Spinning Out

by David Stahler Jr.

  “Women. Go figure,” I said at last. I stood up, wavering for a second against the sudden heaviness of my body. “It’s been a tough year, Ralph. Maybe you’ve got to give it some time.” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. “Just be patient. Don’t give up.”

  He struggled out of his chair, and the next thing I knew he was giving me a hug—a big one with those fucking lanky arms of his. I let him hug me, stinky body and all. If it kept him from bawling, it was worth it.

  “You’re the best, bro. The fucking best.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I replied, giving it a silent three count before untangling myself. My whole scalp was prickling now. The pot, the smoke in the air, the smell of roasting turkey—it was all catching up with me. I had to get out.

  “Hey, Ralph, I gotta go. But listen, Mom’s making a nice dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you come over? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.”

  He broke into a big smile and slapped his hands together.

  “Thanks, bro,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re the fucking bomb. The best.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I turned to leave. He followed me into the kitchen. As I reached the door, a loud ding made us both stop.

  “Yeah, baby!” he called out. “Turkey’s done! Hold on, Frenchy.”

  I waited while he took the bird out and set it on the stovetop. It looked like something out of an issue of Good Housekeeping, for chrissake, all mahogany brown and steaming. I watched him expertly cut off one of the drumsticks with a carving knife and wrap the end in a paper towel.

  “Something for the road.” He handed me the leg. “That’s serious fucking man food right there.”

  “Wow. Sure is,” I said. “Thanks, Ralph.”

  He nodded and gave me a cheesy wink. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I replied, returning the wink.

  The cold air cleared my head some as I stepped off the porch and into the twilight. I felt instant relief, in spite of everything I’d said to Ralph.

  I thought about saving the drumstick for dinner, but as I left the driveway and headed back up the road to my house, the smell got to me, and I dug in. I have to admit, it tasted pretty goddam good.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Stewart came knocking at ten o’clock, tapping out his usual rhythm on my bedroom window just as I was about to turn in.

  I usually didn’t go to bed until at least midnight—even later on Fridays—but I was pretty beat from the long week. Besides, my mother would be home soon, and I didn’t feel like talking to her. I wasn’t really high anymore or anything—I just didn’t want to get into the whole Stewart thing, not to mention the business with Ralph. It could all wait until tomorrow.

  I cranked the window open a few inches and peeked out.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Hi, Frenchy,” real-Stewart whispered. The hair, the makeup, the clothes—they were all gone. He looked like his old self again, standing there in the dark. His hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail, and he waited with his arms crossed, shivering without a jacket, his sword cane tucked under one arm.

  “What’s the cane for?”

  “Bears.”

  I laughed. “How many times do I have to tell you—you don’t need to worry about any goddam bears.”

  We actually did have quite a few black bears around. They were pretty shy, though, and unless you had too many bird feeders in your yard or liked to leave trash bags filled with leftovers on your lawn, you hardly ever saw them. But Stewart had this perpetual fear of bears. It was his flatlander upbringing, I guess. That or too much imagination.

  “And you don’t need to whisper,” I added. “Mom’s at work.”

  “Oh,” Stewart said, still whispering. “So, can I come in?”

  “Meet me around front. I got another idea.”

  I threw on a heavy sweatshirt, grabbed my wool hat and peacoat, and went out the front door. Stewart was waiting in the driveway, barely visible in the thin light coming through the kitchen window. It was cold—easily below freezing. It wouldn’t be many more weeks before the snows would come and cover everything until April.

  “Where’s your coat?” I asked, putting on my hat.

  “What?” he said, starting. “Oh. I forgot. I guess it’s pretty cold out.”

  I tossed him the peacoat. He put it on without argument.

  “Come on,” I said. I turned onto the road and headed downhill.

  “Where are we going?” he said, catching up.

  “For a walk. It’s a nice night.”

  All kinds of stars blazed overhead—and even though I was tired, I knew Stewart wanted to talk, and we always talked better on the move. Besides, we hadn’t walked together for a while, not since the play started taking over everything.

  Sure enough, Stewart got right to the point.

  “I wanted to say I was sorry,” he said after we’d gone a ways. “I don’t know what happened at rehearsal. I guess I sort of snapped. You didn’t deserve any of that. I feel awful. Ashamed, actually.”

  Wow. Two apologies in one day. I was starting to feel pretty special. Well, at least they were real. Sometimes people say they’re sorry, but you know they’re not sorry at all. But Stewart meant it—I could tell he really was ashamed. And even though Ralph’s apology hadn’t been as eloquent, I knew it was honest too. I’d like to think that’s why I forgave them, but I did it because I had to. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge. Even people I hate, I have trouble staying mad at. It’s a real weakness. Nobody likes a pushover.

  “Fuck it. No big deal.”

  “No, it is a big deal.” His voice sharpened. “I attacked my best friend. That’s lame.”

  “It’s been a pretty intense few weeks. Ms. Vale warned us it would be tough.”

  Stewart snorted. “She called me tonight.”

  “Why? To make you apologize?”

  “No,” Stewart snapped. He hesitated. “She just told me to get it together. Said if I didn’t, she’d replace me.”

  “What? With who?”

  “Guess.”

  “Quentin.”

  “Bastard’s been learning my part all along.”

  I could just see that smug little prick sitting in front of the mirror at home, reciting Stewart’s lines.

  “No way can he do it as good as you. Besides, if you’re out, then I’m out too. She can’t lose both of us.”

  “Thanks, Frenchy.”

  I leaned over and pushed him. “Don’t thank me, dude. Just don’t screw up again.”

  We went a ways farther without talking, walking at a good clip, letting gravity pull us down the hill. In the dim starlight I could make out the tree line bordering the pit stop at the bend below.

  “I have to tell you, Stewart, I just don’t get it,” I finally said. “Onstage, at rehearsals. I mean, where the hell do you go? It’s like you’re not there anymore.”

  He didn’t say anything at first. “I just…,” he started, then hesitated. “I can’t…” There it was again—that same desperation, the haunted confusion I’d seen in his eyes at rehearsal. Only now it had crept into his voice. “He’s not afraid,” he said at last. “It’s better this way. I’m safe.”

  “Safe from what? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about anymore. It’s weird, Stewart.”

  “I just need to…”

  “Need to what? Be somebody else?” I said. “That’s fucked up.”

  “You just don’t understand the theater, Sancho.” His voice was louder now, defensive.

  “Horseshit. That’s what that is, Stewart. Artsy horseshit. And stop calling me Sancho. My name’s Frenchy, okay?”

  “No, it’s not, Gerry.”

  Fucking Stewart. “Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, I just want to understand what’s going on.”

  “I’ve got it figured out. Don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry. That’s what my father would tell my mother ev
ery time they got in a fight, which was almost every day after he’d come back. He’d say to it me too. I’d get home from school and find him in the backyard, sitting in his plastic deck chair, chain smoking, catch him with the tears running down his face before he’d turn away and wave me off. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry,” he’d say over and over. The more I tried to believe those words, the more I grew to hate them.

  We crossed the road, then the tree line, and passed into the field. The grass was already crunchy with frost and dead leaves from the maples, and we made a lot of noise until we reached our accustomed spot. I pulled out one of the joints Ralph had made and lit it.

  “Come on,” I said, holding it out.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Ralph. Where else?”

  “Are he and your mom still together?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. I don’t fucking know.” I gestured with the joint a second time. “Let’s just forget about Ralph, forget about Don, forget about the play, and have a Friday night.”

  I could sense him hesitating in the dark. Finally, he took the joint from me. Maybe he really wanted to; maybe he felt he owed me. Either way, he did it. I could see the red light of the ember flare once, then again.

  He started hacking like I’d done back at Ralph’s.

  “Christ.” He thrust the joint away from him.

  “Burns a little, don’t it,” I said, laughing.

  We finished quickly, then stayed there in the field, laughing, telling jokes, talking shit, just like we used to.

  “So we’re still going out tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” I said. “But I need a costume.”

  “Already taken care of,” he said. “My mom made it last week—same time we put together mine.”

  “Gee, I wonder what it could be.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve already seen mine. The Sancho suit’s a lot simpler—just peasant clothes, basically. In fact, Mom made it out of hemp, just to keep it real.”

  We both started giggling.

  “This will be great,” he continued. “We can promote the play everywhere we go. Even act out little scenes, like walking advertisements. I told Ms. Vale about the plan. She thought it was a good one.”

  I stopped laughing. The whole thing sounded like work. But I didn’t say so. He seemed pretty excited about the idea.

  “It’s going to be our last time trick-or-treating,” I said instead.

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  We turned and looked across the valley. Like it did every night, the sky above the ridge glowed from the wind tower lights. They’d put these honking arrays on top of the towers to keep planes from crashing into them, and there they shone, a wavy line of red flares floating in the sky. It wasn’t as bad on clear nights, like this one. But on overcast nights when the clouds were low and thick, the glow enveloped the whole region.

  “Look at those fucking things, Frenchy,” Stewart said, pointing his cane toward the far ridge.

  “Pretty bright.”

  “They’re like eyes. Like some monster’s eyeballs. They’ve turned that beautiful mountain into a twenty-eyed beast.”

  It was probably the pot, but I could suddenly see what he was talking about.

  “Maybe we should go,” I said. I didn’t want him to start going off again, not to mention I was freezing my ass off. But he didn’t listen.

  “I have to see those things at night,” he went on, “from my window, in my room. They just hover there, watching me. That’s why I moved my bed into the other room. I can’t sleep with those things watching me. Fucking abominations.”

  “I can’t see them from my house,” I said, mostly because I was stupid and stoned and didn’t know what the hell else to say. “Too many trees in the way.”

  “You’re lucky, Sancho. You’re a lucky man.”

  He swung his cane, whipping it in an arc, then backed up a dozen yards before turning and running for the trees. By the time we got to the road, he’d slowed down again, and we walked back up the hill in silence. But I kept stealing glances behind me from time to time, and every once in a while I could see some of those eyes, peering through the trees, following us home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My mother and Ralph were in the kitchen fixing dinner when Stewart showed up. He took his time getting out of the car. He had to. He was back in full Don Quixote garb—armor and helmet, wig and makeup, the works—and it was slow going, at least when it came to getting in and out of a Volvo.

  It’s going to be a long night, I thought, standing on the front steps, watching him try to maneuver.

  Mom and Ralph came out and joined me, and the three of us waited as Stewart made his way toward us. Already, my mother was giggling. Ralph just stared with his mouth half-open like an idiot. Stewart was taking his time, walking with his shoulders drooped, and even behind that fake nose, beard, and wild eyebrows, I could see the downcast look on his face.

  “Hail, Knight of the Woeful Countenance,” I called out. It was one of Don Quixote’s names from the musical. I thought it was a pretty clever joke myself, but Stewart didn’t even crack a smile. He merely bowed in acknowledgment.

  “Oh. My. God,” my mother cooed. “Will you look at that!”

  “Don Quixote de La Mancha, at your service,” Stewart replied, bowing low again, this time with a flourish of the hand. He’d gotten used to talking with that stuff in his mouth—barely a lisp.

  My mother burst out laughing at the elaborate display. Ralph smiled and shook his head and muttered “Holy shit!” a few times under his breath.

  At the sight of Stewart’s morose gaze, my mother sobered up a bit.

  “Why so sad, Don?” she asked.

  “My lady, I have lost my sword. Where it went, I do not know, but a knight without a sword is no knight at all. Hence, my sorrow.”

  Definitely going to be a long one, I thought.

  “Oh!” my mother exclaimed. She turned and ran into the house, emerging a few seconds later with the antique sword I’d lugged home yesterday. “Would this be the sword you seek?” she asked, stifling a giggle.

  At the sight of the weapon, Stewart’s eyes lit up. He dropped down on one knee before her and held out his arms.

  “Dearest lady!” he cried. “You have found my trusty blade. No longer will I be vulnerable to the Enchanter and his minions.”

  Still laughing as she played along, my mother ceremoniously laid the sword across Stewart’s open palms. Stewart, in turn, took the blade and kissed it, drawing guffaws from Ralph, before returning it to his scabbard. I sighed and shook my head. In the play, the Great Enchanter is Don Quixote’s imagined enemy. The old knight’s all paranoid and thinks the Enchanter’s after him the whole time. Don Quixote’s crazy talk never bothered me that much in the play—a lot of it was kind of sweet, actually— but for some reason, the whole Enchanter business really creeped me out. Aside from rehearsal, I’d never heard Stewart mention him before.

  Stewart glanced over at me and stood up.

  “Let’s see. I have my sword. All I need now is my trusty, loyal servant, Sancho Panza. Has anyone seen the good fellow?”

  “Right here, dipshit,” I said with a little wave.

  Stewart did a double take, then came over and embraced me.

  “There you are, old friend!” he exclaimed, patting me on the back. “I hardly recognized you in those strange clothes. What foreign land do they hail from, pray tell?”

  “It’s called Walmart.”

  Stewart paused. “Never have I heard of such an odd place. Is it in Africa?”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, Sancho,” Stewart went on, ignoring me, “fortunately for you, I brought along some extra clothes. If you’ll be so kind as to retrieve them from my carriage, you may put them on.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Frenchy!” my mother snapped. “I mean, Sancho—don’t be an old fart. It’s Halloween, for chrissake.”

  “Yeah,
right, whatever.” I headed for the car.

  “We’ll finish making the salad while you get changed,” my mother called out. “Dinner in ten minutes.”

  “We eagerly await the feast, my lady!” Stewart replied.

  My mother giggled again as she and Ralph walked up the front steps, holding hands. Stewart watched them disappear before turning back to me with a smile. I gave him a couple slow claps, and he bowed.

  “No, I’m not coming out,” I said. “I look like an idiot.”

  “Come on, sweetie,” my mother called from the other side of the bedroom door. “We just want to see you. And these ribs are going to get cold.”

  Fucking ribs. My mother had been baking a huge pile of baby back ribs—my favorite meal—all afternoon, adding layer after layer of barbecue sauce, so that the whole trailer smelled like pork heaven. I was so hungry now, I could hardly stand it.

  I slowly opened the door and walked out. What can I say? I’m a slave to my animal urges.

  Sure enough, everyone started laughing as I came into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered. “Thanks a lot.”

  In my beige hemp peasant gear, I looked like an extra from one of those old Mexican cowboy movies. You know that guy—the one in the village who gets shot by banditos in the first scene and no one really gives a crap. It was the wide-brimmed floppy hat that did it. That and the stuffing Stewart’s mother had sewn into the stomach of the shirt, making me look even fatter than usual. I didn’t bother with the beard. I hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning, so I already had enough black stubble to pass for a grubby servant.

  “Oh, don’t you look cute,” my mother said, coming over and pinching my cheek.

  “Sancho!” Stewart cried, taking my hand. “It’s so good to finally see you. I’ve been lost without you, old friend.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I turned to Ralph. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

  “No way, bro,” he said, holding up his hands. “You look pretty sweet.”

  My mother made Stewart and me stand together against the wall and took a million goddam pictures. It wasn’t that bad, actually—we really did look like Sancho and Don stepping right out of the movie.