by Jeff Johnson
It was possible that Dmitri had put the place up for sale and the prospective buyer had decided to lower the price.
It was conceivable that the constant pressure the city had been putting on him to renovate or move had driven him into a nutty decision to partner up with people he never should have met.
It didn’t strike me as unthinkable that Dmitri might have placed me in a situation where my options were death, prison, or the new scars I had. Then again, I had to consider that the batty fucking lunatic was just as lost as ever and didn’t have a clue.
“You still in there?” Delia asked.
I took a cigarette out of the pack in my coat and fired it up.
“Yeah. I was just thinking about how nice it was going to be to see Dmitri again.”
Delia cackled and almost choked on the wad of gum in her mouth.
“And you tell me I’m a crappy telepath,” she managed.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you’re big on swallowing, but keep it down over there.”
She snorted. Delia could make a powerful snort for a woman with such a small nose. I was often struck by her similarity to a nuclear device—not too big as far as bombs go, but next-level potent.
“I actually don’t have any idea what to say,” I confessed. “That’s either the best idea ever, or the absolute worst. It isn’t anywhere in between.”
“Don’t think too hard. Your bad eye might pop out if you squeeze your brain. Plus, I’ve already done most of your thinking for you. If you’re going to go fuck with Dmitri and this Russian guy, might as well get something out of it other than stitches.”
“Hey,” I protested, “I got two guns so far, a car, a shitload of cash … I was even up four burritos at one point.”
“Uh-huh. You already lost the car and the guns and you have new cop problems and the face transplant I keep harping on.”
We pulled up in front of the impound lot. I could see my car. It looked dirty and lonesome, even older.
“There’s just no winning with you, is there?” I yanked at my seatbelt. The attendant in the little booth by the gate watched us with the same expression as the gal at the convenience store. I realized in a flash that it was probably the exact same expression as the photo on his driver’s license.
Delia gave me an exasperated sigh.
“’Course not. I’ll wait until you drive out, just in case you need help dealing with the retard in that little booth.”
I nodded and got out. The guy in the booth stared as I approached. He didn’t say anything when I stopped in front of the window, just glowered at me, prepared for the rudeness he was accustomed to. I smiled. He looked wary.
“Hey,” I began. “That maroon BMW wagon over there is mine.”
He sat forward and picked up his metal clipboard, looked out at my car and then back at me.
“License and proof of insurance?” He was hostile, but in a controlled way. I pulled out my crusty wallet and peeled out my license and my insurance card and passed them through the security slot. He scowled down at them and punched some numbers into his computer, then pushed the tray back, all without touching them.
“Seven hundred and ninety-seven dollars,” he reported. He squinted at me, prepared for an explosion. Instead I nodded and pulled an even grand out of my pocket. I peeled off eight truly disgusting bills and slapped the bills in the tray, scooped out my card and ID, and pushed the tray back toward him. He looked at the money.
“Jesus,” he whined. “What in the fuck. That ain’t money. I need exact change anyway.”
“Keep it,” I said. “You got anything for me to sign?”
“No,” he replied. “And I mean no, as in I can’t take this money. You tampered with it. That’s illegal.” He folded his arms. I pointed up at his security camera.
“It’s illegal for you not to take the money, dumbass. Open the gate and we won’t have a problem.”
He gave me his hardest look and I had to smile. He hit the gate buzzer and the chain-link fence rolled open. I winked at him and walked across the muddy lot to my car. I gave the inside a quick once-over after the cold engine finally turned over. Whoever had stolen all my CDs had muddy feet, but that was about it. I drove out the gate and flipped the guy off as I passed. He shyly returned the gesture. I pulled to a stop next to Delia and rolled my window down. She cranked hers down as well.
“I bet those fuckwads stole your Doobie Brothers CDs, didn’t they?” She was grinning.
“Cleaned me out. Even the bad ones. Three Dog Night, too. My fuckin’ Creedence. Least they had taste.”
“Lame.”
“I think I’m going to get drunk tonight. What are you doing?”
“Empire of Shit is rocking the Equinox. I told the dildo I’d be there.” They’d been going out for two months by then, a record for Delia.
“OK. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Don’t lose my number.”
I tapped the good side of my head with my good hand.
“I memorized it. Like, really.”
Her smile went from grin to sweet. “And here I was wondering if you had brain damage. A whole phone number.”
“Later.”
She smacked her gum, once.
Getting drunk in Portland is as easy as falling down a staircase. There were more strip clubs per capita than any other city in the world, but the day I had to pay to see a naked woman was the day I blew my brains out, so those were never on the menu. That left a wide spectrum of old man dives, theme taverns, and garden-variety hell pits. The trick, of course, was to pick the place that matched your mood, and that was an art in and of itself, but the city was very accommodating in that way. There was something for every occasion.
I stopped on the way home at one of my favorite Mexican drive-thru operations, a place called Beanco, built into the shell of a retired Kentucky Fried Chicken. Portland was filled with those kinds of operations. There was actually a Taco Bell right next to it, with a long line of sorry people on their cell phones, waiting in their cars for their usual, oblivious. I zipped through the no-wait at Beanco and got a jumbo al pastor burrito, four rellenos, and a double side of refried beans with lard and four pickled jalapeños, then drove home and parked my car for the night. There was no reason to drive later, considering the variety of bars close to home and my ever-decaying popularity with the police.
When I opened the door, the cats rampaged in without so much as a hello and went straight to their food bowl. I sat down at the dining room table and unwrapped all the Beanco goodies. When the cats were done, they came out and watched as I made my way through all of it, even the rellenos I’d been planning to save for later, plus all four jalapeños. I knew from experience that they wouldn’t eat Mexican food, but they liked watching me do it. When I was done, I threw all the wrappers away and wiped off the table with one of Delia’s new dishrags, then lay down on the couch, too full for the moment to move. It was early yet for Operation Drunk as Possible, and I was tired anyway. I closed my eyes and almost immediately I was out, way down deep in a dreamless place.
When I woke up I was hungry again. I dug my new cell phone out and looked at the time. It was a little after eight and I’d missed two calls from Delia. I’d slept for six hours. I got up and stretched, and I wished I’d taken my boots off. After I brushed my teeth and gently washed my face, smeared some ointment around, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror, my eyes tracing the details of my new scar. My purpose became as clear and strong as a hurricane wind. I needed to have fun. I needed to get laid. I need to wash a ton of bad, clingy crap out of my mind, to howl and maybe even dance. I need to feel free, even for just one night. I needed a goddamned break and I was taking one. Not tequila, not vodka, certainly not wine or anything with an umbrella. It was whiskey night. Even the weather was in line.
The Fart Club, as it was affectionately known, was the skanky greasehole second home of union skinheads, creepy chicks with a big dick in their thought bubble, and trolling art-school hipsters
brave or stupid enough to make a run at the place. The owner was a washed-out skinhead drunk and possibly one of the shittiest humans ever to walk the earth, so it was the perfect match for my mood—a soup of bristle and horny chaos, garnished with madness and the type of gaiety born from desperation. Plus I knew all the bartenders, since I’m the steady sort as far as moods go.
The bartender that night was a pear-shaped little monster with bad teeth named Daisy. We never got along too well because I’d beaten up a guy who I didn’t know was her boyfriend a few years back and she sold shitty diarrhea coke to the hipsters, which I considered low and mentioned one too many times. A steady stream of generous tips had helped ease the tension to the point where she almost smiled sometimes, which was a step up from the way she treated most everyone else. The place was only half full as I took a seat at the bar and nodded at her. She didn’t even recognize me.
“Whatcha want,” she snapped.
“The usual. Jameson’s rocks and a beer back.”
She squinted at me and nodded. When she plunked the drinks down in front of me she gave me her brown and yellow half grin. I slid a relatively clean ten across the counter.
“You change your hair or something?” She actually seemed concerned. Maybe we were turning a corner.
“Nah. Just a little monkeying around with my head in general. Why? Do you think I need a haircut?”
She shrugged and slid the ten back.
“On the house.”
It really was a first, so I slid the bill back.
“Buy yourself a diamond.”
She flashed me the full grin and pocketed the bill. Daisy didn’t let me pay for another drink all night, which is how I got so impossibly wasted at a time when I should have been holding my shit together a little better than I did. Blowing off steam is one thing, but the booze animal wriggled out of my grasp once again, and true to form, the unusual happened.
I was into my third round in less than an hour and the bar was packed when I noticed the woman sitting next to me. She was pretty, in a sunburned, ski-bum-chick kind of way, with short brown hair and high, wind-blasted cheekbones. I used to be pretty good at picking up women in bars, or even being picked up by them, but that was before the modifications Cheeks made. I was suddenly terrified to have an attractive woman sitting next to me. My mouth went dry, and my hands got cold and clammy. She glanced over at me and my right pupil pulsed.
“Cool scar,” she said immediately. “You get that on the mountain?”
“Nope. Golf.”
She laughed, a high, clean sound, and like a miracle the tension left me. I took a sip of Jameson’s.
“I love golf,” she said. “It’s too bad I’m terrible at every part of it.”
“Me too. I have a good swing, but that’s about it.”
“I like to board.” She fiddled with her drink, something brown. With her free hand she touched one of her cheekbones. “Hence the sunburn. Looks like we both have sports-related injuries, although I think you win.”
“Yeah, I do. But yours looks pretty good.”
She smiled at that, but there was no way to tell if she blushed. She did do the equivalent with her eyelashes.
“Why, thank you.”
“So, uh.” I’d never been this awkward. “My name’s Darby.”
“Suzanne,” she replied. She stuck her hand out. Her fingers were incredibly long and chapped, the nails short and plain. We shook and she almost broke the tender bones in my right hand.
“Pinkie,” I gasped.
“Oh. Sorry.”
I took another sip of Jameson’s. She downed her shot and waved at Daisy, who ignored her.
“This place is packed,” she commented. “Getting loud, too. Nice to meet you, Darby.”
“There’s a little wine place next door,” I offered. “They have beer, too.”
She smiled ruefully down into her empty glass and at that instant Daisy appeared with a bottle of Cuervo and refilled it.
“This one’s on Darby,” she said. She glanced at my half-full tumbler and topped it off with some Jameson’s. It was the beer backs that were doing me in. Daisy helpfully plunked a fresh one down in front of me.
“Guess we’ll stay for a while,” Suzanne said.
“Looks like it,” I replied. I took a slug of whiskey, a real mouthful, and the level in my glass didn’t change. Daisy was pouring with mystic power.
“Three days on Mt. Hood,” Suzanne said, cradling her shot glass in her long hand. “The shots up there were hell of expensive, but I have to say, conditions were sooooo good.” She glanced at me. “You board?”
I shook my head. “Nah. I ski, though. I fell down so many times learning how I didn’t want to go through the whole thing again.”
“Skateboard?” She seemed genuinely curious.
“Like a motherfucker,” I said proudly. “I even collect ’em.”
“You should be able to pick it up with a decent teacher, and hey, it might even spare you another golf injury.”
I had to laugh. She laughed at my laughing.
“So what else do you collect?” she asked. I shrugged.
“Fossils, meteorites, cats, books, figurines. Antiques. Art crap.”
She put one hand under her jaw with her elbow on the bar, angling herself at me. Her brown eyes played over my scar.
“I wonder,” she said pensively, her voice almost lost in the crowd, “what a man who collects stuff like that does for a living.”
“I’m sort of on hiatus. But usually I’m an artist.”
I didn’t like her looking at my scar. She could sense it, maybe read it in the rest of my face.
“Stand up,” she said.
I slid off my barstool. Suzanne got off hers, and I understood the pensive smile when I had suggested we go next door to the wine place. I’m five eight and I used to be a hard one-eighty. I was getting it back. Suzanne was around six foot five, maybe taller, and lean as a whip. I looked up into her beautiful face and even with one and a half eyes I could see the same fear and doubt I was feeling.
“Wow,” I said. “You know, I’ve always had this thing.”
“What thing.” It wasn’t a question. She folded her arms. They were corded with muscles and tendons and veins.
“This thing for outdoorsy athletic women,” I went on truthfully. “I’m sorry if I just squirted saliva on you. I swear it was involuntary. Like a sneeze.”
Her face lit up. “Still feel like hitting that other place? The quiet one? Talk about meteorites and fossils?”
I held my arm out and she took it. And that was how I met Suzanne.
I woke up around five a.m. with the kind of hangover that isn’t easy to describe. For a few minutes I didn’t know where I was, but since I couldn’t really move, it gave me time to piece it together. Jumbled images of the night before skittered through my aching head, like brief flashes caught in the headlights of a speeding vehicle on a bumpy road at midnight. Talking to a tall, tall woman I really liked. Lots of unfortunately varied booze. Gnarly, passionate sex. I looked over next to me and there was Suzanne, asleep on her stomach and naked, snoring, with a condom I had evidently left unceremoniously draped over one rock-hard ass cheek. I think I let out a small whimper then, maybe a low sort of moan. Then I peeled a second condom off my stomach and got up. My neck felt like my head had been twisted around a few times, my lower back was numb in some places and sparking electrical current in others, my crotch felt bruised, and my right eye was swollen shut again.
In the bathroom, I used her toothbrush after I flushed the condoms and considered a shower for a solid five minutes, leaning over the sink and waiting to see if I puked. I couldn’t remember how, but we’d torn the shower curtain off. First big idea of the day, shot down. So I looked at the drain in the sink for a few more minutes.
When I was done with that, I went off in search of my clothes. I found a sock in her living room and one of my boots nearby. The other boot was all the way back under the shower curt
ain, but no sock. My shirt was by the bed, my pants next to hers in the kitchen.
No underwear, mine or hers, was ever found.
I put on the remains of my clothes, tracked my peacoat down to its hiding place behind the couch, then found a pen and an envelope in the kitchen, which I used to write the lamest, most incoherent, poorly-thought-out love letter in the history of humanity.
“Dear Suzanne (sp?),
I super dig you. Don’t know my phone number. Used your toothbrush. That’s why it’s wet. So come over to my place.”
I wrote down my address. The writing was more than a little shaky, bordering on scribble. I included my name as an afterthought, and then the dim realization that an intelligent woman might actually read the papers and thus be aware of my recent spat with the police swam to the surface, so I crossed out my last name.
“Shit,” I said. But I left the note.
The rainy walk home brought the situation into greater focus. I paused under a big tree and lit the first cigarette of the day and savored a few drags, staring in meditation into the predawn darkness. The rain felt good on my face and my scalp. The cold wind was fine on my knuckles. I was slowly coming back to life, which I had a bad feeling was going to come in handy in the immediate future. I kept walking, my thoughts skittering with dyslexic hangover dementia.
I’d finally met a woman I really liked, at the lowest point in my adult life. And I did like her. Everything about her. She had nothing in common with the usual string of needy players and flat-out horndogs taking a break from the naked parade machine, the thirtysomethings who wanted a baby without the love, the hard professionals who wanted a taste of madness to wash away all the stale. She was into rock climbing and snowboarding and travel in general. She liked to cook, as I did. She worked as a law librarian and a freelance travel writer. I’d always had an embarrassing fondness for nerdy chicks with an outdoorsy flair, but I hadn’t had a serious relationship in more than five years, and that had been an awful torture session with a severe woman who flew helicopters for the forest service and had an all-woman feminist speed metal band called the Captains of Industry. The thought of her made my skin crawl. Delia had almost killed her toward the end, and had finally decided to give me the silent treatment until I either broke it off or allowed her to run the woman over.