by N. Godwin
A lot of women are attracted to Randy. I guess you could say he’s handsome in this Neanderthal way. I have noticed that anyone attracted to Randy is right out of the trees, and the two women sitting up at the bar (and one does resemble a monkey) have been here less than half an hour and they’re already getting too crude and too loud.
Drunken women hanging around Randy bothers Eunice. See, she’s signaling for me now. ”It’s Randy,” she tells me as I approach, “he’s making the drinks too strong again. Does he think we’re made of money? Doesn’t he know we have kids who need to be clothed and fed?”
As I take the two steps back to the bar, Randy is ready and waiting for me. “Tell her half her customers come here to see me!”
“Tell him that’s what I’m afraid of!” Eunice volleys back in my direction.
“Tell her if I take a hike, they go too!”
“Tell him Praise Jesus!”
“Okay. Well, then you tell her we’re out of those little toothpicks with the umbrellas, and this time I ain’t running to the store to buy some more. I ain’t her nigger!”
Oh yeah, the only politically correct thing about Randy is that he has no children of his own to hate. Everyone standing in the vicinity quickly looks at Eunice to see how she’ll handle this particular insult.
“Tell him the popcorn is stale, again,” she says as she takes a gulp of wine.
Sunday nights are trying times. If it’s slow, Ken usually has the night off and Hobie and I are stuck here alone with Eunice and Randy. Luckily, Ken has stayed behind tonight to try and teach our latest halfling du jour, Billy “Smith”, the ropes. Billy showed up here in the middle of the night last night and he’s got the shakes real bad. He didn’t need delousing so we figure he’s just been turned-out and probably by relatives who could no longer stomach his habit.
You can always tell the crack-heads. They drop dishes. They disappear within twenty-four hours. Right after the paperwork is in place, they’ve been fed, doctored and clothed. Right after they realize drugs really won’t be tolerated here. I mean, I’m pretty sure Killer smokes weed on occasion but he’s never talked it up here around any of us. It’s one of the 7 Deadly No Nos.
I study Billy Du Jour again. A lot of kids who come here are just in a stopover mode. Many are on the run from someone they pissed off further down the state; cops, street gangs, or juvenile authorities. Their parents are seldom looking for them, so wipe that picture out of your mind. It’s pure myth.
Hobie pulls out his ear-buds as he walks over to my register and can’t help but chuckle. “Man, that Billy dude’s got it bad.”
Hobie’s grin turns into full-blown laughter when Billy drops a tub of dishes on the floor. Above the noise of breaking glass we hear Ken and Eunice groan in unison. Eunice because of the money and Ken because of the futility of it all.
“He won’t make it till tomorrow,” Hobie says, trying not to laugh.
Hobie has never been given to optimism but his young eye is keen and, even though I hate to admit it, he’s probably right about Billy. Billy appears to be a lost one, a coddled member who refuses to handle the real world outside so he takes a nosedive inside mama’s medicine chest.
I make a mental note to not begin the paperwork on this one until tomorrow. Hobie wanders off to feed Blue, who is howling so loudly outside the kitchen door again that customers are beginning to complain. I make another mental note to get earplugs if I ever expect to sleep anymore because that silly cat will probably be howling in a tree outside my bedroom window, again, tonight, begging me to let him in to snuggle.
“This place sucks!” Billy shouts to no one in particular. “This is women’s work!”
Sundays can be trying times. The only saving factor is that the music is Eunice’s choice (country music night) so no one fights over the mood music. Heavy metal and rap are one of the 7 Deadly No-Nos of the house.
“Fuck this shit!” Billy yells.
Swearing is No-No number 1, so Billy has managed to activate Eunice. She signals for me, telling me what to tell Billy, again, and that she’s cold so would I please turn up the thermostat because we aren’t made of money, and could I empty her ashtray, and see if Patty Loveless is anywhere to be found?
And I turn my attention back to Eunice.
Just because Eunice doesn’t budge don’t you go-thinking she’s not involved. She may be on the fringe but she’s still involved. I study her frail frame as she sits and stares at the door. Ah, Eunice, my number 2. I know she’d appreciate being included.
Eunice and I clicked the moment my brother and I first wandered in here five years back, looking for lost souls to save. My brother was gone in three minutes; right after Eunice finished gracing my brother with her interpretation of the good book. Not me, I wasn’t budging. Actually, I couldn’t move out of my chair, literally. Here was fascinating, colorful and noisy, and the air was cool and crisp, and breathing was easy. Nameless and rowdy, the cafe was chaotic and welcoming and in need of me so I was smitten on the spot.
So I stayed on and on, coming back every day, until by the time I’d turned eighteen, I’d slowly moved in. The exact moment I turned eighteen, truly at midnight, I carried my final suitcase downstairs, walked out the front doors of my parent’s house and I never looked back.
I have my own place here, over the bunkhouse. Mama and Daddy are convinced I’m doing the good Lord’s work, ministering to the broken souls of my contemporaries. Even though I’d do it for free, I actually get paid to manage this place.
I have friends here, friends like Eunice, who I care very deeply for. I really do. I view her as a kindred spirit, even another God-given mother of sorts. Although I’ve never asked her about her past (nobody has to my knowledge), maybe I’m drawn to her because of her secret, that terrible spectacular thing that happened to her, or maybe it’s because she never speaks of it?
I know she is a sinner in need of some type of salvation or reckoning for something or other. Venial sins are apparently gateway sins on the way to mortal damnation. Looking at Eunice, I reason that, at the very least, her self-imposed paralysis counted as the deadly sin of sloth (in hell they’ll throw her in a snake pit for that one) and she’s an alcoholic, too, so she’s guilty of gluttony, which carries the punishment of being force-fed rats and snakes (which I suppose would at least offer some sort of nutritional benefit since she never eats).
There is a sad mystery to Eunice and it touches my heart. I would kill to find out what has kept her glued to her chair for all these many years.
Some secrets, like people, just dig into your soul and take root. In the five years I’ve been here, this chair-bound-bassaphobic named Eunice has been more of a mother to me than the scared woman who gave me life. I believe she knows we are bound by this silent communion, because Eunice is a superstitious person. More than fate has brought us together. It’s time for me to dig deeper and find out what it is.
If Eunice has a family she’s never mentioned them, not even a distant cousin, and I wonder if I am the closest thing to family she’s got? Poor thing, she has no one, no family, no—Wait a minute. No family?
What a liberating thought!
I look at her and sigh, wondering, truly, what the heck is the point of digging deeper into her past. What could she be hiding that could warrant capital punishment and eternal damnation? Eunice? Seriously? Like Randy, she wears her sins right out on her sleeve for anybody to see. What you see is always what you get, honest to a fault. If she was my demon, chances are she’d come right out and tell me. Truly.
“Hey, Eunice,” I say on a hunch, moving over by her table, pretending to check the condition of the other tables, “have you ever killed anybody?”
“Not yet,” she says without looking up from her spread sheets.
“And you’re not a demon in sheep’s clothing?”
“No, but Randy is,” she says, looking up past me over towards Randy’s bar. “And you can tell him I said so.”
Hobie, Ken a
nd Billy du jour look at Randy nodding their heads in agreement while I study Eunice’s face for a moment, probing her intoxicated expression. I believe her. Hmm? Perhaps there is an old lover or two, a scandal with missing deposits, or even an accidental drowning, some cautionary tale both scandalous and bittersweet?
Even then, I don’t see anything that would distinguish Eunice from millions of other odd balls and sinners, and God knows I’m not going to jump through hoops to prove the obvious. Nothing warrants hell as far as I can see. Besides, if everyone who committed her particular crimes, sloth and gluttony, went straight to hell without passing go wouldn’t hell be overrun by now?
No, I know in my heart there is not a devious bone in her past, present, or future and there is nothing that makes this immobile fifty year old woman dangerous to my flock, and I know her better than anyone.
I wonder if this is to be my lesson about this hot mess that is Eunice. Eunice who is spiraling downward, wallowing in sloth and gluttony and God knows what else; beaten and immobile Eunice. Unless… I have been remiss in addressing her obvious flaws, I know. I wonder if that makes me guilty by association and omission. Is her guilt as much my own?
I look at her and for a moment, just one tiny moment, she glows incandescent.
Whoa…
Was I on to something? Was that my Eunice lesson, my refusal to address her sin? Have I angered heaven because I’ve been remiss? Have I not been a good shepherd?
No. No, I have not. I am blind far more often than is good for me. Like Eunice, I too, am weak and stubborn.
Weak, stubborn.
There, I have named my transgressions! But, more to the point, it occurs to me Eunice could be a gift, my easiest and most rudimentary lesson, easy enough so even I understand. Wow, wouldn’t that be a nice easy start for my mission? Maybe with Eunice I’m merely meant to name and address her transgressions aloud and tell them I am here, as a warrior and friend, and I will not falter.
I think I see her glowing again from the corner of my eye but when I turn to have a better look that glow is gone.
Was that a signal? If so it was brilliant in its simplicity. Mighty lessons can and do abound in the ordinary, after all. I mean, I can really try harder and help her. It’s doable.
And I know how to do it, too. Yes! From here on out, I will water down her wine!
Just in case my lesson of Eunice is truly to be this easy, I will name her sins aloud and cross my heart and hope to die my pledge to her. She studies me back with a frown, like maybe I’m going to tell her the toilet in the ladies room is clogged with a Kotex napkin again.
“I will stand fast and protect you from your gluttony and sloth,” I tell her earnestly.
“Uhhuh,” she says, shaking her empty wine bottle in my direction.
“I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Was blind but now I see!” I insist as she shakes her bottle and looks annoyed. “From here on out, got it?”
“Whatever,” she slurs and looks back to her spreadsheets as I take her empty bottle and step away from her table and slowly head back towards the kitchen.
“Is that her lesson?” I look heavenward and whisper as I wait for the response which doesn’t come. “Oh come on, I know it’s easy but it’s perfectly logical.” I insist to the light fixture. “So light my path and give me a little bitty sign, okay?”
Suddenly, I am blinded by a continual stream of bright flashing lights that sear into my eyelids. Over and over, the lights slam against me like small pops of incoming artillery. I close my eyes and dig my nails into the palms of my hands. This is not the little sign I’d hoped for. No! This is too much, too big a sign!
I can’t breathe as the lights continue to slam into me. I gasp and freeze from the fear of awful celestial lights morphing and dragging me inside. I dig my fingernails into my palms, waiting for the command. I hold my breath until I am dizzy, waiting against the blinding lights for what does not come.
I timidly open my eyes and look at the source, and almost cry in relief. It’s just some smashed, middle-aged tourists taking my picture instead of a commandment on high; a small sign, that and nothing more.
“Eunice isn’t the one!” I say and pump my fist in relief.
Yes! One down, twelve more to go!
“Stand next to me, sweetie!” the man with sunburned knees says. “Come on. They’ll never believe me at the VFW! Let me have my picture taken with you, kitten. Would you plant a big kiss right here, on my cheek?”
He tries to place his arm around my shoulder and I swat his hand away and step back quickly behind the counter to the sanctuary of my register, while he and his buddies marvel over every inch of me, debating which parts are real or Memorex.
I sit down on my stool breathing deeply, then force myself to pretend to read again while I recoup. My hands are still trembling when Randy decides to walk up behind me and breathe down my neck. I shudder as every hair on my neck stands on end. He reaches out to touch my arm and I glare at him.
“Don’t touch me, Randy. Don’t ever touch me,” I warn again.
I don’t know exactly why Randy’s made the list but I have a sneaking suspicion it has to do with that one true fact; the one I’ve learned about boys and men. See, if they have unrequited lust in their groins for yours and they think your affection is unobtainable; it can make them downright hostile towards you. It’s not you they really hate; it’s their own inadequacies they see reflecting in your eyes. You just have to try and keep away from them unless, God forbid, you should work together (then don’t ever turn your back on them). Through this, all this remember, above all else I must try and keep the faith enough to believe that intrinsic kindness is down them, somewhere deep and covered in slime. I’ve been looking for Randy’s kindness for five years now but I’m still keeping on keeping on.
I know Randy truly hates being physically attracted to me because he doesn’t like me, either, and he’s got a pretty-good idea I’d rather cut off my lips than make-out with him. But the pull of his zipper is strong.
I watch as he steps away from me and looks down his bar and spots two rednecks drinking their beer and watching us. Randy goes instantly macho.
“Hey, princess we both know what you need,” he says, grabbing his crouch and shaking it. “This will put a smile on your face!”
“Don’t you mean gag me?” I reply then moan immediately because I can tell by their expressions I have released another stupid volley.
The rednecks cackle, Randy cackles.
“Not much in between all that wild platinum-blond hair is there?” one redneck laughs. They’re all laughing because it’s such a brilliant statement.
I go back to my book.
“What in the heck is your problem anyway, Jimmy-Sue?” Randy asks after his groupies have moved on. “Am I the only one who notices you’re always talking to yourself? What are you doing any way, praying, meditating, or have you gone and invented yourself an invisible friend?”
“Shoo,” I say, flicking my hand in his general direction.
He looks at me and taps his temple. “Therapy, Jimmy-Sue, therapy.”
He moves in to try to corner me. His eyes are small metallic brown, like neon rust, and jerk open and closed in rapid succession. I meet his gaze head-on, waiting for a sign.
“I know you got this problem, Jimmy-Sue, what with you being frigid and all.” He stops to ponder my problem virginity for a moment.
“Hey, Randy,” I say and cock my pretend gun at him. “Bang,” I say pulling the trigger.
He slams his fist down on the bar beside me. “You’re getting creepier and creepier all the time!” He stares me down hard then begins to laugh. “Know why you’re so stupid? Yeah, well it’s because you do all your living up here.” He taps his temple again. “All the time, reading and staring and talking to thin air. Wearing all those clingy dresses of yours, then you go and get all bent out of shape when someone asks you to sit on his face.”
“Hey, Randy, what’s up with you
r hair tonight, anyway?”
He high-tails it back over to his bar. I watch as he grabs his hand mirror, which he keeps under one of the blenders, and checks out his receding hairline. He cannot help but steal confused, suspicious glances at me for the rest of the night.
The shrill ring of my phone jolts me from my sleep and I groan when I look at the clock and see its three o’clock in the morning, straight up. “Hello?” I mumble into the phone. “Hello?” I try again and turn over on my back and stare at the fluorescent stars glued on my ceiling.
No reply. All I can hear is that crazy cat howling softly from some tree.
I moan as I fight back exhaustion and give in and sit up. “Ah, come on, give me a break. Tell me you’re not going to start saying filthy things into my phone again.”
Silence from the other end, not a sound, even Blue has stopped howling. There is no heavy breathing on the other end this time.
“Good, Lord, you guys. It’s 3:00 a.m. for pity sake! How many times do I have to have this number changed? Trust me when I say this kind of thing does not work on me. Nothing works on me!”
I find myself shouting before the obvious dawns on me and I realize it’s probably a frightened kid on the other end. I reign in my anger and exhaustion and try to think coherently. “Oh my, I’m so sorry. I thought maybe you were—I thought you might be—do you need help, sugar? Is someone hurting you? Are you afraid? Do you have a place to sleep tonight? You are always welcome here.
“It’s okay, you know, you can always talk to me, cross my heart. Everyone does. I’m a good listener and I won’t ever tell a living soul anything you say. I can help you if you’ll let me.” I yawn and lay back down resting my head on my pillow and noticing that the moon is giant and hypnotic and that my blinds are open again no matter how many times I remember to close them.
“Sometimes I think that’s my true purposes here,” I hear my sleepy voice allow. “To listen to you talk and help you on your way, and that all the other terrible nonsense is the silliness of a fool. Well, if you believe everyone has a purpose, that is. I certainly do.” I find myself rambling on instead of getting to the point because I’m muddled and sleepy.