How the Hula Girl Sings

by Joe Meno

  “Pack of Reds, Johnny,” she murmured, letting all the jewelry and bracelets and bangles along her long thin arm dangle as she leaned against the counter.

  I pulled the pack of smokes from the cigarette stock and placed it on the counter with a little smile.

  She smiled back. “Hey, I know you, don’t I, cream puff? I mean, you and I hit the hay once or twice, eh?”

  Her cold blue eyes circled around inside her head as she tried to stare at me straight.

  “Just once,” I nodded, looking down at my hands. My face felt red all of a sudden and hot as hell. This girl looked bad. She looked old and tired and sick and torn apart by the things she had seen and done to herself.

  “Was I worth your while?” she asked, giving a little smile.

  “Sure.” I tried to grin. “Everything was fine. It was nice all right. You’re … very nice.”

  “Feel like having another nice time?” she murmured without any kind of sincerity.

  “Not today.” I frowned. “But thanks for asking.”

  “Thanks for asking? What do you think it is I’m giving away? Tickets to the parade?” She smiled again, making the jerking sound in her chest rise. Thump-thump—thump-thump, it muttered, tightening in place. “I got everything you want right here.”

  She leaned in close and made a little kissing movement with her worn-out lips. “I just need some money is all. I’m not asking for any handout, I’m willing to give you what you want and all.”

  “Here, listen, what’s your name?” I asked, trying not to stare at her worn-out face.

  “Tallulah.” She frowned.

  “It’s a pretty name.” I smiled. “It’s a very pretty name.” I dug into the back of my pants and took out my wallet and placed twenty bucks in Tallulah’s hand. “Why don’t you take this and get out of town? Why don’t you take this and get on out and don’t ever look back?”

  Tallulah smiled and shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that at all. This is all my fault. This is all my own fault.”

  I stared at this girl, unable to speak.

  Tallulah dropped some change and a dollar bill on the counter and placed the pack of cigarettes next to her heart.

  “Don’t go on thinking you ruined me,” she whispered. “I did all these things myself. I did all these things without anyone else’s help.”

  This lady turned and walked out of the store slowly, wobbling a little as one of her red high heels gave. She strode out through the glass doors, trying to light a cigarette and mutter to herself at the same time. It doesn’t always work. Your hands sometimes shake too hard. This lady must have been a pro at it though. She lit the square on her first try and tossed the match into the dust, then walked on off.

  I put the lady’s change in the cash register and stared out those shiny glass windows some more.

  BOOM.

  Another bird hit the glass a few minutes later with a gentle kind of crash, more solemn and serious than the one before.

  A little brown robin redbreast had slammed into the window, then fluttered on back, then slammed into the window again. The glass must have been too clean. It must have been too shiny and ended up reflecting the whole sky in its panes.

  I left the little spattering of blood where it had drawn cold. This time I didn’t go on outside. I stood behind the counter where I was.

  Some more customers came in, the dusk turned straight into night, dark and lonely and without a word or reply as I stared on out through those glass windows, sure that robin out there was lying in the dirt dead. I went up to the window and looked out and didn’t see it lying there. It was gone. It had flown away. I went outside and looked for it all withered up in a corner somewhere but I couldn’t find it. It was gone. I went back inside and thought about it all. I paged through some nudie magazines and helped myself to a pack of gum, and then, from out of the long, solemn, silent darkness of the night, two huge headlights burned on through and pulled up to the diesel pump, shining brightly along my eyes and face.

  It was Guy Gladly. I saw his name written there in bright yellow letters along the side of his sturdy red rig. He left his truck idling and hopped on out and walked right through those double glass doors with a great big smile.

  “Luce Lemay!” he shouted. “You doggone fool! How have you been, you doggone fool?!!”

  He shook my hand hard with his big smile beaming, pushing back the nice black Stetson that sat atop his head. He had a square face and black mustache that curled up a little at its ends.

  “Fine, Guy. I’m glad to say I’m doing fine.”

  “Well, hell’s bells, you are a sight. Standing there like a decent citizen in your work clothes minding the store. You look upright, Luce. Like a regular Joe.”

  “Thank you.” I grinned. “I do try.”

  Guy Gladly was a fine man by me. But not so much by the state police. I had met him in Pontiac, where he had been serving a five-year sentence for running stolen goods from town to town in the back of his beautiful long red rig. He was mostly gloomy and sullen during the time I had known him there. All he could talk about was missing his rig. Then he’d shake his head and spit at the floor like it hurt him to even breathe a breath that was filtered through those prison walls.

  “Guy Gladly, what are you doing here?”

  “Just passing through on my route. Thought I’d come by and see you. See how the jailbird’s singing out of its roost.”

  He shook my hand again and punched me in the arm.

  “God, man, it’s good to see you. Seeing you here on the outside here, it’s a real kick. It’s a real, honest-to-goodness kick. So how’s it feel?” he asked. “How’s it feel to be free?”

  “It’s great.” I smiled. “Don’t feel much different myself, but it’s all right.”

  “Give it a chance. Takes a little while to get back into step. You’ll see, pal. You’ll see.”

  He shook my hand again and gave a shout. Then he looked at me standing there all silent and still and gave a kind of half-cocked frown.

  “Man, aren’t you happy to be out? Aren’t you happy to be a free man of your own?”

  “Don’t feel like it much right now, I guess.” I frowned.

  “What do ya mean? You’re making your own way now. Living in your own bed, in your own place, got a real job, got more than thirty bucks in your pocket, huh? Living the way you wanna live, right? Heck, boy, you’re freer than most men. Most men don’t know what they got till they lose it. But you already know. You already know what it’s like to be trapped in a little box. But now you’re out! You’re out on your own and free to start living your life again!”

  Freedom had done wonders for Guy Gladly’s disposition.

  This man used to sulk all around that lonely ol’ prison, muttering to himself, shaking his head, even crying late at night. Now he was a changed man. Now he was saved by the wide black-and-yellow lanes of the interstate.

  “I’m telling you, pal, I’ve got me a job again. Got back with my wife and we’ve got a little rug rat running around tearing things up. Got a nice little house and a little yard to lie in and a rig of my own. I’m living life on my own. That’s what counts. Living the way I want. I don’t give a damn about what some correctional officer thinks. That’s what it’s all about.”

  He nodded, agreeing with himself.

  I smiled a little, shaking my head. “Guess I just don’t feel like that.”

  “What’s the matter with you, pal? We used to just sit around and talk about what we were gonna do as soon as we got out. What happened to all the things you wanted to do, pal?”

  “Still feeling kinda trapped is all.” I smiled.

  “Well, jeez, Luce, the whole world don’t end at the edge of this town. You need to move on, pal.” He patted me on the shoulder and winked. “I brought something for you.” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out something sweet. A beautiful silver harmonica. It was tiny and thin and shined like it was brand spanking new.


  I began to grin right away.

  “That the right kind?” Guy asked, sliding it across the counter with a smile.

  “Sure is,” I nodded. It said “Horner” along the top and bottom and the reeds inside still smelled like wood.

  “That’s the kind you like, ain’t it?”

  “You bet. You bet.”

  Someone had smuggled a harmonica into the pen and I spent all my cash on it and only got to play three songs before a C.O. took it away.

  “How ’bout playing a little tune?” Guy asked, adjusting his black hat. “How ’bout something that cooks?”

  I picked up the harmonica and placed it against my lips. I put my tongue in place against the fourth hole and breathed in through my nose. Then I broke on out. I broke on out through “Alabama Moon” and “Countryside Blues” and kept blowing that harp until my lips felt sore and hot, and then I played “Down by the River” and “Little Red Rooster” until all the spit was gone in my mouth and I was sure ol’ Guy had about stamped a hole in the goddamn tile floor.

  “Ye-haw!” Guy shouted. “Now that’s what it’s all about. Blowing those blues on out. Blowing them out.”

  I cleaned off the harmonica with my shirtsleeve and handed it back to him.

  “No, pal, that’s yours. Keep you busy here at work.”

  He smiled and looked out the glass windows at the fading lights of his truck. He saw Junior’s garbled sign and gave a little frown.

  “How’s old Junior anyway? He doin’ all right?”

  “Same, I guess. Still pretty gloomy himself,” I said.

  “You gotta watch out for him, Luce. You gotta make sure he’s on the straight and narrow. Make sure he’s adjusting. Hate to find out he hung himself or something sick like that.”

  “He’s coming around, I think. I think he just needs a little time.”

  “Sure, sure, pal. You, too. You, too. Three years or ten, going from that place to the open world is a big change. A big change. Not too many cons make it out here, do they? Gotta stick together, I say. Stick together like horse glue.” He looked at me again and gave another big smile. “Good seeing you, Luce. Stand tall, convict. Stand tall.”

  He gave me a little wave and strode on out, back to his rig and back into the open night. I put that harmonica up to my lips and played “Dixie Blues” or as much as I could, forgetting a few notes, stumbling some at the end, letting sweat gather just above my mouth. It made me feel like the last lost few years of my life had only been a singularly long bad dream and this was the beginning—yep, this was the start of something bright and new and clean.

  Then three more birds struck the glass and I wasn’t so sure of anything.

  Three yellow sparrows hit the glass all at the same time and dropped down into the dirt, flickering and fluttering full of blood and dust. This time I stepped outside. I stepped outside and stared at all three of them, lying there, chirping and crying and bleeding in the mud.

  They were all so small. Their little eyes and mouths opened and closed. They were all still alive. They were all still alive and stuck on their backs with their broken wings spread beside them like little feathered coats, unbuttoned where they laid.

  I turned away and went inside the gas station and grabbed the .22 that was hidden behind the counter and stood over those dying birds. I raised the gun, ready to fire, ready to put an end to all their voices, all their squalor and song.

  But I didn’t shoot.

  Their singing had stopped.

  I held that gun tight in my hands but didn’t shoot. I felt like every damn thing in my life had hinged on those birds pulling through and now it was all about to take a turn for the worse.

  I put the gun in the back of my pants. I locked the front glass doors and went around behind the Gas-N-Go to make a little grave for them in the soft gray dirt Clutch had tried to plant flowers in a few weeks before. Nothing had come up. None of the flowers Clutch had planted had even broke the dirt. I dug a hole, pretty tiny but as deep as I could, and walked around to the front again to collect the birds. Just as I hunched over to scoop one of them up, a nice black Cadillac Fleetwood pulled into the parking lot, pulled to a complete stop, then sped up, right past the pumps, and stopped a few feet from where I was kneeling. The driver’s door opened and two feet in black snakeskin cowboys boots and silver spurs stepped on out, and before I could turn all the way around I heard a voice, a timbre so bare and soft, echo right in my ear and chest.

  “Mi corazon de luce

  esta muerto y perdido

  mas alla de mí

  mas alla de tu

  cerca de los Dios y las estrellas

  cerca de la verdad …”

  I looked on up and began to sweat.

  It was Toreador. He was breathing right in my ear.

  He looked right into my eyes and smiled a wee little smile.

  “Hello, my motherfucker. How is everything down there?”

  He lifted back his fist and hit me with all five knuckles right along my chin. Then it all went black. It all went black and red.

  “Didn’t think you’d see me again, eh?” he hollered, kicking my chin, cracking me where my shoulder met my neck along the side of my throat. My head was throbbing full of loose blood. I could feel it running down the side of my lip. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t get up to stand. He had me by the front of my shirt. He had my hand pinned along the ground. Then he pulled a small black-handled knife from the side of his belt. Toreador placed the knife’s edge against my face and cut, running along the side of my face slowly, slicing my cheek in a thin shallow graze.

  “There you go, cholo.” He grinned. “Now you’re pretty as me.”

  I went for the .22 in the back of my pants but the bastard stood on my hand with his shiny black boot. He put the knife against my eye and grinned.

  “Old Jimmy Fargo said he saw you get off in this town.” Toreador smiled. “Then I checked with my boys inside and they said you got a job working here. I drove all the way down here from Chicago just to see you tonight, Luce. Just so you could pay me back for the scar those C.O.’s gave me. Look at this!” he shouted. “Look what those fuckers did to my face.”

  I looked up from the dirt and the mud right at his cheek and saw a long puffy red scar that ran from the corner of his thin gray lips to his deep black eye.

  “We’re gonna go inside and empty out your cash drawer, then go for a little ride.” He grinned, holding the knife over me.

  I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my neck had me paralyzed, down on my knees.

  “Get to your feet, cholo.” Toreador still grinned. But I didn’t move. My body was all cramped up in agony. “Come on, cocksucker, get to your feet.”

  I closed my eyes and grabbed a handful of gravel and dirt and leaned back on my legs and threw it all as hard as I could right into that bastard’s face.

  “Cabrón!” he howled, covering his face. Then I pulled the gun from the back of my pants and slammed it hard into his throat. He froze. He froze where he stood and then I cracked him with the butt of the .22 against his face, catching him right under his goddamn chin. He flew back with a grunt against the front of his car, then pulled himself to his feet. I lunged forward and slammed the gun into his face again, pinning his wrist against the hood of the car with my other hand until his knife slipped out and dropped into the dirt. He slumped to the ground, holding the blood on his chin with his fingers, still smiling like a lunatic.

  “Go on, cholo, finish me off,” he hissed.

  “I ain’t a goddamn killer like you …” I muttered. “I ain’t a goddamn killer like you …”

  “Sure you ain’t, cholo.” He grinned through some spit. “You just keep saying it to yourself and maybe you believe it, eh?”

  I squeezed the pistol hard, maybe hoping to blow off his goddamn head, but I blew out his headlight instead and placed the warm muzzle against his teeth.

  “Don’t come back here …” I grunted. “Don’t ever come back again …”
>
  “I don’t need to. Now you think about me every time you look at your lousy face, eh? Now you can’t think about being pretty without thinking about me.”

  “Get out!!” I shouted, and slammed him up against his steely silver grill. Toreador nodded and pulled himself to his feet and wobbled back into his car and drove away, still grinning like a lunatic, still staring at me until he had disappeared back into the night. I fell against the glass doors and tumbled inside.

  I managed to lock the front doors and fall behind the counter before blacking out again.

  My cheek was bleeding like crazy now. I held a rag against the side of my face and had my head down on the counter, staring outside into the darkness, mumbling to myself. It was all too much. The planet had moved backwards and then ahead again too quick. It all didn’t make sense. It had all moved too fast.

  I held the rag to my face and walked outside and locked the front doors and stared down at those three birds in the dust and gray and dirt. I picked them all up, I picked all three of them up, and held them to my cool blue work shirt and went around back and placed them in that shallow little hole. I swept a thin wake of soft black dirt over their thinned yellow feathers, all bent out of place, their hollowed eyes and crescent-shaped beaks, I spread the dirt over them all and buried them there to rest.

  The blood on my cheek had gone dark and red and had stopped running, growing thick and smooth where I had been cut. I rubbed my dirty hands on my pants and went back inside the Gas-N-Go and shut off all the lights and locked it up good. Then I stumbled the few blocks in the dark to the Starlite Diner and stood outside of it, staring at it all lit up. There was Charlene behind the counter, pouring a cup of joe for some old trucker, smiling, pushing her hair over her shoulder in the nicest way a man like me could ever imagine it being done. I stood out there alone in the dark, feeling that cut on my face, feeling my legs buckling at my knees from the pain in my head and my throat and my cheek, still spitting gravel from out of my teeth, and I felt something there.