by Jones, Brent
Rocco lowered his window and saw on the menu that a coffee was nine dollars. “Jesus, these prices are even higher than Starbucks.”
They pulled up to the window and were greeted by a woman, tall and lean, in clear heels, thigh-high stockings, thong underwear, and two black pasties—which looked a lot like electrical tape—covering her nipples. She offered them a warm smile and leaned out to Rocco, her hair tied in pigtails.
Rocco jumped in his seat. “Jesus, miss, uh, h-hello.” He grinned without intending to.
She winked at him. “Not what you were expecting?”
Brennan smirked and said under his breath, “Now we know why the coffee’s nine bucks.”
“Am I allowed to take pictures, ma’am?” asked Franky with a cackle. He reached for his phone.
The woman put her hands on the car door just a few inches apart, framing her breasts for a photo. She flashed Franky puckered lips, posed, and he tapped away on his screen.
“Just, ah, three c-cups of c-coffee would be great, miss,” said Rocco.
She turned around to get to work, pooching out her curvaceous rear.
“I’ve never known you to be bashful around half-naked women,” said Brennan.
“They, ah—they should just put up some kind of warning, that’s all. I mean, what if I’d come through here with Harlem?”
Franky laughed, slapped his knee. “Probably woulda been the best day of his life.”
“Rocco makes a point,” said Brennan. “I mean, the least they could do is put a sign up so parents know what to expect. I’d have trouble explaining to Abby why this nice barista forgot her clothes at home.”
Franky pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket. “Slip her this and see what else she’ll show us.”
“This ain’t a fucking strip joint, Franky. We’re already paying damn near thirty bucks for coffee. Let’s just get our drinks and get the hell outta here.”
The woman reappeared. “That’s twenty-seven dollars plus tip.”
“Gotta tip, huh?”
She stared at Rocco, her smile waning, tapping her polished fingernails next to the cash register.
“Can we get some milk and sugar on the side, too, miss?” He handed her three tens.
She examined her tip with disdain and tossed a handful of packets through the car window. “Hope you enjoyed your first bikini barista, boys.” Her voice had developed a harsh edge. “Enjoy your day.”
Franky looked back as they drove off. “Man, that was something else, huh? Titties with your morning coffee. Unreal.”
“Aren’t you glad we didn’t go to Starbucks now?”
He took a gulp of his coffee and his face puckered, as though he might spit it all over the passenger side window. “Fuck, this coffee’s bad.” He glared at Rocco. “Sure ain’t no tall blonde, that’s for sure, even if it was brewed by one.”
“Give it a rest, Franky.”
“Maybe we should hit up a strip club tonight. I mean, we’ve been doing all this touristy stuff, and that’s great. But we’re three single guys—”
“Not by choice,” muttered Brennan.
“—out seeing all this country’s got to offer. And we’ve been going to bed early every night like we got church in the morning or something. Like three old farts.”
“What about the booze cruise?” asked Rocco.
Franky blinked and rubbed his hands together. “Right. Forgot about that.”
“Look, Franky, I don’t know if Bee’s ready to be out hitting the town just yet.”
Rocco’s words sounded like pity to Brennan, and he didn’t like it. “No, let’s do it,” he said. “Franky’s right. Let’s go out and have some fun tonight. Maybe skip the strippers, though.”
* * *
Brennan sat beneath open rafters at a long bar, its surface smooth and sleek. The bar was just a few blocks from the Ramada where the trio had checked in for the night. It was busy but casual—no dress code—modern, with plain walls and dim lighting, something like an art gallery.
Brennan sat on a stool, two large women on his left—both dressed in plaid and acid washed jeans—and Rocco on his right. Franky was working on his third rum and Coke, talking with two young women at a table in the lounge area. The women were slumped in their seats, bodies angled away from him, arms folded.
A middle-aged bartender returned, who had introduced herself earlier as Janice. “You doing okay?” She studied Brennan, taking note of his near-full glass.
“Just fine, thanks.”
She shifted her focus to Rocco. “How ’bout you, sweetie?”
“Sure, I’ll have another.” He glanced at Brennan, who played with his straw. “Thought you wanted to go to a bar tonight?”
“I did,” he replied. “I do. I still wanna be here.”
Rocco chugged a few mouthfuls of beer. “You gonna drink Shirley Temples all night?”
“It’s a virgin daiquiri, dude. Be cool.”
“Right. Virgin daiquiri. Big difference.” He took another sip of his beer and smacked his lips. “Why the sudden change?”
“Change?” Brennan fidgeted with the edge of a cardboard coaster beneath his drink. “What change?”
“Just a few days ago you were puking your guts all over the bathroom floor. Now you’re ordering drinks off the kids’ menu.”
Brennan shrugged and took a drink through his straw. “I made a promise once. That’s all.” The urge to order a real drink gnawed at him. He sighed and thought of his family, fought the impulse.
Rocco gave his friend a thoughtful nod and patted him on the back. “I’m happy to hear it.”
Franky, who wore a mesh trucker hat and ripped jeans, led the two women from the lounge area to the bar. “Guys, meet Lisa and Chloe.”
Brennan surmised that Lisa was the one with the L-shaped pendant around her neck. She was taller than her friend and had light mocha skin, streaked bangs brushed to one side, and wore large hoop earrings. Her friend, who sported a Portland State tee shirt and thick eyeliner, had long, straight, black hair, and a round face.
“Tell ’em ’bout the band,” Franky said. “They said they’d come check us out sometime.” He cackled and made eye contact with Janice behind the bar. “We’re The Turds of Yesterday! Us guys . . .” He waved his hand toward Rocco, Brennan, and himself. “We’re in a band, Jan!”
“I’m Lisa,” the taller woman said, running her fingers through her hair.
Brennan took a slurp of his daiquiri. “Brennan.” He stuck out his hand.
Lisa interpreted the gesture as an invitation to come closer, inserting more distance between herself and Franky. She held in her hand a margarita and made a deliberate show of twirling her tongue around the tip of the straw. Brennan thought at first he was imagining it. Then she took a big gulp of her drink, smiled, and used her free hand to brush back Brennan’s hair. “You have kind eyes,” she said.
“Uh . . . thanks, Lisa.” He peered over his shoulder. Chloe was getting just as familiar with Rocco.
Lisa took another sensual sip of her drink, keeping her eyes fixated on Brennan’s. “Your—” She gestured toward Franky with her thumb, who had already started chatting with the two large woman at the bar, “—friend here says you boys are a long ways from home.”
“It’s true. We’re from Buffalo.”
“That is a long ways.” Another big pull on her straw, her margarita almost gone. “Got a place to stay tonight?”
Brennan jolted upright on his stool. “I’m . . .” She moved in closer, almost sharing the seat with him, and his mind raced for a polite way to turn her down. I’m not interested. I’m just here with my friends. You’re not my type. I have to be up early in the morning. You’re . . . He held up his left hand, careful to avoid grazing her. “I’m married.”
Lisa rested her hand on Brennan’s leg. “Is your wife here?” She winked and leaned past him, placing her empty glass on the bar, brushing her body against his. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’d be our little secret.”
<
br /> “Jesus,” he murmured. He couldn’t recall ever having had an encounter like this, even before meeting Rosie. He raised his hands defensively, unsure how to excuse himself, but certain he wanted this exchange to be over.
Rocco grabbed Brennan by the elbow. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Brennan hopped off his stool. “Yes, please.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
As soon as they were out the door, Brennan lit a cigarette. “Jesus, was her friend all over you, too?”
Rocco nodded and grinned, gave him a wink.
“I forgot. You like chubby white girls. It’s your thing.”
“You dick,” Rocco said, shaking his head. “Not all black men like ’em that way.”
Brennan shut his eyes and sucked on his cigarette. “I wasn’t expecting that at all.”
“Me neither.”
“Thanks for getting me out of there.”
Rocco leaned against the building. He looked up toward the night sky, hunting for stars buried beneath charcoal clouds. “So how’re you doing?”
Brennan was somehow surprised by the question. He shrugged. “Fine.”
Rocco shook his head, narrowed his eyes. “No, really, Bee. How’re you doing? How’re you feeling?”
Brennan puffed on his cigarette and registered at once how unpleasant it tasted. “I . . . I don’t know. When we left, I didn’t know how I was gonna make it through this trip. I’ll be honest, I almost didn’t wanna come.”
“I know.”
“But, I don’t know . . . the longer we’re gone, the more at ease I’m starting to feel. You know, just getting out of bed is still hard enough. I’m always expecting to see my wife when I open my eyes. I’m struggling to find the good, I guess, as you’d say. I need time. Lots more time.” He bobbed his head in contemplation. “But something feels different out here, even if I can’t put my finger on what exactly.”
Rocco nodded and peeked through the glass door at Franky, who had once again engaged Lisa and Chloe in unwanted discourse. “What a goon. I kinda feel bad that those two want nothing to do with him but were all over us.”
“You ever think he’s lonely?”
“Franky?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably. I mean, he’s got no one but us, Bee. Doesn’t even have a cat or a goldfish. No family to speak of. That’s why he’s always going on about getting the band back together.”
“Hey, if you and Franky wanna try and seal the deal with those girls, go right ahead. Don’t hold back on my account.”
“No way, man. That’s not how I roll and you know it. We didn’t bring you all the way out here just to abandon you.”
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat before adding, “I’m kinda glad we did the trip this way.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, like, we coulda just made a beeline for California and skipped everything else. What’s that they say about the journey?”
“Supposed to be better than the destination.”
“Right.” Brennan crushed the cigarette butt beneath his foot. He hesitated for a second before taking the rest of the pack and pitching it in some bushes.
“You quittin’ again already?”
“Made it six years without smoking these damn things, almost seven. No reason to start again now.” He joined Rocco and looked through the door, honing in on Lisa at the bar.
“You’re curious.”
“Huh?”
“Lisa. I know you won’t do it, but you’re wondering what it would be like to go home with her tonight.”
“Get outta my head.”
“No reason to feel bad about it.”
“How come?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being turned on by a sexy young thing like that, Bee. You’re only human. And she’s one of those girls that’s sexy without trying.”
“Oh, she was trying plenty. Trust me.”
“Well, she’s in college and lives in a different area code, so hooking up with her’d tick off a whole bunch of different fantasy boxes.”
“That’s awful.” But his protest was shallow, and as he stared at her, he undressed her in his mind through pangs of guilt.
“Quit being so hard on yourself. You’re allowed to have desires. We . . . all do. It’s human nature.”
Brennan had never considered being attracted to another woman inappropriate. He reasoned that attraction was uncontrollable. So long as he never acted on the impulses, feelings of lust were normal. But with his wife gone, it somehow felt different, shameful and wrong. He twisted his wedding band and said, “It’s getting late. We oughtta get back to Fender. Long haul to California tomorrow, too.”
“Wanna stick around in Portland for another day or two? There’s something here called Pittock Mansion that’s s’posed to have a nice view.”
“Nah, man. Let’s keep moving. We’re almost there now, the—” He smiled, “—land of new beginnings.” He put an arm around Rocco and embraced him. “Thanks, man. For all this. Thank you.”
Rocco hugged him back. “You’re the brother I never had, Bee. And, ah, believe me when I say I just want what’s best for you.”
Chapter 19
Sunshine illuminated the snow-capped peak of Mount Shasta to the east. Brennan marveled at its majesty from the backseat and found himself relieved to be in The Golden State at last. Fender popped up next to him to watch the rolling landscape unfold.
Rocco exited the interstate toward a rest stop and parked next to a car with two bikes mounted behind it. The three men walked past restrooms and vending machines, making their way to an expansive lawn dotted with trees, following Fender wherever he wanted to go. The dog moved from one spot to the next, sniffed, rolled in the grass. He panted with his tongue hanging out, flashing the trio what looked like a smile.
“If I didn’t know better,” said Rocco, “I’d think Fender knows we’re in Cali.”
Brennan adjusted his sunglasses. “Must be somethin’ in the air.” He took a deep breath and enjoyed the sunshine on his face. He decided they were far enough from the parking lot to let Fender run free, so he removed the leash. “Go on, little buddy. Have some fun.”
Franky watched Fender play and investigate smells. He rubbed his hands together. “Ever wish you could be that carefree again?” He lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Brennan.
“Trying to, ah, cut back.” He waved the pack away, adding, “And I don’t know if I was ever that carefree, to be honest.”
“Not sure any of us were,” said Rocco.
Brennan watched a family stretch their legs near the restrooms. A young mother, father, and a little girl, who, for an instant, looked just like his daughter. He gave his head a shake, turned away, and asked a question to distract himself. “How much farther to Vacaville?”
“’Bout four hours more, give or take.”
“What’s there to do in Vacaville itself?” asked Franky. “Anything?”
“Doubt it. I got the impression online it’s a suburb. Hour from San Fran or so. People working in Silicon Valley need an affordable place to live, I guess.”
“Almost like coming home to Williamsville,” said Brennan.
Rocco’s expression hardened for an instant. “Williamsville’s not home for all of us, Bee.”
“I didn’t mean—”
He continued, “Vacaville’s also a short stretch from Sacramento. Wine country, too, if you guys are interested.”
“Perfect for the guy who’s not drinking.”
“Bee . . .”
“Whatever. Beats the shit out of Sioux Falls,” said Brennan, “We’ll probably end up spending . . .”
Franky interjected, “Guys.”
“. . . a couple days here if . . .”
“Guys.” Franky caught their attention on his second attempt. He motioned toward the parking lot. Fender was running toward it as fast as his legs could carry him.
Brennan shouted and charged after him. As he closed in,
he realized Fender had stopped at a trash can flipped on its side. Garbage spilled out its top, covering the grass, and Fender feasted on it with haste. The sun amplified its stench, sour and sickly, and bugs crawled on what remained of a greasy takeout container. Next to it were used diapers, empty soda cans and bottles, the contents of an ashtray, a worn Band-Aid, a soggy paper bag filled with mush . . .
“Fender, no!” Brennan snatched up his dog, who proudly licked his lips. “Fender, why would you do that? Fender . . .” Rocco and Franky caught up. “He was eating garbage!”
“Shit,” said Rocco, reviewing the assortment of vile waste.
Brennan held Fender at eye level. “Why would you do that, little buddy? Why?”
Rocco scrunched his forehead, highlighting deep stress lines. “Think he’s gonna be all right?”
Brennan reattached the leash and set Fender on the grass, guiding him away from the rotting mess. “I—I don’t know. I hope so. Don’t think he got too far into it . . .” But he couldn’t be certain.
Chapter 20
Fender ate part of his breakfast the next morning, went for a walk, and seemed to be in good spirits. He had slept through the night, too, which gave Brennan no immediate cause for concern. He kissed the top of Fender’s head and readied himself for the day.
It was nearing lunchtime when the men arrived in San Francisco. They wandered east along the Embarcadero, then west, concluding that Pier 39 was the main attraction along the northern San Francisco waterfront. They traversed a boardwalk bursting with foot traffic. People taking photos, speaking in colorful languages, and venturing in and out of restaurants, bars, and shops. A choir of seagulls serenaded visitors at every turn.
In the distance, across the San Francisco Bay, the men spotted familiar landmarks—the Golden Gate Bridge, although it was minuscule from their vantage point, and Alcatraz Island, the site of the famous prison, once home to notorious gangsters like Al Capone and Machine Gun Kelly.
Franky wrung his hands together and stared out on the water. “What’s the sense in building a prison way the hell out there?”
Rocco was taking a picture on his phone. He replied without turning his head. “What do you mean?”