New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  Terry and I continued brawling. Even with that screwed-up hand of his, he fired off a fist missile to my gut that doubled me over. I fired off a shot to his head that made his eyes wobble in his skull.

  Sure he had the edge on me in the Muscle and Crazy Department. But I had the edge when it came to stored-up anger. Gun me. Squib me. My bottled-up rage blasted all over the place.

  We continued fighting.

  At one point, I glanced over at my old man. He shot me a look. I shot one back. While his look wasn’t one that said you’re my son, and mine wasn’t one that said you’re my father, it was close. Real close.

  Chapter 25

  There’s nothing like sucking on a gun lollipop and surviving to make one feel they’ve been granted a new lease on life. That’s what those first few months felt like following my escape from the Terry penitentiary. I was kicking ass at home and at work. Was flipping Death off left and right. But once summer had ended, and autumn’s crisp, clear colors had morphed into the gray skies of December, I began ruminating about family. More like lack thereof.

  Maybe that’s why that one near-Christmas night, there was a particular chill in the air. Not so much like winter cold, but death cold. Over a thick green flannel shirt—a shirt much like Mr. Gigliotti’s trademark shirt—I slapped on my lead vest. Popped a couple Vicodins I’d swiped from Mom’s place earlier that day. I strapped myself aboard the slow upward drift of those pills. As I cruised Blackwater, those pills turned my head into dreamy feedback fuzz—“Purple Haze” on a morphine drip. That soundtrack accompanied me as I drifted past the cemetery and Satan’s Tree. A retirement home, a funeral home, and the Rainbow Casket Company.

  On the brighter side of things, there was the Rotary Club holiday tree lot, and all the aluminum-sided ranch and colonial-style homes wreathed in blinking lights and tinsel. I didn’t bother swinging by Jimmy’s place. He was working late that night, taking inventory before Sole Survivor’s pre-Christmas sale. So I just kept driving. A giant Douglas fir, decorated to the hilt, stood outside the police station where, like Jimmy, my old man was working late.

  Everything continued shimmering. On the gravel lawn of Callie’s old house was a beat-up, doorless fridge. Inside it was an illuminated plastic Jesus. As for the traffic lights, all the brilliant reds, yellows, and greens—the colors of the stop-and-go rainbow. My whole town was glowing. I was glowing, too. Comfortably Numb Me. Dizzy Star Atop the Downer Tree Me. I kept driving until I spotted the most radiant place in town: the Little Red Dollhouse.

  Once through the door, I shielded my eyes from all the shattered disco ball brightness, and headed straight to the john. The stench of unflushed toilets and sickly sweet deodorizer filled the air. So did the dull hum and flicker of the overhead fluorescent lights. My low-fi high tuned out, tuned in. I splashed water on my face, studied myself in the mirror. Gone my wild eyes, disheveled hair. In the place of it all I saw fire. Fire more brilliant and blazing than the flames shooting from Newark factory smokestacks. I reached into my right front jeans pocket, the pocket that didn’t contain a Callie letter, roadmap, or pills. I touched Grandmother’s ring. It set my head as straight as it could get at the time. I splashed more water on my face, ran wet fingers through greasy hair. Was ready to see the brightest bright that cold and hazy night could offer: Baby.

  Seeing as it was a Tuesday, with money still needing to be spent on family presents instead of strippers’ rent, the place was dead. Just Jack behind the bar, a cocktail waitress filling orders, and a handful of guys seated up front. Most people like Jack, that had already seen me in my vest at some point or another, just ignored me, considered me another eccentric Piney. The ones that hadn’t yet encountered me, though, flashed nervous looks—like they figured me for an undercover cop, or a crazed sniper on the loose. I flashed them double peace signs as I floated to the bar.

  Short and stocky Jack, with his grimy ashtray of a face, said: “Look what the cat drug in. Captain X-Ray. You look a little better than the last time I saw you.”

  That was the night Terry and I had tangled, just five months prior. I’d ended up with a bloody nose, a fat-lip, a few bruised ribs, but my dignity intact. Terry wasn’t as lucky. He’d wound up with a black eye, a busted jaw and hand, and being hauled off to jail.

  I managed a smile. “Can I get a beer, Jack?”

  He handed one over.

  I popped another Vicodin, washed it down.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “You ain’t going Karen Ann Quinlan on me, are you?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s just a vitamin.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “Vitamins.” He wiped his hands on a dirty bar towel, then popped David Bowie’s Low into the cassette player.

  As “Always Crashing in the Same Car” pulsed through the speakers, I made my way to that shadowy booth in the back of the club—the place where Terry had held me hostage. The acrid taste of gunmetal came back to me. I downed a couple swigs of beer to chase away that bitterness.

  On stage, bathed in a hazy chaotic swirl of colored lights, was a dancer. Called herself Brandy. Was pale, skinny-waisted. Had wavy jet-black hair, dark eyes. She slithered across the stage, pressed her tits together to grab the rolled-up dollar bills customers had placed in their mouths.

  Once done, AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” blasted through the club. In time with the thunderous beat and slash-and-burn of guitar, Baby took the stage. Up top, she was blue eyes and straight brown hair. Below: an electric-green bikini bottom. She swung on the stripper pole. Became a beautiful blur, a pale-white dream begging to be real. Taking front center stage, she briefly came back into focus. In the shattered light, she shone brighter than all of Blackwater’s holiday lights. She soothed hands over breasts. Ran those hands down along ribs, to hips. On one of those hips: a butterfly tattoo. Had big colorful wings: swirls of purple, jade, and gold. Like Baby, those wings were flowing freely, yearning to fly away. I wanted to fly away, too. That’s when all the downers I’d taken kicked up a notch. Made each wild shake of Baby’s hair, each hip sway and pelvic thrust fade to black. I banged a fist against my thigh to bring her back to me. But the pills took over and, again, I was off on my Vicodin flying carpet.

  Those sleep-dealing pills and I played that game for a while: the surfacing and drowning in black. Baby finally interrupted that game. Looming over me, she was decked out in a long-sleeve, lacy-white top and cut-off shorts. Her pale, smooth legs spilled out from beneath those shorts like melt-in-your-mouth piñata candy.

  She brushed sweaty strands of hair from her face, and asked: “What’re you doing here, Sugar Smack?”

  It was a fair question. Ever since that run-in with Terry I’d gone through all kinds of mood swings. There’d been times when I’d felt invincible. Still other times when I’d relive the Terry kidnapping—either in nightmares, or fully awake, tasting that harsh gunmetal in the back of my throat. No amount of pills, booze, or Jimmy’s mom’s cough medicine could chase away those feelings. I kept thinking they would, but they didn’t. That night with Baby was one of those nights, where I’d thought those pills would help me shed my pains.

  “I wanted to see you,” I said to her, my voice sounding there and not there. “Wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  She gave me a good, long look. Never mind the vest, she’d already seen me in it. She was more concerned about the drugs. “What’re you on? Downers?”

  I nodded.

  Baby slid into the booth next to me, brought her face close to mine. While certain things about her had changed through the years, her breath had remained the same: Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and Marlboros. “Got a taste for me, Sugar Smack?”

  I handed over a couple pills.

  After downing them with the last of my beer, she said: “I spoke with Terry a few days ago.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “What did he have to say?”

 
“When he sees you again you’re a dead man.”

  We both knew that would be a while. Penal system math adds up fast.

  “I know I shouldn’t,” said Baby. “But I miss him.”

  “Screw that,” I said. “You deserve better.”

  “Like who? You?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s like I keep telling you,” she said. “You’re not my type.” She tapped a chipped black-polished nail against the tabletop, then added: “Tell you what. I’ll meet you halfway. Wanna dance?”

  That one caught me off guard. It had nothing to do with the pills. We’d just never touched in real life. Only in my dreams. The polynomial equation of sleep and me: Baby. The exponentiation of wide-awake fantasy: Baby. “I guess,” I said. “Sure.”

  “It’ll cost you, Sugar Smack.”

  “How much?”

  “I usually charge forty. But for you, thirty.”

  I didn’t argue. I handed over a crumpled Jackson and a ten.

  “What about the vest?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ll keep it on for now.”

  “Have it your way, Sugar Smack.”

  Baby guided me to the edge of the booth, straddled my lap, and slipped off her top. She didn’t have massive Vargas Girl–like breasts as had been displayed in Terry’s tattoo, or in all those pictures I’d drawn of her back in high school. Still, they were full, with light-brown nipples.

  “You think I’m pretty?” she whispered.

  Maybe it was the pills, or maybe just me wanting to always remember her that way, but Baby was, once again, in full possession of her radiant high school moonglow: full cheeks, luscious cherry lip-glossed lips, and teeth as white as the sparkling whites of her eyes. “Absolutely,” I murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

  Baby took my hands, guided them around her waist. In time with Springsteen’s “Candy’s Song” lingering through the room, she extended her arms, glided them through the air. Hip grind, hair toss. She swayed back and forth.

  As amazing as she felt, it was difficult to concentrate on her movements. All I could think about were Bruce’s words, about how there’s a sadness hidden in Candy’s face, a sadness all her own where no man can keep her safe. I wanted to be better than Bruce. Better than any of his songs. I wanted to save Baby from everything. I tried to kiss her, but she leaned back. Her hair fell off her shoulders, as she shook her head no to the rhythm of the song.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Sugar Smack. I just don’t wanna kiss you. You’re not my boyfriend.”

  “But I wanna be,” I said. It was a foolish thing to say. It was also stupid of me to believe that our dance was the only thing that costs. Everything costs. Words cost. Love costs. The cost of living. The cost of war and peace. The cost of smoking. Manhattan Island had cost the settlers twenty-four bucks worth of trinkets, while the Manhattan Project, and all those nuclear bombs, had cost two billion. All those bombs going off. Like I was going off, too. I continued running my fingers up and down Baby’s back, reading the bones of her spine like a lover’s Braille.

  When the song ended every bit of her glowed holy.

  “Let me take you somewhere,” I whispered. “Anywhere.”

  “How much you got, Sugar Smack?”

  I pulled out the rest of my cash. I was too fucked up to count it. All I knew was that it was the wadded-up remains from my most recent Rainbow check. I tossed the stash on the table.

  Baby eyed it. “Sure you wanna do this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Baby led me down a dark hallway that led to her bedroom. It wasn’t very big, about a third of the size of the Rainbow Casket Company showroom. The room had blood-red walls, and a curtainless window facing a bare-brick wall. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke and old sex. Besides a simple oak dresser upon which were scattered votive candles, necklaces, lipsticks, fortune cookie fortunes, and a bent-up spoon, the only other furniture present was a mattress on the floor. Rumpled sheets covered it. By that bed was an open suitcase. Clothes spilled out of it, all over the place. Instead of flipping on the overhead bare-bulb light, Baby clicked on a floor lamp covered in a sheer white scarf. Its soft glow was almost swallowed whole by those red, red walls.

  “Any more pills?” she asked.

  I grabbed what I had left: three. Two for her, one for me. We downed them dry.

  Then Baby floated through the room, collecting up the bent-up spoon, some heroin, a syringe, and other supplies. She poured the smack, and some citric acid into the spoon. Mixed it with water, then cooked it up. It reeked of vinegary skunk. She snapped a filter off a Marlboro, placed it into the mixture, stuck the needle into the filter, and drew up the poison. After rolling up her sleeve, she strapped a belt around her arm, and guided the needle into her vein. Her eyes rolled back into her head like plums in a slo-mo slot machine. She offered me the syringe.

  I waved it away. “That shit’ll kill ya.”

  “You’re one to talk,” she said, “with all your pills.” Then she got quiet. Just stood there, like a flesh and blood statue. Her pale neck thrummed at the place where her slow pulse beat just beneath. She wasn’t so much looking at me as admiring all those doped-up clouds inside her mind. Then she came to. Her foggy eyes: now crystal blue. She eyed the lead vest. “You gonna take it off or what, Sugar Smack?”

  Nothing else mattered at that moment. I wanted to go all the way. I stripped out of the vest and everything else.

  Baby stripped all the way, too. All shaved below, she was like Barbie. A living, breathing Little Red Dollhouse Barbie.

  She flipped off the floor lamp. Only a whisper of moonlight spilled into the room.

  We collapsed onto her bed, became a puzzle of arms and legs. I couldn’t tell which hand clawing at the sheets was mine, which leg drowning in the river of clothes was hers. It took a few minutes to get hard. But once I did, it was pedal-to-the-metal all the way. I slid inside Baby. Grabbed at her breasts. In her blurry face, I glimpsed Callie. My heart burst wide open. All the tiny lights of me, far brighter than that trickle of moonlight leaking into the room, spilled out all over Baby. She became luminous.

  “Is this just about the money?” I asked.

  All Baby could say was: “It’s too much work fighting you anymore, Sugar Smack.” She turned, rocked hard on her side and kept going. Took me along for a ride that ended with her on top.

  I drove deeper into her.

  She blazed wilder, brighter. Her hair, like a dark waterfall, streamed down across her face. In time with the heroin slinking through her veins, she ground her hips into mine. Our bodies writhed, turned inside out, outside in: orgasmic origami.

  I slurred I loved her. That I’d always loved her. Told her even though I’d given part of my heart to Callie, I was ready to hand over the rest to her. Then I woozily told her how I wanted to take her away. Said we could be like a Springsteen song, where we’d bust the night wide-open, head out on the highway, and leave all our problems behind. I continued babbling all my hazy, crazy love talk.

  Baby stopped her grinding. Through sluggish lips, she said: “Easy, Sugar Smack. What’re you saying?”

  “I, uh…I was wondering if you…uh, you know…you’d marry me.” I groped for my pants by the bed, produced Grandmother’s ring. The faint sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window made that ring sparkle.

  Beginning to drift off on her own drug-induced flying carpet, Baby didn’t seem to recall seeing that ring from back when I was seventeen. Back when I did all I could to honor Grandmother’s dying wish. Yet with Callie long gone, and all the pills now making my mind go satellite, even the wrong girl seemed right. I took Baby’s hand, slipped that sparkling ring on her finger. Again, I asked her to marry me.

  “Chris
t,” she said, wiping at her nose. “I wish I had a dollar every time some guy asked me that.”

  “But I’m serious,” I said. “I wanna take you to California.”

  Baby’s wasted eyes drew into slits. “I’d never make money out there. Those girls are prettier than me.”

  “Fuck that,” I said. “You’re way prettier.”

  For what seemed like hours, days, aeons, she didn’t respond. Then she did: “Flip on the overhead, will ya.”

  Once bathed in the harsh, unforgiving bare-bulb light, Baby just looked at me. It was the first time I’d ever seen her so clearly. She lay on her bed, drowning in that sea of clothes and crumpled sheets. Her eyes: sad, bleary, ringed in runny mascara. Her moon-face: eclipsed, out of orbit. Her arms: pale, bruised, needle-marked. She looked like a dream, as if she were seeing herself in a really bad dream.

  With all the blue draining from her eyes, she said: “This is me, Sugar Smack. This is it.” She dragged the crumpled sheets across her even more crumpled body, and added: “This was a fucked idea. You gotta go.”

  No way was that happening, not without her at least. Since high school, I’d deemed her my savior. Perhaps she’d been an accidental one, but still a savior nonetheless. I kneeled by her side. Got an even better look.

  Gone the illuminated beauty I’d so adored back in high school. Gone the girl who’d given me the guts to score with Callie. Gone rebel attitude and rock-n-roll cranked to ten. Now Baby was just static. Pure static. But I didn’t care. I’d take that static with me anywhere. Nurse her back to pure quadraphonic sound.

  “Please,” I pleaded, shaking her from a nod. “I need you.”

  She slipped off the ring, placed it in my hand, and closed my fingers around it. “You don’t need me,” she murmured. “You gotta leave.”

  I continued pleading. But she wouldn’t have any of it. She hadn’t gone Code 10-88, OD, but she did gradually drift off into a junk-fed oblivion. I stumbled into my pants, slapped on my shirt. Threw on my vest. Then I left.