Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  I spent my first day in Missoula unpacking boxes, sniffling through a cold, and drinking vodka. God I missed cocaine. The thought of not snorting a line for five years was almost more than I could bear.

  In the evening I ordered sushi and watched Netflix. I tried to get my mind off money by watching porn before going to bed, but it was a depressing reminder of what used to be. An echoing ex. I had been reduced to a spectator. A professional athlete forced into early retirement by nothing more than bad luck.

  Emptiness filled me. Tears rolled down my cheeks as if loneliness was literally draining me. How did it come to this? Never before had I been more aware of what joy and comfort wealth brought me. It’s like when an air conditioner turns off, and you realize you’ve been listening to it all along, but never noticed, and the sudden silence pronounces its sound more noticeably than its own existence ever did. I was a clam without its pearl. I couldn’t think about anything else. Everything reminded me of wealth. My comforter, of the times I slept on strewn cash. My leather jacket, of how rolls of cash used to feel in the pockets. My Lotus, of what it used to feel like to buy exotic cars in cash. I scrolled through my phone looking at pictures of us together. Me with power. Power with me. We had our ups and downs, but for the most part we were the perfect pair. Worst of all was seeing affluence with other people. My Instagram and Facebook were full of people I used to call friends hanging out on yachts and driving Italian sports cars.

  I knew I couldn’t give up on wealth, but I couldn’t think of how to repair things. I tried my best to make things work, but forces beyond my control were always pulling us apart. I gave up everything and everybody for wealth. Now what?

  I kept at the vodka until sleep subdued my pain.

  12

  Californians don’t own snow shovels. There’s no need for such a wretched tool. So, when I woke up to my first morning in Montana and saw a foot of snow had fallen through the night, with more still falling, my day’s mission became clear: survive. To do so, I would need to get into town and buy equipment and supplies. If I was going to make it through a winter in Missoula, I needed a snow shovel, road salt, winter clothing, and snow tires—or a snow car. Something four-wheel drive.

  After several cups of coffee and a couple cigarettes, I put on two pairs of pants, my leather jacket, my Dodgers hat, and my leather driving gloves. I went to my garage to see what I could use to clear my driveway. My Lotus sits low, and although our road looks well-plowed, I wouldn’t make it there unless I could clear a path in my driveway. A push broom was the best I could manage. I opened the garage door and a three-foot wind drift fell into my garage floor. Sweeping sort of worked for the snow that fell into the garage, but the broom was no match for the hundreds of square feet of knee deep snow blanketing my driveway. Resigned to die in my socked in sepulcher, I closed the garage door and changed into sweats.

  Then I heard the rumble of a snow blower. Out my front window I watched my neighbor clear his driveway and the sidewalk in front of his house. His snow blower was a massive orange machine that easily munched through the snow. When he was done clearing his property, he pushed his snow blower down the sidewalk in front of my house and began blowing the snow off of my driveway. A complete stranger, and he was clearing my driveway. Who is this guy? Does he want my money? He even cleared my front walk. Pulled out a little snow shovel and removed the snow right up to my front door.

  Before he finished, I brewed him a cup of coffee and took it out to him. His back was turned when I approached, and he apparently couldn’t hear my shouts over the roar of the snow blower. I patted him on the shoulder. He gave such a start that he startled me. Some of the coffee spilled over the edge of the cup and scolded my hand. I dropped the mug. The mug fell to my freshly cleared driveway and shattered. Coffee splashed all over my neighbor’s leg and nice orange snow blower.

  When he turned off the snow blower I could hear him laughing underneath his ski mask. He pulled off the mask and said, “Quite the way to say hello!” He was a handsome man, maybe 45 years old. Bald with gray stubble around his square jaw line. Like Mr. Clean if he didn’t shave for the weekend.

  “Ah, God dammit,” I said, “I’m so sorry. What do I owe you?”

  “Ha! Whad’ya owe me? How ‘bout a new cup a coffee?”

  “Oh yeah, of course, I’ll be right back. Just give me sec.”

  “Oh come on now, I’m just givin’ ya a hard time. It was my fault. No need to brew another cup. My name’s Kevin.” He pulled off one of his gloves and extended his hand. His hand shake is exactly what you’d expect for a gruff Montana Mr. Clean: a vice grip with a single jarring whip of the arm.

  “Very nice to meet you Kevin, and thanks a lot for clearing my driveway. I’m Caish.”

  “What’s that? Quiche?”

  “Caish, like cake but with an sh. Caish.”

  “Oooh, Citsch. Okay. Well that’s quite a unique name. How’d your parents come up with that one?”

  “To tell you the truth I have no idea,” I said. “Been getting that question my entire life. Probably time I found the answer.”

  “I’d say,” Kevin said, “well, welcome to the neighborhood Citsch. Where ya comin’ from?”

  “Malibu.”

  “Oh wow, okay. Big timer eh? Good f’r you. This your first time in Missoula?”

  “I lived here a while back, but it’s been quite some time.”

  “Okay, yeah? Well good. Welcome back then. Like I said, my name’s Kevin, Kevin Grier, and me and my wife MaryAnn are your neighbors here to the west.” Kevin flattened his arm and pointed down the street toward his house, then shifted and pointed the other direction. “To your east is the Black family, and—”

  “The black family? What?”

  “Yeah, Blacks, fine folks. You know ‘em?”

  “No. But Jesus. Just seems kind of racist to introduce a family based on their skin color.”

  “Haha!” Kevin almost keeled over in laughter. “No, no, Citsch. The Black family. As in, Mr. and Ms. Black. Black is their last name.”

  “Oh. Dammit. Sorry about that.”

  “Haha,” Kevin continued, “ya shoulda seen your face Citsch. Ha, thinkin’ I was some damn racist. Thinkin’ ‘ol Kevin was some Klansman. Haha. Anyway, beyond the Blacks are the Woods. Also a very nice family. Oh and I should mention that no, Citsch, they are not a family made of wood. They are a family with a last name Wood. Hahaha.”

  “Haha, okay yeah yeah,” I said, “the Griers, the Blacks, and the Woods. Very good.”

  “And what is your last name?”

  “Calloway. Caish Calloway.”

  “And did ya bring another Calloway with ya, or is it just you usin’ up all that house?”

  “Nope. Just me.” No money, no spouse, no lover, no kids, no friends.

  “Well that’s just fine,” Kevin said as he patted me on the shoulder like a father would when he told his child that dogs go to heaven too. “Missoula’s a big town, I’m sure we’ll find ya somebody.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, really. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I was not about to have this conversation with Kevin. “So, Kevin, any recommendations on where I can get me some winter gear?” I probably knew this town better than him, but it was something to say.

  “Sure! Yeah, ‘course,” Kevin said. “You got Google Maps on your phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. Put in Grier’s Hardware. That’s g-r-i-e-r. Grier’s is great because we can relate.”

  “Oh, very cool. You have your own hardware store?”

  “You betcha,” Kevin said, “finest shop in town. We’ll even give ya a new resident discount.”

  “Oh no need for that, but I will definitely go stock up at Grier’s.”

  “You need a ride? I saw ya pull in yesterday in a little sports car that doesn’t look too fit to brave these here elements.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I should be fine. I’d hate to interrupt your day any more than I already have. Plu
s, looks like the Blacks need their driveway cleared, and I’ve heard blacks aren’t good at that type of thing.”

  Kevin gave me what was obviously a courtesy grin, then said, “Now Citsch, I don’t care what your race is, we don’t wanna be makin’ those types a jokes.”

  “Well, no. I wasn’t being racist, it’s just what we were saying. Ya know, how I got it mixed up.”

  “Right,” Kevin said, putting his glove back on, and reassured me with a smile. “I’m just sayin’ for future instances. Anyhow, sure I can’t talk ya into a ride?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks for the offer. I’ll get a more snow-appropriate car while I’m out runnin’ errands. I don’t suppose Grier’s Hardware sells 4x4 trucks do they?”

  “‘Fraid not, but Albert’s Automotive, which is just down the street from Grier’s, has got the finest selection in town. I’d recommend stoppin’ in there. Plus, they won’t be givin’ ya hassels about your credit, if that’s somethin’ you’re worried about.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. But now that he mentioned it, my credit score had probably taken quite a beating in the past few years. “You’ve been a big help this morning Kevin, thanks a lot.”

  “Afternoon, you mean?”

  “Oh, uh, I guess I’m not sure.”

  “Yeah, it’s a couple hours past noon.” Kevin put his ski mask back on. “Okay Citsch, pleasure meetin’ ya. Tell the cashier at Grier’s you’re to receive twenty percent off your total purchase, courtesy of your new neighbor, Mr. Grier.”

  “Kind of you, thanks!” I said.

  Kevin started up his snow blower and began blowing the snow off of the sidewalk leading up the street toward the Black’s.

  The Lotus didn’t do well in the snow. Most rear-wheel drive cars struggle in the snow, but the Lotus seemed particularly ill-suited for the task. I had to get into town today and buy supplies; there was no telling how long this snow would keep falling, and the roads usually stay bad days after a storm passes. Plus, I’m not a procrastinator. The time to handle business is now.

  The roads had been plowed, but they were still icy with a fresh frosting of snow. The Lotus’s back end teased disaster with slips and shifts to the side anytime I pressed the gas or brake. I hadn’t driven in snow in over a decade, but I was an excellent driver, so I was confident despite the conditions. Then, while I was making a right turn in the middle of town, the back end of the Lotus glided up around to the left and pulled the car into the opposite lane of traffic. Absolutely nothing I could do about it. I slammed on the brakes, but the car had become a granite stone sliding across a sheet of ice. The only thing missing was a curling team to sweep in front of where my car was heading. A truck in the opposite lane, driving too fast for conditions, couldn’t stop in time and rammed into the driver’s side rear of my Lotus. The collision tore off the rear bumper and dented up the driver’s side of the car. The driver of the truck denied being at fault (of course). The police showed up and filed their report and we exchanged insurance information. The Lotus was still drivable, so I pressed on to Albert’s Automotive.

  As soon as I pulled into Albert’s I knew what I would be buying. There was a late-model Chevy Suburban that had been lifted and had huge knobby tires. It was painted a metallic silver with purple ghost flames—not corny flames, these were tasteful. Definitely a professional airbrushing job. The flames had skulls painted into them that you could only see at certain angles. The shadow work was incredible. The Suburban also had a push bar and steel bumpers, with a rail light and all sorts of custom work. Exactly what I needed to get through a winter in Montana. Albert’s agreed to take a trade-in for the Lotus, even though they don’t usually buy damaged vehicles. I got $20,000 toward the Suburban by trading that in. After my bargaining I got what was originally marked for sale at $89,999.99 down to $75,000 and only had to put down $20,000. When all was said and done, I only had $35,000 worth of payments with an interest-free first year. I basically got a $100,000 Suburban for $35,000. The whole process only took a couple hours. That’s how you hustle the system.

  I drove the Suburban off the lot and over to Grier’s Hardware. With four-wheel drive engaged it felt like I could tow a cattle trailer straight up an iceberg. Now I could drive at regular speeds despite the conditions.

  Grier’s Hardware was a small shop. It was a little white building with red accent paint and a sign that said, “Grier’s is Great Because We Can Relate!” There was a small mountain of snow on one side of the parking lot, apparently where they had been plowing the snow. I parked on top of it.

  I had made a list on my phone before I left: snow blower, snow pants, coat, beanie, gloves, snow boots, snow shovel, road salt, ice scraper, tire chains, and one of those kits you put in your car in case you slid off the road and got stranded in a storm. I probably didn’t need the chains or the kit anymore, but I figured better safe than sorry.

  The automatic doors slid open and a warm gust of lumber-scented wind welcomed me into Grier’s. The shop didn’t look any bigger inside than it did from the outside. There were only two cashiers, and they had their backs to me checking out patrons. Everybody had a vague familiarity about them. Missoula is a small town, and I knew it was only a matter of time until I heard, “Caish? Is that you?” and was pulled into a, “It’s been so long,” conversation. My stay in Montana was temporary, and I planned to keep a low profile. I pulled out a shopping cart and winded up and down the aisles.

  Kevin was right, Grier’s had everything I needed. They even had Sorel boots. They didn’t have any name brand winter clothing though, so I grabbed off-brand stuff to last me until I could find something nicer. Name brands are important. The clothing is built better and lasts longer. Not to mention it’s more stylish. I needed a Canada Goose parka. Not surprising that those aren’t for sale at Grier’s.

  When I pushed my cart up to the cashier, my heart began to wallop.

  Alex Rettig looked up at me from behind the cash register and, with a smile strained by ambivalence, said “Caish?”

  Alex and I had dated during high school and a couple years after. We were each other’s firsts. It was a complicated, messy relationship with ups of passionate sex and downs of torn up photos and drawn-out fights. When we were together it felt like we could conquer the world. Like we had discovered something that nobody else knew about. Everybody else thought they found love, but they had no idea. They had glowing charcoal, we had white-hot exploding jet fuel. In high school we skipped class together and snuck out every night. Alex’s parents caught wind and tried to “ground” Alex, but that only upped the ante and made it more exciting. We did everything there was to do in Montana, then started exploring America. Long road trips filled with Bob Dylan, Twizzlers, sex in divey motel rooms, and, when we could get it, weed. Nothing could stop us. The full wrath of poverty, pestilence, or parents couldn’t pull us apart. Come what may, our love would endure until the end of time.

  Until it didn’t. Alex had a habit of getting drunk at parties and hooking up with other people. The first couple times this happened, we wrote the instances off as drunken anomalies. On the third occasion, we had a fight that ended with Alex suggesting we try having an open relationship—which, at the time, I considered to be an absurd suggestion. A few months later we were back together, and the cycle repeated until I moved to California to embark upon the American Dream. We stayed in touch, but drifted apart when I married my ex. It got kind of painful there at the end. What’s the saying? No good relationship ends well, but a bad relationship’s end is better than its start? I can’t remember. Whatever the case, we once had something incredible.

  “Alex?” I replied.

  “Yeah. It’s me. Oh my God, Caish,” Alex walked out from behind the cashier station and gave me a hug that lit my fuse. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been great, how about—”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Los Angeles, remember, I moved down a few years back. How are you?”

>   “Good, I’m doin’ good. When did you—”

  “So what’s—oh sorry, go ahead.”

  “No, no you’re fine, go ahead,” Alex said.

  “Well, I was just going to ask what’s new?”

  “Oh, yeah, well, lots I guess. When did you get into town?”

  “Just last night. I bought a place over by Canyon River Golf Course,” I said.

  “Shut the fuck up. I live right next to that golf course. You know those apartments across the street from the clubhouse? That’s where I’m at.”

  “Holy shit, what are the chances?”

  “Haha, still sayin’ that huh? What are the chances?” Alex’s mouth did its best to restrain itself to a sociable smile, but the lips couldn’t help but flicker back, pulling the sociable smile into a much more excited and emotional expression. That was it. That was the signal. I was sure of it. Alex wanted to get with me.