Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

I gather everything back up and return it to the zippered compartment of the suitcase. Every buck. Now, I’m not usually the self-congratulating type, but I’m pretty damn proud right now. All those envelopes and I only blew $50 of it over the last two and a bit years. Not too shabby, Toby-boy, not too shabby at all. And you know, I’m actually glad I held off on counting it until now. I’m glad that all this time, I’d just taken the envelopes and stashed them away and then hardly ever thought about them except for when I needed a few extra bucks for a card game or to go to the track. It makes for a nice surprise. $3950—Christ, I wouldn’t have guessed it’d be that much by now. I wouldn’t have guessed it’d been that long since I started getting these little treats.

  Time flies when you leave it unattended.

  I spend—I don’t know—maybe a good five minutes just pacing around my trailer, all proud, then I sit down on my bed and flip through some of the magazines in my suitcase, realizing that if I were to walk out of here now, with this irrepressible smile plastered on my face, people might think something was going on.

  The cover of an old Weird Tales grabs me. The issue, which I’m sure I found in a junk shop somewhere, is all tattered and beat up—creased paper, once-sharp corners worn down to curves, staples holding on for dear life. On the cover is a woman wearing a mask. The mask is shaped like a bat, its wings spread, ready for flight, its face pointing upward, creating a pose that reminds me of the crucified Christ you sometimes see in old paintings. Even though most of the woman’s face is covered by her INRI bat, you can tell she’s beautiful: long-lashed, twenty-thousand-league-deep blue eyes, pale skin with flushing cheeks, and blood-red lipstick that looks about three seconds fresh. She’s looking either right past me or right through me, but definitely not at me—something more interesting has caught her eye, so I won’t flatter myself. An idiot might think she looks vacant, but that’s not the case at all—she’s entranced. The story’s title, which sits conveniently just below her breasts, reads, “The Vampire Master,” so maybe that’s whose spell she’s supposed to be under, but looking at her now, I think maybe she’s the master. She’s the master and she’s under her own spell, mesmerized by herself and no one else. And looking at her, who can blame her?

  Staring at the cover, it occurs to me that I can’t recall any details about “The Vampire Master.” I know I’ve read it—I’ve read every story in every one of these magazines, some of them twice, but I can’t remember a damn thing about “The Vampire Master.” The painting on the cover always gets me, though. There’s something about it, about her, something foreign but familiar, that makes me want to stare for hours.

  A BREEZE MUST HAVE CARRIED ME HERE. OR MAYBE The Vampire Master hypnotized me and sent me over, and I’ve just come out of my trance. POOF! I snap out of it and find myself in one of our three shaded lounging areas at this table with Julian and Eddie. We’ve all got a cup of coffee in front of us. Eddie is a slurper. Slurping irritates me, so it’s only fitting that Eddie the clown—Biff, Boppo, Rocko, Jocko, whatever his stage name is—has a genuine talent for it.

  “You fellas know when lunch is happening?” he asks, concern lighting his eyes.

  Julian takes a sip of coffee, then puts his hand on his chin and looks off like he’s contemplating something. “I think it’s at noon, Eddie,” he says. “And do you know why I think that? I think that because it’s precisely the time lunch has been served every other goddamned day.”

  I put a calming hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Easy, easy. You can’t expect that much from a guy who was replaced by a wooden sign.”

  “Aw, fuck the both of you! Go to hell!” Eddie slams his fists down on the table, gets up, and slides his chair away, fast and gracelessly so it falls on its back.

  That wooden sign jab drives Eddie crazy. We try not to bring it up often on account of one time he actually burst into tears when we were razzing him, but there are times, like today, when it can’t be helped. What had happened was, years ago, before Eddie joined our circus, he worked at a carnival. His job was to measure the heights of children who wanted to ride The Jumpin’ Jack Rabbit, an attraction that took riders high in the air and spun around so fast that a hose needed to be installed by the gate because someone would vomit at least once every hour. One day, Eddie—whose real name, I should add, isn’t Eddie—was getting a little lazy with his measurements. He let a boy on The Jumpin’ Jack Rabbit who was a little small for the ride, and wouldn’t you know it, the kid flew out of his seat while his car was at its highest point. The story was all over the news: Child Dies After Being Thrown From Amusement Park Ride. Operator Responsible Flees. Eddie and Rowland, an old carnie himself, had worked together years back, so after his monumental fuck up, Eddie hopped a train in Saint Paul and found his way to us. Go figure, Rowland, saint that he is, saw an opportunity in having a fugitive working for him. He agreed to take Eddie in on the condition that Eddie would only be paid half of his earnings (which, if you ask me, is still a bit much). At any rate, the amount Eddie eats almost makes up for his loss of wages. Apart from Rowland and Eddie himself, Julian and I are the only ones who know Eddie’s deal, and, honestly, as much as we like to bug him every now and then, I know neither of us would ever let that information out of the vault. Now, Julian’s got a sister out in Minneapolis, and wouldn’t you know it, about three years back, this sister was visiting a friend in Saint Paul, and she found herself at the very carnival that had Eddie run out on. Her and Julian keep in touch, and after her visit to her home city’s fraternal brother, Paul, she wrote Julian a letter, which she’s done every month for as far back as I can remember. She mentioned that The Jumpin’ Jack Rabbit had been repainted and renamed The Astro Swirl, and that now all the rides with a height restriction have a wooden sign with a goofy-ass cartoon character painted on them telling you exactly how tall you need to be in order to take a ride. This cartoon character—I think it’s a moose in overalls or some nonsense—has one arm extended, and as long as you’re taller than his arm, you can go for a ride. So anytime Eddie’s getting on our nerves or saying something so goddamn stupid it just can’t be ignored, Julian and I will throw a wooden sign jab his way. ‘Hey, Eddie’s getting suited up to perform, did a wooden sign call in sick today?’ Stuff like that.

  With Eddie gone, Julian and I drink our coffees—mine black and his tainted with cream—and chat. I ask him how Susan is doing with her no-longer-secret pregnancy and if they’ve discussed baby names at all, not so much because I’m interested, but because I know people who are spawning really like it when you ask them about how their spawning is going.

  Julian’s yammering on and on about what names he likes for a boy, but right before he’s about to put the n on the end of Martin, he stops abruptly, looking over my shoulder at something behind me.

  I guess there is a God; He’s the vengeful type, though, and He must not have appreciated me making fun of Eddie, one of His simpler creations, earlier, because Andrew—a living, breathing slab of penance if there ever was one—has walked into our patch of shade.

  I accidently make eye contact, which appears to be enough for him to alter his route and make a stop at our table before grabbing his coffee.

  Next time I make fun of a dimwit I’ll be sure to drop to my knees and rattle off ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers right away.

  His cocky smirk has already clocked in. “Toby, how’s my favourite clown?” he says, as if it’s the cleverest bunch of words ever to tumble out of someone’s face.

  “Bozo?” I say. “How would I know? If you miss his voice, go listen to one of the Capitol Record Readers you’ve got in your trailer. I hear the one where he goes under the sea is pretty educational.”

  He slaps me on the back like we’re pals and does a phony laugh. “That’s good, Toby. It’s nice that you can joke around a bit. Laughter helps people through tough times, doesn’t it?”

  “Eat shit.”

  “Here for coffee, but thanks,” he says, moving past us.

  On
the far table sits one empty coffee pot and one close to full, a faint tendril of steam writhing up from the black. Paper cup stacks, Domino Sugar packets, and two porcelain jugs of creamer are laid about the red-and-white checkered surface. Andrew’s back is to us, but I know he’s still wearing that smirk. He’s the most complacent person I’ve ever come across, and I know from experience that that smirk has the forced work ethic of an orphan in an Industrial Revolution-era factory.

  Me to him: blatant dagger eyes. I see no sense in hiding their points—a stab or two in the back is about all Andrew deserves. And looking at his back, I realize that even his posture pisses me off. There’s proper posture, and then there’s bow-down-to-me posture.

  He helps himself to a cupful, turns around and leans into the coffee table, facing me.

  I force myself back to Julian. I say, “Martin, then? I think Martin is a swell name.”

  Julian nods. “Yeah, Martin,” he says. “Susan’s grandfather was named Martin. I really like the name.”

  We go on talking about baby names, both knowing it’s become the type of in one ear, out the other chatter used to bide time. Andrew is still leaning against the table with the coffee pots on it, sipping away, looking at us as if he’s waiting for something. By the time Julian has exhausted names for a baby boy and started with names for a girl, I’ve had about enough of Andrew’s lingering. Julian’s going on, “Margaret, or Louise, or Linda, or maybe Betty—I’ve got a cousin named Betty. Or maybe Pa—”

  “Are you just going to stand there all day?” I bark at Andrew over Julian’s shoulder.

  “I’m enjoying a cup of coffee,” he shrugs. “Can’t I enjoy a cup of coffee?”

  “Maybe you could enjoy it somewhere else,” I tell him. “We’re trying to have a private conversation here, get me?”

  “Sure, Toby, I get you.” He stands up straight and steps away from the table. “I was thinking maybe I could help with name suggestions, but—”

  “If the baby needs a Russian alias somewhere down the road, I’ll find you,” Julian says, getting a whisper of a laugh from Andrew and a full-on haw from me.

  Andrew goes to leave, but as he approaches our table, he raises his right hand and whips something at my head. I jerk to one side, so it misses and lands on the ground a few feet beyond me.

  A scrunched-up packet of Domino Sugar.

  “Now, what the hell was that?” I shout at Andrew.

  He winks at me—the bastard winks at me!—and says, “I thought drafts were all that you dodge, Toby,” then continues past our table.

  Andrew’s back to me, I jump up from my seat and lunge at him, my arms catching around his waist, thrusting him face-first to the ground. Before he has time to catch his breath, I roll him over and plant one right in his mouth—that damn smirk of his can take a day’s leave. Paid.

  I raise my hand and go to give him another, but he manages to shove my forearm away and lands one on my jaw. It hurts like hell. It comes with a rattle. The impact sends a shooting pain up the side of my skull, and I fall backwards off of Andrew.

  He’s on his feet while I’m still trying to find some stability on my hands and knees. That punch of his, he really made sure it counted.

  From my knees, I clumsily grope at him, but he gets a grip on the collar of my shirt and pulls me up just high enough off the ground to hit me with another one.

  He makes that one count, too.

  Same with the third one. But if anything counts after that, I hope someone else is keeping track, because number three puts me out.

  OPEN AND CLOSE.

  Open and close.

  Each blink dusts a few specks of spacy grain away. Consciousness is being filtered to back to me.

  My head feels cold. My head feels wet. Beads of water rolling down from my temples.

  Or what I hope is water.

  Open and close.

  Open and close.

  The ceiling—I’m in my trailer, in my bed, looking up at the ceiling. Those familiar planks, eight of them in all—God knows I’ve counted them enough times on sleepless nights—are peppered with the grainy specks that have placed themselves under my supervision.

  Open and close.

  My heart is beating in my brain. My face feels like it’s burning. I lift one hand up from under the covers and touch my forehead—a cold washcloth. Water, not blood, wetting my head.

  I touch my face with the tips of my fingers, delicately, the way you might touch a pricy glass ornament in a you-break-it-you-buy-it shop—the slightest bit of extra pressure and everything crumbles in your hands, and there goes your beer money for the next month.

  I’ve been tenderized. I’ve got a bandage on my left cheek and a bandage covering my right ear, sticking it to the side of my head. The skin above my right eye and part of my lip are marshmallow-puffy.

  Open and close.

  Less than a handful of specks remain, toughing it out. Otherwise, a couple more heavy blinks gets my vision back. Someone has placed a glass of water on the stand next to my bed. I take it and drink. All of it in one breath.

  Two knocks from outside. Before I can say, ‘Go away,’ or, ‘Who is it?’ or whatever I might say if someone were to come to my trailer, the door flings open and there he is: recently smoothed-out tinfoil face and the proportions of a snowman, Mister Rowland himself.

  I only wish I’d had time to tidy up and make a pot of tea.

  “To what do you owe this pleasure?” he asks me—helluva guy, hey? Able to anticipate a question like that.

  My voice comes out sandpapery. “I’m wondering that myself.”

  Rowland steps in and closes the door behind him. He walks to my bedside and cocks his head back, eyeballing me. “What? You’ve never seen a horror flick?” I ask him.

  “Ha! Julian pulled him off you quick enough, so I don’t think we need to worry about Universal snatching you up for The Return of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, or anything like that.”

  “Movies pay well.”

  He drags a chair over and plunks into it. “Yeah, Toby they do. But in your case, I pay well, too.”

  “Don’t act like it’s out of the goodness of your bleeding heart, Rowland. I’m worth every penny.”

  “I won’t argue that,” he says, turning his attention to a dangling piece of skin around his thumbnail. He twists the skin round and round until it comes clean off, then places it on his knee, flicks it away for me to find later, and looks to me again. “So, what happened?”

  “I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but—”

  “A few hours.”

  “Right. Well, in that few hours, I’m sure you’ve managed to get the story from someone.”

  “I have,” Rowland nods. “But not from the person who got beaten to a pulp.”

  “Well, what do you want to know? Andrew was hassling me—”

  “What about?”

  “Jesus, are you going to let me finish a damn sentence here, or do you somehow enjoy the sound of your own voice even more than I thought you did?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rowland says. He waves an ‘after you’ gesture at me. “Please continue.”

  “Thanks for that.” I pick up the water glass, forgetting it’s empty, then set it back down and clear my throat. “So, he’s hanging around, eyeing me while I’m having coffee with Julian. The way he stood there, I could just tell he was up to something—trying to get under my skin. I tell him to beat it, and as he’s leaving, he goes and makes this crack about me dodging the draft. I’ve got no patience for that shit. I don’t know what Genevieve’s told him, but you and I both know I’m not a damn draft dodger.”

  Rowland stays silent.

  “Christ, how’s it my fault if I’m out of the country when they happen to be drafting people? Hell, I would have enlisted in Canada if they’d let me. And that chump, Andrew, did he hit himself on the head practising his garbage routine and fuck up his memory? What, does he think he was on Normandy Beach? From what I hear, that son of a bitch wa
s a civil defense trooper, spent his war days on American soil. Probably spent his time with the service getting good at solitaire.”

  What Rowland does with his hands reminds me of a conductor hushing his orchestra at the end of a tune, like he’s pushing shut an invisible trunk lid with uncooperative hinges. I don’t care much for the gesture, but I suppose I could try and calm down a bit, at least lower my voice a hair. “All right, so he made a comment about you dodging the draft—”

  “Which—!”

  The invisible trunk pops back open—cue conductor hands. “Which you and I both know wasn’t the case, yes.”

  “Right. So he makes that crack and I lose my temper a bit and go and sock him. Once, mind you. I only hit him once, and he sure deserved it. Then, as I’m walking back to the table, he sneaks up and punches me in the head. And he keeps going, swinging away until I’m in dreamland, and, well, I guess you know the rest of it better than I do, because next thing I know, I’m here.”

  The two of us sit without speaking for a moment. Gently, I trace my fingers over my bandages. Even the faintest of touches makes me wince. Whatever is underneath that gauze and tape isn’t going to vanish after a good night’s rest.

  “You know, come to think of it, I’m curious as to how exactly I ended up in here,” I say. “I’d locked up when I left earlier.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Toby, you paranoid son of a bitch. Julian fished the key out of your pocket and he and one of the Sycs carried you here. It was Harriet who patched you up.”

  “Harriet?” I say.

  “Harriet Lane. You know her. She directs the chorus girls. She’s a trained nurse—worked in a military hospital over in England during the war. She knows what she’s doing, if that’s your concern. Patched up worse things than you, no doubt.”

  “And what was Miss Lane’s professional assessment after bandaging me up?”

  “Diagnosis: walloped. You took a real beating, Toby, but you’ll be fine in a few days, if you take it easy. You’ll miss all the Baton Rouge shows, but I’m sure you’ll be fit to perform by the time we hit New Orleans.”