Handsome

by Holly Lorka

  Some primal part of my brain took over. I grabbed the back end of my dog while the pit bull had him by the face, and I tried to pull him back out through the fence. I yelled, “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!” Aside from the screaming, that’s the only thing that would come out of my mouth. The pit bull wouldn’t let go and kept pumping itself backwards, trying to muscle my dog free from my grasp and into his yard.

  I was screaming, and my dog was bleeding and pooping all over me. I, at one point, reached into the pit bull’s mouth with my left hand to try to pry open his jaw. Don’t ever do that. For starters, it won’t work. That jaw is clamped down harder than a vise. Also, there are teeth in that mouth, and they will try to eat your hand. The pit bull managed to bite my fingers while simultaneously pulling my dog in by the face. Tricky move, pit bull.

  I couldn’t tell you how long this went on. I don’t know what besides panic was going on in my head when I saw a rock the size of a fist on the ground next to the fence. Somehow, without knowing what I was doing, I picked up this rock and was able to put my hand through the hole in the fence while still holding on to my dog with a bloody hand and arm and started bashing this asshole of a pit bull in the head with the rock. I bashed it over and over, and distinctly remember two thoughts penetrating the terror while I was doing it: 1) Well, shit. Robin won’t be able to come over for steaks now because I’m going to have to take my bloody hand and my dog to the hospital when this is over. And 2) Oh my God, I don’t have on any underpants. That’s what my brain chose to do while I was beating this dog in the head with a rock.

  Somehow, I managed to beat that pit bull through the fence hard enough that he finally let go of my dog. We both ran bleeding and crying back to my house while neighbors stood watching us wide-eyed. I made some quick phone calls, all with my bloody hand clenched into a fist, because I was afraid to open it and see that maybe my fingers were hanging by bones or tendons—I couldn’t be sure—there was just so much blood. My pants were covered in my dog’s crisis poop, I didn’t have on any underwear, and I’d have to go to the hospital where I work because that’s how my health insurance works. It works on humiliation.

  I decided that priority number one while we were waiting for rides to the hospital and the emergency vet clinic was to put on underpants, because I am the dumbest person to ever exist on the planet. Do you know how hard it is, when you’re sweating and bleeding and crying and can only use one hand, to take off your pants, put on clean underpants, and then pull a different pair of pants back on? And why? Sure, I’ve got some wounds to deal with. On my hand. Do I think the ER staff is going to whisk me back to exam room one, take one look at my hand, and decide that it’s time for an emergency pap smear? Have I told you I’m an ICU nurse?

  But I was committed to the underpants. I also put on fresh deodorant because I was going to see people I know. You’re welcome, ER staff.

  I got eight stitches in my hand that was otherwise fine. My dog had surgery and was somehow fine. I went back the next day and picked up that pit bull-head-beating rock, because I wanted that fucking rock. I still have that rock, and when people mess with me, I like to say, “Don’t make me get my fucking rock.” That scares them into behaving. I called a lawyer because the owner of the pit bull wouldn’t take any responsibility for what his dog did. In fact, he went so far as to tell me how sweet his dog was. I sued his ass and he moved away with his sweet little pit bull, hopefully to somewhere with a cinderblock fence and no little dogs or, God forbid, children running around.

  I know I’m going to get a bunch of flak from people telling me how pit bulls have gotten a bad rap because of the behavior of a few dogs. Whatever. I don’t care. I kneeled on the ground, a rat terrier’s length away from the eyes and mouth of one of those dogs, and I can tell you that I’ve never seen anything as possessed by violence and intent on doing harm. That pit bull wanted to kill and eat my dog and didn’t care if I was trying to stand in his way.

  It took me a long time before I could close my eyes without seeing that dog in my head. Even now, I can’t stand to be around any large dog that’s not on a leash, because I go right back to that day and that fence. What I’m saying is watch out for pit bulls. And it’s a good idea to always be wearing underpants. You never know when you’ll be taking a surprise trip to the emergency room.

  treasure hunt

  I live in an interesting neighborhood. It’s like there’s some sort of cultural experiment happening daily. There are elderly homeowners who don’t wear enough clothing while watering their enormous front lawns to excess with a hose, there are new homeowners with their Democrat bumper stickers and plastic baby toys cluttering their front yards, and there are a bunch of other folks who seemingly don’t care about anything and like to throw shit in my front yard as they drive/walk by, and entertain themselves late at night by playing mailbox baseball (see: good, clean fun circa 1975).

  There’s a Texaco at the end of my street. That’s a red flag to look for when purchasing real estate, but I was blinded by the sheer number of porches on my house. Deciding which one to sit on and drink Busch Light tallboys is on my “Excellent Problems to Have” list. They’ve also added a taco truck at the corner with the Texaco. Beer and tacos at the end of my street? Imagine the traffic! Imagine the trash in my yard, because who could possibly bear to hang onto a taco wrapper or an empty can of whatever until one reaches a trash receptacle? No one should be expected to drive with this shit in a car. This is America, for fuck’s sake! With the crack of a window and a casual flip of the wrist, into my yard it goes.

  I like to play a game I call Treasure Hunt, where I go out into my front yard on Sunday mornings and look for new stuff. Sunday mornings are never a disappointment.

  The following is a list of items I’ve found lying in my front yard:

  · My mailbox (for the fifth time, goddammit)

  · Jägermeister bottle (empty)

  · Condom (used)

  · Tampon (used)

  · Rearview mirror (driver’s side)

  · Thong underwear (TREASURE!)

  Ok, so condoms and Jäger bottles I can kind of understand. And maybe, if I stretch my imagination a bit, I can see how the tampon might go along with the used condom (don’t make me do the math for you). But the thong underwear? Aren’t they expensive? Do the ladies drive by my house and become so sexually aroused by my awesomeness that they can’t stand it and need to fling their underclothes into my yard? I’m choosing to believe this.

  This morning the only thing I found was half of a bird shell. It looks like even the birds are like, “Fuck it. Just throw it in Holly’s yard.”

  I’m going to get a taco.

  i never said i was good at behavior

  It’s best if you’re hungry. Beer on a full stomach is underwhelming at best. But when you’re empty in there and the sun is shining at three-quarters day, it’s like God himself comes through the radio to announce, “Pull over and buy yourself a cold tallboy, Holly.” That’s why he makes long and winding roads that drift through the beautiful Texas Hill Country.

  I go into the Short Stop or the Friendly Mart, and there they are, in enormous open bins in the middle of the store. Lying together. Stacked perfectly against each other, one after glorious one. The shiny cans I love are bathed in a mountain of ice, begging me to take them home like dogs at the pound.

  This is just another strange thing about Texas. In Arizona we didn’t have these open beer bins suggesting that, although it’s illegal, why not take one for the road, cowboy? If you wanted a single in Arizona you had to actually open the cooler door (gasp) and break a six-pack. Such behavior says, “I’m tearing apart the natural order of the regular beer drinker, the one who buys the whole six-pack and waits until she gets home to drink it.” If you break the rings, you aren’t waiting and you’ve breached all manner of civility. Go ahead and just throw litter out of your car while you’re at it (especially if you’re driving by my yard).

  But here in Texas no
one cares about this silly stuff. Mavericks are celebrated. At my favorite convenience store they sell single tallboys, giant hunting knives, and miniature glass figurines. You take your pick, Maverick.

  When I take my tallboy to the counter, they ask if I want Daisy Dukes or Hip Hops. Daisy Dukes are the tiny brown bags that barely cover the whole beer, and Hip Hops are the big bags that hang all up and down your beer’s ass. I’m a Daisy Dukes girl: I like the classy look of a brown paper bag but don’t want a mouthful of it with my beer. Plus, Daisy Duke.

  I plunk down my $1.83 and I’m out the door, following God’s orders on my way to a dinner party in Dripping Springs or the junk stores in Llano. God stops talking through the radio, and country music spills out of it instead. I lift my beer to my mouth when no other cars are around or even when other cars are around if I’m feeling particularly dangerous. I sing to the music and feel the beer tingle in my empty stomach and flow down into my legs, happy about simple good times and my shitty taste in beer.

  good morning, peacocks!

  I walk down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen, and the blue wallpaper peacocks tell me good morning in bright cheery voices. I think, Good morning, peacocks! and take my place at the table with my brother and sister. We are all rubbing our eyes and shifting in our chairs as quietly as possible because we can feel the familiarity of another bad morning. It’s January and cold in that Omaha kitchen. My mom has all the burners of the stove on to heat the room, and they rage electric orange. She bends over and lights a cigarette on one and turns on the radio without saying a word to us.

  The room smells like cinnamon, and it almost makes the chill sting a bit less. Cinnamon toast is a thing my mom can accomplish in the morning.

  We eat and the radio DJ announces a contest. Answer the question, “What lady has the biggest mouth in America?” My mom is bleary-eyed and barely awake after her late night waiting tables at the restaurant. She has three ungrateful kids, a husband who unwittingly stole her away from her childhood dreams, and only four coils of heat and a cigarette to keep it all together. But I know she’s smart. I see her stacks of library books lying around the house. I hear her say words like “magnanimous,” which I had to look up in the dictionary last week. I look up her words all the time.

  I see in her eyes that she knows the answer to the DJ’s question. I know it too, because I’m also smart. I say out loud, “The Statue of Liberty!”

  My mom surprises us all and calls the radio station. She never does anything like this. This is fun and exciting! Despite the incredible handicap of a rotary dial she makes it through. When the DJ picks up and tells her she’s on the air and does she know the answer, she looks at me and says, “The Statue of Liberty,” even though I can tell by her voice and the way she’s looking at me that she knows it’s wrong. The correct answer is the Mississippi River.

  My brother and sister are ready to throw their toast at me because I just lost the contest for us. I don’t care. My mom picked me that morning over the unhappiness that was drowning her every day. The peacocks would be excited for me.

  following your dreams while avoiding acorns

  My mom broke my leg, and I’m pretty sure it was on purpose. She and I hadn’t talked for a while. It was seven months since she’d died, and things had been silent between us. I expected her to show up somehow and say something important to me or tell me she was thinking about me or even that she was sorry about some stuff, but I got nothing. To be fair, I hadn’t tried to talk to her, either. I guess the best relationship we could have after her death was a quiet one. There was a novel peace about it. At the age of forty-six, I was finally able to have some peace with my mother. I don’t know what possessed me to suddenly speak to her.

  “Please, Mom. Please help me.” It was a beautiful morning on a romantic beach weekend with my girlfriend. We’d gotten up early and gone for a run. My girlfriend was still running because she didn’t need to stop and wheeze after a half mile like I did. I sat in the sand and watched her tiny athletic body continuing down the beach before turning my gaze to the ocean before me. I felt calm and happy and lucky to have the life that I had. It was the nicest feeling. I sent up a little gratitude prayer for all of it, and then I decided it was the time to talk to my mom. What came out of me was a plea for help. I didn’t plan that.

  I’d known for a long time that I wanted to put this book together, but for whatever reason (procrastination, fear of failure, fear of success, floor needed sweeping, roof needed shingling, cat needed training—you pick one), I was having trouble sitting down and actually doing it. When I finally thought to speak to my mother, I asked her for some help with it.

  It was odd because my mom hadn’t ever been interested in my writing. I’d try to tell her about it and she would say something like, “What? I’m a little busy with my ironing,” or “Did you hear that Uncle So-and-So has a new tumor?” It wasn’t her idea of fun, having a daughter who wrote about awkward sex and crushes on girls. She wanted only to hear about how I was writing the Great American Novel. I finally quit trying to talk to her about it until she was dead and I was sitting alone on a beach looking at the ocean.

  I sent that plea to her out into the morning sky, and immediately three pelicans flew into my line of vision, flapped once in unison, and carried my message across the Great Whatever to where my mom was so she could hear it. I was sure of it. I got up and walked back to the hotel, and when my girlfriend got back from her sixmile run, I told her that I’d just talked to my mom for the first time. She said, “Great. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Joe’s Crab Shack and then the water park.” Pure romance.

  No one got hurt at Joe’s Crab Shack, but five minutes after I got to the water park, someone came down a slide behind me and cracked me hard in the right leg. I knew something serious was wrong, but instead of going directly to the first aid office I walked to the lazy river for a little relaxing float with my broken leg, which was starting to look pretty bad. I tried to be lazy as hell on that river while teenagers floated by giggling and flirting with each other (Nothing to see here, kids, except this weirdo floating in the river with a giant purple leg), but after five minutes I discovered that this was the one time that floating down a river on an inner tube didn’t make everything better for me. My girlfriend did her best to be gentle yanking me up and out of my tube when the pain became too much. Then I walked on my broken leg to the first aid office, because water parks are not for sissies. When they showed me my broken leg on the X-ray at the urgent care, all I could think was, Holy shit, I asked my mom for help and she busted my fucking leg! On the first ride!

  Nothing will kill a romantic beach weekend faster than breaking your leg. In fact, nothing will kill feeling lucky to have the life you have faster than breaking your leg.

  I suddenly couldn’t walk, work, or drive, and everything became difficult. Bathing was difficult. Getting dressed was difficult. Cooking, which I liked even more than walking, was difficult. And sex? My girlfriend was allergic to the giant fiberglass cast on my leg. Not that sex for us involved me ever putting my leg anywhere intimate, but I’d run the risk of brushing it against her if we even tried. So, cross sex off the list too, and then just go ahead and kill me.

  What was easy to do with a broken leg was taking pain pills and drinking, which I managed to do at breakneck pace. I became a helpless, pitiful, miserable mess. You really haven’t lived until you pee yourself in the middle of the night because you’re so drunk and stoned that you can’t figure out how to ride your stupid knee scooter to the bathroom in time. Really, Mom? This is how you help me?

  I’d gone from being a healthy, independent, active, hardworking, youthful, middle-aged handsome adult to being stuck in a chair in my house with my leg elevated and a bunch of clothes strewn around me that smelled like pee. My girlfriend, clearly the luckiest person on earth, would still kiss me and tell me she loved me before going off to work, or to run twenty-five miles, or to get her pretty hair done while I sat
on my ass and wallowed and ate Doritos (Nacho Cheese. Never Cool Ranch).

  After two weeks of this, of behaving like a spoiled little child who doesn’t get what she wants and is a little disgusting, I woke up and got my shit together, because it’s not like I had cancer, or was paralyzed for life, or even had an STD. I just had a broken leg. But if I didn’t get it together, I’d very quickly also be a single, drunken, bitter, middle-aged handsome adult who is addicted to pain pills and has to wear a diaper to bed. As great as that sounded, I went ahead and made a different choice.

  I threw out all my pills and my Doritos and started bathing regularly. I wasn’t going to give up beer, because who am I to be that drastic? But I at least cut out the tequila, vodka, and whiskey. Maybe I couldn’t run or drive or even walk, but what I could do, when I wasn’t drunk or stoned, was scoot. I got on my little knee scooter and started rolling hard-core. I was so sick of being dependent and cooped up in the house that I started knee-scooting everywhere. It’s amazing how far you can get on one of those things if you’re dedicated and have nothing else to do.

  There’s a coffee shop about a mile from my house, and I scooted there just about every day for exercise and to kill the boredom. On the way I sang to my new Indigo Girls album while memorizing where all the jacked-up sidewalk cracks, overgrown bushes, and speed bumps were. I could tell which neighbor had had a great night by who had an extra car parked in the driveway in the morning that blocked my sidewalk. After about a week of just sitting around at the coffee shop, I decided I might as well start putting this book together. What else did I have to do?

  My mom wasn’t being a jerk when she broke my leg. She wasn’t blowing me off or trying to change the subject or hurt me on purpose. She waited until I was ready to ask her, and then she forced me to sit down and do this thing that has been my dream since I can remember. With one crack of my fibula, she handed me the time and the space to finally do what I needed to do. Go figure.