She places the book back on the shelf. We sit on her couch and talk about Bobbie-Ann’s Bistro, the waiters and what a psycho jerk the chef is. We laugh about the time she told the chef to kiss her ass, then we pretty much run out of things to say. Her toes are curled around the edge of the coffee table. Her dog Spike is sleeping in the bathroom bored with our company. I’m sipping wine, ready to make a move. “So Kim, why aren’t you drinking?”
“I’ll have some later,” she says.
“It’s good. Not sixty-one Bordeaux good, but good. How’d you do last night with Mr. Grayson’s table?”
“Decent. Not multi-millionaire good, but good.”
I’m trying to think of something to say. “Lauren claims she went to Studio 54 in Manhattan.” Kim nods without responding. “Do you ever smoke herb in that Turkish water pipe, or is it just for decoration?”
“It works,” she says.
“You should see my apartment. There’s nothing in it except a couple Van Gogh prints, Prisoners and Potato Eaters.”
She rolls up her jeans, reclines on the couch and rests her legs across my lap. I play it cool like Bogart in Casablanca, lifting her leg, passing my hand across her smooth skin. Kim opens a peppermint candy, pops it in her mouth and crunches on it. “Works better like this,” she says.
“What works better?” I ask.
She kneels on the carpet and unzips my pants. Her head is bulldozed between my legs, her arm shoved against my chest. Slumped on the couch, I can’t get it up. “Kim, maybe if you take your clothes off.” I say and reach out to lift her shirt.
She backs away. “I’m not into getting touched,” she says.
After a couple minutes, I get an erection. Kim sucks on it while pressing her forearm against my chest, keeping us apart. There were no illustrations like this in her Kama Sutra.
She goes to the kitchen to spit in the sink, then comes back over with a pair of leather sandals. “You understand we can never do this again, don’t you?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I’m dating Bill.”
“Huh? Who is Bill?”
“Bill Nelson.”
“WHAT, you’re dating Mr. Nelson? He’s like fifty-years-old. If you’re dating him, why did we do this?”
“Because you juggled wine glasses for me,” she says and twists her feet into the sandals.
“That’s IT? Because I juggled for you?”
“Yep, that’s it.”
. . . . .
Running
Jack McAllister is thirty: He just mowed the lawn and now he’s in the backyard teaching his son to throw strikes, stop grounders and catch pop flies. “In sixteen years,” he says, “you’ll be playing for the Astos.” Mitch is five.
Tracy is in her bedroom doing homework at her desk. In the kitchen, Mrs. McAllister is preparing hamburger patties. She carries a tray of patties to the sliding glass door and uses her tray to tap the glass. Mitch slides it open. Jack tests the charcoals, holding his hand above his new barbecue grill before flopping down the patties. Tracy lifts her bedroom window and says, “Dad, don’t put cheese on mine. You always forget.”
After dinner Jack sits in his leather lounger, while Mitch stands ready in front of the console television. They play catch in the den, tossing a tennis ball back and forth. “Throw a high one!” Mitch calls out.
“Okay superstar, catch this one with your left hand— And keep your eyes on the ball!”
“Wait!” Mitch says. “What if I miss it? Then what am I?”
Jack rolls the tennis ball on his leg. “Hmm, let’s see . . . how about this. If you miss, you’re a triple turd hotdog.
“A triple! That’s too much.”
“Okay,” Jack says, “make it a double.”
. . .
While jogging to the city docks, I come to a few conclusions about what needs to be done right now, for me—forget about Kim—she’s a hopeless case. I call Continental Airlines and buy a round trip ticket to Las Vegas. Then I call the maître d’ to tell him what the deal is. “Mr. Nelson, I’m taking the weekend off.” . . . Pervert.
At five o’clock I say goodbye to Palm City, Louisiana, and drive to Houston Intercontinental Airport in a good mood expecting something favorable to happen. Kim—she made her decision. Now she’s only an insignificant memory, someone brushed aside. My father—he made decisions too. What can a person do about it? Nothing. You say goodbye to all that and move on. So I’m moving on.
. . .
Discarded cocktail glasses are everywhere along the Strip, on benches and curbs. They have free newspapers on street corners advertising beautiful escorts. I end up walking the Strip all night, lugging my duffel bag and playing blackjack in several casinos. The total damage? Not much, a hundred and fifteen dollars. It’s only a minor setback, a small wheel turning backwards inside a bigger wheel turning forward.
After eating breakfast at Caesars Palace, I go into the men’s room to brush my teeth and wash my face. Having a beer is what I feel like doing, so I find the bar, straddle a barstool and jam my duffel bag under my feet. “We have lockers,” the bartender says.
“I know.”
The first beer goes down easy and, since there isn’t anything else I feel like doing, I continue drinking. It turns out the bartender is illiterate. When I mention Travis McGee he has no idea who I’m talking about. “What about his boat, the Busted Flush?” Nope, he never heard of the boat either. So I relax at the bar and drink a lot of beer.
At some point I ask about Jay Gatsby. “Excuse me bartender, does the name Jay Gatsby ring a bell?”
“What about a Cape Cod?” the guy says. “What’s in it, genius?”
“Vodka, cranberry juice and a slice of lime,” I tell him.
“That’s one way to make it,” he says. “What about a rusty nail, quick, without thinking all day?”
I take a sip from my Heineken, no rush, I know this one too. “Rusty nail—scotch, sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters.”
He shakes his head. “Nope, that’s a Rob Roy.” He’s right, I missed that one.
Intoxicated and fatigued, I eventually haul my drunk ass off the stool, carry my bag to the casino’s front entrance and ask a cab driver to take me to a cheap motel. “Without driving to BFE,” I tell the guy, not wanting him to think he can take advantage of a tourist.
“Can’t do it my friend,” he says.
“Can’t do what?” I ask him. “You can’t give me a ride?”
“You have to go to the car in front,” he says.
I lug my bag to the head of the line, chunk it into the back seat and tell the driver, “LA. That’s Los Angeles, California, my man.”
“No, no, no!” he says, rushing around his car to remove my bag.
The guy is from India, wearing a long white shirt, jeans sticking out the bottom. “I’m only kidding about LA. It was a joke,” I explain and hop into the front seat. His name is Rajeed. His cab smells like jasmine incense. He has pink frills glued around the dash board, and hanging from the rearview mirror, a Hindu prayer card.
“Rajeed, let me ask you something personal. Do you mind if I ask something personal?”
“You may ask the question,” he says and clicks the meter on.
“Okay, I’ll ask the question since you said it’s okay. Have you read The Catcher in the Rye? I’ll tell you why I’m asking, but first, have you read it?”
“I have heard of it but not read it,” he says.
“No problem, I was going to suggest a motel like the one in the book, someplace dangerous, with a high murder rate.
“Rajeed, can I ask another question? This may be something you’re familiar with, so I’ll just say it, get it out in the open and see what you think.”
He nods his head and enters the traffic.
“Ok, here it is: When something bad happens, really kicks your ass, dick in the dirt and all—know what I’m saying? Anyway, when something like that happens, we have to accept it, right?”
> “Oh yes. That is quite true,” he says, cautiously eying the traffic in all directions.
“Thank you for answering my question, now tell me this. What happens to people when they walk away from everyone, or does it ever happen?”
“Oh yes. It happens not too often.”
“It happens not too often— Rajeed, is that what you said?”
He drops me off at a sleazy motel called the Edmont, nineteen dollars a day. In my room, I strip down to my boxers, click on the TV and sink into a worn out mattress. I should probably call Kim, see how she’s doing, but I don’t feel like it. Someone left a stinking ashtray full of cigarette butts in the bedside drawer. Lying here, smelling these stale cigarettes, the damn room begins to spin on me. Son-of-a-bitch, I’m drunk. I open my eyes to stop the spinning. There’s nothing on TV, so yeah, I call her:
“Bobbie-Ann’s Bistro. This is Bill Nelson.”
“Mr. Nelson, is Kim there?”
“Mitch?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Kim is working.”
“I just need to talk to her for a minute.”
Kim picks up the phone. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
“I know you’re busy but I was wondering if we could go out for a pizza or a movie, one day next week?”
“We already went over that. You don’t listen.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying as friends, just as friends. A big deal is no movie. I mean, a movie is no big deal.”
“My tables, remember? I’m at work.”
“What’s going on at the restaurant?”
“Lunch.”
“Is it busy?”
“I already said it’s busy, I have to go.”
“Could we at least talk for sixty seconds? Would that be so disruptive to your perfect little life?”
“Mitch, I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait, don’t hang up.”
. . .
There’s no lobby at the Edmont, only a walk-up counter outside. I ring the buzzer and a lady with charcoal eyebrows and wing shaped glasses slides the window open. “Hello ma’am. I’m considering an afternoon stroll in that direction and was wondering what your thoughts are?”
“Honeybunch, you don’t need to go that way, it’s dangerous.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but danger is exactly what I’m looking for.”
I hoof it down Fremont Street and glance back at her. She’s leaning out the window watching me. It doesn’t seem so bad, the neighborhood—trashy motels, liquor stores, whack shacks. The plan: bum around a few hours and survey the seedy side of Vegas.
Wandering down Fremont Street, I’m keeping an eye on everything, enjoying the afternoon. There’s a redheaded girl sitting on the curb outside a laundromat. She removes a napkin from her yellow purse and wipes off her shoes. She’s young, younger than me, and a little homely but not too homely. I ask, “You feel like getting a beer?”
She springs to her feet. “I love beer,” she says. “After that, do you wanna have date?”
“A date? I didn’t know you were working. I mean, are you working?”
She nervously adjusts her skirt, inspecting loose threads on her elastic waistband. “Figured that was why you was talkin’ to me.”
“No, that’s not why. But yeah, a date would be good.”
“Sometimes I get paid fifty dollars. You wouldn’t have to pay that much though, not if you don’t want too.”
“Fifty sounds fair.”
“Thanks, I could probably charge more but I wanna give everyone a good deal. My name’s Krystal. It’s like the imported glass from Paris, France, but with a K instead of a C.”
We shake hands. “I’m Mitch McAllister. Good to meet you, Krystal.”
She takes me to a small lounge across the street. It has a cement floor and dim lights. There’s a sign above the bar: Liquor up front, Poker in the rear. Krystal introduces me to Donna, the bartender. Donna is skinny, in her mid-forties and missing a front tooth. She wants to know where I’m staying, so I show her my key from the Edmont. Donna and Krystal have a powwow behind the bar, while I play Dylan on the jukebox. When Donna gives her nod of approval, Krystal comes over grinning, smacking on a large piece of gum.
“Follow me, okay? I have something to show you.”
She leads me through a narrow hallway into the women’s restroom. “I never showed it to nobody,” she says. A two-by-four props up the bathroom sink. There’s a rusted tampon dispenser hanging on the wall and, behind the toilet, a drawing of a tampon with an X through it. Krystal points at the wall. “See it?”
“What, the tampon?”
“No, SILLY, right there. My autograph. I wrote my name on the wall three weeks ago, my first night in the city of Las Vegas.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you were famous. Your name on a bathroom wall! Can I have your autograph? Can I touch your famous tits?”
Krystal turns toward the door and squeezes past me. I know I’ve gone too far, said the wrong thing. “Krystal, I’m sorry,” I call out to her.
At the payphone in the hallway, I sag against dirty sheetrock and check my pocket for quarters. I feel like an idiot. I hurt her feelings and will have to be extra nice to her now, but first, Kim needs to know about my father. I’ll start with the good things, like when I was eight, and Grady Myers ran up to the house to tell him I was stuck in the bayou, Dad waded through the mud to pull me out. Then I’ll tell her about the fall, and that when you start slipping, everyone abandons you. I abandoned him once, too.
Krystal steps around the corner. “You don’t have to apologize,” she says and takes my hand.
“I need to apologize,” I say to her. “It was my fault.”
Krystal shrugs, “No biggie,” and buys two draft beers and two tequila shots from Donna. “Can I tell you a joke?” she asks.
“Sure, tell me a joke.”
“Ok, but if you’ve heard it before, you have to make me stop.” She sticks her gum under the counter and tries to remember the joke. “I got it now. A Chinese walks into a bar with a pet monkey. He brags to the bartender that his monkey will suck a man’s thing after you hit him in the head. Then the Chinese says, ‘Watch this, bartender.’ He unzips his pants and slams a beer can into the monkey’s skull. After the monkey sucks his thing, the Chinese asks the bartender if he’d like to try it.”
Krystal starts laughing as if the joke is over, so I start laughing too because her joke doesn’t make sense. “Is that it?” I ask. “Is that the end of the joke?”
“No, hold up, I forgot the punch line. O, man I’m such an idiot! Wait, here it is. The bartender says to the Chinese, ‘Ok, sir, I’ll try it but don’t hit me so hard with the can.’
“You get it, Mitch? Is it funny?”
“Yeah, it’s very funny, but why is the guy Chinese?”
“He just is,” she says.
I balance a beer coaster on top of her tequila shot and lay a quarter on the bar. “Check this out. I’ll bet you a quarter I can drink your shot of tequila without touching the coaster.”
“It’s a trick,” Krystal says. “You’ll blow on it or move it with something, like a straw or something.”
“Nope, I won’t move it, touch it, or poke a hole through it.”
“That’s what you’ll do! Poke a hole through it.”
“No, I’m saying I WON’T poke a hole through it.”
Krystal gets excited and spins on the barstool, her red hair covering her face. “Wait up,” she says, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Tell me everything one more time— O, man, I’ve got a good one after this. I can suck a cigarette up my nose.”
After explaining again, she agrees to the bet, so I remove the coaster from her shot glass and drink her tequila. “I lose. Here’s your quarter.”
She starts laughing and jerking and almost topples over. I slide my tequila in front of her. “Here, you can have mine.”
She gul
ps it all at once, gets bug-eyed, freezes and slumps onto my lap.
“I’m dead,” she moans. “I’m a real goner. Kiss my cheek if you wanna bring me back to life.”
“Do what?”
“My cheek, you have to kiss my cheek.”
I gently lift her head from my lap and give her a kiss. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
When the pool table opens, I demonstrate my world famous trick shot, three-with-one, but my cue ball misses everything, flies off the table and stops under an old man’s bar stool. He leans to the side to look down at it. Embarrassed, I rush over to pick it up, lose my balance, and bump my face into his ass.
We hang out for a while, listening to music, telling jokes and shooting pool. Krystal whispers in my ear, “What did it smell like?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask her.
“You know, the old man’s butt. You smelled it!”
I chase her around the pool table, put her in a headlock and tell her it smelled like sweet magnolia blossoms. “Now, don’t ask any more personal questions.”
Before we head out she gives Donna a hug. On the way back to my motel, we walk past the laundromat. Krystal switches her yellow purse to her other shoulder and takes my hand. “Just think, Mitch, if we hadn’t been there at the same time you would never have found me and I would never have found you. We found each other in the same amount.”
“Yep, that’s true,” I say.
We stop at a liquor store to buy red wine and two plastic glasses. “This is for you,” I tell her and juggle the wine glasses.
Inside my room, Krystal undresses in front of the mirror and takes a shower. I’m sprawled on the bed exhausted from being awake thirty-six hours. In the shower, Krystal is singing Patsy Cline, “I’m crazy for feeling so lonely, crazy for feeling so blue . . .” She steps out, wraps a towel around her chest and asks if it’s time to open the wine. We don’t have a wine opener, so I shove my toothbrush into the cork then ram the cork into the bottle. “Where are you from?” I ask, pouring wine.
Leaving Allison Page 4