by Gorman, Ed
My mom never looks at him. She’s paging through a Sunset magazine.
Finally he says, “Ma’am, you mind if I give your young’un a little tour of the back area?”
Slowly, she takes my wrist. “He needs to stay here.”
He snorts, looks her up and down, and then glances at me. “I got Pong in my trailer out back.”
My mom finally looks up at him and forces a smile. “He needs to stay with me.”
“You like Pong, little fella?”
I look at my mom. “I better stay here.”
Snort. “Maybe we’ll get together some other time.” He turns and lumbers back into the garage.
I look up at my mom. She rolls her eyes as she turns a page. “You think we need to find a new auto garage, kiddo?”
Inside, I feel weird. “Maybe.”
“Your dad likes this place.” She flips a page, hard. “Your dad’s getting an earful tonight.”
Finally, the manager comes back to the office with a crooked grin and a leer in his eyes, insisting the light is flashing because of an “intake valve alignment irregularity,” which will cost almost three hundred dollars.
My mom sags her head. My parents always worry about money.
The big guy and another mechanic saunter in as the manager gives her the crooked smile. “You see, ma’am, the intake valves are crucial to the integrity of the engine; they maintain alignment with the fuel injection intake switches and their responsiveness to the sub panels.”
The mechanics smile at each other.
My mom sighs again. “Alignment with the what?”
The manager, his hair like a golden helmet, suppresses a grin. “Fuel injection intake switches.”
I inch closer to the mechanics.
After a pause, my mom says, “I just brought the car in two weeks ago.”
“Well, sometimes these things come in waves.”
My mom steps away, pulls her hair back and looks out the window. The men devour her, looking her up and down. When she returns to the counter, she pains, “Okay.”
“You’re making the right choice, ma’am.” The manager leans forward, forcing a serious look. “It’s important to get this fixed. That’s why the engine light went on.” He waits a second, bites his lip. “A pretty little sweetheart with young ones?” He nods to me. “You don’t wanna end up broken down on a road...” He pauses, studies her mouth. “... all alone.”
My mom looks away.
I slip closer to the mechanics. The big one whispers, almost laughing, “Another score from the Sucker Light.” He releases a quiet squeal and slaps a low-five with the other guy. “Sucker Light always delivers.”
The engine light doesn’t look like a sucker to me.
• • •
We leave our Chevy at the dealership, so the big mechanic drives us home in one of their cars. On the drive home, no one says a word — the mechanic is wheezing hard, and I find myself staring at his whiskery jowls. His name tag — “Ed” — is stitched into his baby-blue shop shirt, which is darkened by massive sweat stains around his pits. Tattooed on his right forearm is a reproduction of the name tag, and I realize he must really like his name. I wish I liked my name that much.
Ed keeps glancing at my mom, a gleam in his bloodshot eyes, and my mom keeps sliding closer to the passenger-side door. After a while, he snorts louder than I’ve ever heard anyone snort, and glances at my mom, an eyebrow arching. My mom looks out the window.
Ed pulls a hard left, and suddenly we’re headed out of town, into the country.
“What are you doing?”
Snort. “You live this way, you said.”
“No, we’re in town. I told you — we’re on Walnut.”
Ed isn’t turning around. “I know a faster way.”
My mom tenses. “You need to turn us around now.”
Ed forces a chuckle, keeps driving.
My mom stiffens, clutches her purse closer. “Ed,” she warns, “you need to turn us around right now.”
Ed ignores her, flips on the radio. The Eagles.
My stomach tightens, and suddenly I want my dad really bad.
“Ed.” My mom reaches inside her purse. “Last warning.”
He glances at her and lets off the gas. We coast onto the side of the road, the sound of gravel crunching under rubber. We’re surrounded by hilly pastureland, and there is not another soul in sight. No one says a word as Ed gazes at my mom and my mom glares back.
“Ed, take us back into town.”
Snort. “But I know a shortcut.”
“No you don’t, Ed. This is the opposite way, and you know it. You need to turn around right now.”
They stare at each other for a real long time.
Finally, Ed pulls us onto the road and makes a U-turn. He’s sighing. “Just wanted to show you my special place.”
My mom seems like she’s about to cry, but she doesn’t.
I feel the same way, and I do.
• • •
When we finally pull up to our house, Larry is sitting on his porch. I can feel him watching us.
My mom bolts out of the car, opens my door and pulls me out. Ed looks at her one last time and pulls away.
Larry watches.
My mom has her back to me as she walks to our front door. “Why don’t you play out front, sweetie? I need to call your dad.”
I glance at Larry, and he’s waving me over.
I wipe my nose and look to my mom, but she’s already in the house.
• • •
“Hi, Larry.”
He smells like cocoa butter and pipe tobacco. He nods to where the car was. “I know that individual. What’s he doing with you and your mom?”
I sniffle. “He’s from the dealership.”
Larry gazes into space.
“Our engine light went on.”
Slowly, he nods.
I make a long sigh. “It’s gonna cost three hundred dollars.” After a long pause, I add, “That guy called it the Sucker Light.”
Larry squints into space. “Ed said that?”
I nod. “I’m not sure what that means, Sucker Light.”
“Don’t worry about that, Teddy.”
“They didn’t want my mom to hear them.”
Larry examines his fingernails — they seem perfect. I stand there and watch him, wondering if he’s really crazy or just different, or if that’s the same thing.
“He tried driving us into the country,” I say, my voice suddenly cracking. “My mom almost cried.”
Larry squints into space for a long while, then forces a weird smile, his mouth just pretending to be happy, his eyebrows arching. Slowly he cocks his head to me.
“The scent of bacon frying in the wild.” He widens his eyes, really trying to smile. “Does that affect you, Teddy?”
I look at him. “Affect me?”
“You see, Teddy, bacon scent in the woods drives me nuts.” His arms and legs seem to tighten. “That scent is so arresting, so powerful, so mouth-watering, it just shuts off my frontal lobe, if you will, the evolved part of my brain.” I look into his eyes, and I realize they’re nice-looking eyes. “The animal takes over, and all I know is that I must eat that bacon.” He pauses. “That I must have my way.”
I don’t know what to say. After a long weird silence, I offer, “I like bacon.”
He nods. “Yes, well you see, Teddy, I think I smell bacon.”
• • •
If Crazy Larry smells bacon, he sure has an odd way of showing it.
Larry spends the rest of the afternoon going back and forth to stores, each time unloading things like rebar, chicken wire, twine, propane canisters, foundation blocks, cotton balls, duct tape, several sealed buckets of dark liquid, two car batteries, three jumper cables, a roll of fabric, an ironing board, a hacksaw, and a case of Budweiser. In the garage, he stands at his workbench and pokes through a bunch of Walgreen’s bags as Alvin and the Chipmunks sing “Pop Goes the Weasel” on his tape pl
ayer — I love Alvin and the Chipmunks, and I decide that anyone who loves them, too, can’t be that crazy.
I walk up his driveway as he pulls out a can of shaving cream, a jar of Vaseline, and two cans of WD-40. On the shelf above the workbench, I notice a black handgun placed beside a can of wood stain. On the other side of the can is one of his African masks — it has big angry eyes and long, sharp teeth.
My mouth falls open.
Larry notices me.
Finally I manage, “Are the boys around?”
He shakes his head no. “Larry needs some time to himself, Teddy.”
I back away.
Alvin and the Chipmunks blare from Larry’s garage.
Around around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought it was a joke,
Pop goes the weasel
• • •
I’m in the dining room, watching Larry.
My mom is on the phone.
Larry has crawled into the back of his station wagon.
“It was entirely inappropriate,” my mom says.
Larry is measuring the windows with a tape measure.
“I was very concerned.”
Larry sits there and stares into space.
“Well, to be quite honest, I don’t care if you’ve known him for years. That has nothing to do with this.”
Larry is now staring at his fingernails.
“No, the fact is, it was a few seconds away from becoming a kidnapping.”
Larry scrambles out of the station wagon and bolts for the garage. “Well, I appreciate that, but I have called my husband.”
When my mom comes into the dining room, she pulls me to her, keeps me there and gazes at Larry’s house. She forces a happy voice. “You doing some good Larry-watching, honey?”
I look up at her. “Larry smells bacon.”
She frowns. “Bacon?”
Larry trots out of the house in tight jeans and a loose collar shirt. I don’t think she realizes it, but my mom’s eyes widen as she watches him jump into the station wagon.
I ask her, “Do you really think he’s a crazyman?”
It looks like Larry has fallen into another trance.
“Well, maybe.” She scratches my head, softly, like she’s been doing since I was very small. “But maybe the thing is, we can consider Larry our crazyman.”
• • •
Later that afternoon, I’m kicking the soccer ball against our garage door when Larry pulls up in his station wagon. I stop and watch as he backs the car into his driveway; the back windows are covered by cardboard. He gets out, glances at me and opens his garage door.
I keep watching.
Larry returns to the station wagon, lowers his head and glares at me.
Suddenly I want to go inside.
“Bye,” I say.
“Yes, that’s right,” he says. “Bye-bye.”
Inside, my mom is making meatloaf.
I stand in the dining room and watch as Larry backs the station wagon into his garage. A few seconds later, he stands under the garage door and looks around one last time before pulling it down behind him.
It takes hours before I have the guts to go back out there.
• • •
It’s getting dark as I stand outside Larry’s garage.
There’s lot of noise in there. I hear hammering, metal rustling and heavy breathing. There’s electronic buzzing and snapping, too.
And someone is moaning.
I step closer and hear a faint trace of Alvin and the Chipmunks. It’s “The Witchdoctor,” the one where the chipmunks dance in tribal masks. I inch closer to the door.
I told the witchdoctor, I was in love with you
And then the witchdoctor, he told me what to do
He said,
OO EE OO AH -AH ting-tang walla-walla bing-bang
OO EE OO AH -AH ting-tang walla-walla bing-bang
I creep closer to the side of the door, where a slice of light escapes from the garage. I hear something wet hitting the floor, then another moan.
I creep a little closer.
Another moan.
I step closer.
Alvin and the Chipmunks.
I creep closer to the light and peek in. From a weird angle, I see Larry dancing around in his tribal mask, his knees kicking high, his arms flailing, his mid-section swirling.
I can’t see the other side of the garage, but I hear moaning.
I told the witchdoctor you didn’t love me true
I told the witchdoctor you didn’t love me nice
And then the witchdoctor, he gave me this advice
He said,
OO EE OO AH-AH ting-tang walla-wall bing-bang
I’m light-headed, and all I know is, I want to go home.
• • •
That night my mom and dad talk long and hard about everything. My dad looks at me, shakes his head and snaps at her, “Next time, just call me.”
My mom tells me to go play out front.
It’s completely dark. No one else is outside; they’re probably all watching Eight Is Enough, which is what I’d be doing. I walk around in front of our house, kicking pebbles, when finally I can’t resist looking across the street.
It’s dark over there. On the porch, an ember fades.
I hear a muffled groan coming from his garage, followed by faint traces of Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Now, you’ve been keeping love from me just like you were a miser
And I’ll admit I wasn’t very smart
So I went out and found myself a guy that’s so much wiser
And he taught me the way to win your heart
I bite my lip. I don’t want to look that way.
“Teddy.”
Another muffled moan from the garage, then an electronic buzz-snap.
“Yeah?”
The ember glows. “Come here.” His voice is strong, like he’s not asking.
Wet squishy noises echo from the garage.
The ember fades.
I walk across the street, but I still can’t see him.
“Larry?” I step closer.
Still, nothing. Only darkness.
“Larry?”
The ember brightens, and finally I see Larry. He’s sitting there on the porch wearing a baseball cap, and he’s staring into space. Stitched neatly to the front of the cap is Ed’s name-tag tattoo.
The ember fades, and Crazy Larry dissolves into the darkness.
• • •
GREG BARDSLEY has worked as a metro newspaper reporter, editor, ghostwriter, video producer and speechwriter, he has been to sweat lodges, shootouts, remote Chinese villages, gangbanger cribs, and Communist compounds. His crime fiction has appeared in the anthologies Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll (Kensington Books) and Uncage Me (Bleak House Books) and in Plots with Guns, 3:AM Magazine, Thuglit, Out of the Gutter, Storyglossia, Pulp Pusher, and Demolition. He lives with his family in the San Francisco Bay Area.
FEMME SOLE
By Dana Cameron
North End
“A moment of your time, Anna Hoyt.”
Anna slowed and cursed to herself. She’d seen Adam Seaver as she crossed Prince Street, and for a terrible moment thought he was following her. She’d hoped to lose him amid the peddlers and shoppers at the busy market near Dock Square, but she couldn’t ignore him after he called out. His brogue was no more than a low growl, but conversations around him tended to fade and die. He never raised his voice, but he never had a problem making himself heard, even over the loudest of Boston’s boisterous hawkers. In fact, with anxious glances, the crowd melted back in retreat from around her. No one wanted to be between Seaver and whatever he was after.
Cowards, she thought. But her own mouth was dry as he approached.
She turned, swallowed, met his eyes, then lowered hers, hoping it looked like modesty or respect and not revulsion. His face was weathered and, in places, blurred with scars, marks of fig
hts from which he’d walked away the winner; there was a nick above his ear where he’d had his head shaved. Seaver smiled; she could see two rows of sharp, ugly teeth like a mouthful of broken glass or like one of the bluefish the men sometimes caught in the harbor. Bluefish were so vicious they had to be clubbed when they were brought into the boat or they’d shear your finger off.
He didn’t touch her, but she flinched when he gestured to a quiet space behind the stalls. It was blustery autumn, salt air and a hint of snow to come, but a sour milk smell nearly gagged her. Dried leaves skittered over discarded rotten vegetables, or was it that even the boldest rats fled when Seaver approached?
“How are you, Mr. Seaver?” she asked. She tried to imagine that she was safely behind her bar. She felt she could manage anything with the bar between her and the rest of the world.
“Fair enough. Yourself?”
“Fine.” She wished he’d get on with it. “Thanks.” His excessive manners worried her. He’d never spoken to her before, other than to order his rum and thank her.
When he didn’t speak, Anna felt the sweat prickle along the hairline at the back of her neck. The wind blew a little colder, and the crowd and imagined safety of the market seemed remote. The upright brick structure of the Town House was impossibly far away, and the ships anchored groaning at the wharves could have been at sea.
He waited, searched her face, then looked down. “What very pretty shoes.”
“Thank you. They’re from Turner’s.” She shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t believe he was interested in her shoes, but neither did she imagine he was trying to spare her feelings by not staring at the bruises that ran up the side of her head. These were almost hidden with an artfully draped shawl, but her lip was still visibly puffy. It was too easy to trace the line from that to the black and blue marks. One mark led to the next like a constellation.
One thing always led to another.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Seaver?” she said at last. Not knowing was too much.
“I may be in a way to do something for you.”
Anna couldn’t help it: she sighed. She heard the offer five times a night.