by Odie Lindsey
Unlike her benign allegiance to alcohol, the powder became the Cause. It was not snorted. Not shot. Not even snowcapped on a weed bowl. Not plugged. No, for Colleen, it was all about the way the stuff glazed her teeth. The way the burn of it coated her cracked enamel chips, shoving the pain down her throat to make way for numbness. She couldn’t tell if she was truly high or not. (At least, she liked to tell herself she couldn’t tell.) Instead, she focused only on the quasi-clinical process: rub powder over broken teeth, harbor pain, swallow pain, repeat. Call Sarge and ask for more, or find someone who’d already found Sarge (and ask that person for more). Repeat. She could take or leave the meth or weed. But that singe of exposed dental root? She grew desperate for the combat of Pain vs. Powder. At times, it seemed to be the only marker of her existence.
She wore fatigue pants and tank tops. Her hair was shorn to a buzz, and her dog tags hung backward, the bead chain cutting into her trachea. Her under-eyes were purple. The bartenders knew her well enough to serve her without a smile, but they forgave her the shitty tips because she was a hero, and, despite her efforts to the contrary, real good-looking. She showed up, stayed all night, drank, snuck in and out of the men’s room, and rubbed powder on her gums with her gun finger. The regulars toasted her service and waited for her to die on a back road. (It hadn’t happened yet, but it would, they knew. One way or the other—whether she was walking, or driving, or riding with some drunk—there was zero doubt about it. That girl was a ghost-to-be.)
In these bars, Colleen knew everything that would unfold, night after night. She appreciated the nonthreatening uniformity of it all.
Until one Thursday evening, when Deana showed up. She had a female friend in tow, and they took up a red vinyl booth. Sat across from each other and cut up over beers.
Deana did a double-take when she saw Colleen at the bar, then leaned in to her girlfriend and whispered, and laughed. A minute later, the beautician walked over to order another pitcher. She wore tight jeans with fancy embroidering on the ass pockets, alongside a yellow knit blouse and white tennies. Her hair was still damp and smelled citrusy clean—even through the smoke. She cleared her throat and spoke up:
“G.I. Jane! How you, girlfriend?”
Colleen glanced over, nodded hello, then sipped from her bottle. Her cheeks got hot.
“I ain’t gonna lie,” Deana said. “You don’t look a hell of a lot better than when I last saw you. How are those chompers, anyway?”
Colleen flashed her brittle grin. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
“I bet,” Deana said. “Say, how about you come drink a few with us?”
“Well.”
“We don’t bite, girl. Plus, I’m buyin’ the pitcher. You in?”
Colleen sniffed, and her throat muscles tightened in anticipation of the powder drain. “Oh, why not?”
Over the course of that pitcher, and a few more to follow, the girls talked about girls, and about boys they all knew; they talked about cell phone plans and television, and watching video clips on either device. Deana and her pal asked Colleen about the war and earned stock, optimistic replies; the pal—Colleen hadn’t caught the girl’s name, and was embarrassed to ask it again—spoke of work at the beauty parlor, and of looking for better work, and how she wished Pitchlynn was big enough to bring in a ride-share service, so she could put together a few side-gig bucks to do . . . well . . . do something. When Deana had then asked her colleague, “Like, do what?” the young woman had drawn a blank. All three had laughed over the fact that, hell, they were already doing pretty much what they wanted to do: having pitchers of beer in a bar, on a Thursday, late.
For a blip they were nothing more than twenty-three-year-old women, not a care in the world, burning up a random summer night, talking bullshit.
At some point the friend said she had better hit the road, in order to keep her car between the ditches. Deana and Colleen chastised her a bit—not too much—then bade her farewell, and ordered another pitcher.
The two felt like they were just getting started when the bartender rang a cowbell and yelled for everyone to get out.
“Aw, man,” Colleen said, her eyes gleamy from booze.
“I hear you girl,” Deana replied. “I hadn’t hooted up like this in forever. And boy, do I need it. I gotta get your phone number.”
Colleen looked away for a moment, then stifled a sudden giggle. “Say, Deana. Let’s get hitched.”
“That’s it, soldier gal. You’re cut off!”
“Really. Let’s tie the knot,” Colleen insisted. “Keep this night goin’.”
“What kinda woman do you think I am?” Deana asked, gulping the last swallow of beer.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Colleen blurted. “I don’t think!”
“Sorry, troop, but I’m already taken.” Deana held up her ring finger, wiggling it for effect. Only, there wasn’t a wedding band. “Oops. Separated, I mean. The ring’s in my purse. But still.”
“Son of a bitch.” Colleen hoo-ah’ed and slapped the tabletop, then stood up and marched to the bathroom. She rubbed the last of her powder stash over her gums, then split without saying goodbye.
Having weeks before sold the Cavalier for scrap, she started the long slog home, her combat boots kicking into the gravel at the road shoulder. At some point, a headlight cone stretched out in front of her. She lit a cigarette and listened as the vehicle drove up behind, idling down to a roll.
“Hey, girl?” a man called out. “It’s too dark out here to be walkin’ by your—”
Colleen glanced back, to a man in a pickup truck cab. She kept marching.
“Whoa, now,” he slurred. “Hold up. I’s just offerin’ you a ride. And maybe a little taste? I’m headed over to Sarge’s. You’re welcome to tag along.”
She knew the guy. She thought she remembered him, anyway. Her pace ticked up as she walked back into darkness, until the creep of his headlights prevented this.
“Aw, come on,” he whined. He put the truck in neutral and revved the engine a couple of times.
Colleen flicked her cigarette into the cab, and then crossed the road as he cursed her. She didn’t so much care about drunk men in trucks, but she knew better than to show up at Sarge’s house. Not that she didn’t love the guy—hell, they were bonded by deployment, after all—but everybody knew that there was a telltale, critical diff between making the powder come to you, and you chasing down the powder. Even Sarge had told her to never want to come over; he said his house was infested with addicts, a real vector of anxiety and anguish (which was a surprising hazard of the gig, he added, more taxing, even, than ducking the law).
The driver revved his engine once more, then peeled away. Colleen marched into the night, a crisp motion in her step as she thought of her new friend, Deana.
SHE WOKE to the sound of her father home for lunch. She heard Brice’s truck door shut, and smelled the grub on the table. Wincing against the semi-brightness of her bedroom window, she turned to stare at her pale pink walls: at the Basic Training and AIT Army certificates and the high school diploma, a grad tassel dangling from its frame. She thought about the night before, and the night before that. She got up and cracked the window, lit a Misty. Dragged it a few times, then punched it into a Pepsi bottle that floated a reservoir of butts in the backwash. She threw on a robe, stepped into the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth, and to stare herself down in the mirror. She stepped back into the hallway, her socks whispering on the beige carpet as she walked to the dining room.
“Hey,” she said, joining her folks at the table.
“Well,” Jeanette started to respond, but dropped off against a look from Brice.
After her daddy had offered a quick edit of grace, they ate green beans with hock and pepper, instant mashed potatoes, and cuts from a ham slab with slices of Roman Meal. Colleen fiddled at the food with the fork tines, and gulped her extra-sweet tea.
“Colleen,” Jeanette spoke up. “We was thinkin’ it might be nice to
take Dave up on gettin’ your old job back.”
“Uh-huh.” She poked at the ham.
Brice joined in, “Or I could always talk with the Dunlaps. See whether they might need an extra hand ’round the gin. If you’d like.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” Colleen nodded. “Maybe.”
Jeanette continued, “Because, really, it’s time. It is past time.”
“Yeah, loud and clear,” Colleen replied. She stood up, tea in hand, and walked back down the hall and into her room. She didn’t slam the door.
Midday news was on the television on her dresser. Colleen lay on her bed, lifted her shirt, and patted her tummy, her fingers moving across the taut, creamy skin. Colleen liked the feel and shape of her stomach. She liked to thump it, to rub it or drum it with tender slaps, and sometimes to show it off in a tank top or bathing suit. It was perfect, it was young. Smooth, yet powerful, somehow. She’d never been much of an athlete, yet during Basic at Fort Jackson she’d led her platoon in sit-ups. There, where the females perform modified, women-only-type push-ups; where the march back from bivouac was twelve miles long for females, versus the men’s twenty (as if the women couldn’t handle it); where clandestine liaisons with fellow troops first began to seek out space, to formulate beyond the NO ENTRY doorways or behind the plastic drop cloths of barracks under renovation; where lovers learned to deviate from the well-used paths on Tank Hill and into the sand-floored woods; where they had wriggled into bathroom stalls, at once as banished and as resilient as queers in a tiny redneck town—Colleen had been amazed at her physical ability, at the strength and sculpt of her stomach. Once, when pitted in an informal, off-duty sit-ups competition, she had even outdone her male counterparts.
The very best thing about coming home from war was that the shape or size of her stomach hadn’t changed. Though all else had betrayed her, from fashion to her faith to her father’s phantom “episode,” Colleen’s midriff was the one thing she still understood.
She stretched out on the bed and pushed her tummy up and down, grabbed the glass of tea, and held it there, watching it rise, and fall. As the watery coolness centralized on her navel, she thought once more about hanging out with Deana.
4
MY DAMN RULES
- No powder
- No more than three late nights a week
- No strange dudes in the house
- Must stick close when my husband visits OR Must get lost for a couple hours. Or more.
- Grow your hair out and try to look pretty
- Don’t mope
- Remember that you kick ass
- Clean up and pay a little rent
- Really No Powder . . . Zero!!
Deana proved to be a bitch taskmaster of a landlord. Colleen loved every bit of it.
After the former had suggested she could use a roommate, a little company to help cruise her over the choppy waves of her separation, Colleen showed up at the apartment the next morning—before a by-then-sober Deana had a chance to change her mind.
The place was a two-bedroom garden apartment in an old brick Queen Anne. A converted fourplex close enough to town square that they could walk into the Pitchlynn bustle if they wanted, but with an isolated back deck that faced a vacant lot of wild kudzu. The setup allowed Colleen to roll out of bed, grab her coffee and smokes, then sit outside and meditate on the jungle-like tangle of vines.
The roommates talked about the places they’d like to travel.
They drank Miller Lite and went out.
They spoke about high school and work life, and about the politics of the war, and once or twice Colleen rambled about women at war . . . though the topic was generally muted. They watched Meet the Press in their pajamas, and/or a string of old action flicks on TBS and WGN. Predator. Independence Day. You’ve Got Mail. Dances with Wolves.
Deana fussed at her, and fussed over her. She forced Colleen to don a plastic smock, and subjected her to kitchen-chair haircuts. (Okay, maybe not forced her. After all, Colleen could have refused.) She daubed Colleen with makeup now and again (cue: Colleen acts disgusted), then wiped it off at the end of the night, the remover’s acrid scent a near-aphrodisiac. Colleen, in turn, tried to mind her appearance, and her ways. She kept Deana’s rules close in mind, and, except for having to make way for Deana’s husband once or twice a week—an aggravation, for sure—she prided herself on following them to the letter. She still moped sometimes, and she pushed the late-night thing now and again. But Deana’s authority was easier than the Army’s, or certainly that of her parents. After a few weeks, Colleen even cracked a few beers with Deana’s hubby, who was, admittedly, a nice enough guy who just needed to grow up.
5
On the night she met Derby, all Colleen wanted was chocolate pudding pizza. She and Deana were posted up at the Pizza Hatch, where Colleen had treated them both to the all-you-can-eat buffet, a token-of-gratitude dinner in lieu of proper rent. Both women were fine with this symbolic remuneration; Deana did not yet expect more from Colleen than companionship, a pitch-in on chores, and news of a job-lead here or there.
Colleen had piled up a boneyard of crusts, drunk four Cokes, and then, to Deana’s revulsion, made her move for the “dessert pizza.” Derby had appeared at the buffet table at the same time. They locked eyes for an instant, and smiled at each other. She found him very cute, until he nabbed the last slice.
“Whoa, dude,” Colleen said, staring in disbelief as the stranger walked back to his two-top. He was tall, and wore his Levi’s tucked into his work boots. Had a deep farmer’s tan and a real good butt. She shook her head at the latter attribute, grabbed another pepperoni, and slumped back into her booth.
“What?” Deana asked.
“Some guy just—”
Derby stepped in and cut her off. “My bad.” He snickered, then set the dessert slice down at the edge of their table. He nodded at Deana. “Hey.”
“Derby,” Deana replied. “Been a while. How you?”
“Better than ever. Now.” He smiled at Colleen, paused, and walked off.
Colleen attempted to sustain her indignation.
“Jesus,” Deana said. “You’re blushing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Denial only makes it worse.” Deana shook her head. “I’m guessing you don’t know Derby?”
“Who knows? Cares?”
“He’s six-seven years older than you,” Deana explained. “Though age don’t mean a thing, you know? He’s a real good guy. So good-lookin’, mmm. But a real messed-up family. Hobbs?”
Colleen shrugged.
“I swear, Colleen. It’s like you’d been raised in the woods. Sit tight. I’ll go grab him.”
Colleen clenched Deana’s arm. “Don’t even.”
Deana stared at Colleen’s hand until it was removed.
“Sorry,” Colleen said, “but—”
Deana nodded an okay, then pushed Derby’s plate across the table. “I’ll leave you be, this time. I’m just happy to see your blood up. I tell you, I knew there was a little spot of titillation in there somewhere! Now eat your chocolate pizza. Which is disgusting.”
Colleen dragged her finger through the pudding sauce, and sucked it clean.
6
“Do it, Colleen!”
“Oh, you’re gonna do it. She’s gonna do it, y’all!”
“You gotta do it for us, Colleen. Come on!”
“Don’t be selfish, girl. It’ll be great. We got your back.”
“It’s about time you pulled it together, Colleen. Let’s do this thing!”
Colleen hadn’t been hot-box recruited since the Army pressured her signature at the high school job fair. She was visibly frustrated by the nagging, the coercion, the henpecking, the pleads (though a part of her took to the doting).
“You gotta do it,” Shirley State said, hand cocked on her ample hip. “When are we ever gonna get a veteran to showcase?”
Emma Crowther drew her blow dryer like a .45, boasting, “We’re gonna take the com
petition down.”
Echoes erupted from the ladies on the floor. Appeals that Colleen must, in fact, register to participate in the pageant.
She was hungover again, and her resolve was flimsy. She wished to condemn the idea of entering a beauty contest. Yet she, like them, had grown up here. At one point or another they had all dreamed of being the Strawberry Maiden. And though their bodies, ambitions, or politics might have developed in stark contrast, some girlhood part of this crew still coveted the sash—in particular, if they could redefine what type of woman got to wear it. They wanted to fuck things up a little bit, as it were.
“Come on, Colleen,” Deana said. “Just give in and let’s get you fixed up. The deadline’s here and we gotta file your paperwork.”
Beyond any girlhood entrancement, there was the lure of the prize money. Five thousand bucks could go a L-O-N-G way for Colleen. She’d give $1,000 to her folks, $1,000 to Deana for rent and bills and beers, and keep $3,000 for future rent, bills, and beers.
Still. Colleen thought of the spectacle. “Y’all, just let me alone. Not it.”
Deana stepped behind the salon chair in which Colleen sat and rubbed her friend’s neck. “Don’t fret, girl. We got you covered. You need this. Besides, we need it. The shop needs the business, the exposure. I hate to be greedy, Colleen, but it’s really more about helpin’ us.”
“Then you do it,” Colleen said.
“I’d be all over it if I looked like you!”
“I repeat,” Colleen stated. “Not it.”
Deana exhaled, paced away, and let the other beauticians and patrons jump back into recruitment. Colleen kept refusing, squirming, denying them—until an idea hit. She walked across the room and pulled Deana aside.
“If I take that crown, then I wanna get the hell out of Dodge for a few days.”
“Christ,” Deana said. “Go anywhere you want, you’ll have five thousand bucks!”