by Jason Myers
Yep. Sophomore year.
I light a cigarette and look out the large, dirty window we’re sitting next to. There’s an empty parking lot adjacent to an elementary school that’s been closed. There are lots of construction machines where the playground used to be, and there’s no hint of life. The waitress arrives with our food.
“Can we get some more coffee, too?” Laura asks her.
The waitress nods and says, “Sure,” and then disappears into the kitchen.
Lifting my fork, I start picking at my hash browns and eggs.
So I was thinking that maybe we could go out sometime.
“Like on a date?” Laura asks, taking a bite of bacon.
Like to a movie or out to eat or something.
“I’d like that,” she smiles as our waitress refills both of our coffee cups. “When?”
How about tonight?
“I can’t tonight. I’m working.”
Where do you work?
“At the Waterfront Grill.”
Still.
“Yeah still. Why?”
I don’t know.
I dump more cream and sugar into my coffee.
I thought you hated it there.
“I’ve never said that, Travis. I love it there.”
Huh.
I sip my coffee and add some more sugar to it, and then I take a bite of my eggs and watch Laura text someone on her phone.
When she’s through, she stuffs her phone back into her purse and I ask her who she just texted.
“Bryan,” she answers, spooning up a mouthful of biscuits and gravy.
Oh.
“Is that okay?”
I guess so.
“Good,” she says, then reaches across the table and pets my forearm. “You have nothing to worry about.”
• • •
Later that afternoon I find a note stuck to my bedroom door that says Cliff stopped by twice while I was out, and that I need to get ahold of him as soon as I can.
Standing next to a window on the far side of my bedroom, I dial his cell phone number and wait for him to answer, staring at the heat that I can see rising from the black pavement of the road leading up to my house.
“Travis,” Cliff says, his voice strained. “I’ve been waiting.”
Why didn’t you call my cell phone?
“’Cause you never answer it.”
Yes I do.
“No you don’t.”
Yes I do.
“No you don’t.”
Whatever, man. What’s going on?
“My dad kicked me out of his house this morning. He gave me till the end of the day to leave.”
Why?
Pause.
Is it because he found out you’ve been slaying your stepmom?
“No, no. Fuck that. Fuck her. It’s because he found out that I never went to a single class last year. That I paid my enrollment with the check he gave me, then dropped all of my classes at the end of my first week and spent the refund money the school gave me.”
You did that?
“Yeah,” Cliff barks. “And my shitty whore of a stepmom just sat there nodding her slut head while my old man told me he was cutting me off.”
That sucks, I tell Cliff, because I really don’t know what else to say, and he says, “So I wanted to know if you could help me move my shit.”
Where to? Your mom’s?
“Hell no, Trav. You know I don’t talk to her anymore. I’m going to stay with Natalie.”
Here we go.
“What?”
You really think moving into a trailer park with a girl you’re screwing around with is a good idea?
“Where else am I gonna go?” Cliff snaps. “Who’s gonna let me crash at their place with my shit?”
Pause.
“Are you?”
You know I can’t.
“Then quit talking shit. I don’t have a lot of options or time.”
All right.
And Cliff says, “We gotta hurry up, man, ’cause if I’m in this house for much longer, I’m going to fucking murder both of them.”
Cliff doesn’t sound like he’s even close to joking, so I tell him I’ll be right over.
“Awesome,” he says. Then: “There’s something else, too.”
What?
“I know you’ve been helping me out of all these jams lately and I appreciate it, I really do, but . . .” His voice trails off.
But what Cliff?
“I was wondering if you could spot me the dough to rent a U-Haul and hire a couple of those Mexican dudes who hang out in front of the rental spot.”
This is the real reason Cliff called me. The real reason he ever seems to call me anymore. It’s always about cash, and since I’ve never been able to really say no to the guy, I say, Sure, and, No problem. For sure I’ll spot you the loot because you got kicked out of your parents’ house for ripping them off. Really, it’s no problem.
• • •
I pick up Cliff and drive him straight to the only rental store that has a truck left to rent, which is all the way on the south side of the city, a side that has long become a homeless camp haven, with its low-income housing, boarded-up store-fronts, and illegal immigrants.
On the way, I tell Cliff how I was with Laura for most of the day and that I spent the night with her and he lights a cigarette, and says, “Don’t get back together with her.”
Why not?
“Because you might learn some things you don’t want to.”
Like what?
Cliff says nothing. He looks out the window and takes a drag.
Cliff. Like what?
“What are you trying to do, Trav?” he asks. “Why are you trying to come back and make things like they were—when you were king shit of everything and Laura was your girl?”
Turing down the Queens of the Stone Age CD that’s jamming, I ask Cliff if that’s how he thought about me all these years.
I say, Did you think I was trying to put myself on a pedestal above everyone else?
“You didn’t try, man. You did. And you know you did.”
Fuck you. I’m helping you out. I helped you out back in March and I’m doing it again.
“You’re not a god. Your family isn’t royalty, man. Just because you want shit to happen and people to change doesn’t mean they will.”
Shut up.
“That’s all I’m saying.”
Shut the hell up.
“Laura sucks.”
I turn and jack him in the side of his arm.
Douche bag.
“Asshole.”
I light a cigarette. Spin the Queens back up, and roll the window down a crack. Thinking how sometimes I’d really like to fuck Cliff up, then never talk to the guy again. But at the same time, I feel sorry for him. I feel obliged to him. For as big an asshole as Cliff can be, he’d taken the rap for me numerous times growing up, even this one time during our sophomore year when I was caught with a bag of pot in my car.
Turning into the store parking lot, I drive through a crowd of about two hundred Hispanic dudes who cram around my car and beg for work.
“I think I got my two picked out already,” Cliff tells me after I’ve parked.
I’ll take care of the truck while you grab them.
“My fuckin’ servants,” he says with a smirk, but I pretend not to hear that, and walk inside and rent a truck with my emergency credit card.
Back outside, Cliff meets me by my car with two Mexican boys at his side. One looks about eighteen, with a tiny moustache and long braided hair that runs all the way past his shoulder blades. And the other looks about twenty-five, with a shaved head and goatee.
“I’ll take these guys in your car,” Cliff says. “So meet me at my place when you’re through with the truck checkout.”
Fine. Just be careful with my shit.
“I will,” Cliff says.
I light a cigarette, my eyes glued on the guy with the shaved head. I’m fuckin’ ser
ious. Do not let anything happen to the car. It’s not mine and I love my CDs.
• • •
It only ends up taking like an hour to get all of Cliff’s shit loaded into the U-Haul. I don’t even lift a finger. I actually spend almost the entire time smoking cigarettes on the front steps of the house, watching Cliff order the two Mexican kids around with his stuff.
After the last item—an entertainment center—gets loaded, Cliff sits down beside me on the top step and lights a cigarette and asks the two other guys if they wanna smoke. Both of them suddenly look really confused, almost scared, and shake their heads, and Cliff starts laughing and says, “I bet I could’ve said anything right there.”
Probably.
Pause.
Cliff shakes his head. He runs a hand over his eyes. Says, “Damn, this is weird. It’s been a long time coming and all, but still, I’m out. I’m fucking broke. And I’m about to be living in a trailer.”
I thought it wasn’t that bad, living in a trailer.
“It probably won’t be,” he says. “Natalie’s cool. I mean, I guess I like her okay. She’s better than most of the girls I get with.”
Is she the one who got you shooting dope?
“It’s not that bad, Trav. You don’t know. You’ve never tried it. It’s not like it’s an everyday thing. I got it under control.”
Did you cut some girl with a knife in Iowa City a while back?
Cliff rolls his eyes. “Don’t ever ask me anything like that again,” he snaps, and gets up. “I’ll take the two dudes in the U-Haul. Follow us in your car.”
Fine.
But just as Cliff and I have started for our rides, Marcy emerges from the house again and tells Cliff to wait.
Spinning around, Cliff’s like, “What the hell do you want?”
Marcy runs a hand through Cliff’s greasy hair. “I’m sorry it came to this.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am. Call me if you need anything.” She grabs one of Cliff’s hands. “Anything.”
Cliff yanks his hand away. “You’re just as bad as my dad.” He looks at me. “Fuck her. Let’s go.”
• • •
Natalie Taylor is standing in a patch of grass, the one right in front of the three small stairs that lead to the only door of her trailer home.
She’s wearing a pair of black jeans with both knees blown out, tucked into a pair of black cowboy boots, and a gray wife-beater.
She’s still hot, too.
Her hair is a wild mix of black and brown and blond and it hangs down to her shoulder blades.
She actually looks better than I remember her looking the last time I saw her toward the end of my senior year—when she, Michael, and I went to Chicago for a night to catch the Dillinger Escape Plan, 400 Blows, and Wires on Fire show at the Fireside Bowl. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen.
It was later that night, in the motel swimming pool, when Natalie and I finally had sex. She was a year older and a grade up from us, but throughout high school we had always messed around here and there—when Laura and I were taking a break or fighting real bad—and it finally happened that night, and I hadn’t seen her since the day after, when the three of us drove back to the city.
I stop my car behind the truck and wait for Cliff to open the trailer door and get the Mexicans started before stepping outside.
The sun is already setting and the sky has turned into a huge picture of orange flames and ocean-blue waves.
I light a cigarette and walk around my car to where Cliff and Natalie are standing, and the first thing Natalie says, is, “Well look who it is.”
It’s nice to see you too, Natalie.
I swat a gnat off the back of my neck.
“You got any beer?” Cliff asks her.
“There’s some in the fridge, darling,” she says, putting her hands on the side of his face. They start making out and I can hear the slurpy, sloppy sounds of their saliva and lips smacking together.
When their little show is finally over, Cliff walks into the trailer, a forty-by-eight-foot tan slab of nothing, right after the Mexican dudes walk out joking and laughing with each other about something—most likely the three of us.
And Natalie goes, “I heard you were back, but then again”—she grins, leaning forward and grabbing the inside of my left arm—“I don’t ever remember you leaving.”
I shake my arm loose.
It’s a nice life you’re making for yourself these days, Natalie.
“Fuck you,” she snaps. “What’s so good about your life, Travis Wayne? You dropped out of school and you live with your parents.”
I know that.
“What’s so great about it?”
There’s nothing great about it.
“Then keep your mouth shut about mine.”
Cliff walks back out with three cans of Busch Light. “So what do you think, Trav? Honestly?” he asks.
I open the can he gives me and take a long drink.
It is, ya know, what it is, Cliff.
I’m staring straight at Natalie.
• • •
Cliff and I drop the truck and the Mexicans off about an hour and a half later. On our way back to the trailer with beer and pizza, Cliff tells me that my sister’s friend Katie and him have been fucking around the past couple of nights.
“But don’t even mention her name to Natalie, okay?”
I won’t.
“Do you promise?”
I promise.
“On your mother’s life?”
On my mother’s life, Cliff.
Once we’re back, the three of us eat and drink and play cards and listen to the new PJ Harvey CD that Natalie picked up while we were gone. Then these two black guys show up, the same ones I remember Cliff stopping to talk to outside of the house party we were at last week.
Natalie takes the one with the shaved head by the hand and leads him to the other end of the trailer, into another room, and closes the door behind her.
I’m glaring at Cliff.
What’s going on? I ask him.
I stand up, but the guy with the cornrows pulls a .22 out of his waistband, and goes, “Is there a problem?”
“Travis, sit down,” Cliff says.
The guy moves his gun closer to me. “I said, is there a problem, man?”
No.
I look at Cliff. He’s just sitting there staring at his hands.
I guess not.
“Good,” the guy says. “So sit the fuck down.”
I do.
He pulls out the chair across the table from us and sits in it, setting his gun in front of him.
I don’t get it, but Cliff doesn’t seem fazed at all. He actually looks intrigued.
The guy with the cornrows stares at me and grins.
“Where could I get a gun like that?” Cliff asks, shattering the silence.
“You serious?” the guy snaps.
“Yeah.”
“What the hell does a rich white kid need a gun for? You got the pigs?”
“Fuck that,” Cliff smiles. “You think I’m rich? We’re sitting in a trailer. I just moved to a fucking trailer park today.”
“By choice. You live here by choice.”
“Screw that.”
I swallow like three huge wads of spit down my throat. Light a cigarette.
The black dude starts laughing. “I like you,” he says. “At least you ain’t scared.” He looks back at me and rolls his upper lip back. “If you’re really serious about a gun, you know how to get ahold of me.”
“Sweet,” says Cliff.
The door to the room Natalie is in swings open. She walks out with the shaved head guy and he goes, “Let’s roll,” and the guy with cornrows gets up and the two of them leave.
Natalie sits back down at the table and drops a small baggie of brown powder onto it.
She looks at me, her lipstick a bit smeared around the edges of her lips. She wipes her eyes.
Cliff sli
des an arm over her shoulders. “Are we square with them?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says.
“Thank you, baby,” he tells her.
Natalie looks at me again before walking to the sink. She yanks one of the counter drawers entirely out.
At the table I watch Cliff slide the heroin toward him, the tip of his tongue hanging between his lips.
A series of still photos of Natalie behind that door just now smash through my head. I feel like throwing up and leaving, but for some reason I don’t.
Reaching into the empty space where the drawer had been, Natalie pulls out a plastic bag and comes back to the table.
Inside the bag are four things: a syringe, a spoon, a needle, and a bright pink lighter.
And Natalie says to Cliff, “I think you should go first, baby.”
Me, I say, Well I’m not going to do any at all.
Neither of them pay any attention to that as the PJ Harvey disc slams into the Smiths album Louder than Bombs.
Cliff wraps a leather belt around his left arm and Natalie turns the dark powder into liquid in the rim of the spoon with the lighter.
I light another cigarette.
Setting the lighter down and picking the needle up, Natalie draws the heroin into the syringe while Cliff finds a vein.
“Got it,” he says, smiling.
Natalie sets the spoon down and grabs his arm. “You ready?” she whispers, as the Smiths sing . . .
“Call me morbid, call me pale. . . . I spent six years on your trail. . . .”
“Yes,” he says.
She sticks the needle into his vein and the syringe fills up with Cliff’s blood while his eyes close and his body falls gently against the chair.
“That’s my boy,” she whispers, pulling the needle out.
She leans over and kisses Cliff’s forehead. “You’re so perfect . . . just beautiful,” she tells him before setting the needle back down, picking the spoon back up, and dumping more heroin into it. . . .
“And if you have five seconds to spare, then I’ll tell you the story of my life. . . .”
14.
MY FIRST COUPLA DAYS IN Hawaii were actually pretty mellow. I spent most of my time on the beach, lying around, getting fucked up, listening to good shit like Big Business and Spacemen 3 and Cage on my iPod. I took some surf lessons, but I didn’t really enjoy them—I couldn’t get into it, it wasn’t my fucking thing, so I gave up and went back to lying around.