Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  “Well, how about that,” I say, and I’m wondering what she’s getting at. I don’t say anything else because I don’t want to accidently lead her some place she wasn’t already planning on going. A few seconds drip by like molasses, and just when I begin entertaining the thought of giving in to the uncomfortable tightening sensation coiling its way around my body and saying something, Gloria starts up again.

  “I don’t mean anything by mentioning it, Toby. I hope you don’t think I was spying on you. It wasn’t that. I just thought I’d bring it up because I didn’t think you and Rowland were pals or anything. I always thought you didn’t really care for him, what with the way you speak about him sometimes when we drink.”

  “Nah, he’s not so bad,” I say. “I mean, yeah, he gets on my nerves from time to time, but we have a decent working relationship, you know. We might not always be on the same page, but we respect one another’s opinions when it comes to the show. After the barbecue last night, he pulled me aside and asked if I wouldn’t mind swinging by his trailer later to discuss a couple of things that’d been bothering him about a certain performer. He knows I have a better eye for technique than he does, so sometimes he’ll ask for my input. I forgot to go see him, but I woke up early and saw that his light was on, so I went on over. And you know, while I had his ear, I put in a good word for a certain spec girl I know, one who’s destined for bigger things.”

  She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one side, jutting her hip out. I don’t know if her smirk means she believes me—sort of a “you’re damn right I’ve got bigger things coming” smirk—or if it means she knows I’m lying, but I don’t think I really care. I offer her a cigarette. She nods and I pop one into my mouth, one into hers. Once I’ve lit my smoke, I pluck hers from between her lips and bring it to the burning end of mine, but I stop when I notice we have an audience.

  If I had a trailer as swanky as Genevieve and Andrew have, I know the only way I’d come out was kicking and screaming, but while Genevieve has no problem shutting herself away, the amount of time Andrew spends in the sun lately makes me think he’s trying for a Charles Atlas shade of orange. Every day we’ve been in Fort Worth, I’ve seen him sitting in his fold-out lawn chair, nothing on but his undershorts, soaking up rays like he’d just scored a hot tip that the sun was going to burn out by the end of the week. You believe that? Rowland gives me shit about my lackluster smile; meanwhile, our fake Russian’s skin is about two shades away from being a Christmas turkey! Anyhow, I spot that bastard eyeing me from across the yard, so I put Gloria’s smoke back, step aside, and light her cigarette the way I’d light one for a nun I’d just met for the first time. Andrew cranes his head back and exhales his own plume of smoke, then looks back to me, sticks his tongue out one side his mouth, and rolls the invisible dice a few times down by his shorts. He gets a good laugh out of that, then leans further back in his seat and commences crisping.

  “What’s eatin’ ya, pal?” Gloria asks in her goofy version of a New York accent— her go-to when she’s kidding around.

  “Nothing,” I tell her, my eyes still fixed on Andrew.

  She gives me a friendly punch on the arm. “Hang in there. Only one more night and then we’re off to Dallas. I’m sure it’s just as miserable there as it is here, but, hey, after a few shows, we get three days off before heading to Marshall.”

  “Great. I’ll get a ride into Dallas, look at some skyscrapers, and get myself a giant doughnut. It’ll be a gas.” I take a lengthy drag—the kind that ends with your eyes going to slits—and turn to Gloria. Her eyebrows are angled in a steep frown, her mouth a sickle, and she’s hunched forward slightly and sticking her neck forward, giving her the posture of a vulture. A few seconds pass before I realize she’s impersonating me, and then I crack right up, a flash flood of laughter spilling from my face. Eventually, my smoker’s cough butts in, but by then I’ve forgotten all about that rodent-faced fuck, his judging eyes, and his phantom dice. At least for the time being, that is. And hey, I’ll take what I can get.

  THE DALLAS CROWDS WERE AN IMPROVEMENT. Two nights, two beyond sell-outs. The big top’s gills were oozing. Rowland keeps a bunch of red envelopes in his desk drawer—Fire Marshal Blind-Eye Insurance—but I don’t think he needed to dip in during our stay. Typically, the farther outside of city limits we set up, the less people care about regulations. Capacity is in the eye of the beholder.

  When we first rolled in, if you’d asked me what I was looking forward to the most, I would have told you the three days of hibernation that would follow the shows. I don’t know what internal switch got flipped and changed that, but here I sit, bouncing along in the backseat of a Syc-driven Ford. The way this kid drives, Christ, I’ll tell you this: In the six years that I was a flyer, two of those years I performed without the safety of a net. Every night I ran the risk of plunging fifty feet to my death—but I’ve never been more scared for my life than I am right now in the back of this fucking Ford. When this kid’s not busy straddling the centreline—commanding a chorus of honks from oncoming drivers who are all quite aware of their own mortality— he’s acquainting his tires with the edge of the ditch. So, I figure I’ll either die instantly in a head-on, or I’ll get a topsy-turvy somersault that’ll land me in a wheelchair, in which case I’d hope that Gloria has the decency to smother me with a pillow.

  “Holy hell, kid! Do your clone brothers share your unique interpretation of a straight line? Or is this zig-zag shit your problem alone?”

  “What’s that, Toby?” he shouts back at me, and when he turns his head, the wheel follows suit, bringing us to the brink of the ditch.

  “Fuck! Nothing! Forget it! Just keep your eyes on the goddamned road!”

  He whips his head forward, “Whatever you say, sir!”

  If we make it to Dallas, I fully expect my favourite brown suit to have finger imprints on each bicep from my white-knuckling.

  “What do you plan to get up to in—”

  “Do not talk! Please, for the love of God, just focus on getting us there in one piece! When we get to Dallas, lunch is on me. You can talk my ear off then, but until then, eyes on the goddamned road, understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I do!”

  About fifty Our Fathers later, we pull in curbside and screech to a stop. I don’t even know if this is a proper parking spot. I don’t even care.

  Once, years ago, I stayed in the King James Hotel, and given that it was the kind of place that lets patrons pay by the hour, I wasn’t expecting much from the tavern at its base. But if you think my socks were knocked off by its swank, you should see the face of the Syc I walked in with. Hat in hand, mouth agape, eyeballs sponging up the dark oak-paneled room, its stained glass lamps collectively emitting just enough of a glow to give the place that perfect level of warmth, the elaborate shelves of liquor behind the bar, so tall you’d need a ladder to reach the top-tier—you’d think the kid had walked into the Sistine Chapel.

  I clap him on the back. “Hell of a place, ain’t it?”

  “I’ll say,” and I’m glad I got his mouth moving before the drool started leaking out.

  The tavern is nearly empty. We slide into the booth farthest from the one that the other two patrons are sitting at. The bartender throws a nod, I catch and return. He steps out from around the bar, then turns right back around when I holler “Two bourbons!” at him.

  He comes back with our drinks and places them in front of us. “The men know what they want,” he says, as if he were talking to someone beyond our view.

  “These men sure do,” I say, and that gets a polite chuckle out of him.

  “And will you be dining today as well?”

  “Yeah, I think we will.”

  He nods so deep it’s practically a bow, flaunting his friar-like bald spot. “Julia will be right over with some menus.”

  “Say,” I get him before he turns to leave, “this is a helluva place.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I stayed at
the hotel up top a few years back and, well, no offense, but I didn’t really picture anything like this at the bottom.”

  He closes his eyes and smiles knowingly. “Ah, the old King James.”

  “The old King James,” I echo.

  “The old King James was quite a different establishment. About five years back, the original owner passed on. The place was bought up and fixed up, but they decided to keep the name.”

  “I guess if you’ve got a regal name, might as well try and live up to it.”

  “Perhaps that’s it,” he says. “I’ve been here for years. Sure don’t miss the old place. I started as a bellhop when I was fifteen. You want a fast dose of reality, get a job as a bellhop in a crummy hotel. My God, some of the people. There are things you can never un-see, know what I mean?”

  “Do I ever.”

  I raise my glass and take a sip that turns into a gulp. The bartender eyes the new vacancy. I give the glass a tap, and he nods. “Well, welcome back to the King James, sir,” he says with a smirk.

  Staccato rasp-heavy coughs come jittering out of the Syc across from me, reminding me he’s there at all. He buries his mouth in the crook of his elbow and rides the mini fit out. “Excuse me,” he says once it stops. He’s looking at me all apologetic.

  “Not a bourbon man?”

  “I love bourbon,” he insists, then downs another mouthful to prove it. This time there’s no cough. “The first sip of anything hard always gets me, though. Gotta give my system a second to get used to it.”

  I nod like I understand, and right then my second drink arrives. I clink glasses with the Syc and we both take a sip. “Look,” I say, “I feel like an ass asking, but what’s your name again, kid?”

  “Rupert.”

  “Rupert. Right. God, I’m awful with names.”

  “No need to apologize, Toby. Guy like you, everyone at Rowland’s knows you or wants to know you. Can’t blame ya for forgetting the odd name.”

  “And it is an odd name, Rupert.”

  He exhales a laugh and nods, fidgeting with his glass, eyes ricocheting around the room, the poster boy for social awkwardness.

  “But then again, I always thought Toby sounded like something you name a lizard, so you’re in good company.” That gets a more sincere laugh out of him and gets him to stop the nervous glass antics for a second.

  He says, “I bet a Claudius or a Melvin is gonna come walking through the door any second and join us.” The joke catches me by surprise, right when I’ve got a mouthful, and I have to put my hand to my mouth for spill insurance. I instigate another clinking of glasses, and next thing you know, I’m signaling the booze-friar for another round. He’s about to leave his post and walk the drinks over when this waitress, who I assume is Julia, shows up and snags the drinks.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Julia—her name tag confirms it—says. She’s all perk and point, right up to the tips of her cat’s eye glasses. I return her greeting and flash a smile. I’m glad that the bartender’s been demoted to wallpaper. Julia places our drinks on the table and gets us a couple menus. It takes me about two seconds to decide on stew, and Rupert the Syc opts for a plate of French fries. I remind him that I’m buying and insist that he get a real meal, but he’s not having any of it, so French fries it is. I also order us a couple of iced teas because I have no idea what Rupert’s booze tolerance is, and a great way to get kicked out of a nice place like this is to do an impromptu puke paint-job.

  Rupert and I are now the only customers, so our food comes pretty fast. Instead of pouring ketchup on his plate and dipping his French fries in it, like a normal human might, Rupert keeps the open bottle in his hand for the entire meal, and every time he picks up a fry, he lets a little bit of ketchup drip onto it. It’s fucking weird, but I decide not to ask him about it because the kid seems self-conscious enough as is.

  When I’m done, my bowl and spoon look cupboard-ready. Julia comes to take everything away, and I ask her to tell whoever made the stew that they’ve got an admirer. Rupert crams his remaining French fries—about a quarter of what was there to begin with—in his mouth and grunts to get Julia’s attention, then points to his plate to indicate that he’s done as well. I pay the cheque, and as I start to get up, Rupert, who’s still chewing, reaches across the table and puts his hand on my arm. We meet eyes, and he does the most forceful swallow I’ve ever witnessed, then gasps: “Whaddaya say to one more drink, Toby? On me.” My first instinct is to say no. I was planning to walk to the theatre a few blocks from here and take in a picture. But he has this pleading look in his eyes, and eating habits aside, he seems like a nice enough kid, so I say sure, why not one more, and sit back down.

  We’ve got a couple more drinks in front of us in no time, with another two in hot pursuit. Next thing I know, me and Rupert are chatting away like a couple of old pals. He’s slumped forward, one eyelid looking the slightest bit heavier than the other, ragging on everyone at Rowland’s, but getting distracted mid-rag in the same way a dog gets distracted when it goes to the park; one second he’s complaining about the other Sycs sticking him with all the grunt work, then another thought will zip past him, so he’ll ditch what he’s talking about, nab the new topic, and run with it. Anyway, this guy’s got a lot of guts to spill, and, to be honest, I don’t mind a mess. I’m getting a real kick out of it, actually.

  “She’s got the nicest ass,” he tells me. “An’ normally… normally, Toby, a ring don’t mean a thing to this boy, you get me? But, well, when the guy she’s hitched to has a talent for throwing knives with excellent accuracy,” he drunkenly pronounces it ex-lent ack-eracy, “well, that changes things a bit, don’t it?” The most ignorant volume of laughter bursts from his face before I can get a word in to tell him he ought to watch how he talks about Susan. And right as he starts to wind down, another topic gets picked up. “That Rowland seems like a real degenerate, you know…” So he turns down that road, and I just smile and nod along with him, laughing when he laughs, and so on, but inevitably my thoughts and attention begin to drift. Before long, I find myself wondering how soon I can sever this slanted conversation and shake Rupert so I can go catch a picture. I’m wondering if I can make time to hit the track and get the few extra bucks I have on me to spawn. I’m recalling Gloria telling me that she and a few other dancers were heading to Dallas earlier this morning, and I’m wondering what she’s up to right now and if there’s any chance I’ll run into her. I’m wondering if that little bookshop I visit every time I come here is still in business, or if it’s been shut down for distributing indecent material. So my wondering is really enjoying wandering, but then Rupert says something that pulls me back to the moment.

  He goes, “…nothing wrong with that at all. You like ’em tight, not a man alive that’d fault ya for that.” He punctuates it all with this stupid grin-shrug combo that I think is supposed to be comical but is sure as fuck not, and then leans forward, takes a sip from his glass, and gives me a triplet of eyebrow jumps, as if we’re on the level. As if we know one another at all. As if me sitting down and having a few drinks with him propels him into some realm of privilege where he can go and say something like that to me. I’m right about to set him straight and tell him where he ought to go, when Julia shows up with two more drinks for us.

  “These ones are on the house, gents. I think you’re a couple doubles away from putting Max’s kid through college.”

  The bartender, who I guess is Max, sees us accept the drinks, then gives a nod. Rupert is over the moon. You’d think no one had ever given him a thing in his life. He’s doing that thing people do when they want to seem as if they’re refusing a gift. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly,” he says. Then, “That’s completely unnecessary. You tell Max I insist that we pay for these. I insist!” Julia humours him for a bit, then slowly backs away.

  The interlude has cooled me. Rupert’s comment is nothing worth getting riled up over. He’s just a fucking drunk kid. And he’s wrong. And if I lose my cool, o
ne of the only memories his sober self will have of this late afternoon will be: I suggested that Toby was sticking it to Gloria and he flipped his lid! Grab the giant scissors and cut the ribbon, this new rumour mill’s sure to stabilize the local economy and create a fuckload of jobs.

  He and I go at our free round, and while Rupert is finishing his last sip, I rush to kibosh our meeting before he has time to order us another. “Holy hell, it’s nearly three o’ clock, pal. I’ve got things to do. I’d better make this drink my last.”

  Rupert indicates understanding with a nod. I think that last drink was the push over what must have been his third or fourth cliff of the afternoon. I tell him that there’s a drugstore around the corner and that he ought to get himself some Aspirin for tomorrow. I don’t realize how tipsy I really am until I stand. The fresh air will sober me up, and I’m sure I’ll run across a hot dog stand or something. The two of us leave our money on the table, say our thanks to Julia and even Max, and step outside. Rupert tells me that he has plans to meet the other Sycs, and that they’re all spending the night at a friend’s place. He assures me that he’s going to get that Aspirin and then head over there and catch some rest before the bunch of them hit the town tonight. All I can think is, lucky friend, having this guy show up on your step in the state he’s in. We say our goodbyes to one another, Rupert gives me a dead-fish handshake, and then we go our separate ways.

  It takes me maybe two minutes of walking before I find a hot dog stand. I get the chubster operating it to give me a loaded dog and a lemonade, and the first couple bites have got me feeling better. The track will be open for a while, so right now my plan is to take in a picture, and then maybe try and find that bookshop.

  I get to the Majestic Theatre too late for the three o’ clock showing of Strangers on a Train, but I grab myself a ticket to the four-thirty show and take off in pursuit of the bookshop. I can’t remember the place’s name, but I remember exactly where it is, and it’s only a short walk from the Majestic.