EPISODE THREE: THE BIG FIX
Uncertain Endings
I spend most of the night watching TV, mainly flipping through channels while nibbling on peanut butter crackers. I manage to hold down the crackers, which help relieve the hangover.
As I go through another cycle of basic cable channels, I come across a selection of pay-per view channels, which pique my interest. I switch off the TV before my flesh starts to stir and step outside for a breath of air.
I grab some change from my car and use it on a soft drink at a vending machine.
I piddle around the lobby area—if that’s what you want to call it—and as I’m skimming through travel brochures, I notice the shady desk clerk is tracking me down with his droopy eyes.
I can imagine the waste of flesh that he’s staring at right now, like something that just crawled out of an asshole.
“Is there anything I can help you with, cowboy?” he asks me.
I step closer. I get about three feet away from him when all of a sudden I walk into a wall of cologne. I do a double-sniff. I pick up another stench hidden underneath all of that other artificial crap. I examine the desk clerk’s unusually white eyes, then his two front teeth, which have been slightly grinded down by his lower teeth. Then, I look over his shoulder and spot a glass of chocolate milk next to a partially eaten Moon Pie stuffed with what looks like barbeque potato chips on his desk.
Takes one to know one, I guess.
II
After I hook up the clerk with the same amount of “pot” that I gave Flip—close to an eighth—which is more than he asked for, I head back to my room and order the movie Debbie Does Dallas from one of the many pay-per view channels called VV (the first V stands for Vintage. Don’t ask what the other V stands for). Despite the ridiculous name of the channel, it gets the job done. According to the desk clerk, it’s on the house.
I prop up a couple of pillows behind me and watch.
And I watch.
I watch until my eyes burn.
I never get hard, though. Not entirely. I should. The blood is there, throbbing inside my veins, but I don’t get a hard on—at least not until I turn my thoughts to the strangely cute girl from the boardwalk.
Tent City.
I stay with her face, her ink-stained fingertips removing the black bra before me.
Undressing.
I focus on each dimple on her face, each curve of her bare chest.
I focus on her body, not Debbie’s body as she does every man in Dallas, but the black but not really black girl’s body.
I pull myself from my thoughts, now racing out of control, and I witness her face on the fuzzy TV screen—her mouth open, moaning—then her body on top of a hunky porn star.
Naked.
Both of them are naked.
Hard and drenched with sweat.
Excited.
She’s straddling the actor, thrusting.
He switches positions, and he’s on top of the black but not really black girl.
Thrusting.
And I keep going, and I’m angry too not for how pathetic I am to be fantasizing over some girl whom I hardly know, but for what the actor’s doing to her. She likes it. He likes it. I like it, too, but I hate it. I like being angry. I hate being angry. I like watching the porn star do her the same way Dallas does Debbie.
All of a sudden, the actor turns his lecherous gaze toward the camera. A narrow beam of light shines like a masquerade mask over his sparkling blue eyes.
I gaze back at him; and I realize the porn star is the same guy from Lassie’s—the girl’s boss! And he’s about to climax all over her. And he wants me to watch.
I switch off the TV before they climax; and as I always do, I finish my business in the bathroom.
III
The next morning before checkout I wake up to the softly spoken words buenos días.
A wall of sunlight slices through one half of the room, causing me to bolt upright.
I look toward the doorway where a stubby maid is standing outside the room. She’s watching me. Waiting for a response. We both make eye contact. Then, she struggles to look my way as she excuses herself, as if she just caught me jerking off, and then shuts the door behind her. I throw on some clothes and go outside and tell the maid that I forgot about the time and I’m leaving right now and then she pushes her squeaky cleaning cart to the next room and goes about her business while I gather all of my things. I contemplate staying another night, but I don’t have any money—and I prefer not to see that desk clerk again, especially after he sees what I’ve been watching all night on pay-per view. I leave Los Alamosa, still slightly hungover from the other night. Like I said, one for the records.
IV
I drive past Topside and head north toward the Point.
Along the way, I drive through the one place I thought I’d never consider staying. I remind myself I’m already in it, waist deep. I’ve already met Conrad’s son, Nicholas or “Nico,” as he called himself, already hung out with Nico, already partied with Nico; and for all I know, I’m already as tight as crossed fingers with Nico—if Nico’s still alive?
What other reason would he invite me back to his place?
I drive around Apple Ripper’s neighborhood and find a couple of houses with foreclosure signs. I’ve heard a lot of vagrants squat in these types of houses. I take my chances.
I remove my revolver from the glove box, check the chamber, and make sure it’s loaded. Just in case.
I drive past a somewhat decent-looking house—decent, as in appropriate—and mentally mark it. I decide to abandon my car in the parking lot of a Dollar Store on the outskirts of Richport. Like Herald’s Point, Old Town is a town that rests in the morning shadows of Los Dementes. A flickering bulb of a town that’s no stranger to police corruption and brutality. Unlike the Point, Old Town managed to survive all of the media storms, the scrutiny, the vandalism, the chaos. The town’s been limping on ever since. Not dead. Not yet.
After the shooting, both Thomas and Susannah, especially Susannah, felt nothing but disdain for Old Town and what it had become. Ever since Cedric Gaines, the “young black male” who was convicted on all counts for the shooting of my brother, all of the emotions and frustrations Susannah had locked inside her were directed at black people (after all, she grew up in a black and white generation where TV shows like Father Knows Best and Leave it to Beaver, shows mainly centered around white families, were considered staples for America. Which, I guess, “back then,” made sense). At times, spurts of rancor would randomly dribble out during conversations. For instance, whenever a person cut in front of her and that person was black, she would specifically identify that person as a black person, not some “asshole” or some “bitch pulled out in front of me,” but a “black person pulled out in front of me;” or whenever a person had given her back talk or showed her an attitude at the store: They have no respect—they, as in black people. Anytime Susannah felt any hostility during one of her daily jaunts or whenever she ran into an issue while running errands, her emotions were driven by the actions or discourteousness of “some” people who happened to have a darker pigmentation than her. Susannah was like me when she was younger. She thought that she was right all the time, even though she was wrong half the time. She went through that stage of teenage rebellion—always right, no matter what—which, I think, was out of spite for having been brought up in such a stale, stagnant, and sheltered environment where everything was cookie-cutter. Everybody followed rules. Nobody was ever rude. And nobody ever, ever showed an attitude toward another person, even to his or her superior, especially to his or her superior, like a boss or elder or whatever. Everybody worked hard at what he or she did. By having grown up in that innocence (her father, a respected salesman who would’ve made a great game show host, and her mother, a homemaker), she once told me the defiance that emerged was not only an incarnation of retaliation for her parents setting such high standards for their daughter, but also the inspiration from one of her best-loved bands, Jefferson Airplane. The song was “War Movie.” The lyric: From our nation the rock is raised no need to hide from the other side now. Over time, I think not only the shooting, but also all of the other “countless shootings” that were happening more often in America, most of them mainly concentrated in “young black males,” had eventually worn her down—dare I say, make her numb—as well as weakened her spirit as a law abiding citizen, which made me wonder if all along Susannah had some sort of prejudice toward black people or any other people who were different than her. She claimed that she once had a black friend when she was a little girl. They practically did everything together. Went to the movies together, which, back then, was unheard of. I guess. What do I know? I never lived during that time. She said they’d sit in the top balcony with the other “colored” people. I questioned Susannah once about her views and her argument was that she didn’t necessarily “not like blacks;” instead, she didn’t like people who took advantage of the system—basically, all “lazy” people in general, the ones who didn’t work for a living, the ones who took money out of the pockets of hardworking breadwinners living paycheck to paycheck, busting their asses in order to put food on the table. She didn’t like people who didn’t have “respect” for other people. She didn’t like people who didn’t “care” about others. I think the shooting brought out a lot of those core issues that had been buried well beneath the surface.
Thomas, on the other hand, didn’t dislike black people. His argument was that he disliked “bad” people and what they did to good people. Thomas and Susannah were good people; however, I think they—especially Susannah—expected everybody to be as good as them. Black. White. Whatever.
Along the way, I work on the leftover snacks from the convenient store but I can only hold down a couple of bites before the nausea comes back. I make sure to stay hydrated.
(I read about dehydration in a Finding Fit magazine and how the blood can thicken when the body is dehydrated)
I reach the same house that I spotted a block away from Apple Ripper’s crib. I don’t see a soul in sight, only a stray dog with as many scars on its face as a mediocre boxer.
I check the windows first.
On the living room floor is a sleeping bag.
After a thorough study along the exterior of the house, I conclude that nobody is home.
I walk around and make it to the backyard—if that’s what you call it. The yard looks more like a giant sandbox. The grass appears as if it’s been scorched by the sun. The wooden fence that surrounds the yard in a perfect square has been picked through by both man or rabid dog; and a couple of planks from the fence lay scattered in the yard.
I keep my revolver close and sneak through the back door. Part of the door panel has been chewed up by what looks like an animal or even a crowbar.
I do a sweep through the entire house and conclude that the house is, in fact, vacant.
I move my search into the living room. Inspect the sleeping bag, which is covered in dark stains and smells like a used diaper. The trash is months-old, from what I can tell.
I roam around the kitchen. Shards of broken glass from a window lay forgotten in a sink. I’ve lost my switchblade, and I need a sharp object for close quarter combat—if it comes down to that. So, I grab a piece of glass that closely resembles a knife and place it in my bookbag. I use the rest of the glass to my advantage and sprinkle the jagged pieces around the floors of each entranceway, first by carefully placing several pieces behind the front door, then laying down a heavy perimeter around the back door. Just in case.
After that, I grab a two by four from the hallway closet. This, like the glass, can be used to my advantage as well.
Then, I pass a torn curtain dangling from the window. I rip off the bottom half and take it with me to the bathroom. Cockroaches or water bugs or beetles or whatever insects scurry into the baseboards and holey caulking, which has as many cracks as a deadpan desert. I make sure to plug the drains. I find a used condom, all shriveled up, like a piece of cooked spaghetti had been thrown against the wall behind the toilet, then left to dry out. The evidence is missing from the inside, as if it somehow evaporated into this rare fertile atmosphere.
I check the cabinets next. Empty. I check underneath the sink, which is spackled with thick layers of mold. More insects, as well. It’s not a Best Western, but, as Flip would say, it’s better than nothing—or nutting?
I lock the door, wedge the two by four underneath the doorknob, and set my bookbag next to the bathtub. I’ve seen worse.
All of a sudden, the feeling of not knowing what will happen next strangles me and I can’t release myself from its grip. I have trouble breathing and I start reaching for deeper, more laborious breaths. I’m tired of feeling like this, the lack of control, the lack of calm. I just want to end it all.
Is this me hitting bottom?
I mean, if this isn’t Hell, then what is?
I do the one thing that I told myself I’d never ever do. I don’t bother removing the contents from my bookbag. The only thing I remove is my revolver.
I empty the chamber into my palm. I grab a bullet and toss the others aside. I load the chamber with the bullet. Spin the chamber. Close it. I place the barrel to my temple. All in that order. Then, I squeeze my finger against the trigger and start to pull. My greatest masterpiece. My middle finger to a world that gave me lemons and then told me to make lemonade without a please or a thank you. I’ve decided to throw the lemons back at the world, tell it to go fuck itself. Is that all you got? Lemons? I say fuck your lemons. I gave you a chance, world, and yet, you didn’t give a shit about me. Never will. So, this is my last retort.
When the jinxed coroners examine me, they’ll gawk at each other in similar awe as the audience experienced when Beethoven performed Symphony No. 1 in C major in Vienna.
At the same time, they’ll blurt out, “What a masterpiece?”
Every thought on display. A pastiche of light and darkness. How awfully wicked my masterpiece shall be. They’ll even snap pictures before the cleanup crew arrives to wash away my savage little world. Afterwards, they’ll catalog them in evidence lockers to later be discovered by young, aspiring sleuths; and when they gaze upon my masterpiece, they’ll wonder: What in the world was this kid thinking before he blew his brains? I expect my entire world to be painted all over the jizz-stained walls. Lights! Camera! Action! Boom! My masterpiece. Instead, all I hear is the hammer going click, the piercing sound rattling my bones.
I check my body, then my head, my face, my eyes. Check the chamber. I was one more tug away from creating my masterpiece and the thought of coming “this” close to death causes the air to escape my lungs. I fling the revolver across the bathroom and reach down in the middle of my body for a breath.
I picture myself back at Red Pines, inside William’s cozy office, listening to his words. I calm myself.
I check the window one last time. I take the curtain and ball it up as well and use it as a pillow.
I down the rest of the water in the bottle before I can wrap my head around what just happened and rest my head against the curtain inside the tub.
I tell myself: just an hour or two of sleep.
That’s all I need, just an hour or two, and then I’ll be good to go.
Licensed to Steal
I hear a tapping sound coming from the dark woods as I paddle canoe-style down a river inside an open coffin. I begin to sweat from the humidity of the swampy South. The clouds suddenly darken and swell up like foam above me; and next thing I know, I’m paddling through a downpour. The tapping remains, though, both in shape and rhythm. I move much faster down the river. My wooden paddle cracks, then breaks in half, and falls into the river. I have no control over where I’m going. The rain starts to picks up. And that’s all I hear, the beating all around me like a flock of euphoric children dancing in unison. At that very moment, I realize the dream ceases to be a dream. Fuzzy lights build around me until the darkness is no more. I’m no longer in a river. Yet, I’m standing over one. It’s nightfall. It’s raining. Nico’s dripping wet face remains blurry behind the Glock. His face is much younger, I realize after I focus on the ridges of his face. He carries that same silly smirk on his face too. The devil’s smile. The rain falls harder—at times, slanting sideways. I direct my eyes upward, my face getting pelted by bullets of rain; and in a cold shower of rain, I find myself in the beam of a soft amber light.
I turn to my right.
A man.
All I can see are his hands, a row of stony knuckles that have recently pounded on something solid such as a person’s face—Jimmy’s face. Pieces of raw skin have been shaved away while other pieces remain dangling from his red knuckles like shedded skin. They’re bruised and bloody as well.
I turn to my left where I witness another man standing next to me, and both of these men are holding me upright. My arms are numb. Same with both of my legs. Numb. They almost feel as if they don’t belong to me anymore. The ache in my head lessens as a weight slips from my sinuses, like a sheet of ice falling from a glacier.
I pull my attention back to Nico standing on the edge of the street, lights glistening over each of his shoulders like fields of nebulas.
The rain continues to jab at my face. Harder now. Faster. Muffled claps of thunder rumble across the night sky. I anticipate the light. Soon, there will be light. Then, blackness.
Nico readjusts his grip around the Glock and says over the beating rain, “When you meet God, my friend, ask Him to forgive me.” Nico pulls the trigger. A flash of lightning blinds my eyes, forcing me to open them…
The rumbles of thunder seep from the nightmare and send me into a state of alertness. I listen closely to the fading thunder. But it’s there, the sound, less in intensity and yet constantly tapping like a woodpecker with a dull beak. At times, tapping sporadically.
I reach for my revolver next to the tub but my arms will not move!
I panic.
My heart rate rises. I look down at my arms. I see them and yet I cannot feel them. I bolt upright and bang them against the side of the tub. My left arm gains feeling but not before a rush of blood shoots through the arm and causes a temporary pins and needles sensation. I grab my other arm, as cold as a penguin’s tale, and feverishly shake my noodle-like arm until blood rushes back into it and then that sensation runs through the arm yet again.
I remove the revolver from my bookbag. Check the window. I pinpoint the sound a couple of houses down. A roofer is nailing down a shingle with a hammer. The sun has hardly moved at all. Either way, the headache has lessened substantially. And that’s all that matters.
Sleep can wait.
I gather my things and set a couple of booby-traps around the house by mainly stacking objects like empty cans, as well as standing twigs, against things that open or close such as windowsills and doors.
As I’m about to exit, a shiny object catches the corner of my eye. I want to keep moving, mainly due to my rumbling stomach, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
A metallic object glitters in a beam of sunlight, twinkling like a distant star, begging.
I stroll through the living room and kneel down over the object. I pick up a small figurine. Hold it in the light for a closer look. It’s a small pendant of an angel.
The etching underneath the angel reads: the saving grace shelter.
The sight of the pendant strikes a chord inside me. And I tell you, that chord resonates for what feels like a crescendo that never ends. The notes of a ghost hanging in space. I can’t control myself any longer. I let it happen. I don’t know why I’ve been getting like this as of lately, especially after long nights out of heavy partying. I can’t rally a drop when I’m sober. When I go a day without a drink or a smoke, I’m like a jittery machine with a defective fuse; and yet, when I’m dealt with a hangover so excruciating that even the smell of alcohol makes me sick to my stomach, the tears come more freely. Like a wound that’ll never stay closed. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, why I can’t gain control. It’s like the pieces don’t fit anymore. Before all of this crap started—I mean, before Jimmy’s death—I was the king of my castle, priest of my church, master of my slave. Now, I feel like I’m less than a peasant. I feel like I’m dirt. It’s been happening more often too—all of the crying—and there’s nothing I can do about it. It just happens. The mornings after are the worst. When it rains, it pours. I guess. Sometimes, I wonder if there’ll be a day when I can’t cry anymore, when my tear ducts have been permanently sealed shut and all that comes out is dust. Like the same way I felt at Red Pines, me all doped-up, with that post-surgery feeling or lack of feeling draped over my body like a heavy quilt. Thomas went through the same crap after all of the riots and protests against law enforcement. That temporary numbness. Some nights whenever Thomas wanted to leave the job at the door and concentrate on being a father, the job wouldn’t let him. Some nights, he couldn’t escape the noise. Some nights, he couldn’t hide all of his frustration. The badge that Thomas proudly wore had no longer represented a Hero of the community, a Mentor, a Guardian. The badge had been forever tarnished. Just another corrosive symbol of discord, something on the brink of abolishment. The word cop had become associated with a bigot, a bully, and a butcher, the world’s most evil triplets. I remember he’d come home betrayed, abandoned by the very city that he fought to protect. Wouldn’t say a word to us. We kept our distance, including Susannah. He’d never lay a finger on her. Never hit her, although, I’d be lying if I said that he never came close to striking her. I think the only thing that held him back was the thought of his father and the way he treated his wife, Grandma Backer. Thomas would shut down completely, as if his emotions were on sleep-mode. Nothing was getting in. And, if anything was getting out, I prayed for whoever was on the other end of his wrath.
After I stop being all dramatic, I perform an exercise of belly breathing before exiting the house. I make sure not to step on any glass on my way out. I avoid the pair of roofers and walk down a barren alley tucked away behind the houses until I reach a main road. The smell of cooked meat seasoning the air causes my stomach to speak not with a gentle roar, but, more or less, a boisterous ribbit.
Not too far away is a rundown strip mall, which looks both dead and alive. I pass what’s known as a dive called Reuben’s Ribs where a long line of people is wrapped like garnish around the front of the smoking hut-like structure. I seek out a couple of people waiting near the back of the line—one of them, I notice, chatting away on his cell phone. Pickpocketing is all about distraction. Similar, if not the same as a magician’s trick. Most picks are done while the individual who’s being picked doesn’t even know he or she is being picked; otherwise, you’d come off as a mugger and I’m no mugger. I don’t even bother distracting the guy. With him, no need. Instead, I do a “graze,” which is in the vein of a “bump-and-grab;” however, it’s way more subtle. I graze shoulders with the guy. He’s a chubby fellow with love handles mushrooming over his belt buckle, covering his hips like a fleshy man skirt. The way I look at it: I’m doing the guy a favor. His cardiologist may thank me later. I grab his wallet and keep out of sight until he orders food—by then, he’ll be redder than a rib eye and kicking himself for “accidentally” leaving his wallet back at the house. He may have been coming here for who knows how long. But hey, that’s the guy’s story.
I stroll along the strip mall—anticipating my latest score—until I stumble upon a comic book shop called Heroes Vs. Villains. The front is covered with a barrage of comic posters and all sorts of advertisements, a collage of chaos. Susannah used to take Jimmy and me to these types of places when we were much younger. Before comic books, it was bedtime stories. Susannah used to read us stories—and this was just a couple of years or so before I discovered the aesthetics of the female anatomy in Playboys or the other magazines that Thomas hid on the top shelf in the closet. I remember one in particular. There’s always one, isn’t there? Mine was Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. I’m sure most of you already know about this one. Not too long ago, I came across the book while rummaging through the reader’s bin in the recreational room at Red Pines. This time, I read the story from front to back. By myself. I enjoyed reading about Alice and her adventures, but that’s another story. After the bedtime stories, we graduated from having our mother read us stories to us reading on our own. Then comic books, then books without pictures. Jimmy was more of the bookworm. I preferred comics. The comic book store used to be like my version of the candy store. It used to be one of the highlights of my day. Susannah would let us pick out two comics each. Jimmy would always head straight to all of the parody comics. Tick was his favorite. He enjoyed those stories, even the many spin-offs. Me, I guess I was more drawn to the Spawn comics and stories of that nature. The darker stuff.
I step inside the store, and it’s deserted, which is no surprise. I walk around the store until a strung-out guy with a black and yellow Batman shirt manifests from the back. He hangs behind a display case. He doesn’t pay much attention to me. The guy looks how I feel, actually.
I take Porky’s wallet to the DC section, gut the cash, and then slip the wallet behind a Superman comic book.
I browse through the shelves and occasionally take a peek at the hut next door. I stop at a graphic novel with a hologram on the cover, pick it up, and angle the cover in various directions. The holographic face changes from a masculine-shaped face of a Clark Kent-type character to a scaly, snake-like face with reptilian eyes.
“HARD COPY,” I read the title to myself.
I glance at the clerk who’s now rushing toward the back of the store. I can’t help but think: maybe he had a long night too.
As I turn back around, I witness Porky storming toward his white Cady in a heap of rage. You’re welcome.
II
I feel like Santa Clause when I make it back to the house.
I check each booby-trap. Each one remains undisturbed, as I suspected. I fortify myself in the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub, feeling more comfortable than I did before.
I channel my inner handyman, rip off a piece of aluminum foil wrapped around the steak sandwich, unscrew the cap from the water bottle, and cover the top with the foil; then, once the foil is sealed tight, I poke tiny holes in the foil with the server’s ball-point pen. Last, but not least, I burn a hole near the bottom part of the water bottle, take apart the pen until all that’s left is a tube; and then, I insert the tube inside the warm plastic. I blow on the plastic until it’s cooled and the tube is molded to the bottle. I make sure to seal any holes with a flame, warming the plastic first and then cooling it by softly blowing on the plastic. I sit back in the tub and place a pinch of weed leftover from the other night inside the holey piece of foil and burn it with a lighter; and, finally, I smoke. Eat that MacGyver.
I take a few rips from the homemade pipe and flip through HARD COPY until my appetite comes back to me. I eat one half of the sandwich and save the other half for later. I somehow finish the Pepsi before I swallow the last couple of bites. I asked the server for no ice yet she practically filled the entire cup with ice. I didn’t say anything. I could’ve, but I didn’t want to make a scene. Not my style. It’s a good thing a bought another bottle of water on the way home; otherwise I’d be choking right now. I furiously wash down the rest of the food trapped in my chest. It’s a condition, the results of having a bad stomach—bad, as in the only thing it’s good at is throwing fits. It’s like a bad child. The food gets stuck from time to time. Doctors told me it’s from reflux. They gave it an absurd name like gastroesophageal reflux disease, but whatever.
After I finish eating, I doze off again. I don’t dream, though. I don’t have any nightmares. I fall into a dreamless sleep; then, a couple of hours later, I feel a ball of fire burning in my chest and I realize it’s just a bad case of heartburn.
I sit upright, which helps ease the burn, and as I’m I trying to focus on something else other than the acid eating away at my esophagus, I hear the sound of footsteps.
I listen closely to the footsteps as I ease from the bathtub.
Two shadows reveal themselves behind the doorway.
I quietly grab the revolver from my bookbag.
I keep the revolver aimed at the door until the shadows finally move away.
A creak chirps throughout the house followed by the sound of a person shuffling over broken glass. I hear the back door opening, then closing.
I exit the bathroom and rush toward the window and witness what looks like a homeless man—I think so—stumbling away from the house. Not sure if he’s a bum.
I’m not sure who he is, really.
For all I know, he could’ve been squatting here.
What I do know is his appearance.
He’s wearing a raggedy trench coat that stretches down to his ankles. The bottom part of the coat is frayed and faded and the coat itself appears as filthy as a straggly alley cat. He has holes in his clothes, not cigarette burns but the kind you get over time.
His greasy hair hangs over his shoulders like an old washcloth.
He’s also carrying something underneath his arm, but I can’t see what it is from where I’m standing.
I check the living room.
The sleeping bag is missing. That’s it. That’s what he’s carrying. And that’s my cue to leave.
The Girl from Nowhere
When I arrive at the pawnshop, some girl is trying to get a hundred bucks for a vinyl record player, which looks as if it’s worth half of what she’s asking for and that’s really stretching it. The Russian, who, in fact, was the one who sold me the Rebel XTi, is giving her a lot of lip by telling her fifty, no more.
I acknowledge the Russian. He acknowledges me, his favorite friendly business partner; then, the girl turns a shoulder and I realize it’s the black but not really black girl who bumped into me on the boardwalk. My stomach suddenly lurches. My throat tightens. My palms become all warm and sweaty, and I do that untimely thing where I either want to fight or run and hide in a place of comfort. I’m past the point of no return. Not only that, she’s already seen me; in fact, she’s looking right at me. I stay my course and keep walking toward the counter.
“Hey, the pretzel guy,” she says abruptly and her face is radiant from my presence.
“Yeah,” I say mindlessly. “That’s me. Pretzel guy.”
“So, how was your pretzel?”
I’m surprised she’s talking to me when, just the other day, she couldn’t get away from me soon enough.
“Not bad, a part from tasting like dirt,” I say.
“Again,” she says. “I’m sorry—”
Enough with your sorries.
“—A Conley.”
I point at the vinyl player before her.
I do that thing where I call out observations.
A nervous tick, I guess.
Or, it’s just my way of keeping the lines of communication open without having to venture into the territory of uncomfortable silence.
“Good product?” the Russian asks me. “Yeah?”
“Top of the line,” I tell the Russian. I hardly know anything about the vinyl player, but I act as if I’m an expert on vinyl players. Screw that. I’m a connoisseur when it comes to vinyl players. I make sure to live up to my title by telling the Russian: “I have seen a player like that go for at least three hundred on the market, if you’re lucky to find one as cheap as that.”
I glance at her, and she’s smirking at me.
“One twenty-five,” he says.
The black but not really black girl reaches out her hand and shakes the Russian’s hand. He grabs the money from the cash register, counts it, and then hands it to her. Then, she tilts her head at the comic in my hand. She examines the comic.
“The Amazing Spider Man, the rare, nearly-impossible-to-find number five issue,” she says louder than her normal tone, as her eyes widen with the kind of youthful excitement that never gets old. She knows her comics or at least I think she does. I’m surprised. She nods at the comic, asking me if I’m getting rid of it.
I can’t tell whether or not she’s returning the favor.
“Yeah,” I tell her and again, decide to play along. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugs.
“No reason in particular,” she says innocently. “That’s worth a lot of dough.”
“I’ve heard,” I tell her.
“You know, its value will only increase over time. You sure you wanna get rid of it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I need the money.”
As the Russian places the Conley on the shelf, he continues to eavesdrop on our conversation.
II
The Russian gives me five hundred bucks for The Amazing Spider Man, which is still in mint condition. We could’ve kept haggling back and forth like a couple of dummies until I finally got the original price I was asking for—which was seven-fifty—but I didn’t have the time. Plus, I didn’t want to look like the King of all Dummies in front of the girl.
The black but not really black girl and I leave the pawnshop with more money than what we had before we entered. Money certainly doesn’t buy happiness, but it feels damn good when I hold it in my hand.
I secure the money inside the side pocket of my bookbag and stroll down the boardwalk. I think about all of the ways I can blow the money, most of those thoughts surrounded by booze and more booze, but I decide to hold onto it until I can find out what really happened to Nico.
As I’m about to part ways with my new partner in crime, she points to the pier.
“Say,” she says curiously, “I have about a half-hour left until I head back to work. I was thinking about taking my lunch to the pier.”
I already know what she’s going to say. My stomach knots.
“You wanna join me, I mean, if you don’t have any plans…”
“I should get going,” I tell her.
“Why?” she returns, in similar taste. “You have somewhere to be?”
I come up short.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Me?” I say stupidly. “Nah.”
“Well then, what’s the problem?”
Why is she so interested in me all of a sudden?
“No problem,” I tell her.
She starts to walk away.
I guess I’m supposed to follow her.
“Sure,” I say behind her. “Okay. I’ll join you.”
We leave the pawnshop and walk toward the pier—Main Pier that is.
She asks for my name and I tell her the first name that comes to mind.
When I speak the name, it rolls off the tip of my tongue as if it’s foreign.
What about using Henry’s name as my cover?
It’s too late. I’ve already spoken the name. I can’t change it now. Can’t do anything but roll with the name. Jimmy was always good at adapting.
“Nice to meet you, Jimmy,” she replies.
Then, she tells me her name.
“Jazz,” she says.
I liked the name.
Jazz.
I ask her if she lives in or around Topside or if she’s visiting; and then she tells me that she lives not too far away.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask Jazz.
“Too long,” she tells me.
III
The wind starts to pick up from the west. The pier is still roped with crime scene tape. So, we find the closest bench next to the pier and soak in the ocean view while I ask Jazz questions about herself like if she has any siblings, does she live with her parents—she lives with her mom, she tells me. I ask her what’s currently in her CD player, and she says that she doesn’t have a car. So, then I ask her what’s on her mp3 player. Some Mona’s Arch, she tells me. On repeat. I’m a fan, I tell her.
About five minutes or so into the conversation with Jazz doing most of the talking we start to gel and the whole conversation picks up speed and fluidity and I find myself glad to have shared company with her despite her cat-like aloofness.
I’m talking more, too, which is something I never do, especially with a stranger.
Jazz tells me that she wants to stretch her legs—tells me how much she likes walking at night. She’s been sitting behind the register for most of the morning, she says in a laid back manner. She’s extremely particular when it comes to her diet. I like that about her, how she not only eats well, but she’s also not afraid of the dark.
So, we take it nice and easy, like the old folks in their Golden Years of retirement do after a heavy meal.
While she nibbles from her spinach wrap—tofu maybe, but whatever it is, I don’t think it had a name or even parents—I run through another list of questions.
I ask her what she was sketching in her notepad the other day—that winged creature, what was that thing? She dodges the questions and turns the conversation toward food.
Strike one.
Food is the universal language, I guess.
So, we talk about food for a while.
She’s curious as to how I ended up in Topside—of all places, Topside.
“Just visiting,” I tell her.
She nods and says with a half-smirk, half-nod, “Okay.”
I feel as if she’s going to reverse roles any second now and start asking me the questions. So, I cut Jazz off and ask her if there’s anything to do around here to show her that I’m normal.
She names a few things that I already know about, although Jazz mentioning the arcade catches me off guard. She says it’s like Paris at night.
I turn toward the end of the boardwalk and see the kids mingling around the Galatia.
“Say,” Jazz says with a sigh, “you have a car?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I have a car.”
“That’s cool,” she says calmly. “I like cars. Most guys I know don’t have cars.”
Most guys?
She’s not that kind of girl, I remind myself.
The blood suddenly rushes from my head. The pounding is back. The thoughts. The temptation. Don’t screw it up, I remind myself. You’ve gotten this far. I mean, you’re talking to a girl and you’re not even drunk. Just keep listening and bobbing your head like a Bobblehead doll and you’ll be fine, I tell myself. She’ll like you more. No doubt. Whoever said anything about her liking me? I just met her.
I tell myself to take it one step at a time. Don’t be too Frank. Don’t be too Dick.
Jazz gets distracted by a daughter arguing with her mother. So, I cease the opportunity by shifting the bulge in my pants, then tucking it underneath my belt buckle.
I remind myself that she isn’t that kind of girl.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” she says after a long pause.
Her eyes are big and innocent, like a child’s eyes.
Another pause develops over the conversation—more tense.
Jazz sneaks in another glance, as if she’s waiting for me to talk.
I say the only thing that comes to mind.
“These guys,” I emphasize. “Why don’t they have cars?”
She does her typical shrug.
“I guess you don’t need one unless you want to go into the city.”
By city, I believe she means Los Dementes.
“You ever go into the city?”
She gives me a closed smile.
“Not really,” she says quietly.
“Well, maybe I’ll take you to the city sometime.”
“Yeah,” she says and smiles again, but this time wider. She fully exposes her front teeth, and they’re slightly crooked. The first time I saw her I never spotted them, but now, they’re clear as day. She has snaggleteeth on each corner of her mouth, very noticeable. I don’t know why, but I never label them as a flaw. I notice them, but I unnotice them.
Then, before she catches me staring at her teeth, she shields her mouth with her hand, trying to cover any food that may be stuck in her teeth. She’s fine, though. No leftovers.
She says finally, “I would like that.”
I remove my hands from my pockets, slide them under the straps of my bookbag, rest them along my armpits, and ask the one question that’s been on my mind ever since we began our little stroll, “What else is there to do around here?”
She shrugs once more.
“There’s the Twin not too far from here.”
“You mean the movie theatre?”
“Yeah.”
“I passed that place on the way here. How is it?”
“It’s nice,” she says. “Every Thursday, they play old movies. I used to go a lot, but I haven’t been in a while.”
“How come?”
She shrugs, of course.
I look over Jazz’s face and witness the same expression that I’ve been looking at in the mirror for the past several weeks.
“Don’t have time,” she says.
Her eyes glaze over with reflection.
“I remember the first movie I went to was the original Hellraiser.”
“Good movie.”
“Great movie,” she says as if she just upstaged me. “It was sometime around Halloween. Throughout the month of October, they play throwback horror movies.”
I get the creeping feeling that she feels as if I’m much older than her.
“By the way,” I say, “how old are you?”
“Isn’t it bad luck to tell a person your age before you get to know them?”
“Never heard of that one before.”
She shrugs again, as if it’s her way of changing the subject.
“Just the other week,” she says before the conversation drifts into silence, “the Twin was playing old Stephen King movies.”
“I didn’t know he did any movies.”
“He doesn’t,” she says. “Maybe like a couple, I think. I don’t know. What I meant to say is that they were playing his stories that were made into movies.”
“I prefer the books over the movies, except for maybe a couple maybe.”
“Which ones?”
“Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile…”
“He wrote that one?”
“Which one?”
“Shawshank?”
“Yeah.”
Then, I nod yes.
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s based off a short story, I think.”
“That’s my favorite.”
“Me too.”
That was Jimmy’s favorite.
I smile.
Jazz smiles, closed but warm, and directs it toward me.
We keep on walking and talking at the same time.
I was never good at multitasking, but I’m getting really good at it.
IV
Jazz and I stroll to her workplace, a thrift shop called Lassie’s, where her boss is ringing up orders from customers while a few antsy people wait for help. Her boss is moving as if he’s wearing skates, gliding back and forth behind the register, removing security tags or sensors or whatever from clothes with that staple gun thingy, then folding clothes, then bagging the clothes, then giving customers their change.
“Shit…” Jazz says in a rush, “…I totally forgot my phone. Do you have the time by any chance?”
I pull my bookbag in front of my body and zip open my bag. I read the time on Thomas’s watch, turn my eyes to Jazz, who’s nibbling on her lip. Her unblinking eyes are glued to the inside of my bookbag, which makes me wonder if her unsettled state is brought on from her being AWOL or from what remains inside my bookbag.
I turn my eyes below and see the urn protruding from my bookbag.
I zip the bookbag close and tell her clearly, “Two-twenty.”
Jazz turns to the store.
“Eric is going to kill me,” she says while trying to hold in her laughter.
“Eric?”
“My boss.”
I momentarily feel a wave of relief wash over my body.
“You won’t get fired, will you?” I ask.
Jazz gives a shake of her head.
“No,” she says, now casually. “I’ll just tell him I lost track of time.”
She turns toward her boss, who acknowledges Jazz standing outside. The two share a moment, her boss glaring at Jazz while Jazz holds out her finger and mouths, “One second.” Her boss, in return, shakes his head in disapproval.
I acknowledge Eric’s distress from the way he moves frantically around the checkout counter. Jazz acknowledges this. The whole crowd of customers acknowledges this as well. However, I get the feeling that Jazz will be fine.
“I better get going,” Jazz says as she waits for me to respond.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
As she takes a couple of steps away, she stops and turns back around.
“Lemme see your phone,” she demands.
“Ah—don’t have it on me,” I lie, as if me not having a phone on me could be the same as me saying, “I left it in the car” or “I forgot to bring it out with me.”
Either way, she buys it.
“Well, you have a pen?”
I pull out one from the side pocket of my bookbag. All that remains of the pen are the guts; however, it still has ink to write. I hand the skeletal pen to Jazz. She’ll have to make due. In return, she fishes out a clean napkin from her leftover bag of food. Tells me to turn around. So, I do without asking any questions. She places the napkin on my back for support. A wave of comfort slides over my body as she scribbles down her number. She hands the napkin to me. She catches me staring at the number. Quit staring. Act normal.
“Call me sometime,” she says easily, as if she’s used to saying the words.
I drift from my daze.
“Yeah,” I say as I look into Jazz’s glossy eyes. “Definitely,” I tell her.
And that is that.
Technically Not Stalking
According to the website, Finder, Jazz’s birth name is Samantha J. Caldwell—J, standing for Jasper, like Casper, as in that cute and friendly ghost, only spelled with a J, not a C. She lives approximately five miles from Cyber Jaxx’s—in fact, 5.3 miles to be exact—in an apartment complex called Glendale Straits, apt.101, with her nonwhite mom, Rosa Caldwell, originally born in Panama City by the name Rosa Fuentes—as I’ve said, I’ve been wrong before. Wouldn’t be the first time. Rosa moved to the States at the age of twelve, then “legally” acquired her American citizenship shortly after. Five years later, she won Miss Teen for the state of California but ended up losing to a blonde haired, blue-eyed gal from Texas in Miss Teen America. At the age of twenty-four, Rosa married Woodrow Caldwell, a local saxophonist who played in a band from Sinclair Leprieur, Louisiana, called The Shift. Probably where Jasper received the name Jazz—if I had to guess. When Jazz was fifteen, her father passed from cardiac failure. I’ll make sure to do more research on him, but for now, I focus on Jazz.
The last time she logged into her Twitter account was two days ago—just moments before she knocked me flat on my ass.
The last tweet reads:
Drinking coffee while doodling angels 🙂
Below the tweet: a partial pic that Jazz took with her phone’s camera. The only visible part of the drawing—since half of it is cut off and most of the pic is the top of Jazz’s hand holding a black fine point Sharpie—are two finely-detailed wings extending from the shoulder blades of what is supposed to be a sketch of what may or may not be an angel.
Jazz is an active user, as she mentioned during our recent conversation. She frequently goes on Twitter and tweets about her job and takes marketable selfies with Eric at Lassie’s, as well as random shots of her drawings or “doodlings”. Her boss is Eric Knowles. Last year, he worked as an art instructor at Santa Anne, a middle school outside Los Dementes. He was laid off for inappropriately touching one of his students—inappropriately touching, as in he hugged one of his students. I don’t really see what the big deal is, but whatever. The student’s mother found out. Two days later, Eric was fired. Now, he sells used clothes. Jazz happens to be one of his employees; however, I’m sure he keeps his “distance” from Jazz. From his many pictures of arts and crafts abundantly scattered around his house, as well as the feminine man named Pablo seen in most of his pictures on his Instagram page, Jazz doesn’t seem like Eric’s type. If you know what I mean.
According to Jazz’s profile on her website, she is a local artist who specializes in movie posters, which makes sense now that I think about it. She’s talented, as in really talented, and has the skill to go all the way to the top—unlike some artists I’ve known. Most of her activity on social media is during the day. She also has a linkedin page with over seventy-five connections, which isn’t too bad for an artist. She posts artwork on her social media sites as well.
At night, though, Jazz is a ghost.
I scroll through her Facebook page and search through her many photo albums. Most of the pics are decade-old Polaroids taken with her father—and he’s black, just as I thought. I know. I know. Wrong again. Most, if not all of them are tagged with the hashtag, Throwback Thursday, or #tbt; and the pics are from when Jazz was much younger—not even a teenager. Lately, she doesn’t post many photos of herself. The last photo was posted eight days ago: a selfie of herself standing in front of a mirror, and from the way she’s dressed, she looks as if she’s spending a night out. She’s wearing a rather skimpy lime green dress—see-through, depending on what angle you look at it on the monitor.
Jazz isn’t showing her tits or anything, although she might as well be.
II
I grab a newspaper from the dispenser and flip to the local entertainment section where I find the listings of movie times at the Twin Cinema. It’s Thursday too. Just my luck. I remember Jazz told me a story about how she used to go to the movies on Thursdays. She’ll like that I come off as a good listener when I’m far from one. Girls like guys who listen. After all, I don’t know any girl who would turn down a movie ticket.
I skim through the times and find one at nine-twenty.
Two movies are playing tonight. The first one is The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly—which I’ve seen over a hundred times—and the other one is Blood and Black Lace, which I’ve heard of but never seen.
III
After spending over ten minutes pacing around a payphone, I give Jazz a call. I ask her if she can talk and she says that she’s just taking five, as in a five minute break.
I ask her if she would like to hang out tonight and her voice rises over the phone as she says, “Absolutely, I mean,” she corrects herself. “Yeah. I would really like that.”
Jazz tells me she gets off work at eight o’clock.
I tell her that I’ll meet her a little after eight, near the Amazing Pretzel stand.
After I hang up with Jazz, I drive to the Twin and buy two tickets for the film, Blood and Black Lace, from the box office.
IV
I decide to spend the rest of the afternoon at the beach.
I seek out a quiet spot away from tourists and clean my revolver, which helps me relax.
After I’m done cleaning the revolver, I plant myself on the hood of my car and smoke from a brand new pack of cigarettes. I light up each smoke with a black Zippo with blue gorilla sporting a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. I used to own a Zippo back in the day—that was before I lost it. Way back when, I lost a lot of things.
As I light up another smoke and place my new Zippo in the pocket within the larger pocket—the pocket’s pocket—I realize that I’ve run out of room. My fingers come across a folded piece of paper underneath the bottle cap. I make my fingers into a pair of scissors and pull out the paper from the pocket. Unfold it. Nico’s name is written on the paper, as well as a phone number—possibly his phone number.
I lean back and rest on the windshield and stare at the name, Nico. I now remember having a discussion with Nico about “old friends” at his house. Somehow, Anthony Foster’s name found its way into the conversation. Nico said he hadn’t talked to Anthony in years. He said they were no longer tight—they. Did he mean himself or his father? Anthony was much older than Nico. Or, maybe they, as in Nico and Anthony, had like a big brother-little brother relationship. Occasionally, they bumped into one another—Nico and Anthony, I mean. However, they never hung out together—or at least not like they did before when his father…I draw a blank. His father what? Nico turned really quiet after he mentioned his father’s name. Changed the subject, actually. That, I remember. I never asked Nico about his father, even though the question was resting on the edge of my tongue. We talked about girls, I think. Then, I was sideswiped from behind. Drew threw a punch, then I countered and broke his arm in half. Nico was there when I was with Jamie, smoking cigarettes, watching. Nico didn’t join us, did he? I remember the both of us were on the beach at some point in the night. I remember his moonlit eyes glowing through Jamie’s hair, like two white marbles hovering in the night. Rewind to those moments leading up to the beach. I was hanging out with Nico. Correct. We were smoking. Correct. But not on the beach, though. We were walking on a street. Two cute girls—one, I remember, had a headful of red curls—whistled at us. They drove off, honking at us, screaming. Nico and I made our way to my car…
I sit up from the windshield and study the side of the driver’s door.
Above the door handle, I find a mark about the size of an eyelash—Nico’s hand once rested there. He was wearing a ring, but it wasn’t a wedding band. It was something else, something important to him. I was standing in front of him, and we were talking in private. I can’t remember what we were talking about, but we were talking all right. The both of us walked back to his house where most of the partygoers were calling it a night. A famished Jamie was stumbling about in the kitchen. I think the mollies were working their magic on her. She was feeling as hot as a firecracker. She looked so good, I remember, breasts swollen, eyes like hooks. Nico grabbed a pen, as well as a piece of paper from a drawer and then he handed me something just in case I dipped before he crashed.
I turn my attention back to the number in my hand—this. He handed me this piece of paper. That’s why I hid Nico’s number in this pocket, the smallest of pockets, the most valuable pocket where I hide things, especially things I don’t want to lose.
Nico is alive.
I didn’t kill him.
Or did I?
