I've been in a
writing drought for too long. I knew better than to try to trick the
stories to come through. There was nothing to do but be patient. A
few days ago the story of Cyndra and J.B. resumed. It is nearly finished.
But I want to put it out to readers now, especially my readers who are
writers. One of the hardest things a writer gets to do (unless s/he is in
a war zone) is respect the timing of the writing. From the magazine, Glimmer
Train: "I said to
him, 'I just don't know who's going to win, me or the story.' He gave me
a funny look. 'Well, who is supposed to win?' We looked at each
other and said at the same time: 'THE STORY!!'" --- Gina
Ochsner
Cyndra and J.B. are winning. There will be some clean-up, but here they are:
If
she had known how completely crazy J.B. was, even before he shipped over to
Iraq, she would not have married him. Even if she had been seventeen and him
twenty-one with pale blue eyes, with shoulders that wouldn’t quit, with a
manner of kissing that said “I completely respect you girl, and I completely
want you.”
But
it was too late to take it back. There was Kelli who was two and cute as a
puppy; and there was L’il J.B. who was too l’il for anybody to tell whether he was
going to be cute or not. Kelli was at her mom’s. L’il J.B. was attached to
Cyndra’s left boob on which he was sucking as if his life depended on it. Which
it did. Which was why it was too late to take back that dumb second when she
had looked up into J.B.’s eyes and said, “I do. I surely do.”
Cyndra
and L’il J.B. were in the front seat of J.B.’s King Cab on a Sunday afternoon
in June. The air conditioner was
blasting and Cyndra was squinting into the dashboard t.v. She could barely make out the picture
because the King Cab was parked smack dab in middle of the Mojave Desert and
the glare was like hell. J.B. was not in sight, but Cyndra could hear the bad
boy roar of his dirt bike, even though the windows were closed and she had her
earbud in so she could listen to a duet between Faith Hill and Tim Mcgraw that
was causing her to sob and drip tears on L’il J.B.’s tiny bald head.
She
and L’il had been stuck in the King Cab for two hours. J.B. would zoom up every
hour or so and say, “How ya doin’, baby? I’ll just do this one last run and
we’ll head in for pizza and home and who knows what.”
As
if. As if all she needed was another baby boy nuzzling her boobs. As if by then
he’d have sobered up enough to be able to do the deed. The t.v. flickered and
went black. Her cell battery was dead due to her listening for an hour to her
sister Tyra bitch about how there was nothing to do in this totally boring
place. Which meant now there really was nothing to do. Nothing.
She
had a pile of her mom’s magazines next to her on the seat because she had
planned to leave them at her sister’s salon. She glanced down at the top one.
"How to welcome your soldier hubby Home." Right. There would be---she
didn't have to look---a recipe for The Most Outrageous Triple Chocolate Torte and
a list of tips on how to lose weight. For your soldier hubby. Both of them so
stupidly hopeless, the cake which J.B. would not eat because he would have
slammed eight Dos Eq longnecks during dinner; and gorgeous skinny her if she
was ever gorgeous skinny her again, because if J.B. did actually touch her, it
would have everything to do with his boner, and nothing to do with respect.
Her
sister's salon? Three stations and an ex-biker chick who called herself an
aesthatician coming in about once every six months to do some old lady’s
toenails. Tyra herself was the sister from hell. No details thanks, except for
how the bitch had managed to steal away Cyndra’s true love when they were
teenage chicks. And, Cyndra all perfect boobs and butt and heart-shaped face
and Tyra, the Tyrant ha ha, 200 lbs. with boobs that would be hanging to her
knees by the time she was 23. Yeah, and now Cyndra was pushing 190.
L’il’s
mouth had fallen away from her breast. She set him on the magazines and pulled
down her blouse. She was a mess. She was a slobby mess. Once she would have
wiped off the milk and tucked herself into the nursing bra. Now she didn’t even
wear the nursing bra. She looked down at her top and saw the tiny star of wet
spreading out.
If
it weren’t for the air-conditioner she would...what...she would who knows. The
last time J.B. had cruised up to the truck he had smelled like a brewery. He'd
taken a 12-pack out with him strapped to the back of the bike. He was drinking
every day, sometimes he'd already popped a few on the drive back from the
Marine Base. And it seemed like the only time he ever wanted to fool around was
in the morning when he had a hang-over woodie. Cyndra could not figure out why
guys had to give such ugly names to the act of love.
Suddenly
she had one of those lousy memories, the ones that made her skin crawl, the
ones that she thought had gone away when she was first in love with J.B. Back
then when he put his arms around her, she knew she had escaped her past.
Everything was new. Everything was magic. Like normal people. Like normal love.
Not like her mom and dad. And there it was - the friggin' memory - her dad's
voice in her ears, even louder than it had been back in the trailer. Her mom
was crying, not mad crying, but pitiful crying. And her dad was saying those
ugly words. Who puts a roof over your head? Who puts clothes on the god-damned
kids? Who deserves a little pussy now and then – not twice a year?
Cyndra
cranked the volume on the I-pod. There was a new singer, a woman singing
quietly with only a guitar behind her. She had no idea who it was. She'd
downloaded a mix from a website. Cyndra had never heard it before, but the song
was about making mistakes and running away and Cyndra wondered if it had been
written for her.
She
thought about just starting the truck and driving off, but she knew J.B.
usually rode the damn bike till he was running on vapor. Pissed-off as she was,
she didn't want to kill him, which is what pushing a dead dirt bike back to
where he could hitch into 29 Palms in hundred and ten degree heat would do. She
checked the gas gauge in the truck. There was a good half tank left. But she
turned down the air conditioning just to play it safe.
Seemed
like that was all she ever did now - play it safe. Make sure J.B. and the kids
ate more or less right. Try to watch her weight while she felt so empty all the
time. Listen to her sister bitch about the salon - how Gennifer was a bitch and
Margo was a bitch and D'wanne was nothing but a bitchy faggot - and never tell
her sister what she really thought, that Tyra was the real bitch. And why
couldn't she just tell her that?
Because sometimes, if Cyndra was realllly understanding, Tyra would
offer to babysit and Cyndra could take a long luke-warm shower, go out on the
patio in her wet t-shirt dress and sit in peace while the hot air evaporated
the water from the dress and her skin, and she could pretend it was March in
Phoenix, Arizona where she and J.B. had gone for their honeymoon. The air had
been perfect. Soft. Little night breezes. If she closed her eyes the
evaporation felt like that kind of heaven - or maybe even J.B.'s fingers all
delicate on her face.
What
had happened to wild Cyndra? What had happened to the girl who didn't hardly
drink or smoke pot, but who would walk away from the Luna Mesa Full Moon
keggers on the BLM land, out into a silver desert where if she lined herself up
just right with the big fat moon, her shadow would walk ahead of her? Or the
girl who would run into the heart of a thunderstorm when one slammed in, like a
miracle you could be terrified of and love how your heart pounded in your
chest? What had happened to the girl who was going to be the first person in
her family to go to college - right over at Copper Mountain College where she
wasn't going to get some dumb girl degree, but major in computer programming?
Gone.
Vanished in the instant it took for her to welcome J.B. into her body and
whisper, "I'm going to drive you crazy, bad boy." Ten million years
ago.
L'il
J.B. snorted, whimpered and clutched his tiny hands in the air. Cyndra pulled
him up to her breast and plugged him in. She heard the giant mosquito whine of
the dirt bike. There had better be something new pretty damn soon.
"So
how long were you stuck out there?" Tyra said. She had her "snooping
for gossip but pretending she really cared" tone in her voice.
"Six
hours all told." Cyndra shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal. At least I
had my music. And I could just think for a while without somebody nagging me
about something or other."
"You
need a break," Tyra said. She had her gossip so she could afford to be
charitable. "I sure do," Cyndra said. She figured Tyra was going to
offer to watch the kids for an hour so she could take her bath and sit on the
patio.
"I've
got a surprise," Tyra said. "Tell J.B., you and me are going down
into Palm Springs to get some stuff at Target. Call him so he doesn't get
shit-faced on the way home from work. He can watch the kids. He owes you. You
deserve to have some fun."
Cyndra
thought of the heat in Palm Springs and the old people who all looked like they
had never made a mistake in their lives. Plus a hundred and fifty bucks had
disappeared from their savings and she didn't want to spend money. "We're
almost broke till the end of the month," she said.
Tyra
laughed. "You don't need money, baby sister. And we’re not really going to
Target. I hit it big over at
Morongo last night. I've got five hundred bucks free money and a postcard from
one of those fancy Palm Springs casinos that's good for two buffets, free drinks
and fifty dollars in free slot play. We're gonna get wild."
"Play
it safe" was hovering in Cyndra's mind like Casper the Cautious Ghost. It
smiled it's cutesy-poo smile. She wanted to strangle it. Cyndra straightened
her shoulders, looked her sister in the eye and said, "Pick me up at
7."
"You
won't regret it," Tyra said. "I left out the best part. I got tickets
for Tim McGraw. He's playing there tonight."
"Without
Faith?"
"Without
Faith. It's some kind of benefit dealie. You put on that sparkly black dress,
you know, the one cut down to your knees and we just might have to get
ourselves in the front row and when you stand up to cheer, stick your chest out
and he's gonna' tell Faith 'bye-bye, baby!'"
"Like
I said, pick me up at 7."
"See
you later, mamagator."
On
cue, L'il J.B. hollered from his crib in the kids' room. Kelli raced in from
the dusty patio and grabbed Cyndra around the legs. "Let me go, babygirl,
I gotta feed your brother." Kelli clung tighter. Cyndra pried her away and
crouched down next to her. "I'm sorry, sugar," she said. "Let's
get you an ice cream and then you come help me get him up and you can sit next
to me while I feed him and you can have your ice cream. L'il's gonna be all
jealous of you."
Cyndra
never knew if Kelli really understood what she was saying to her. She just
tried to keep her voice all momsy and loving. Kelli reached up and patted her
face. "O.k. then, good girl," Cyndra said, "let's get it
going."
It
was mid-afternoon by the time Cyndra got L'il back to sleep, the ice cream off
Kelli and the couch, Kelli down for a nap and herself charged up enough to call
J.B. He didn't answer. He'd always been like that - blah blah no woman's gonna
be the boss of me blah blah. Cyndra dug through the back of the big walk-in
closet and found the black dress. She hung it in the bathroom with the shower
on to steam a few wrinkles out. When she tried it on, the zipper almost didn't
close. She sucked in her breath till it hurt and felt the zipper close. There
would be no more ice cream bars. None.
When
J.B. finally called his voice was all puffed-up and important. "What's up?
I got a short minute." Cyndra rolled her eyes. She was so over almost
everything about him. "Honey," she said, her words racing to get
everything in before he could say no, "I was hoping you could come
straight home tonight. Tyra's gotta see a doctor down in Palm Springs and she's
scared. I told her I'd see if you'd be willing to watch the kids so I could
keep her company...see that way, she owes us and maybe you and me can get a
little alone time on the weekend while she watches the kids back as a favor.
You know, we haven't had any alone time in too long."
J.B.
laughed. His voice softened. "You mean special alone time? Real special
my-girl knows-what-I like alone time?"
Cyndra
grabbed an ice cream bar from the freezer. She did it quiet so he'd never know.
"Uh huh," she said, "real real special alone time." She
took the phone away and ripped the wrapper from the ice cream bar with her
teeth.
"I
can come right home," J.B. said. "You bet I can. You got yourself a
deal."
Cyndra
bit off the first inch of the ice cream bar and damn near swallowed it whole.
"That's real sweet of you, baby," she said. "Bye bye."
She
still couldn't believe it had been so easy. J.B. had screeched into the drive,
shoved open the door and stopped dead in his tracks. "Damn," he'd
said, "you look good. You look damn hot. You gotta promise me you'll wear
that dress when we have our real special time alone." Cyndra hadn't said
anything. She'd just walked up to him real slow, pressed up against him for a
second, backed away and grinned. Tyra had pulled up, beeped the horn and Cyndra
was gone gone gone.
And
now, right this minute, she was sitting on the most comfortable chair she'd
maybe ever sat in. It had a seat that seemed to be made just for her butt, a
nice high back and it was exactly the right distance from the glowing rainbow
screen of a Cleopatra slot machine. She'd just bet forty nickles and three
golden tiger things had bounced down in front of her and there was music
playing and a bunch of free spins about to happen at THREE TIMES THE NORMAL WIN
and her damn sister was tugging on her sleeve, saying "Come on, we gotta
get to the seafood buffet while the crab claws are still there...plus Tim's on
in forty-five minutes. Come on!"
"Wait
up," Cyndra said, "just give me two more minutes..."
It
should have been easy. It looked easy when Cyndra did it. Taking care of two
kids, a baby and a toddler, not like the seven kids in his family, plus he
kinda liked both of them. But, L'il J.B. was yowling and Kelli was tugging on
his t-shirt, whining dadeee dadeeee dadeeeeeeeee and it was about 100 and f--k
degrees and he hadn't had a beer since the stashed one in his office at the
Base. Which had been two hours ago, two hours that felt like two centuries.
J.B. was not a happy boy.
He'd
fed L'il J.B. He'd settled Kelli in front of the t.v. with a bowl of
spaghetti-O's which was one of the three things she would eat. He'd even nuked
the bowl of tuna casserole Cyndra had left in the fridge and made himself eat
it. He wasn't used to solid food this early in the evening. He'd usually go for
the three basic Food Groups: beer, beer and more beer. J.B. thought about
putting the kids in their car seats and heading into Ranch Foods in 29 for a
case of Food Group, but it was 100 and f--k and he couldn't figure out what
he'd do with the kids while he ran into the store. He wasn't scared of much,
but thinking of kids cooking in a car in the Mojave heat made him want to go
back to being a hard-shell Baptist.
J.B.
picked up L'il J.B. and held him close to his chest with the kid's head on his
shoulder. He'd seen Cyndra do that. "Hey, Mini-me," J.B. said.
"Give us one of those bad boy belches." L'il kept yowling. There was
a stink in the air. J.B. patted his baby's butt. Yep. J.B. sank down onto the
couch, hollered and jumped up. He'd landed on one of Kelli's friggin' Barbie
Dolls - and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds. He held L'il out in front of him.
"O.k., you little booger, I know what we'll do. We'll call mom!"
Kelli
hadn't let go of J.B.'s shirt the whole time he'd been standing and sitting and
jumping up. "Momeeeeee," she whined, "I want my momeeeeee."
"You
and me both," J.B. said. That instant he saw Cyndra's cell phone lying on the
kitchen countertop. "What the f--k! You dumb b---h. Sorry, Kelli, daddy
said a bad word - make that two bad words." He swiped the Barbie doll onto
the floor. Kelli shrieked. J.B. dropped down onto the couch with his daughter
attached to his shirt. He tried to think of how hot Cyndra had looked as she
went out the door. All it did was piss him off. That's how she'd hooked him.
That's how he'd landed in Marine housing in the middle of hell, drier than the
sand around him, with a piss-stinking baby and a sobbing little girl for
company. "I'll never have sex again," he said to his kids. They just
kept stinking and sobbing.
Cyndra
vaguely remembered something about how they were going to see Tim McGraw and
eat crab legs and celebrate Girls Night Out. It seemed like a dream she'd had a
million years ago. Her life seemed like a nightmare she'd been living even
longer. People said gambling was
self-destruction. If sitting in front of a friendly slot machine drinking from
a bottomless glass of diet pop and vodka was self-destruction, it suited her
just fine. People ought to try
living in a cheap shit two bedroom apartment with three whiny kids, your
husband being one of them, in the middle of a scorched-out Marine base, if they
wanted to know real self-destruction.
Tyra
appeared at her side now and then. Each time they were both more loaded. The
last time she'd showed up she'd just laughed and plunked herself down next to
Cyndra. "Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." She shoved a twenty into her machine.
"Look," she said, "it's all cool and spiritual." Cyndra
glanced over. There were Aztec pyramids and heathen gods. Tyra drove her nuts
with all her back-dated New Age bullshit. And then, two moons and three suns
popped up on the screen, Tyra shrieked, “Fifty free games!!” Cyndra watched the credits rocketing up
and figured maybe there was something to the machine's ancient powers.
"I
just love this," she said. She and Tyra watched the bonus round spin
gloriously. "You know," Tyra said, "when you get the little thingies
that say you hit the Bonus round, it's just like the seconds right before a guy
you want to kiss comes forward to kiss you. You just know all you gotta do is
sit back and EN-joy!"
The
three golden lions dropped into place on Cyndra's screen. Bonus round! She
remembered the first time J.B. had kissed her, and watched the memory wash away
in a rising flood of credits - at a nickle a credit! "I don't ever want to
go home," she said. "This is the most fun I've ever had."
Tyra
stared at her slot screen. "That says a lot for romance, doesn't it?"
It
had to stop. It flat out had to stop. Yes, the kids were finally asleep. Yes,
J.B. had logged into his favorite Girls Gone Wild site. Yes, he'd had two nice
intimate experiences with the girls. Yes, for once Cyndra wasn't nagging him
about something. But, it was 1:30 a.m. and no Cyndra. More important, he hadn't
had a drink since the last hit of Nyquil, which had finished off the bottle.
The crappy supermarket stopped selling booze at 2 a.m., meaning that if Cyndra
didn't get her butt home in the next ten minutes, there was no time to head
into town for a beer or twelve.
1:31.59.
1:32. 1:32.01. J.B. logged off and checked on the kids. They were both sound
asleep. He considered the deep crap he'd be in if he left to buy some beer and
Tyra brought Cyndra back and they both walked in to find the kids alone. It
wasn't like he'd never been in deep crap before. But Tyra had a voice like a
chainsaw and as ragged as his last nerve was, he didn't need that.
He
stepped out into the backyard. He loved that damn Mojave sky. He hated all the
rest of the friggin' desert, but he loved the big black above him, the way the
stars looked like diamonds, the way the flares from the bombing runs to the
north burst orange like alien spaceships. Without thinking, he locked the back
and front doors, climbed in the truck and headed into town. The kids would be
o.k. He'd be a hot fifteen minutes to the store, five minutes grabbing a couple
six packs and 15 hot minutes driving back. No way any tragedy would happen.
Especially since he'd busted his ass at the job all day and been a real
sweetheart about Cyndra taking off.
Cyndra
slid the card into the ATM. The message flashed. "Funds unavailable."
Tyra looked over her shoulder. "You hit your daily limit, sistuh. What is
it?"
"Five
hundred bucks," Cyndra said. She stared down at the card. "WTF do I
do now?"
"You
borrow a few bucks from me," Tyra said cheerfully. "And we just
hunker down for a little longer."
“But,
what if…?”
“No
“what if”, you been losing so long on that machine, it’s gotta hit.”
The
beer run had gone smooth. Market open, the cute Philippina chick at the
register. J.B. popped a brew as soon as he'd cleared town. That big sky was
grinning down at him. Desert wind poured through the truck windows. He slid a
Merle Haggard CD in the player and cranked it up. Life was sweet again. Then he
saw the flashing red and blue lights.
J.B.
checked his speed. Five miles over the limit. He grabbed a rag off the seat,
shoved it into the beer and dropped the can on the floor. He saw the future
like you were supposed to do when you were drowning. The cop's face in the
window. The faint whiff of brew in the air. The bust. Cyndra and Tyra storming
into the house. The end of his life - as crummy as it too often was. Merle was
singing The way I am don't fit my shackles. Merle, J.B. hissed, what do I do
now?
“I’m
going out to the car,” Cyndra said. Tyra looked up. Her eyes were like Night of
the Living Dead. “Huh?” she said. Cyndra slowly stood up. Her feet were numb,
her legs shaky and there was a hot-cold lump in her stomach. “I’m going out to
the car. I don’t have any credits left and I think I might have died in front
of that machine and this is the after-life.”
“Whoa,”
Tyra said. “You are such a Drama Queen. Take this.” She handed Cyndra a handful
of twenties. “Sit down! You’re not leaving me here. Besides, it’s still body
temperature out there and if you open the windows, the midges from the pool
will eat you alive.”
Cyndra
couldn’t remember the last time Tyra, or anybody else, had given a flying fuck
about her comfort. “O.k.,” she said, “but it’s 3 a.m. and I can’t feel my legs
and I think I gotta pee, so I’m going to go to the john. Save my machine.” Tyra
tilted Cyndra’s chair up against the machine. “Woo hoo,” she said, “I just hit
another bonus."
There
was nobody in the Ladies’. Cyndra sat in the Handicapped stall. She felt
handicapped and all of a sudden she’d felt like she never wanted to be closed
in anywhere every again. She opened the stall door and rested her head against
the tile wall. It felt sweetly cool and when she peed, she decided that peeing
when you were about to explode was possibly the best feeling in the world –
except maybe seeing the five gold pyramids drop into place on the slot screen.
Which they had. About six hundred bucks ago. Which they might again. As the drink girl had said when she brought the last round
of free pop and vodka, “If you don’t play, you can’t win!”
“I’m
dead meat.” J.B. realized he’d said it out loud. Who the fuck was he talking
to? The sky? His pal, the open 12-pack on the seat? It sure wasn’t god, not the
god of his childhood, not the god he’d stopped talking to when the IED took out
Jackson and Martinez and Mr. Strak, Christopher Morgan Benson, the Third,
himself.
Something
was listening. The blue-red dazzle zoomed by. He watched the cop’s tail-lights
fade into the dark. He wondered if you could have a heart attack at 23 even if
you were nothing but muscle and beer. “Thanks,” he said to the god he didn’t
believe in and headed home.
“Hey.”
The voice was familiar. “Hey. Wake up.” Cyndra jolted out of a dream of
spotlights and sequins. Her head rested against her machine. Tyra shook her again. “We’ve got to go.
It’s four a.m.”
“Holy
shit, we won’t be back till morning, Cyndra said. “J.B.’s gonna kill me.”
“Undoubtless,”
Tyra said. “Has he called you even once?”
“The
phone’s on the kitchen counter. I left it there on purpose.”
“No
worries. I got it figured out. Come on, let’s get outta here.”
Cyndra
checked around the machine. There was nothing there. All she’d left behind was
eight hundred and sixty-five bucks. She patted the machine. She’d seen other
players do that. “I’ll be back,” she said. “I don’t get mad. I get even.”
“Dad-DY!
Dad-DY! Wake up. Little phone ringing.”
J.B.
pulled the pillow over his head. Tiny evil fingers poked his stomach. Poked
again. It wasn’t the dream he’d been having that had been a whole lot like some
Hobbit-nightmare. It was his real
life. “DAD-DY!! Mommy’s on
the phone.” J.B. peeked out from under the pillow. “Ha ha,” Kelli giggled,
“Daddy play hide a seek. Here.” She handed J.B. Cyndra’s cell.
“What?”
he said.
“Oh
hi, Cyndra, gee I’m glad you’re o.k., honey. Glad nothing happened,” Cyndra
said. “Weren’t you even worried?”
“Worried
about what?” J.B. checked the clock. 6: fuckin’ 10. “Where the fuck are you?”
“We’re
o.k. Tyra’s tire went flat out in the middle of who knows where. She had to
take a short-cut home which just happened to go by this guy she like’s house up
on the mesa. Of course he wasn’t home so then we got lost. There wasn’t any
phone reception. We’ve been sitting in the car waiting for somebody to come
along since about ten. Finally, some old rancher drove up on his ATV.”
“Jesus,”
J.B. yelled. “Can you just cut to the chase?”
“No
yell, Daddy. No say bad word.” Kelli climbed up on the bed and snuggled next to
him.
“I’ll
be home in a half hour. Can you get the kids breakfast?”
J.B.
pressed the cool phone against his forehead. It was already ninety-fuck in the
bedroom. He felt like he’d been boiled. The cool spot on his forehead felt like
rapidly fading hope.
“Yep,”
he said.
“You’re
not mad?” Cyndra’s voice went little girl.
“Nope.”
They
said goodbye. “How the fuck,” he said to Kelli, “could I be mad when now I’ve
got time to clean up the living-room and haul the bottles out to the desert?”
“No
say bad word,” Kelli said.
Tyra
pulled into the driveway and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “Oh! My!
God! That was soooooo much fun. Just leave me here for a few minutes. I’m not
going home. I gotta get to the spa by 8 and set out my stuff.” Cyndra picked up
her purse from the floor and grinned. “We have to go back, you know that? I
told my machine I don’t get mad, I get even.”
“As
if!” Tyra said. “As if we wouldn’t go back again. I’ve still got food comps and
a room comp, so next time if we perhaps underestimate our enthusiasm and all of
a sudden it’s 3 a.m., we’ll just crash in our room.”
“If
we make it to the room,” Cyndra said. “I could play slots forever. I think I
just found a reason to go on living in this hellhole.” She opened the door and
stood. The sun was already cooking all living anything out of the air. “Want me
to leave the door open?” Tyra sat up. “Naw, I’ll head out. I’m o.k.”
J.B.’s
truck was gone. Cyndra let herself into the apartment. It was such a shack. You
walked right into the living-room/dining-room/kitchenette and if you moved too
fast, you were then heading out the back door into the patio which was dirt,
more dirt and one shriveled creosote bush. There were two beer cans under the
coffee table – “Heh heh, should call this a beer table!” was one of J.B.’s
favorite jokes. A crushed bag of Doritos poked out from one of the couch
cushions. There was, of course, no coffee brewing in the maker. There were no
kids. There was a note on the kitchen counter.
Welcome home, party girl. I took the kids to
Sally’s. She doesn’t have to go to work till 1:00. Try to get your fat butt
over there before she leaves.
Cyndra laughed. Once upon a time, once upon a verrrrry long ago
time, like yesterday, the note would have hurt her. No more. She made a pot of
coffee and heated up a couple waffles. Then she sat at the breakfast bar in her
fancy dress, drank three cups of coffee and ate a whole box of waffles – with butter
AND maple syrup. “I’ve got my own thing now,” she said to the empty apartment.
“Nobody’s the boss of me anymore.”
A month later,
somebody decided to be the boss of J.B.
He had stashed a four long-necks in the locked drawer in his desk for
emergencies. Monday had seemed to
be the start of a week of boring and stupid. He figured that qualified as an emergency. He tucked the beer into his duffle bag,
went into the john, locked the stall door and slammed down the brews. They barely wet his brain cells. No matter, there was a 12-pack in the
fridge at home.
He didn’t
really want to go home, but Cyndra had some dumb mommies’ meeting so he figured
he’d better be a good boy. He
signed out and headed for the gate to drive home. The guard at the gate looked at him funny when he pulled
up. J.B. smiled. The guard smiled.
The guard asked to see his ID card,
nodded and said politely, "You been drinking tonight?" Before J.B. could answer, the sentry
told him to pull his car over to the search lane. “Please get out.
We’re going to take a little test here.”
J.B. knew
better than to do anything but shut up and wait. The sentry made a call. Ten years or ten seconds later, another MP arrived and put
him through the Sobriety Test. The
guy shook his head, “Sorry pal, gotta cuff and stuff ya.” The MP van pulled up and J.B. was on
his way to a holding cell.
It had happened
to him. Not him. Not lucky J.B. who’d skated when his
buddies had gotten nailed. Later,
after the Sergeant Major had showed up and the real shit-storm had started,
after he’d been given his one call, after Cyndra had said, “Fuck you, you can
rot in jail.”, and after he’d been told a shit-storm was ahead, he had a little
chat with God. “You win. Get me out of this, pal, and I’ll stop
drinking for a while.”
It was a late
Sunday afternoon. J.B. was
slouched down in the couch, channel surfing. “Shit. Crap. Shit. More crap. Why
the fuck did we even bother to get cable?” Cyndra heard him through the screen door. She sat on the back-stoop. The kids were in bed and she was
watching heat lightning flicker in the west.
J.B. groused
on. Cyndra dug her toes into the
cooling sand. She almost wished he
was still drinking. Sober, he was
more evil than ever in that feeling-sorry-for-himself that guys were so good
at, as though she could fix it, as though it was her fault. Her cell jingled. She checked the number. Friggin’ Tyra. She got ready for a bitch bitch bitch
session.
“Hey,
sister. I got some interesting
news and I got an idea.”
Cyndra knew the
interesting news would start off with ‘I think I met a man.’ and the idea would
require Cyndra to meet Tyra some friggin’ where which would involve leaving the
cooling air of the backstep and the almost hypnotic ripple of the lightning over
the mountains.
“Yeah?”
“So I think I
met a man.” Tyra paused to let the
full impact sink in. There weren’t
many single guys in 29 and, over full-figured as she was, what ones there were
weren’t interested or even desperate for a blow job.
“Yeah?”
“Come on, don’t
be a bitch. I’ll tell you all
about him while we drive down to Palm Springs for a little shopping.”
“Shopping? I’m broke.”
“You know what
to do. Go on a jacket safari. I’ll spot you forty bucks. That’ll give you enough to play for a
while. Then, you’ll hit and have
your stake.”
Cyndra’s mouth
went dry. Her heart jumped. “You know, I gotta watch it. There’s J.B.’s fine and plus he has to
have money for his alcoholic meetings even though they don’t charge anything.”
“Get off the
phone, off your butt and start going through your jacket pockets. Tell J.B. to get his ass off the couch
– I know he’s there, I can hear the stations switching. Look down between the couch pillows and
tell him to give you twenty bucks.
He’s all guilty now. You
got some leverage.”
“I’ve got a jar
of nickels and dimes. Let’s stop
at Von’s on the way over. I’ll run
them through the Coinstar.”
“Fine. Get moving,” Tyra said. Cyndra knew just how she felt. There was nothing better than strolling
out of the Mojave inferno into that cool smoky air and hunkering down for that
first beautiful bet.
“Yes,
ma’am. But first, is the guy
married?”
“What guy?”
“For
chrissakes, Tyra, your new punch.”
O.k. He’d been sober for five whole
months. Cyndra was gone off with
Tyra for one of their Palm Springs runs.
She’d come back with some useless crap from Target and be all relaxed
and cheerful. But, what about him? What was J.B. supposed to do?
Kelli climbed
up in his lap and smeared pbj all down the front of his t-shirt. L’il whimpered in the bedroom. It was seven p.m. and nothing but bad
t.v. and whiny kids lay ahead of him.
What possible harm could come from a couple beers? His brother owed him a baby-sit and
there was the twenty bucks he’d stashed underneath the creosote bush.
“Honey?” he
said. Kelli pouted. “You go out, daddy?” Christ, she was already turning into
her mother. She had the same belly
on her. “How about you go over to
Uncle Fred’s and play with Amber and Shayla?” Kelli slid down off his lap. “I put on my dress-up, okay?”
“Sure, honey,”
J.B. said. “You do whatever you
want to do.”
Cyndra thought she would go crazy right in Von’s. Once you decided to play, you wanted to
be walking in the casino door that second. The line at the Coinstar machine was damn near out the
door. A half-starved couple
pushed a shopping cart with a little boy in the toddler seat. The sides
of his head were shaved. His Mohawk had been dyed orange-red. A
four hundred-pound woman in a tropical print muu-muu rolled her motorized cart
up to the kid. She ran her hand over the top of his hair. The kid
giggled. The gotta-get-some-soon anger on his parents’ faces did not
lift. Three teen-agers with skin the color of skim milk slouched in
behind the fat lady. They were
your standard Morongo Basin tweakers, all gothed out and pitiful.
Actually everybody must have been on vikes. You couldn’t have moved slower without
being dead. People dumped coins
into the machine out of a knit cap, a nickle slot bucket, plastic baggies, a
back-pack with a faded Cardinals logo.
Some of the nickels and pennies went in the machine, some fell on the
floor which meant the person had to take forever to pick them up.
Cyndra knew the story. The weekend was almost
over. The money was all the way over. The kids were hungry.
You were thirsty. The jacket-pocket safari yielded enough loose change to
make the trip to Coinstar worth it.
A couple quarts of Old Mil, a box of mac and cheese for the kids, maybe
a box of ice-cream bars for a treat.
You’d pulled Sunday night out of the crapper and, who knew, the next
week might get better.
Dawn gleamed in
the duct-taped window of the Midnight Mission. J.B. opened one eye, moaned and rolled away from the
glare. There were voices near him. Chick voices.
“Omygod, that’s
Cyndra’s hubby.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think
so, but the way he smells he might be.”
J.B. curled
himself in to a ball. His shorts
were wet and there was burrito-puke down the front of his t-shirt.”
“He’s alive.”
“We should say
his name, see if he’s conscious.
What’s his name?”
“Hey,
numbnuts,” she nudged him with her foot.
“Numbnuts, you conscious?”
“Numbnuts? That’s his name?”
“That’s what
Cyndra calls him.”
J.B. wondered
if he could exert ninja control and stop his breathing long enough to die – or
at least look like he had. He held
his breath and heard a third voice.
“Move along
ladies. There’s nothing to see
here.”
It was the
creep cop, Arlington. The wimpy
punk the guys called Darlington.
“Exhale pal,”
the cop said. “Then suck it
up. You’re one more step on the
slippery road to the end of your glorious military career.”
Cyndra was
hot. She couldn’t lose. Sun Moon handed over five hundred
bucks. Cleopatra told her she was
a rascal and gave her three hundred.
Tiki Torch was being a little coy, but then she jumped her bet to Max
and watched the credits take off.
She almost missed the cell ring.
“Oh shit,” she muttered to Tyra, “it’s J.B. I gotta take it in the Ladies Room.”
She looked at
herself in the john mirror. Her
face was flushed, her eyes glittering like a speed freak. She hit Answer.
“Babe,” J.B.
said. “I got bad news.”
“The
kids?” She leaned on the counter
and closed her eyes.
“Nope. They’re fine. They’re at Fred’s.”
“What are they
doing at Fred’s? Hang on, what
time is it?”
“It’s seven
a.m. They’re at Fred’s because I
needed a break. And, where the
fuck are you?”
“Nope,” Cyndra
said, “you’re not putting it on me.
What happened?”
“Look,” J.B.
said, “I can’t talk long.”
Cyndra heard a
metal door clank somewhere behind J.B.
“You’re in jail, goddamn it,” she said. “This is your one phone call, right? Tough shit, pal. You can just sit there.”
“What?”
“What what?”
Cyndra said, “I’ll be home in forty-five minutes and pick up the kids. You figure this one out.”
J.B. leaned his
head against the cell wall. There
was a little cool spot against his skin.
He knew he should have talked different. Said a little lovey stuff, said he was sorry, said he was
going to up the alcoholic meetings.
He’d been a dumb fuck to think Cyndra was going to buy his bad boy
talk. He’d been an even
dumber fuck to think a couple beers would have nicely taken the edge off
things.
It had been
better lying on the scummy sidewalk in front of the mission. At least, the stink had been his
own. J.B. tried to inch away from
the guy who had taken a dump in his pants. The guy grabbed J.B.’s ankle. “Motherfucker.
Jive-ass racist motherfucker.
You too good to sit next to a Af-ri-can A-mer-I-can?”
J.B. sat tight
and kept his mouth shut for once.
It has been supposed to be a short relaxing evening and here he was
sitting on the concrete floor of the 20 Palms men’s holding cell, stinking of
piss and in the grip of a big-ass nigger with only two front teeth.
“Thass better,”
the guy said and fell instantly asleep, his huge fingers still tight around
J.B.’s ankle. Where the fuck was
Cyndra? She’d come down to bail
him out. She had to. He figured it was later in the
morning. They’d taken his watch
and none of the other guys in the cell had a watch – not because the cops had
taken them, but because the guys were either nuts or sleeping on newspapers
homeless.
J.B. bowed his
head and tried to rest his forehead on his knees. “Do not move, motherfucker.” The Af-ri-can A-mer-I can didn’t so much as open his
eyes. J.B. heard footsteps outside
the door.
“Bartlett.” It was Darlington. “I got somebody here to see you.”
J.B. wondered
if he could swallow his tongue and choke to death before the footsteps got any
closer. It was his C.O. In ten seconds he was going to be
pinned by the anti-bullshit stare of the man who was about to screw up his
entire life.
The Mexican
leaning against the toilet looked up.
“Ai, pendejo, you screwed the chihuahua, brother.”
J.B. dropped to
the floor and sat. “I truly did,
my friend. You got that right.”
Cyndra tucked
L’il into her shoulder and stepped out into the patio. “Kelli, you get on out here right
now.” The sun had finally dropped
to just above the mountains. The
house threw a blue shadow over the sand, over the pile of Barbie doll parts,
the deflated wading pool and the busted gas grill. Cyndra hooked a plastic chair with her foot and pulled it
into the shade. “C’mon baby, come
sit with me and L’il. Mama’s
tired. She didn’t get any sleep
last night.”
“Don’t want
to. Want my daddy. Where’s my daddy? Where’s my funny daddy?” Cyndra pulled down one side of tank top
and plugged L’il in. Kelli
sniffed. “Don’t start,” Cyndra
said. Kelli thumped down on the
steps. “I want my dadddddddy.”
Cyndra pulled
her cigarettes and lighter out of her shorts’ pocket and one-handed lit a
smoke. “Daddy’s o.k.” she
said. “He’s nice and safe.” I bet he’s thinking about you.”
Kelli
butt-scooted down the steps, crawled to Cyndra and grabbed her leg. L’il snuffled. The blue shadow stretched out toward the wire fence. Blue. Dress blues.
What a crazy thought. How
am I going to get out of here? And
if I can’t, what are we going to do if J.B. has gotten himself booted out?
L’il’s mouth
fell away from her nipple. She
wiped his mouth and buttoned herself up.
“Kelli,” she said, “How’d you like to go back over to your uncle’s?” Kelli perked up. “Babygirl,” Cyndra said, “here’s an
important true thing: when the
going gets tough, the tough go gambling.”
It was six by
the time Cyndra pulled into the casino parking lot. She felt
strange without Tyra, a little like one of the lonely old ladies they’d
see there every time, always by themselves, never talking to anybody, tapping
and rubbing the screens of their slots for luck . Plus, there was a weird light over everything. The sun was copper. Dust had blown up from the Anza
Borrego, the guy on the radio has said.
A crazy storm out of nowhere.
Palm Springs was coated with grit, cars in the parking lot sand-blasted,
the high rollers on their cells, probably to their insurance agents.
Cyndra headed
for the gleaming casino doors. The
big Indian security guard stood in front of them, his arms spread wide. “No. No entry,” he said.
Cyndra paused. “Not you,
lady,” he said. A lean-muscled
woman in a tank top and shorts sat on one of the big fake boulders.
“Fuck you,
chief,” she said. “You gotta let
her in. And when you let her in,
I’ll be past you slicker then snot.”
She turned to Cyndra.
“Chief here 86-ed me. Just
because I took a forty-two cent pay-out slip that was on the floor under Wheel
of Fortune.”
“We’ve got our
rules,” the security guard said.
“Not just for you, Mickey, for everybody.”
Cyndra
shivered. She’d never seen
anything mean like this. The
waitresses and pay-out guys were always friendly. She wondered if it was bad juju. Maybe a sign this wasn’t the night to play. She started to go back to the car. “Come on in,” the guard said, “me and
Mickey go through this about every day.”
Mickey looked
up at Cyndra. “Yeah, honey. Don’t mind us. Besides, I left five hundred bucks in
Sun Moon for you. I seen you
playing it yesterday.”
The five
hundred bucks never showed up.
Neither did any of the thousand Cyndra slid into Sun Moon, into Magic
Mermaid, into Cleopatra and, finally, in a suicidal gesture of optimism, into
the five dollar machines. It was 3
a.m. by the time the ATM told her that she’d exceeded her daily limit. She
thought about using her cards without a PIN, but the money guys charged ten
bucks a hundred for that privilege.
She might have been a loser, but she wasn’t a fool.
The parking lot
was nearly empty. A skinny moon
glided down toward the mountains. The lights of the casino and Palm Springs
shone up into the sky like a reverse Milky Way and washed out the stars. Cyndra leaned on the truck. She didn’t feel so good. The thousand bucks was a hole in her
gut. By the time the ATM machine
86-ed her, she hadn’t had a decent hit in four hours. She’d had to make herself keep punching the Max Bet button.
She climbed
into the truck and fanned the five last ATM receipts out on the front
seat. There must have been
something wrong with her eyes or the machine. The balances didn’t seem right. They were way too low.
She tried to remember how many times she and Tyra had gambled. Twenty, maybe, forty, could have been
since they were heading down the hill a couple or three times a week.
She turned on
the truck and checked the dashboard dials. There was just enough gas to get back up the hill and over
to 29. Damn good thing. Her eyes felt sandpapered. She couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t
hungry. The last thing she’d eaten
had been a bag of Doritos driving out of Yucca Valley. Even more, she couldn’t figure out why
she wasn’t worried about J.B. The
only thing she was a little worried about was where she’d get the money for her
next gambling run.
Cyndra didn’t
see one other car between the turn-off from Palm Springs till she crested the
top of the long hill into Morongo Valley.
She hadn’t played any music, just let the soft air blowing through the
window calm her down a little.
Driving alone always did that. Even when she was a teen-ager.
29 was quiet,
Ranch Market closed for the night.
It seemed like a year since she’d stood driven west through the
town. She pulled into her
driveway, walked slowly to the front stoop and sat down. She wasn’t ready to go
in. The house would be an oven
still and maybe sitting under the huge uncaring sky would make her feel
better. It wouldn’t give her shit
about all the money she lost. It
wouldn’t tell her she was a loser.
The stars
glittered. There was nothing out
here to wash them out. She kicked off her flip-flops and dug her toes into the
sand. If J.B. saw her he’d call
her a fool. “There’s rattlers out
here and scorpions and those frickin’ camel spiders. You get bit and that’s it. You lose your foot, it all turns black.” For the hundredth time he’d tell her
how they had those camel spiders in Iraq, how he and the guys would put two
camel spiders in a box and bet on them.
Guess we’re
both gamblers, Cyndra thought.
Guess I got my thing now.
Meeting 12,
only 168 meetings to go. Some
spaced-out chick had her first sober birthday so there was cake and everybody
was going to have to sing. J.B.
slouched down next to his sponsor, Jackson and pulled his hat over his
eyes. Jackson poked him. “Sit up straight and take your hat off,
friend. You can at least look like
you want to be here.”
J.B. did what
he was told. “Good,” Jackson said,
“you’re making progress.” J.B. had
to kind of admire the guy. He was
career Marine, with a scrumptious wife – even if she was at least forty, and
some kids who actually liked him.
Jackson had arrived in the alcoholic rooms by way of a lost two months
in San Diego.
He’d told his
story at J.B.’s first meeting. “So
finally one morning I woke up in somebody’s backyard with a bottle of Captain
Morgan’s between my legs. There
was an inch of rum sitting right there, waiting for me to start the day. I was broke. I stunk. I
looked at the booze and knew there wasn’t enough to fix my head. I poured it out on the lawn.” People in the meeting had groaned. “Oh yeah,” Jackson said, “you better
believe I regretted it the second I saw it soak into the grass. But I knew. That was it. I
got my ass out of that stranger’s backyard and called AA. That was seven years ago and I’m still
here.”
J.B. had
thought I’m not that bad. Maybe I
can just do this kind of casually.
Then after the meeting,
Jackson had told him that he’d had a chat with the CO and they were
willing to give J.B. this last – as in final – big break. 180 meetings in 180 days, twice a week
talks with a rehab counselor and daily phone calls to Jackson. Then, maybe, just maybe, J.B. could still
wear green.
The door
opened. Blast furnace air seared
the room. A big guy was
silhouetted against the last glare of the setting sun. The guy stepped in. J.B. froze. It was the Af-ri-can Am-er-i-can from the joint. J.B. started to slide down in his
seat. Jackson poked him in the
ribs. J.B. scribbled on a meeting
list, “Jackson, that guy is gonna kill me. I gotta get out of here.” Jackson grinned and whispered, “At least you got another
hour to live.”
J.B. was off at
his meeting. He was always off at
his meetings. Cyndra put the kids
to bed and turned on the t.v.
There was nothing. She
checked her email. Nothing. Cell. Nothing. It was
too hot to sit outside and she’d already had three showers. She checked the freezer. Even the box of ice cream sandwiches
didn’t look good.
It had been
twelve days since she’d crawled up the hill with a thousand dollar hole in her
gut. The ATM had not been
broken. There was nothing left in the credit cards and only
enough in the credit union to cover the bills. Cyndra logged on to a free slot game. It held her for about three
minutes. She slammed the mouse on
the desk. I’ve got one thing in my
life that makes me happy and now I can’t even do that.
She saw the
future slogging ahead of her. J.B.
would come home. At worst he’d be
cranky. At best – and it was
hardly best – he’d tell her some corny thing he’d heard in his meeting. He’d flop on the couch and watch t.v.
till he fell asleep. L’il would
whimper. She’d plug him in. Maybe she’d take her fourth shower and
sit on the back stoop. The worse
part was that tomorrow would be exactly the same.
“When the going
gets tough…” she muttered, picked up the phone and called Tyra.
“Hey, baby
sister,” Tyra said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing
much. J.B.’s at his meeting, the
kids are asleep, I’m about to climb out of my skin.”
“What’s
wrong? Is your big baby being
himself??
“There’s that,
but mostly I just need a little break.
Want to run down the hill?”
There was a
long pause.
“What?”
“I gotta slow
down a little,” Tyra said.
“Business hasn’t been great.
You know so many folks are losing their jobs and things won’t pick up
till the winter tourons get here.”
Cyndra hadn’t
heard Tyra be this serious ever.
“Yeah, but we
can win a few bucks. That’ll
help.”
There was
another long pause. “Girl, when
was the last time you made a few bucks down there? I hate to say it, but seems like whatever juju we had going
for us is jujued out.”
“What is wrong
with you, Tyra? Is that new guy
making you be all practical and boring?”
“He’s long
gone,” Tyra said, “I’m just watching what’s happening around here, all these
people out of work, losing their houses, one of the girl’s works at the salon
is sleeping in her car. I will not
let that happen to me. You don’t
know how it is. You got J.B.”
They both
laughed. Cyndra remembered one of
her dad’s sayings. “He’s about as
useful as tits on a boar hog,” she said.
“Less,” Tyra
said. “You want me to come over?”
“Well,
actually,” Cyndra said, “how about if I borrow a couple hundred bucks and go
down by myself? I can stretch that
out a good long while. I’ll hit,
come right back home and pay you off.”
It seemed to be
the night for long silences.
“I can’t do
that,” Tyra said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do that.”
“I get it,” Cyndra
said, “But I guess you can be
a bitch.”
“How many years
you been waiting to say that, Baby Sister? ‘Cause you said it now and all I want to say is
‘Goodbye.’ Tyra hung up. Cyndra stared at the phone. She felt like her one single lousy
life-line had been cut.
She thought
about calling Tyra back, but she knew how her sister was. There was going to be a long cold-ass
silence for a while. With Tyra, it
was one thing for her to say all kinds of shit, but if somebody dished it out,
she was all the princess and the pea.
There was only
one thing to do. Modern times, you
couldn’t just write a bum check.
Computers had ruined everything.
Cyndra opened the freezer and stared at the ice cream sandwiches. They weren’t going to do the trick, but
they were going to have to do.
J.B. was on
closing coffee duty. He dumped the
old coffee in the sink, put the creamer, sugar, cups and spoons in the file
cabinet they used for storage.
Jackson would turn off the lights and lock the door. J.B. walked out into the soft desert
night. He didn’t feel too
bad. The big Black guy had left
right at the end of the meeting.
With any luck, the van from the treatment center had picked him up.
As usual these
days, there was no luck. The big
guy sat on the low wall at the back of the church. He saw J.B. and stood up. “’Scuse me, whiteboy.
Can I have a word with you?”
J.B. considered
walking calmly toward Jackson’s car or back into the meeting room. He looked away from the guy. “I know you,” the guys said. “You was in the joint with me, right?”
J.B. thought of
the old movie he and Cyndra had found one night on the late night channel. Dustin Hoffman. An old Indian guy. J.B. had liked the part where Dustin
Hoffman had to sleep with three Indian chicks. What was it the old guy had said: “It is a good day to die.”
“Yeah,” J.B.
said and walked toward the guy. “I
was there. What’s up?” He hoped he sounded kind of casual and
serene.
“You here?” the
guy said, “at this alcoholics meeting CO, right?”
“You’re a
Marine?” J.B said. “You mean CO
like commanding officer?”
“Naw,
motherfucker. I mean court
ordered. Whoa, sorry about that motherfucker.
I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
“No disrespect
taken,” J.B. said. “Yeah, I’m
CO. I gotta do 180 meetings in 180
days or I get kicked out of the Corps.”
“Whoa, you a
Marine?”
“For now.”
“I just wanted
to say something to you, brother.
I’m here for now, see.
These alcoholic people are good folks mostly. But, I know I’ll drink again. That’s just how I am.
But, when I seen you in the meeting, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry
for my foolishness when we was in the joint. See, I was…” He
stopped and grinned.
J.B.
laughed. “You were drinking,
right?”
“You got it,
whiteboy. And I’ll drink again.”
Jackson locked
the door and walked toward them.
“Good to see you at the meeting, Roland,” he said. “You need a sponsor, give me a
call. J.B.’s got my phone number.”
“Thanks,”
Roland said, “I was just telling J.B. here about my situation. I’ll be honest with you. I did the crime. I’ll do the time. But then, I suspect I’ll be in the
wind.”
“I know how
that is,” Jackson said. “See you
tomorrow night.”
He and J.B.
walked to Jackson’s truck. “No
real harm in that man,” Jackson said.
J.B. nodded. He wondered
what it was like to be as mellow as Jackson. He wondered if he had real harm in him. He wasn’t going to know for a long
time.
Jackson took
J.B. out for coffee, then drove him home.
The house was dark. J.B.
wondered if Cyndra and Tyra had headed down for one of their shopping trips. He unlocked the front door and walked
into the living-room. Cyndra sat
on the couch in the dark. It
didn’t look good. He had something
he had to tell her she wasn’t going to like and it wasn’t going to help that
she was either feeling sorry for herself or ready to make him sorry.
“You okay,
baby?” he said. He turned on the
light and opened the blinds.
“I hate that
glare,” Cyndra said. “Why’d you do
that? It was all nice and peaceful
in here.” She launched off the
couch and stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. “How come everything’s got to be the
way you want it to be? You could
have asked me if I wanted the light on.”
J.B. ducked his
head and glanced away. She knew
that look. It pushed her buttons
every time – her pissed-off buttons and her poor baby buttons. It was the Don’t-get-mad-at-me look a
little boy gives his mom when he knows he has to say what he doesn’t want to
say and he knows it is going to send her postal.
“What.”
J.B.
flinched. She was already
mad. Whenever she said “What” flat
like that, he was in for days of one word sentences and nights of nothing at
all.
“Well,
sweetpea…”
Cyndra
narrowed her ice-blue eyes.
“O.k. O.k., I shouldn’t of called you
sweetpea. I’m sorry. Jeeze, baby, oh fuck I didn’t mean
baby…”
She
folded her arms across her chest.
Everything to quiet, real quiet for about ten thousand years. J.B. wished that for once in his sorry
–ass married, Daddy live, that one of the kids would wake up and holler.
Cyndra
nodded. She had this cold smile on
her face. “What.”
“My
shrink says it would be a good idea if you came to a session with me.”
Cyndra
laughed. “What fuckin’ for?”
Bad
as waking up in jail covered in puke had been; bad as knowing he was one
fuck-up away from being booted out of the Corps, bad as dry hour after loooong
dry hour was, that moment standing in front of his wife who had turned into
Cruella De Ville was worse. Plus
if he came back and said no way was Cyndra coming in, the doc was going to go off into one of her endless spiels
about how the alcoholic (“and addict of course, Mr. Randall”) was only the
symptom of a “broken family”. And
she was going to want to visit “the family” in its “natural setting” which
would most definitely hang him up to dry even more. He could see them – all those quotation marks around the
words the doc used when she was being professional. She needed a professional.
“I
said,” Cyndra said, “what fuckin’ for?”
J.B.
needed a beer. He needed a case of
beer. He needed a case of beer and
his truck and the road running east back to West Texas. He was ready to dump the Marines and
get the fuck out of 29. The only
problem was that Cyndra had the truck keys and the nearest beer was a two mile
walk away.
“The
doc says,” he muttered. “it’s our
whole family is broken.”
There
was a long silence more terrible than the last long silence.
“That
fuckin’ snotty cow,” Cyndra said.
“We’ll see what’s broken.
I’m calling the bitch right now.”
J.B.
just stood there looking past her toward the window.
She
poked him in the chest. “Are you
listening to me? Hey! What are you looking at?” She turned and looked out the
living-room window. “What’s out
there? I don’t see anything. Are you tripping? Did Chaz sneak you some dope or
something?”
J.B.
watched the tops of the mountains outside the window turn pink.
“What’s
that color?” he said. “How can a
mountain be pink? How come I never
saw that before. I don’t know,
babe, you were talking and all of a sudden those mountains were pink.”
“For
chrissakes, J.B., it’s just the sun going down. It’s a reflection or something. Don’t change the subject, Nature Boy.”
J.B.
watched the pink turn to gold. He
wanted to tell Cyndra he hadn’t meant to change the subject. He wanted to tell her that the mountain
and that glow were nothing he could remember ever seeing.
But
her mouth was set in a straight line, so he said, “I’m sorry. I’m a little weird these days. I don’t know. Things look different sometimes. Sharper, maybe.
Colors or something.”
Cyndra
sat down on the coffee table and hugged her knees. “Weird these days?” she said. “The only weird thing these days is you’re not drinking or
smoking dope and we are supposed to be happier, right? We’re supposed to be getting to know
each other again, right? We’re
supposed to be getting back to normal.
But how can we get back to normal if there wasn’t any normal to begin
with?”
She
looked up at him. “What are you
grinning about? What’s that stupid
look on your face? Seriously, are
you high? Stop it, I’m scared.”
The
grin seemed to have taken over J.B.’s face. It wasn’t a doofus grin or the grin of a kid getting
caught. He didn’t know what it
was. Then, he laughed.
“Nothing
normal to begin with…you got that right.
Remember the time we were at that kegger fooling around and the lizard
climbed up on my bare ass and fell off ‘cause I was going at it so hard?”
“Oh shit,” Cyndra said and giggled. She ducked her head so her hair fell
over one eye. “This is crazy. What are we going to do, honey? This is a straight-up fucking mess and
now all I want to do is laugh. Or
something. I miss you so much.”
J.B.
crouched next to her. She grabbed
his hand. They giggled as though
they were stoned to the eyebrows.
She started to laugh and cry, her face wet with tears.
“Oh
my god,” Cyndra said, “there’s nothing we can do. It’s like we fell down one of those mine shafts and there’s
no light and nobody knows where we are and we gotta get out because if we
don’t, Kelli and L’il will be orphans.
Plus we’ll be dead.”
J.B.
leaned in and put his head in her lap.
He was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. She set her hand on his head. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that.
“Plus,”
Cyndra said. Her voice was a
little girl’s. “I got to tell you
something. You are going to be so
mad. Baby, you’re not the only
fuck-up here.”
J.B.’s
heart jumped. He wiped his eyes on
her shorts and looked up. “Who is
it?” he said. “Who is it? I’ll rip his package off.”
Cyndra
leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes. “It’s not a he, or a she, or a
them. It’s the five thousand
dollars we had in the Credit Union Golden Days Vacation Plan.”
J.B.
sat up. “What the are you talking
about? You gave the money to your
boyfriend?”
“I
told you – there’s no boyfriend. I
gave the money to the Indians.”
“What
Indians?”
“The
Palm Springs Indians, whoever they are.”
“The
shopping trips,” J.B. said. “Your
bitch sister, Tyra. She dragged
you down there. Five thousand? All five thousand?”
“More. You know our credit cards?”
“We
have credit cards?” J. B. said.
He’d never used a credit card in his life.
Cyndra
laughed. “That’s what you get for
making your wife handle the money just like your mom did for your deadbeat
dad. Yes, we have. We had credit cards. They’re dead now. No use at all.”
“You
maxed them out, right?”
“Chase,
$5000; Citi, $2500., BOA, $3000., credit union, $5000. Gone. Dead. All we’ve
got is your paycheck.”
“And
me,” J.B. said, “right on the edge of being let go from the one thing I know
how to do good.”
“Drinking?”
“The
Corps.”
J.B. stared
down into the cup of alky coffee.
He’d never been able to figure out why the coffee at the meetings tasted
like shirt and even more, why he kept drinking it. It was meeting 150. The white-haired dinosaur in the Pilot truck hat had
been talking for at least six months.
Everybody else was trying to look as though they were listening. J.B. checked out the tits on the
newbie. Either it was colder in
the room than he thought or she’d caught his stare and was attracted to
him. Man, he loved those clingy
tank top things.
Finally,
the old guy reached the obligatory last two sentences of his monologue: “So, when people ask me how the 12
Steps work, what do I say? I say,
‘Just fine.’” J.B. saw Motormouth
Mona winding up to talk. He jumped
in.
“My
wife is driving me crazy. You know
how it says, ‘…became powerless over alcohol and my life became
unmanageable.’? Well, it should
say blah blah, my wife became unmanageable.”
He
saw a couple of the middle-aged guys roll their eyes, but he didn’t care. He had to get it out. If he didn’t, he was going on the drunk
of all drunks. And, it would be
one thing to lose Cyndra and the kids, but a total nuther to lose the Marines.
“No,
seriously,” he said. “I’m gonna
drink if I don’t get this out.”
The
older hippie chick was looking at him.
She drove him nuts. She was
always so fucking calm and she had a way of looking into his eyes as though she
could see right down to the bullshit.
He’d tried to flirt with her once and she’d just laughed. He’d figure he’d soften her up, but no
damn deal.
“So. I am bored to death with my wife. We never have any fun. It was different when I was drinking. Then it didn’t matter. But now? On top of being a chick – sorry, ladies – she’s gotten all
Alanon plus she stopped gambling so she’s all the time yacking about
understanding what I’m going through being almost a year sober. I am
sorry. Only an alcoholic
understands what it’s like being a year sober.”
The
hippie chick grinned.
“So,
here’s an example. My wife doesn’t
like to do anything I like to do.
I flat-out love to dune-ride.
You know, nature and all that.
Right before I got popped the first time, I took her out so we could be
together dune-riding. At the last
minute, she decides she can’t take the baby to the sitter, so she brings him
along.
“We
were out near Cadiz. It was sure
enough hot, but I figured maybe I could rig some shade and she and the baby
could just chill out, drink some pop, wave at me now and let me show her some
of the fancy tricks I know.
“Oh
no. I get out and haul my bike
outta the back of the truck. Next
thing I know, my wife has rolled up the windows, turned on the air-conditioning
and is sitting there with the baby in her lap. ‘Hey,’ I yell, ‘open the window.’ She flips me off and locks the doors.
“So
I take off. I’m so pissed-off that
it isn’t that much fun. I come
back every half hour maybe, try to get her to open the windows so we can talk,
but do you think she’ll even try.
We’re out there probably three hours. Each time I come back and take off again I get madder. Finally, I’m so mad it is fun. Like I’m doing my thing no matter what.
“See? See what I’m
trying to tell you? It’s like my wife,
my wife Cyndra just won’t get out of the truck. She never gets out of the truck, not when she’s in the
truck, not when she’s outside of the truck.”
The
older hippie chick actually laughed.
J.B. said, “What?” The
chick shook her head.
Steve, the 12 Step Nazi said, “No cross talk.”. J.B. felt like he was drowning. If they didn’t get it here, who the
fuck was ever going to get it?
“Wait,”
J.B. said, “give me a minute more.”
He looked down at the table.
For some reason, he wondered how come his hands looked so young compared
to everybody else’s. “See, I love
the girl to death, but…”
Mona
nodded, “But she just won’t get out of the truck.”
Jackson,
looked at J.B. and raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” J.B. said, “I’m done.
Thanks for letting me share.”
Jackson closed the meeting.
They held hands and prayed.
J.B. was still on coffee clean-up, so he unplugged the pot and started
to dump the left-overs in the sink.
The older hippie chick put the creamer and sugar away. “You want to know why I laughed?” she
said. J.B. ducked his head. He didn’t want her to see he was
embarrassed.
“Global
warming,” she said. “All I could
think of was how when you were out there and Cyndra had the truck running,
massive chunks of ozone were hanging over your heads.”
“Oh
jeeze,” J.B. said, “don’t start.”
She
grinned. “Just another
perspective, friend.”
So here Cyndra was, J.B. was in his alcoholics meeting, her and
L’il in her sister’s old Neon.
J.B.’s truck had been
repoed. It seemed like a thousand years since J.B. had driven the truck into
the driveway and called her out to take a picture of him and it.
“Things
are going to be different, honey,” J.B. had said, kissed her cheek and climbed
out of the passenger side of the Neon.
“Pretty pony,” he’d said and patted the front fender. She’d wished he touched her like that
and she’d taken the picture.
Maybe
it wasn’t a thousand years since then, maybe it was a million. She thought of J.B. rubbing her back
the night before and smiled.
Things were still tricky, but they could have been worse. It had been almost a year since she’d
waked up with her head on her slot machine. They were crawling out of debt. And, it was August which meant the Season of Hell was almost
over.
L’il was asleep in his carseat. The windows front and back were open. You could smell rain in the air though
a thunderstorm was miles away.
Kenny Chesney was going full blast on the old car stereo. Cyndra watched lightning flicker behind
the far clouds to the East. Twice
she saw ghost eyes in the cool shimmer.
Two
of the older ladies in the alcoholics club walked out the door. The light behind them was yellow. They were just like black paper
cut-outs, but Cyndra could hear their voices. She knew who they were a little bit – Mona who had to tell
you every little detail of everything, and the old lady who still dressed like
it was the Summer of Love.
The
hippie senior hugged her friend.
“...what’s that music?” The
words came right in between “Keg in the Closet” and “What I Need to Do” which
seemed like a miracle to Cyndra.
She’d made the tape the old-fashioned way after the truck with the big
sound system had to be sold and her sister took both her and J.B.’s IPods in
trade for what Cyndra owed her. Of
course, the tape was called “What I Need to Do” and of course it was songs from
Kenny LIVE. Those songs again.
She’d never told J.B., but Kenny looked almost like a twin of him. Even more now.
The
ladies went their separate ways.
The hippie senior headed for her old truck, stopped in the middle of the
street, looked up at the sky and walked straight toward Cyndra.
Cyndra’s
jaw went tight like it did when she figured she was in trouble. She thought about scooting down but the
lady was too fast. “Hey,” the lady
said, “it’s you. J.B.’s lady.”
“Yep,”
Cyndra said, “It’s me.”
“I
loved hearing that music, especially on a night like this. You know. How the air is getting cooler, that moon up there. Kenny makes it like a movie almost.”
Cyndra
felt her jaw relax.
“Hope
you don’t mind,” the lady said. “I
can’t remember your name.”
“That’s
o.k. It’s Cyndra.”
They
were quiet for a second.
“I’m
just watching that,” Cyndra said.
She pointed toward the lightning.
The
lady smiled. “I love that too.”
“I’ve
seen a couple faces already up there.”
Cyndra almost put her hand over her mouth like she’d said a little too
much.
“In
the lightning?” the lady said.
“Yeah. Like ghosts. And how the clouds make eyebrows...maybe hair.”
The
woman and Cyndra looked away from each other. Not impolite or embarrassed but because the lightning was
out there and they had to see what came next.
“You
know,” Cyndra said, “most people never get to see stuff like that.”
“We’re
pretty lucky,” the woman said.
“Back up northeast where I was born, we could see those northern
lights. You know?”
Cyndra
didn’t know but she figured she’d keep her mouth shut and wait.
“All
green and pink,” the lady said.
“You ever seen them?”
“Nope,”
Cyndra said. She watched the
lightning and imagined if the colors went from silver to green and pink.
“You
can find those northern lights on the internet,” the lady said.
“We
don’t have one of those,” Cyndra said.
“We did, but we had some financial troubles and had to cancel it.”
“Well
then,” the lady said, “this is even better. Mind if I sit with you till your man comes out?”
“Sure,”
Cyndra said and laughed. “I bet he
was talking about how I won’t ever get out of the truck, right?” She climbed out and opened the stuck
passenger door. The woman laughed.
“You
know,” she said, “what we say there and what we hear there…”
“I
do know,” Cyndra said. The woman
settled into the passenger seat.
“Here’s the deal,” Cyndra said, “he might not have told you but I got so
far out of the truck I almost didn’t find my way back. I go to a different kind o meeting.”
“Your old man just came out the door,”
the woman said, “can we keep that story for later?”
“You
want to meet up some time?”
“I
do.” The old woman took out her
phone. “Give me your number. I’ll call. I promise I’ll call.”
Cyndra
watched J.B. walk toward the car.
His shoulders were squared as always. He still had that cocky walk his grampa had. He saw her and waved.
“720-634-9951,”
Cyndra said. The woman got out of
the car and walked toward J.B. They
high-fived in front of the Neon.
J.B. got in the passenger seat and leaned out the passenger window. “Hey,” he said to the woman, “I’ll tell
my wife about the global warming, okay?”