by Larry Brown
I rode around for a while. I didn’t want to go back home just yet. I wanted to run but I didn’t have any place to run to. Some people can just walk away, turn their backs and go on and forget about it. I couldn’t. But it didn’t stop me from thinking about it.
I went to a bar on Jackson Avenue and counted my money before I went inside. There was just enough left from what I’d borrowed from Leon to get a couple of pitchers of draft. There wasn’t anybody in there I knew. I sat at a table by myself, in a booth in a dark corner. I thought that if I sat quietly by myself in the dark and drank, I’d be able to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
Florida was the best place to go. There was no cold weather to stop you from laying brick. There was plenty of building going on. Jobs were supposed to be easy to get.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Myra down on the floor, crying. Or about how she felt when I was kissing her. I’d never had anybody want me that bad. I’d never had anybody so desperate reach out to me like that. And I’d turned her down. I regretted it.
I kept drinking. Betty didn’t know what it was like to have to work, to be strapped into a job like a mule in a harness. The company I worked for didn’t give a fuck if I broke my back. They’d just hire somebody else. There were people standing in lines all over the country wanting jobs. She didn’t understand that. She didn’t know what it was like to have to work when you were hurt. You either kept up or you didn’t. If you didn’t keep up they’d let you go.
She looked so awful down on the floor. I was still thinking about her by the time I finished the first pitcher. I had to scrape all my change together to make the price of the last one. I knew I’d be drunk by the time I finished it, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get drunk. I felt like getting drunk would help me more than just about anything right then. So I got the other pitcher and sat back down in the corner with it. I knew by then that it had been wrong for me to turn her down. And I needed to talk to her some more anyway. She had listened to me and she had seemed to understand. She was so much kinder than Betty, so much gentler. Her body had been so soft. I wanted to take all her clothes off gently and touch her whole body and make her happy. I wanted to heal her. I kept drinking. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea.
I know I was too drunk to remember what happened exactly. I came to in the parking lot. Somebody had hit me because there was blood in my mouth. I tried to stand. I made it up to my knees and then I passed out.
I woke up again. I was lying beside my truck. I got ahold of the door handle and pulled myself up with that. I leaned my arms on the bed and tried to remember what had happened. Somebody had been yelling at me. I remembered swinging one time. Then nothing until I came to in the parking lot.
I knew what I had to do. I knew where I had to go. I got in my truck and cranked it up. I had to close one eye to see how to drive. Some of my lower teeth were loose. There was a cut inside my mouth. But I knew somebody who would take care of me. I knew somebody who would be glad to see me.
All my crying was over with. You can only cry so much. You can’t just keep on feeling sorry for yourself. I was lying in bed watching “The Love Boat” and hoping somehow that he’d come back. But I knew he wouldn’t. I didn’t know if he’d even come back and finish the work. I thought he would probably be too embarrassed to.
I was watching the show but I didn’t believe in it. It wasn’t like real life. There were too many happy endings on it. Everybody always found just exactly what they were looking for. And nobody on there was mean. Nobody on there was going to break down a door and slap somebody off the commode.
I wanted to talk to him again. He seemed to be such an understanding person, a person who would take the time to listen to another person’s troubles. I was wishing I could see what his woman and his baby looked like. I was still having some drinks.
I knew there were nice men in the world, men who would love me for myself and not mistreat me. But how did you find them? How did you know they wouldn’t change years later? There weren’t any promises that would keep forever. Things altered in your lives and people changed. Sometimes they even started hating each other. I hated Harold so bad when I divorced him that I couldn’t stand to look at him. But I can still remember how tender his hands used to be. I can still remember the first time he undressed me and how he looked at me when I was naked.
But who would want me now? I shouldn’t have been surprised when Richard pulled away. I have varicose veins and my breasts are sagging. I’ve got those ugly rolls of fat around my middle. I’ve gone through the change. No, a young man doesn’t want an old woman. It’s the old woman who wants the young man.
I hoped he wouldn’t tell anybody. I hoped he wouldn’t tell his woman about it. I knew he wouldn’t. Not a nice boy like him. I wanted to blame something, so I blamed the drinking. But I couldn’t blame all of it on the drinking. I had to blame part of it on me.
I even thought about calling him. But I couldn’t call him. What if his woman answered? What would I say then? He might have already told her and she might want to know if this was the old drunk bag who tried to get Richard in the bed with her. She might say, Listen, you old dried up bag of shit. . . .
But what if he answered? It wasn’t late. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. But what if the baby was asleep and it woke her up? It was stupid to even think about it. But I wanted him to come back so bad. Nobody thinks the things I think. The crazy things, the awful things, the insane things. That’s what I was thinking when I heard him pull up.
I don’t even know what I said to her. I was almost too drunk to walk. She turned the porch light on and came to the door. I talked to her. I guess I scared her with all the blood I had on me. I know I looked awful. I can’t even remember what I said to her. There’s no telling what I said to her. It’s a wonder she didn’t call the police.
I couldn’t believe he came back. All that time of lying there thinking about him and wishing he’d come back and then he did. I just had on my housecoat and my underwear. I still had my makeup on. I couldn’t wait to let him in.
I turned on the porch light and watched him try to get out of his truck. I didn’t know what was wrong with him at first. He was staggering. And his face was all bloody. He’d been in a fight.
I got scared then. It took him about three tries to get up on the porch, and then he had to hold onto a post. He was the drunkest human I’d ever seen. I almost didn’t recognize him.
He knocked on the door. I didn’t know whether to open it or not. I hadn’t been expecting him to be the way he was. I didn’t know what to do. He kept knocking and finally I slipped the chain on and opened the door just a crack. I was scared to let him in.
He was weaving. He had blood all over his chin. He could just barely talk. It was hard to understand what he was saying, but he said something about it being so late. I said Yes, it was, and I asked him what he wanted. He said he just wanted to talk to me. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. He looked dangerous.
I told him he was drunk and I asked him again what he wanted. He kept saying that he’d sober up in a little bit. Then he asked me if he could come in. I told him it was awfully late. I didn’t even really know him. I didn’t know what he might do while he was drunk. He’d already been fighting, what else would he do? I knew that if I let him in he’d never leave, or he’d pass out and I wouldn’t know what to do with him. Or what if he tried to rape me? I couldn’t let him in.
I tried to be as gentle with him as I could. I told him it would be better if he went on home. I told him it was after ten.
He asked me if I had any coffee. He said if he had some coffee he’d sober up. But he could barely stand. And he was driving. I thought, What if he left in his truck and killed somebody, or himself, before he got home? Maybe I should have let him stay. But I was scared to let him stay. He looked so wild. His eyes were as red as blood.
He said something about a favor. He said something about if
it wouldn’t hurt you and would help the other person. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I told him to please go home.
He said he needed to talk to me, that nobody understood. I told him I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt him, but that he needed to go home right away.
I knew I had to be firm. I told him I was going to close the door. He hung his head. Then he looked up and looked into my eyes. Looked right into me. Everything changed in that moment. I saw how the rest of my life was going to be. I knew that I would always be lonely, and that I would always be scared. I told him to go home again and then I shut the door.
I don’t remember driving home. I just woke up the next morning in bed with Betty. Tracey was crying. It was dark. I put my hand on Betty and I moved against her and I put my chin in her neck. She squeezed my hand in her sleep. She moved it down between her legs and moaned. Maybe she was having a bad dream. It all came back to me suddenly, what I’d done the night before. I just closed my eyes. I didn’t want to think about it. I had to get up in thirty more minutes. I had to get up and fix myself some breakfast.
Some men showed up a few days later. One of them was short, with a red beard. His shirt was spattered with paint. He did all the talking. The other one just stood on the porch and looked around.
I let them in after they explained why they were there. They brought their tools in, and the linoleum in. I stayed in the bedroom while they hammered and sawed and nailed. I thought they never would get through.
Finally he knocked on the door and asked me if I wanted to come out and look at it. I went out and looked. The doors were hung and the new linoleum was down. They’d done a neat job, a good job. But I wanted them out of my house. I wrote him a check quickly, for the same price that Richard had named. They took his sawhorses. They said they could do other things: remodeling, build decks, paint my house. I thanked them and told them I didn’t need anything else right now. I didn’t ask them anything about Richard.
It was almost a month later when I saw them in the supermarket. I like to do my shopping at night, when the stores aren’t full of people, when the aisles are clear and you can take your time. A young woman turned into the aisle ahead of me, a girl with a sweatshirt and blue jeans and fuzzy blue house shoes. I wouldn’t be caught dead out like that. There was a little girl with yellow hair sitting in the cart, and she was reaching out for everything they passed. The woman slapped at the child’s hands like an automatic reaction, without even looking. I watched them for a while. And then I went on past them. I wanted to finish and get out of the store quickly, as soon as possible, before it was too late. Their lives were things that didn’t concern me and the world is full of suffering anyway. How can one person be expected to do anything about it?
I turned the corner and he was standing at the meat counter with a pack of bacon in his hand. His back was turned and I thought I might slip by. But he turned his head, just a little, and he saw me. He didn’t seem surprised, or even embarrassed. His head bent just a little, and he said something. Hey, something. I thought for a moment he was going to start talking to me. But he didn’t. He turned away. I thought that was nice of him, to make it so easy for me to go on by. I didn’t let myself hurry. I stopped a little ways past him and looked at some dill pickles in a display set up in the middle of the floor. There were hundreds of bottles. I didn’t want to buy any, but I picked up one and read the price. It was fifty-nine cents. I looked over my shoulder and he was looking at me. Richard. My hand must have been trembling. I wanted him even then. I set the jar back without looking and the whole display crashed down. I jumped back. It was unbelievable the way it looked. Broken glass everywhere, and thousands of tiny green chips. Green juice that started puddling around my cart. It ran across the floor and people stepped out of the aisles to look at me. I was trying to think of something to say. I didn’t look over my shoulder to see if Richard was watching. I was scared of what I might see.
I put the groceries away and took a shower and put on clean clothes. Tracey was asleep in her bed and Betty was asleep in hers. I waited until she started snoring and then I started gathering things up. I had a week’s pay in my pocket and the truck was paid for. I had the title in the glove box. I could trade it off, buy another one, whatever.
Tracey doesn’t sleep well most nights, but that night she did. She slept through Grenada, through Jackson, on through Hattiesburg. The miles piled up behind us. I knew Betty wouldn’t send anybody after us. I knew Betty would probably be relieved.
I had Myra’s number in my pocket and I thought I might call her when we got to where we were going. I thought I might wish her some luck.
THE END OF ROMANCE
Miss Sheila and I were riding around, as we often did in those days. But I was pretty sure it was going to be the last afternoon of our relationship. Things hadn’t been good lately.
It was hot. We’d been drinking all day, and we’d drunk almost enough. We lacked just a little getting to a certain point. I’d already come to a point. I’d come down to the point where I could still get an erection over her, but my heart wouldn’t be going crazy and jumping up in my throat like a snake-bit frog. I wouldn’t be fearing for my life when I mounted her. I knew it was time for me to book for a fat man’s ass. She bitched about how much time I spent locked in my room, how my mother was bossy, when would I ever learn some couth? And you get them started nagging at you, you might as well be married. Well. I’d been out of women when I found her and I’d be out of women again until I found another one. But there were hundreds of other women, thousands, millions. They’d been making new ones every day for years.
“I ain’t drunk,” she said.
“Well, I’m not drunk, either.”
“You look like you are.”
“So do you.”
“You got enough money to get some more? You can take all that Nobel Prize money and get us a coupla sixers, can’t you?”
She was bad about chagrinning me like that.
“I magine I can manage it,” I said.
So she whipped it into one of those little quick-joints that are so popular around here, one of those chicken-scarfing places, whipped it up in front of the door and stopped. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Nothing worse than a drunken woman. Empty beer cans were all piled up around our feet. The end of romance is never easy.
“What matter?” I said.
“Nuttin matter. Everything just hunkin funkin dunky.”
“You mean hunky dory?”
She had some bloodshot eyes and a ninety-yard stare. I’d known it would come down to this. The beginning of romance is wonderful. I don’t know why I do it over and over. Starting with a new one, I can just about eat her damn legs off. Then, later, some shit like this. Women. Spend your whole life after the right one and what do they do? Shit on you. I always heard the theory of slapping them around to make them respect you, that that’s what they want. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand to hit that opposite flesh. That slap would ring in my head for the rest of my life. This is what I do: take what they give and give what I can and when it’s over find another one. Another one. That’s what’s so wonderful about the beginning of romance. She’s different. She’s new. Unique. Everything’s fresh. Crappola. You go in there to shave after the first night and what does she do while you’ve got lather all over your face? Comes in and hikes her nightgown and then the honeymoon’s over.
I’m not trying to get away from the story. I mean, just a few minutes later, some stuff actually happened. But sitting in that car at that moment, I was a little bitter. I had all sorts of thoughts going through my head, like: Slapper. Slapper ass off. I held that down.
She looked at me with those bloodshot eyes. “You really somethin, you know that? You really really really.”
I knew it was coming. We’d had a bad afternoon out at the lake. Her old boyfriend had been out there, and he’d tried to put the make on her. I and seven of my friends had ripped his swim trunks of
f of him, lashed him to the front of her car, and driven him around blindfolded but with his name written on a large piece of beer carton taped to his chest for thirty-seven minutes, in front of domestic couples, moms and dads, family reunions, and church groups. She hadn’t thought it was funny. We, we laughed our asses off.
I got out of the car. She didn’t want to have any fun, that was fine with me. I bent over and gathered up an armload of beer cans and carried them to the trash can. They clattered all over the place when I dropped them in. I was a little woozy but I didn’t think anybody could see it. Through the window of the store this old dyed woman with great big breasts and pink sunglasses looked out at me with a disapproving frown. I waved. Then I went back for more cans.
“Don’t worry about the damn cans, all right?”
“I can’t move my feet for them,” I said.
“I’ll worry about the damn cans,” she said.
It sort of crumpled me. We were in her convertible, and once it was fun to just throw them straight up while we were going down the road. The wind, or I guess just running out from under them was fun. It was a game. Now it didn’t seem to matter. I think we both had the creep of something bad coming up on us. She could have beat the shit out of me, I could have beat the shit out of her. It’s no way to live. You don’t want to go to sleep nervous, fearing the butcher knife, the revolver, the garrote.
“Just go in and get some beer,” she said. “We got to talk.”