“Thanks, man.” Bethany reads the titles, “Wild Horses; Hazy Shade of—”
“That’s enough, just listen to it.”
She leans forward to slide it into the CD player. I stick my hand out to stop her. “No, not now.”
A family of tourists pedal a rented four-wheel surrey on the promenade past the Balinese Room. City workers unload orange trash barrels from a flatbed truck.
Bethany scratches at her black cherry nail polish, then notices the flakes on my leather seat and brushes them onto the floor. “Sorry, man.”
I tell her, “You grow up thinking friends and family are everything, and then you gradually realize there is no everything, no foundation of beliefs or support. It’s not in religion, friends, family or philosophy.”
She passively agrees with me, nodding her head, watching the slow moving traffic in front of us. “Can we go back to the bookstore now?”
A minivan stops at the curb. A boy scrambles out the side door to claim a strand of Mardi Gras beads in the street.
Bethany points to the Wendy’s parking lot. “Oh, man,” she says. “Turn in here. Those are my friends.” She runs over to a jeep overflowing with teenagers and climbs over the tailgate, squeezing in beside her friends. The crowded jeep slows as it passes. Bethany is standing up holding on to the roll-bar, smiling her crooked teeth. She calls out to me, “See ya! Wouldn’t wanna be-ya.”
. . .
In front of the bookstore, the bouncer from Whispers is guarding my boxes. “Told some peoples you’d be right back, Bookman. I was watchin’ after your things for you.”
“Thanks, Leon. Take the stereo and speakers.”
Leon easily gathers them all together in his strong arms. “Where you want ‘em, Bookman?”
“They’re yours. I’m giving them to you. And you can forget about the money you owe me.”
Leon’s big face folds into a grin. “You a good man, Bookman.”
As he’s carting off his new possessions, the roped muscles in Leon’s back twist against his thin shirt. He’s built like Jack Johnson, the boxer. Jack Johnson grew up in Galveston, fought in battle royals by the docks and went on to become the first black heavyweight champion of the world. A battle royal had four or more black men who’d step into a ring and fight blindfolded until only one man was left standing. That one man was always Jack Johnson.
Thirty minutes later, Eddie, a guy who does odd jobs for beer money, crosses the street and says, “Mr. Mitch, Leon said you’re giving things away. Is that true?”
“Eddie, remember all those times you bummed money from me? Now it’s my turn, I need a couple dollars for cigarettes.”
“Mitch,” he laughs, “if you’re practicing, you should say you need the money for food, not smokes.”
“Eddie! This is not a joke.”
He turns his loose pockets inside-out, shrugs and offers me a pack of GPCs.
“That’s good enough, keep the cigarettes. Everything out here is yours.”
“You have got to be shitting me,” he says.
“No, Eddie. I shit you not.”
. . .
After dark I park my car in front of the bookstore. A trolley car rumbles along the track on its way to the seawall. I never rode the trolley, not once in all these years. A flatbed truck loaded with blue portable toilets backs into the alley beside the Kon Tiki. Workers unload toilets and line them against a brick wall for the hordes of tourists who’ll invade downtown Galveston tomorrow morning. I pack my car with books, pots, pans, a teak wood chair from Belize and a bag of clothes.
Upstairs, I sip vodka with a splash of cranberry juice. My loft is empty except for an air mattress, television, bicycle and telephone. When I was restoring this building, sanding cypress floors, chipping plaster off brick walls, I hated it, the building. It was against me, resisting every improvement I tried to make. But now, as I look around at brick arches, large ornate windows, all the finished work, my work, I’m almost proud.
Lying on a sleeping bag, I smell marijuana smoke wafting through a raised window into my loft. The homos must be smoking herb in the courtyard behind Kon Tiki. I can hear them talking, gossiping and laughing. At midnight the Kon Tiki will crank up Friday night dance music. If I wanted to, I could lean out my window and watch the queers in the courtyard getting high, sucking each other off. I wish I was high.
My first night in Galveston I parked on the beach and slept in my truck. The weather was perfect, the roll of the waves relaxing. At midnight I could see a small campfire beyond the sand dunes, lights from oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, and stars through the angle of the windshield.
I should call Allison. She may not know I’m leaving— Yeah, somebody probably told her. Maybe she’ll call and try to talk me into staying. If she wants me to stay, I’ll stay.
. . .
It’s Saturday morning. The city’s preparing for the first official day of Mardi Gras. I’m tired of Mardi Gras. I’m shoving a large television set into the back seat of my car. On the other side of a temporary fence, vendors are setting up their food stands getting ready for the celebration.
Curtis leans against a planter box sipping a double latté from Rockin’ Java’s.
“You moving?” he asks. “I heard something about it.”
“Yep.”
“Where’ya going?”
“Anywhere but here,” I tell him.
“Hey listen, I’ve been meaning to call, ask if everything’s copacetic. We haven’t seen you in O’Malley’s since the end of summer.”
“I was there Thanksgiving night till it closed.”
“Taylor came up with one of his theories. He thinks you stopped going out because you pissed off all the women around here—discarded them, I think is what he said.”
“That’s it Curtis, they all hate me.”
“What about that Allie chick?”
The car isn’t anywhere close to being full but it’s packed all wrong.
“What’d you tell her?” he asks.
Without rearranging, there’s no room for my bike. “I told her I’m leaving and there’s nothing she can do about it.”
Curtis places his latté on the edge of the planter box and rubs his neck. He stands up, stretches his arms and brushes off his pants. “Hope everything works out, my friend. Come tell us bye before you leave.”
“Bye.”
I shove my bike against the planter box for whoever wants it. A teenager, running with a can of silly string, nearly crashes into me. He’s chasing his girlfriend around my car trying to spray her. A group of Mardi Gras revelers, dressed in shiny costumes, sneak past the barricades without paying. In the corner building, there’s a lady wearing a yellow feather mask leaning out the second story window tossing beads to people laughing in the street.
. . . . .
Still in Texas
Jack is thirty-seven: It’s the last baseball game of the regular season. If the Gators win, they’ll go to the playoffs; if they lose, there’s always next year. But no one is talking about next year, and Jack’s plan is about to fall apart.
It’s a late afternoon game, the sun shining, the player’s shadows elongated on the grass field. Standing on the pitcher’s mound, Mitch scans the crowd looking for his father. He wants to see if his father is drunk.
Jack rises in the bleachers and lifts his arm like he’s throwing a pitch. He extends his arm forward and then back, trying to remind his son to follow through. Follow through, he says to himself.
Mitch pretends not to see him.
Jack leans across the woman to his right forcing the attention of the man sitting beside her. “That’s my boy out there.”
“I’ve seen him pitch before,” the man says. “Good arm.”
“I taught him everything he knows.”
Mitch strikes out three batters in a row.
Looking around for someone to talk to, Jack again leans across the woman’s space to get the stranger’s attention. The man ignores him, looking off i
n a different direction.
Another inning is played, another good performance from Mitch. This time, when the Gators jog off the field, Jack is waiting at the dugout entrance. Mitch tries to slip past him, ducking, twisting to the side. Jack clenches his jersey. “Number five is crowding the plate on you. Don’t let anyone take away your strike zone.”
At the top of the final inning, Jack is inside the dugout passing out handfuls of bubblegum trying to get the boys fired up. Coach Stevens, frustrated by this disruption, studies the batting order on his clipboard. “Trapper, you’re up third, Mitch, fourth.”
Jack calls Trapper over and tells him, “A homerun is worth five dollars.” Then Jack addresses the entire team. “That goes for each of you. Whoever hits a homerun today gets five bucks.” The kids get excited, exchanging high-fives, chewing large wads of bubblegum spitting in the dirt.
The pitcher strikes out the Gators’ first two batters. Unafraid, Trapper strides up to the plate and rubs his hands together while glaring at the pitcher. Mitch is on deck practicing his swing. The score is six to five, Gators down by one.
Jack climbs the bleachers to look for a weak spot in the outfield, then jostles down the steps, bumping into people, using their passing shoulders to balance himself. At the chain-link fence, he grips the links, holding on to secure himself opposite his son. “The right fielder’s got his head up his ass. Hey, are you listening to me?”
Mitch walks away.
Following beside the fence, obstructing the crowd’s view, Jack tells him, “Step forward with your left foot when you swing.”
Mitch turns his back and drops down to one knee pretending to tighten his shoelaces. Trapper hits the ball past the shortstop, runs through first base and slides into second. In the bleachers, Gator fans jump to their feet applauding. In the Gator’s dugout, the kids are clapping and whistling. Coach Stevens waves his cap and gives Trapper a thumbs-up. Trapper has a big grin on his face. He brushes off his uniform and pulls up his socks before shaking sand out of his bushy hair. He points to Mitch and points to right field, but Mitch isn’t thinking about homeruns. He’s thinking about quitting.
“Keep your eyes on the ball!” Jack shouts.
At home plate, standing in the batter’s box, Mitch is losing focus and allows the first pitch to slip by.
Jack yells, “Swing at the damn ball!”
To Mitch, his father is somewhere far away, yelling at someone else, and Mitch is through swinging—through with baseball.
A second pitch may have been thrown, and after that a third, a fourth. The umpire may have said strike two, and Coach Stevens may have thrown his clipboard into the dirt, but Mitch isn’t really sure. He is no longer a part of this.
Neither is Jack. He’s leaning into the fence, his forehead resting against his arm. My God, what happened to him?
Another pitch is thrown, the last pitch, slow and perfect. Mitch doesn’t watch the ball, or swing the bat, or move a muscle until the umpire tugs on his sleeve. “That’s three strikes, son. This game is over.”
. . .
Driving north on Highway 6, I have a gallon jug of spring water on the floor, a map of Texas on the seat, and a box of protein bars to keep my blood sugar balanced. In about an hour I’ll reach Interstate 10 and have to decide which way to go, east or west. On my right is a fishing camp with a shrimp net stretched between two trees drying in the sunlight. Further up is a bait stand with crab traps stacked near the water. She could have at least called and said goodbye, so-long, something. She must have known I was leaving. Damn, that girl pisses me off!
At the next stoplight, I wheel into a corner drugstore, march inside and tell the elderly woman I need a postcard. “Doesn’t matter what’s on it,” I tell her.
She leads me past tanning lotions and flip-flops to a postcard stand. “We have sunsets, dolphins, and flowers. Here’s a nice picture of the roses at Moody Gardens.”
I’m thinking, screw Moody Gardens, and screw Galveston Island. “No. You’re not listening to me,” I tell the woman. “The picture doesn’t matter.”
“Then you may be interested in these discount cards.” She gently smiles and removes a postcard from a rotating display. “All of these are two for a dollar.”
The woman is being patient and friendly, and now I feel bad for being rude. Relaxing the tone of my voice, I thank her and explain the situation, “Thank you ma’am for your suggestions, but I won’t need two postcards. What I’m doing is writing a farewell note to a young lady in Galveston, and after this, I’m done with her.”
Another thing Allie could have done, much sooner than she did, was tell me it was over. She also could have told me about Josh, her newest pigeon, although by now the tramp may have already dumped him. Welcome to the club, Josh.
Sitting in the front seat of my car, I write:
Dear Allie, Galveston is in my rearview mirror, his-tor-eee. I hit the road and didn’t have time to call (you know how it is). btw, you did know my last letter was a joke, right? There is no Allie Fisher Fan Club, no meetings, no legions of trampled hearts. I made it all up. So you see, you didn’t destroy anyone. Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. No one loves you.
In Houston I mail the postcard and try to relax, forget about Allison and choose a direction. Going east means Ft. Walton, Florida, white sand beaches and the Bluefish Motel, if it’s still there. Going west means New Mexico or Nevada, maybe Arizona or California, somewhere with deserts, mountains, and open spaces where options can be explored . . . A radio station is playing smooth jazz. A peanut butter protein bar tastes good and goes down easily with a sip of spring water from my jug.
Driving west of San Antonio, I slowly cross a steel trestle bridge with gray water deep below. A fisherman has driven his jeep down the embankment and is standing on a sandbar casting his line into rushing water. At the foot of the bridge is a large magnolia tree, like the one at my grandmother’s camp in Palm City. When I was a kid, I used to climb that tree like a fearless monkey, never considering that I might fall.
The passing scenery is nothing special until the afternoon sun highlights two whitetail deer prancing on a hill of their own. As peaceful as they are, it makes no sense to me why someone who isn’t hungry would shoot one. It’s not like Allison was perfect. There were things I would have changed, like her fascination with prostitution. She had books about the subject in her apartment: Sex for Fun and Profit, Working from Home and others. Maybe she wanted me to pay her?
. . .
The next morning I’m lingering in bed while housekeeping knocks on the door for the third time. The woman is relentless, banging on my door every half hour. Lady, I’m stuck, virtually immobilized. Is that too complex for you to understand? “I’ll be out in one hour!” I yell to her.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, I finally leave the room, swig water from my jug and drive for an hour before exiting the interstate at a Scenic Highway sign. At some point I’ll have to make a decision about where to live and where to get a job, but for now I’m free to drive wherever I want.
The road curves north then glides west into a green valley. A clear spring with rocks and cypress trees follows the curve of the highway. Listening to AM radio, I pass the time eating sunflower seeds, spitting in a plastic cup, combing the countryside for more whitetail deer. Late in the afternoon the road narrows over a wooden bridge, crosses railroad tracks, and straightens out on a high plateau. On the horizon, the sun is setting, the weather turning bad as a cold front advances south. I bite into a rotten sunflower seed, gag and spit everything out the window.
It’s hard to believe Allison was a lifeguard for two summers and actually saved people. Miles ahead, dark clouds are billowing over the landscape, tumbling in my direction. Cold air has penetrated my car and a dark mood has settled over me. It feels like my blood sugar is dropping, anxiety ramping higher, so I pull into a Dairy Queen expecting a hamburger to solve the problem.
Hunkered in a booth, my stomach is balling up, my hand
s not working right. This is different, more serious than a low blood sugar jag. Off balance is how I feel, strange and nervous, on edge and sweating. I reach for a napkin to wipe my face. I concentrate on the food in front of me, pretending it looks healthful and nourishing. It doesn’t help, the pretending I mean. I can’t eat this. My stomach is shrinking in on itself, collapsing and souring. The problem is in my throat too, I can’t swallow. Holding a cup of ice tea to my lips, I scan the restaurant to see if anyone is watching me. No, the other customers are all acting normal, moving at a relaxed normal pace as if nothing is wrong. Something is wrong though.
My movements are off, insecure, happening at the wrong time. A lady places her baby in a highchair and empties a bag of french fries on the tray. Squeezing my drink too tight, it spills in my lap. The cold liquid straightens my spine. With a handful of napkins, I blot tea from my pants and again scan the restaurant to see if anyone is watching.
After placing my burger in a trashcan, I try to remain calm while approaching the guy at the counter. “Hello, how are you? I would like to order a DQ basket, please.”
Returning to the booth, I concentrate on appearing relaxed and normal, focusing on my hands to make sure they don’t move too fast or move too slow, as I dip a fried steak finger into cream gravy. Outside, it’s getting dark. Plastic is what this tastes like, imitation food. Chewing, unable to swallow, I ask God to relax my throat. When that doesn’t work, I spit the food in a napkin and flee to my car, locking myself inside.
Patrick Bertrand lives in Fort Stockton, a hundred and thirty-five miles away. A friend from high school, he’ll know what to do— At least I hope he does. Hours elapse into night as grass hills flatten into dry desert. My headlights illuminate sand dust blowing across the interstate like tiny stars looking for somewhere to go.
Leaving Allison Page 13