by Erb, Thom
“Pelelue and Iwo Jima,” he said and drank from his glass, winked at me, and I knew what the old man was saying.
“Tet and Hue,” I said with a somber, knowing tone in my voice. The world had turned on its ass and here I was in a damn gas station in the middle of hell’s half acre, having a Chesty fuckin’ Puller moment with a crotchety old cashier. Damn strange.
“Oorah,” he said, and pushed the change across the counter, holding his glass up in a soft salute. I returned it, and we both took a drink, both understanding that there are just some damn demons that no one can shake.
“Oorah.” I nodded, and took the change, tucking the turtle under my arm. He pointed to the pay phone in front of the store and turned away. I walked out of the store, turned to the left, and wondered what the hell had just happened. My Mamma always said rainstorms always bring out the strange in the world, and I am thinking the old lady was spot on. I found the pay phone not far from the parked cars, set the turtle on top of the phone box along with the beer, shoved some dimes in it, and dialed home. The acid inside my gut grew with each static-filled ring.
***
Stacy Jo needed time to figure this out and to light the fires. What the hell was she thinking when she asked a damn Texas Ranger for a ride? She could feel her heartbeat in her temples. Hell, because she was a runaway or even worse, the baggie of weed she had stuffed in her backpack. He’s probably calling his asshole buddies as she sat there on the crapper inside of this Texas rat-hole bathroom. She liked the dude. He seemed real enough, and he was pretty hot for an old man, but she was running on a short supply of trust lately. After the crap with Fat Albert back on the bus, she wasn’t sure which way was up, and she hated that she wasn’t in control. She fumbled through her backpack. Her stress-filled face spread into a wide smile as her hand found the over-stuffed baggie, and the very thought of its contents promised to take the stress away.
The storm pounded the thin tin roof above. The thunder rattled the stall as she fetched the doobie out of the case, put it to her lips, and lit it with her Bic lighter. The mildly skunky aroma helped to wash away the rotten egg smell of the rain. She hoped it would help her forget all about her current Texas Ranger problem. All she ever dreamed of was getting away from the Podunk town and her drunken ass dad, who’d rather use her for a punching bag than treat her like a daughter. And now, here she was, traveling with a cop, after gutting a pervert on a Greyhound bus. How much more Twilight Zone could you freaking get? she though,as she took a puff and held it in.
“Mom, what am I supposed to do?” she asked in a low squeak, as she let the smoke float out into the graffiti filled stall. She knew she wouldn’t get an answer; she never did. She took another toke and tried to find comfort in the herb. That’s when she heard the low moans and sounds of shuffling work boots on the wet floor of the bathroom. The pounding on the thin metal walls of her stall caused her to drop the Band-Aid box and joint. The thin door crashed open in an instant. She screamed and wished she were back in Arcadia Falls.
She screamed again, and the ballast of thunder silenced her.
***
Inez answered on the third ring, and the sound of her sultry voice and thick Mexican accent reminded me again why I loved the damned woman so much. Then, I remembered why I was calling her. The fire exploded in my chest again. My gut felt like I swallowed a dozen bouncy-betties that just went off. I felt sweat soaking through my dress shirt—even my sport coat—that was pretty damn odd, considering the damn temperature had dropped a good ten to fifteen degrees in the past half hour.
“Hola, Casa McCutcheon,” she answered. Just hearing her happy voice made my hands slick with sweat. I almost dropped the damn receiver. I juggled it and finally caught it, and then put the cold plastic to my ear.
“Hey, baby. It’s me,” I said. I tried to keep my tone calm and cool, but knew damn well calm and cool were shot to hell the minute I slugged the Governor of Texas back in Lubbock.
“Hi, sweetie. I got your message, you okay?” she asked. “You sounded so upset.” she followed up.
I took the beer off the top of the phone box and took a long swig.
The rain poured down, thunder rolled and sounded like John Bonham was playing a drum solo overhead.
“Yeah, Nezi. I’m good, well…not really,” my voice broke, and my mind stalled. I didn’t know how to tell her. My lovely fiancé wasn’t a patient woman and never put up with my uncanny ability to beat around the goddamned bush.
“Jay, you never call me Nezi unless you have bad news. What the hell is going on?”
The damn woman knew me better than I did. No sir, there weren’t no dancing around this conversation. I tightened the grip on the stuffed turtle atop of the phone box.
“Uh, yeah, you’re right baby. I have some…bad news.” I sipped from the tall boy again and watched the drunken Mexicans shuffling by the van, trying to get the balls up to finish my confession.
“Are you okay, baby?” I could hear the panic in her voice as it dropped to a desperate whisper. I’d heard it several times before. Usually it was when I was involved in a shootout and some kind of murder investigation. I was damn close to wishing I was shot instead of what really had happened. Hell, at least with a bullet wound I could heal. With this, I was pretty sure I would never recover from the shit-storm I’d run headlong into, like a stupid fool. There was a long pause before I answered. I could hear her shorten breathing on the other end and knew I needed to tell her.
“Nezi, I think I finally did it this time. There's a good chance I lost my job.” There, I said it. It was out there in the thick, cold air, and out in the fucking open. As if to punctuate my bombshell, a round of thunder shook the building and the phone crackled with static.
A lifetime of silence filled the space between us as my heart began to tighten like vice-grips. And it felt like the sonuvabitch was getting tighter the longer that nothing came from the other end of the line. The fucking tears filled my eyes again, and I was going to run out of beer pretty damn quick. Finally, she broke the invisible wall between us and spoke.
“What? How…what?”
I could hear her shattered words, filled with disappointment and anger, burning like acid through the phone lines all the way from Houston.
I stared like a zombie at the men next to the van, not really seeing them. I was more like seeing through them—wishing I could be home. Be with my baby and explain things in person—but that wasn’t going to happen. I started this and needed to finish it. My wet hands slipped on the slick plastic of the receiver. I drank from the beer, fought back the demons in my gut, and took a long, deep breath before I answered her.
“Hold on, baby. It’s complicated…Let me explain…Please.” I sipped again.
“James Mathew McCutcheon, what did you do THIS time?” Her words were full of venom and with justified indignation. I’d heard those same words too many times before to count, and every time they came out of her beautiful mouth, I felt as if chunks of my heart and soul were being cleaved with each and every goddamn syllable.
“Ya know how the Governor’s been riding my ass like a rented mule since I got assigned to his goddamned detail last fall?” I started, and she cut me off.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, James,” she corrected me as she usually did. It was one of the most annoying drawbacks in being in love with a devout Catholic. I tried hard to fight back my frustration at the damn cussing and continued.
“Right, right, sorry baby. Anyway, he started his shi- crap talking the second I got on the damn plane today. He kept asking to see pictures of you, and, ah hell, baby… worse.” I couldn’t bring myself to repeat what that bag of shit said about her. I felt my hand tighten around the beer can, so I took a sip to calm me down.
That’s never is a good option for me. Damn demons.
“But, James. He’s your boss. What did you do?” Her once sexy accent now turned into a deep, boiling tone of anger and frustration that if I wasn’t carefu
l, could probably burn my hick ass all the way from Houston. “Oh wait, let me guess… you lost your temper and slugged him, didn’t you?”
By the ocean of silence I let pass, she damn well knew that’s just what I did. My chest felt heavy and those fucking tears took up a perch in my damn eyes. I had to do something, but for Christ’s sake, where do you go when you’ve been down this well paved road of good intentions that never ends in nothing but me fucking it all up?
“I know, Nezi. I know, but I had no choice! See, on the way back from D.C., he just pushed me too far.” I knew the words came out hollow. The poor girl had heard those same words before, but it was all I had to offer. My flushed cheeks were quickly becoming soaked with tears. I wanted to punch something. “He was looking at your picture, baby, and sayin’ really raunchy shit. I just couldn’t….” The words came out like a rotted tooth painfully pulled piece-by-piece.
“Jay, you didn’t…. You didn’t hit him did…” Her word caught in her throat, and I could tell she was starting to cry.
“Sonuvabitch.” I pulled the receiver away from my trembling mouth and leaned against the phone box, forcing my Stetson to teeter forward. I gripped the phone as if I could strangle the pain out of situation and make it all better. Who the hell was I kidding? I could never make anything better? Everything I fucking touched seemed to be cursed, like King Midas in fucking reverse. I drained the rest of the Pabst, threw it down on the rain soaked blacktop, and stomped it with my worn cowboy boot.
A long minute passed before I could form a word. The yellow tainted rain swirled and created a mustard-like haze over the parking lot. I searched for what to say next. I watched as the drunken Mexicans, who’d been singing and bouncing back and forth in this shit-full rainstorm, suddenly stopped at the same time. They all sniffed the chilly night air. Fucking weird.
Inez’s voice shook me back to the heavy conversation. “Did you, Jay? Did you really hit the damn Governor? Please tell me it’s just one big joke…. Please!”
I could tell she already knew the answer. My heart felt like it was going to shatter into a million pieces and wash away in the storm. I kept an eye on the drunks, but every other part of me was with Inez—in Houston. And wishing I could make it better. Wishing I could lie and tell her no, I didn’t hit that fat sack of dog shit. But on some level, I didn’t regret knocking the old fuck on his perverted ass. He deserved it, and I should have done it months ago. On another level, a far more important level, I knew I had just driven the last nail into my own pine box. There sure as hell wasn’t going to be enough, heartfelt apologies,,or enough roses, or promises of, ‘I’ll change and I swear I’ll never do it again.’ I’d worn them all out like the worn whiskey flask inside my jacket. I was pretty damn sure I was a day late and a fucking dollar short on this one. And her words confirmed my worst fears.
“He’s an old drunk, James. How could you punch the Governor of Texas? Have you gone loco?” she asked.
The drunken Mexicans slowly moved toward the building. I kept watching them. I didn’t know why.
“But, Nezi. The things he said…they were so na—” She wasn’t having any of my lame-ass excuses.
“Drop the Nezi shit, James. We’ve been through this before. San Antonio, Nacogdoches and New Orleans and now THIS!”
Her words made my breath freeze in my chest. She, as usual, spoke the gospel, but it tore at me like the hellhounds I’d been dodging since ’Nam. I was sure we both remembered the horrible memories of each incident and what happened because of them.
“You promised me you were done with the fighting and the drinking.” A short pause filled the chilly air with razor-sharp anticipation.
The drunk Mexicans reached the bathroom doors of the truck stop. A close lightning strike lit up the rain slick parking lot and I shade my eyes.
“I tried, baby. I really did. That asshole, just pushed me too…” She didn’t give me a chance to finish.
“James…I’m done. I love you, but I just can’t…. I can’t. Not anymore. I am too tired, and I have to think about Bellia now.”
She was balling, and I felt as though those fucking hellhounds were ripping the meat from my bones. Deep down, I knew I deserved it. It didn’t take the pain away, hell no! It was right there, front and goddamn center. My tears matched the fucked up storm raging all around the godforsaking truck stop.
“No, baby, don’t. Please!” My words came out weak and pitiful. I was damn sure there wasn’t a fucking thing I could say, no promise I could swear to her, that would make her change her mind. After all, why should she? I was a lost cause. I was a drunk who liked to fight, and as she always told me, I was born a hundred years too late. I should have been riding with Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday, drinking whiskey and meting out my own brand of whiskey-juiced, cowboy justice. Hell, maybe she was right. I had more demons trailing me than I had bullets to shoot them with. I was damaged from the damn get-go. I was sorry.
“I’m sorry, James. I love you…but our daughter needs to be safe and I don’t know if I can tru…. I can’t keep this up anymore. I am sorry, James. I…” She hesitated.
She didn’t have to finish. I knew what she meant, and it tore at me; the truth always does—bores deep into your flesh like a fisherman’s hook. The sharp metal never stopped for anything. The truth was the truth. Inez was right.
“Wait, Inez… please. This time, it was really different. Skip will tell ya.” I had to try. There was a pause in the storm, and I saw the drunk Mexicans disappear into the bathroom. The women’s bathroom, and a shrill scream broke through the rain.
The kid… I panicked.
“What in heaven could he possibly tell me that I haven’t heard a million times already, James? Really? I love you, and I don’t want to go. You know I love you so much, but what can you tell me, to make me stay?” She meant her words. She never talked bullshit.
Screams came again from the bathroom. I never could take a day off.
“I know, Nezi, but please just trust me. Baby, I gotta go.” I dropped the receiver and sprinted through the mustard colored rainstorm, praying I wasn’t too late.
“James? James? You there?” came through the swinging pay phone receiver as I ran. My heart trembled, and my tears matched the falling rain, but the New York kid was into something bad. I can never take a damn day off.
Fucking demons!
17
Rough Boy
ART's Gas-A-Torium's Restroom
Friday, 10:59 p.m.
Stacy Jo found herself backed into the slimy corner of the bathroom stall. Her feet slipped on top of the crap and urine-stained toilet—frantically flailing her knife at the four men, who crammed into the small stall like a feeding frenzy of sharks who could smell blood inside the diver’s cage. She could hear herself screaming.
The men were shouting, no, groaning at her. She had no idea of what they were trying to say.
The smell was far worse than the rotten egg odor outside. This new stench choked her, causing her to gag, and it reminded her of two-week-old road kill. Stacy Jo fought the bile back down into her throat as she swept the knife at anything that grabbed for her. She felt the blade slice deep into the forearm of one of the drunks, but the guy didn’t react at all, the bastard just kept coming at her, trying to grab her. They all had the same mad look in their eyes. Their eyes were black, yet sad looking, and in the chaos of fighting them off, she could have sworn she saw black tears streaming down the dirty men's faces.
“Get the hell away from me you mother —” The words were hers, but she felt like she was watching a scene from a cheesy horror flick—distant and detached. They snarled and bit at her, trying to pull her closer. They want to eat me, that sudden, sick thought snapped in her mind. Her blood ran cold as one of the attacker's rotting teeth chomped in the air, inches from her face. She swung the blade across one of the attacker's cheeks. Renting his flesh loose from his face, but no blood came with it. She pressed her body against the cool wall, and kicked and stabbed
at them. She was getting tired, and her lungs burned from yelling for help. One of the other men wearing a Loverboy t-shirt, grabbed her arm, yanking the knife from her hand. It clanked onto the wet, tiled floor. She punched at the man’s tattooed arm. He hissed at her and pulled her closer to his wide-open mouth. She cried out and continued to punch and kick, but the man was too strong. She felt a sharp pain tear through her sneakered foot as one of the other men bit down into it. She screamed and jammed her thumb into the man’s eye socket. It made a sickly, squishing sound as she buried her thumb knuckle-deep. She then felt her other foot slip on the sweating plumbing of the shitter. She fell onto the cold, wet floor and knew she was dead.
A bright muzzle flash filled the small stall. One of the attackers fell away and another was yanked backward as a booming, commanding voice followed.
“Down on the floor,” she heard the Ranger shout, as the other attackers turned away from her and lunged toward the sound of his voice.
She grabbed at her foot and looked for blood, and then watched the Ranger move smoothly, seamlessly, as he took on the men who were grasping and biting at him. Biting…why were they trying to bite? Drugs? What the hell? She puzzled as she watched the drunk Ranger take one man by the wrist and jerk it down. The growling man fell to the floor.
The Ranger followed his attack with a smash to the back of the man’s skull with the butt of his .45 pistol. Spinning underneath another one of the staggering men, he kicked out with one of his cowboy boots and hit the man on the side of his knee, causing him to topple on top of the other attacker and they both landed in a heap on the wet bathroom floor.
“Go!” He glared at her as he brought a fist against the prone man’s temple. He jammed his broad body between her and the attackers.
She knew this was her chance. She heard gunshots as she scrambled out of the bathroom into the raging storm.