In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “Jackie, did you see that?” I asked. “That accident was peculiar as hell.”

  “That would have made a great YouTube fail video. My phone is never ready when crap like that happens. How did his skateboard fall apart like that?”

  “You’ve got me, but those ass clowns won’t be pulling that shit again.”

  The woman in the polka-dot dress leaned down and collected the items that spilled from her purse. We weren’t sure if she’d just continue on her way or call the police and make a statement. We pretended to window shop to avoid being called as witnesses. Yeah, it was cowardly! After her items were securely returned to her purse, she kept walking as if nothing had happened. As her white boots stepped forward, she had accidentally left an object behind. A gold chain seemed to be lodged into a crack in the sidewalk, shimmering in the sunlight.

  “Jackie,” I said, pointing, “She didn’t pick up all of her stuff. A chain might be lying up there.”

  “Let’s hurry up and see what it is.”

  When we reached the crack in the cement, I bent down and picked up a gold chain with an old Indianhead penny encased in a circular mounting.

  “Is it an amethyst necklace?” Jackie asked in excitement.

  “Sorry, sweetie, it’s an Indianhead penny.” When I moved the coin slightly to the left, the face transformed into a different Indian than the one I saw when looking straight at it. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Rotate it to the side. The face of the Indian changes. It’s a trip.”

  Jackie took the coin and moved it in the sunlight but didn’t see anything change.

  “You’re seeing shit, Mandi Mae. You might be in shock from witnessing that kid’s arm breaking.”

  I took back the coin and studied it. Once again, the Indian toggled as I slightly tilted it to the left. It was apparently a trick of the light, yet I was mesmerized by the illusion. I couldn’t figure out why Jackie was unable to see the two faces. I’ve seen pictures with dual images where some people are only able to see one or the other. I desperately needed a special periapt, but I knew I’d be overwrought by guilt if I didn’t return this charmed penny to its rightful owner.

  “We need to give this back to the woman in the polka dot dress,” I declared.

  “No, we don’t,” Jackie said. “Isn’t it ‘find a penny, pick it up, and all day you’ll have good luck?’ Has that adage changed?”

  “I’m not sure how great my luck will be if this penny gets in my possession in a deceitful way. She’s about a block ahead. We need to catch her.”

  “Fine,” she huffed, “but you need to learn the finders/keepers clause. Possession is 9/10th of the law.”

  “Not when the owner had it stripped away by two emo dicks.” At the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Ma’am, hey, ma’am. You lost a necklace back here.”

  The woman kept walking as if she was wearing clear-colored earbuds and was unable to hear the sounds on the street. That may have been the reason she didn’t sense the skateboards approaching.

  “We need to catch up to her.”

  “I’m not wearing running shoes.” Jackie pointed down to her black boots.

  “I need to try. Catch up to me.”

  I raced in her direction, but the woman kept moving forward. She walked around the corner at the next intersection, suddenly obscured.

  As I rounded the building, she was nowhere to be found. There were no doors closing, no cabs pulling from the curb, and the next corner was more than 200 feet away. I was only trailing about 15 seconds behind. It was as if she just dematerialized.

  When Jackie caught up, she asked, “Where is she?”

  “I have no clue,” I said between deep breaths. I was winded after one full block. I obviously needed a treadmill much more than a flogger. “There is no way she could be out of sight that quickly.” I looked up the side of the buildings on each side of the street to see if she was scaling the smooth marble like Catwoman or some undeclared superhero. I saw no open windows or balconies to explain her sudden disappearance.

  “Well, you can’t possibly want to hang around here now.”

  “You know how I am,” I pointed out. “I’ll feel guilty keeping this necklace if we don’t make some effort to find its rightful owner. Had she dropped it due to her negligence, I wouldn’t hesitate to keep it.”

  “We need to get to Schaumburg. You promised if I accompanied you to that porn store, we’d spend a few hours at Woodfield Mall. It’s pointless to spend a bunch of time looking for a woman that has no idea that she even lost anything.”

  “Fine, let’s at least look around for a little bit and then we’ll mosey to the suburbs.”

  “If we can’t find her, don’t worry about bad karma over keeping the chain,” Jackie said. “How many found pennies have turned out to be life-changing?”

  “Hmmm. None that I’ve ever had.”

  “Then why would you expect this one to be any different?”

  Chapter 3

  Jackie

  Mandi asked to meet for a drink at 8:00 sharp. It’s after 8:15 and the space cadet is nowhere to be found. Her habitual tardiness can be irritating. Unlike Mandi, I’ve outgrown the need to frequent bars on weeknights. A night of senseless partying often results in a morning of kneeling before the unforgiving toilet. I’m trying to avoid reckless behavior that forces me into a crouching position.

  The Blue Dragon has the same dim lighting as on any other night, but the Thursday crowd is comprised mostly of career drinkers. Mandi would never admit it, but she has a hard time sitting still when she’s not working. If I shared a house with Trudy, I would also skedaddle whenever possible. I’ve told her time after time not to let Trudy get under her skin, but her fuse is too short to walk away from a confrontation. With Mandi’s gentle features, it’s easy to miss how disturbed she is under the surface.

  Lately, Mandi frequents as many wakes and funerals as she can squeeze into her schedule. She isn’t doing this out of curiosity; she does this to dish out a level of discomfort to the families that have made such a sport out of tormenting her. When some malicious bitch is about to take up residence in the cemetery, Mandi crashes the somber event. The mourners all wonder why she is paying her respects. She shows up to tell the deceased to “suck monkey balls.” It’s safe to conclude that Mandi is on a greased pole to Hell.

  Mandi has an immobilizing fear of closed-in spaces. I have notarized written instructions that she’s to be cremated when that fateful day should occur. The fact that she can get within two feet of a casket is a huge leap for her . . . even if it’s just to give the voiceless corpse a twisted bon voyage.

  I’m one of the few people around this area that hasn’t betrayed Mandi Mae. Of the two of us, she inarguably gets the most male attention. Coming from a mix of Italian and Greek descent, I stood no chance of being a natural blonde. Even sprinkling in some highlights has not helped my curb appeal. Any overtures have been predominantly aimed in Mandi’s direction. When only two people are competing, it’s tough to finish in second place repeatedly.

  I can tolerate most of her ostentatious behavior, but showing up late does not sit well with me. It never has. She treats my time as if it has no real value. It’s only a matter of time before one of the clowns sitting at the bar will send over an unsolicited drink. Most are aware that I’m dating Nick Morrison. Considering that I’m sitting alone sipping a Jack and Coke, they’ll deduce that we must be on the “outs.” These are the same losers I’ve snubbed or completely rejected over the past ten years. Very few fresh faces find their way into the Dragon.

  “Jackie, what brings you out tonight?” Billy Stevens asks after sidling over to the booth. He has never shown the slightest interest in me outside of the longer-than-usual leer at whatever cleavage is jutting from my shirt.

  Billy is a mechanic at the Lube Pit on Elm. Beneath the grime he can’t scrub from his hands and the scruff he’s unwilling to shave, there might actually be a handsome guy. A
side from his lack of grooming, he hasn’t changed much since high school. I don’t want him poking holes in my radiator when I go in for an oil change, so I’m relatively delicate with the words I use in his company. Unlike Mandi, I try not to leave every bridge smoldering behind me.

  “Hi, Billy.” It took every bit of strength to maintain a positive tone. He interprets a pleasant greeting as an invite to stick around. “I’m just having a drink while waiting for Mandi to show up.”

  “Oh, wow, is Mandi actually coming?” His entire body straightened out upon this disclosure; I’m sure even a few parts of his anatomy I have no interest in knowing about. “When is she supposed to be here?”

  “Keep your shirt on. She will be showing up any minute now.”

  “I haven’t seen her for nearly two months. Where has she been hiding?”

  “You need to get out to Ray’s more often. She bartends out there five nights a week.”

  His face drops a little. “I’m not welcome at Ray’s. Too many cretins frequent that joint.”

  “I would have thought you might have a few friends in a place like that.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Ah, nothing,” I say, deciding not to insult him further, even though it would be effortless. I usually bust his chops at least once when I’m forced to consort with him. “What brings you to the Dragon on a weeknight?”

  “Nothin’ but reruns on tonight, so I had to get out of the house. Mom was driving me crazy. She always hums ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’ by Barbara Streisand when she’s nervous. It’s enough to make anyone go mental.”

  Billy will probably live with his mother until he’s well into middle age. He’s harmless enough but lacks any real motivation to move ahead in life. Unlike Mandi, he earns enough dough to afford a place. Between video games and the dream of being a guitarist in an emocore band, he sinks most of his money into his passions rather than his independence. The word around town is that Billy owns 13 guitars and as many pedals as Slash. If either Mandi or I were in the market for a perpetual 17-year-old, Billy would be our guy. He may be interesting to his music buddies, but his dull chatter makes you want to gouge something sharp into your thigh. A little pain would provide a valid excuse to flee. I shouldn’t say this, but if he ever plans to get laid, he will need to start telling lies about himself.

  “Maybe it is time to pull the trigger and finally get your own place,” I suggest.

  “Na. Mom’s garage is the perfect practice space for the band. She hates scraping ice off the windshield in the winter, but I told her when I’m touring all over the world, she’ll have full access to the garage.”

  “How is the band going?”

  “We’re practicing twice a week, and I’ve written a ton of happenin’ songs . . .”

  I usually opt for a question that doesn’t involve music. I pretend to listen as he reveals the grand plan for superstardom. He continues dropping the names of guitarists like Matt Heafy and bands like Darkest Hour. I don’t have the heart to tell him that none of this interests me in the slightest. The more he talks, the faster he’ll run out of gas on his own volition—or from the lack of oxygen.

  Luckily, a high-pitched bell rings and the front door swings open. Through the doorway enters Mandi, decorated head to toe straight out of a Britney Spears video. She can never tone it down in public, even when she’s supposedly distraught. All eyes turn whenever she enters, crosses, or leaves a room. I’m happiest when she just sits still.

  As usual, she stops to check her reflection in the front window where the Rolling Rock sign casts a light-green glow against the glass. She is a magnet to her own magnificence. I almost feel pretty until we’re in the same room together. Then, I realize my nose is too large, my hair is too brittle, and my eyes are the wrong color. Mandi has all the surface advantages but louses every opportunity that comes her way because she binges on chaos. Unless a guy has a fetish for upheaval, Mandi would not be worth the effort. Her outer veneer is a shield to mask the broken girl below. She’s a beautiful disaster.

  Mandi overstates the sex appeal, so anyone around her feels outshined. She is always glossed-over like a Revlon advertisement. The attention she gets from bartending and performing on her dirty webcam doesn’t seem to be satisfying her need for admiration from strangers and potential stalkers. Even when she gets approached, she will act all dismissive. Meanwhile, she can be so deliberately suggestive that anyone would mistake her body language as interest. The way her tongue playfully circles the tip of a cocktail straw can be so blatantly sexual it makes me blush. Since she knows how to get men sizzling hot during her cam shows, those not-so-subtle gestures are seeping into her personal life. She’s been guilty of holding eye contact a few moments too long with the wrong guys.

  Although she won’t admit it, Mandi has crossed over the age-line where she can no longer be mistaken for 22. She is terrified of getting older because the flattery may start fading. She recently complained that the “wolf whistling” has diminished. An alluring girl cannot overcome the sadness when their best memories can only be found inside a photo album. She’s not there yet, but recalling her ‘glory days’ is not far around the corner.

  Billy continues to babble as I quietly loathe Mandi’s demand for approval. When Billy has an eager audience that will listen to him drone on about his guitar playing, he barely notices anything else . . . not even Mandi’s arrival. I keep hoping she’ll see me waiting, but she will not peel herself away from the egocentric act of primping. I’ve grown tired of her compulsion to check each reflective surface to make sure a single hair is not out of place. She has been habitually admiring herself since our sophomore year in high school. It’s time she gives that shit a rest!

  Mandi and I have always had stark differences, but we’re beginning to grow miles apart. Five years ago, being an outcast was subversive, but I’ve been getting the itch to become a mother. The idea of having a baby keeps me grounded. Once I become a parent, I plan to create a list of things I will not do anymore. For my child to have a chance at a normal life, I may be forced to make a complete break from Mandi. She would bulldoze any calmness from my life. She expects me to be available to her nonstop, but it’s becoming less enjoyable. Bars, bowling alleys, and boutiques are not the places where I want to spend my free time. I’m trying to drink less, eat more organic food, and get on a consistent sleep schedule. Nothing considered “ordinary” interests her in the slightest. To put it more accurately, she begrudges my happiness whenever it does not align with her slanted view of contentment.

  She loves to call me her “BFF.” My dilemma is that if I stopped hanging out with her, she’d be virtually alone. Sure, she’s more than capable of attracting male attention, but she’d have a hell of a time making a female friend. Girls in this town see her as either a threat or a floozy that their boyfriends fantasize about during sex.

  I’m tired of the imbalance and am ready to become an adult. She believes that being a full-fledged ‘grown-up’ translates into dinner parties, barbecues, and yard work. All of that suddenly sounds ideal compared to roughing it with Mandi. Until I see a “plus” on a pregnancy stick, I’ll do my best to feign interest in her latest plight. I’m afraid if I am not in her life to some degree, she will—once again—get stuck with the wrong guy. I’m the only one that tries to steer her away from detrimental situations. Her last boyfriend would have eventually killed her if he hadn’t been arrested. The asshole put her in the hospital twice. That last visit to the emergency room was a close call.

  After nearly three minutes of unnecessary titivation, Mandi finally prances over to the booth. She somehow found time to grab a mixed drink from the bar. Aaron must have prepared it for her just seconds after making her grand entrance. She touches Billy on the shoulder as she slides into the booth.

  “Billy Stevens,” Mandi says, “why are you pestering Jackie?”

  “I’m not bothering her,” he spits out, disconcertedly. “She was asking about the
band, so I was getting her up-to-date about our progress.”

  “I’m sure the details were riveting.”

  “I thought you were going to be here at eight.” I glance at my iPhone. “It’s practically 8:30.”

  “It’s unhealthy to live by the clock.”

  Billy moves in next to me while I’m trying to drag an apology out of Mandi. He’s here to soak up as much of her essence as he can. We will have to deal with his company until she tires of torturing him. She tosses around his feelings like a bag of putrid trash, and he still wants to have sex with her. It’s sickening on so many levels.

  “Try making an effort to show up on time.”

  “If you must know, Trudy started ripping on me right before I walked out the door. I couldn’t just walk away because I’m already skating on thin ice with her. Otherwise, I might have made it here closer to the time we set on.”

  This is as close to an apology as I’m going to get. Knowing all too well how Trudy rants, I’m surprised she made it to the bar before last call. She begins telling me about Trudy’s demands . . . leaving out the webcam stuff since Billy is within earshot.

  “Mandi, I see that you still don’t have a ring on your finger,” Billy interrupts. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m convinced that Mr. Right will be along at any moment to sweep me off my feet. Uh, Billy, my eyes are up here,” she says, trying to pull his attention away from her sizeable boobs. “Anyway, I’m not expecting a fairy tale, but a girl must maintain minimum standards.”

  He pauses. “Maybe he’s in front of you right now.” No matter how many times she shoots him down, he foolishly persists. Some guys continue to crave a beautiful girl when it’s obvious they haven’t the slightest shot.

  Mandi looks to her left, right, and over my shoulder. “Nope, he isn’t here yet.”

  “Why not me?” he suggests with a mild hint of shyness. “You could do so much worse.”