Another Carrot
Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping. Ringing. Hurting. Hurting. Ringing. Not sleeping.
I reach out to grab the phone and my knuckles smack into an empty whisky bottle. The bottle connects with an overstuffed ashtray and the whole lot goes ass-over-tits onto the floor. By some sort of miracle the bottle bounces on its thick end, rolls under the bed and scares the cockroaches. It's the ashtray that hits the hard floor and breaks apart.
Sunlight slants through the rickety blinds and punches me in the face. My head feels like there's hyenas living in it. I roll over, shut my eyes and pick up the receiver.
"Whuzzat?" I say. My mouth feels like it's been lined with old flannel. I probe it with my tongue to get the spit going. Useless.
"You're two months late, Easter!"
My landlady. What joy. "Hullo?"
"You son of a bitch! Don't pretend you can't hear me!"
"Hullo?"
"Are you spending my rent on whores again? This is your last... no. No! Y'know what, Easter? I'm calling the cops!"
She slams the phone down, mercifully disconnecting the line. What a gem she is. What a prize. In my head the hyenas are laughing at me. And why not? Why the hell not, indeed? I put the receiver on the table, leaving it off the hook and lie back on the bed.
"Gabe? I've got to go now."
I open my eyes slowly and shade them with one hand as if I'm saluting somebody better than me. She's a pretty redhead with a cropped haircut, slender and fit with good legs and perky little breasts like teacups. She smiles at me and her green eyes flash in the stagnant light of my bedroom as she gets dressed. Then she picks up the stack of bills on the dresser and puts them in her purse. "Thanks for a wonderful night," she purrs. They're trained to say that.
I watch her ass as she leaves. Beautiful. I want to cry.
After some digging, I find my cigarettes and a bent-up book of matches. I sit in a cracked, leather chair and get one going. The smoke curls reluctantly to the ceiling and hangs there like stormy weather. It just sits there and threatens me. I close my eyes and drift and drift....
I snap awake and flick my hand away. The cigarette, little more than a dying ember now, hits the wall and falls to the floor. It trails sparks behind it. Damn, that hurt. My fingers throb and matching blisters begin to form in between them.
In the bathroom I stick my hand under cold, running water and that helps a little. I brush my teeth. Gargle. Spit. My eyes are bleary and red but I've got a pair of sunglasses around here somewhere. I turn the shower on, get naked and get in.
The water scalds the back of my neck and turns the tops of my feet purple. I scrub hard and watch the suds and grit and dead skin flow off me and into the drain. As I watch this, I can't help but think it might be a metaphor for something. I turn off the shower and get out.
A black suit hangs from a hook behind the bathroom door. I wore it yesterday but the steam from the shower has done a good job of getting the wrinkles out. I bring it into the bedroom and put it on the bed. In the closet I find a clean, white shirt and put it on. My skin itches and feels tight across my shoulders as if it were a size too small.
I knot a black necktie around my neck. For the sake of irony I pin my yellow smiley-face button to my lapel. I find my nine and strap it. Outside in the street, Sonny leans on a car horn. He's my ride. I take one last look in the mirror. Inhale. Count to ten. Exhale.
Outside it's too bright and too loud. The air is heavy and thick with fumes. I try to remember a time when the sky wasn't as dirty but I can't. It's always been the color of a fading bruise. An old Cadillac's at the curb, rumbling and farting blue smoke from the tailpipe. The door complains when I open it. I fold myself into the car and pull it shut.
In the seat between us is a shotgun with the barrel cut down. The shoulder stock has been sawed off as well and sanded down, creating a modified pistol grip. The name "Lucille" has been etched into the steel above the slide.
Sonny looks at me and smiles. His teeth are bad. His skin is bad. His eyes don't look in the same direction at the same time. His black hair is swept straight back off his forehead and it glistens. "Hey, hey, Bunnyman," he says.
"It's Easter, asshole."
"Ease back, Thumper. I'd hate to have to cut your nuts off this early in the morning."
I want him to shut up so badly I can taste it in the back of my throat. In my mind I'm jamming the barrel of my nine between his teeth and blowing his Zagnut brains into the back seat. It's a small comfort. The engine idles like an upset stomach. "Just drive."
Sonny gets on the freeway and points the Caddy eastward. The three-lane road winds through a valley and I smoke cigarettes and stare out the window at the scrub and strip malls. I hear Sonny punch a cassette into the deck. It's scratchy and sounds terrible but I recognize "Iron Man" when I hear it. So does Sonny; "Dah, dah, DUM-DUM, DAH! Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-DUM-DUM-DAH!"
I hate Black Sabbath. "D'you mind?" I say.
"Whose car is this?" he asks.
I shake my head and stare out the window again. Nothing but nothing now. Just the desert baking in the heat. My shirt's stuck to my back and my breathing is shallow. A quick glance at the dash tells me there's no AC. Figures.
"Whose. Car. Is. This."
"What?"
"It's mine, isn't it?"
"If you say so."
"I do fuckin say so. My car. My radio...."
"Listen, shut up. I get it."
"Fuckin-A right you get it."
"What did I just say?"
Sonny decelerates, changes lanes and pulls off the freeway. He stops at the first gas station he sees and parks next to the pumps. I open the door, get out and stretch until my spine cracks. The heat is coming off the asphalt in waves and I can see it shimmer. The gasoline fumes make my sinuses itch deep inside my head where I can't get at them. My stomach tightens. "Going to the men's," I say.
Sonny shrugs his shoulders and goes back to pumping the gas. The mercury in the thermometer has pricked the hundred degree mark and it's not even noon. I walk past the pumps and into the store.
Inside it's just like any other gas station convenience store across the country. The display racks stretch from where I stand to the back of the store. There are brightly wrapped snack cakes. There are tortilla chips that claim to be a "fiesta in a bag!" There are magazines, trinkets and motor oil. The chewing gum and candy bars are on a rack beneath the register. The warning placard that promises to prosecute shoplifters hangs next to the Joe Camel promotional clock. Along the opposite wall are the cold drinks coolers, their windows cloudy with condensation. A handwritten sign reads: "Singles in single fridge! Do not break up six pax!" There are coffee pots and urns for milk and cream. There are non-dairy creamers, stirrers, individually wrapped donuts, crumb cakes and so on. The store smells of industrial strength cleanser. I see the sign for the men's room and head towards it. The air conditioner chugs and bleeds.
In the bathroom the fluorescent lights hum. It's bright in here and clean. There is a potted plant in one corner that is vibrant and healthy. So green it looks fake. I lift the toilet lid and relieve myself.
As I wash my hands I can't help but look at myself in the mirror. I used to know this face. I used to recognize it right away. But not anymore. Not really. Something important is missing from the eyes. Something I swear used to be there. I put my sunglasses back on before I can put my finger on it.
I grab a twenty-two ounce Bud from the singles fridge and walk to the front of the store. Johnny Cash is singing about redemption through hidden speakers. I switch the beer from right hand to left because it's freezing my palm and clunk it down on the counter.
The girl working the cash register puts aside a comic book and smiles at me. Her white teeth flash against her dark skin, which is smooth and unlined. Her black hair is in braids. There are small silver hoops in her ears and another one in her left nostril. She is wearing a faded blue cap with the Ford logo on it. I glance at the nametag pinned above her breast. Esperanza.
"Hey," I say.
"That it?"
"Camel filters, too, please. Thanks. Hard pack if you've got it."
Esperanza reaches above her head to get the smokes and her shirt rides up. Her stomach is flat. There is another silver hoop through her navel. I don't get it. "That hurt?"
"Hm?"
"The ring in your, ah... belly button there. Did it hurt?"
"Not really."
"Huh," I manage.
"Let's see. Cigarettes, beer...." Her fingers fly over the register. Clickety-clickety-click. "... comes to eight dollars and forty cents. You should try it sometime."
"What's that?"
"Pierce something. Get a tattoo. It's liberating. In a weird way. You'd be surprised."
"Thanks. I think I may be liberated enough already."
"Really? You don't look it." Then she pauses and adds, "No offense. I just mean you look like you're carrying a... heavy burden. That's all."
"Hm."
"Dollar sixty is your change. Thank you for shopping Zippy Mart."
As I turn to leave I hear her say something. "Sorry?"
"The pin on your jacket. Have a nice day, right? You too."
I glance down at my lapel. Sure enough, Mr. Smiley Face is broadcasting happiness and good cheer in every direction. Peace on Earth, good will to men and all that.
"You have a nice day, too," she says again.
"Sure. Thanks."
Sonny is sitting on the hood of the Cadillac, talking into a cell phone and rubbing his free hand on his thigh. I've seen him do this before. Means he's nervous. Up and down, up and down. Like he's got something nasty on his palm that won't come off. There's something vaguely perverted about it. I sit down on a bench by the door, twist the cap off the beer and throw it at the garbage can. Not even close.
I tip some beer into my throat, savoring the chill as it races down into my stomach. It blooms through the rest of me like time-lapse photography of frost on a windowpane. I feel like I can breathe again. The beer cuts through the cobwebs and greases the wheels and I don't feel rusty or clogged anymore. At least not as much. The hyenas start to retreat. Their yowling fades into the distance somewhere. I place the empty bottle in the trash.
"Yeah, I got it. It'll happen. I got it. I got it. Don't worry about it," Sonny is saying as I approach the car. There is a film of sweat on his face that makes it shine. He claps the phone shut and mops his face with a red bandana. I notice a tiny nugget of pomade in his hair that he forgot to comb all the way through. His forehead begins to sweat again. He looks jumpy.
"Who was that?"
"Who was what?"
"On the phone," I say. "Who was that on the phone?"
"Who do you think?"
"Never mind."
Sonny begins to say something but I'm already in the car. I pack my cigarettes on the dash while he gets in. He's mumbling something. I hear the words, "fuck," "your mother," and "dog." Maybe it was "pig." Otherwise he's tuned out.
Sonny leaves rubber peeling out of the gas station and I assign a letter to each cigarette in the pack. I pluck out the "K," turn it upside down and slide it back in. Lucky cigarette. One of those stupid habits I can't seem to shake. I fire up the first letter of the alphabet and exhale vowel sounds out the window. Thirty minutes later the cassette deck eats Sonny's tape. My day is looking up. Twenty minutes later we're there.
The house is a bungalow, with white stucco walls and a low roof that's been painted maroon. The eaves extend a foot or so beyond the tops of the walls, providing a little shade for the cacti and scorpions on the eastern side. The grass is green but dry and rough looking. As I get out of the car, sprinkler heads poke up through the turf and begin watering. A jogger runs past and eyes us. She has a golden retriever on a leash. The dog's mouth hangs open and is edged with white foam. Flecks of it shake loose and fall to the sidewalk. I watch her.
After she rounds the corner I draw my nine and eject the clip. It's full. I pop it back in and rack the slide to put a bullet in the pipe. Inside the car Sonny thumbs shells into the chamber of his shotgun. Feeding Lucille. I glance at the house. No movement. Nothing.
"Go time," I hear Sonny say.
On the way down the walk I see two lizards copulating on a flat rock. They're really sawing away at each other. It's almost comical. Then we're at the front door. My heart's in my throat, making it tough to breathe. A trickle of sweat rolls down my spine. The short hairs on my neck stand up. I see Sonny in front of me. He raises his fist and knocks on the door. This is it. This is it. I'm alive. I'm electric. I'm fucking radioactive. I'm the nightmare monster man. Watch me dance.
The door opens and an elderly lady with kind, inquisitive eyes smiles at us. I can see over Sonny's head into the house. A ceiling fan turns slowly above a sunken living room. Off-white sectional couches are arranged around a coffee table that's been inlaid with blue and white tile. The kind that always seems cool to the touch. There are pictures on the walls. Somewhere a television is barking out a game show. There is an archway at the back of the room. Probably leads to the dining area. The kitchen would be off it through a similar archway because these houses are all built the same. Boring. Predictable. Wrong. A tiny muscle jumps below my eye. Twitches. Something's wrong. "Sonny, I...."
I'm too late. In one eerily fluid motion, Sonny brings Lucille from behind his back, racks her and pulls the trigger. The woman's thin chest becomes a charred and bloody mess as she is blown off her feet. Her eyes catch mine. They are full of shock. Her body hits the tiled floor and slides to a stop. Somebody had put a lot of work into that floor. It's okay, though. A mop and some soapy water will get it up if you catch it before it dries.
Sonny is through the living room before I can stop him. This can't be right. I holster my nine and crouch by the woman. Somehow her wrecked lungs are still pushing air up through her neck. Her eyes plead with me to do something. Anything. I pinch her nose shut, cover her mouth tightly with my palm, and look away while I take her life from her.
Her hands are fine. Delicate. With tiny bones like a bird's. She wears two rings, both on her left hand. Both on the same finger. They shine. Fuck. I look somewhere else. In the photos on the wall she is smiling. She is happy. She is married. She is a mother. She is a grandmother. In the photos on the wall she is alive. I turn my head so I don't throw up on her.
My stomach clenches and unclenches like an angry fist, spewing beer and last night's dinner all over the floor. It's okay, though. A mop and some warm, soapy water will get it up if you catch it before it dries.
Bile burns the back of my throat. My eyes sting and burn. My head is a symphony of pain. I'm not doing this anymore. I won't. I can't. My ears still ring from the shotgun blast. I need a drink.
I rise to my feet slowly. Everything creaks and whines. Like my warranty's on the brink of expiration. There's whisky in the liquor cabinet. Bushmills. I pour myself a shot. Then I pour another one. I lean against the small bar and light a cigarette. The smoke drifts up toward the ceiling where the fan chops it apart. The gun under my arm feels heavier than normal.
I hear a door open and close. Then I hear Sonny.
"Oh man. Oh dude. Oh man. Ohmanomanomanoman...."
He enters the room quickly and notices the woman's body as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh dude," he says. "Oh man."
The front door is still open and Sonny goes to close it. He walks through the spreading pool of blood and leaves footprints. The phone rings four times then stops. I find an ashtray and stub my cigarette out, rolling it back and forth between my thumb and forefinger until there's nothing left.
"Dude, we shit the bed," he blurts. "We fuckin screwed the pooch, man, seriously."
He slides down the door into a crouch and stays there. His eyes are closed. I can see his lips moving. It's stupid to assume he's praying. God gave up on us a long time ago.
"Oh man," he says. "This is fucked. We're fucked. I mean. What the hell were they doing here?"
They?
Sonny looks at me. His eyes are wide and shiny. He begins to rub his palm on his thigh. Up and down. Up and down. Nervous. I almost can't blame him. Almost.
I put down the shot glass and push myself off the bar, reluctantly forcing myself into action. Through the archway into the kitchen. Through the kitchen into the dining room. Through the dining room onto the lanai. To the pool.
He is floating face down in the deep end. He has on blue slacks and a pale yellow shirt. Most of his head is gone and the heavier parts are sinking to the bottom. Some gunk and grey matter float near one of his outstretched hands. The water has turned shades of pink and red. The ripples have yet to settle.
I realize I've been holding my breath and I let it out through my nose. Something rattles deep inside me. I should probably think about quitting smoking.
I find Sonny pacing the living room. The woman is still dead. As a doornail. As Dillinger. My throat's gone dry and I'm having trouble swallowing. I shudder once, suddenly, a goose walking over my grave. "We gotta go."
Sonny turns to face me as he speaks and a ragged hole appears in his forehead. His eyes tip back in his head like he's trying to figure out what's wrong and suddenly there's another hole in his throat. And two in his chest. Then another one. The wall behind him is beginning to look like a Jackson Pollack painting. I park two more rounds in his gut and the last one spins him around and dumps him facedown on the floor. Dead as disco.
My arm falls to my side. I try to remember drawing and firing but I can't. I try to feel something, anything. Can't. The only sound is the click, click, click of the ceiling fan. And, in the distance, something else. Sirens.
I pour some more of the Bushmills and descend the two steps to sit on the couch, bringing the ashtray with me. The table is laid out like a waiting room with magazines arranged so the titles are visible. I drink some whisky and set the glass down on last month's issue of Time magazine. I don't want to leave a ring on the table. That would be rude.
As the sirens grow louder, I pull out my cigarettes, flip the top back and take out the lucky one even though you're supposed to save it and smoke it last. I fire up and inhale deeply. It's probably just as well.
- END -
