start my car up and drive away from the curb, I think about that woman on the film again. She and Mary Ellen looked so much alike. Maybe kind of creepy, I guess, but I don’t let myself dwell on it.

The next couple of days, it’s real busy at the warehouse, plus it started raining that next morning. It ends up raining for two days straight, so there’s no way I’m going to go wandering anywhere with my sandwich. I just sit in the little break area each day and eat my sandwich and chips and drink my Dr Pepper, and I read through all the old issues of Field & Stream that my friend Kyle brought in from his dad’s barber shop last week.

On the third day, I’m starting to feel trapped, and like I want to eat lunch out, so I leave my sandwich and chips at home. I could treat myself – I could go over to that burger place in the Tandy Center, or I could go to the little barbeque place next to the Federal Building. I don’t know which yet, but I just step out the door, put my sunglasses on, and start walking. I’m letting my feet decide. Right away, they seem to start drifting toward the barbeque place, and I let them. I love their chopped brisket sandwiches, and it’s still pretty cheap even if you get the chips and soda to go with it.

It’s all going great, and my stomach is getting set on the chopped brisket, and then I decide to turn one block earlier than I usually do, and there’s that movie arcade just down the block on the right. I do good, though; I just walk right on by like it’s not even there. I go on to Robinson’s and I get my sandwich and chips and a Coke this time, and decide to walk over to Burnett Park. I should have stayed and eaten at the bench in front of Robinson’s, but I didn’t. As soon as I start walking, I know where I’m headed with my lunch again.

I feel a little guilty because I was raised Catholic and we feel guilty for the wind blowing, but I’m also – to be fair – feeling guilty because I know what I’m about to do and I do it anyway. I don’t think Jesus is too happy about it, no. But I also am pretty sure this isn’t the biggest issue Jesus has to worry about on a Thursday afternoon in October. All I do is watch a movie for a few minutes while I eat my lunch. I don’t think I’m going to hell for a movie.

So, I’m there and I’m all by myself this time. Nobody else in the hallway, anyway, though some booth have their red light on. Also, I can just make out the sound of other projectors running and other sounds seeping in. I walk around more and pick a different booth from the first time. I’m not looking for anything in particular, just something different. Roll the dice and take your chances. What’s the Mousetrap game motto? “You roll your dice, you move your mice” or something like that. I did glance at the pictures on the door, though, just to make sure it’s not anything like two guys or something else weird. I’m a little annoyed at myself because when I got a lot of change from the guy at the counter. I go ahead and ask for a whole five dollars’ worth, like I have time to sit in there for … well, however long five dollars would take. I guess if two dollars is twenty minutes, then five dollars would be almost an hour. But again, quarters spend everywhere, right?

I feed in only two dollars’ worth, just to make sure I don’t get carried away. The projector starts and what I see this time is a party and at first the couples go off into other rooms for sex, but after a while, it’s all happening out in the open and with multiple people. Girls are kissing and touching girls, two guys are both having sex with a girl, things like that. This goes on in all kinds of combinations. I open my drink first and take sips from time to time. I also open my chips, but I feel very self-conscious for some reason. Every chip sounds like glass bottles falling from the sky. At least I can sip my drink quietly, but there’s no way I’m going to go through even one of those tiny bags of chips without making a lot of noise. I eat maybe three or four and it sounds to me like I’m walking across broken glass, so I stop. I don’t even touch my sandwich. I can either pay attention to the show and sip my drink or I can pay attention to not getting barbeque all over my shirt. So, I pick the show.

One guy who shows up late has an enormous penis, and three of the girls – a redhead and two blondes - race right over like they’ve been waiting for him to get there. I can’t even describe what they’re doing because every minute or so it changes and they’re doing something different. There was one scene where one of the blonde girls was holding the guy’s penis for the redhead while she put it in her mouth and sucked. I kinda wish that the blonde holding it for the redhead were the brunette from the other day, the one who looks so much like Mary Ellen.

Then my time runs out. It just runs out. There’s no warning, no nothing. One minute the projector is going and the next minute it’s dark. It’s so abrupt. I start to put in another four quarters, but I talk myself down. If I put in just one quarter, then I can see a little more before I have to go back to work and it’s not just a sudden stop. I pop the quarter in and sit back down. The film picks up right where it left off. The guy has reached down and he has his hand on the redhead’s head, just holding it in place while he starts thrusting. I set down my drink, which is now empty, and put my right hand down on my crotch. I can feel my own hardness through my jeans, and I imagine that it’s my hand resting on her head. Quietly, I start moving like him. Very quietly.

The projector stops again and I think it really couldn’t have been two and a half minutes, because it seems like it had just started up. Who am I going to argue with, though? The projector? The old fucker up front at the counter? Like he’s going to worry about whether I’ve seen my full two and a half minutes of his dirty movies. Time is time, though, and now I have to get back to work. I’ve got eight minutes which should be plenty, but still -

I scoop up my can and toss it in the trash. I almost do the same with my sandwich and the rest of my chips, then I remember how hungry I am and calm myself down. I stuff the two of them into my pockets, unlatch the door, and next thing I’m out on the sidewalk.

I eat while I walk, which is easy enough with the chips, but I slow down a little when I’m working on the sandwich. I still don’t want to get back to the job covered in barbeque sauce. I zip up my windbreaker. At least most of it will fall on the jacket and not onto my clean shirt.

Later, when I’m leaving work, I think about calling Mary Ellen and seeing if she wants to get together. It seems like maybe I should do it, but I don’t really want to. Wednesday isn’t one of our usual nights, plus sometimes she has church activities anyway so it’s very hit and miss if we did want to do something. I must just be feeling guilty, and wanting her to reassure me that I’m not a bad person, or that she has no idea of what I’ve been doing. I don’t feel like going home though, so I take a walk around downtown for a bit. I happen to walk by the arcade twice. No, that’s not true. I just happened to walk by it once. I walk by it on purpose the second time. I don’t go in. Not either time. Instead, I walk on to the Richelieu Grill and have a bowl of their chili and a grilled cheese sandwich. That’s a lot of food, but it was a busy day, and I was pretty hungry. After I eat, I walk around a little more. A new cold front is coming in tonight, they say, and I can already kind of feel it. I don’t walk by the arcade again. I go home.

That night, as I’m getting ready for bed and taking care of business like they say, I think about the redhead and what she was doing. I imagine her as a brunette while she’s doing the oral sex thing. It seems like a good look for her. A real good look. She would actually look a little like Mary Ellen if she were a brunette.

The next day, everything is just off. I’m going the wrong way at work and everyone is annoying me. I’m edgy, which isn’t all that unusual, especially if Mr. Peters is having one of his Management by Riding Everybody’s Ass days. By the time lunch comes, I really want to get anywhere but the building. I don’t even want to see the building from wherever I am. I think about going back to Richelieu’s, but I brought my sandwich and chips, and besides, I’ve been eating out almost every day it seems, and a couple bucks here and there start to add up after a while.

So, I get my jacket, sandwich and chips and grab a Coke from the vending machine before I leave the building. I’m going to go to the Water Gardens for a while and just sit in the sun.

It’s a great plan, except when I get outside, I find the wind has really picked up. It was breezy when I came in, but now it’s really gusting. Still, I made up my mind, and that’s where I’m going to go. Make a plan, stick to it. I turn down Commerce, and even with the Convention Center in the way, the wind is still blowing in my face. That’s okay, though. I can sit on the bottom step of the mountain next to the plaza and be protected from the wind. I’ll shoo away a couple of panhandlers, and then they’ll all leave me in peace.

It’s still a good plan, except when I get there, there’s about a hundred elementary school kids there for a field trip or something. Four FWISD buses on the street and kids everywhere, but especially in the middle of the plaza where they’re settling in to have lunch.

So much for my great plan. There’s nobody to yell at, though. Do I yell at the kids for being around or all the adults for bringing them, or the wind for being a pain in the ass in the first place? Right. That’s what I’ll do.

As a payoff for the aggravation, though, I decide that I’m going to enjoy myself at lunch, and you know what that means. The wind almost yanks the door out of my hand when I get to the arcade, and even rattles some of the display cases with old posters. I just walk right on through and shake my handful of quarters as I walk by Grady, who is the old man who runs the place. Or at least, he’s the guy who sits at the counter while someone else runs the place. Probably the mob or someone like that. I bet if I ask, I could buy a marijuana joint from Grady or maybe some uppers or downers. Random fantasy, because I wouldn’t know what to do with any of those things.

I brush past an older guy in a ball cap and sports jacket and just walk back toward the booths with the girls. I stop when I see the little sign next to the first booth that says “Live girls / $5 for 10 min / $12 for 30 min / $25 for 60 min.” Even I can figure out that two thirty minutes cost less than one sixty minute, but maybe they don’t get too many of the sixties. Or maybe they want people to stay more than ten minutes but less than an hour. ” At any rate, I figure maybe I’m not going to see a live girl today. I wasn’t planning on spending so much, even if it’s a real live girl on the other side. Also, as I look around, I don’t see any pictures. Whoever is in there could be eighty years old with boobs down to her hips for all I know. That’s definitely not worth five dollars.

So, I backtrack down the hall. The guy in the cap and jacket is still where he was when I came in, reading the same sign he was reading. I don’t feel like going around the long way or squeezing past him, so I just turn left into the last booth before where he’s standing. I close the door and start rummaging through my pockets to pull out my lunch. First, I get everything out, then I start the movie and just relax. Today, I don’t care how much noise the chips make. If someone doesn’t like it, they can stuff it.

I pop the tab on my Coke, sit down, and immediately feed four quarters into the machine. I empty my pockets while the reel starts up. It has fewer scratches and damage than the one yesterday, plus the colors are better and it’s in focus. I figure that means it’s a lot newer. I can’t tell from clothes because nobody has any. It just starts with this redhead pulling this guy back on top of her into a big four-poster bed. It has canopy, drapes, big pillows and comforter – the works. No warm up or foreplay. He just starts pounding into her like gangbusters and she’s wrapping her legs around him and making all kinds of crazy grunts.

That must be the point where the door opened because all of a sudden, I can tell someone’s right behind me. In all this, I didn’t lock the door, I figure, and there’s a cop who’s just walked in on me violating who knows how many laws and health codes and things. My heart is pounding. I want to jump up, but I just freeze.

The guy puts his hand on my right shoulder and leans in to my left ear. I just know he’s going to start reading me my rights or tell me to stand up so he can put cuffs on me. Instead, he just says “I can help you feel even better” and starts massaging both of my shoulders. When he’s in close, I realize he’s the ball cap guy who just waited until I was settled and followed me into the booth I left unlocked. His breath smells like a queasy combination of chaw and doublemint.

“Oh, uh, sure, but no thanks.

“Nobody’s gotta know, buddy. I’ll just latch the door again and you can get our dick out of your pants. You’re gonna love it, trust me.”

“No, that’s okay. I ‘preciate it, but that’s alright. I’m gonna pass. Uhh ... listen, I just put ... umm ... a buck into the machine, but I’m going to head out. I got stuff I have to do.”

As I pop the door back open, I’m embarrassed at barely managing to say something that lame.

Of course I don’t really need to think of something clever. It’s not exactly a social error that I’m not interested in getting a blowjob from a guy. Even knowing that, though, it occurs to me that maybe that’s what most guys come here for. Does everyone but me just prowl around until they find a guy that lets them into the booth? Maybe this guy really does think I came in wanting it and then got scared.

Grady is probably getting used to me sailing out of the place. Maybe most guys sail out of the place once they get whatever it is they want there. That makes sense now that I think of it. Like people, guys I mean, are going to hang out in a waiting room or something and have tea? First off there’s no room down that skinny dark hallway. Second, holy crap, can you imagine what kind of germs and stuff are probably all over in there?

I’m nauseated now, and my heart is pounding. It’s just so strange, y’know? I had no idea what I was getting into when I went in the first time. I just figured I get a cheap thrill and that would be it. I’d go in for lunch every now and then, and that’s all, Here, I’m already going in three days in a row, but I tell myself it isn’t all my fault. If it wasn’t for the school kids, I’d be eating lunch at the Water Gardens right now, and not trying to get it eaten walking back to the warehouse. And then, I get even madder at myself because I realize that I don’t have to worry about eating as I walk because I left my damn sandwich and chips back at that … that darn place! Now, I’m muttering to myself as I stomp down the block. “I can’t believe all the darn stupid crap you get yourself in all the time. If it’s not one thing it’s another. You really try ~”

I stop myself there because those aren’t even my words. It’s my mom in my ear, saying all those things she always says when she gets mad. The next thing she says is “~ our patience sometimes. I don’t know what your dad and I are going to do with you.” Even now, when I’m twenty two and mostly living on my own, I have to listen to that business a couple of times a month. Even now, I’ll pick up the phone, and if she’s not yelling at me, she’s telling me how concerned she is about me ever making anything of myself. Last week, she called at ten thirty on a Tuesday when I was already in bed, and spent twenty minutes telling me that dad had run into Mr. Peters at the Meadowbrook golf course, and just happened to ask him how I was doing, and all Mr. Peters would say was “Oh, fine. Fine” in a way that didn’t sound to my dad like I was doing fine at all, and he came home and told her about it, and she’s been worrying herself sick since lunchtime that I’m going to get fired from another job and nobody was going to hire me because I’m getting a reputation.

Really all that in one sentence - hand before God. Now take that sentence and make it twenty minutes long and you’ll see what kind of noise I have to put up with, and then maybe it’s not so bad that every once in a while, I waste a couple of bucks on something that doesn’t exactly make me a good citizen. And y’know, that other job I got fired from, and there really was only one, was a lawn mowing job back when I was fifteen, and I got fired because the boss’ son came back from college before the end of the year, and the guy was desperate to give him something productive to do. He even apologized to me, for crying out loud, because he couldn’t afford two of us and he was stuck with his son or his wife would give him “holy hell” – his words. I went home and told my parents and they acted like I’d just confessed to burning down a church full of puppies. I told them exactly what Mr. Sloan told me, but it didn’t make any difference. Here I was at fifteen, about to ruin my life and end up panhandling and living in the woods at Trinity Park. Well, I guess now you know that, when I get mad, I can get pretty long-winded, like my mom – unless I just shut up completely – also like my mom. I couldn’t get mad at myself the way my dad does, ‘cause there’s no way I’m taking myself into my room and beating my own ass with a belt until I can’t sit for a week. I have to laugh a little. It’s just so crazy. I really want to give Mary Ellen a call just to say hi, but she doesn’t get to take calls at her office, and I don’t have time at the warehouse to get anywhere near the payphone that’s out in the loading dock.

I guess it’s okay that I left my lunch behind, because I’m not feeling very much like eating. If I didn’t have a real upset stomach when I walked out of the arcade, it did just fine until the real one showed up. Fortunately, I do have a big bottle of Tums in my locker basket at work. That’s going to pretty much be my lunch today – a handful of Tums and maybe a quarter’s worth of peanuts from the Tom’s snack machine. Tums and Tom’s, the lunch of degenerate losers.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in a mood. I don’t want to talk to anyone and I don’t want anyone to talk to me. I work up a pretty good sweat loading archive boxes onto the cart for disposal, then unloading them near the shredder. Back and forth, back and forth. I see Mr. Peters watching me, and maybe he’s a little surprised by how much I’m getting done. He shouldn’t be, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

On the way home, it occurs to me that maybe I’m just bored at lunch. If I had something different to do, that would probably change everything. I’ve gotten tired of sitting outside and watching birds at lunch, but if I took a magazine along or maybe had a little radio with me, that could be exactly what I need. That’s an exciting idea, and for the first time all day, I’m feeling better about myself. I realized that all I needed was a plan and now I have one.

There’s a Wards and a Sears up at the mall, but there’s also a Radio Shack not a mile from my apartment, so I stop there on the way. At first, I’m very disappointed. Everything I’m seeing is a radio and a cassette or eight-track deck combo and they all run anywhere from seventy to two hundred dollars! I’m walking out of the store with my mood hanging down to the floor and I see a little display of AM/FM portables, which is all I want for cryin’ out loud. There are two – one for fifteen and the other for twenty-two. I could probably go with the more expensive one, but I look at both the boxes and as far as I can tell, the only difference is that the more expensive one has a bigger speaker and runs on C batteries, and the other runs on nine volt batteries. They both come with an ear-phone and have a carrying handle.

Easy decision. I take the cheaper one. I have to skip fewer lunches to pay for it, right? It’s been an expensive week and “not as much” is the perfect price for me. I pay with a twenty and the cashier asks for my address and phone number. I just shake my head. They always ask and I always say no. They say it’s so they can mail catalogs. I’ve given my address before and I’ve never gotten a catalog. I don’t know what they do with them, not that I think they do anything evil with them, but still I don’t feel like playing whatever game it is they have going on. Ask my parents. They’ll tell you I have a problem with rules that I don’t understand. Ask my mom. She’ll talk your ear off.

Anyway, I make another sandwich when I get home. It’s a big sandwich to make up for the one I left behind earlier today. I call Mary Ellen and we talk for a couple of minutes, but I’m tired and still a little irritable, so we hang up fairly soon. I want to tell her that I’m really feeling good about this, but that would involve telling her about what brought me to this, so that’s not going to happen. I don’t want to make her put up with any of this noise. It’ll pass and things will be fine, and she doesn’t need to even know. It’s a non-event. Seriously.

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