Catch & Release

by Blythe Woolston

  Odd is still giving me the silent treatment. He’s even turned off the radio.

  I dig the little scissors out and start sawing through the mat of hair at the back of my neck. When the hair is in my hand, it’s a relief. Less itchy. Less hot. It’s an improvement. I could tie a lot of flies, maybe, with a pile of hair like this. I toss the wad of hair out the window. A bird can make a nest out of it, or somebody will mistake it for a chunk of yeti fur. I hack off the hair over my left ear and eye. Then I stop. I leave the tangle on the other side to help hide my ruined cheek.

  “Lemme see,” says Odd, so I turn toward him. He glances a couple of times, quick, because we are starting up the pass and the road needs attention. “It’ll grow back.”

  It’s a start.

  “E is for Extras,

  Like some monsters got,

  Some teeth, mouths, and eyeballs

  Where usually there’s not.”

  Odd gives me a bright, full-on smile after he finishes reciting. “There, I did the hard one for you, Polly. Is F for Frankenstein? Or is he too humany for you? One thing you oughta think about is you can break all the rules you want as long as you don’t get caught—and nobody’s gonna catch you because nobody even knows that no-humanymonsters rule except me and you.”

  “I’ll think about that. I’ll think about F. Thanks, Odd,” I say. He’s like my own damn weather: I got to live with it, sometimes it sucks, and it changes every five minutes. Right now the sun is shining on the silky mirror of Lake Coeur d’Alene and there is no wind. There are no clouds in the sky.

  “Gotta meditate. You?” says Odd.

  “I’m good,” I say.

  “This’ll do then,” and he pulls onto an off-ramp to nowhere. He parks D’Elegance in the middle of the road, gets out, walks around the front of the car and starts peeing on the pavement. Because he can, I guess.

  When he climbs back in, he’s still peeking out of his pants.

  “Odd, that’s not appropriate. Peeing in public, peeing on stuff, not zipping your fly . . .”

  He grins and grabs himself, but instead of stuffing himself out of sight, he starts swiveling his penis around like a rubber flashlight. “Appropriate?” he says in his Darth Vader voice, “I am the one-eyed god. Who are you, tiny mortal, to tell the one-eyed god what’s appropriate? ”

  “From where I’m sitting, you’re the tiny mortal.”

  He shrugs and the puppet show is over.

  “Look,” says Odd, “Thor Street. It’s a sign from god. Thor is Troutzilla’s right-fin man. We take the next exit.”

  On a hot day, cold and sweet is very appealing. I’m going to order the hugest drink and suck it down so fast my teeth will ache. This project would have been easier if Odd had just gone to a drive-through, but no, he pulls into a little mall and parks where the signage promises food.

  “Need a little change of orientation, body-wise,” he says. “Get me a spicy chicken, fries, and Coke.” Then he heads toward some little cafe tables that crowd the sidewalk between the street and a coffee house. Lucky me. I get to go in and order. If I weren’t so in love with the idea of cold and sweet, I’d just drop the seat back, put my hat over my face, and check out. But I want cold and sweet. I’ve talked myself into it. I can’t live without it.

  I put on the granny-Chihuahua sunglasses and pull the brim of my hat down on one side. Then I look in the visor mirror. Krikey. Bad idea, mate. Turns out I can actually make myself look worse. Well, maybe not worse, but more obvious. Obvious isn’t good. Shit. I’m a person. I can buy lunch in public. I toss the sunglasses in the back seat and restore dignity to my hat. Then I walk into a place that promises fast, fresh, Mexican food. They don’t have a spicy chicken sandwich or fries on the menu. That is just fine with me.

  When I come out with the food, Odd isn’t where I saw him last. He’s table-hopped so he’s sitting near a girl with a black umbrella shading her from the sun. Not an umbrella, a parasol with ruffles and ribbons. Not a parasol, a gothasol. She’s a goth. A real live and beautiful goth: hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as. . . .

  “She eats raw fish. I’m not talkin’ sushi, I’m talkin’— like Gollum,” says Odd when I walk over. He mimes a sharp-toothed monster gnawing the guts out of a trout.

  The gothasol girl dabs the end of a fry in the pool of ketchup. She dabs it slowly, in and out, in and out. Then she drops it into the pool and pushes it away. She blots her fingertips on a paper napkin to remove any trace of oil or salt. Her manners are impeccable. It must be hell keeping that satin corset clean. It would be for me, anyway.

  I dressed up like a goth for the Halloween dance freshman year.

  That was the dance where Bridger noticed me—like, really noticed me and said my name and danced with me. When he put his hand on the low part of my back, my insides zinged and tingled and ached. Just being close to him was that good. And, even though wearing a T-shirt that says “This IS my costume” is sort of lame, I was grateful he wasn’t dressed like a zombie or wearing a Scream mask because I could see his face. When he smiled his teeth looked purply white under the black lights.

  I felt like Cinderella—scared that when the dance was over I’d be so ordinary he’d never notice me again. When I was at Chrissie’s house getting ready for the dance we had howled about how hilarious we looked. We painted on super-gory red lipstick and big black wings of eyeliner. We tottered around on ridiculously high and pinchy shoes. Basically, we looked like breathing Bratz dolls. We were bendable and posable and hoochied up. So I was afraid that I would not be nearly so interesting when he saw me in daylight in jeans and sneaks.

  But Monday came and Bridger cared enough to find out where my locker was and give me a ride home. In less than a week we skipped right past talking to loving each other forever. And we meant it—at the time.

  Now I’m sitting across from this girl, a real live goth, and I have to face facts. She got up this morning and put plenty of effort into how she looks. Her hair is clean and arranged in perfect ringlets cascading down the side of her neck. Her fingernails are not just clean; they are lovely squared ovals of matte black with glossy red moons. She smells like perfume: lilacs with a hint of patchouli and a base note of rubber.

  I’ve been wearing the same fishing shorts and ripped South Park T-shirt for six days. I don’t smell—I reek. I probably distort the light waves with my BO.

  One of us is a social misfit and a weirdo. It ain’t her.

  I put the drinks and bag of food on the table and take the chicken burrito I bought for Odd out of the bag and put it in front of him.

  I pick up my paper bag full of tacos and one giant vat of soda, sweating cold on the outside.

  “I’m going to the car,” I say, “I’ll eat there.”

  It’s not posh, but it’s a place with a bed and a shower. I told Odd that I’m tired of sleeping rough, but the truth is I just feel dirty. I am dirty. I am layers of dirty stuck together with sweat and wood smoke and sunscreen and DEET.

  The mirrors in the hotel are screwed down tight against the wall. There’s one over the dresser. There’s another over the double sinks. There’s a third full-length one on the back of the bathroom door. Can anybody want to see herself that often? I don’t. I shut the curtains and turn off the lights and crank up the air conditioner.

  Odd gets the shower first. He’s got plans. The gothasol told him about places. He is going to those places.

  Goodbye, Odd. Good luck with that. Don’t let the door flatten your skinny ass on the way out.

  I peel off my clothes, and after being in the same things 24-7 for so long, peeling is the truth. I passed a coin-op washer and dryer in an alcove down the hall near the ice machine, but I wouldn’t have anything to wear while I washed my wardrobe unless I wrapped a sheet around me like a toga. I’m just not up for the costume party. I throw the clothes in bottom of the tub and turn on the shower.

  The water is hot—so hot it’s going to be bad for my skin, as I re
call from the lessons of lady-TV. I should avoid harsh bar soap like the little munchkin cake stamped with the name of the hotel. I should use a gentle cleanser and gentle circular strokes with the tips of my fingers. I rub soap on a washcloth and scrub. After I rinse, I can feel the dead skin rolling up into little balls. So I attack my face again until it stings like a rug burn. Harsh soap and hot water will give me premature crow’s feet. Well, crow’s foot, actually, ladies. What is your advice regarding lumpy red scar tissue? A greenish tinted concealer to counteract the redness . . . and avoid . . . being seen?

  Odd used all the shampoo in the little bottle. Not a surprise. I scrub everything with the soapy washcloth, even what’s left of my Raggedy Ann hair, which feels all yarny and looks like it was knit onto my head and then styled by fat little preschool fingers using round-nosed safety scissors. Lather, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

  A good thing about hotel showers in the middle of the afternoon is that the hot water is endless. I might just stay here until I mutate into a drowned half-mermaid zombie with pruney white fingers. My clothes are underfoot. Every time I step I’m stomping the sudsy runoff and squishing out the dirt. I will not smell bad. I will smell like soap. I pick up each piece and hold them over the showerhead until they are rinsed, rinsed, rinsed. I turn my back, wring out as much water as I can and then flip the wet things over the shower-curtain rod. When I’m done with the laundry, I just stand there and feel the water sluicing down my back.

  It’s going to take time for them to dry. I turn off the shower, but I promise to come back soon. Then I roll my shirt and panties in a towel and wring and squeeze. Still wet, of course. Just outside the bathroom door is an iron and ironing board. I plug in the iron and start pressing my T-shirt. It still looks a little grotty, but the rising steam smells clean. Pretty soon only the seams are damp. I pull the shirt over my head and take a couple swipes at my panties. Presto. Good enough. I hang my socks and shorts up on the coat hangers. They will be dry by morning. Then I slide into the bed. The sheets feel clean. The pillows are too big, too good. The air conditioner purrs on, and I have nothing to do but sleep.

  I could have slept a lot longer if Odd hadn’t showed up again.

  Apparently the gothasol hadn’t taken the meeting to be a hard-and-fast arrangement, because she never showed. I don’t blame her. Odd clings to the notion that something must have come up.

  I make a pillow sandwich around my head. This doesn’t keep Odd from talking. He doesn’t really need any response. I wish I really couldn’t hear him.

  “Hey. Wanna fuck?”

  “Shit no!”

  “Well I do. It would be the perfect end to a pretty good day.”

  “Not good enough. You got two hands and I bet you know how to take care of your own. But I’d appreciate it if you were a little discreet.”

  “It’s my leg, isn’t it? You can’t get past that? Right?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “You are one cold, mean bitch. I mean, have you looked at yourself?”

  It’s like the words flip a switch in the back of my brain.

  “Look, Odd, I am not having sex with you. It isn’t because of your leg. It is because I don’t want to. That’s it. Whole story. If you had your leg, I still wouldn’t want to, because you are an asshole.”

  He chews on that for thirty seconds. This is not the first time he’s heard that he’s an asshole, so he processes the info pretty fast. He picks up the clicker and turns on the TV. ESPN . . . CNN. . . some enthusiastic chirper selling jewelry. . . . “For videos to suit your adult desires, press menu now. There’s always something new,” says the TV.

  “So can we watch some porn?”

  “Traveling with kids? Press guest services to block adult content,” says the TV.

  “Forget it, Odd. I’m not paying for porn.”

  After a few more clicks of the remote, he stops.

  I can now chart Odd’s hierarchy of desires, just like I learned to do in Psychology/Social Studies/Elective:

  1) Sex with someone attractive.

  2) Sex with anyone, even me.

  3) Porn on TV.

  4) Watching a guy fail to truck surf.

  I just want coffee, but Odd wants breakfast. Drive-through won’t do. He wants to sit in a booth. I do not. I give him a twenty and tell him bring me coffee. Then I drop the seat back and settle out of sight.

  “Hey, open it. My hands’r full.”

  Odd is standing there with a giant to-go cup of coffee and a pie. No. Not pie. It’s in an aluminum pie pan, but it is covered with whipped topping and a dozen whole peanut butter cups. That is not pie. Odd hands it to me and slides into the driver’s seat. He offers me the coffee. The lid isn’t on tight. It’s too damn hot to hold, but there’s no good place to put it. I slide the pie-thing onto my lap. Now at least I can shift the coffee from hand to hand.

  “I could lean over and eat that pie, Polly,” Odd says. “Mmmm. Pie.” He makes snorting, slobbery noises.

  “Zip it, Odd. And keep your talking trout puppet in your pants.”

  “So what happens in a brain that leads to three life-size fiberglass Holsteins sailing a red boat in a field?” I ask.

  “What?” says Odd. He’s steering with his left hand. His right hand is full of pale chocolate pudding and whipped topping.

  “Right back there. Three cows in a boat. You would have seen it if you were paying attention instead of sucking down pie by the handful.”

  “I’m paying attention to the road,” says Odd, “I can’t be staring out the window.”

  “The road’s out the window.”

  “No, the road’s out the windshield. I know where it is because I’m looking at it,” says Odd, licking his palm and reaching for more glop.

  “UFO,” says Odd.

  “What?”

  “UFO. Un-i-fucking-dentified flying object. Right there, coming up,” says Odd. And it is. There is a rusty flying saucer on top of a little hill. How do three cows end up in a boat? I’m pretty sure the answer is related to the thought, “I’m gonna weld me up a flying saucer and put it on the hill.”

  “My leg hurts so fucking much,” says Odd. He reaches over and wipes his hand on my clean shirt like I’m a napkin. Then he reaches toward his robot leg. Toward the place where nothing should hurt anymore, but it does.

  The trees thin out, then they disappear. Knobs of rotten black rock jut out of the hills. Basalt, like in Yellowstone, decaying into ragged teeth. It’s hard country, but there’s water. There are people fishing.

  “Pull over.”

  “No, it’s a cardigan, but thanks for noticing.”

  “Just take the next exit, Odd.”

  “The lady needs to pee again? What are you? A camel?”

  “The lady needs to fish.”

  “Alrighty then.”

  I’m about to leave Odd behind on the bank and go to the next good place when he gets lucky on his first cast. That’s something. I figure I’ll stick around to watch the fun, maybe help with the net, because this one looks like it’s big enough to require that sort of thing.

  At that moment, there is a buzz. A distinctive and unwelcome buzz. And then WHAM! A snake hits Odd right in the robot leg. Odd reacts, BAM! And lashes out with the rod in his hand—because that’s what is in his hand. It’s a bad idea. The rod shatters. The snake recoils. Odd just flings himself off the bank. It was probably meant to be a jump, but it’s more of a collapse. But the next strike falls short, so that’s mission accomplished. And the snake disappears. It doesn’t want be involved in this, either.

  “You OK?”

  “Fuckin’ snake bit me. It bit me.”

  I worry I saw wrong. Maybe it didn’t just hit metal then. Maybe it hit meat.

  “Come on. We’ll get you to the car. We’ll get you help. Does it hurt?”

  “No. It doesn’t hurt. The fuckin’ thing doesn’t hurt at all now,” says Odd, and he whacks his robot leg with what’s left of his
rod. “I. Can’t. Feel. A. Fuckin’. Thing.” Each word is another slash with the butt of the broken rod. Then he chucks the ruined handle and reel out into the lake. He picks up a rock.

  “No! Stop!” I grab his hand and put my other arm over the robot leg. If he starts pounding on it with the rock, he could do some damage. He lets go of the rock. He lets me take it. He’s not angry. He’s not scared. He’s not even sad.

  “Do you want me to try to find your reel? I can probably just follow the line.”

  “Don’t. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. What’s the point? I can’t catch nothing but the MRSA.”

  He opens up the passenger side, gets in, and slams the door.

  I break down my rod and get everything in order. Then I just sort of wait for Odd to move into the driver’s seat. He needs to get over being rattled.

  Then he leans over and pops the driver’s-side door open. Maybe he needs to talk. So I walk over and get in the car. I feel like a little kid sitting there. The seat is too far back.

  I remember playing in Dad’s truck, kneeling on the seat so I could see out. “Never touch the gearshift, Polly,” says Dad. And of course I did. And of course the truck started rolling down the slope into the herd of cattle my dad had come to take care of—until the front tires slipped into a little ditch. My mouth banged hard on the steering wheel and my teeth cut through my lip. I’d only just started crying when Dad jerked the door open. He was mad for a moment, and then he scooped me up and said, “Don’t cry, Polly. It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s just a little blood. It won’t leave a scar.”