B005HF54UE EBOK

by Vlautin, Willy

  ‘You know I’m sorry,’ he said in a cracked voice. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you know that?’ He was pale and stood there shaky and hollow. His hair was combed badly. There were globs of pomade in it. She noticed the dried toothpaste on his lips and chin.

  ‘It all seems like a fucking nightmare,’ he said and paused. He looked at her. His voice fell to an almost whisper. ‘I just woke up. I’m so sorry. I’ll quit taking speed. I swear I will. I swear.’

  The girl looked at him but remained silent. She tried to calm her breathing.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ he asked her.

  ‘Watching TV,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then maybe I could take you out,’ he said.

  ‘I gotta work tomorrow,’ she told him.

  ‘I won’t keep you out late,’ he said. He opened the screen door and walked in. He put his arm around her.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said as strong as she could.

  ‘Look,’ he told her. ‘Let me take you out to eat at least. And there’s a party in the desert if you want to go to that.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please,’ he said gently.

  He took her hand and led her inside. He shut the door behind them and fell to his knees in front of her. He began kissing her feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said nearly crying. He would never leave, she knew that then. If she did stay home, he’d stay too, and then they would end up in her bedroom.

  ‘I’m starting at the bottom where I belong,’ he said.

  ‘I know I can’t drink, but I didn’t hit you and handcuff you to a bed.’

  Jimmy stood up and tried to hold her. ‘Look, I feel horrible about it. You know I do. I’m through with that shit. I told you. I swear.’

  ‘Do you really promise?’

  ‘If you quit drinking so much.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ she said. ‘I really am trying.’

  ‘Then will you go out with me?’ he asked her.

  She moved away from him. She could hardly breathe.

  In the car she sat near the window, as far from him as she could, and let her arm hang out as he drove them onto the highway. She could see the casino lights in the distance begin to fade.

  It was almost night when they came upon a stalled pick-up truck in the middle of a two lane highway. There was an old man inside the cab trying to start it.

  Jimmy pulled the car over and got out and spoke to the man. Together they pushed the truck to the side of the road. He opened the hood and within minutes had the truck running. The old man shook his hand and drove away.

  ‘What was wrong?’ the girl asked when he got back in.

  ‘A wire fell off the solenoid. He was an old timer. He didn’t have a goddamn tooth in him.’

  ‘Not any?’

  ‘No, but he seemed all right. He was nice enough. He invited us to his house.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are we going?’

  ‘Hell, I’d rather dig a grave,’ he said and laughed.

  They stopped at a Flying J truck stop, went into the restaurant, and sat at a booth that looked out upon an endless parking lot of tractor-trailers. A waitress came by and Jimmy ordered a beer and a shot of Jim Beam. There were dozens of truck drivers around them and a band playing in the lounge next to them.

  ‘Whose party is this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s some sort of skinhead rally. They got generators out there and bands and supposedly kegs. But if it’s anything like I’ve seen, none of it will probably work. I’m starting to think every single one of them is an idiot. A couple days ago I went with Warren to a house where these skinheads live. They’re all sitting around drinking beer listening to music. They had the TV on, and I hate TV, you know that. They had guns laid out on the table. The table cloth was a fucking Nazi flag. We got to drinking beers and talking and really all they wanted to do was beat the shit out of some beaners. Not any particular ones, just drive around and pound on some poor fucker.’

  The waitress came. She put the drinks down, he paid her and drank the shot in one swallow.

  ‘That’s pathetic, you know? What’s the point of that? They’re fucking morons. Most of these guys are low lifes, criminals, and you’re supposed to trust them? Trust them with your life? They’re disorganized and untrustworthy. I don’t think I’d hang out with any of them if it weren’t for the fact that we’re on the same side.

  ‘Even Matt Hale, the old leader of the World Church of the Creator. I used to read about him. I used to read things he’d put out. He graduated from college, he went to law school. He seemed smarter than the rest. And shit, I just read he got busted for trying to hire some undercover agent to kill a judge. He was in court ’cause somebody else owned the World Church of the Creator name. They can’t even get that figured out. They can’t even do that right, and then instead of just changing the name he tries to kill the judge. All over the rights of a name.’

  Sweat was forming on his brow, and he was beginning to have a hard time sitting still. ‘And Hitler? I mean, he killed how many of his own people by starting a war? He should of just sealed up Germany and led by example. Exported the Jews if he hated them, but don’t kill them. It’ll always fail if you do that. People will always come back after you. And then if you believe all the white supremacists, they say the Holocaust didn’t happen, that it’s all Jew lies. They say there’s no way it was six million that were killed. But I don’t think Jews could really convince everyone in the world that there were six million when there wasn’t. I mean, could they? They don’t have that much power, do they? Someone would find out, some historian would discover that there wasn’t that many. He’d find out just ’cause he was a historian or a journalist, and that’s his job, to search for truth. And why pick on Jews? Really, why? I don’t get it. They never ruin neighborhoods or start gangs, do they? And Hitler, he was a crazed lunatic. How could you have him as your leader? You know he sent little kids to fight, did experiments on Jewish prisoners. Horrible things. Shooting them full of crazy drugs, doing fucked-up awful surgeries. Sex changes, amputations, they’d take organs out. For no reason they’d do it. Just to experiment. They’d rape and kill women. I can’t see how a guy could condone rape. How can that guy be called a hero? I don’t want the niggers and the Mexicans ’cause they don’t do shit but ruin neighborhoods, but I say export the motherfuckers. Don’t do it by beating up some old beaner or putting a cross on a black guy’s lawn. Wearing white hoods, I mean, Christ. They’re the laziest bunch of morons I’ve ever seen. And to think I had a fucking swastika put on you. I’m sorry for that. I really am. I’ll pay to have that removed. I’m so goddamn stupid sometimes.’

  He stopped talking when he saw the waitress coming towards them with the food. He drank the rest of his beer as she set the plates on the table. He ordered another shot and beer and pushed the food to the center of the table. His hands were unable to stay still. His fingers shook horribly as he tried to get a cigarette from the pack. The girl looked at her food and slowly began eating.

  ‘I mean, look at Vegas. The population’s almost tripled in twenty years. That means from when you were born it went from around 400,000 people in the whole county to maybe 1,700,000 now. It was a dump to begin with, then you add all the fucking new people. And the Mexicans come in like fog, cover everything, get in everywhere. They fuck up their country and then they come here. Our border controls are fucked. The INS is fucked. They should stay and fix their own fucking country. You have to do something, don’t you? Pretty soon they’re gonna ruin everything. Leaving dirty diapers in parking lots, pouring motor oil down drains, throwing trash in the reservoirs, ruining houses, neighborhoods. The fucking rich people start it all and then they go and live in the goddamn suburbs in gated communities. They never have any contact with them in the first place except when they need their lawns mowed or their houses cleaned or food served. Put
all the Mexicans back in Mexico. And the blacks? They have no respect for themselves. Their men abandon their women. Look at my old neighborhood. The Mexicans and the blacks moved in and now it’s a fucking cesspool. My grandma got so scared when her neighborhood went to shit that now she lives in an old folks’ home. My grandpa built her goddamn house by himself in the 1950s. The whole thing for her, just the way she wanted it. Brick by fucking brick, after work he did it. He was a damn welder. All day long he was busting his ass for someone else and then he comes home and builds her a house. She hated leaving, she loved that house, but there were three murders on her street in less than five years. She had to get an alarm system. My dad put bars on her windows. In the end everyone was too scared about her being there and finally we made her leave. You don’t see that happening in white neighborhoods, do you?

  ‘My dad used to take me outside on the lawn and grab me by the neck and push my face an inch away from dog shit if I ever mouthed off. He must have done that till I was nineteen. He’d take me out there in my underwear, before school, it didn’t matter. I hate that fucking cocksucker, but still, I have a job, I pay taxes, I have a retirement plan, I’m saving for a house. My car’s insured and I vote. I have a clean record. I give money to my mom. I have money in the bank. I mow my aunt’s lawn and visit my grandma. So how can you say that the blacks are forever ruined ’cause they’ve had a rough go?’

  The waitress came back with his beer and whiskey and set it on the table. He drank the shot and watched her walk away.

  ‘She looks like Faith Hill,’ the girl said and forced herself to smile.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Jimmy said and lit another cigarette with his trembling hands.

  ‘The country singer,’ she said and ate the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and carrots. She looked out the window at a trucker and a woman walking towards the parking lot. The man had a gut and wore a cowboy hat. He had his arm around the woman.

  ‘You ever think about being a truck driver?’

  ‘I’d hate sitting on my ass all day. It makes you lazy as hell. Faith Hill, which song does she sing?’

  ‘“Breathe” or something like that. It doesn’t sound country to me.’

  ‘I can’t eat,’ he said. He put his cigarette out and took a long drink of beer.

  ‘You need to rest.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘You know we should move. Head up north, for real this time. Get a place in Montana, somewhere like that. Away from all this.’ He put his hand up in the air, waving until he caught the waitress’s attention. She came back over and he ordered another shot from her.

  ‘Maybe she’s Faith Hill’s sister,’ the girl said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jimmy said and lit another cigarette. ‘I wonder if that band in the lounge is any good?’

  ‘We could stay here.’

  ‘Sorry about going off like that.’

  ‘You’re just talking, it’s better than keeping it in,’ she said and put her fork down. ‘This is really good. Sometimes truck stops have the best food.’

  ‘I like this song. It’s an old Merle Haggard song,’ Jimmy said. His eyes began to water. ‘Music’s saved my ass so many times.’

  ‘You got more records than anyone I’ve ever seen. If you don’t mind staying, could I get a piece of pie?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said and looked at a waitress across the way. They sat silent for a time, then he got out of the booth and stood up. He took out two twenty-dollar bills and set them on the table. ‘I’ll be back. You get whatever you want.’

  When the waitress came she got a to-go box for his dinner and ordered a piece of peach pie and a refill on her coffee. She stared out into the parking lot and tried to think about what to do. She thought about getting a room before he got back. A room under a different name. Spending the night there, hiding, then calling her sister or mom in the morning. Or maybe she could catch a ride with a trucker. Maybe the bus stopped there. She wasn’t sure what to do and it made her nervous. When the waitress came back with the pie she couldn’t eat it.

  She waited a half hour for him, then paid the bill and left the restaurant. She walked into the lounge and looked for him there. She went to the gift shop and to the TV lounge and then walked outside to the lot where the car had been parked. She saw him then, in the distance near a lamp post. He was sitting on the asphalt leaning against a concrete barrier.

  The moon was beginning to show and she could see it rising. There was a cool breeze starting. When she got to him she stood above him and stared in silence as he smoked a cigarette. She could see he had been crying. There were five or six cigarette butts next to him and an open can of beer.

  ‘I thought you’d left,’ she said and sat down across from him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I got so many goddamn thoughts.’

  ‘You’re tired,’ she said and looked at him. ‘You need to go to bed.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He took a drink off the beer. ‘I’d like to murder the motherfucker.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My old man.’

  ‘You need to sleep.’

  ‘I just slept for thirty-six hours.’

  ‘I don’t know then.’

  ‘I remember this time when my mom was out of town visiting her sister. This was when I was ten, maybe twelve. My little sister was taking a bath. She was probably six or seven. My dad had this thing about water around the bathroom. Water on the floor. Anyway she gets out of the tub and runs around the house, then gets back in the tub, gets out, and runs around the house, you know?’ He paused and wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Just little kid stuff. He was in the family room watching TV. I was in there, too. For a long time he didn’t notice her, didn’t pay attention to her. I did. I saw it, but I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why. Did I want her to get in trouble? I don’t know. I mean, I was young, too. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Finally he sees her naked and wet running around the room. He yells at her and she screams and runs back into the tub. Five or ten minutes later she comes running back out doing the same thing, and I remember sitting there thinking, “Jesus Christ, Jessica, what the hell are you doing? Get back in the fucking tub.” I remember watching her, scared for her. And then allthe sudden, he sees her again and he gets up and starts yelling at her. He follows her into the bathroom. He sees all the water on the carpet, and sees all the water on the bathroom floor. I can still remember him yelling at her. I got up and walked down the hall. I heard him pick her up and her scream. I looked inside and he was holding her by her ankles. He was yelling at her and she was screaming. He started dunking her head in the tub water. Over and over. I was screaming at him, he looked at me and yelled at me. Then he let go of her ankles, and when he did I ran for the door. But I didn’t make it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He began crying again. ‘And that was nothing. That was nothing. That was just one night. There were others.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said and stood up. ‘Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.’

  He wiped his eyes and finished his beer.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  She held out her hand to help him stand, and he reached for it.

  Chapter 8

  Johnny Cash

  They walked to the car and set off for home. Once they had got out of the Flying J and onto the highway, though, he had opened a beer and taken a drink off the half pint he’d bought her, and changed his mind. All of a sudden he wanted to go to the party in the desert. He turned the car around, drove back to the truck stop, and bought a twelve pack of beer and a fifth of Jim Beam. He put in a mixed tape of Johnny Cash and had the girl drive.

  ‘The crazy thing’, he said, ‘is that Johnny Cash wrote that song “San Quentin” for the guys in there, the inmates, and just for that one show. During the concert he talks about the song, then plays it for them. The prisoners like it so much he
asks if they want to hear it again, and of course they yell their asses off, ’cause he’d just written a song about them, so of course they want to hear it again. So he does it again and everyone goes ape shit. The craziest thing is, when you buy the record, it’s on there, both times. Back to back.’

  She rolled down her window and rested her arm on the top of the door while she drove. The breeze rushing past her, the night air on her arm, blowing through her hair.

  ‘You remember when we saw him at that outdoor place in San Diego?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said.

  ‘We stayed at that motel. That was one of the best times in my life. I remember it that way. You and me sleeping the whole day away. And then us getting dressed up and going out to eat and then seeing that show.’

  ‘He was good, too,’ the girl said.

  ‘He was fucking great. Even for being such an old timer, he was good.’

  Jimmy took a flashlight from the glove box and turned it on. He was looking at a flyer. ‘I hope all these guys aren’t a bunch of gun shooting idiots. Do you remember that skinhead party where there was a band in the backyard and the sliding glass door got broken by those two drunk girls fighting?’

  ‘I remember that,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know if I told you, but I had this conversation with a guy there. He says that the cops are on his ass ’cause they think he threw a Molotov cocktail at some black lady’s car. But he tells me, “No way did I do it, man.” He doesn’t know me from anyone. I’d never met the man before in my life. I could have been an undercover cop. He was drunk, a real moron, you know? So I ask him, “Why do they think you did it?” And he looks at me and says, “They’re picking on me ’cause I’m a skinhead. If it was me that did it, if I’d of thrown it, it would have torched the fucking car. There’d be nothing left. Those dumbfuck cops say it hit the trunk and could’ve gotten to the gas tank and so I could be up for attempted murder. But the fucker landed on the hood. The cops don’t know shit. Maybe I was there, but I didn’t make it. If I made it, it would’ve exploded. The guys I know can’t hit anything, but I got the arm.” He was that fucking dumb. I mean, he couldn’t even keep his story straight. And he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, not for even one night, not even in front of someone who doesn’t give a shit about him or what he does, in front of someone who doesn’t even know him.’