by Peter Giglio
“What’s the problem here?” A voice booms behind us. I cringe, knowing immediately who it is.
Lee.
He jaunts toward us, the image of big-city slick ten years outdated: spiky blond hair, a black pinstripe shirt, perfectly pressed slacks. His face is adorned with the big toothy smile and wild eyes of a wolf.
“Hey, amigo,” he says. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me into a half-hug then slaps me hard on the back. After a quick scowl at Ernie, he aims his frenzied focus back at me. “Who’s this clown?” he growls in a whisper.
“I’m his landlord,” Ernie says, taking an aggressive step at Lee. “Your friend here’s two months behind on his rent.”
“Look,” I say, “can we talk about this later?”
Digging a hand into his pocket, Lee asks, “How much does my boy here owe?”
“Four hundred,” Ernie snaps.
Lee laughs, big and rich and insincere as hell. “At least you don’t overcharge for this dump.”
Ernie doesn’t look amused, and my ninety-nine cent dinner now feels like a ball of grease in my guts. Rolling, rolling, trying to break free.
My eyes widen as Lee whips out a wad of cash and peels off four one hundred dollar bills, and Ernie’s displeasure fades, making room for a blooming, hideous smile—the brown rose of Nebraska. The scab snatches the cash from my old high school friend, then says, “You’re foolish to bail this guy out, you know?” He points at me, like he’s some kind of warden and I’m his prisoner. That dirty smile doesn’t fade. “But thank you just the same.”
“You got your money,” Lee says in a low, even voice. Then he shouts, “Now get the fuck out of here!”
Ernie doesn’t press his luck. He moves quickly for his car.
I look at Lee, gob smacked, struggling for words, and he stares through me.
“Been a long time, amigo,” he says.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Omaha, St. Louis, Chicago. Bunch of places. Making contacts, laying down tracks, working on production deals. Almost signed with a major label, but my agent wouldn’t let me touch the three-sixty Sony was offering.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Can’t be music; fucker’s tone deaf; couldn’t even learn how to play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the saxophone without fouling every third note. Then again, the doggerel poetry of spitting rhymes doesn’t require the embrasure of woodwind mastery. “That’s cool,” I say. “But, Lee…I don’t know how I’m gonna repay—”
“You could start by inviting me in and offering me a beer.”
I unlock the door, open it. “Come in,” I say, already regretting it.
* * *
So here’s Lee, strutting around the dump, holding court.
“…and then it was on to Chicago, where…”
Was really looking forward to my last beer after a long day, but now it’s clutched in his hand, and I’m wishing I’d stopped off at the Millie-Mart for more; not that I should be spending what little money I have on such luxuries, but the errand might have changed my fortune in the guest department. Hindsight’s a bitch.
“…some studio time, but not as much as…”
I’m tuning in and out, waiting for the babbling brook of Lee’s mouth to tire.
“…met my agent in Gene Simmons’s restaurant; you know, the guy from Kiss with the long tongue?”
“Gene Simmons is your agent?” I ask.
“No. Aren’t you listening? We met at Gene’s restaurant.”
“Oh, was Gene there?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
I think yes, but say, “No, go on,” and he does.
Lee rolls into my life every few months with a bunch of bullshit stories, rubbing my nose in his “success,” his life beyond the shackles of Sunfall. Small mercy, he’s always in like a lion, out like a lamb, tired and hung-over at the end of our time, promising a bunch of shit he can’t deliver on, like, “I’ll send you a plane ticket, bring you out to LA,” or “We need you out in NYC.” Fact is, I don’t know where he lives or what he does, and I don’t want to.
Part of me suspects that his real residence is still right here in Nowhere Nebraska, living low with the grandmother that raised him; that the space between these visits is all part of some illusion. Some…delusion. Dare I call bullshit? No. That’d only make matters worse. Best to let him have his moment, fuck with him in moderation, then move on.
Lee and I were tight back in school. We used to skip classes together, pass the same misguided girls back and forth, smoking copious pot we bought from some fuck at Sunfall Manor, before it burned to the ground, killing said fuck, the town’s only dealer. I’m sure another fuck has filled the void, but I don’t pay attention to these things anymore. Probably should, considering the condition my sister’s in. But…
We were losers who had each other, which was enough in those days, even if we had nothing in common and I found him annoying.
The more I look back—something I try not to do—the more I realize Lee was much more than an annoyance. He was an obstacle. I had good grades, tested high in every subject, and could have made something of my life with a little focus. But I didn’t do well enough to earn scholarships and grants, which was the only way I was ever going to college.
Mom, she kicked me flat on my ass a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday. Haven’t talked to Dad since I was thirteen. Both of ’em made too much money for me to get student loans, and I didn’t know shit about emancipation. So I have a lot of reasons to hate Lee, even though he just laid four Benjies on my rent. There are many good reasons to hate a lot of people. But I’m trying to keep anger in my rearview. It’s like the Buddhists say: “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” That’s some deep shit I read in a book, and it makes solid sense. Too bad it’s like most things that are right—easier said than done. Buddha excels in that department, but the fat bastard would have made a lousy used car salesman.
“What about you, Jack? What’s keeping you busy?” he asks. His eyes don’t hide great expectations for small revelations.
“I’ve been taking care of my niece a lot.”
“Lily’s girl? Norma?”
“Nora,” I spit, angry at myself for making her name sound ugly, accusatory, but I can’t help my tone. The asshole before me is one of half a dozen clowns that might be her dad, and he can’t even remember her name. I can’t help but picture Maury Povich pulling out the results of a paternity test.
“And the father is…”
Trust me, that’s one episode of daytime television I’d kill or die to prevent. Any chance of a link between Lee and Nora—well, that’s a blood test that should forever go untaken.
“How’s Lily doing?” he asks, pretending to care.
“She’s a mess.”
He shrugs, paces around some more, then says, “Well, it’s a good thing she has a brother like you.”
“I guess.”
The sun’s setting now, and silence settles over my living room. Lee, he’s still pacing, looking deep in thought. Me, I’m just sitting on the dingy couch, hoping this means he’s winding down. After several minutes of this empty pageant, I start getting twitchy. Lee’s silence is always a cause for anxiety. Finally, I stand up and say, “It’s been nice seeing you again.”
His expression conveys hurt, like I’ve just pissed in his eyes and called it sunshine, but his mouth backs its shit down with, “I just got here,” followed by a mischievous grin.
“I’m tired, Lee. I’ve been working—”
“Tired my ass.”
“C’mon, man, I—”
“Dude, I barely ever come into town any more. Besides, I got some pills that’ll give you a second wind.”
“No. No pills.” Last time I took pills Lee gave me, I didn’t sleep for a week.
“What a pussy,” he moans.
“All right. All right. What do you wanna do?” I hate myself for asking this, ’cause now I’m
committed to whatever he says next. I mean, fuck, the guy just dropped four hundred bucks on my sorry ass. How the hell can I kick him out?
“I wanna go for a ride,” he says.
Chapter Three
There are worse things than a ride with Lee. If nothing else, the guy works his Mustang like Gosling in Drive. Not that his model is classic muscle. It’s just made to look the part, like Lee himself. Still, I’ll say this: the wild terrain we gamble is no stranger to him; he knows exactly how fast he can take each curve, each bend, and not a single M.P.H goes wasted.
Window down, hair blowing, I feel alive. Blood pumping. Heart racing. Along for the ride. Normally I’d hate the trip-hop that’s thumping, hammering my chest and jaw, but the arrhythmic beats mix with the wild night wind and make a strange helter-skelter sense.
The yellow line of the two-lane zigs and zags, and a crimson moon punctuates the sky, hanging low and pregnant just shy of the flat horizon.
Lee downshifts, slows through a sharp turn. His hands are steady at ten and two, eyes trained with gravity that’s rare, especially for him. Damn, I envy that kind of focus. That level of intensity. The whole thing’s downright inspirational, despite how I feel about my friend in other terms.
The road straightens, and Lee slides the car back into sixth. The Mustang jumps, whipping my neck into the headrest and sending my stomach into my throat.
No sooner have we reached maximum velocity, I notice three deer galloping in a nearby field and point to them. Lee takes notice and slows the car. He might be a big city wanderer now, but he’s still clearly in tune with the rural rules of the road.
Oncoming headlights approach. Fast. And my mind drifts.
When I was a kid, I was terrified at night by approaching cars on two lane highways. I’d spent a lot of time on back roads with my dad, a traveling salesman, and back then I’d frequently make my fears known.
“Don’t be afraid,” Dad would soothe. “They’re just stealing night, messing with the way you see things. Trust me, they’re not coming for us.”
A deer splits from the pack, breaking roadward, coming into our path.
Lee brings the Mustang to a crawl, but the oncoming car…they don’t see the wayward buck.
Lee honks his horn, flashes his high-beams, but the car keeps coming…coming…
“Fuck,” Lee shouts, pulling over to the shoulder and killing the tunes. “Assholes are gonna get us killed!”
The deer’s eyes glow gold in the headlights. With graceful, quick strides, it must think it can outrun anything. It’s wrong, of course, dead wrong. This beautiful beast is a bullet from the gun of God.
Lee honks and flashes again, but deer and motorist charge on, the deer crossing into the road. I cringe and want to close my eyes but can’t. Survival instincts kicking up dust, I open the door and rapidly distance myself from my would-be steel coffin, running…running…
Lee doesn’t call for me, but he doesn’t get out of the car, either. Like a ship’s captain, he stays with his vessel, and I find myself uttering a silent prayer to a god I’ve never believed in. For Lee. For all of us.
The driver of the oncoming car must see the deer now, but it’s too late. The night is alive with the squeal of breaks and tires as the car loses true and slides sideways in the high-beams of Lee’s prized possession. The out-of-control vehicle, a compact coupe, broadsides the deer, which goes down with a dull thwap as rubber and road divorce.
Time seems to slow…
Dead still, my pulse thrumming into overdrive, I watch the car somersault, miss Lee’s Mustang by a few feet, maybe less, then thud unceremoniously in the chigger-rich, weed-choked field, no more than twenty feet from me. The car’s on its head, wheels spinning, smoke billowing.
“Fuck!” Lee shouts, now standing beside his ride. “Did you see that? Fucking thing almost took my head off!”
I race for the wreckage.
“Careful,” Lee warns. “Thing might explode.”
But I’m not listening to his shit. We’ve both seen too many movies, but Hollywood’s a fucking liar, and I know how rare it is for wrecked cars to spontaneously combust. Lee, on the other hand, is the kinda guy who believes all the glossy lies we’re sold routinely—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
“Call 911,” I shout, “my phone’s at home.”
The passenger door of the wreck pops open, and a bloody girl staggers out.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Are you—”
“Jason!” she cries. “Jason!”
“Is Jason the…?” I start, then a glimpse into the car reveals her driver. He’s wrapped around the steering wheel, covered in blood, lifeless eyes wide, limbs akimbo. The girl stumbles, struggling to stay on her feet, clearly disoriented. And Jason, if that is the driver’s name, is dead. Lee’s walking around the car, peering into the windows, shaking his head.
I approach the girl, gently put my hands on her shoulders. The sharp scent of gasoline looms large, making me think that Lee’s fears might be warranted after all.
Shhhuck, shhhuck, shhhuck.
I’m grinding my teeth, a nervous habit in times of stress. Taking a deep breath, I do my best to internalize my tremors, then say, “It’s going to be all right. We’re going to call for help,” in an amazingly calm tone.
“Jason,” she shouts. “Is he okay? Is he okay?”
Lee rounds the car, heading toward me and the girl, pulling something out of his pocket. His cell phone, I guess, but my focus is trained on her. “Listen,” I say, “my friend is going to call 911, get an ambulance out here. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Shhhuck, shhhuck, shhhuck.
Dammit, my inner voice warns, pull your shit together.
She nods, tears streaming down her face. “Th-thank you,” she manages. She’s pretty with her plump, sunkissed cheeks—can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. My heart sinks for her. To lose someone so young, to—
“Back away from her,” Lee growls.
“What?” I say. “Why?” I turn and look at my friend, who doesn’t have a cell phone in his hand, and hope fades fast.
Lee levels the handgun at her head as I stumble backward. “No,” I scream.
She doesn’t even see it coming. With a blast of sound and fury, her head goes limp as she tumbles to the ground.
Lee stuffs the piece back in his slacks then turns and strides to the wrecked car.
“What the fuck?” I say, hardly able to believe what’s happening.
Lee snaps the passenger seat forward and reaches into the back. “Shut up, Jack,” he says. “This’ll all make sense in a minute.”
But he’s wrong. Even if he pulls Hitler out of the backseat along with irrefutable documents linking these kids to the holocaust, the trigger moment will never make sense. He pulls a pink Hello Kitty backpack out of the car, drops it on the ground, then snatches a stack of money from it. Holds it up. “Saw this sticking out of the bag,” he says with a grin. Then he bends down, unzips the bag the rest of the way, and his smile widens. He lifts the backpack and turns it so I can see what’s inside.
It’s filled with cash.
“Your troubles are over, amigo,” Lee says.
Chapter Four
My troubles are far from over. I know this. Yet, I can wrap my mind around nothing as Lee drives us back to my apartment. Anger and fear are as distant as love and hope and as useless as hatred. I don’t even have the energy to grind my teeth.
All that resonates is the girl’s face, only a few years removed from Nora’s—similar structure, the same green eyes shining in the darkness. Someone’s daughter. Their charge.
Have mercy on the soul that fails the child, I think, and the darkening night blurs past in a nightmare mockery of time and space. Light dances in the periphery of my tear-glassed gaze, and a tidal wave din—engine racing, Lee wheedling, heart pounding, blood flowing—consumes me whole, salty and painful.
One could Monday-morning quarterback this thing ’til they’re
out of words and ready for sleep. Could bark at me like a rabid dog for not doing something, anything. Berate me for what a child I’m being. Go ahead, Dad, do it. Let me have it. Or they could justify and rationalize like Lee’s doing, saying shit like “Everything’s gonna be cool,” and “We’re in the clear,” and “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” But what everyone would fail to understand—what I can’t overlook—is the guy next to me is armed and unstable, and I was just enjoying a harmless night-ride. Only a passenger.
Fuck that. Now I’m along for the ride for real.
Could all of this been prevented if I’d brought my cell phone along? Is this really that simple? I know I would have dialed 911 right away, would have reported the location of the accident, which might have given Lee pause; might have kept the gun in his pants. Or maybe I’d be lying dead in the field next to the young girl from California.
California.
The last thing I remember seeing as Lee pushed me into the car were the plates of the overturned coupe.
California.
And I can’t stop thinking, Jason and his girl came a long way just to die.
* * *
So here we are, Lee and I, sitting on my Salvation Army couch with more money than I’ve ever seen spread wide on my milk crate coffee table. Stacks and stacks of rubber-banded cash. One hundred dollar bills. Benjamin Franklin’s eyes spear accusations: I discovered electricity, was a founding father of this nation. I deserve better, Jack.
Lee slaps me hard across the face, and I finally look at him. Really look at him. He’s not afraid. Nor ashamed. He’s amped on adrenaline, brights at full blast, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Earth to Jack,” he says. “You in there, man?”
No, I think. “Yes,” I say.
“There’s more than a hundred grand here and half is yours. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head.
“No, you don’t know what that means?” he says.
“No,” I manage, “I don’t want any part of this.”