by N. Godwin
Randy came in this afternoon with four Leagalize Dope t-shirts because Ken (who enjoys messing with Randy’s mind) has convinced him that if we would legalize weed and tax the beegeebers out of it every American man, woman and child would never have to pay income taxes again. Randy was so convinced that he even went out and spent part of his bogus refund on a two hundred dollar pair of shoes and a matching belt.
Randy even offered me a buck to wear one of his t-shirts. Gee, a dollar, Randy? How could I resist? I did take one for a souvenir though. We all did except Eunice. She thinks he’s on the hard stuff and she made me make him take his shirt off and promise to never talk about drugs in front of the Halflings again, although I believe if he made pro-drug commercial the entire country would be stone cold straight in a matter of days.
“You know you could convince Ken to help me,” Randy says again as he blocks my easy exit. “Not that I expect any favors from you, princess; but I know money has got to talk even with you. So--”
I tune out his words as he tries to convince me with his sublime logic. Randy is number 4 on my list so I study his features; his perfectly coiffed thinning hair, his rusted eyes, the cocky way he jerks his head around to encompass beyond me and stare at his reflection in the window behind me.
On the one hand he is such a pig. Check mark in the con column.
On the other hand he says these stupid things and probably doesn’t mean or understand half of them. Check mark in the pro column.
Randy is guilty of a myriad of sins; greed, lust, envy and a few others I’d have to dig a little deeper to find. I don’t want to dig a little deeper. He can piss me off just fine at this level as is. Maybe he’s on the list because of how many deadly sins he represents, or maybe he made the cut because he pisses of God, too?
I made a miscalculation behind the bar once and accidentally touched his hand and I puked. Seriously, his jolt was so nauseating I just stood there and threw up all over his cowboy boots. That’s got to mean something…
I listen as our resident philosophizer inflicts a final insult and then dismisses me altogether with a flick of his hand as he walks away. He bypasses Mandy with a rude wave which looks suspiciously like a birdie finger to me. A minute later when Randy thinks no one’s looking, he slips Cecile a Hershey Bar and affectionately pats her on the top of her head as if she ranked up there with one of his dogs.
In his own way Randy cares about all of us, even me and Eunice, even if he does just want a raise from Eunice or to get into my pants. If touching his hand makes me puke, imagine what having sex with him could do? It’d kill me, I am certain. Although, I’m pretty certain having sex with anybody would kill me because of all that wrath of God and such. Anyway, you catch my drift.
Randy thinks tenderness is a sign of weakness. He hates showing signs of weakness even more than he hates people thinking he’s stupid. Never show Randy your weak side. Actually, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll never show Randy any side to pick apart.
It dawns on me that Randy and I have something in common. I think on that fact for a moment before deciding how truly pathetic it is sharing such an important trait with someone I find morally repugnant. Be that as it may, both of us are dripping in the stupidity factor. Except that Randy’s not completely stupid; he’s just not too smart, and even he’s got dreams, big impossible dreams. He wants to be a writer even though his grammar sucks and his ideas are Machiavellian and, on top of that, usually just plain wrong.
But at least he has dreams. I’ve got nothing.
I watch as Randy taunts Genie for serving the wrong customer again then patiently finish showing Kelly how to slice oranges. Then the revelation hits me like a sledgehammer. Randy hadn’t just made my list because of all his sins. He made it because I may be even stupider than he is!
“Show me if this is a sign,” I whisper through the static, asking yet another question that goes unanswered.
I feel a shudder run down my spine because somehow I just know that my Randy lesson won’t go down without taking its toll. Randy will scar my eyelids, so I’ll watch and wait and put him off as long as I can.
I look and Randy is heading straight towards me, and I growl and step aside. “Whatever!” I yell at him as I zoom by.
Randy doesn’t miss a beat. “Therapy, Jimmy-Sue,” he says tapping his temple, “therapy.”
I gaze at the stars and silently brush my hair, closing my eyes and trying to zone into the peace and comfort of my crowded little room. I listen to the slight steady breathing of Cecile and Kelly as they sleep, and think about their tomorrow, and the day after…
I bend over and brush underneath my hair and look at the dust bunnies under my bed. The soft buzz of my phone draws me upright. I pick it up and frown before answering it, knowing the possibilities.
“Yes?” I say moving the phone away from my ear, looking down at it suspiciously, intuitively knowing there will be no reply. I know it’s a deviant this time. I can hear it in the ring.
“This is your booty call, Jimmy Sue! Come suck our--”
I hang up the phone making a mental note to change my stupid number again.
Two Weeks before the 4th and Counting
“Hey all you dudes and dudettes, come on down and party till you puke at BB’s on The Strip! For just a ten bucks cover fee you can drink free all night at Bulimic Bill’s. You heard me right! Just ten dollars and you can party till you puke! Now, here’s a little vintage STP coming at you for a thirty minute music break.”
“Turn it up!” Ken and Horst shout from the kitchen.
Before I can respond, the tall girl I’m processing reaches behind me and cranks up the volume loud, real loud, and salutes the dudes in the kitchen with a clenched fist as if sharing some esoteric musical bond. Her name is Andrea Morelli and she says she just rolled in on the tide from Jersey and is in need of cash and camaraderie.
“So’s, I’m probably gonna hang till the end of summer, if that’s cool, since my ex-boyfriend, the prick who hit me once too often, is a thief and sold everything I owned. What’s truly pathetic is that’s not even why I left him! I left the little prick because I found out he was addicted to heroin and I don’t want three-headed babies looming in my future.
“I don’t believe some people can ever be cured of drugs because some people are too fuckin’ weak by choice. So’s, I don’t like drugs period, except for weed, but weed doesn’t count because it’s medicinal. Soothing the savage beasts and shit, know what I mean?” Andrea says all this then pauses a mere nanosecond to gather a large intake of breath.
“I’m a vegetarian but will eat fish and shellfish, and I love anything Southern except grits and meat. And I fuckin’ like change. I need a change, some fresh air if it gets too stale. Know what I mean?
“And bottom line is, see, I can’t imagine dealing with a worst-fuckin’-case scenario redneck is much different than dealing with my fuckin’ brothers, they both drink and beat their kids. Technically speaking, I just don’t see a difference, unless, of course, redneck is a universal term? It wouldn’t be gender-specific either because women can be just as bad as men. That pisses me off the most, ignorant women with no clue. I avoid stupid women and crazy bitches altogether.
“I don’t physically fight with females any more either because I’d rather use the opportunity to stretch my vocabulary and improve my understanding of the species. I can sense you know what I mean even though you make me a little nervous. Men don’t count because they’re a different fuckin’ species altogether, don’t you think?
“I don’t have lice, herpes, or VD, and am fuckin’ paranoid over HIV so I choose to abstain at this venture. Don’t you?”
Andrea has told me all this in the two minutes since we’ve met. Her cigarette is dangling from her bruised bottom lip and she squints with her left eye to avoid the curling smoke. Andrea looks like her vintage Harley; she is bruised, neglected fruit, and her nervous energy is deceptive and over powering; she is an in-your-face kind of
girl. Her dark hair is closely shaven a half an inch from her head like a recovering Sinead O’Connor groupie.
Everything about her is totally androgynous, like a tall, pretty-boy, all six feet of her. She’s wearing an oversized leather jacket over blue jeans, even in this heat, with a Marilyn Manson pin on the jacket’s lapel and a patch that says Hell No! over her heart. She has six earrings in her right earlobe alone. The earring on the very bottom of her lobe is shooting me the finger. Her green combat boots are warn and untied and she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup
“What did you do in Jersey?”
She meets my gaze with a raised eyebrow, as if assessing my tolerance level. “Phone sex,” she says and lights another cigarette. “So’s all’s you gotta do is run yourself an ad in the personals every Sunday. Know what I mean? No? See most guys are so fuckin’ stupid anyways, so’s you usually just talk about what they wish you were wearing, followed, of course, by the notion of the strip itself while you talk them down all the predictable black lace or leather, although some prefer the granny whites, but that’s usually the older pervs. It’s a good time to shave my legs or take a douche.”
I try to size her up, watching her face and mannerisms as she rambles on. Sharp eyes, nobody’s going to fool her for long. Abuse her maybe, but not fool her. I notice the confident way she moves her hands, but how her nails are bitten down to the quick. No nail polish, no shifting eyes; her eyes never leave my face. She seems at peace with what she says. And God knows she says a lot.
“Sometimes, though, I bang it up for some of them with the verbal abuse because too many of them like that kind of garbage. Know what I mean? Seriously? Well, I just think of it as venting against a deserving majority plus you get to pick their brains and learn all their vulnerabilities. Not a one of them so far has been too fuckin’ swift. Easy mind fucks.
“I could teach you my own personal method if you want. Hey, don’t look so shocked. It’s a harmless form of self defense. You really should try to master it, the sooner the better, sistah. Hell yeah! You become the god. Since we’re forced to exist in a male-dominate society, it’s a necessary evil every woman should master ASAP. Hell yeah! Strategy and therapy all rolled into one. I should give a fuckin’ course: Pricks 101.
“Are those contacts? No shit? Woman, I’ll bet men aim their venom at you all the time. ”
I jump to get a word in edgewise. “No, I meant where did you live in New Jersey? With a family, or group setting, or--”
“I lived with my boyfriend and his dad, the prick family. I was their slave. But at least they had that phone and a sweet big-ass T.V.”
“You know, you might want to rethink your charm over men,” I offer.
“Nah, I was just in my masochistic phase, now I’m into self discovery. I’m seventeen, by the way, and I also tend bar, bus and even cook, provided it’s not red meat. I refuse to work with meat.”
“Uh huh, you smoke but no red meat.”
“Ah, this is just a prop,” she say’s inhaling hard. “I usually smoke a lot during my moon cycle. I make a killer shrimp and avocado salad and an excellent mango salsa. Given the chance, it’s all I fuckin’ eat.
“I also know the importance of timing. Customers usually leave me great tips, unless they piss me off, and they’ve been known to fuckin’ piss me off! But, I’m kind of hoping that your legendary Southern graciousness exists and you’re more appealing than those cocksuckers back home. I don’t think I ever belonged there. Who knows, maybe I belong here?” Andrea closes her eyes and pauses to rack her fingers through her scalp as she inhales deeply.
“What about school?” I say as quickly as I can, noticing how rapidly I’m breathing because the earth is shifting back and forth as if stuck in gear. Yet, strangely, all of this feels vaguely familiar, like a warm ghost whispering over my shoulder. “What grade did you finish?” I manage to ask despite.
“Come on! Surely you’ve noticed how girls can teach themselves more important information than any government run school can! With little more than an outlet and a keyboard I can teach myself almost anything. All our government run schools are gender biased and corrupt to the bone. Seriously, girl, all society is geared toward male domination, and we’re the subjugated majority simply because they take advantage of our ability to breed! They think it’s a weakness when in fact it’s the key to the universe! Notice how they teach everyone in their male-friendly, logistic-based classroom instead of a hands-on methodology where women excel. Face it,” she says blowing a huge smoke ring over my head, “we’re classroom props engineered to make guys feel smarter than they really are just so’s they can dominate us through sex. It’s bogus and I refuse to submit!”
“Uh huh,” I say. “What do you read?”
”Encyclopedias, trade manuals, cookbooks, tax manuals for some reason make my nipples hard. Pretty twisted, huh? Fiction doesn’t move me. I love the angles.”
“Good, then read this and make it your Bible,” I say and hand her the freshly laminated copy of the Seven Deadly No-Nos hanging from one of the thirty bright yellow lanyards Big Willy’s had donated to us after spring break. “If you can follow these rules you’re welcomed to stay. Don’t worry, I’ll stay near and coach you at first. It’s easy once you get the flow. Cross my heart.”
I watch as she reads down the list slowly and tries to absorb the No Nos individually. Her wary Italian eyes are large, expressive, and her lips react in dozens of differing expressions as she raps her fingers over the purple motorcycle helmet she’s clutching under her arm.
“No fucki—friggin’ way I can’t not say fuck! I fuckin’ have to be able to say fuck. Oh wait—I can’t say fuck. Shit! I mean…Fuck, I can’t say shit either! Damn! Crap, I can’t say damn either!” she moans.”Oh my fuckin’ God!”
For some odd reason her earnest reactions doesn’t burn my ears but makes me chuckle. I find myself oddly energized over Andrea showing up here. I’d instinctively liked her on sight despite her swearing overkill, her gender-confusion, and the scars of self- mutilation I have seen on the inside of her arm. I like her even if her radical orientation is twisted on too tightly.
I see lots of potential in Andrea Morelli, lots of it. And God knows I could use her help around the restaurant. With barely two weeks left before the 4th of July, the café has become jam-packed almost around the clock and the dorms are beginning to overflow. I could use experienced help, someone flexible and interesting. Andrea is both, sort of concubine and anarchist rolled into one. I think on this as we walk through the café and outside the back door.
My attention is drawn away from her because I think I sense something unordinary. I stare over at the tall cluster of oak trees across the street several hundred yards away and the hair on my arms stand on end as a chill sweeps down my spine.
“No, it isn’t storming!” I whisper to the sky.
“Uh huh,” Andrea says.
“Great! Look, Andrea, you don’t happen to see someone way over there across the street up in that oak tree do you?”
“Should I?” she asks shielding her eyes and looking.
“A man or some phantom figure in green with--”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Forget I asked,” I sigh.
“Uh huh,” Andrea says again slowly, studying my face closely and arching her left eyebrow in consideration. “Think I’ll just hang here on a trial basis, so don’t get too attached. Now, talk to me about the roommate situation.”
I lead her down the sidewalk, side-stepping the overgrown rosemary, coneflowers and gardenias bushes. I listen while Andrea inhales our salty, fragrant air deeply into her lungs. Each breeze is heavy with the musky sweetness from the honeysuckle, basil, and lavender as our ankles brush against the bountiful hedges.
“Who’s the gardener? You?” she asks snapping off a yellow hibiscus and placing it behind her ear. “Man, this place is jarringly surreal, you know, with barren sand of the beach and the Strip in the front of this place
and a secret oasis just across the street hidden in your backyard. Hidden in plain sight; I like that. What are all those purple flowers hiding the dumpster?”
“Ah, that’s wisteria and bougainvillea, and Horst Gunther is the gardener. He doesn’t stay here; he’s just a friend who waits our tables and tends our flowers and herbs and such.” I close my eyes and inhale the fragrance. “I always forget to tell him how much I enjoy this garden. Horst believes everyone should see flowers every day.”
“Everyone or just you?” she asks.
“Everyone, silly.”
“Nice--I love sensitive men. Is he hetero and disease free?”
“Can’t live with ‘um, can’t live with ‘um, huh?”
“Isn’t that the bane of a woman’s existence?”
“Uh huh, look, Andrea, you’re going to need to tone down the male bashing.”
“ I’m not hating on them! Men are wonderful as long as you know what you can expect from them.”
“Uh huh.”
“Think about this: why do you think they screw jar lids on so tightly? So man will be needed for something else besides a sweaty fuck. It’s another fuckin’ conspiracy!”
“Uh huh,” I say pointing out No-No Number 1, again. “The next swear words you say around here will cost you five dollars apiece.”
“No way!”
“Way.”
I hide my smile while she rambles on about being from Jersey, “--and in Jersey fuck is a noun, pronoun, verb and adjective! But I really will try, because now the concept has become a challenge, and I like a good challenge. I’ll go broke, but I’ll try.”
The confederate jasmine and peach Mandeville Horst planted last fall have grown at least thirty feet up the side of the dorm and make a fragrant arch over the small porch and winds up the staircase to my room and up the red brick walls. I pause as Andrea inhales our garden again. I pluck a few strands of rosemary off a hedge for tonight’s shrimp stew and slip it in my apron pocket as she takes a clump of jasmine and rubs it against her face.