Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  “Ya know you been wanting me, baby. Don’t fight it.” He drooled in her ear and grabbed her small tits. The bus rolled and sent the big man slamming against the thin doors. She acted fast, pulled the Buck knife from its sheath inside her orange and black backpack, and held it out in front of her.

  “Back off, asshole,” she shouted. Her voice, lost amongst the roar of the diesel engine, and the raging storm outside the speeding bus.

  “Play nice, kitten. I only want a taste.” The fat man wiped the drool from his bouncing jowls and lunged at her.

  His eyes grew wide and mouth went slack as she felt the knife pierce deep into the man’s rotund stomach. Hot blood spilled over her hand, and she heard the fat man asking for his Mommy as he slid down and crumpled into the small space of the bathroom.

  The lights flickered, reminding her of an old black and white movie as she stared at the rich crimson blood dripping from her knife, and the fat man dying at her feet. The rain was unrelenting, and thunder seemed to not want to be far behind. The fat man cried and stared up at her as his last breath escaped from his spit-covered face. He pulled at her pant leg, begging for his Mommy. His last wish was left unfulfilled. Stacy Jo wiped the big man’s blood on his sweat-stained t-shirt and left the bathroom.

  The bus driver came over the speakers: “We’ve arrived at Moe Whiskey’s Horseshoe Lounge and Bus Station - Best damn Bar-BQ this side of the Mississippi. So I hope you’re hungry.”

  Stacy Jo grabbed her gear and tried to hide the blood on her hands as she stepped off the dark Greyhound.

  8.

  Que Lastima

  Rt. 45 South, Texas

  Friday, 9:40 p.m.

  The rain turned cold—cold enough for me to turn the car’s heater on. The windows began to fog, and the last blinding effect I needed was a ghostlike haze blurring my vision. The whiskey was doing a fine enough job of that on its own. The windshield wipers slapped to Willie Nelson’s, “It’s Cryin’ Time Again,” and almost drove my eyelids to close before a blaring horn from a tractor-trailer shook me upright. The rumble strips on the shoulder was a second reminder that if I wasn't careful, I'd get in a wreck. That was all I needed to end this shit-full day. I jolted the steering wheel, fought to right the 'Cuda, and exhaled as I centered the car between the lines.

  A strong wind pushed the Plymouth, and a photo from the visor fell onto my lap, as lightning flashed across the Texas night. I snatched it up and looked at it. The car swerved as another gust of wind punched at it.

  I pulled over onto the soft shoulder and slammed the transmission into park. My arms flailed for purchase on the photo. Once found, I held it to my chest and fought the tears away. I leaned over, opened up the glove compartment, pulled a bottle out, leaned back, and exhaled. After a long pull, my breathing calmed, and all I could do was stare at the photo.

  “I’m so sorry.” Tears flowed down, like the cold torrent outside the rumbling Plymouth. I shook with desperation as the odd, yellowish rain fell around the parked car. I wasn’t going to make Houston tonight, and to even try would be sure suicide. Not that suicide wasn’t a bad option at this shitty point in my life, but my better angels won out. I decided to stop for a bit, maybe grab some chow and a quick nap.

  I kissed the photo, shoved it into my shirt pocket, put the car in gear, and pulled back onto the slick road. The big tires spat gravel as the 'Cuda headed south, and I looked for a good place to rest for the night.

  Any neon sign offering booze would do the trick, besides, something told me Inez wouldn’t be home when I got there anyway. I found the bottle on the seat and drank from it. Drained it and chucked it onto the backseat floor. It clunked against the other empties. Now, I really needed to find a bar.

  Here I was, James Mathew McCutcheon, Texas Ranger, big bad-ass, Marine Recon, hard as steel warrior, far weaker than I ever showed or had the balls to admit. A hard lesson learned from James McCutcheon Senior. I still had the scars to remind me of the harsh training I received under the Gunny’s tutelage. But there were lessons the old drunk Marine couldn’t prepare me for. The McCutcheon demons had been passed down from one whiskey, blood-soaked generation to the next. Nowhere during bitter lineage did any of my Celtic forefathers ever break anything but the women that loved them and the jaw of anyone getting in their way.

  My mother had suffered the family curse, as well as Amy, my older sister. The Gunny had a short fuse, and it seemed like no matter what the girl did, she made it shorter. Her hide always seemed to pay the price for it. Amy was strong though and never let the old jarhead know he hurt her. She would take her beatings, as they all did, in quiet supplication and tightened resolve. I'd wanted to step in every time the heavy hand came down on my big sister and even tried once. But a broken nose had made sure I would never be so ballsy again. I spent many nights crying into my sweat-filled pillow as Amy took her daily ration of ‘discipline.’ And prayed to God that he would spirit her away and save her from the old man’s brutal hand.

  My desperate prayers remained unanswered until twelve years later, when Amy decided to quiet the McCutcheon demons by swallowing the business end of a twelve gauge. The only thing the bitter Gunny had to offer at her wake was, “The bitch had no honor… no pride. She was weak and only weaklings suck the bullet. Good riddance,” the scathing liquor slathered words were wiped by the old man’s sleeve and dripped from his poisonous lips.

  That rotten apple didn't fall too far from that hell-spawned tree. As hard as I tried and fought, I was about to keep the chain moving down the line. As the rain-soaked highway before me passed by, my mind raced with memories both good and dark. I felt a tear build up in my tired eyes and knew damn well I needed that place to stop. On a gut hunch, I turned my right signal on and exited the highway in hopes of finding liquid salvation in a bottle.

  Through the cold, rainy night, the half lit red and blue neon sign read: ‘Moe Whiskey’s Horseshoe Lounge and Bus Station - Best damn Bar-BQ this side of the Mississippi.’ The sign glowed in the night and shone like a beacon of hope and deliverance. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what it meant. All I wanted…needed was a dry place to get a drink. Put this day behind me. Tomorrow was crawling toward me like a venomous spider, and I had no more control over it as I did the fucked up yellow tainted rainstorm pissing down on me. I was thirsty by all accounts, and Moe’s would do me just fine.

  The bar was a two-story, squat construct with a rickety looking awning off its right end, where a chugging silver Greyhound bus waited as a handful of weary travelers staggered from its open doors. About a dozen pick-up trucks and various other modes of transportation crowded the pothole-infested parking lot. There was even an old rusty John Deere tractor tucked between a blue Kenworth and puke yellow colored Chevy step-side. The rain was unrelenting and plastered the fading white paint from the side of the old building that looked two violations from becoming condemned.

  I didn’t give two-shits. They had cold beer, and if I was lucky, some nice Kentucky Bourbon. I pulled the 'Cuda next to a white Ford Pinto with fogged up windows. The back of the car bounced up and down hard enough to snap the shocks clean off. I just shook my head, parked, and got out. The temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. I straightened my collar on my brown jacket and pulled the tan Stetson over my eyes, heading for the bar door, while ignoring the lustful moans bursting from the rocking Pinto.

  The heavy door opened with a mechanical mooing of a cow on my entry. “Oh, this is going to be just fan-fucking-tastic,” I mumbled, and shuffled inside. The heat from the bar made me shiver as I surveyed the dimly lit barroom. The place was crowded and that sure as hell wasn't exactly what I was hoping for, but it would have to do. I'd seen my fair share of honky-tonks and hole-in-the walls, from Texas to Thailand. They all offered three things: booze, brawls, and broads. And I sure as hell had my share off all three as well. But tonight, I just wanted the drink. After the conversation went sideways with Inez before the flight from Washington, I couldn’t get my head straigh
t, so here I was, back on well tread ground. Old habits die hard, I thought as I approached the long oak bar to my left. Jamie Rogers crooned, “In the Jailhouse Now,” from an old jukebox way off to the right, next to the restroom and another exit. Again, old habits, but this was one that actually did do me some good.

  The smoke-filled bar was packed with rowdy truckers and locals tying one on and looking to get laid. I was into half of that equation and tipped my hat at the brush-cut bartender. I noticed a few open tables beyond the dance floor, near the pool tables. I pulled out a Lark and lit it, as I found a table in the back near the pool tables packed with rowdy players. I sat down. I wanted to be as far away from the group of drunks dancing and carrying on. I took the jacket off, hung it on the chair next to me, exhaled the cigarette smoke, and kicked my feet on the opposite chair. The music was loud, and the place had far too many dark corners and blind spots, which made me damn nervous.

  The Television above the bar had some reporter in New York City talking about some kind of disturbance, but hell, that happened every second up there, I thought.

  Take a damn day off, ya dumb bastard, I told myself, and tapped ashes into the metal ashtray on the beer-stained table. The crowd was and half in the bag. I wanted nothing to do with them and was hoping to get the hell out of there after I got some chow and tried to call Inez again. It may not be worth two-shits, but I had to at least try. I snuffed the cig out and exhaled its smoky remains as a chunky waitress with huge boobs bursting through her Moe Whiskey’s Horseshoe Lounge T-shirt approached me. Her peroxide blonde hair had seen too much treatment in her old years and looked like she had been rode hard and put away wet ten times over. Her blue jean shorts were tighter than she deserved, and her stomach seemed to desperately want out of their denim prison.

  “Howdy there, handsome. What might I get for ya?”

  She sounded tired, and I knew how she felt. I tilted my hat toward her and nodded. “Evenin’. I’ll have a shot of whiskey and a Coors.” I ordered not looking in the waitress’s eyes. I filched a cigarette from my chest pocket and lit it.

  “Sure. You be wanting some food, darlin’? I’ve got a menu.” She smiled and held her hand on her wide hip.

  “Uh, yeah. Just a burger and fries, Ma’am.” I stood and inhaled the cigarette. I pulled a fifty from my wallet and dropped it on her tray. “Oh, and keep the booze coming, if you please.”

  “You got it, darlin’.” She dropped her hand and turned on her well-worn heel, heading for the bar.

  “Hold up.” I leaned in and read her name tag, resting almost flat on her massive cleavage. “Uhm, Suzie, y’all got a pay phone?” I asked. My smile was weak.

  “Right back there, other side of the jukebox, near the men’s room, darlin’.” She winked, and a smile creased her heavy made up face.

  “Thanks.” I tipped my Stetson, smiled, and walked past the group of drunken dancers and shouting rednecks stumbling around the red and blue light fake wooden dance floor. I was damn determined to take a day off, and it started right now. Five or six tough looking fellas surrounded the jukebox, laughing, and calling out letters and numbers of songs. I ignored the tough-guy looks they shot my way and saw the pay phone at the end of the red-lit hallway next to the shitters. I fished out a handful of change from my dungarees, picked up the receiver, and began shoving random coins into the slot.

  I fingered the rotary dial for home, and the line crackled with static as it began to ring. I covered my other ear and leaned into the grungy wall filled with posted notes of lost dogs, old washing machine sales, and desperate souls looking for a blowjob in the cozy confines of the bathrooms not a nary five feet away. I chuckled as the phone rang and then rang some more.

  “I Fall to Pieces,” began clamoring over the speakers, and the entire bar hooted and hollered. I had to cup my ear and tried to hunch into the crook of the pay phone cabinet. The crowds seemed to know I was on the damn phone, because almost on cue, they raised their inebriated hoopla about a hundred decibels.

  The line crackled and connected to home. As it began to ring, I hunched into the cabinet, hoping it would help me hear better. I counted twenty rings before the answering machine picked up. I found myself listening to my own cold voice. Damn. I do sound like an asshole.

  “Hello, you have reached 213-212- 4395. Leave a message.” It amazed me just how pathetic and miserable my voice sounded, even on a recording.

  I felt stupid talking to my own voice, but I had to say something. “Inez, honey. It’s me. I just wanted to talk to ya. Can you please pick up? I really want to talk. Pick up.” I felt my heart sink as the machine clicked off.

  No answer.

  I slammed the receiver down and squeezed the hell out of it.

  My gut wrenched, and it took all I had to fight back tears. I was getting goddamn tired of doing that. My hand absently touched my left breast pocket where the photo was. I chuckled at where I chose to put the last happy, visual memory we'd shared.

  My heart began to pound as my mind replayed that day in the photo, and I felt warm tears roll down my cheek. The glowing moment didn’t last long as the habitual pessimist took over in my head. Hell, might as well be back in Washington for all the comfort it brought me now. I was sure I mucked it up beyond repair this time. My face was burning, and I found my big fist clenching.

  “Ya gonna ask that phone to dance or can I cut in?” A young girl’s voice with what sounded to me like a New York accent startled me. Although, the faint smell of marijuana should have given her presence away. Damn, I was off my game. Not good.

  I half-turned around, making sure the tears were all gone, and saw a teenage girl maybe sixteen or so standing there. Long black hair tied back in a ponytail. She had one eyebrow raised and an impatient look on her freckled face.

  “Oh, uh yeah. I’m done. It’s all yours, kid.” I dabbed a tear that snuck free and tipped my hat before backing away from the phone, using my hat to cover my face.

  “Thanks, Gramps. 'Preciate it.” She snatched the receiver off the hook and turned her back to me. I noticed she had a backpack over her shoulders stuffed to the gills. A few candy bar wrappers peeked out from one of the pockets, as well as a Buck knife’s handle. She talked tough, but I could tell she was tired. My guess was that she just got off the Greyhound bus. What was she doing traveling alone? It didn’t sit right, but I remembered my promise to myself just seconds ago: Take a day off now. But I also noted there seemed to be bloodstains on both her jacket and backpack. I cursed myself and repeated, “A day off,” as she searched her pockets, each time coming up empty. I reached into my pants front pocket, pulled out a dollar in quarters, and placed them on top of the dusty pay phone

  “Thanks.” She snatched the change up. She kept her back to me and stood facing the exit to the parking lot.

  “Welcome,” I said, giving the girl a tip of the hat with my forefinger and thumb. She didn’t look, and it really didn't bother me. My concerns were miles away, and I needed a drink and some chow. I left the girl and headed back to my table and my drinks. I heard a jingle from the door beyond the pay phones from the parking lot. I stopped, then thought the hell with it, shook my head, and continued walking.

  “A day off,” I mumbled, and saw Suzie delivering my drinks. I suddenly knew it was indeed time for a day off. At least one night. I prayed I could salvage my marriage, but that would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Still, something about the ballsy teen just didn’t feel right. Old habits die hard. I grumbled, and took a shot, chasing it with the cold beer.

  Buck Owens crooned, “Act Naturally,” when I reached my table to find the hamburger and fries waiting. I felt my stomach growl and sat down.

  The food didn’t last long, and I barely tasted it. I needed a liquid supper, but also knew far better to do that on an empty gut. Last time I did that, I ending up busting up a small bar in Nacogdoches, along with four bikers, my hand, and a couple ribs. This wasn’t an option tonight. My world was already in the shit
ter and adding more crap to the pile wouldn’t do me any good. I caught Suzie’s eye and nodded her over.

  “Y’all done, darlin’?” She chomped on her gum and smiled.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I could use another Coors and whiskey if ya don’t mind.” I dabbed the corner of my mouth with the paper napkin and caught some commotion over by the jukebox. I leaned around the wide-hipped waitress and saw the rowdy bikers hooting and whistling as the young New York girl passed by, heading to the bar.

  “Ah, pay no mind to those drunk fools. They’re ’bout as harmless as a baby with boxing gloves, darlin’.” She laughed with a snort and finished picking up the plates and dirty silverware.

  “Be right back, handsome.” She walked away and disappeared into the bright lights of the kitchen behind the dark bar. Half blinded from the contrasting white light from the kitchen and the cave like darkness of the bar, I gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust, and looked for the young girl and the assholes shouting vulgar offers and drunken promises.

  The bar was heavy with cigarette smoke that created a wispy gray wall always moving and shifting through the packed crowd. After a few moments, I was able to locate the girl. She had squeezed between a short trucker with a beer belly and bushy, salt-n-pepper beard. On his head was a Kenworth ball cap, stained with grease and grime from miles of travel and road grunge. He smiled and nodded at the girl before going back to his dozen chicken wings. On the other side was a large woman squeezed into a pink Dolly Parton t-shirt. Her rolls of fat fought to escape the thin fabric and seemed to be winning. She paid no attention to the girl, caught my eye, and smiled. One gold tooth caught the reflection of the television above the bar. Her makeup piled on thick as a bar coaster. The women looked like a damn rodeo clown, and she blew a kiss my way. My disgusted inner thoughts must have shown up on my face, because she quickly followed it with a pudgy middle finger. I let out a small grin, but really wanted to ignore her, so I glanced back at the laughing bikers at the jukebox.