The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories

by Ben Marcus

  Do I do it? Yes I do.

  It could be worse. It is worse for Lloyd Betts. Lately he’s put on weight and his hair’s gone thin. He doesn’t get a call all shift and waits zero tables and winds up sitting on the P-51 wing, playing solitaire in a hunched-over position that gives him big gut rolls.

  I Pilot six tables and make forty dollars in tips plus five an hour in salary.

  After closing we sit on the floor for Debriefing. “There are times,” Mr. Frendt says, “when one must move gracefully to the next station in life, like for example certain women in Africa or Brazil, I forget which, who either color their faces or don some kind of distinctive headdress upon achieving menopause. Are you with me? One of our ranks must now leave us. No one is an island in terms of being thought cute forever, and so today we must say good-bye to our friend Lloyd. Lloyd, stand up so we can say good-bye to you. I’m sorry. We are all so very sorry.”

  “Oh God,” says Lloyd. “Let this not be true.”

  But it’s true. Lloyd’s finished. We give him a round of applause, and Frendt gives him a Farewell Pen and the contents of his locker in a trash bag and out he goes. Poor Lloyd. He’s got a wife and two kids and a sad little duplex on Self-Storage Parkway.

  “It’s been a pleasure!” he shouts desperately from the doorway, trying not to burn any bridges.

  What a stressful workplace. The minute your Cute Rating drops you’re a goner. Guests rank us as Knockout, Honeypie, Adequate, or Stinker. Not that I’m complaining. At least I’m working. At least I’m not a Stinker like Lloyd.

  I’m a solid Honeypie/Adequate, heading home with forty bucks cash.

  At Sea Oak there’s no sea and no oak, just a hundred subsidized apartments and a rear view of FedEx. Min and Jade are feeding their babies while watching How My Child Died Violently. Min’s my sister. Jade’s our cousin. How My Child Died Violently is hosted by Matt Merton, a six-foot-five blond who’s always giving the parents shoulder rubs and telling them they’ve been sainted by pain. Today’s show features a ten-year-old who killed a five-year-old for refusing to join his gang. The ten-year-old strangled the five-year-old with a jump rope, filled his mouth with baseball cards, then locked himself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out until his parents agreed to take him to FunTimeZone, where he confessed, then dove screaming into a mesh cage full of plastic balls. The audience is shrieking threats at the parents of the killer while the parents of the victim urge restraint and forgiveness to such an extent that finally the audience starts shrieking threats at them too. Then it’s a commercial. Min and Jade put down the babies and light cigarettes and pace the room while studying aloud for their GEDs. It doesn’t look good. Jade says “regicide” is a virus. Min locates Biafra one planet from Saturn. I offer to help and they start yelling at me for condescending.

  “You’re lucky, man!” my sister says. “You did high school. You got your frigging diploma. We don’t. That’s why we have to do this GED shit. If we had our diplomas we could just watch TV and not be all distracted.”

  “Really,” says Jade. “Now shut it, chick! We got to study. Show’s almost on.”

  They debate how many sides a triangle has. They agree that Churchill was in opera. Matt Merton comes back and explains that last week’s show on suicide, in which the parents watched a reenactment of their son’s suicide, was a healing process for the parents, then shows a video of the parents admitting it was a healing process.

  My sister’s baby is Troy. Jade’s baby is Mac. They crawl off into the kitchen and Troy gets his finger caught in the heat vent. Min rushes over and starts pulling.

  “Jesus freaking Christ!” screams Jade. “Watch it! Stop yanking on him and get the freaking Vaseline. You’re going to give him a really long arm, man!”

  Troy starts crying. Mac starts crying. I go over and free Troy no problem. Meanwhile Jade and Min get in a slap fight and nearly knock over the TV.

  “Yo, chick!” Min shouts at the top of her lungs. “I’m sure you’re slapping me? And then you knock over the freaking TV? Don’t you care?”

  “I care!” Jade shouts back. “You’re the slut who nearly pulled off her own kid’s finger for no freaking reason, man!”

  Just then Aunt Bernie comes in from DrugTown in her DrugTown cap and hobbles over and picks up Troy and everything calms way down.

  “No need to fuss, little man,” she says. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s just hunky-dory.”

  “Hunky-dory,” says Min, and gives Jade one last pinch.

  Aunt Bernie’s a peacemaker. She doesn’t like trouble. Once this guy backed over her foot at FoodKing and she walked home with ten broken bones. She never got married, because Grandpa needed her to keep house after Grandma died. Then he died and left all his money to a woman none of us had ever heard of, and Aunt Bernie started in at DrugTown. But she’s not bitter. Sometimes she’s so nonbitter it gets on my nerves. When I say Sea Oak’s a pit she says she’s just glad to have a roof over her head. When I say I’m tired of being broke she says Grandpa once gave her pencils for Christmas and she was so thrilled she sat around sketching horses all day on the backs of used envelopes. Once I asked was she sorry she never had kids and she said no, not at all, and besides, weren’t we her kids?

  And I said yes we were.

  But of course we’re not.

  For dinner it’s beanie-wienies. For dessert it’s ice cream with freezer burn.

  “What a nice day we’ve had,” Aunt Bernie says once we’ve got the babies in bed.

  “Man, what an optometrist,” says Jade.

  Next day is Thursday, which means a visit from Ed Anders from the Board of Health. He’s in charge of ensuring that our penises never show. Also that we don’t kiss anyone. None of us ever kisses anyone or shows his penis except Sonny Vance, who does both, because he’s saving up to buy a FaxIt franchise. As for our Penile Simulators, yes, we can show them, we can let them stick out of the top of our pants, we can even periodically dampen our tight pants with spray bottles so our Simulators really contour, but our real penises, no, those have to stay inside our hot uncomfortable oversized Simulators.

  “Sorry fellas, hi fellas,” Anders says as he comes wearily in. “Please know I don’t like this any better than you do. I went to school to learn how to inspect meat, but this certainly wasn’t what I had in mind. Ha ha!”

  He orders a Lindbergh Enchilada and eats it cautiously, as if it’s alive and he’s afraid of waking it. Sonny Vance is serving soup to a table of hairstylists on a bender and for a twenty shoots them a quick look at his unit.

  Just then Anders glances up from his Lindbergh.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” he says, and writes up a Shutdown and we all get sent home early. Which is bad. Every dollar counts. Lately I’ve been sneaking toilet paper home in my briefcase. I can fit three rolls in. By the time I get home they’re usually flat and don’t work so great on the roller but still it saves a few bucks.

  I clock out and cut through the strip of forest behind FedEx. Very pretty. A raccoon scurries over a fallen oak and starts nibbling at a rusty bike. As I come out of the woods I hear a shot. At least I think it’s a shot. It could be a backfire. But no, it’s a shot, because then there’s another one, and some kids sprint across the courtyard yelling that Big Scary Dawgz rule.

  I run home. Min and Jade and Aunt Bernie and the babies are huddled behind the couch. Apparently they had the babies outside when the shooting started. Troy’s walker got hit. Luckily he wasn’t in it. It’s supposed to look like a duck but now the beak’s missing.

  “Man, fuck this shit!” Min shouts.

  “Freak this crap you mean,” says Jade. “You want them growing up with shit-mouths like us? Crap-mouths I mean?”

  “I just want them growing up, period,” says Min.

  “Boo-hoo, Miss Dramatic,” says Jade.

  “Fuck off, Miss Ho,” shouts Min.

  “I mean it, jagoff, I’m not kidding,” shouts Jade, and punches Min in the arm.


  “Girls, for crying out loud!” says Aunt Bernie. “We should be thankful. At least we got a home. And at least none of them bullets actually hit nobody.”

  “No offense, Bernie?” says Min. “But you call this a freaking home?”

  Sea Oak’s not safe. There’s an ad hoc crack house in the laundry room and last week Min found some brass knuckles in the kiddie pool. If I had my way I’d move everybody up to Canada. It’s nice there. Very polite. We went for a weekend last fall and got a flat tire and these two farmers with bright-red faces insisted on fixing it, then springing for dinner, then starting a college fund for the babies. They sent us the stock certificates a week later, along with a photo of all of us eating cobbler at a diner. But moving to Canada takes bucks. Dad’s dead and left us nada and Ma now lives with Freddie, who doesn’t like us, plus he’s not exactly rich himself. He does phone polls. This month he’s asking divorced women how often they backslide and sleep with their exes. He gets ten bucks for every completed poll.

  So not lucrative, and Canada’s a moot point.

  I go out and find the beak of Troy’s duck and fix it with Elmer’s.

  “Actually you know what?” says Aunt Bernie. “I think that looks even more like a real duck now. Because sometimes their beaks are cracked? I seen one like that downtown.”

  “Oh my God,” says Min. “The kid’s duck gets shot in the face and she says we’re lucky.”

  “Well, we are lucky,” says Bernie.

  “Somebody’s beak is cracked,” says Jade.

  “You know what I do if something bad happens?” Bernie says. “I don’t think about it. Don’t take it so serious. It ain’t the end of the world. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. That’s how I got where I am.”

  My feeling is, Bernie, I love you, but where are you? You work at DrugTown for minimum. You’re sixty and own nothing. You were basically a slave to your father and never had a date in your life.

  “I mean, complain if you want,” she says. “But I think we’re doing pretty darn good for ourselves.”

  “Oh, we’re doing great,” says Min, and pulls Troy out from behind the couch and brushes some duck shards off his sleeper.

  Joysticks reopens on Friday. It’s a madhouse. They’ve got the fog on. A bridge club offers me fifteen bucks to oil-wrestle Mel Turner. So I oil-wrestle Mel Turner. They offer me twenty bucks to feed them chicken wings from my hand. So I feed them chicken wings from my hand. The afternoon flies by. Then the evening. At nine the bridge club leaves and I get a sorority. They sing intelligent nasty songs and grope my Simulator and say they’ll never be able to look their boyfriends’ meager genitalia in the eye again. Then Mr. Frendt comes over and says phone. It’s Min. She sounds crazy. Four times in a row she shrieks get home. When I tell her calm down, she hangs up. I call back and no one answers. No biggie. Min’s prone to panic. Probably one of the babies is puky. Luckily I’m on FlexTime.

  “I’ll be back,” I say to Mr. Frendt.

  “I look forward to it,” he says.

  I jog across the marsh and through FedEx. Up on the hill there’s a light from the last remaining farm. Sometimes we take the boys to the adjacent car wash to look at the cow. Tonight however the cow is elsewhere.

  At home Min and Jade are hopping up and down in front of Aunt Bernie, who’s sitting very very still at one end of the couch.

  “Keep the babies out!” shrieks Min. “I don’t want them seeing something dead!”

  “Shut up, man!” shrieks Jade. “Don’t call her something dead!”

  She squats down and pinches Aunt Bernie’s cheek.

  “Aunt Bernie?” she shrieks. “Fuck!”

  “We already tried that like twice, chick!” shrieks Min. “Why are you doing that shit again? Touch her neck and see if you can feel that beating thing!”

  “Shit shit shit!” shrieks Jade.

  I call 911 and the paramedics come out and work hard for twenty minutes, then give up and say they’re sorry and it looks like she’s been dead most of the afternoon. The apartment’s a mess. Her money drawer’s empty and her family photos are in the bathtub.

  “Not a mark on her,” says a cop.

  “I suspect she died of fright,” says another. “Fright of the intruder?”

  “My guess is yes,” says a paramedic.

  “Oh God,” says Jade. “God, God, God.”

  I sit down beside Bernie. I think: I am sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when it happened and sorry you never had any fun in your life and sorry I wasn’t rich enough to move you somewhere safe. I remember when she was young and wore pink stretch pants and made us paper chains out of DrugTown receipts while singing “Froggie Went A-Courting.” All her life she worked hard. She never hurt anybody. And now this.

  Scared to death in a crappy apartment.

  Min puts the babies in the kitchen but they keep crawling out. Aunt Bernie’s in a shroud on this sort of dolly and on the couch are a bunch of forms to sign.

  We call Ma and Freddie. We get their machine.

  “Ma, pick up!” says Min. “Something bad happened! Ma, please freaking pick up!”

  But nobody picks up.

  So we leave a message.

  Lobton’s Funeral Parlor is just a regular house on a regular street. Inside there’s a rack of brochures with titles like “Why Does My Loved One Appear Somewhat Larger?” Lobton looks healthy. Maybe too healthy. He’s wearing a yellow golf shirt and his biceps keep involuntarily flexing. Every now and then he touches his delts as if to confirm they’re still big as softballs.

  “Such a sad thing,” he says.

  “How much?” asks Jade. “I mean, like for basic. Not super-fancy.”

  “But not crappy either,” says Min. “Our aunt was the best.”

  “What price range were you considering?” says Lobton, cracking his knuckles. We tell him and his eyebrows go up and he leads us to something that looks like a moving box.

  “Prior to usage we’ll moisture-proof this with a spray lacquer,” he says. “Makes it look quite woodlike.”

  “That’s all we can get?” says Jade. “Cardboard?”

  “I’m actually offering you a slight break already,” he says, and does a kind of push-up against the wall. “On account of the tragic circumstances. This is Sierra Sunset. Not exactly cardboard. More of a fiberboard.”

  “I don’t know,” says Min. “Seems pretty gyppy.”

  “Can we think about it?” says Ma.

  “Absolutely,” says Lobton. “Last time I checked this was still America.”

  I step over and take a closer look. There are staples where Aunt Bernie’s spine would be. Down at the foot there’s writing about Folding Tab A into Slot B.

  “No freaking way,” says Jade. “Work your whole life and end up in a Mayflower box? I doubt it.”

  We’ve got zip in savings. We sit at a desk and Lobton does what he calls a Credit Calc. If we pay it out monthly for seven years we can afford the Amber Mist, which includes a double-thick balsa box and two coats of lacquer and a one-hour wake.

  “But seven years, jeez,” says Ma.

  “We got to get her the good one,” says Min. “She never had anything nice in her life.”

  So Amber Mist it is.

  We bury her at St. Leo’s, on the hill up near BastCo. Her part of the graveyard’s pretty plain. No angels, no little rock houses, no flowers, just a bunch of flat stones like parking bumpers and here and there a Styrofoam cup. Father Brian says a prayer and then one of us is supposed to talk. But what’s there to say? She never had a life. Never married, no kids, work work work. Did she ever go on a cruise? All her life it was buses. Buses buses buses. Once she went with Ma on a bus to Quigley, Kansas, to gamble and shop at an outlet mall. Someone broke into her room and stole her clothes and took a dump in her suitcase while they were at the Roy Clark show. That was it. That was the extent of her tourism. After that it was DrugTown, night and day. After fifteen years as Cashier she got demoted to Greeter.
People would ask where the cold remedies were and she’d point to some big letters on the wall that said COLD REMEDIES.

  Freddie, Ma’s boyfriend, steps up and says he didn’t know her very long but she was an awful nice lady and left behind a lot of love, etc. etc. blah blah blah. While it’s true she didn’t do much in her life, still she was very dear to those of us who knew her and never made a stink about anything but was always content with whatever happened to her, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

  Then it’s over and we’re supposed to go away.

  “We gotta come out here like every week,” says Jade.

  “I know I will,” says Min.

  “What, like I won’t?” says Jade. “She was so freaking nice.”

  “I’m sure you swear at a grave,” says Min.

  “Since when is freak a swear, chick?” says Jade.

  “Girls,” says Ma.

  “I hope I did okay in what I said about her,” says Freddie in his full-of-crap way, smelling bad of English Navy. “Actually I sort of surprised myself.”

  “Bye-bye, Aunt Bernie,” says Min.

  “Bye-bye, Bern,” says Jade.

  “Oh my dear sister,” says Ma.

  I scrunch my eyes tight and try to picture her happy, laughing, poking me in the ribs. But all I can see is her terrified on the couch. It’s awful. Out there, somewhere, is whoever did it. Someone came in our house, scared her to death, watched her die, went through our stuff, stole her money. Someone who’s still living, someone who right now might be having a piece of pie or running an errand or scratching his ass, someone who, if he wanted to, could drive west for three days or whatever and sit in the sun by the ocean.

  We stand a few minutes with heads down and hands folded.

  Afterward Freddie takes us to Trabanti’s for lunch. Last year Trabanti died and three Vietnamese families went in together and bought the place, and it still serves pasta and pizza and the big oil of Trabanti is still on the wall but now from the kitchen comes this very pretty Vietnamese music and the food is somehow better.