14
(Julia) My car payment is due. A hundred dollars short, I turn to Daemon. He has some coke I can sell for him. A hundred dollars’ worth, and he wants that back in cash. So I gotta make two hundred for this shit to work. But while my man is a fucking hustler, he ain’t much of a dealer. Neither of us has a clue how to cut the shit. We look through the kitchen for something white. Salt sounds painful, and the baking soda smells like it’s been in the fridge since I moved into this place. We end up choosing the lumpy white detergent from the box on top of the washing machine and hope for the best.
Daemon turns the plastic baggie over and dumps it into a cereal bowl. Just less than an eight ball. That’s what he tells me anyway. Then he adds the soap. I worry out loud that maybe he put too much, and he snaps back that he is the professional here, so just shut up and leave it up to him. I cross my arms over my chest and roll my eyes. He uses a straw to stir it all together, but the detergent rocks are all identical, and the coke rocks are all different shapes and sizes. "I can tell the difference."
He tells me I’m welcome to do it on my own if I think I can do better. Then he stares at the mix like he’s waiting for it to talk to him or some shit. Like the answers are in there just waiting to pop out. I joke that we should add water, but I regret it right away. He takes the bowl to the sink. I’m trying to talk him out of it, but he doesn’t listen to me. Shit, he’s going to ruin it!
Daemon turns the faucet to drip. A couple of drops fall in and he stirs, then adds a couple more and stirs again until clumps start to form. Not bad. I was afraid it would turn to suds and paste. He sets the bowl down on the counter and tells me to start making calls. We’ll just have to wait and see if the rocks stay together.
I don’t know a lot of people who do cocaine, but maybe that’s a good thing. In case our amateur cut is obvious. Novices won’t know any better, but they might just buy a little extra to help me out if I explain my situation.
I’ve got all but one sack presold when I bite my cheek and dial Angela. She’ll probably be able to tell there’s something wrong with it, but if I tell her to, she’ll buy it anyway. She jumps on the offer. Can’t beat a forty sack for twenty dollars. But then she tells me she’s going to work and Jane will pick it up. Great. That chick checks her shit like a hawk.
15
Angela gives me all sorts of shit for buying that wet sack, but I just roll my eyes at her. "You would have bought it anyways! And if I hadn’t bought it, you would have thrown a fit about that too!"
She tries to deny it, tries to pretend like she would have turned it down, but I know better. Behind her frown, she knows it too.
We both know better, but we put it up our noses anyways. It doesn’t really get us high, and it fucks my stomach up enough that I lounge around in bed with Angela the whole next day. But after it dries out, it makes a recovery; it is not that bad, and we keep using it until it is gone, the last of it on the freeway back to Salem. Angela lines it up and hands me the CD case and a rolled-up dollar bill then takes the wheel. I could drive with my knee, but she insists that it is safer this way. There is a long stretch of I-5 without any traffic, plenty of time for us to each do two lines. Afterwards, I am digging for half a joint that I stashed in the ashtray a couple of days prior to hide from a cop who had pulled up next to me at a red light. Perfect! Everything really does happen for a reason!
It is different in daylight. The sun is out, and it is way too bright. I fish my sunglasses out of the center console, but even with them, I have hard time focusing on the road, so I slow and move into the right lane.
Angela laughs when a Buick with a disabled parking permit passes us. "You’re stoned."
I am but not at the same time. There is something extra about this less-mixed high that is different from our usual drug cocktail. It is not as daring, and it has no delusions about ruling the world or other cocky ideas of awesomeness. Nor is it calm and therapeutic like cannabis on its own. My heart races, my left foot taps, and I beat out the rhythm of the radio on my steering wheel, all in slow motion.
16
(Daniel Long’s penis) It is a hard choice, I know, I know. Stay home and whack me off to internet porn or watch a bunch of naked chicks wiggle around onstage and paw all over Jane for her birthday? I’ll take the second one, thank you very much.
I start to throb before we’ve even hit the parking lot. Not my fault. If big man here would take me out more often, maybe I wouldn’t be so easily excited. Shit, it’s going to be hard to keep from popping a tent tonight. Strip Club Rule Number One: Stay seated! Before he climbs out of the car, he lectures me on behaving myself. "Just don’t embarrass me," he begs. I promise to do whatever it takes to keep my excitement under the table and my bad ideas away from his ATM card.
Except it’s no fucking use. I have no control! He knows that, so he’s running through sports figures and income brackets to keep me in check, and I am dreaming of big bouncy titties and juicy booties. "At least make it to the table!" he mutters under his breath.
Big man pays a cover at the door then makes a beeline for a table full of hotties. OK, that might be a little generous. One of them looks like a dude, one is a dude, and one is frowning too hard at the dancers with her arms crossed over her chest for me to know what she’s working with. So there are two hotties: Angela’s girl and the dancer that is hugging up on her. Wow! Now that’s trouble! Damn, hurry up fatty and sit the fuck down! He slides into home in the nick of time. That was close! What with the half-naked girl straddling Jane, shoving her tongue down her throat, I’m at full attention. You could hang a flag on me! Big man’s pretty lucky he got to the cocktail table in time.
It gets better fast. Two more hotties show up and share the table with me. One is tall and kind of shy, but she’s got this crazy striking beauty about her. The intimidating kind. The other is short and on the curvy side of thin. She makes great conversation and smiles at big man like she wants me to be her daddy. They’re Jane’s friends, so it seems fair that big man should buy their drinks for the night. He might feel different in the morning when he looks at his bank account. But right now, I’m in charge!
Our tables are right next to the main stage. It’s a fantastic view, but big man tries to keep his eyes on the girls at the table. Like he’s trying to prove he’s a good, upstanding guy, I guess—more interested in what they have to say than what the girls onstage have to shake. Like he wants to convince one of them that she’d like him to take her home to meet his mother. And I’m stuck here fiending to get closer to the stage.
The barmaid is slow as hell, and it takes way too long to get the girls drunk. I have a sneaky feeling big man is throwing a wrench in my plan and pacing himself. Trying to keep control or some shit. Can’t he just loosen the fuck up for once? While he runs through his funds in his head, keeping a careful and pathetic tally of what he has spent and what he has left to spend, Rico Suave over there is buying all of the girls rounds and handing over stacks of dollar bills. He’s getting laid tonight, that’s for sure. All I’ll get is Rosie Palm.
Part Five: Schizo Is as Schizo Does
1
(Mr. Tweed) There is something off about my latest hire. I can’t quite put my finger on it exactly. This Rose, she doesn't walk onto the lot, she skips. She skips into the showroom and chirps, "Good morning!"
"Oh, good morning, Rose," I reply. "I am so glad you are here."
"And I am so glad to be here!" She smiles wide and twirls in half circles then shakes a pair of invisible maracas and yells out, "Cha cha cha! I am so excited to sell some cars today!" This Rose is a little much. I pray to Jesus in Heaven she isn’t riding the white pony right now. That is a liability we do not need around here. Especially after my little noon-time run-in with the open container and the hooker in my demo car.
"We don’t sell a lot of cars on Tuesdays." I’m not sure if it’s wise to set her loose with the customers. She comes with so much experience, my head says that I should just stop worrying
; my gut, on the other hand, keeps rumbling.
The morning trudges by slow like the drain in the men’s room. It’s the first time I’ve prayed NOT to have customers. And I’m not usually a fortunate guy, but somehow today, Lady Luck is on my side. Not a single foot falls onto the lot before lunchtime. I breathe a sigh of relief and send Rose off to eat. Finally, some peace! She's spent the last few hours perched at the front of the showroom, her eyes fixed on the road. And she kept chanting something, I don’t know what, couldn’t understand her. But it was creepy, and my nerves are shot. I can’t do this. I’ve got to get rid of her. I’ll send her home by two. We haven’t had any customers all day; we should be able to make it through the one o’clock hour without one.
Things are looking good after Rose comes back from lunch. Everything is quiet except for her chanting and pacing. But the clock hands crawl so slow it’s like they’re not even moving. Five after. Ten. Twenty. I pop an extra blood pressure pill. One thirty. At a quarter ‘til, just as my breath starts to mellow out, a young couple pulls up in an old hatchback. They come in from the side, and I spot them before she does. "Heey uh . . . hey," I stutter, "Hey, Rose, can you go to the break room please and bring me the, uh, newspaper?"
"Sure," she chirps.
Now where the hell is Dave so that he can take care of them before she gets back?
Footfalls come from down the hall. Beads of sweat start on my brow. "I could only find yesterday’s paper," she calls from halfway down.
"Uh, um, why don’t you try my office?"
The footsteps keep coming. My heart races.
Dave waits until she’s turned the corner into the showroom to appear. My breath sticks in my chest. He whisks them away to safety right in front of her.
"Hey! Customers!" she yells, then whines, "Aaaaw. Why didn’t you call me?" She sounds like a kid who didn’t get a turn at bat.
"There’ll be more." I pray otherwise. Ten minutes to go. Five. I’m about to breathe that final sigh of relief and send her home when the bottom falls out of my darn stomach.
"Yay!" Rose squeals, and she jumps up from her seat. "Customer!" She bounces out the door and before I know it, she’s back for a key. I panic and pray for whoever the poor soul is.
2
(Emilio) "Hey, hi, hi there."
"Um, hi."
"So you looking to get into a snazzy new ride today?"
"Well, possibly I guess. I’m really just looking right now."
"Just looking? Anything in particular catch your eye?"
"I kinda like that Lancer over there."
"Alright then, you hold tight, and I will be right back."
"Hey Lady, where are you going?"
When she comes back, she throws a set of keys at me. "Think fast."
"I’m really just looking."
"You’re a grown up, it’s OK to look with your hands. Start her up!"
Doesn’t seem like I have a choice about it.
"Now give it a good revving."
I do as I’m told.
"So why don’t we hit the block, see what this bad boy can do?"
"OK . . ." My heart pounds, and my palms sweat. But I’m bound and gagged by a tepid fear of social missteps and a lifelong inability to assert myself. That is what my shrink would say anyway.
What good is therapy when you already know what they will say? Might as well save your money!
Wait, what? Who was that? Where did that voice come from?
"Wow, you drive like an old man!"
"Just being cautious."
"Pssschaa. Here, pull over."
Is she kicking me out?
I should be so lucky. "Trade spots with me." I get out, go around to the other side while she climbs over the center console into the driver’s seat. She revs the engine. The tires squeal. We take off fishtailing. I grab the seat, and my knuckles turn white. My heart churns and quivers in my stomach. "See! This is how you test-drive a car! You gotta open her up, see what she can do!"
She swerves in and out of traffic only inches from other cars, and I fight back tears. I don’t want to die today! I’m too young! I have too much to live for!
"I mean, how are you gonna know if she’s the one for you if you never test her limits?"
The car in front of us stops short, and she swerves into the left lane without even a glance in the mirror or at her blind spot.
"Oh shit!"
"Hmmm, what was that?" she asks undeterred.
"I . . . I . . . I . . . I was just looking. I really don’t want to see what she can do."
Her laugh is scary like a mad scientist, comic book evil genius. "What do you mean? C’mon, live a little!"
I want to tell this crazy bitch that is the whole point. I want to live!
She cuts between two buses and then swerves into the bike lane to pass a Prius on the right. "I always wanted to do that!" she screams and throws her head back to chortle again.
We pull up to a red light. This is my chance to survive! I unbuckle with my left hand, reach for the door handle with my right. It’s locked. I push unlock, and the switch clicks over loud.
"Hey, what are you doing?" She locks the door again before I can open it and speeds through the intersection against the red light. Cars fly in front of us and behind. Bare misses. Horns blare and cars swerve out of the way. "We’re not done yet; you don’t get to leave." She sounds mad.
I try to sound tough and demand she let me out. Tears well up in my eyes instead.
"Oh, lighten up," she mocks. "We’re having so much fun! Besides, I can’t take this car back to the lot without the test-driver, so you’re stuck with me, dude."
"Then take me back!" I yell.
Now all of a sudden she looks hurt, sad, in despair. "I’m not a very good saleswoman, am I?" And now she’s wailing, and tears are erupting down her cheeks, and it grabs hold of me and twists that special spot in every man that writhes at the sight of a crying woman. My stomach is sick, and I am terrified of her at the same time that her tears silence and immobilize me.
"Please, just take me back now," I plead.
She snuffs back some tears but doesn’t say anything.
Next light, there are plenty of cars all around us. Nowhere for her to go. This time, it all goes smoother. I press unlock and throw the door open before she can lock it on me again. She calls after me, "Come back!" I book it through a parking lot without looking back.
3
(Rose) Damn it, damn it, damn it! I’m going to be in so much trouble! I’ve got to think up a story. Something good. Something believable. Um, he got sick, and I had to drop him off at home? His wife went into labor, and he got out at the hospital? He went crazy, so I had to wrestle him out of the car? Ooh, that last one sounds good!
I race back to the lot eager to tell my story. The tires on the Lancer squeal like a baby pig when they hit the corner. Mr. Tweed’s waiting in the parking lot, and he waves his arms as soon as soon as he sees me. Wow, he’s sure waving his arms fast! He must be excited to see me! But then as I’m getting closer to him, he starts to look afraid. He jumps up and down and flaps his arms even harder. Is he trying to fly? I roll down my window and yell, "That doesn't work!" I should know. I’ve tried.
I feel like a cat. A big, powerful, predatory cat. And he’s a mouse. Small, feeble, food. Chicken! So instead of the brake, I hit the gas and hug the steering wheel. And he just stops. Stops jumping and stops waving his arms. He looks really scared, like he doesn't think I’m going to swerve in time. The car chews up the hundred yards between us in less than a breath. There’s still panic on his face even when I jerk the wheel to the left. In the rearview mirror, I watch his yellow leisure suit and his toupee follow the drag of the car. The latter comes to rest sideways on the back of his head. He’s red and sweaty as I make a U-turn between the lines of cars and head back in his direction. But he doesn't wait for me to catch back up with him so we can talk about it. No, he sprints to the showroom as fast as his pudgy little legs will take hi
m. I missed him by at least two feet. I don’t know why he’s overreacting like this.
Mr. Tweed keeps looking back over his shoulder as if he actually thinks he's getting away. I speed up a little to catch up then slow to a snail’s pace just before the car runs him over.
4
(Mr. Tweed) Oh dear Lord, I am going to die! I am going to die today! She barely stops the car in time, just barely! And then she laughs this crazy, maniacal laugh before she revs the engine again. The tires squeal, and the bumper nudges me from behind. It sends me tumbling a few feet. I land on all fours. Maybe I should lie down and play dead.
5
(Rose) Ah, come on Mr. Tweed! We’re just getting started! Don’t spoil the fun already! Geez, what is with these guys?
I give him another tiny nudge. Just a little one.
6
(Mr. Tweed) Oh! Ow! Oh that was a rib! That was definitely a rib. I heard it snap.
Wait . . . what? Is she leaving? Oh, thank God!
7
(Rose) I squeal out onto the street and circle around the block towards the other entrance. Forty feels comfortable, so I keep it there around the first corner. The car skids a little, and the passenger door scratches up against a van parked on the street. Oops! Mr. Tweed won’t like that!
Back on the lot, I’m glad to see he never went back into the showroom. Instead, he’s watching me. Maybe he’s finally ready to have some fun! I speed towards him again. ‘Round I go until I reach him. When I swerve this time, I keep the wheel angled so that the car makes a tight circle around him. Again and again. And again. Mr. Tweed rolls up in a ball like a potato bug and doesn't move. After a few more laps, this cat gets pretty bored with its limp mouse and slows the car to a crawl.
Jane. Page 22