by Judith Tewes
Hum.
Whirl. Chug. Grind.
A three by four slide emerged from the front of the camera like it was blowing a raspberry. I angled the camera to get a better look. Nothing but a black square framed by that trademark Polaroid white boarder.
I made a face. “So much for instant.”
“Give it a few seconds.” Monty snatched the photo before it could fall to the floor. He waved it in the air. “A little of this and,” he held up the photo, “there she goes.” Swirls of color began to spread across the film.
“That is so cool.” And it was. The bonus? The awkwardness and strained silences we’d been slipping into since I’d arrived were gone. Monty’s wrinkled face gradually appeared on the film. I moved closer to watch the process, conscious that for the first time, I felt halfway comfortable in his presence.
“You have a camera?” Monty squinted at the film.
“On my phone.” I shrugged. “It takes decent pictures and I play around with apps to crank them up.”
Monty frowned. Clearly, I was talking over his head. Pretty obvious after the quick tour of the place he’d given me, Monty was not of the tech world. No computer in sight and he had an old school rotary phone that sat within a special cutout in the main hallway.
“You use different effects to make them look better.” I explained. “Make the colors pop, add text, that sort of thing. Photography is fun, and I dabble in film, but I’m more of a writer. A screenwriter, really. I want to see my characters come to life on the big screen.”
Monty raised a brow. “Movies are moving pictures. Seems to me you should focus on what you’re good at. If you have to crank your pictures up, they’re probably not good to begin with. Better stick with the writing.”
I gaped at him, shocked at his bluntness. He shoved the completed photo at me and in the same movement, plucked the camera from my grip.
“But if you do want to snap a few rounds, this stays here.” Monty placed the camera back on the kitchen table. “So we can both find it easy.” He nodded to a drawer by the fridge. “There’s more film in there, but don’t go wasting it. That stuff’s expensive and hard to come by.”
I opened the drawer, curious about the film, wondering just what kind of effects you could get if you mucked around with the development stage. Inside were a few unopened packages and a stash of photos Monty had taken.
As he shifted into the living room, I flipped through the images. He seemed to be documenting everyday moments, not the big deal, Kodak ones.
A snow-covered tree glowing in the morning sun.
A raven sitting on a stop sign.
A pattern in the clouds.
They were good. Dramatic without added effects.
I slid the drawer shut and followed the sounds of a sit-com laugh track. In the living room, I perched on the opposite end of the couch, forcing myself to stay put during a M.A.S.H rerun. Monty was really into it, leaning forward, elbows on his bony knees, eyes fixed on the screen.
Like he’d forgotten I was there.
Chapter Five
“Get out and walk,” Monty told the loogie he’d just horked up and spit out the driver’s window of his aged Cadillac. He cackled when I scrunched my face in disgust. “You don’t like how I drive, girl, you can get out and walk, too.”
I’m not usually squeamish, but this was my first drive-by-phlegming.
“You plastered a lady on the sidewalk.”
“A little of the green stuff never hurt anyone. I gotta keep my lungs clear. All part of being over seventy and an ex-smoker. Now, where’s your stop?” Monty scanned the street, his head barely peeking over the steering wheel.
“Jesus, there’s only one mall in town, where do you think it is?” Our relationship had progressed to verbal gladiator matches. We appreciated each other more when we got in a good burn.
Monty harrumphed. “I don’t understand you kids today.” He drove onward, proving, as I suspected, he just liked being difficult. “Always inside, spending your parent’s money. You gotta get some air, live a little. When I was your age…”
“You snared gophers, caused a grass fire, leveled a neighbor’s barn, and stole sacramental wine from the old church – and that was just your pre-teen activities. Mom told me the stories. Monty, you’re right. Teenagers today are way too boring. There’s a shitstorm of juvenile delinquency techniques we could learn from you old geezers.”
“Go pound sand, you little smartass.” Monty grinned, lowering his upper dentures to flash me his gums – his kill move - it slayed me every time. I laughed even as I held up a hand, soundlessly pleading, no more. He snapped them back into place and dropped me off at the mall’s main entrance.
“I’m going across the way for a coffee and civilized conversation.” He pointed to the Senior Centre. “I’ve had my sights on Joy Doyle since her husband croaked a few weeks back.” His cataracted eyes twinkled. “I think today’s her lucky day.” Monty waved a gnarled finger in my face. “You’ve got two hours. Be at these doors or you won’t like the consequences.”
“What, you’ll ground me or something?”
“Depends. I’ll make you buy my diapers. I’m running low.”
I met Roach at the food court. She preened, showing me the loot she’d stolen from the drugstore. Jesus-freaks are great thieves.
“Today, I had true vision. I only nabbed “S” named bottles. Spank Me is my favorite.” She held up a flesh-toned vial. “You can use it as eye shadow. So Venereal is cool, too. Who names this stuff? Do they really get paid? I want that job. I would kick butt in that job.”
“You would. Can we talk about me now?” I noticed the old fogeys sitting at tables around us. The food court was basically overrun with teens and the elderly – what did that say? We were at the same maturity level? Thank God Monty didn’t hang at the mall with his gang of geezers. “The old bastard’s impossible, you have no idea. Mom’s hanging with stoner rock stars in the hospital’s ever-trendy Rehab Club, and I’m stuck in the Museum of Wood Paneling with my guide, Toothless Joe.”
“Monty’s toothless?”
“Well, he has teeth, but they’re optional and usually spend the night in a cup by the bathroom sink. I swear I hear them laughing when I’m doing the nightly zit squeeze.”
“My mom told me never to pop a zit. Makes them multiply.”
“Roach, you don’t have zits. You’ve got porcelain skin. It’s one of the things I hate about you. What does your mother know about the modern zit anyway? Pimples of the fifties were a different beast. Zits have evolved thanks to global warming, air pollution, Febreze. They’re tough little suckers.”
I stopped babbling and stared.
Roach spun around.
“Wow,” she said, seeing what I was seeing.
Ty rode the escalator up to the food court, practically riding Jessica Minnows as he pressed her back against the railing. Somehow they didn’t trip at the landing and, still fused, navigated the willy-nilly placement of the food court’s tables and chairs. Their skill was impressive, if nauseating. The Guinness Book of World Records photo caption would read: Unstoppable Face Melting Lip-Lock, or if I had my way: World’s First Kissing Fatality. I was madder than hell, but oddly – I wasn’t upset. The logic of that escaped me as I caught up with the two-timers at Orange Julius.
I wasn’t looking for sloppy seconds.
“Ty, hey, I guess you’re over the worst of the mono.” I smiled into Jessica’s near sex-glazed eyes. “I saw you guys kissing back there, and I just know Tyler wouldn’t put a nice girl like you at risk. You’re on the junior volleyball team, right? Don’t worry, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to mess up your season with a bad case of stay-in-bed-for-a-month-cause-you-played-sucky-face.”
“Tyler?” Jessica blinked, processing my mini-rant. She glared up at Ty. “Mono? I can’t get sick, Ty. You should have told me about this.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Charlie’s full of shit, aren’t you, Charlie?” Ty kept his arm
tight around Jessica’s waist.
“I dunno, you have been sleeping a lot in Bio.” Jessica persisted, bless her, although Ty’s mid-day naps were nothing unusual.
Jessica glanced between Ty and me, studied the white-knuckled fists I rested on my thighs. “I thought you said you guys were finished.”
“We are, baby. Charlie’s just letting off a bit of steam.”
“Finished?” I watched Ty’s fingers massage Jessica’s hip. “We’re finished? When did this happen?”
“I texted you over an hour ago.” Ty mumbled, nuzzling Jessica’s ear.
“How was I supposed to get the message, asshole? My mom took my cell, remember? Because of you.”
Ty peeked at me through the length of Jessica’s auburn hair. “Well, you know now.”
He kissed her neck and I could see little oh-damn-that-feels-good pimples raised on her pale flesh.
The one breed of zit I had yet to experience. Despite the groping, the rubbing and tugging between us, Ty had never inspired honest to God, I’m-so-into-this, into-you, goose bumps. I think I was over whatever I saw in Ty long ago, but I resented those goose bumps. Where the hell were mine?
My rage knows no bounds. I’m not in reality anymore. I see the world through the filter of a live-action manga tribute film I’m directing. I strike out and have gone graphic in the same instance.
The illustrated, and slightly thinner, me is high up on a Fifty Percent Off sign, watching the action below. The other me is angry. Cartoon hearts float out of her eyes and crash to the tile at her feet.
Cue the slow mo. She spins like Sailor Moon, hair propelling around her head, and performs a well-executed sidekick.
Close up of her Mary Jane clad foot connecting with the bulge in Ty’s pants. Collective gasp from crowd. Groan bursting from Ty as he drops to the floor.
Looking down at Ty, as he writhed on the ground in a fetal position, I realize I have reacted badly. But I sure enjoyed causing some major damage to that ever-ready boner. Jessica stood over Ty for a few seconds, then shook her head and stormed off.
Roach and I took the escalator to the lower level.
“Are you okay?” Roach asked.
I gave her a slow, satisfied smile.
She eyed me with awe.
“Charlotte Webbbb!” Ty shouted above us, really twisting the knife with the name-calling. “I’ll get you for this! You hear me?”
“I’m not sure kicking him in the nards was a good idea.” Roach glared up at Ty like a farmer watching a funnel cloud circle over his fields. Waiting for impact.
“You can’t think it was the first time,” I said. “He gets kneed on a monthly basis.”
“But in front of Jessica? He’s been trying to get into her pants for years.” Roach held up a hand when I started to speak. “Not that he wasn’t trying to get into the pants of any number of nubile young things in school, yourself included, but he’s always had the hots for her. Your mono scare and ball kick was a brilliant combo. Jessica won’t put her game at risk, plus Ty looks like a cheating wimp who got leveled by a girl. In the mall. Location, location, location.” She chanted her mother’s real estate agent mantra. “This will be all over school tomorrow. He’ll have to save face somehow.”
I crawled into the car.
“You’re on time.” Monty said. “What happened? I thought I’d have to drag you out of there.”
“I caught my boyfriend swapping spit with another girl,” I said.
A respectful moment of silence ensued as we pulled out onto the street. Or maybe Monty searched for an appropriate note of encouragement. Having come up dry, he mumbled a trite, “More fish in the sea, child, more fish in the sea.”
“Actually, commercial fishing has drastically depleted fish populations throughout the world,” I quoted. “My friend, Roach, is big on all things brine. She started a Save the Hermit Crab thing at school once, but it didn’t fly.”
“I’ll bet.” He finally shot me a look, his eyes full of piss and vinegar. “Want me to have a fist-to-face talk with the boy?” He lifted a hand off the steering wheel and flexed his sagging bicep.
Fighting a smile, I shook my head.
“Don’t underestimate this old man. I do three push-ups a week to stay in shape.”
“Thanks, but I took care of it.” I tilted my head and studied his wrinkled profile. “How was the sex-pot at Pioneer Village?” Maybe one of us got lucky.
Monty’s lips flattened.
Or not.
“Not every old folks home is called Pioneer Village,” he snapped. “I’ll have you know, Horizon Way is a great facility.” He made a tortuously slow right turn. A horn blasted behind us from a truck impatient to continue down the road. “I’m proud to be a drop-in member. Although, I heard Sunset Palace, just down the road, has bingo every night of the week.”
“You avoided the question.” I nodded knowingly, adjusting my seatbelt as a precautionary measure. I’d seen enough of Monty’s driving to know erratic didn’t quite give the full scope. “She give you the brush off?”
Monty stepped on the gas and veered in a sharp left. “John Campbell got to her first, the cocksucker. He told me I should wait a few weeks, out of respect for her dead husband, and then made the moves himself. You can’t trust nobody these days.”
“Word.”
Chapter Six
Hotel Rehab was enlightening. Blinding even. Someone should put warning labels on those souls working through their steps. They could cause seizures in the rest of us.
“You had sex with Mr. Adams?” I blinked, absorbing all that Mom had disclosed. “Mr. He-Really-Could-Be-A-Member-Of-The-Addams-Family Adams? But he’s so hairy, and pervy, and there’s that whole restraining order with his ex issue. Screw, owning up to your past, I don’t care what step you is working on. I am no longer an active participant in this heinous conversation.” Mom looked like she had a lot more to say, and as we did have fifteen minutes left to my weekly visit, I took precautionary measures.
I plugged my ears. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you…”
“Oh, Charlie, you’re so funny,” Mom gushed - unfortunately I could still hear every word she said. “Why haven’t I noticed it before? I gave birth to a beautiful, comedian baby.” She gave a trill of laughter.
A freaking trill. Mom had snorted, squealed like a pig, belched, giggled, and thrown the odd slap-happy conniption while watching a movie, but trilling was new. The idea of Mom needing help to get beyond her reliance on a chemical buffer from the world – I was okay with that. But the fake laughter? The permagrin?
I didn’t like it.
“Time’s up.” I lowered my hands, but not my guard. This shiny-and-new-mommy made me nervous. The last time I saw her like this was a week after dad’s funeral when she locked herself in the bathroom with a forty of rye and a bottle of sleeping pills. My chest tightened as the image resurfaced and along with it the desperation, the fear.
The betrayal.
I hadn’t been enough for Mom to want to live. Not then, and obviously not ever. What if she couldn’t go on without the drugs? What if she tried to leave me again?
Mom’s face softened as she studied me, her eyes misted. “I love you, Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. You’re my sweet, sweet girl.”
Ugh. Where was a shank when you needed one? What was this place called Rehab? “I gotta go.” I stumbled from Mom’s room. “I’ll see you next week.”
Motivational posters lined the walls of the optimistically bright hallway, black plastic frames of sentimental graffiti.
I couldn’t escape fast enough. I didn’t even give Mom a chance to say good-bye. Was I a bad person? A bad daughter? Is that why dad didn’t come home that night?
In a flash, I am ink.
A red wash over the frame gives the graphic a violent feel.
A coat is wrapped around my thin nightgown, arms wrapped around my chest. I stand on the front porch as my mother slips mutely to the concrete. Then rocks herself back and f
orth, keening like a dog.
“Take the kid inside,” a police officer orders. “She doesn’t need to see this.”
But it’s too late. I have seen. I have heard. My father is dead, and so is the unknown woman in the passenger seat beside him.
I bite the hands that reach for me, drawing blood.
“What floor?”
The images are so life-like I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.
“I said, ‘What floor?’ Did you hear me? What floor do you want?”
The question comes from a guy around my age. Tall, cute, and wearing a faded Zeppelin T-shirt over a long-sleeved hoodie, a black fisherman’s hat pulled low over his ears, his index finger hovering over a panel of glowing moons.
I blink and the world comes into focus.
My pulse knocked in my throat. Okay, which floor did I need?
Blinking hard, I stared at the blur of people streaming past the glass windows. Why did they have glass elevators in a hospital anyway? What if someone you loved died and you wanted to have yourself a nice private little meltdown on the way to the morgue? What if you just needed a moment before facing the world?
“Hey,” his eyes narrowed, “you’re not going to pass out are you?”
The floor lurched beneath my feet.
“I don’t know.” I swayed. “Am I?”
I felt weird. My legs went numb. I staggered.
He caught me with a grunt, propping me against his chest, his hands spanning my ribcage.
We froze.
My fingers clutched the soft black cotton at his waist, grasping for additional support. Pushing his hoodie upward. My knuckles skimmed warm, taunt muscles hidden underneath. His sharp inhalation pushed his chest harder into mine.
Somewhere I felt a hammering, a construction drill cranked to life like it was trying to blast through concrete. And then suddenly, not a drill. A heart, beating out of control.