Snake Face

by Amber Foxx

  Mae stood and walked around behind Stamos and Jamie, placing a hand on the back of each man’s chair. “What the heck are y’all doing?”

  Stamos refilled the wine glasses. “I’m getting acquainted with your friend.”

  With a dazzling gold-toothed smile, Jamie looked up at Mae. “Pick some music, love.” He spun two quarters high in the air and Mae caught them. “Anything you like.”

  She bypassed the non sequitur. Jamie seemed to be in the world of his own mind, responding to inner cues, unaware of how uncomfortable everyone else was. “What I’d like,” she said, “is to get y’all to stop drinking.” Not only was Stamos wasting their time on what should have been a date, but he wasn’t normally a drinker, and this game could only go badly for him.

  “Nah, we’re good.” Jamie punched Stamos cheerily in the arm, and then recoiled with comic exaggeration, flexing his fingers as if the contact had hurt. “Doing great, aren’t we, mate?”

  Stamos smiled, but not happily. “Yes. Great.”

  The waitress returned with more ouzo and the wine and coffee. Mae gave up and took the quarters to the jukebox. She might as well choose the music, since nothing else was to her liking. The selection was mostly older music, from which she picked a Jimmy Buffet song, Volcano. It seemed appropriate. She felt like something was about to blow up.

  Jamie sprang to his feet. “Salsa beat, good choice.” He tossed down his shot of ouzo and clapped Stamos on the shoulder. “Got to borrow her. Unless you’d like to?”

  Poised as if to dance with Stamos, Jamie extended his hand, roared with laughter at the Greek’s stunned expression, and whirled Mae into a joyful, hip-pulsing salsa.

  He took her so smoothly, she had no chance to resist, and didn’t try, once she caught up with herself. Jamie, at least, had noticed her, while Stamos had metamorphosed from an attentive courtly gentlemen into someone she hardly knew.

  Leading skillfully, Jamie kept Mae close. He glanced at her hips and whispered, “Loosen ’em up, love,” moving his nearer to hers. Mae wished she was less aware of all eyes on them. She managed to let go enough to move her hips and follow as he surprised her with some side-by-side, back-to-back, and linked-arms spinning moves. It could have been fun. It almost was, except for that dark current of Stamos dragging at her.

  When the song ended, Jen applauded, as did a few other patrons of the little basement bar. “Wow! That was fantastic!” She nudged Hubert. “We should take dance lessons.”

  Hubert looked doubtful. “In Cauwetska? I don’t think folks move like that down there.”

  “I can teach you now,” Jamie offered. “We need another song.” He danced over to the jukebox, hips and feet following some music in his head as he fished in his pocket for coins.

  Stamos rose and called to the bartender, who came over to the jukebox. They spoke in Greek, and the bartender held a hand up, stopping Jamie from putting his money in, then selected a song. “Zembekiko,” the older man said.

  With a thin, confident smile, Stamos gestured to Jamie to step aside.

  Greek music played, with a slow, dramatic introduction from a vibrating stringed instrument. As it sped up, the bartender stamped the rhythm and Stamos joined in. He stood with an extraordinary power and force, his posture beyond erect, expanding into a display that made him seem suddenly tall. The tempo increased and Stamos danced in wild, staggering steps into a deeper squat and low turns, never losing his fiery concentration, though he occasionally stumbled, while the older man clapped and stamped the beat and solemnly placed a shot of ouzo balanced on Stamos’s head. The bartender steadied it several times so Stamos didn’t spill a drop, even as he descended, jumped into a turn, knelt, leapt to his feet, and spun with outstretched arms. At the end of the song, Stamos fell to one knee and tossed down the shot, looking at Mae with blazing eyes, as if he expected her admiration.

  Slinking in exaggerated humility, like his string-walks-into-a-bar joke, Jamie picked up his wine glass, his pack, and his second hat, and moved to another table. The whole thing reminded Mae of the ritual combat of male animals on those nature shows she used to watch with Brook and Stream. Stamos looked like he thought he’d won. He hadn’t.

  Jamie returned to the jukebox with a face-splitting grin, put his coins in, then strolled over to Jen and Hubert and offered a salsa lesson. Mae stood aside, not ready to sit with Stamos, annoyed by the way he leaned back in his chair and sipped his retsina with an air of glory, like a king expecting tribute. Alcohol and Jamie both brought out the worst in him. He disappointed her so deeply, it was hard to look at him. Hard to look at Hubert, too, with her date being a jerk. It was too embarrassing. Avoiding them both, she watched Jamie dancing with Jen.

  He kept his hold on her light and discreet, dancing near the table and talking Hubert through the man’s part in a simple, basic step. Jen picked up the pattern, and Jamie handed her over to Hubert. Still guiding with words and occasional demonstrations, Jamie praised them while he taught, although Hubert didn’t dance well. All three of them applauded each other at the end of the song, and Jen and Hubert kissed. For a long time. Mae looked away, not sure if it was their closeness that hurt, or the fact that there was no one she wanted to kiss that way. Not anymore.

  Jamie faced Stamos, picked up the latest shot of ouzo, put it on his head in the crown of the black hat, and imitated Stamos’s leaping and kneeling finale. Holding the grandiose stance, Jamie pumped a graphically masturbatory gesture. “See, mate, you can do it with yourself. But the ladies like a man who can do it with a partner.”

  Exploding in his rowdy laugh, Jamie drank the shot and returned to his separate table.

  Stamos glared, stood, and said to Mae, “Come. We should go.”

  The command was the last straw. “I’m not coming. You’d better get a taxi.”

  With a face like a man who’d just won Olympic gold, Jamie shot up an arm in a triumphant gesture. Stamos marched to the cash register, slapped some bills down, and walked out the door, pausing stiffly to inform the group, “I have paid for everything.”

  Martyr.

  Mae wanted to leave, but she didn’t want to run into him outside—or sit with Jen and Hubert after this fiasco. Jamie, now tender and gentle, held out both hands to her, his head inclined to one side. She wasn’t entirely pleased with him, but not as angry as she was with Stamos. And she had to make sure Jamie got to Pamela’s house and gave her one of those yellow bags.

  She took her purse off her chair and managed a smile at her husband and his girlfriend. “Nice seeing y’all.” Reluctantly, Mae joined Jamie at his table.

  “Come on, love.” He leaned toward her, his voice soft and serious, belying the crinkling of smile lines around his eyes. “All for the best. Can’t have a naughty with a bloke your husband doesn’t approve of.”

  A startling idea struck. Jamie had been so happy after he talked with Hubert on the break. “Did you and Hubert get rid of Stamos on purpose?”

  “Nah. I’m not that clever.” Jamie slugged down a gulp of retsina. “Bloody Stamos was trying to get rid of me. Hubert told me the bloke was no good for you, though.”

  “And then you tried to make Stamos mad at you.”

  “Nah, just being myself.” The right-left wriggle-shrug, the sure sign of evasion. Jamie didn’t quite lie, but he bent the truth around some sharp corners. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Your bloke was a real figjam.”

  “A what?”

  “Fuck I’m Good Just Ask Me. Figjam. Up himself, y’know?” The waitress moved Mae’s coffee and the half-empty bottle of retsina from the previous table, explaining that their friends didn’t want the wine. “Thanks. Can’t waste it.” Jamie refilled his glass. “Fucked up, buying us all this nasty grog like he’s more the man for drinking it. What’s that about?”

  “I don’t know.” She drank her coffee and thought. Though she’d never seen Stamos in a social group before, only at school and on dates, this night’s behavior seemed out of character for him. He could be a ma
rtyr, but she’d never thought he could be—she couldn’t think of any other word for it—an asshole. What had triggered him? He’d been nice until they left with Jamie.

  No, he’d been showing Hubert that Mae was worshipped like a goddess. The way Joe Wayne had briefly worshipped Diana. Too late, she understood the whole evening. Perhaps the entire relationship she’d almost had. Stamos lived in that wound. Everything he did came from inside it. “He took you for a Joe Wayne Brazos type.”

  Jamie took off the black hat, shook his hair out, and turned the hat around, examining it. “I’m probably wearing his fucking hat.” He frowned, spinning the hat by the edges of the brim. “Is that why?”

  “That couldn’t have helped. You’re practically dressed like him.”

  “Didn’t mean to. Fucking thrift shop clothes.” He ran a thumb up and down the slit that vented the side of the shirt from the cut-out sleeve hole. “Pamela styled me.”

  “Did Sylvie give you that hat?”

  “Yeah. Stealing from her husband now, too.”

  “Brazos had a fling with Stamos’s wife. He made the move at the Route 66 Classic Car Show, right in front of him. With Sylvie there, too.”

  “Fuck.”

  “So, Stamos thinks musicians make women fall in love with them wherever they go. He thinks you’re all, how did he put it, leaving a string of broken hearts.”

  “Really?” Jamie’s eyes widened. “He said that?” Setting his drink down, he exploded in laughter. “Sorry about his wife, but—me? I’m such a bloody fuck-up, and this bloke thinks—” More laughter cut off his words with a snort and a roar. “String of broken hearts? He said that?”

  Mae nodded. Jen and Hubert turned to look as Jamie laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

  “Jeezus. Only yours and mine, love.” He caught his breath abruptly and finished off another half glass of retsina, his expression solemn. “Only yours and mine.”

  Jamie placed a few dollars on the table, stood to put on his pack, and bowed to Hubert and Jen with a flourishing sweep of both hats that made them smile. Then he climbed the steps to exit the bar. Mae put down a tip as well, though Stamos had probably covered that, and walked over to Hubert and Jen. It was an awkward moment, interrupting what looked like a thoughtful conversation, but it would be rude to not say a word.

  “Thanks for fixing Jamie’s van—” Tripped by some reflex that hadn’t quite faded, Mae almost called Hubert sweetie. As if he sensed it, could hear how her voice sounded when she was about to say an endearment, he met her eyes and shook his head in the smallest No, don’t go there. She silently acknowledged the message. After all those years together, they could still read each other’s minds without her having to be psychic. The little threads that still bound them might snag her like this forever. She said, “Sorry about the scene.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Jen said. “Stamos was not your fault.”

  “I didn’t know he could be like that. I knew Jamie could.”

  Jen glanced at Hubert, who looked down, perhaps swallowing a laugh. “That’s different. Jamie was fun,” Jen said, “He’s great. We like him for you.”

  We like him for you. It was the second time Jen had pushed Jamie at her. “I’m not sure I do right now. But I guess I’d better get him to Pamela’s house.”

  Hubert looked up. “Don’t let him forget about the timing belt.”

  As if Jamie was now her responsibility.

  She said goodnight to Hubert and Jen and stepped out into the black-and-white glare of the parking lot. No sign of Jamie. Where was he? He didn’t know his way around, and he’d get lost trying to find Pamela’s house from here. She looked around, hoping he hadn’t decided to strike out on his own, and saw the black hat behind a strange car. Jamie was sitting on the bumper of someone’s vehicle, under a light.

  She joined him, but didn’t sit on the car. “We need to get to Pamela’s and get some sleep.”

  “Come here.” He smiled, patted a spot on the tiny shelf. “Sit with me.”

  “No. That’s someone’s car. It’s not a park bench.”

  “But I need to sit with you, have a chat, catch up, y’know? I’ve missed you.”

  She looked away. Jamie could get to her too easily with those big dark eyes. Pull her strings and make her take care of him. As Hubert seemed to assume she would. “We need to get going. We’ll have that chat when you’re sober.”

  “Nah. Not pissed at all.” He tipped his head back. The hat fell off, landing on the trunk of the car. “I’m fine.” He straightened up again and flung his arms out and up. “Outdid that middle-aged health nut midget. I am so fucking good at abusing my body.”

  “Abusing is right. You had three or four shots and I don’t know how many glasses of wine in less than an hour. You should be reeling.”

  He stood, slapped a hand to his belly. “Wear it with pride, Ellerbee. Wear it with pride.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Yeah, I am—out-of-shape slob wins out over man of steel.” He hitched up his pants, checked the zipper. “He’s gone, you’re here. He’s bloody perfect, but I’m drinking his retsina and dancing with his date.” Imitating the twanging, pinging sounds of the Greek bouzouki, he took Mae by one hand and began to lead her sideways across the parking lot in a grapevine step with kicks and hops. She tried to stop, but he was strong, and had her off balance. As a car pulled in, he spun her out of the way into his arms. “Good to hold you, love.”

  “Let go.”

  “Jesus. I’m just dancing, I’m not grabbing your bum like bloody Zeus did.”

  Mae put her hands on Jamie’s and forced him to disengage. “Get your stuff off that car, and let’s walk.”

  Jamie gave her a wounded stare and sighed. With only a hint of unsteadiness but a definite hitch in his bad hip, he fetched his backpack and both hats.

  “Give me the black hat,” Mae said. “What’d you do with the bag it came in?”

  He put the fedora on, presented her the cowboy hat. “Cynthia threw it out for me. Poison. Fucking brownies.”

  Mae initiated their walk toward Pamela’s house, watching Jamie for signs of the alcohol catching up with him. Walking a few extra blocks would be as easy as going back to Spirit Body for her car, and might clear Jamie’s head a little. “I needed it—it had her writing on it. A lot of her energy. Did you keep any of the others?”

  “Forgot. I know. We needed it. I mean, I really knew but I forget stuff, y’know? Attention span of a flea. Sorry. But the food. Jesus. I had to get rid of that stuff.” He sounded embarrassed, his voice smaller. “Don’t laugh, all right? Felt like I’d won some battle—I felt thinner after that. Like I looked better. Saw you with little Charlie Atlas and, Jeezus, there I was with that bloody inch hanging out. Had to get a grip, y’know?”

  “You look good, sugar. Do you feel like you’re fat?”

  “Yeah. Fear number nine in the top ten, y’know? Fat. All I do on those bloody drives is eat. Looked all right when I hit the road but now I’m creeping toward fucking doom.” He looked down, ran a hand over the fancy Western belt. “Sylvie gives me those gifts, all that food, and then she bought me this.”

  “What? I thought you forgot to return it to the shop.”

  “Nah. When I started to take it off to give it back, Pamela said someone had bought it and told me wear it.” He pulled himself up taller. “And to let it out a notch. Had to be Sylvie.”

  Mae felt a disturbing cold, not from the air but from this petty detail. Sylvie had to know Jamie to make a jab like that. No one, to look at him and watch him move, would guess he used to be overweight and now lived in dread of gaining a pound. The belt looked expensive. Why would she spend so much money to tease him like that?

  “You’re sure it was Sylvie?”

  “I asked if she was a pointy little weasel.” He tripped over a bump in the sidewalk and caught himself, turning the near fall into a soft-shoe dance step. “Pamela said yes.”

  “Why di
dn’t you see her—Sylvie?”

  “Came in late, sat in the back? Dunno. Sylvie’s tiny.” He held a hand at mid-rib height. “You could miss her. Fucking hide her in Pamela’s bra.” He shifted his backpack and patted it. “Jesus. She could be in here. Perfect size for a stalker.”

  When they reached the broad traffic lanes of Hampton Boulevard, Mae put a hand on Jamie’s elbow to keep him from walking into the street. She looked before crossing, and checked to see if they were being followed. Although Jamie’s jokes about places Sylvie could hide were flippant, Mae knew that if he was sober he’d be scared.

  A small black car crept into the intersection of the side street they had walked down and then sat unmoving, although the turn onto Hampton was clear. Perhaps the driver was lost, or texting—or following. Mae and Jamie started across. As they reached the other side and turned right, the black car inched forward.

  “Fuck.” Jamie stopped abruptly, swayed, and braced both hands against a large tree. “Jeeezus. Struck by lightning.” He stared at his hands on the tree. “Ouzo got past my liver. Think my brain’s loose.”

  Mae wanted to look for the car, but she had to keep her eyes on Jamie. His blood alcohol level had shot up fast. “I think your brain was loose to get into that fight with Stamos in the first place.”

  “Nah. Knew I’d win, y’know? He picked the wrong weapons.” Jamie pushed himself off the tree and staggered a few steps before getting his balance. Mae took his arm to continue walking. He said, “Drinkin’ and dancin’, doin’ both at once? I’m the bloody champion.”

  He was right. Stamos didn’t know Jamie. He’d guessed wrong how to fight him. Sylvie aimed true and chose the right weapons. Stamos made Jamie angry and dared him to compete. Sylvie made him insecure, tweaking his neuroses right down to stealing his toothbrush. Playing on his poverty and his body image anxiety by stealing his clothes. She appealed to his kindness, too, asking him not to prosecute the supposed thief.