Lake City

by Thomas Kohnstamm

  Chaz shrugs.

  “Why are you even answering the phone at my mom’s house?”

  “They’re out . . . walking around the neighborhood, lookin’ at Christmas lights or something.”

  Christmas lights? Lane’s mom’s lost her mind. He retreats back inside the mobile home, punching the top of the folding table. It collapses, scattering the empty beer cans across the floor.

  All three stare at the mess.

  Chaz then reaches into the trailer and grabs himself a beer from the cooler. “You mind?”

  Before Lane can answer, he says, “A little bit of advice from a guy who’s been around longer than you: Don’t never sweat a chick. Fuck her. It’s her loss. Move on. Look at me. I came back from Prudhoe Bay and my old lady ran off with a goddamn podiatrist. Dude plays with feet for a living. Feet . . . think about it. She says he’s gonna take her to live in Anchorage—dinner at Sizzler like two nights a week and all that. She left me with three kids. I’m pretty sure one isn’t even mine. You think I’m crying about it? Lotsa fish in the sea, kid. You got no idea how much trim I get now.”

  Lane looks Chaz up and down from his Evinrude hat with the tunneled brim to his beer gut and the tobacco stains on his jeans. He grabs the door to the trailer and pulls it shut.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  LANE ISN’T LISTENING. HE’S WATCHING Tom use his bottom lip to suck the sweet drips of orange Crush from the tips of his mustache. How the off-center part in his lip hair rises and falls as Tom enunciates, as he becomes more expressive, more convinced of the wisdom he is imparting on his unwilling protégé.

  “You see? You gotta sell it, Lame-o.” Tom talks at Lane. “I know you got this ‘I’m too good for this’ college-boy attitude, but you gotta charm ’em. Think about it like you’re hitting on a lady, not any lady but a ten, or at least a six, at like one a them wine bars. Let yourself go. Feel it in the moment like ‘Ladies and gentlemen, check out the ultimate chip-and-dip experience. A goddamn explosion in yer mouth. Eye-fuck ’em a little bit. Reel ’em in and then—bam—Big Dipperz.” As he holds the bag of giant tortilla chip shovels in front of Lane’s face, Tom jabs Lane in the ribs with two rigid fingers. When Lane flinches, Tom fakes to hit him in the nuts with the back of his hand.

  And then, as Lane realizes he isn’t about to be overcome by a wave of groin pain and allows himself to breath again, Tom is gone.

  Lane finds himself alone. Alone as he’s ever been. Exposed in the middle of the store with nothing more than the waist-high stand with the fluorescent-yellow Big Dipperz sign. Vulnerable from all sides. A rudderless ship in open water awaiting the U-boats.

  He spreads out an array of the oversized corn scoops with a pallet of processed factory versions of guacamole, beans, cheese and salsa, all in identical plastic containers and all with machine-blended consistency, in different yet uniform colors: greenish, brownish, yellowish and reddish.

  Tom was incredulous about Lane’s work accident and abrupt disappearance. He let him come back after four unpaid days, but not without taking his pound of flesh.

  Lane knew he shouldn’t have complained about his initial reassignment to the hot case. Yes, he hated it. He came home with a patina of oil and fried animal fat covering his head as if he’d been swimming down by the public boat launch at Matthews Beach and surfaced through a rainbow swirl of spilled diesel. And while he had to serve people at the counter here and there, running the risk of encountering old friends or enemies, he spent much of the day off to the side cooking chicken pieces and strips, Pizza Stix™, deep-fried burritos, corn dogs, fish sticks, jalapeño poppers, mac and cheese, Ragin’ Cajun rotisserie chickens and such.

  Beyond the onslaught of chicken drumettes, the main part of the hot case job was hustling out jojos. These regional delicacies found in supermarkets and public school cafeterias throughout the Pacific Northwest consist of precut frozen potato wedges doused with a Northern mass-production take on Cajun seasoning and fried in the same oil as the chicken. They’re supposed to be a side dish, used to round out deep-fried poultry scraps into a calorically satisfying meal. But jojos, by themselves, are a favorite of broke teenagers and every stripe of late-night drunk who can’t swing McDonald’s or Dick’s.

  Lane was tasked with putting a half dozen jojos in each foil container. He added two ketchup packets, wrapped the foil in plastic, weighed, priced (after removing the tare weight of the container, assuming that he was motivated to do the extra step), stickered and loaded scores of these containers under the hot lamps throughout the day.

  All he had to do was spend some extra time plastic wrapping, pushing buttons on the fryers or examining the thermometers and he could avoid the counter.

  The real problem was that Lane knew that the hot case was a journeyman job, that the hourly should be much higher for overseeing all those deep fat fryers, the ovens for the baked chicken breast and the premade mac and cheese and the full chicken rotisserie. That was like a ten-dollar-or-more-per-hour job. Maybe twelve. Not only did he still not like the feeling of getting ripped off, but he would have liked to make that extra cash that he justifiably earned for his hard work. And he was sure that the union would agree with him. Cheese and Rice wasn’t going to say anything to Tom or advise the union. But Lane was no pushover company man, and he needed to stick up for labor, for decency and fair pay.

  “You know what? You’re right.” Tom said. “Instead, I’m gonna give you a new position as my ‘personal assistant for special projects.’” He started Lane off hand-scrubbing the vents and duct work above the deep fat fryer. Lane swears that he found a dead rat encased in an amber brick of congealed fryer fat, but it could have been a dust ball too. After that, Tom told him to wear a chicken suit and spinner sign to advertise rotisserie chickens out in front of the store. Fortunately, the costume seemed to have been sized for underaged labor, so Lane was reassigned to floor displays.

  “CARE TO TRY BIG DIPPERZ?” Lane asks Inez as she walks up to him at the display stand. “They’re an explosion—”

  “Thanks for nothing,” she says, twirling her hair in a ring around her finger, unrolling it and doing it over again.

  “—in your mouth . . .”

  She glares at him. “I wanna explode my fist in your mouth.”

  “Uh.” Lane leans in. “Remember your crazy boyfriend or husband or whatever?”

  “So what? You scared? I can’t be messing with no guy who’s a pussy.”

  Lane’s not sure how to answer. He crushes a Big Dipper in his hand and tries to talk himself down from stuttering. He reminds himself that she is embarrassed and being defensive and does not believe that he is a pussy.

  “You let me down. You let Jordan down,” she says. “On Christmas. How was I supposed to explain that to him?”

  “I think you’d better look at yourself and the guy you chose to procreate with before you start blaming me for letting anybody down.”

  “What’s your real story? I don’t think you’re going back to New York. Did you make that up? I don’t know if you ever even been there.”

  “What? How can you say that?”

  “I heard you begged for this shitty job back.”

  “Who said that?” he asks, but then lets it go because he knows it’s true. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you. I have a lot going on in my life right now, and I can’t overcomplicate things any more than they already are, you know?”

  “Biz,” Cheese and Rice shouts from the deli. “You got a call, dawg.”

  He abandons his post. “Sorry, Inez. It’s my, uh—whatever. Keep an eye on it for a second?” He’s off before she can refuse. “One second. I swear.”

  He grabs the wall phone in the back of the deli.

  “It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?” Lane feels a flutter in his chest and running up his neck. He thinks for a moment, hopes for a moment. But he knows better, recognizes the smoker’s huskiness of the voice.

  “You look ridiculous out there selling nachos.
”

  “They’re not nachos . . . Nina.”

  “I’m in the Home Entertainment department. Come find me.”

  “You been watching me?”

  “I’m only here for five more minutes. I’ll make it worth your while.” She hangs up.

  He hides in the back, stubbing his toe over and over against the baseboard. He peeks out of the back to see Inez standing at the display stand, still wrapping her hair around a finger and staring off into the distance.

  “Dude.” He beckons Cheese and Rice. “Tell Inez I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m taking care of the—”

  “Do it, man. C’mon.” He pretends to tie his shoe so his head is below the level of the display case and then slips out the far side of the deli.

  NINA KEEPS HER VOLUME NOT far above a whisper. “I’m gonna make you a deal.”

  “I dunno.” Lane shifts from foot to foot.

  “It’s not for you to know or not know, Lane. I’m telling you what’s happening.”

  He noticed her black leather jacket before anything else. Nina stood with her back to him watching Toy Story 2 on a Westinghouse TV with a built-in VCR. The jacket appears to be more expensive than any of the electronics in the department.

  They stand side-by-side pretending to watch the characters on the screen. Lane checks over his shoulder again.

  “Did you know they were already monitoring her as a parent—when they got busted for drugs?” Nina asks.

  “For some reason, she didn’t tell me that part of the story.”

  “It all started with pink eye.”

  “Do I have to hear this now?” Lane slouches.

  Nina keeps watching the movie. “When Jordan was a little baby, she brought him into a walk-in clinic with his eyes crusted shut. They gave her antibiotic eye drops. Standard, right? Then they brought him in again: same shit. A third time: more of the same. When a caseworker paid Jordan a visit two weeks later, the kid still had it. She says she was confused by the directions. Eye drops. I don’t think she can even read.”

  “I’m pretty sure she can read.”

  “Read, not read. What’s her excuse, then? General incompetence? Total negligence? Point is: She’s a disaster. Can’t figure out eye drops but knows how to sell drugs. She knows how to run a hustle when it benefits her. That’s about it.”

  “OK, so you think she’s a horrible person. We’ve determined that.”

  “And she either slept with this judge or made some sort of homophobic church pact with him. It’s preposterous. Look: I don’t give people a second chance. But, considering the timing and that I’m in a bit of a sunken cost dilemma, I’m gonna see this through with you. You have potential, Lane, but you need more spine. I can help you with that.”

  “OK, so she has problems, but this situation, it’s complicated. And I’m not trying to screw anyone over. Or break any laws.”

  “You seem ready to screw me over. Me and my wife, and let’s not forget the most vulnerable of us all: little Jordan.”

  “You know how many problems I have right now?” Lane turns to leave. “I don’t need this.”

  She presses an envelope into his hand. “Yes, you do.”

  He works his index finger in under the corner of the flap and tears along the top of the paper. Lane pulls back one side of the envelope to see a check made out in his name for five thousand dollars.

  “Five . . .” He reads it to himself and asks, “Who’s ABC Holdings?”

  “Shell company. Pretty much untraceable.”

  “Is it real?” He’s never received a check with three zeroes on it before.

  “’Course it’s real. See the bank name on the check. Lake City branch’ll cash it.”

  He swallows hard.

  “It’s postdated for next week. You can buy a flight for the day after you cash it, go first class if you want,” she says. “Take it. Finish what you started. Get back to your wife. Your life.”

  He stands in silence, holding the envelope.

  “We’re gonna take a new tact.”

  “It’s tack. Like in sailing. Tact is more like ‘sensitivity in social situations.’”

  “Shut the fuck up, Lane.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll be in touch later today. But remember: you mess with me and I’ll cancel that check before you can say ‘squandered potential.’” She snaps her fingers, backs away from the TV and leaves.

  “WHAT THE—” INEZ STANDS WITH her mouth open. “You used up like my whole break.”

  “Bathroom emergency, you know.” He stands to the side of his Big Dipperz stand, waiting for her to vacate it for his return. He reconsiders and then ventures, “Thanks.”

  “Thanks? You’re lucky I was here to cover your ass when Tom came around. I had to flirt with that nasty old bastard to keep him from losing his mind. Disgusting.”

  “I appreciate it, but, I mean, you coulda told him I’d be right back.” There’s a long pause, and Lane swears he can hear the buzz of the tube lighting overhead. “So I, uh, I got it from here.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. I appreciate the backup. I mean it.”

  “Cool. Yeah, cool.” She starts to walk off, emotionless. But then she pauses. “I don’t even know why I’d help you.”

  “What? How about: because I helped you.” He starts to organize and clean the lids of the different dip containers. “I helped you a lot. Or at least I tried to help.”

  She laughs. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. What do you mean, really? Fucking really? Did I come over on Christmas? When I was having one of the worst days of my life? I showed up at your—”

  “Take it easy, you two. Customers, customers.” Tom hushes them and motions toward the soft contours of a sweat-suited shopper on a Lark motorized scooter.

  Tom puts his hand on Inez’s back, stroking between her shoulder blades. “You better be nice to her, Lane. She keeps playing her cards right, you’ll be her assistant too by this spring.”

  Lane forces a choke. “I’m not, you know—I mean, it’s cool that you let me come back through New Year’s and all, but I’m not gonna be here too much longer.”

  “Sure, Lame-o.” Tom laughs. “Whatever you say.” He pulls Lane aside, turning his back to Inez.

  “Listen, kid. I know you’re fragile and think you’re going through a rough time or whatever. But you can’t be bringing that drama into work.”

  “I’m fine.” He blushes, worried that Inez can still hear the conversation.

  “As my personal assistant, I want to give you a little guidance. Give you some wisdom. Listen, you know what I do when I’m feeling down? I grab a ten-dollar bottle of wine and the biggest box of Magnum XXLs off the shelf. Then I wait until either the finest or the ugliest female cashier is working. I like that foreigner one too, with the rag-thing on her head. Anyway, I go buy it all from her, real slow-like. I don’t say nothin’. I just make eye contact the whole time.”

  “Let me guess,” Lane deadpans. “Then you’re cured?”

  “There’s no way she’s not imagining it, am I right? I get days of material outta that. Sometime I also throw in something random, like a tub of margarine or an electric back massager.”

  “Thanks for the guidance.” Lane is mortified by the thought that Inez heard everything. “I have a lot to learn from you, Tom.”

  “Best part is: I return it all later for a full refund,” Tom whispers. “Do that with a different cashier, though.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LANE PICKS A LOOP OF black hair out of Toby’s Old Spice and admires it under the bare bulb in the bathroom. Toby and his corny ponytail and beard are all white. Salt-and-pepper, at best. Lane doesn’t want to think too much about the body hair of the old dude who is getting naked with his mom, but it does raise the question of whether Chaz or the teenagers are using the deodorant too.

  That’d be wrong: all of those puberty hormones jumping from their armpits into the Old Spice and th
en getting transferred to Lane. Those kids are like some sort of black mold, creeping over every square inch of the house with their stank tube socks, sharp little Fritos crumbs and wadded-up Kleenex. Now this. Nothing is off-limits.

  Lane does his best to avoid all of them. He’s taken to pissing in the side yard in the tall grass along the fence and blackberries. And his mom brings his dinner out to the trailer and knocks on the door, but she’s been inconsistent with breakfast and lunch. When forced to go inside to grab a meal, he makes sure to protest. To show his displeasure. And takes his frozen lasagnas and microwaved pizzas with him back to the trailer. He walks slow in front of his mom, eyes cast downward.

  “Did she call again?” he asks Toby, Chaz and his mom, fishing to find out if Mia gave him a holiday courtesy call or if something more is at play. “I think she might be in trouble, is all.”

  “She ain’t in no trouble, man. I toldja: Do yourself a favor. Let it go.” Chaz contorts his face into a joker grin so he can drop a new dip between his bottom lip and gums.

  “Wait, who are you again and what are you doing in my mom’s living room?”

  “Chaz. Remember?”

  “Well, you don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not in Buttfuck, Alaska. And this isn’t even about me. I’m looking out for her.”

  “All right, kid,” Chaz says. “When you get older, you realize that most everybody’s got different versions of the same problems. The trap is thinking that it’s all about you.”

  Lane doesn’t think he’s special or unique. It is a proven fact that he’s both special and unique. At least while swimming in the small pond of Lake City.

  OUT IN THE TRAILER, HE gets dressed for his meeting with Nina. The little plastic bubble windows are beaded with condensation from his breath. As he looks for clean socks in his piles of clothes on the table and bench, he thinks about his trips to the library and his attempts to contact Mia by email. She may have quit Hotmail and started one of those Yahoo! accounts, but he doesn’t know the address. Perhaps her father is even keeping her offline. Lane wouldn’t put it past him.