Oh, fucking great. This is exactly what I hate about women. They lure you into a trap and then snap your foot off. “That figures,” I say.
“Well, then,” she says and actually buttons the very last button on her shirt, “I guess that decides it then.”
“Decides what?” I sigh.
She lobs a grenade right at me. “I was going to fuck you. But not now.”
The bomb hits me right in the gut and explodes. “You were not,” I say breathlessly.
She walks back to the camper shell and snaps and buckles the two bags. “No, I totally was. But not now. No, ma’am, not now, not ever.”
She bends over and points her ass in my general direction, and just to spite her I refuse to look at it for longer than five seconds.
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “You’re just being a bitch.”
Vivian glances at me, then throws the red bag over her shoulder and picks up the two money bags. She sighs loudly, “Doesn’t matter really. It was just going to be a pity fuck anyway.”
“You pity me?” I yell. “The little red-headed Indian Princess pities me?”
“Not anymore I don’t, you white supremacist bitch!” she hurls. And with that she turns and walks toward the road swinging the bags along with her.
I follow her a good ways. I don’t know if I’m going to try and stop her or if I’m going to wish her good riddance. Maybe I just want to see how far she can get barefooted.
“Don’t even think about following me,” she says without so much as a backward glance.
“Where you going?” I yell. “Is there a free cheese line somewhere?”
She turns on her heel and glares at me. “Yep. And you ain’t getting none of this cheese. Oh! One last thing before I never talk to you again...” She rummages around in her bra, pulls out a key and throws it at me. “Here’s the key to your free motorcycle that an Indian Princess got for you.”
I snatch the key out of the air before it smacks me in the face. Vivian turns back around and marches toward town. I watch her go until she’s completely crested the little hill and gone from view. There’s no way in hell I’m going after her.
An hour later I’m going after her on the bike. I catch sight of her about five miles down the road. I wince just thinking about her walking so far on this dirt road with her soft lotioned feet. I pull around her, then ease the Harley over to the side.
“Need a ride?” I ask, sheepishly.
“Nope,” she answers without looking at me.
She walks a wide arc around me. I guess she’s not going to make this easy. I get off the bike and run to catch up to her. “You gonna walk all the way to town?”
“Yep.”
“But it’s like ten more miles, Viv.”
She flashes her eyes at me, then says, “My ancestors walked one thousand miles, I think I can handle ten.”
“Oh for chrissakes, Vivian, just get on the bike and let me ride you into town.”
“Nope.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
I say it a little louder. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, I heard you,” she says. “I just want you to say it again.”
“I’m sorry. I am really, truly sorry. Now will you please get on the bike and let me ride you into town?”
Vivian spins around and walks back to the bike, dropping the bags for me. She stands to the side the whole time, her arms crossed over her chest, while I stuff and bungee the bags to the bike. I hop on and pat the passenger seat.
“Your turn,” I say.
Vivian swings a leg over and plants herself backward on the seat. She throws her bare legs over the saddlebags and crosses her arms over her chest.
“Viv,” I sigh, “you can’t ride backward.”
“Sure, I can,” she spits. “I’m still mad at you.”
Oh, my God, these women are going to fucking kill me.
We must make a pretty weird picture driving down the busy streets of Tulsa. Vivian all puffed up and pouting on the back of my new bike, arms crossed, bottom lip stuck out defiantly, perched backward. I put my blinders on and ignore all the honks and stares and act like we do this every day.
I pull up behind a school bus at a stoplight and the little kids point and laugh and press their gooey faces up against the back glass. I choke down an urge to flip them off and just smile instead.
I don’t have the slightest idea where we’re going and Vivian’s not in a talking mood, so this being Oklahoma and whenever you don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do or you want to socialize but haven’t been invited anywhere in particular or you’re just passing time or bored with porch-sitting, I head to where everybody else in Oklahoma goes: WalMart.
I park the bike around the side by the employee parking lot next to Hell Camino. Yes, Hell Camino is still there just like Vivian said she’d be. She looks no worse for her neglect. I take my time walking around her, looking her over real good just to make sure she’s okay while Vivian un-pretzels herself from the back of the bike, which she discovers isn’t so easy when you’re on backwards. She un-bungees the bags and starts immediately to work on reapplying her lipstick.
I’m down on my hands and knees, fishing the spare key out from under the front bumper when I see a pair of men’s penny loafers approaching out of my peripheral vision. Two thoughts immediately flash across my brain: I think it’s weird when men wear penny loafers and Prince Charles wears penny loafers. Then the third and most important thought hits me: “Oh shit! Run!”
I jump up and see that Vivian had the same thought a few seconds before me and is already running for the front doors of WalMart with all the bags, so I chase after her. The electronic doors slide open on the exit side and a legion of Pentecostal women with long skirts and high hair crowd through. Vivian and I knock them out of the way, using our shoulders and elbows and whatever else and manage to squeeze through all that high hair and carts. We run into the nearest aisle, which happens to be plus-size clothing for women.
Vivian dives into a circular clothes rack with all the bags. I can’t even see her once she’s buried in there. So, I drop to the floor and squeeze in beside her.
“Shit, he’s got us,” Vivian gasps.
“Ssshhh,” I say, peering through all the OU T-shirts surrounding us.
Three pair of large penny loafers, the kinds with tassels, stop right in front of us, pointing their toes in three different directions.
“They can’t be far,” I hear Prince Charles’s penny loafers say.
“We’ll never find them in here, Boss,” the largest penny loafers say.
Prince Charles’s penny loafers order, “Go back to the car. In case they double back.” One pair of penny loafers leaves. “You take the grocery section. I’ll look over here.” The second pair of penny loafers walk away. That leaves the shiniest pair still in front of us. I watch P.C.’s penny loafers turn in a complete circle before walking quickly in the other direction.
I pull two OUT-shirts off the rack and hand one to Vivian. “Put this on,” I whisper.
“You have to be kidding,” she whispers back. “It clashes with my hair.”
“Fuck your hair!” I whisper harshly.
“Okay, okay,” she mumbles, squirming into the shirt.
I get down on my elbows, peek under the rack of shirts and look both ways. I don’t see any penny loafers. “Grab a bag and follow me,” I whisper.
I bolt out from the rack with Vivian right behind me. I grab her by the hand and dash straight for the dressing rooms. I throw open the first door, shove her inside and close and lock the door behind us. I lean against the door, steadying my breathing.
“What’re you thinking?” Vivian asks.
“I’m thinking he’s going to kill us if he finds us.”
“So, we’re just going to hide in here?”
“Listen, I’ve had fantasies ever since I
was a little kid about being able to live in a WalMart without anybody ever knowing,” I explain.
“That’s nice, Lee, real nice. Have you also had fantasies about dying a horrible, cruel death in a WalMart?”
“I’ve got it all planned out, Viv. Just do what I say.” I lace the fingers of both hands together and hold my palms out to her. “Upsy-daisy,” I say.
“Upsy-daisy where exactly?” she asks in a you’re-too-stupid-for-words tone.
“The ceiling. Those panels just move aside. Get up there and sit your ass on a joist. I’ll toss the bags up to you and be right behind.”
Vivian’s eyes widen, but to my surprise she doesn’t argue. She steps into my hands, places her hands on top of my head and bounces up to my shoulders in one graceful movement.
“Good job,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Of course,” she says, “cheerleader, remember?”
“Hurry!” I urge. “Move the panel and get up there!”
Vivian lifts up on the panel with one palm and easily slips it out of the metal groove and moves it aside. She grabs a wooden beam and starts to struggle upward. I grab both her feet and push up with everything I’ve got. Vivian’s apparently got more upper body strength than you’d think, because she swings up and through the hole in record time. I toss a money bag and her red bag up to her. I open the third bag and stick a wad of hundreds in my pocket before tossing it up also.
Vivian peers back down at me through the hole. “How are you getting up here?” she asks.
“I’m not. Just put the panel back. If I’m not back in an hour, you’re on your own.”
“NO!” Vivian whisper shouts.
“I’ll be back, I promise. Just do it!”
Vivian slowly slides the panel back into place and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again. God, I sure hope I don’t die in WalMart. Target maybe, WalMart, please no.
I open the dressing room door a crack and look. Nobody. I ease out and walk toward the back of the store like I know where I’m going. I grab an OU ball cap off a rack and stick my dreads up under it. Next aisle I grab a pair of sunglasses and put those on too. Now I look like all the other customers—a deranged, rabid OU fan.
I weave my way through exiting customers, head for the back of the store and enter the first door I see that’s marked Employees Only. Sure enough, it’s an employee break room. I line up behind several other women at the time clock. When it’s my turn, I grab any old punch card and stick it in the machine. It time-stamps the card and I look at the name printed at the top. Johnny Runningbear. Sorry, Johnny, you’re going to be a little short this week. I put his card back in the slot tray just as the two women open the back door and leave.
A good-looking, tall Indian kid opens the door and walks in. He rips off his blue smock and tosses it on a table.
“Hey,” I say to him, suddenly flashing on an idea.
He just looks at me.
I pull eight hundred dollar bills out of my pocket and fan them out like I’m holding a royal flush. “Want to earn a quick eight hundred bucks?” I ask.
He looks me over skeptically. Can’t say I blame him. I pull my car key out of my other pocket and hold it up in the air.
“Alls you gotta do is drive my car to the other side of town and ditch it there.”
He makes a show of thinking it over, but I can see his fingers twitching to take the money.
“Why?” he asks.
I tell him the only lie I can think of knowing he’ll buy it anyway because he wants the money too damn bad. “My boyfriend’s after me. You take my car, he’ll follow you. And I can get away from him.”
“I dunno,” he says, playing hard to get.
“If you’re too scared, I’ll find somebody else.” I shrug, tucking the money away in my pocket.
“What kind of car is it?” he asks.
That’s when I know I have him. I hold the money and key back out and they disappear into his pocket before I even finish saying, “It’s in the employee parking lot. ’Seventy-six black El Camino. V8, a hundred and eighty horses.”
“Sweet,” he says, grinning for the first time and heading for the exit.
“Don’t fuck it up,” I say to his back.
“Whatever,” he mumbles, already out the door.
Welcome to my goose chase, P.C. Have fun catching that kid.
I grab the blue smock the kid threw down and pull it on over my OU T-shirt. I glance down at my name tag and read it upside down: Johnny Runningbear. Damn, Johnny, you and me. Must be destiny.
I grab a flashlight and a box cutter from the table and stick them in my smock pockets.
A couple of men employees walk in and head for the time clock without glancing at me. My luck is holding. I grab the swinging door before it closes and walk back out into the main part of the store. I haven’t gone ten feet before a busy little bald man wearing a white shirt and tie bustles up to me. He looks at my name tag and orders, “Johnny, get over to aisle five with a mop and bucket. Some kid puked in the candy aisle. Clean it up before you punch out.”
I nod a yes sir and head left.
“Johnny!”
I turn back to the little manager man. He gestures emphatically in the other direction and orders, “Get the mop and bucket!”
I nod about ten times and head in the direction he pointed. As soon as he’s out of sight, I make a right turn and end up facing the restrooms. I opt for the men’s room (I am Johnny, after all) and walk inside. I kick open all the stall doors. All empty.
I climb up on a sink, reach up to a panel and scoot it aside. Using the top of the bathroom stall door as foot leverage, I work my way up and into the darkness. I move the panel back in place and offer a little prayer of thanks to whoever is up there listening.
I hear a couple of men come in and pee somewhere down there below me. They pee for a really long time. How can men do that? They must have really huge bladders. I bet they only pee like twice a day. Hearing them pee makes me want to pee so I try to think about anything else except peeing.
P.C. is probably chasing after Johnny now. The employees should be all out of here in an hour or so. So, there’s nothing left to do but wait. I turn on the flashlight and have a look around. Nothing much to see. Just some duct work and electrical junction boxes. Mouse droppings. I get my journal and pen out of my jacket pocket and play catch up. I don’t wear a watch but after twelve years behind bars I know exactly what an hour feels like.
When time’s up, I pull out the panel and exit the same way I entered. Sort of. After hanging out of the ceiling and trying about a dozen times to get some momentum going by swinging my legs, I finally drop to the ground, narrowly missing a potentially disastrous collision with the sink. Good thing I was never a cheerleader.
I leave my true blue smock on just in case and head back toward the women’s dressing rooms. The door is hanging wide open on the dressing room we were in. I look up. The panel is moved out of place.
Vivian’s gone already. I look around the women’s clothing section but don’t see hide nor hair of her.
Where could she be? If I were Vivian, all alone in an empty WalMart, where would I go?
Uh-oh.
I run for the pharmacy.
The pharmacy door is locked. It’s a steel door with one hell of a deadbolt on it too. I run to the glass window and peer inside. There she is, all right. Looking like a kid in a fuckin’ candy store. She has a look of absolute glee on her face as she empties containers of pills into her red bag. The money bags are on the floor and she scoots them down the aisle with her foot as she looks at the shelves of pills.
I knock loudly on the double pane glass window. Vivian looks up at me surprised. Then she smiles and waves.
I motion for her to unlock the window. She saunters over with her red bag on her shoulder, unlocks the window from her side and slides it open.
“You scared me for a sec,” she says.
“How’d you get in there?” I as
k.
“Just crawled on over through the ceiling,” she answers.
Of course she did. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. “Getting every pill in the place?”
“Not every pill.” She looks in her bag, naming what she’s collected so far, “Klonopin, Ultram, Skelaxin, Flexeril and Tramadol. That’s all so far. I haven’t gotten to the stimulant aisle yet.”
“Viv,” I start, “you can’t take all these pills.”
“I’m not going to take them all at once, you big goof.”
“No, I mean you can’t take them out of the store.”
“Sure, I can. That’s why I carry a big bag.”
“How about just a handful? Grab a couple and leave the rest. How about that?”
“I’m just taking a few of each one.”
“Vivian...I think you might have a problem here. A little pill problem.”
She sighs like she’s heard it a million times before. “There’s no problem. As long as I have pills, there’s no problem.”
She waves me off and continues with her shopping, picking up containers and reading the labels. At least she’s checking to see what they are first. That’s something, I guess.
“When’s the last time you were sober? Completely dry?” I ask.
“The day before I lost my virginity,” she says without hesitation.
“Don’t you think it’s time to slow down a little?”
“You don’t want to see me sober,” she says. “I’m boring as hell. I don’t do anything but crochet afghans and cross-stitch toaster cozies.”
I give up. I don’t think I can run an intervention right now when we’re in the middle of a pharmacy. Kinda like taking an alcoholic to a bar and trying to get her not to drink. I’ll have to save this conversation for another day.
“We’re stuck here tonight, Viv. The place is locked up solid and if we try to leave we’ll set off alarms like crazy. I’m going over to the camping section to set up a tent for the night. Come by there when you’re done.”
“Okay,” she says absentmindedly, preoccupied with her shopping.
I’m halfway across the store when the intercom crackles on. Vivian’s voice booms over the system, “Lee? Be sure to get stuff to make s’mores.”
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