"Is there a problem, sir?"
"No, I was just asking Little Wing here if he knew of a place called Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In."
"Oh, Lord," Skip said, his head rolling back in an Oh-My-God fashion. The impatient fat bastards grew restless and being that Skip was probably concerned about burger sales and weekly sales targets and all kinds of corporate pressures to sell as much crap as possible, he kindly asked me to step aside and said he would come out from behind the counter to talk to me. He did and this is what he said. "I'm sorry to say that Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In is no longer around."
"No, no! What happened?"
"Well, I don't know for absolutely sure what happened but I can tell you what I know."
"OK."
"Well, Big Cooter passed away about 15 years ago and he left the drive-in to a slew of family members including Cooter Junior and a bevy of relatives, siblings, cousins, you name it. After trying to run that place the best they could, they eventually ran that place into the ground, sad to say, through a slew of bad business decisions and on account of Cooter Junior's horrendous cocaine habit."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. The family fell into squabbling and in-fighting and after a few years, they sold the property to an outlet mall consortium and this fine establishment was built on the very ground where Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In thrived for so long. It has been both a good and bad turning for me personally."
"How so?" I asked.
"Well, I worked plenty of summers at Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In. Good times, good times. So I was really sad to see them tear down that place. But, I did get a job here at McSkippy's and eventually became a manager. So some good did come out of them selling the place and tearing it down."
"I see. So, you're not the Skip in McSkippy's?"
"No, that's just a weird coincidence."
"Thanks for your time," I said.
We walked out of McSkippy's, leaving behind Little Wing the Chickasaw boy who was named after a Jimi Hendrix song and Skip the unhappy manager / ex Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In employee and all the miserable, fat bastards waiting for their crappy, mushy hamburgers. We walked out into the throng of zombie shoppers, slumping along from store to store. All I wanted to do was to get on the highway and get away from that goddamn place but Gina said she had one place she wanted to run into really quick. It was probably some goth boutique or lingerie store or teenage teeny bopper clothing store or something so I decided to sit on a bench near the entrance and waited for her.
The hundreds of people walking by hypnotized me, their feet shuffling with a mannered, plodding cadence. I found myself in a contemplative mood and I thought about not only Cooter's Big Burger Drive-In but all of the other places from my youth that I loved so much: Tyrone's BGP Convenient Store, Dan's Watering Hole, Stuckey's, and now Cooter's. I realized that even though my fond memories of these places were very present in me that time wasn't so kind to them. Time had a way of bulldozing over the things you loved and that made me really sad. I was the saddest of all the sad bastards, sitting on a metal bench in a shithole town called Ardmore at a goddamn outlet mall that was placed over my favorite drive-in restaurant like a tombstone. I couldn't think of a worse place to be. It's true.
After 10 minutes or so, Gina came walking back to where I was waiting. She had a perplexed look on her face.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I went into that book store over there and asked them about your book. They said they'd never heard of it."
"That's weird," I said. "Let's go."
"Wait! So I asked them to look it up in their computer. I asked them to look up, The Rise and Fall of a Titan. They said there wasn't a book by that name in their system."
"That's very strange. Can we go now?"
We walked out the exit. Gina continued on.
"So, then I asked them to look up your name and they didn't find anything with your name either. Why is that?"
"I have no idea. Maybe different stores have different systems. Who knows?"
"Well, I thought that was strange. How could they not have any books by the best-selling author, Simon Burchwood?"
"We are in the middle of nowhere, you know?"
"Yes, that is true."
And that was it. Then we left.
20.
The drive to Norman was pretty quiet. We didn't talk much except for an occasional question or two from Gina about my book. You see, before we drove away from that goddamn outlet mall, I opened the trunk of the Cadillac and pulled out all the promotional crap I had for my book, the headshots, the pamphlets, sample chapters, all of the business cards, all of the bullshit I had been lugging around on this abysmal trip. That pile of crap made me look like a real goddamn professional, you know? It's true. Unfortunately, I didn't have an actual copy of the book. I had sold or given away all of the copies I had in my possession long ago but there was enough stuff there for her to read that kept her busy for most of the way to Norman. Thank God for that. I was getting kind of tired by that point of having meaningless conversations about this and that and why this and why that and blah blah blah. It was enough to give me a goddamn migraine headache. I did take a peek every once and a while at what she was reading. She really seemed to be into those sample chapters. She was engrossed in those pages, slumping in her seat, her feet up on the dashboard. What can I say? I wrote a real page-turner! It's true.
After reading all of the written stuff, she pulled out a headshot of me, a fine photograph taken by the world-renown French Canadian photographer Jacques Partee. When it was time for me to have a headshot made for the promotional material for my book, I initially had the bright idea of having my kids take a photograph of me. That wasn't the smartest idea in the goddamn world. The photos good ol' Sammie boy took were absolute crap. Bless his heart. He tried his best. But the best from a five year old is not much to write home about. He would yell out, "Shmoto! Shmoto!" as he ran around, snapping shots of me angrily trying to get him to stand still and follow my directions. After that fiasco, I decided to look in the classifieds for a professional photographer. I found an ad Jacques posted that claimed, "Un photographe de magnifiques!" I was sold. He sounded like a real goddamn professional the way he plopped in a little French into his ad. It's true. I contacted him and he came to my house the next day.
Jacques showed up at my house wearing a beret and a scarf, telling me this and that about how he was going to make me look like a star, asking if he could check out my backyard for natural light, etc. He had a midget assistant in tow, a little fellow named Francois. The two of them examined my backyard, tiptoeing around the dog poop left there to dry in the sun. They found a spot in the corner of my backyard and setup their equipment, erecting these contraptions for reflecting light that looked like white umbrellas with legs, hanging lights from the tree limbs above, laying down extension cords to power everything. The midget scurried around, performing the tasks Jacques barked at him in French, all the while Jacques was giving me directions in English as he went into great detail about how his family immigrated to Canada in the mid 1700s and created an extremely successful business trapping furry animals and selling their pelts for tons of money. It was a pretty bizarre afternoon and all. But, I will say this, that French Canadian bastard took some great photos. He was a goddamn professional. It's true.
"Why do you look so serious in these photos?" Gina asked, holding up one of the headshots for me to see.
"I wanted to look professional."
"You look kind of constipated in this one." She held up one that was my favorite. I thought I looked rather fantastic in that shot. She seemed to disagree. She was a real goddamn critic. It's true. "You should have smiled more. You have a nice smile when you do smile."
"I was following directions from my photographer. He thought I looked regal."
"Regal?" She started laughing and cackling all over the goddamn place. She was getting a real kick out of that on my expense. "Sorry. That just sounded a little fu
nny."
"Ha ha. Very funny."
"Can I have one of your business cards?" she asked.
"Sure."
"This is your cell number here?"
"Yes."
"So I can keep in touch with you?"
"Of course. And you can check out my stuff on my web site. Become one of my patrons, if you want. Writers need patrons, you know?"
"I don't know about being a patron. I'm a poor college student. How about we just be friends?"
"I would like that."
She smiled and looked out the window. As we approached the exit for Norman, Oklahoma, she pointed to this gigantic building, a pink and teal gargantuan casino called The Riverwind Casino. It looked like a Vegas nightmare gone awry with a tall neon sign that jutted toward the sky, animated advertisements flashing and dancing and beckoning suckers, luring gamblers with promises of 10-times payouts and the opportunity to cash their paychecks right there. It was a redneck's nightmare and an Indian tribe's dream come true. I imagined all of the local white folks draining their savings in that hellhole while the Indian owners sat in the back, counting and sorting the White Man's hard earned cash, smoking cigars and drinking scotch. It was a funny goddamn thought. It's true.
"I worked there last summer," she said. "I was a cocktail waitress. I made pretty good money."
"Did you see anybody win a jackpot?"
"Sometimes. Mostly no. The customers sure were determined though. Sometimes, my customers would get so drunk that they would leave me their payout slips by accident. They'd give up hundreds of dollars while stumbling out to their cars or taxis. Sometimes, I would find them crying."
"Crying? Why?"
"Because they had just lost all of their savings."
"Oh."
"But I did meet this cool guy while I was working there. He was an Indian Shaman. He had a little business behind the casino where he would tell people their futures, their fortunes."
"How did you meet him?"
"He would come into the casino with a stack of business cards. He'd drink rum and cokes and walk around handing out his cards. He belonged to the tribe that owned the casino. They didn't mind him looking for business. He'd watch the old ladies put their money in the slot machines. If they were losing, then he'd tell them to go to his shop and see him and he'd tell them when they would win next."
"Was he right?"
"All I know is that I was telling him one time that I was hard up for some money. I went to see him at his shop and he told me that the next day, I would have some good luck then he blessed me. So before I went on my shift the next day, I put a $20 bill in a slot machine and I won $1,000! I couldn't believe it."
"Wow! That's crazy."
"It sure was."
I pulled Clint the Caddy off the highway and turned east to go to Norman. It was just a few minutes away. As we got into town, Gina pointed to some places where she liked to hang out near the university, a couple of punk rock bars, a thrift shop, a record store. It seemed like she lived a typical college life, going to school, hanging out with her friends, getting drunk at punk shows, barely making it. All in all, it was a pretty simple life compared to my goddamn life, one without kids and salaried jobs and divorce and bills and all the shit I had to deal with. To tell you the truth, I was a little envious of her simple life. She didn't see it that way but I sure as hell did. She couldn't see the forest for the trees or however that stupid saying goes. It's true.
She pointed to a side street where her apartment complex was and I turned and pulled into the parking lot. She told me to make lefts and rights and we found her building in the back, a dumpy two story building that probably could tell a lot of good stories if it could talk. I parked, got out, and helped her get her things out of the trunk.
"Well, Simon, thanks for the ride."
"You're welcome."
"I'd invite you up but my place is probably pretty messy. My boyfriend isn't very clean."
"Boyfriend?"
"Yes, boyfriend."
"You never mentioned you had a boyfriend."
"Does it really matter?" she asked, giving me an inquisitive look. She sure was beautiful for a goth girl that liked blasting her hair into a spiky mess and sticking jewelry all over her face. If I wasn't so old, then I might have asked her out on a date or something. If I wasn't slightly balding and kind of pudgy, then she might have actually found me somewhat attractive. If she didn't have a boyfriend, then she might have considered it, at least considered it. Boyfriends have a way of ruining things for single men like me. It's true. "Well?"
"Maybe."
"You're cute and sweet. Keep in touch. You never know what the future holds."
She hugged me tightly then placed her hand on my face. She pulled me towards her and kissed me on the cheek. Then she walked away. I watched her walk to her building and climb the stairs. When she got to the top, she waved at me. I waved back then yelled out to her.
"What's in your backpack?"
"What?!" she yelled.
"Your backpack? You never told me what was in your backpack. The personal thing? You said you'd tell me when we got here."
She stood there for a second, a smile stretching across her face. She waved again, turned around, went into her apartment, and closed the door behind her.
I got back into Clint the Caddy and drove away. I knew that mystery was going to bother me until the end of time. It was already starting to bother me. Women have a way of doing that to you, bothering you with their goddamn mysteries. Women are real mysterious creatures. It's true.
***
As much as I was looking forward to continuing this trip by myself, I have to admit Clint the Caddy was uncomfortably quiet. I guess I had gotten used to those two knuckleheads yapping it up and cackling and hemming and hawing all over the goddamn place, annoying the shit out of me with their incessant chatter and mindless banter. Sometimes as much as quiet solitude sounds like a peaceful place, the stillness can be maddening, even in a moving vehicle. I mean, I turned on the radio to try to quiet my restless thoughts but that didn't help. That only made things worse for me. So I decided right then and there that I would fight through the madness and just get to my grandparents' house. Norman wasn't too far from where they lived, 30 minutes at most. I tried to make the best of it. It's true.
Even though it had only been a few hours since I dropped Snaggle off at the bus station and left Gina at her apartment complex, I was starting to worry about them both. Would Snaggle make it home back to Austin OK or would he get raped in the bus restroom by a six foot four Mexican with a cobra tattoo on his left bicep and a Jesus tattoo on his right bicep? Would Gina get into a fight with her boyfriend because she caught a hitch in Waco, Texas with two strange men, one of which she gave a testicular cancer examination? I couldn't say one way or the other. All I knew was that I missed the goofy bastards. I missed them a lot. It's true.
Fortunately, I wasn't on the highway for more than 15 minutes when I got close to their part of town. It was closer than I remembered. Their neck of the woods had aged somewhat gracefully, giving way to corporate retail stores and chain restaurants like any other goddamn metropolis yet it was also apparent that some traditions had kept hold. You see, Oklahoma City was a military town and a capital city, therefore a lot of veterans lived there. And since they were from an era our country had endured that was much more intense than what my generation lived through, they were pretty adamant about keeping the status quo, which meant golf clubs and officers clubs and VFW clubs and whatever. They wanted us to know that they fought for something important and they wanted to be recognized for it. And they wanted to relax and chill out in their old age. It's true. I found the exit for their neighborhood and took it.
Once off the highway, I went a block or two or three and found the street that would take me to their house. I turned into their section of the neighborhood and brought Clint the Caddy to a crawl. I wanted to absorb the scenery. Most of the houses were built in the 60s and 70s
and with the exception of an occasional satellite dish strapped to a chimney or a modern coat of paint, all of the houses looked like they had been frozen in time. It was a real sight to see. It's true. My childhood memories rushed into my mind and I had flashes of several summers gone by, memories of running around outside in this neighborhood, looking for other kids my age. The lawns were still manicured. The driveways filled now with SUVs and pickup trucks and Lincolns.
A turn here and a turn there and I found their home. I parked in the street out front and took it all in. I had finally arrived, all by myself. It had been years, several years too long, since I had seen my grandparents. In fact, I hadn't spoken to them in quite some time either. I was quite ashamed of that but it was my goddamn divorce's fault. I lay blame where blame is deserved. Divorce has a way of doing that to you, throwing you into a hole of despair, covering you, smothering you from the rest of the world, separating you from your loved ones. It took a long time for me to dig out of that hole. That fucker was pretty deep. It's true.
I turned off the engine, got out of the car, and walked across the crunchy Bermuda grass to the front door. I pressed the door bell. As I remembered, the door bell rang a few bars of the song Dixie Land. A smile stretched across my face and for a brief moment, I felt like I was 12 years old again. My grandparents always expected me when I was coming for my visits and they would wait for me in the den by the front door, usually with a bowl of candy or a plate of brownies or some sweet treat to greet me with. I held onto a small bit of hope that they would be waiting there for me with some sweet treats nearby. The door slowly opened and a little, old woman peeked out from behind the door. She had a kind, gentle face but it wasn't my grandmother's kind, gentle face. I didn't know who the fuck this old woman was opening my grandparents' door.
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 17