Hick

by Andrea Portes

  I wonder what they’ll say about me when I’m gone. I wonder how long it’ll take them to figure out I ain’t coming back. Just the thought of it makes me whistle and puts a zing in my shoe-step. I am not what they thought I was. No sir. I am bigger than this whole state put together and I have listened and I have waited and now I can hear it. Pop.

  Here’s where I turn and start walking down the gravel road. I feel like there’s something coming up underneath my feet, something lifting me and moving me forward, something just waiting to throw me into the sun.

  TWO

  FIVE

  Somewhere between Palmyra and Alliance, a beat-up green-and-white pick-up truck, with a gun rack in the back, pulls up behind me while I’m singing to myself. I look inside and there, in the driver’s seat, sits a skinny bug-eyed cowboy who looks like a turtle. He looks like he must have spent the last ten days straight chasing squealers in the rodeo and hasn’t changed since. He’s got on one of them old fashioned Western shirts with a pattern of little rose flowers faded dingy into gray, mother-of-pearl snaps gleaming creamy in a line from his chest down to his jeans, untucked. He’s got a look about him that you wouldn’t be surprised if he just busted out of the nervous hospital.

  He rolls down the window and shouts over the wind,

  “Where you headed?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  He looks me up and down.

  “Aren’t you a little bit young and maybe, say, innocent to be traveling to Las Vegas all by your little self?”

  He’s got this tone in his voice like he’s got three friends snickering, hunkering down in the cab, and this is all a little joke between them.

  “No.” I straighten up a bit. “What about you, Mister? Where you headed?”

  “Well, I don’t see how that’s any of your business . . . and my name’s not Mister, it’s Eddie. Eddie Kreezer.”

  I smile and make a bashful act, bending over myself, trying to let him sneak a peek at my newfound bubbles, hoping for a free ride. I figure I can turn his none-of-your-business into Las Vegas with a little bit of sugar. My age makes him nervous and shamey, cause his eyes keep heading southwards and then back up, guilty. I can tell I can make his eyes swirl and that’s just about all I want to do.

  “You some kinda runaway?”

  “No. My dad ran away and left me.”

  This is my new version of my life story.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. I guess he thought I could fend for myself, but I sure could use a ride, Mister, Eddie, and I’m just worried sick that I won’t find a place to stay before dark and I guess I’m just plum scared and all cause—”

  “What’s your dad look like? Maybe I seen him.” He takes off his hat and squints at the brim like he’s inspecting it.

  “You.”

  There is a silence as he looks me up and down. Then he just starts laughing, real hard and loud, like his make-believe friends just jumped out the back and the dashboard just turned into a bar.

  “Oh my God, what in the world is in store for me here?” he says, shaking his head and smiling to himself. “Well, well, well . . .”

  I don’t really get his little private joke, but I smile anyways, not wanting to seem dumb or too young or rude even. I resolve to take the reins.

  “You gonna give me a ride or are you just gonna sit there and laugh at yourself all day?”

  He stops laughing.

  “Oh, I get it, you’re some kinda ten-year-old smart-ass or something.”

  “Try thirteen,” I say, real smug.

  “Well. You’re just about old enough to have kids then, aren’t ya?”

  He sneers gritty through the corner of his mouth, like Uncle Nipper used to do when the ashtray says he’s been up all night and the bottle of Jack confirms it with two sips left. For once in my life I am struck dumb for words and I don’t like it. I shift my attention to the ground and shuffle my feet through the gravel, praying he’ll give me a lift, at least to Kearney. Later on I’ll think of something good to say, some perfect comeback topped with whipped cream and a smile.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, git in if you wanna.”

  He unhitches the lock and stares at me through the window, like he’s daring me.

  I have never turned down a dare in my life and I’m not about to start now, just cause I can’t think of nothing clever to say to turn me into the starlet of his private movie. I put my head back on my shoulders, real high, open the door and hop in. There is a moment of silence while we both contemplate our new situation.

  “You got any money?” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He looks straight ahead, calculating into the sun.

  “No, but I’m good at stealing.”

  “Well, at least you’re good for something.”

  Then he peels off onto the road so fast the back of the truck swishes out over the gravel in a C and something in my heart lurches forward, like a roller coaster at the very top, when you can’t see what’s coming but you’re bracing for a steep drop.

  SIX

  He stays stone quiet all the way to the panhandle and I find this to be just a little bit aggravating. Whenever a guy around me isn’t talking I always assume he’s thinking of all the reasons why he doesn’t like me and all the ways he’s gonna get rid of me. Not that I like this particular aspect of my personality. it’s weak and helpless and where I see my mama in myself. Tammy can’t stand it if there’s even one single nothing of a man slunking somewhere in the corner of the room not paying her no mind. Just that little itty-bitty portion of neglect drives her nutso. And I’ll be honest, some of that suction-cup need to be looked at and keened over and adored has been inherited by yours truly. I make a pact now, this very moment, telling myself to change it. Right here and now.

  Next time I will just imagine that whenever any boy or guy or Marlboro man is silent around me, it’s because he’s just so deep in thought about how hard he has fallen in love with me and that look of furrowed exasperation on his brow is only a reaction to his feeling of utter helplessness. This will be my new factory for turning lemons into lemonade. Sometimes if you can trick yourself into thinking something, really trick yourself so you don’t even know what’s true anymore, you can make that something come true. I resolve to break hearts.

  My companion doesn’t know it, but I have been inspecting him for the last fifteen minutes and I have noticed a few things that differentiate him from the regular shitbag you see on the street.

  Number one, he’s crooked.

  Now, when I say crooked, I don’t mean it in any sort of poetic sense. I mean he’s crooked. Literally. Like his body looks like an italic. He veers to the left, like he’s crippled or bent or swayed off to the side.

  Number two, his brow overhangs the rest of his face like a cliff. it’s like there’s a candy bar buried somewhere underneath the skin above his eyes, giving him a troubled look of constant consternation.

  Number three, when he wrinkles his forehead, it makes a V-shape instead of a regular line, like most people, adding to his look of infinite struggle.

  Number four, his legs are longer and skinnier than anything you’ve ever seen attached to a body. He’s like some kind of daddy-long-legs spindling behind the wheel.

  Number five, his eyes look like they’re about to pop right out of his head. They seem bigger than the average eyes and less attached to their respective sockets. They oogle around like toy button eyes on a sock puppet.

  Now, I know this list does not sound very flattering. I know that. But there is something about him, some thing in the air around him, that makes me want him to fall out of his seat in love with me. There is nothing logical about it. it’s something about the ions buzzing around his head that makes me want him to grab me and pull me over and reach down between my legs.

  I look over at him and assess his feelings. Not interested. In his oogly eyes, I’m just a kid, some kind of little girl you might pat on the head at the ball game before putting your arm ar
ound your real girlfriend and walking off under the bleachers. I scrutinize him, watching while he stares straight ahead, gripping the wheel with that candy bar buried beneath his brow bone. I decide he is all bark and no bite.

  “So . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

  “No.” He stays looking at the road, like I’m some speck of dust not worth it.

  “Why . . . don’t you like girls?”

  (I know how to rile them up.)

  “Depends.”

  None too successful.

  “Wull . . . what kinda girls you like?”

  “Quiet ones.”

  Okay, now I’m really losing my touch. This requires something drastic.

  “Um . . . do you mind not looking over here for a while?”

  “What for?”

  “I kinda been wearing the same thing all day and I’d like to change.”

  “Knock yourself out, kid.”

  I wait a second to let it sink in, this impending nakedness. I’m gonna make his eyes swirl if it kills me. I struggle to take off my T-shirt, like it’s somehow impossible and caught, to give him time to think about what I’m doing and just what’s going on over on this side of the truck. Then I pull my dress on over my head and down around my American thighs. Every once in a while I steal a quick glance at my companion, to see if he’s hooked.

  He’s staring at the road ahead real intent, gripping the wheel, composed and forceful. He doesn’t look over but I can tell I’m starting to wiggle under his skin. And now, for the grand finale. I take off my jeans and don’t even have to pretend to struggle with this one because taking off jeans in a beat-up pick-up truck going eighty miles an hour on a rolling gravel road in the pitch black is no cake-walk. Finally I just kick them off, quick, and pull down my skirt. There’s a moment of nothing much and then my companion looks me over, beginning to see the potential for the speck of dust beside him to turn from cubic zirconia to white diamonds.

  “That doesn’t match.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cowboy boots and that dress. That doesn’t match. Unless you’re a hooker.”

  He laughs at himself, thinking he’s Mr. Wit and oh so old and wise.

  “Oh, so now I’m a hooker?”

  “Look, darlin, you’re too ripe is the problem.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’re too ripe. And your mouth’s too big. You got a big mouth.”

  “What do you mean I got a big mouth? You mean like it’s too big, in general, or like I talk too much?”

  “Both.”

  “Wull, what do I care anyways.”

  “What was that?”

  “What do you know anyways, you’re nothing but a fucking cripple.”

  He stops the truck so fast my head slams forward about an inch off the dashboard and I wonder if my nervous hospital judgment wasn’t so far off base. I sit dumb trying to wonder how I can switch things back from minor to major. This is the part where I’m scared, but there’s something in my fear, something else, like I want him to get mad and fly off the handle and show me what he’s got.

  “You listen to me, you little brat, if you ever, ever say that again, I’ll throw you straight through this windshield and run you over after that. Understood?”

  We stare at each other, double-dare.

  “Let me out.”

  “What? Speak up. I can’t hear you?”

  “Let me out.”

  “Door’s right there. Feel free to use it.”

  “Okay. I will and fuck you, you fucking gimp.”

  And with that he lunges over me, opens the door and pushes me and all my worldly belongings out in one fell swoop. I land on the ground in the dirt and he peels off before I can say I’m fine. Before I dust myself off or stand up and show him I’m capable of walking on my own, he’s over the next hill and into the night.

  Well, that’s that, I guess.

  I look into the night sky, pitch black with stars so bright you wonder why you can’t just hop on one and ride away. The corn smells sweet behind me, heading off row by row into the pitch black. There are no cars. No lights for miles. Not even a telephone pole to give you comfort.

  I walk myself gently into the ditch. Whenever I feel like this, I am gentle with myself, pretend like I’m someone else, someone good. I walk on eggshells around myself, like I’m some fragile piece of porcelain you have to place quietly, deliberately back on the shelf.

  I put my jeans and T-shirt on the ground to make a bed, then set my bag up top for the pillow. Home sweet home. My first night out was not a stunning success. Maybe I was too thirsty for my new life. I lay my head back on my makeshift pillow and decide that tomorrow I will behave in a manner that is slow. Tomorrow I will let things happen to me, instead of trying to make things happen. Tomorrow I will try to be softer.

  SEVEN

  They could sure make these ditches more comfortable. Maybe hold back on the brambles part. I’m tossing and turning and all I can think is how you’re not supposed to be an all-alone girl, especially at night. If you’re an all-alone girl at night, might as well call it quits.

  I keep thinking about this all-alone lady we got for a schoolteacher. She had a look like she was raised in the basement of a library. She had mousy-brown bangs and sun-scared skin the color of paper. She came here from some college back East with no men and that’s the way they want it. She got invited to two barbecues, one bake-off, and that was that cause she liked to get mad about what kind of beer you drank or don’t say sweetie, say Miss Crisp.

  It wasn’t long after she got transferred that she started staring at me round the clock. I went from back left to center center to front right, like tic-tac-toe, in five days straight. She put me right up front and this is what she’d do. she’d take a long, leisurely stroll round the room and stop, oh so casual, right smack-bang behind yours truly. she’d put her eyes in my socks, in my shoes, in my hair and just stay planted there till test over. I swear to Betsy she made those tests up, pop quiz, just to take a peek. And I kept trying to hate her. I did, but then came the day she caught me red-handed.

  She caught me red-handed cause there was this girl in my class, three rows up, who spent all recess mirror in hand. Kids would be running round like it was the end of the world and four- square and dodge-ball and there she’d be, smack-dab in the middle, statue still, staring in that silver vanity mirror you’re supposed to keep in a drawer.

  I don’t care about that. Who’d care about that part? She could’ve stared at that mirror till her head popped off and fine with me. that’s not the point. The point is she wouldn’t eat her sandwich. that’s the point.

  The point is she’d eat the apple, the pudding cup, the crackers and toss the sandwich, the whole sandwich, back in the bag and then in the trash and forget it. The point is that sandwich would get left back, all alone, and I’d feel sorry for it. I felt sorry for that sandwich, and so one day I took it upon myself to do something about it. The point is her mom sure knew how to make a sandwich.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. Miss Crisp caught me, hands in the trash-can, trying to make that sandwich feel a little less lonely. She caught me and she didn’t send me to the principal or tell my folks or nothing. Instead, she invited me over for Friday dinner, nothing special, in case I didn’t have plans. It wasn’t a holiday, just Friday dinner, don’t get worked up about it.

  Or so I thought.

  But then, guess what, I show up Friday and it’s like Jesus, Mary and Joseph are expected at eight. she’s got mashed potatoes and salad with Dorothy Lynch and Jell-O with marshmallows in it. she’s got rump roast with gravy and two different pies, pecan or pumpkin, you take your pick. she’s got bread in a loaf, no slices, and olive oil and mashed-up tomatoes with pepper, spread it on the bread. she’s got stuff I’ve never seen, don’t even know how to eat, let alone when, there’s not enough time.

  And maybe something about the look on my face or the shoveling of rump roast or the quickness of courses and asking
for seconds, maybe something about the two pieces of pie and wanting three, maybe something about the quiet around the table when I look up and see the schoolteacher staring down, furrowing a line between her brow, makes for a knock on my front door the next day.

  That little schoolteacher with paper skin comes walking over, through the weeds and up our rickety steps, framing herself in the front door, with a worried look on her forehead and a bag of Tupperware weighing down her spindly pencil arm.

  It was not the best time to make a house-call.

  In fact, maybe just never make a house-call next time.

  This is what happened. There was the little problem of Tammy being out all night the night before, no explanation, no nothing, just not back at noon the next day and mind your own business, don’t ask questions. That was the first part.

  The second part was that, as the hours dragged by from night into late night into early morning into the next goddamn day and still nothing cocksucker, my dad went from having a shot of Jack to pass the time to having a shot of Jack to take the edge off to having a shot to calm his nerves and then another to calm the fuck down and Jesus Christ where the fuck is my wife and where the fuck is your goddamn mother and then the bottle gets empty and then the bottle gets thrown and the dad is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands sobbing. Sobbing.

  And that’s when the knock comes.

  it’s not the police with a sad, tragic but earnest report about the whereabouts of my mama. it’s not Uncle Nipper and Aunt Gina stumbling in with Tammy in tow, talking about it was a rough night and you should have been there you’d never believe it. In fact, it’s got nothing to do with Tammy at all.