Come As You Are

by Steven Ramirez

  “Are you going to press charges this time?”

  Rick’s cheeks got tight and the pupil in his good eye became a pinpoint. It was as if his entire face was controlled by a single wire that Dad was gleefully manipulating.

  “My personal life is not up for discussion.”

  Rick had said this with an air of importance only a short man could pull off. Boy, Dad must’ve gotten to him because the next thing Rick did was accidentally knock the photo to the floor, sending glass everywhere. As Dad helpfully picked up the frame, he noticed something. Now I saw it, too—it was the corner of another photo behind the first. What the…

  Before Dad could say anything, Rick grabbed the broken frame and shoved it into a desk drawer.

  “Thank you!” he said.

  His face was three shades of red. Popping a couple of fresh sticks of Dentyne into his pie hole, he sat back and smiled like Dexter.

  “Hey, are you and Stacey still trying to—”

  Wait, did he just mention my mother? When the receptionist Gina came over, I ducked out fast, dragging Ed behind me.

  Gina Wallace was a nice girl with unusually large eyes, a cute figure, and these tiny little teeth that reminded me of Del Monte white corn. Whenever I saw her, I got the feeling she was waiting for Rick to “come to his senses” and pick her, instead of going another round with the Ronda Rouseys of the world. Thanks to Dad, I knew Gina’s whole sordid history. Over the years, she’d nursed Rick through cracked ribs, broken toes, damaged kidneys, and a singed uvula, which happened the time he went out with a fire eater from a Polish circus.

  “Alan, Ms. Heatherly is here,” Gina said, pretending not to notice Rick.

  “I thought I was seeing her tomorrow. Okay, thanks, Gina.” Dad smirked at Rick. “Are we done here?”

  “Sure, sure,” Rick said. “Mr. Contest Winner.” Then to Gina, “Can you get someone in here to clean up this glass?”

  Rick always said “someone” when everyone, including the Pope, knew he meant Gina. And that poor girl would always pretend to call the maintenance guy, when I’d bet a dollar in five minutes she would be back with a broom and dustpan. Sad, really, when you think about it.

  As Dad strolled into the showroom, Gina and I watched as an attractive woman wearing Armani checked out one of the new models. Gina tugged on Dad’s coat sleeve.

  “Elizabeth Banks?” she said.

  “Ooh, close.”

  Adjusting his tie, he sauntered over to the woman, wearing that million-dollar smile. It was on.

  “Ms. Heatherly! Alan Navarro. You know, you remind me of Charlize Theron.”

  One of these days I was going to figure out how he did that. And I was about to say this to Gina when I noticed she was gone. A minute later I saw her walking into Rick’s office, carrying—you guessed it—a broom and dustpan. Easy money.

  I hated Dad living away from us, but at least he had a nice apartment off Sunset in West Hollywood. Relatively new and smelling faintly of paint, it had three bedrooms, one of which Dad used as his home office. He had done his best to make my room comfortable but, let’s face it, he was a guy, so. Though he had moved in a year ago, all I could see were stacks of moving boxes. Rather than deal with it, I shooed him out. I would have to make the best of things and live out of my duffel bag like a hobo.

  After a dinner of spicy beef and Jasmine rice from the Vietnamese place around the corner, I sat at a small desk with my laptop, working away at my beloved machinima project while Ed lay on the floor, snoring. Other than horror, machinima was the best thing ever. Using a variety of software programs, I could create my own movies, populated by ghosts, demons, and evil clowns. Someday, I hoped to start my own video game company. Or I might write and direct movies. That would be cool, too.

  This latest project was about a crazed killer. He didn’t have a name yet, but he wore the black hat and duster I designed. I had been having trouble with his chainsaw when I happened to connect with a software developer in Norway who liked to create cool weapons. I was able to import a lumberjack special that looked amazing. This guy even provided the audio for it.

  A loud yawn startled me. It was Dad. How long had he been standing there?

  “Come on, Rube, it’s late,” he said.

  And by the way, when did he get all parental? Mom must’ve had a talk with him.

  “No-uh,” I said. “I need to figure out this sequence.” Between you and me, I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

  Gently, he closed the laptop and guided me to my bed. As I dug through the duffel bag for my pajamas, I felt something foreign. Removing my hand, I saw Mr. Shivers. How had he gotten in there again? I thought I’d left him in the closet back home. Too exhausted to care, I tossed him into a chair, where he landed in a sitting position.

  “Tomorrow, I could use your help setting up the Roku,” Dad said.

  “Aghh, you’re so pathetic. Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I let go of a major yawn. Smiling, he gave me a bear hug, practically squeezing the air out of me.

  “Ooh, I thought I heard a fart.”

  “Dad, that’s so rude!”

  “It used to make you laugh.”

  “When I was five.”

  “Good night, Rube. Brush your teeth.”

  He and Mom had definitely spoken. I wondered vaguely if he was going to go off and practice The Beggar’s Sideshow per Mom’s instructions. Before he left, I broke down and decided to spill. After all, the man deserved to know the truth. I picked Ed up and put him on my lap for moral support.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “She is moving on, you know.”

  He was leaning against the doorframe, staring at me intently. I could almost see the man hormones keeping his emotions in check. Barely. His face was a mosaic of disappointment, anger, and disbelief. He smiled sadly and, without another word, closed the door behind him. See, this is the difference between women and men. I would be throwing things at this point.

  Lying in bed, I tossed around like that stupid paper boat in It. I glanced at my phone to see the time. It was late. Ed was sitting on the floor motionless, looking at something. I followed his gaze. Across from me on the chair, Mr. Shivers sat staring at me, his eyes flat. I looked away and happened to notice the ceiling. A strange-looking stain was taking shape. It was blob-like and creepy. I hoped a pipe hadn’t sprung a leak.

  “Nuts to you, Wes,” the doll said.

  It took me a few minutes to calm down. As I closed my eyes, I pondered men versus women, crazed killers with chainsaws, and a plate of beef medallions I once enjoyed at a swanky hotel in San Francisco. Only now they were screaming like Mandrakes as I sliced into them with my gleaming steak knife.

  End of Sample

  Chainsaw Honeymoon is on sale now.