by Gabriel Bump
“You didn’t tell me you had a sister,” Kenneth said twice before I heard him.
“She’s not my sister,” I said.
“Sort of,” Janice said to Kenneth. “In a way.”
“Kenneth,” I said.
“You want me to leave?” Kenneth asked.
“Please,” I said.
“He’s a loser,” Janice said when Kenneth closed the door.
“He’s nice,” I said.
“He’s worse than you.” Janice grinned.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Were you crying?”
“No.”
“This place made you soft.”
I sat on the floor. She draped her feet over the bed, dangled them in my face. I took one of her ankles in my left hand, wrapped my fingers all around.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?” Janice asked.
“Because you’re here,” I said, “in my dorm room, in my bed, in Missouri.”
“I can’t visit?” Janice asked.
I couldn’t see her face from my position. She jerked her feet when she spoke.
“We haven’t spoken in weeks,” I said.
“Months,” Janice said. “Maybe.”
“When was the last time I saw you?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Janice said.
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“Eat,” Janice said. “I’m hungry.”
She jumped off the bed, almost stomped on my gut. She hoisted me up.
“I have homework,” I said.
“I want tacos,” Janice said.
She put her head into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her. She tucked her hands into her pockets.
“You can talk to me,” I said.
She looked up, for a moment, with unmistakable sadness and fear. Then she smiled, tapped my ribs with her fist, poked my shin with her shoes, and pulled me toward the door.
“Not now,” Janice said. “Not yet.”
“There’s a place downtown,” I said.
“Hold up,” Janice said.
She pulled a few twenties from her pocket.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My treat,” Janice said.
As we walked down Main Road, from campus to downtown, Janice turned heads. Girlfriends punched their boyfriends who were staring too long. Cars hung up traffic when red lights turned green. A police officer stopped scribbling a ticket. Everyone saw what I saw: someone who didn’t belong, a person steps above us. She didn’t seem to notice the stares, or notice anything. She kept her head down. I tried to ask her questions, and she deflected with grunts and shrugs. I stuck my hand across her chest to keep her from oncoming traffic. She grunted thanks and kept moving, without looking.
Her phone kept ringing. And she kept hanging up.
Martin’s Taco Palace was a thin hole in the wall flanked by a new frozen yogurt place and a new smoothie spot. You could walk past Martin’s without noticing it, like we did, twice. Downtown was trying to change, prosper, evolve, and catch up. Places like Martin’s were remnants of a psychedelic past. All college towns, I heard, embraced the seventies more than any other decade. Most were able to shrug it off when the new millennium hit. Not Martin’s. There were glow-in-the-dark peace signs stuck to the ceiling. Faded posters of Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, and Jimi Hendrix hung over the booths. Martin’s was 80 percent booths. A small open kitchen was beyond the counter. Martin sat on the counter, gray hair spooling down his torso into his lap. We were the only patrons.
“A romantic lunch?” Martin asked us when we entered.
“Sure,” Janice said, removed from her trance. “Why not?”
Martin slid off the counter, grabbed a few menus, and beckoned us to follow him toward Jimi Hendrix’s booth.
We sat down and Martin hovered over us, frozen and, it seemed, broken. His face turned blank, drool gathered on his lip. I coughed. Martin came back to us.
“Today’s special,” Martin said. “Crayfish enchiladas.”
“Can we have some water?” I asked.
“Time for my smoke,” Martin said.
Martin shuffled through the kitchen and out the back door.
“Do you eat here every day?” Janice asked.
“This is my first time,” I said.
“Looks like a shithole,” Janice said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We can go somewhere else.”
“I like shitholes,” Janice said.
I wanted her to tell me everything all at once. Why was she here? Why didn’t she call before she came? Who was calling her now? Why did she look defeated? Did she need help? I started with the most immediate concern.
“What do you want to eat?” I asked.
“These pork tacos look good,” Janice said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Or,” Janice said, “the chipotle chicken.”
“Janice,” I said in a voice I hoped carried concern and love.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Janice said.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“First,” Janice said, “I’m going to eat.”
“You can’t stay in my dorm room,” I said.
“Your roommate might kill people for fun,” Janice said.
“I know,” I said.
“Can we talk about something else?” Janice asked.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like you,” Janice said. “How are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“How can you not know?” Janice said.
“I’ve only been here a couple months,” I said.
“That’s long enough,” Janice said.
“I hate it,” I said.
“That’s what I thought.”
“How?”
“I know you,” Janice said.
“And I know you,” I said.
Janice looked back at her menu, turned it over a few times, looked for something else to talk about. She turned it faster and faster until she slammed it on the table. Martin appeared, a weed-perfumed apparition.
“Ready to order?” Martin asked.
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Janice said. “He’ll have the crayfish enchiladas; I’ll take the crazy potato tacos.”
Martin took our menus. Janice grabbed his tie-dyed shirt as he walked away.
“Our waters?” Janice asked.
“Water don’t work,” Martin said. His eyes were hot red and sweating.
“What are we supposed to drink?” Janice asked.
“Our margaritas come with lime wedges,” Martin said.
“We’ll take two margaritas,” Janice said.
“Coming up,” Martin said. “After my smoke break.”
Martin disappeared, again, out the back door. I understood, at that moment, our chances at a meal were slim to none.
“Does Grandma know you’re here?” I asked.
“She doesn’t care,” Janice said.
“She does,” I said.
“I haven’t been home in a while,” Janice said.
“Are you going to stay here?” I asked.
“You’d like that,” Janice said, “wouldn’t you?”
“I hate it here,” I said.
“I’ll make it better,” Janice said.
I knew she was lying about something, hiding her true motives. Something wasn’t right, that was obvious. The way she smiled and tilted her head, hopeful in her promise—we needed each other, we just didn’t know how, or why, exactly.
“Where are you going to stay?” I asked.
“I’ll figure something out,” Janice said.
“What about your job?” I asked.
“Can we please talk about something else?” Janice asked.
Martin appeared again. He dropped a tray of chips between Janice and me.
“We didn’t ask for this,” Janice said.
&nb
sp; “Complimentary,” Martin said.
“We asked for margaritas,” I said.
“You want to know something?” Martin asked us, as he stared through Jimi Hendrix.
“No,” Janice said. “We just want to eat.”
“I once lived in New Orleans,” Martin said. “Before that, I lived in Missoula. Reno before that. Before that . . . who knows. I used to ride my bicycle to school. I’ve seen sunsets in every direction. Chances are, if you’re interested in painting landscapes, I could help you out. My life is fuller than it feels. Remember that. Okay?”
Martin shuffled back outside.
“What is wrong with this place?” Janice asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Is everyone here a freak?” Janice asked.
“I guess,” I said. “Maybe.”
“I don’t like it here,” Janice said.
“There are freaks in Chicago,” I said.
“This is different,” Janice said.
“There are freaks everywhere,” I said.
“There are just more in Missouri,” Janice said.
I shifted, rubbed my arms.
“What does that make us?” I asked.
Janice shifted, gave her hair a soft tug.
“Lost,” Janice said.
“Lost,” I repeated.
“Not where we belong,” Janice said.
She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead, sighed. My thumbs fidgeted on the table.
We left, went next door, got expensive frozen yogurt with too many toppings, sat on the curb thinking, and tossed our sticky containers in a garbage can when Janice came to a decision.
“I’ll stay at a motel,” Janice said.
“Forever?” I asked.
“You won’t be here forever,” Janice said.
“This isn’t about me,” I said.
Janice’s phone kept ringing. She kept ignoring the pulsing in her pocket.
“Janice,” I said, “you have to tell me.”
Janice slumped into herself. A biker came close to squishing our toes.
“Let’s find a place,” Janice said.
The place we found was a one-story motel off the highway, a short walk from campus, next to the Megabus stop, bordered by a strip mall and a strip club. Loka House was the kind of structure tornados flatten with ease. The front desk was vacant when we walked in. Janice slapped the bell next to a bowl of melted peppermints. She slapped it again and again and again. Sweat beads formed on her nose.
“Maybe they’re closed.” I tried to pull her away from the bell. She resisted and kept slapping.
“Hello!” Janice screamed.
There was a door behind the desk with five thick locks separating us from whatever lurked behind. The room in which we stood was bare, beige, and florescent. The front desk was a plywood box. If Janice kept slapping away, I thought, this entire hotel was going to implode. This wasn’t a place that was built to last. Janice had sweat on her arms.
“Okay!” a voice shouted from behind the door.
“Come out here!” Janice shouted back.
“I am!” the voice answered.
“Now!” Janice shouted.
We were engaged in a strange hostage situation. One by one, the door’s thick locks clicked.
“I’m coming out!” the voice said.
The fifth lock clicked and the door swung open. Out stepped a short man in tight underwear wielding a flat bat, a weapon unlike anything I’ve seen before. He was shirtless and potbellied, South Asian with close-cropped black hair. His emerald eyes were crazed and bloodshot.
“Is this what you want?” the man asked.
Janice and I ducked behind the front desk.
“Show yourself,” the man demanded.
“We just want a room,” Janice said.
“Why didn’t you say so?” the man said.
“This is a hotel,” Janice said, still crouched.
“A motel,” the man said. “Stand up. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Janice and I stood up. The man was still without shirt and pants. He dropped the flat bat on the floor.
“What’s your problem?” Janice asked.
“Criminals,” the man said.
“We just want a room,” Janice said.
I didn’t know what to say, or ask for.
“Hourly?” the man asked, looking between us.
“We’re not criminals,” I said.
“Weekly,” Janice said. “Monthly.”
“Here?” I asked Janice. “For a month?”
“Maybe,” Janice said. “Months.”
“We have strong showerheads,” the man interjected.
The front door opened behind us.
“Dad!” a voice said.
A young woman shot around the front desk, stood in front of her father, blocked his immodest presence from our eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said before turning around to scold her topless and bottomless father in a language I didn’t recognize.
“We just want a room,” Janice said.
The woman pushed her father into the backroom. He didn’t put up much of a fight. He did rant and rave after the door was closed and the locks were locked. The woman took deep breaths. She adjusted her ponytail and glasses. She was the tallest person in the room. She had broad shoulders that angled into a thin waist and long thin legs. She was model-like, with high cheekbones and emerald eyes—her father’s eyes.
“My name’s Juna,” Juna said. She extended a hand in apology.
“We just need a room for a while,” Janice said.
“Pardon my father,” Juna said as she shuffled through a binder, looking for something.
“Is he okay?” I asked.
“Are any of us?” Juna asked.
“I’d prefer a big bed,” Janice said. “And a fridge.”
“Hourly?” Juna asked.
“Are there criminals around here?” I asked, stepping in, annoying Janice.
“There are criminals everywhere,” Juna said.
“Your father called us criminals,” I said.
“It’s because we’re black,” Janice said to me.
“We’re not racists,” Juna said.
“Everyone is a little racist,” Janice said.
“He’s talking about the white boys,” Juna said.
Juna continued to flip through her binder, half-interested in our questions.
“What white boys?” I asked.
“They think we’re Arabs,” Juna said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“They’re idiots,” Juna said.
“Will they bother us?” Janice asked.
“I don’t think so,” Juna said.
She found the page she was looking for. Her finger shot in the air.
“Ah!” Juna exclaimed. “We have a king-size bed with a fridge available.”
“I don’t know about this,” I said to Janice.
“I’ll take it,” Janice said to Juna.
“We can keep looking,” I said to Janice.
“Cash or card?” Juna said.
“Cash.” Janice took the money from her pocket and slid it toward Juna. Juna took the stack without counting.
“Let me know if you need more,” Janice said.
Juna nodded. She bent underneath the desk and emerged with two keys, each one dangling from an oversize chain.
“Room twenty-three,” Juna said.
Janice grabbed both keys, offered me one on the way out.
Rooms at Loka House were numbered without discernable logic. The first room was 3; then 1, 6, 8, 14, 15, 18, 20, 20B, and, at the end, 23. Ten rooms, one red Jeep in the parking lot, smashed cigarette packs on the curb, windows with closed curtains facing the street; a broken ballerina statuette leaned against room 18. Room 23 had a stubborn door that needed four hard pushes before it opened. I didn’t know despair had a smell.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked Janice.
She didn’t answer. Inste
ad, she moved around the room in silence, sniffing, inspecting. She peeked behind the shower curtain and whipped the closet open.
“We’re safe,” Janice said.
“Safe from what?” I asked.
“Sit down,” Janice said.
I bounced onto the fluffy mattress. Janice sat next to me.
“Don’t freak out,” Janice said.
From the second I saw her sitting in my dorm room, bored and calm, I knew someone was chasing her. I knew something bad was breathing down her neck. Still, I wasn’t expecting this.
Janice explained, in a voice that weakened as she went on, how everything had gone to shit.
She was working at this nightclub, she said. Her job, as she described it, was shaking her ass and getting rich people to buy expensive liquor by the overpriced bottle. These rich people would get tables in the VIP sections. Janice was responsible for getting them to show off their wealth. She got 20 percent of each bottle she sold. If the rich people who bought tables were men, and they usually were, they would pay in cash to impress Janice. Men like that, Janice thought, learned about women through music videos and movies about cool men made by loser men.
“Pathetic,” she said, “throwing money around expecting me to—who knows? They’re like dogs chasing cars.”
One night, this bachelor party came in. Janice was assigned to their section; bachelor parties loved Janice. The bachelor party wanted Janice to dance with them, asked if she was from Chicago, asked if she still lived in South Shore. Janice told them she moved downtown first chance she got. The bachelor party couldn’t believe it: this beautiful woman from their old neighborhood dancing inches away. They wanted to reminisce with her, slide into a nostalgic stream, remember the bus stops, chicken shacks, fights after school, long summer days on the beach, on the basketball courts, rushing home before dark, before the shooting started; the bachelor and his party were young and wanted to remember when they were younger. When the music stopped and the lights turned on, the bachelor party invited Janice to another bar.
Sitting in our motel room, Janice couldn’t explain why she agreed to meet them.
“When you left,” Janice said. “I wanted to forget South Shore. These guys seemed nice, innocent, and kind. They reminded me of you. Their faces were soft. Their suits didn’t fit right. They paid in cash, said they’d wait for me at another bar, wouldn’t leave until I showed up.”