by Jarod Powell
The smoke cleared, and they were sitting for what seemed like hours, the humidity melting their bodies into the furniture. Sam was paying attention only to the wind catcher hanging and flapping from the latch on the opened window. He didn’t want to notice anything. He was enjoying the silence while it lasted.
“Jenny,” Wilma muttered, staring off into space.
“Yeah, Wilma.”
“You’ve just got to get a housekeeper,” she said, easing out of her stupor, head rolling around on her neck, observing the piles of clothes and magazines and VHS tapes on the floor. Her upper body became erect, and she started with the hand gestures again. “Billy Joe...You know Billy Joe down the road over there? He has a lady come once a week, and his house is immaculate, just immaculate! And she speaks fluent English.” She points to the East. “I’ll find out what her phone number is! It’s that Mexican family that lives right down the road...”
“What’s wrong with the house, Wilma?” Jenny asked, obviously irritated. She directed her glare towards the ceiling in an attempt to mute her frustration. Then she closed her eyes.
“Nothing, Hon. I was just suggesting it because the lady works for chicken feed, basically. I thought you could use the help, that’s all. New mom, everything’s crazy right now, right? I know how it is.”
“You do?” Jenny tensed her lips into a withheld grin.
Silence.
“We just moved. We both work,” Jenny pushed her eyelashes down hard against each other. “It won’t be like this for long.”
“I see. I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she said, relaxing her head to the back of the chair.
Say something. Say something.
“You look good, Mom,” Sam chimed in frantically. “Lose any weight?”
“A little,” she said. “No man wants too much cushion. Am I right, Jenny?”
Silence.
“I’m going to bed,” Jenny said in her best impersonation of a tired person. She got up and put her hand on my thigh. “Are you coming, Sam?” He looked at his mother, who could’ve broken the Mississippi floodgates with her glare.
“Nah, I think I’ll stay out here for a few.”
“Suit yourself. ‘Night all.” Off she went.
“I don’t care for her,” Wilma whispered.
Sam laughed. “I know. You can sleep in Jake’s room if you want,” he said. “He’ll be here in the morning, and then you can meet him.”
“No, Hon, that’s okay. I’ve got to get going. Five hours to Mississippi, and I’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Next time,” she said, walking towards the front door, “Keep that baby here. I’d like to see him.”
“Sure,” Sam said.
She blew a kiss, and made a quiet exit. Sam closed his eyes and listened to the front door clasp, that clunky van engine start, and sputter away.
What Eve Done
Don’t worry, Mister. I know better than to ask you for change. You ain’t that generous. You know how I know? Your suit is too clean. Your tight wallet tells on you. People that spend money don’t have it. You ever notice that? What do you do with that suit around here? You ain’t got no briefcase, but I bet you own a shiny, leather one that you carry around everywhere that you want to be seen. I know you ain’t on no business trip out here, and there ain’t no job to go to, especially on this bus route. What’s the matter, didn’t want to dirty up your rental? Are the girls too wild downtown? Gotta come to The Valley for the cleaner fun? They’re all professionals, Mister. Don’t matter, I suppose. I can smell your aftershave from here and I ain’t that close. Smells real nice. What are you tryin’ to cover up? I know you can smell me. You know what that smell is? It’s what life’s shit smells like. It’s all over me.
Don’t give me that look, Mister, you’d be surprised at how easy you can fall out the tower. Sounds like somethin’ you heard in a movie, don’t it? Well, it’s the truth, cliché or no cliché. You wouldn’t be kind
enough to let me use your Sunset Marquis shower, would ya’? Didn’t think so. I stayed there once. Spent all my money in one night, and been homeless ever since. Hey. I made a joke and you didn’t even hear it. Stop pretending you don’t hear me. You look nervous. You’d probably like nothing more than for me to remove my gut from behind your hundred-dollar haircut. I’m standing right here, Dapper Dan. I’m not moving. It’s a free country, in case you’ve been in that high-rise cocoon for too long. Why are you reading the New York Times, Dapper Dan? Don’t try to act like your hometown paper is so much better than ours. New York is your hometown, right? Yeah, right. How are my strapped brethren on the East, my strapping brother?
You wouldn’t know. You’re probably from some po-dunk snow globe, fuckin’ Denver or something. I went there once. Real nice place to raise a trust-fund baby. How many of those you got now, Dapper Dan? How many you plannin’ for? You gotta send them all to college, you know. Just keep ‘em in Colorado, Danny
boy. Bring ‘em out here and they’ll end up with water balloon-titties and a face only a beach bum could love. You may as well look me in the eye, Dan. I’m not talking crazy and I know you’re listening. You can’t dismiss me like that, you no-good pretty princess. You ain’t careful, you just might learn what that Vanderbilt-wannabe slag you call a mother couldn’t pay for you to learn. I’m sorry, fella’. Your mother is probably a lovely woman. As lovely as they get over there, anyway. You ain’t listenin’, and I’m wastin’ my time obviously, so I’ll just leave you with this and let you get to pretending to read the paper.
Okay?
Look to your left. That’s the Acting Conservatory over there, on North Cahuenga, past the mechanic’s shop. See it? There’s at least one rich actor in there at any given moment, and he got in for free. All of
the little Mexican girls had to pay a thousand dollars, and they don’t have it. Can you imagine? Of course you can. Why pay for something when you actually have the money? Your way of thinking kills me, Dan. One of those slices of TV Wonderbread in class with all those Mexican teenage girls, who probably sold some food stamps to get in? Probably folks more pampered and remote than you, around those Valley paupers.
That’s what I like about this place, Danny Boy. People are more inclined to talk to each other, even if they are faking it. You won’t find people talkin’ to each other in NYC! No sirree!
My girl wanted to be an actor, an actress. Had a thing for that guy...
Oh, What’s-His-Face. The one from that real old movie, with the fat angel trying to earn a halo. Stupid movie. She liked it because it was her mom’s favorite movie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she never even saw the damn thing. She lied all the time. Hated that bitch. She’s the reason I’m here on this bench, smelling like life’s shit, talking to you!
Aw, I shouldn’t say that. I was fucked a long time ago. Ain’t no Tree of Knowledge here! Ain’t her fault. Her ass was definitely God’s doing though. Can you imagine that? An ass so perfect, it was created in Eden. Perfect, perfect ass. Expensive ass, someone like you might say. She died after a rough go with someone a lot like you. Well, not a lot like you. I kinda like you in some weird, asshole way. You may have employed one of her friends last night. Ha! How ‘bout that, Danny Boy!
Now, look towards the sky. That’s me standing behind you. See me? The guy talking into the brick wall also known as your ear. Take a look and a whiff. This is what will happen to you if you don’t stay
in Colorado, or Idaho, or Indiana, or wherever you’re from. How old do I look to you? Thirty-three. I’m only thirty-three years old. Let me give you some advice, Dapper. Don’t let that woman of yours take your money. I know you got lots of it. Because they’ll do it. They’ll do it every time if you let ‘em. Raise your girls, if you got ‘em, to not be whores or gold diggers and to marry men that will keep them under
control. You do that, Dan, you’ll never see me again, if you’re lucky. Now, don’t g
et me wrong, Dan, I ain’t singing no Evil Woman Blues, and I ain’t blaming my shit on someone else for no good reason. I love my girl, but she done this shit to me and now I’m here, talking to people that may or may not even be there. Women make the world go ‘round, but the first woman ruined the perfection of God’s world, and don’t you forget that shit.
Fashionably Late