“Fuckin hell, that’s what,” the barkeep said.
The door creaked open and the three men coolly walked in the bar like they owned the place. One guy wearing dark sunglasses walked ahead of the rest. He surveyed the room then looked at the bartender like they owned him too.
“Rakim. How are you?” the bartender asked with a nervous rub of his forehead.
The man sat down next to Crawford, his two henchmen taking seats to his left. “Just give us a fuckin’ round,” he said. “You know what we havin’.”
Crawford watched the bartender put three short glasses on the bar and fill them with ice like his life depended on it. Peeking over his dark sunglasses, Rakim looked over his right shoulder and examined Crawford closely. Crawford tried to ignore him.
“Hey, man,” the young man said.
Crawford kept looking straight ahead.
“Hey, man,” he said again.
“Yeah?” Crawford said without looking.
“Do I know you?”
“I hope not,” Crawford said.
While Dorothy sat on the bed getting dressed, she thought about her mother’s reaction to Jim after taking him home for Thanksgiving.
“This isn’t serious, is it?” her mother asked her during a phone conversation the following week.
“It’s pretty serious,” she said with obstinate enthusiasm. “Don’t you like him?”
Her mother responded gravely, surprisingly so. “I just think he’s not the right kind of guy for you, not for the Dorothy I know.”
The Dorothy her mother knew couldn’t believe her mother’s bluntness but nevertheless took it in stride. Her mother was very protective and had never liked any of her previous boyfriends.
Dorothy tried to sound confident, like an adult: “Well maybe now I’m a different person — different in a few ways.”
“Okay. Like how?” she asked.
“Mother! Why are you pressing this?”
“Because I love you, that’s why. I’m your mother. I’m supposed to give you advice on these things.”
“This is advice?” From her second story apartment, Dorothy had her eyes trained on the walkway in front of the building, eagerly keeping an eye out for her handsome new lover.
Her mother didn’t know what to think of her romantic excitement nor the stubborn rebellion in her voice. “You sound to me like you know what I’m saying is true,” she said.
Dorothy decided to give up — something she did often with her mom. “Mom. I have to go.”
“Then you’re mad?” her mother asked.
“No. I have to go.” Dorothy saw Jim coming up the walk with a bottle of wine under his arm. “Really, Mom…”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded.
“We can talk about this later,” Dorothy said.
Yes, we’ll talk about this later, her mother often thought as she listened to Dorothy’s tearful monologues of regrets and misgivings over the years.
Dorothy’s mother still lived in San Bernardino County, and Dorothy’s best gauge of how her marriage was to count the number of times “Upland, California” appeared on the phone bill. During her worst moments, Dorothy could pick up the phone and resume a conversation she had ended days ago.
“This is it,” she said to her mother with no introduction whatsoever.
Her mother knew exactly what she meant. “I see,” she said contentedly.
“I can’t take this any longer.”
“Take what? What has he done?”
“I can’t talk about it. I’ll just say he’s not here. I’m going to wait until Cal comes home, and then we’re both coming over. I don’t know how Cal’s going to react, but please handle it, whatever he does.”
“And Jim?”
“Out getting drunk, I guess. I don’t know where he is.”
“Dorothy, should I make dinner for tonight? For you and Cal?”
“No. Just wait. I’ll call you later, mother,” Dorothy said, looking at her suitcase on the bed. Perhaps there was still a Dorothy her mother didn’t know.
“I could make a nice pot roast,” her mother said.
The smell was strange, like something he’d smelled a long time ago, perhaps while on a camping trip when he was younger. It was that wet kind of smell, like after it rains, but in an old wooden building or something.
After Cal tried to move, he no longer thought about the smell. There was a sharp pain on his right shoulder, right at his neck. He was lying on his side, resting on his left arm, and when he moved he could tell the floor was wet.
His temple began to throb, then he reached up to touch his forehead. It also was wet.
Is it blood?
He felt like he’d been struck on the head, but he couldn’t remember. The room was dark, with just the outline of light coming from what looked like a large door.
He started to remember the day: skipping school, the neighborhood, the smell, the buildings, the warehouse. And he remembered Darrin. And something about some coke, picking it up, running it across town.
“Darrin,” he said as if he’d just awoken. Then louder, “Darrin. Darrin! Where are you?” he cried.
Cal tried to move again, this time realizing his feet were bound together. He swung his body from his hips and heard the sound of a chain rattling across the floor. He was chained to something.
“Darrin! Darrin, help! Fuckin’ help me, man!”
The door cracked open, throwing a shaft of light on Cal. It opened further and a silhouette appeared at the door.
“Darrin?”
“Cal?” It was a strange, low voice.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The figure was motionless. Then it said… “Be kind to yourself.”
That voice: the one he tuned out in the morning with loud music. Cal could now see the person had a large hat on.
Then he saw the large nose, the pipe. Oh, God what is this? Cal put his hands beneath him and tried to pull away. “Who the fuck are you! Where the hell is Darrin?”
“Be a friend to yourself, Cal,” he said, stepping into the light, his exaggerated features eclipsing the glare. Cal thought he must have been dreaming. “Be a friend to yourself,” he said again, turning away. “Little prick.”
Entree Vous Books was Dorothy’s favorite bookstore, a locally owned place that stuck out among the run of the mill corporate retail shops in the area. To Dorothy, the experience of being surrounded by millions and millions of words, along with a small but charming coffee shop, had a way of making her feel smarter. She had read Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights, and had attempted Anna Karenina before giving up a respectable third of the way through, but she always found literature too nebulous and demanding, and preferred short non-fiction that was written to make the reader a happier and healthier person. No, she wasn’t well versed in the classics, but at Entree Vous it didn’t matter. She loved walking past the James Crawford collection, admiring the beautiful hardcover editions with the free bookmarks that had Jim’s face at the top. In fact, even though she never said this to her husband, the Self Series books were some of her favorites.
Dorothy was embarrassed knowing she was there this time to browse the legal section — specifically the divorce section — and decided to browse the other sections until she happened upon her objective.
Biography.
What an interesting group of people, those who read historical biography, she thought. Wouldn’t dare pick up a tabloid magazine but would want to know the dish on Attila the Hun. That’s so cool. I should read one, perhaps a woman from history. Susan B. Anthony maybe. They put her on that dollar and all. Maybe someone even further back. Joan of Arc. Was she a real person, Joan of Arc? And what was the “Arc” part? Oh phooey.
Housekeeping.
Decorating.
I just love…
“Can I help you with something?” a young woman asked.
Dorothy immediately noticed that her nametag read ‘Dorothy.’ She said nervously, “I’m just l
ooking. Thank you.”
“Not looking for anything in particular?” Dorothy asked Dorothy. “A graduation gift perhaps?”
Oh, yeah. Graduation is coming up. “Not really, no.”
Dorothy could obviously sense the hesitation. “There must be something you had in mind?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?
Darn it, woman. “Actually I’m here to buy a do-it-yourself divorce book to threaten my husband with. Got any of those?”
Dorothy the clerk’s demeanor didn’t change; she still grinned like a cat. “We certainly do, ma’am. It’s in the legal section, third row on the left. Right next to Bankruptcy.”
“Okay, Dorothy. I think I can find it.”
“Anything I can do to help, just holler. And be sure and visit our coffee shop.”
“Okay,” Dorothy said, forcing a smile.
“And what was your name?” the woman asked.
“Dorothy.”
“No kidding?” the woman said, grabbing her nametag. “That’s my name too.”
“No kidding,” Dorothy said, before doing an about face.
Everyone’s selling something.
She walked past books with pictures of Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, that Chinese guy that was really evil, Hitler, some other men she didn’t know. For Christ’s sake, who would read a book about Hitler? Does that make people think they are smart?
And why should I care what Dorothy thinks about me buying a book on divorce, Dorothy thought. Put little may-I-help-you Dorothy in my shoes and see how she would hold up. I am going to browse the divorce section like I came here to do. And she was determined not to feel bad about it. It’s not like I’m buying a book on Hitler.
She crossed a long, wide aisle that separated the Literature, Biography, and Arts sections from the Legal, Financial, and Self-Help. The chasm created by the two seemed large — as if those who designed the layout insisted on a degree of segregation.
Also, the covers look so different on this side. The tasteful photography and subtle colors found across the aisle were replaced by bright, gaudy designs and ugly standard fonts. The language was also inelegant by comparison. Words like “How to,” “Get the,” “Become a” blah, blah, blah. Self-improvement needed a facelift, she thought, before seeing him standing there near the checkout.
His big warm smile. Correct posture, as she had reminded him many times. And he didn’t want a cutout of himself in books stores. He’s so funny wunny. She thought he looked very handsome standing there. There was a woman, an attractive one, and she’s looking him up and down. I bet she’s not thinking about the book. I bet she’s thinking how she’d like to fling her big boobs in my husband’s face. And Jim hasn’t been that unfaithful. My God, he could have a different bimbo every night. And it’s a lot of pressure being a public figure like he is. Of course he’s going to want a drink occasionally. After all, one day there will be books about him on the other aisle. With Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and that evil Chinese guy.
Dorothy’s eyes stopped in front of a stop sign — simple, bright red, a tacky font — declaring “Stop Now.” Dorothy picked up the thin volume and read the title. How to Halt Divorce in its Tracks. Fourth Edition.
Hmm, she thought. Should this be in the legal section?
She cautiously looked around before opening it to the Table of Contents. Chapter 1: How to Turn Bitter Hatred Back into Love.
Hmm.
Chapter 2: Nip It in the Bud.
Yes, she would nip it in the bud. This divorce had to stop and it had to stop now.
Walking past the cutout of her husband, she held her selection close to her breast. Buying the book would be her affirmation of love for that day. She paid in cash before walking past Dorothy, who reminded her to come again.
“Damn. I can’t believe I ran into you, man,” The young Rakim said, his arm now wrapped around Crawford’s shoulder. Crawford was now trying to sip his beer at a slower pace. He knew he’d need to leave soon. Rakim looked smaller and less dangerous with his confident strut tamed by a barstool.
“Dr. James motherfuckin’ Crawford,” Rakim said proudly. “In my little watering hole.” Rakim was smiling with exhilaration and surprise. He looked like he had never smiled so wide in his life. “I can’t tell you how you’ve changed my life.” Rakim turned to the bartender. “Another drink for my man here. Anything he wants. And hurry the fuck up!”
He slapped Crawford on the back, his expression changing back to warm hospitality. Crawford tried to smile but was mostly trying to remain upright.
Rakim continued with a flood of compliments. “Hell, I wouldn’t have shit if it weren’t for you, man. I wouldn’t have fuckin’ shit,” he said again. “I wouldn’t be a world-class recording artist. Hell, I definitely wouldn’t own this bar.”
“You own this bar?” Crawford muttered.
He leaned in toward Crawford, who languidly looked down at his beer. “You know what I’m sayin’, Doc? Listen to me. I owe this bitch all to you, motherfucker,” he said.
The bartender put another draft in front of Crawford and poured him another shot.
Rakim kept talking. “Bro, I read Self-Confidence fuckin’ years ago, when I was just a little kid. That started it all, man. I’m readin’ that new one a’yours Self-Esteem right now. Self-esteem pretty important, huh?” he said taking a swig of his Manhattan.
Crawford said, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mister, Rakim?” Crawford said before downing the shot.
Rakim let out a great laugh. “That’s right bro, all thanks to you. Let’s celebrate.” He raised his glass in a toast and Crawford halfheartedly did the same. Rakim turned to his two buddies next to him. “Raise ‘em up, Niggas. Come on.” And they promptly did. “Anything you want to say, Maestro?” Rakim said. “We’re all motherfuckin’ ears.”
Crawford coughed. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Rakim laughed out loud. “Naw, man, shit,” he said before downing his drink.
Dorothy tried to pretend she had some important things to do that day, but the truth was she only had the common chores of every other day, made just slightly unusual by the fact that her husband was AWOL.
She was already angry with herself for telling her mother that she was leaving Jim. She didn’t know if she was leaving him or not, she just said so perhaps to gain some “clarity” or to muster up a bit of nerve to do something else.
Besides the small deli next to it, the drycleaner was the only other business at the bottom of the hill that served their neighborhood exclusively. It was one of those area businesses where people are more sociable simply because they know they’re talking to other people from the same income bracket, or the way many of them saw it, from the same side of the tracks.
Dorothy could barely muster up the concentration needed to pay the patiently waiting Chinese man the money she owed him. She was gnashing her teeth at the thought of Jim getting wasted in some bar. “Keep the change,” she said after finally pulling a fifty out of her wallet.
Dorothy hated running into other people from the neighborhood, especially the hodgepodge of housewives who wanted to believe that Dorothy was part of their demographic and so had lots in common, lots to talk about and lots of time to do so. Usually she could avoid such chitchat; other times it was impossible.
“Thank you very much, Miss Crawford,” he said, bowing graciously.
“Dorothy Crawford?” said a woman’s brassy voice slow and deliberate, from the front of the drycleaner. “Mrs. Dorothy James ‘Self-Esteem’ Crawford,” she rattled off. “Is that you?”
Dorothy knew who it was before she reluctantly turned around. It was Cynthia Norton, also known as Ding. Cynthia considered herself such a natural born hostess that she took her nickname from the sound of a doorbell.
Ding was the wife of a wealthy commodities broker who lived just down the street from the Crawfords. She invited Dorothy and Jim to almost every pa
rty she threw because, as she put it, “We have to socialize with our famous neighbors too.” Dorothy always came up with an excuse not to go, but that never deterred Ding. For her, it was try and try again. Accordingly, she was a big fan of Jim’s books, even though, as she once told him with a wink, “I don’t really need the advice.”
“What on earth are you doing in the drycleaners so early, dear?” Ding asked Dorothy.
Dorothy immediately noticed Ding was wearing a necklace that looked a little flashy for a trip to the drycleaners. It looked a little flashy for a trip to see the Queen of England.
Dorothy forced a smile. “What on earth are you doing in the drycleaners, Ding? Don’t you have some houseboy that does this kind of thing?”
Ding leaned in, “You know, I had this Korean boy that did all my running around. Tommy Kim. Remember him? And wouldn’t you know it — he went and got an engineering degree during his time off, behind my back.” She laughed caustically. “Can you believe that? He’s building rockets now for the government or some such thing. Got to get another, I guess.”
Dorothy had returned to thinking of Jim. “Another what?”
Ding acted irritated by the question. “Another Korean boy. Or some other kind. What’s the matter, Dorothy? You’re acting kind of strange,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said, trying to give Ding her full attention. “I’m just really busy right now.”
“I know how it is dear. I’m entertaining eighty people in two weeks. I guess you got my invitation?
“Oh sure,” Dorothy said, pretending to remember it.
“And I guess you’re coming?” she said with an unapproachable grin.
Before Dorothy could answer, Ding noticed a blouse on top of the clothes Dorothy was holding. “This is beautiful. Where did you get this? Is this silk?”
“Mrs. Norton, I’ve really got to go.”
“Mrs. Norton?” she said with a huff.
A mobile phone started ringing, and both women looked to see if it was hers. It was Dorothy’s.
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