The Early Crap: Selected Short Stories, 1997-2005

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Honor tossed her bag over her shoulder. “We’ve got to walk back half a mile like this? What were we thinking?”

  “We could just dump it and not worry,” Ben said.

  They stood in a tight circle and thought it over. Steven said, “I know what to do.”

  He walked over to the glass door, opened it and stuck his head inside. “Hey, sir.

  This is your car out here, right? The Accord?”

  It was a black Accord with tinted glass and wide wheels, low rider. The guy inside said, “Yeah that’s mine.”

  “Could you give us a ride home? It’s not far, just straight down the road. This stuff’s too heavy.”

  The guy stood there staring for a minute. He shook his head. “No, man, come on.”

  The cashier slapped the guy’s arm lightly and said, “Do that for him. It’ll take five minutes. It’s cold outside.”

  The guy stood there for a moment, grinning and shaking his head, hands in his pockets until he made up his mind. He reached over the counter and touched the cashier’s face. “I’ll do it for you, baby. Whatever you say.”

  He bounced out of the store and shook Steven’s hand. He unlocked the Accord. Steven opened the passenger door and let Jackie, Ben, and Honor in the back. Then he climbed in front. On the key crank, the radio blasted, but the guy turned it down quickly.

  “Where we going?”

  Steven pointed. “That way, and it’ll be on the right. Not far at all. Over the tracks.”

  Honor laughed and said, “This is like it was in Chile. All these people would share car trips, people who didn’t even know each other.”

  The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sounds like a nice place.”

  JANUARY SECOND

  I’m popping eight Benadryl tabs every day to keep from itching and sneezing, but they keep me zoned. I took my superslim notebook computer along on my morning bike ride to the beach, walked to the end of the pier and flung the machine into the Gulf of Mexico. This disturbed the fishermen and in-line skaters out there, thinking I had lost my mind—they yelled and asked Why? and You OK? but I left without answering.

  Because I was sleepy and didn’t need a computer. Because I could get another one when the need showed up. Because it was funny as hell.

  I rode along Beach Boulevard. It was warm for eight in the morning on January second. We always heat up for Christmas and chill after New Year’s. Air smelled rank—fishy. Bright blue sky met muddy water far out past the island. There’s a couple of freighters, couple of small boats. I hoped Alton was fishing. He’s thirty years older than me, retired, down at the Point a few mornings a week. He sits on a barstool on the rocks and casts squid, catches hardhead catfish.

  At the Point, Alton was there, but so were a hundred others. Cars parked every which angle, people lined on the shore shoulder to shoulder above the rocks, reels and rods in hand, blue threads reflected sunlight like a spider web of fiber optics. It was Fish For Your Supper time.

  “Already been three fights, wrestling on the ground. All the broken bottle glass stopped that quick enough,” Alton said.

  “Over what?”

  “Lines getting tangled. Hooking somebody on the cast. Stuff like that.”

  He wore amber aviator shades and a Navy cap, tight green T-shirt with paint stains. He kept his white hair shaved close, had tight tanned skin. His legs were crossed, pole resting on his lap, and there was a .45 shoved in his waistband.

  I stood behind him, little to the left. He was on the side facing the shipyard tool sheds across the channel. The shipyard was still out for Christmas break, empty, no drills or cranes or sirens or loudspeakers making the usual background noise. Just gulls and a few car and truck radios thumping bass. Someone should have told them the booming scares fish away.

  I said, “What’s the gun for?”

  “A reminder. I’m sure there’s a few more floating around.”

  “What’s in your bucket today?” I reached for the lid.

  His hand shot out and slapped my fingertips. “Few catfish, mullet, croakers. Don’t open that.”

  “You eat those?”

  “Meat’s meat. I’ve been freezing most of what I’ve caught for six months now. And I’ve got the generator at home keeping them cold, and my brother’s guarding the freezer.” He pulled the pole back some, reeled some lazy spins.

  “What if I tried to take the bucket? You wouldn’t shoot me.” I let my hand drift towards the handle.

  Alton had the gun out before I noticed him reaching for it. He was turned on his stool, stared me down, had a point blank bead on me.

  “Just a joke,” I said.

  “Don’t need your jokes today.”

  He eased up a little. I put my hands on my hips and watched these men, a father and son it looked like, backing a boat off its trailer on the launch. When the boat was away, the Chevy spun its tires, a good squeal, and shot out to the parking lot.

  “You’ll be here next week?”

  Alton shrugged, picked up his rod. “Nowhere else to go.”

  “Are we cool then?”

  He tossed me a thumbs up. Or a get lost. I don’t know.

  On the bike ride back down Beach Boulevard, everything looked like paper doll cut-outs: people lining the seawall, fishing, buckets at their sides. And the men had their kids and wives along. They had CD Walkmans, bottles of lemonade and Coke and beer. There were more people on bikes than usual, families and friends in clusters. I passed a girl I used to date, and she pretended to ignore me.

  People who lived in the big homes were out in the front yards, sitting in lawn chairs or going from house to house talking to neighbors. Things went on as usual except it was like a hurricane day, when the storm’s blown through and everyone comes back home, only there’s not real mess to clean up this time. Not paper and wood and steel. Not water damage. These people had the generators and candles, the frozen fish and steaks and Lean Cuisines. The bottled water from Abita Springs.

  I saw that and thought this: the most awful and arrogant people in the world work for the Nightly News. They think people are stupid enough to pay attention to them and take the Nightly News for granted. They wanted the panic so they could have a big story. But the local paper’s headline the night before was TALK TO YOUR NEIGHBORS. And so everyone did.

  I was sweating, and the sweating caused more itching. The seven o’clock Benadryl was wearing off, and I had four miles to pedal before making it to my folks’ house. I looked forward to rubbing calamine lotion on the itches, then sitting out in my yard and reading some of the old Sci-Fi pulps my grandfather left me. I didn’t really want to talk to my neighbors, but I would be polite if they made the attempt.

  MY BEST FRIEND’S GIRL

  Gene wanted to get rich on porn like the Girls Gone Wild geniuses.

  “Christian Girls on Their Wedding Nights. I mean, the sex isn’t a sin then, plus since it’s something the Bible wants people to do, have sex with their spouses”

  I said, “It’s still a sin to watch other people have sex.”

  Gene managed an electronics store in New Orleans and often borrowed video cameras, computers, Blackberries, “trying them out”.

  I preferred stereos—surround-sound in the bedroom. My girl Pascha loved it. Too bad she loved Matchbox Twenty. Gene let me borrow CDs from his store.

  Gene kept it up while I rifled through the store’s new releases—Rilo Kiley, Low, The Delgados. I held up a Bright Eyes disc. Gene nodded.

  “Why the Christian stuff anyway?” I said.

  “Just trying to tap into a new audience.”

  “The tried and true keeps bringing them back.”

  Gene said, “How about My Best Friend’s Girl? Like after a big fight or when he was flirting with some slut, swoop in, tell her it’s great revenge.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “If she’s on tape, he�
�ll be all pissed but I bet he won’t do it again. I can sell it, make her sign some contract she can’t understand.”

  How would I feel about Pascha with Gene? Murderous.

  *

  The previous night, Pascha and I hit a French Quarter club. The band was dull, trying to do serious tunes in a town that liked its music party-soaked—zydeco, blues, cheesy brass jazz. Gene couldn’t have known that I was moody and Pascha was tanked. Been that way between us for months.

  She said, “This is boring.”

  “Why’d you come if you’re bored?”

  “I didn’t know I’d be bored until right now.”

  She was sexy, but bitterly so. Her straight black hair covered half her face like thick paint, and her eyes burned. She wanted a fight. Drama. She lusted for it. The house speakers—Jesus—”Don’t Mess with My Toot-toot”. Pascha snapped her fingers, grooved.

  “Don’t,” I said. “This weekend, I promise, but not tonight—”

  She was past caring what I had to say. Her hips swayed. Her ass invited. Pascha wanted to be center-stage. She knew where to aim her scent. I wished I could cool out and let her dance without thinking she intended to humiliate me.

  Two frat boys crowded around. I swear she knew they were there but waited until one came up and touched her waist before she looked up, wagged her finger and pointed at me. She pushed his hands away but let him stay right on her, skinwidth’s separation between them. The other guy did a little bump on her backside.

  I crashed their party, instantly regretting it, and said, “Pascha, let’s go.”

  The guys had been hoping for this—hiking their shoulders, muttering, “S’up?”

  Pascha said, “I’m having fun. It’s early. You’re a pooper.”

  “You heard the lady,” said goatee boy #1. “Back off.”

  The bartender snapped his fingers at the bouncer, motioned our way.

  I leaned towards Pascha, whispered, “I don’t want trouble.”

  She said, “Not right now, please. Go home, I’ll stop by later.”

  “If you’re not leaving with me now, don’t bother.”

  The bouncer’s shadow dimmed the light. The frat boys shrank—”It’s cool.”

  Pascha didn’t look me in the eye. “I’ll stop by later.”

  “Baby—”

  “I need a drink.” She walked to the bar. With Hulk the Doorman inches away, I didn’t follow. Left the club, drove home, and kicked my couch until the leg splintered off. I passed out face down on the cushions.

  *

  She stopped by at three in the morning. We fucked, not make-up sex, but a grudge fuck. She was all worked up from dancing, while I needed to hit something hard other than my couch.

  The next day, she was gone. All quiet til afternoon, when I saw Gene. I couldn’t shake his comment, though. No way he knew Pascha and I had fought, and no way he’d mention something like a porn tape featuring girlfriends out for revenge if he had gone through with it. I didn’t think Pascha and Gene liked each other at all.

  Still, I had to satisfy the nagging in my head.

  Gene was working until nine, so I let myself into his apartment the hard way—shoulder to the door. Inside, his futon was flat, the sheets scattered. Stale sweat and sex odors. There was a digital video camera on a tripod at the corner.

  DVDs lined a shelf on the far side of the front room. I ran my fingers along the rows, handwritten names—“Rhiannon”, “Lucy”, “Drama Queen”, “Pascha, Part I”.

  Son of a bitch.

  I took the DVD to his entertainment center and slid it in, sat on the futon and worked the remote. First scene, Gene’s aiming the camera from a moving car.

  Gene’s voice: “Let’s see who we find, rejected and looking for revenge.”

  The car he was following—it was mine.

  He caught us parking and walking. He waited until we were a block ahead to follow. Terrible camera work, all shaky with loud breathing.

  Cut to the front of the club. He caught me storming out later. Gene said, “Trouble in Paradise? Let’s find out.”

  I wondered how he knew to follow us. Or had he been following for longer? Sure, I’d told him Pascha and I weren’t on the best of terms. But who follows a couple on dates hoping for a blowout?

  Cut to Pascha alone, drunken smile, a fruity drink in front of her.

  “Everything okay?” Gene said.

  She shrugged. “You know Rick. No fun sometimes.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t dance. That’s all I wanted.” Babydoll sad face.

  Cut to Pascha walking on the sidewalk, Gene beside her asking, “Think about it. He doesn’t want you to have fun, so show him how much fun you can have.”

  Pascha waved him off. “Come on, Gene.”

  “Imagine, he sees you on tape, he’ll make goddamn sure to dance with you anytime you want.”

  She looked agitated. “Jesus, Gene, you’re his best friend.”

  “He would understand. I’m doing it to help him.”

  My angel, arms crossed, a little unsteady.

  C’mon, baby, tell him to go to hell. Just walk away…

  Pascha nodded and said, “I’ll hear you out.”

  End of disc. Blue screen. Later, I turned and stared at the camera.

  It took me a few minutes to figure out how to work the camera and watch the footage. It was silent. Pascha’s face, close-up. Pulled back to reveal her kneeling on Gene’s futon. She was dancing from the waist up. She reached for the top button of her blouse—

  The front door swung open. Gene. Already nine-fifteen. Time had gotten away from me.

  “What are you doing?” He glanced at the blue screen, then me standing at the camera. “No, wait.”

  “Best friend’s girl, Gene? You think telling me about it was a smart move?”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Trying to help me again?”

  “Rick—”

  One hand tightened on the tripod. Decision made. I lifted it like a sledgehammer and swung hard at Gene’s head. The camera exploded, bits of plastic and blood spraying the entertainment center. Gene was down. I waited for him to get up again.

  He didn’t.

  I checked him for breath. I didn’t get past his wide-open eyes. I threw up on his body. Blood, puke, diodes.

  One more stop to make.

  *

  Pascha was in a bathrobe. “Rick, I feel terrible. Please, no fighting.”

  I stepped in and closed her door. “Not a fight. An explanation. Maybe some acting you did last night?”

  Her mouth made an “O”. “What did Gene tell you? Don’t believe what he said.”

  “Not what he said, darlin’. What you did. I saw it myself.”

  She clutched her robe together at her neck. “It was wrong.”

  “Goddamn right it was.”

  “That’s why I didn’t go through with it. He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “But I saw—”

  Then I realized that I hadn’t seen much. Gene had interrupted me. “I don’t know what I saw. What happened?”

  Pascha said, “We went back to his apartment. I was drunk, you know. He turned on some music, asked me to dance, be flirty. I just undid a couple buttons when he reached for me. Said it had to be dirty if I wanted revenge. He wanted to film himself going down on me. I stopped him.”

  I stumbled back.

  She said, “I told him I was in love with you. Even now, I’m still crazy about you. I don’t care what he said. I’m telling you the truth.”

  Another step back for me. She looked holy and I was the snake. I croaked, “He didn’t tell me anything. I…didn’t watch it all. I just assumed.”

  I held my palm to my temple.

  Pascha said, “Rick, what did you do?” She said it again, her voice tightening.

  �
��Call the police,” I whispered. “That Gene, he’s a funny guy.”

  TO HEAR JESUS

  Tina picked up the ham Saturday at the shop Cal managed in Biloxi. She had ordered a huge spiral cut honey baked ham for a church lunch. Cal carried it out to Tina’s car, the Supra parked in the middle of the asphalt lot. She was one of those Pentecostals, with long blonde hair, frizzy up front and pulled back into a loose tail that reached her waist. Cal’s best guess was nineteen, but glasses made her look older. She was tiny with curves, in a long denim skirt, short socks and Keds. No make-up, no jewelry. Cute and different.

  “What’s the occasion?” Cal said.

  “Big lunch every fifth Sunday of the month. My fiancé’s parents are flying in from Tampa.”

  “You don’t sound thrilled.”

  She shrugged. “Time to get married, time to meet the folks.”

  Cal opened the passenger door and set the ham on the floorboard. He stood and shut the door, Tina behind him so close he brushed her.

  “You’re too young to get married.”

  “Maybe. I’ve got a few months left. I can change my mind.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “Trent sells cars now, but he’s got a preacher’s license and wants to go evangelize. You know, revivals. Preacher for hire.”

  “There any money in that?”

  Tina prissed her lips. “Depends. If the big churches want him, yeah. But we’ll start out on little offerings in little towns.” She leaned forward on her toes. “I had real money growing up. We did fine. My man better think about that. He’d better take care of me.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “I don’t ask for much.” She lifted her chin, rubbed the sweat off her neck. “Trent’s preaching tomorrow night here at home. Want to come see?”

  Cal didn’t know if she was witnessing or making a date. He didn’t really care. She was asking. He slipped a business card out of his shirt pocket and clicked his pen, handed them to her.