Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  When he looked up, he saw those next to him rise from their anchorage, take two steps away to give him room, and then sink once again in the soil, letting their arms drift toward the surface. Far into the distance, the legion of dead mimicked this movement, taking two steps away toward oblivion, then sinking to their eternal anchorage.

  Eventually he let his arms drift upward and felt the tug against his legs. The ebb and flow of the universe took him like a length of seaweed. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed at this destiny, and heard his own thoughts whispered on the currents of the sea as the dead resumed a conversation that had only been interrupted by his own admission into eternity.

  Chapter 7

  The rocks were murder. By taking the low road around Point Fermin rather than the road above, Bobby had subjected himself to crossing tidal pools, weaving around debris and scrambling over boulders that had fallen from the cliff. He’d twisted his ankle a dozen times and was lucky he had boots on or else the joint might have been snapped in two. As it was, slogging over the uneven ground in wet leather was only slightly less miserable than doing the same thing drunk. Not that he was completely snockered, but he’d finished the bottle of Cluny in a few gulps before tossing it into Davy Jones for safe keeping. Now he rode the leading edge of a nasty buzz.

  Twice he passed Mexican families diving and scrambling over the tide pools, desperate to find sea urchins to resell to the tourists farther up the coast. From Grandma to little papito, every member of the family worked together. If only he’d seen that familial cooperation with Kanga. Bastard didn’t even want to accept a gift from his own daughter.

  Once Bobby passed the body of a seal, its head bitten clean off. Blue and green bottle flies dueled above the corpse as the waves washed red foam. Bobby’s gorge rose when the smell hit him. Uncontrollable burrito spew joined the offal and was washed to sea.

  When he eventually rounded the corner at Cabrillo Beach, he felt like shit. He found outdoor showers used to hose sand off families before they returned to their cars and stood beneath one, letting the water wash away his sweat and the effects of Cluny. He gulped huge amounts, trying in vain to moisten his parched throat.

  He didn’t look up until an elderly Mexican began shouting for him to move. Bobby noticed the line of children waiting to use the shower head. He realized he must look like a bum—like the homeless man he truly was. There he stood in a baseball cap, T-shirt, jeans and steel-toed boots, taking a public shower in broad daylight. He’d gotten the attention of a lifeguard who was marching purposefully toward him.

  Jesus fuck. Who was Bobby becoming?

  He lurched away, heading toward the street. No one gave chase except for his own embarrassment, which snapped at his heels like a dog. When he hit South Pacific Avenue, he turned right, heading down the hill. Passing Fort MacArthur, he soon found himself before the halfway house. But this time, instead of passing like he had so many times before, he stopped. About a dozen men and women meandered in front of the two-story structure, each walking his or her own complicated path. They moved around him, occasionally brushing against him; still he remained unnoticed.

  Wringing hands, sobbing, swollen eyes, for a second they seemed less like rehabilitated junkies and more like funeral goers. The expressions of desperate longing on their faces sought more than a fix. Their murmuring was a beehive buzz, constant and unintelligible. The only one not moving was a young black man with bling on his wrist, neck and fingers, who stared resolutely into the air, his neck at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Someone grabbed his wrist. “Please. Can you spare a dollar?”

  “Does it look like I can?” Bobby jerked his arm free and staggered away, right into the bosom of a large Mexican woman.

  “Can you help my son? He didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t his fault.” Her heavily accented voice cracked. Her imploring eyes threatened to drag him in.

  Bobby averted his gaze, lowered his head and pushed past her as nervous claustrophobia took hold. He didn’t need their problems. He had enough of his own. He crossed at the light, and then moved to the other side of the street.

  Almost kitty-corner to the halfway house was a bar called The Spot, made famous by San Pedro’s poet laureate, Charles Bukowski. Kanga had one of his books and had tried to get Bobby to read it, but he’d have none of it. He’d seen the movie Barfly, and if Mickey Rourke had played the character with any accuracy, then Bukowski was an asshole.

  Bobby found two wet dollars balled in his right front pocket and exchanged them for two draft beers of questionable heritage. He found a seat outside at a table and stared at the halfway house. After a few sips, he realized he was still drunk. After a few more sips, he realized he was as much an asshole as Bukowski but that he didn’t care. Kanga had hit a nerve and Bobby needed to work it out. Sadly, his social skills began and ended at brooding. His medication was alcohol.

  Doctor, give me another shot, please. And make it a double.

  Chapter 8

  Laurie waved goodbye to the guard at the front desk and stepped out into the cool evening. While it was ninety-five in the shade in the valley, the ocean breeze cooled San Pedro down to about seventy-five. She pulled her San Pedro High jacket tight around her shoulders and stood on the top step. She looked left and right, but didn’t see anyone hanging around.

  She wasn’t too worried, just careful. No one really bothered the nurses from the Little Company of Mary Hospital. Most folks were too religious to tempt the anger of Saint Mary. Good news for her, because Third Street was the bad side of town.

  Carol Sholt stepped past her. “See you tomorrow, Laurie.”

  “You, too.”

  Laurie watched her co-worker run for the bus. The bus stopped, the doors sssked open, and her friend hopped aboard.

  Laurie descended the steps and headed for her car. Parking in the hospital lot was nearly impossible, so more often than not, she was forced to park on the street. Today she’d spied a perfect space beneath a magnolia tree two blocks down, and instead of playing parking lot lottery, had swooped in and taken it. She’d been happy at four in the afternoon, but now, at ten minutes past midnight, she’d wished she’d found a closer space.

  In this part of San Pedro the trees grew tall and close together, creating a canopy that blocked out the sky. The thin streets were made thinner by the need to park on each side. All in all, the effect was a little claustrophobic when added to the normal fear one associated with the dark.

  She passed a VW Bug with an empty surf rack and thought of her father. By now the delivery had been made. At first she’d wanted to be there, but after thinking about it, she realized that it wouldn’t have been a good idea. Bobby Boy knew her father better than most and knew the man was going to have problems accepting the gift. He was certain to think of it as a handout. In a small way, maybe it was. But so what? She was doing well. With her mother gone, and her father newly found, she should be allowed to buy him a gift, especially one he’d use all the time, every day.

  A sound stopped her. She reached out and placed her hand on the hood of a Cadillac. Still warm, the metal grounded her, made her feel safe. Sirens from far away. A fog horn from the harbor. Wind through the leaves. From somewhere nearby she heard the muffled sounds of a TV. She looked around and saw living room light filtering through the grate of a latched screen door. Inside a man slouched on a sofa, staring toward a TV out of her sight.

  She’d gone a block before she heard it again. Click. Snap. She couldn’t figure out what it could be. Her heart climbed into her throat. She felt her breathing increase. She tried reasoning with her fear, but it wasn’t working. Halfway down the block, she spied her car.

  Click. Snap. There it was again. She whirled. No one was behind her. She heard more sirens from the docks. Cars revving their engines. Her own heartbeat.

  Click. Snap.

  She took off at a sprint. She had only about fifty yards to her car. As she ran she tried to root in her purse for her keys, but she could
n’t find them with all the stuff in her purse. She looked down. Just as she found the keys, her foot found an uneven chunk of concrete. She lost her balance and fell. Her hands, occupied, were unable to cushion her landing. Her face slammed into the sidewalk, pain exploding in her chin and cheek.

  She moaned through a mouth suddenly filled with blood and pushed herself to a sitting position. She’d felt like this once when she was eight and had fallen off her bike at full speed. She brought a hand to her face, but the area was still pulsing with adrenaline and swelling, so she couldn’t determine the extent of the injuries. She needed to get to a mirror. She needed to clean the wounds and see if they needed stitches.

  She pushed herself to her feet. What a miserable way to end the evening. She realized she was a little woozy. Her knee hurt. Looking down, she saw where she’d ruined her stockings. Blood ran from a ragged tear atop the knee.

  Miserable was an understatement.

  She took a shaky step, stumbled, and caught her balance on a tree. She was right across the street from her car. She took a moment to look back and saw a wizened Croatian she recognized as a man from the neighborhood walking down the sidewalk, slapping the side of a large flashlight. She watched as he thumbed the toggle. Click. Snap. And nothing happened. He cursed and tried again. Click. Snap. He smacked the side of the flashlight, then brought it up to his face and shook it hard. Still nothing.

  Suddenly Laurie felt pretty silly.

  She was glad no one she knew was here to see her.

  She stepped from the curb. To keep her balance, she kept her hand on the hood of a parked Camaro and used it to hold her weight until her knee stopped throbbing. When the pain began to subside, she stepped forward. Fishing in her purse for her keys, she let go of the hood and limped out into the street.

  Three steps later an El Camino thundered through her, catching her just above the knees. Her legs shattered. Her pelvis snapped as her body twisted counterclockwise. Her head whipped back on her neck, slamming her eyes shut. She never even had a chance to scream. By the time she began to ricochet down the street, she was already dead.

  * * *

  Bobby woke to a Mexican kid poking him in the chest.

  He’d ended up drinking a half a dozen more beers, then had tried to work his way back to Jap’s Cove. He’d only made it as far as Point Fermin Park before curling up on a bench where he dreamed of his father doing hula hoops with the girls of Blue Hawaii. When the kid poked him again, Bobby snapped his eyes open and growled.

  “He’s just a fucking wino, dude. This ain’t the guy,” the teenager said, one sparkling gold tooth, a wispy mustache, and a banker’s smile the only thing setting him apart from the other baggy shorts- and wife beater-wearing gangbanger.

  “I’m telling you, this is the guy.”

  “But he’s all drunk and shit, Blockbuster.”

  “You never been all drunk? Just get him up.” The other ran a pick through his short hair as he spoke. Tattoos enshrined his shotgun arms.

  “He better not puke on me. If he pukes on me I’m gonna kick both your asses.”

  “You can’t kick your momma’s ass, Split. Poke him again. I think he’s waking.”

  The kid named Split reached in, poked Bobby in the chest, then leapt away. “His eyes are open and he’s breathing, but he ain’t doing nothing.”

  “You should see my uncle Nestor, he sleeps with his eyes open. Scariest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t know if he’s watching you or not.”

  “This isn’t like your uncle Nestor. Cabrón reminds me of a zombie. You know, like in Dawn of the Dead.”

  “New one or old one?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Zombies are zombies.”

  “Doesn’t matter? Are you kidding me? You tell that to the poor lardass white people who can’t outrun them Olympic sprinter zombies in the remake. In the first one they were all about doing the Frankenstein with their arms out and moaning. But not in the second one. Hell, no! Them zombies looked like brothers running from the police.”

  “What I meant was that whether they’re fast or slow, zombies are all the same,” Blockbuster growled. “They eat people. Live people. And if there’s one thing that is just so fucking wrong it’s to be eaten while you’re alive.”

  “It’s okay when you’re dead, then?” Bobby sat up slowly and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Must have been past midnight and the offshore breeze had brought the temperature down into the sixties.

  “What?”

  “He asked you if it’s okay to be eaten when you’re dead.”

  “Motherfucker. What kind of question is that?” Split frowned. “Being eaten is never okay. But if I was to choose between getting eaten when I was dead and getting eaten when I was alive, of course I’d choose to be dead.”

  “One thing’s for sure. Dude ain’t a zombie.”

  “He might wish he was when all this is over.” Split made fists and jabbed at the air above Bobby.

  “What’s the deal? Are you looking for me?”

  “You Bobby Dupree?” Blockbuster asked.

  Bobby nodded.

  “Then we’re looking for you.”

  “What for?”

  “Lucy sent us. Told us to come get you. Says he knows where your missing person is.” Split shook his head. “Better get off your ass and come with us, Zombie Dupree.”

  Bobby sat up straight, ignoring the smaller man’s gestures. “How’d he get the information so soon?”

  “He went to a fortune teller. How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Split cast a look Blockbuster’s way and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, do you really fucking care about how he found out, or do you want the info?”

  “I want the info.”

  “Then get off your ass and let’s go.” Split turned and headed for a late, neon green, 1950s Chevy tricked out with chrome and lowered until it hugged the ground. “You better not get sick.”

  “I’m fine,” Bobby said as he struggled to his feet.

  “Serious. If you puke in my car, I’m tossing you into Sunken City.”

  “He said he’s fine, Split. Chill out.”

  “I am chill.”

  “Then what’s your problem?” Blockbuster asked.

  “I just wish we were doing what the others were doing.”

  “Lucy wanted us here.”

  “I know. I know. I should be happy, Blockbuster. We went on a drunken white boy scavenger hunt and came back a winner. Fucking wow. I bet this makes you proud to be a Salvadoran. I know it makes me proud to be Mexican.” He waved both hands in the air like a mock champion.

  Blockbuster held open the back door for Bobby, who had to get low to slide onto the red velour seat. Blockbuster climbed into the passenger seat while Split crawled behind a steering wheel covered in white leather. The engine rumbled to life and they low-rode to Lucy’s.

  The gang leader sat in a lounge chair on his porch. His father and another older man played dominoes, neither willing to lift their eyes from the tiles as Bobby arrived. Sitting beside Lucy was one of the bangers Bobby had seen before, but all of the others were gone doing whatever it was Split had wanted to do.

  As they pulled to a stop, he asked the question he’d wanted to ask the whole ride. “Hey, why do they call you Split?”

  Blockbuster snorted.

  “Don’t say a word,” Split warned, pointing at the banger in the passenger seat. “He ain’t earned the right to know.”

  Bobby felt the rebuke. He didn’t want to piss these people off. Split’s response to Bobby’s seemingly simple question reminded Bobby that he ought to keep his mouth shut.

  The car coasted to the curb on the driver’s side and Split opened the door for Bobby who climbed out, careful not to touch the paint. He stood, his back and legs aching from his unplanned siesta on a concrete park bench. He adjusted his cap, wiped sweat from his face and strode up the walkway, his hands in his pockets. He stopped at the bottom step of the porch.

  “Hey, Lucy.” />
  “Feeling better?” The big man wore only sandals and baggy shorts. His shirt lay on his lap revealing acres of tattoos sliding in and out of prodigious rolls of fat.

  “I’m doing good,” Bobby said, looking left and right. He didn’t want his problem broadcasted. He thought Laurie had promised him that Lucy would be discreet. He caught Split make a fist, push his thumb to his mouth and raise his chin, the universal sign of drinking.

  “You been drinking, Bobby?”

  “No more than you,” he replied, eyeing the empty Tecates on the ground next to the lounger. Seeing Lucy’s eyes widen, Bobby didn’t give him a chance to get angry. “I’ll have another one if you’re up for it.”

  “Get us two cervesa, Split.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “But I’m not a—”

  “I’ll get them,” Blockbuster said. But as he made a move toward the red cooler on the grass, Lucy stopped him with the slash of a hand.

  “Get the fucking beers, Split.”

  Gold tooth made as if to argue once more, but saw the malevolence on Lucy’s face. After a moment, Split rushed to the cooler, grabbed two ice-cold beers, and passed them to Lucy. Then Split stared at the porch, afraid or smart enough not to make eye contact with the gang leader. He backed away and shuffled his feet. The only other sound was the click of the domino tiles and traffic coming from Pacific Avenue.

  To Blockbuster, Lucy said, “If you ever question me like this puto, I’ll drag you behind my truck on a chain until all that’s left is your chin. The only reason I don’t do the same to Split is because he’s just a little retarded, and I don’t automatically kill retarded kids.”