An hour went by. Then another. Melvin was still talking. Crawford was still drinking. The sun had gone down. The dark outside reminded Crawford, even in his listlessly intoxicated state, that he was again fleeing responsibility for the sake of warm escape. Melvin had talked about all those “manly” things that men often talk about: work, work, and more work, but had not yet mentioned his new wife. Crawford asked about her, trying to avert attention from his own.
“Her name’s Frida. That’s her English name. I can’t pronounce her Thai name. And oh, she’s really something. She waits on me hand and foot. It’s like she was put on this planet to make this Arkansas cracker happy.”
Poor thing, Crawford thought, taking another sip of Old Arkansan. She’s just getting out of poverty the best she can. And Melvin is the best she can do. Poor thing.
“And you remember how I like big pussies?”
Crawford felt his stomach turn.
“Well,” he continued, leaning back with a contented smile on his face, “she got one, and lemme tell ya, that som’bitch is huuuuuuge.”
Crawford felt his stomach turn again, this time deeper, more painfully. All they needed now was George Jones and they would be back in Melvin’s tiny dorm room, getting peckered for no reason at all. And who was this poor Thai woman? And where… “You just get back from Asia today?” Crawford asked.
“I did, yeah,” he said. We got a hotel room and came d’rectly here.”
That’s why Melvin hadn’t mentioned the Hershey show.
“So this woman — your wife — she’s at the hotel?”
“No, she’s out in the car.”
“What?” Crawford asked, slightly sobered by the remark.
“Hell, I told her that she wouldn’t be interested in what a couple’a old bar farts like us’d have to say. So I told her just to wait in the car.”
It’s May, Crawford thought, and a hot one at that.
“You mean you’ve been here…” Crawford glanced at his watch with blurred vision. Screw it. “You’ve been here all this time and she’s been waiting out in the car for you? The whole time?”
“I told you she wants to make this Arkansas cracker happy. Bet your wife wouldn’t wait in the car.”
Crawford felt a rush of anger. He was asking himself the same question he’d asked himself a million times in college: What are you doing drinking with this stupid hick? But he couldn’t believe what Melvin was telling him, so he pressed it further. “So you got this woman waiting out in a hot car while you get drunk with an old college buddy and talk about her vagina? Is that it?” Crawford said, raising his voice to Melvin like he never had before.
“Careful,” Melvin said in that I’m still a redneck and I can still kick your ass voice. “Don’t be gettin’ persnickety.”
“You’re a piece’a shit. You know that?”
“What?” Melvin said, putting his beer down. “What did you say, you bastard?”
“I said you’re a piece of shit. Know that?”
Melvin’s demeanor changed and he stood slowly, his brown and green polyester rising like a giant oak growing in time-lapse. “I’ll talk about my wife’s vagina all I want, hear?”
Crawford, not being able to sit beneath Melvin, stood to meet his eyes. Suddenly he felt something he hadn’t felt in years: courage.
“I never liked you Melvin. It’s not that I only realized that just now. I just realized that you need to know so I don’t have to see your stupid face again. You just always had booze and were someone to drink with. That’s all. That’s why I hung out with you in college.”
Melvin took a step back looking like a dejected child.
Crawford continued nevertheless. “After two semesters of you, I was so sick, so sick, of hearing you talk about jacking off and about big pussies and hairy assholes that I wanted to fucking puke when I heard your fucking name!”
Melvin gave an embarrassed laugh. “Uh… this is just a joke, right?”
“No, I’m not fucking joking, you big lug!”
Any benevolence on Melvin’s face now turned to sour indignation, but Crawford couldn’t stop. “Get the fuck out of my house. And take that poor girl out there in the car,” he said pointing toward the street, “back where you found…”
Crawford didn’t get out the last word before Melvin’s giant right fist came rolling across his jaw. He fell back a step and put his hand to his face.
This is my house. This is my house. And nobody in my house is going to…
“You know what?” Melvin said. “Them books you wrote…”
Melvin’s left came crashing into Crawford’s right eye and Crawford fell to the floor, pain shooting from his temple into the rest of his skull. He looked up but could only see a green and brown blur.
“Them Self books you wrote… them’s bullshit,” Melvin said. “I was sent here by the Lord to tell you that.”
“Sorry, but I never liked you,” Crawford gasped. “I should have just told you that,” he said, raising his hand to shield the next blow. It was the last thing Crawford said before the scuffed bottom of Melvin’s size-12 boot brought the next oblivion.
CHAPTER 17
Dust, Mud, and Blood by James Crawford. A short dream. Less than 500 words. The kind of dream people don’t have these days, but should. They’re a dying art form — short dreams — and if they were good enough for the previous generation, by God, they’re good enough for us.
Dust, mud, and blood — that’s all he could remember when he awoke. It was Saturday; he knew that for some reason. He was walking down a long corridor in an industrial building. It looked like an old factory of some kind, but he wasn’t exactly sure what for, he just knew it was like a factory. There were no people there to confirm the function of the facility, just very industrial looking things lying around — not machines, not products, just things — manufactured things or maybe things that manufactured things, but not machines, not products. As he looked down at the floor in front of him, he could see dust — dust as if something covered in dust had been dragged, leaving behind a sandy trail about the width of a human body. He kept walking; he didn’t want to, but he kept walking. Why did he walk? He needed to. He saw more manufactured things or things that manufactured things — perhaps they were both. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure. All of a sudden he could see shapes forming among the manufactured things or things that manufactured. They looked like smiles
or laughter
or frowns
or sobbing.
Then below there was mud — black, sticky mud that must have been sprayed out of the bowels of the earth — a lifeless gunk, food for worms, death itself. Then the manufactured things or things that manufactured seem to notice him. Had they noticed him before? They seemed to be laughing or sobbing at him. He walked faster
faster
faster
faster.
They were still there — same as before. Then looking down: there was blood — the blood of being, the blood of life, spilled on the floor like a million pigs slaughtered for a Roman orgy. The blood did not look like it came from something dragged; it looked as if he was standing on the very spot of the carnage —
looking,
laughing,
sobbing.
Then the manufactured things or things that manufactured looked at him, tilting their bases to the side with childlike curiosity. Then the manufactured things or things that manufactured looked at him with sympathy. Understanding. They pulled back their bases in judgment, then in fury. Then his life — his very soul — became one of the manufactured things or things that manufactured. His very being had disappeared evermore, evermore, leaving nothing but blood spilled on the floor.
Like pigs.
Then the manufactured things or things that manufactured rang with the sound of a thousand bells — not beautiful bells, but ghostly bells; disgusting bells; appalling, mechanical, industrial-sounding bells; bells made from the used parts of obsolete machines. Ring, ring.
The first thing Crawford thought was that he had gotten drunk and caused a car accident and now he had to face a family of six in a crumpled station wagon, a family that he’d just murdered.
Ring, ring.
Dust, mud, blood.
Crawford turned sideways to see a pile of crumpled beer cans and cigarette butts on the floor next to the coffee table he was lying under. The phone was ringing, but Crawford had no intention of moving. He wasn’t sure how much of his pain was caused by the pounding Melvin had given him and how much was caused by the Old Arkansan. Could be the ‘kansan was still working as an analgesic.
Ring, ring.
There was the phone again. What time was it? The sharp morning light coming through the transparent inner curtains suggested it was around 6 or 7am, too early for anyone to call, except for family members or the psychopaths holding them hostage.
Crawford struggled to hoist himself up by putting his left hand on the coffee table and shifting his weight toward it. About the time his face was parallel to the table, his hand slipped and he fell with his right shoulder on a stray beer can.
“Goddammit!” he yelled, howling with pain.
With his nose against the floor, Crawford could smell a strong combination of Old Arkansan, cigarette butts, and cheap beer.
Great. I’ll hear about this later.
“Or will I?”
I never did get Dorothy at her mother’s. Wait. I didn’t try. He said don’t call the cops. He didn’t say don’t call her mother. Maybe she’s at her mother’s. Maybe I’m losing it. Oh God, please let me be losing my mind.
There was a mumbled sound coming from the family room adjoining the living room. At first Crawford thought that Melvin had decided to stay and perhaps he’d find him in the living room chatting with his new wife with the large vagina.
Crawford got to his feet and limped toward the family room. He looked around the corner, fearful he might run into a redneck fist. The noise was just the TV — a morning talk show with some young pop star as the guest.
On the coffee table sat a fresh bottle of Old Arkansan with a note taped to the table in front of it. Melvin had apparently written the note with a marker he must have found in the kitchen. The sight of his writing immediately elicited sympathy since it looked like the writing of a child — and not a smart one.
Jimmy,
You sorry son of a Bitch. I hope you don’t mind me and my old lady using your toilet. (She had to pee reel bad and I did too) I just want to say that I apolagize for what hapend. I shouldnt of kicked you like that. I’m not sorry I punched your sorry ass, Im just sorry I kicked you. I figered it was best to let you just lay there and get over it. (I got sick about it) I hope you feel better now. I was also reel mad. And besides, I Did NOT kick you that hard. But the way I think, we can still be Freinds you and me. I never tell you I read those books you wrote (2 of them) and I think they were reel good. I felt BAD like I needed to read them I guess. As a peace oFering, I decided to leave you my last bottle of Old Arkansan, just to say let the bigones be bigones. It’s one of the last one’s on earth. I hope you enjoy it. By the way, when I said the Lord sent me as a messanger, I wasant kidding, but I guess I failed.
Your freind since college, MELVIN
PS: Call me next time your ass is in Arkansas
How did this asshole ever get out of college?
Crawford crumpled up the note and looked at the bottle. I should stop right now, he thought, but he always thought that. He looked at the morning show playing in front of him. There was a stage out on a New York street. A young woman in her early-twenties with a tightly curled hairstyle wearing a lime-green tank top and skin-tight jeans nodded attentively as the flattering female host asked her about her current project.
Crawford removed the lid from the bottle.
“So, Kristine,” the well-designed host said.
Appearing at the bottom of the screen was “Kristine releases new album of all new songs.”
“You have said your new song Whatever is a love song to yourself. Can you tell us more about this? What exactly is a love song to yourself?”
Kristine beamed with confidence, extending a mile-wide smile that revealed perfect white teeth. “In the last few years I’ve just aspired to adore all the different things about myself. I’ve just gotten to where I love my bright and witty side, but I also love my not-so-smart side,” she said. “I like them all, my profound side, my sexy side, my creative side. But I like my dummy side too,” she said.
“Oh, you don’t have a dummy side,” the host said, giving the young star a sunny slap on the arm.
“Yes I do. A little. But I love all of my complex and far-reaching sides. Yes, I accept them all.”
Crawford could feel the side of his face begin to throb. He brought the bottle to his lips.
The young star continued talking, turning toward the crowd of mostly college-age women as if she’d been asked another question. “And in loving myself I’ve just become more at ease because I’m not so stressed about how complex I am. And I encourage others to do the same,” she said. The audience clapped as the camera panned by their eager faces, many of them nodding at her insight. “And it’s helped the relationship I’m in now. My partner just loves me unconditionally.”
“Oh that’s wonderful,” the host said with a clap. “Yes, let’s talk about your love life.”
The pop star’s smile widened even more. “We’ve been embarking upon a really blessed journey.”
Crawford put the bottle down and grabbed the remote, pointing it at the TV.
“And to an extent that I’ve never really felt before, I feel really blessed and humbled by this bond I have with Tyler.”
It’s not working. Off. Off. Off.
“That’s wonderful, Kristine,” the host said, looking into the camera. “Of course she’s talking about Tyler Taylor, the sexy new star of TV’s Dashing Dropouts, which can be seen Tuesday nights at eight on this network.”
Crawford’s head pounded even harder as he waved the remote from side to side, pressing the off switch as if the device were a giant bug he was trying to squeeze to death.
Off. Off.
“Fuck!” Crawford looked at the pop queen’s neck as he squeezed the little gadget.
“You know, I don’t really like to talk about myself very much, but if it helps others, that’s what I’m really interested in.”
“Fuck!” Finally the screen went dead, and Crawford picked up the bottle again; and this time he drank.
“At least my kid’s not into that shit,” he said, lifting his drink in a toast to the black screen. God, where is that poor kid?
Crawford took two more swigs of Old Arkansan so he could make the trip upstairs for a shower. It was a rationalization, but at least it was for something semi-productive. Without Dorothy, the rotgut booze was all he had. Not such a productive rationalization.
But Dorothy. And Cal.
What Crawford had been avoiding was an urgent, blaring reality.
He staggered past the living room, looking at the mess he and Melvin had made. It looked just like a night in Melvin’s dorm room, minus the Lynard Skynard poster.
How could I sit there and drink with that asshole? How could I do that now? Do nothing. It’s your wife and son, you sorry som’bitch! But this nut said he tapped into the phone lines. Then what can I do?
Maybe this was a rationalization too, he thought, putting his hands over his troubled face.
You call the police, they both die.
Crawford staggered onto the stairs and began dragging himself up by the rail.
I’ll be calling you soon.
That’s what he said — that he’d call. When will this asshole call? And then what will he say? What? Are you going to second-guess what this crackpot will do? You don’t even know who…
Crawford thought about the ringing phone that woke him up.
That was him.
Crawford fumbled down the stairs and charg
ed into the kitchen. The quick movement caused a sharp pain in his stomach. Crawford bent over with his right forearm around his midsection, pounding his other hand on the kitchen counter.
“Goddam it,” he said. “Goddam it!”
He looked at the caller ID. There was a number there. A number! “Four-four-three-seven, six, two…” Who the hell? It was Dorothy’s mother. It was Dorothy’s mom’s number.
Crawford had never been so happy to see she had called. Dorothy did make it to her mother’s.
Wait, but what about Dorothy’s voice when Happy Pappy called?
Maybe she’s still there and the phone call was just some fake bullshit this guy created. He said he’d tapped into the phone lines. Maybe he taped Dorothy’s voice.
But she said, ‘Do as he says’. That wasn’t taped.
Crawford picked up the phone and punched the numbers. He had never learned how to use Call-Return and wasn’t going to learn now.
The phone rang.
What if her mother answers and Dorothy’s not there? She’ll want to know where Dorothy and Cal are and why I’m calling. She’ll be worried. Then she could do no telling what. And if Dorothy and Cal were missing, she’d be the first one to tell the police that I probably killed them in a drunken fury and hid them somewhere. She’d tell the cops to throw me in prison and I’d be there before I had a chance to find out who’s behind all of this and that would probably lead to…
The ringing seemed to speed up.
What do I do? Tell her I’m looking for Dorothy, that Dorothy said she was going there for a few days. But surely she’d know that. Surely Dorothy called her. And if Dorothy didn’t show up, her mother would call to see where she was.
But she did call, he thought. What if Dorothy didn’t tell her she was coming?
Or maybe she did and her mother’s been trying to call all night and I was knocked out loaded on the living room floor and didn’t hear it. Maybe it was Dorothy calling to check up on me and everything is okay. But she wouldn’t call; she’s too mad right now.
Self-Esteem Page 27