Debbie, that stupid cunt, Billy thinks while smoking in bed, he needs to let her have it.
The place stinks of urine on the sheets and rotten wood under the bed but none of it bothers him. The parting shot has to be a good one because after Debbie is dealt with he will hit the highway and won' t stop until he’ s well on the other side of the state line. There won' t be a second chance to fix a botched job. A gloomy end of day light filters through the dusty windows. The traffic noise from Colfax Avenue comes in strong but doesn' t bother him either. It is like being in his cell in Canon City, in perfect mental isolation despite the crowded halls and corridors and their rackets. Here or there, Billy thinks, what difference does it make? Here I' m free, but free to do what?
His mind goes back to Debbie. Divorcing his ass like that, what the hell was she thinking? Getting the divorce papers in jail via a messenger, and having his jail buddies laughing at him, about how his old lady must be screwing the whole neighborhood by now, giving head for free to anybody who dropped his pants in front of her face, that had pissed him off a great deal. He had ended in a fist fight and in solitary confinement. When he came out, nobody was laughing at his face, but he knew they were at his back. For better or for worse, those had been the preacher' s words at their alcohol propelled wedding but the little bitch had bailed out on him. Now it is payback time.
Billy chain smokes. Knife. Gun. Bare knuckles. Acid. Hit and run. Rape. Steel toe boots. One thing is for sure, he wants to hurt her but doesn' t want to kill her. Murder makes the unwieldy apparatus of justice shift its ponderous weight against the perpetrator but a good beating, even though it is a felony, at the end it' s just that, a good beating, quickly forgotten by an overloaded judicial system. He will be a person of interest, he even may become a suspect, but if he leaves no evidence and removes himself from sight for a prudent time, the cops can go fuck themselves. The stupid cunt will have to live with her mangled body and her anger and he will be laughing off somewhere.
As those signs on trail heads read, Leave no trace. Gun, rape, knife, bare knuckles, too messy, too lethal, DNA left behind; they won' t work. After a while Billy runs out of cigarettes so he gets up and leaves without bothering to luck the door. He returns hours later smelling of alcohol and with a baseball bat in his hand. He drops it on the floor next to his bed. From his jacket he pulls out a ski mask and drops it next to the bat. He takes his jacket and gloves off, drop son bed face down and in a couple of minutes his snores and farts fill his hiding hole.
Cliffhangers
Debbie packs cold sandwiches wrapped in cellophane into card board boxes. Her movements are automated, her body doing one thing and her mind being elsewhere: Ken, out of all people, had to show up in the middle of her crisis. She had almost pulled the gun on him. Only after he had identified himself she had seen the young Ken of years ago, hiding under the middle aged, hair receding, love handle equipped man standing in from of her. He had that look of stunned surprise, as if he had seen a long lost dog come home when it had been given for dead. She was sure she had had that same look on her face.
There had been awkwardness and confusion in her head, in her actions, a feeling akin to stepping out of her motel room and instead of landing on the expected soiled concrete breezeway, finding herself standing at the peak of Mount Everest looking at a world of snow and mountains under a deep blue sky. She didn' t know what to say or what to do. Ken didn' t seem too assured of himself either. He, Debbie had the feeling, was standing at his own unexpected summit, his toes hanging in the air past the solid edge of a shear cliff with his back to a cold mountain.
He had taken the plunge and had stepped forward, closer to her, and his arms had reached for her, and she had backed off like a released coiled spring, more out of instinct than out of her volition, and that step backward had frozen him in place, the smile on his face transformed in pure disappointment. Why had she done that? She can' t say. This Billy thing is making her behave like a scared rabbit, a rabbit with a gun. From their stand off positions they had talked to each other.
"Ken, is that you?" she had asked. "I can' t believe it."
"Yes, it' s me," had been his answer. Seconds that stretched like long minutes had gone by before the conversation had started again.
"How did you find me?"
"You catered an evening party and I was a guest. Pure coincidence."
The awkwardness wouldn' t go away. The silences grew longer. The whirling thoughts could not be reigned upon. It was time for a truce, a time to regroup and come back with more coherent words.
"Listen," said Debbie. "I' m late for work." She rummaged through her purse and on a piece of paper wrote down the name Night Owland its address; she stopped to think for a second, then added the bar' s phone number. She didn' t give her cell number to anybody, not even to Ken, or this guy who claimed to be Ken.
"Here is my night job place. Please stop by." Debbie was not sure for what, not at the moment. Now that she is stuffing boxes with cold sandwiches, she is glad that she gave Ken that piece of paper.
"Tonight?" said Ken.
"Sure."
That had been it. She ran back into the building and never looked back. She was afraid of stopping, looking back and then having her rubber legs collapse under her, exposing her emotional shocked state. She had learn not to show her weakness to others because that is where they pounce, eager to draw the most blood and pain.
As the morning grows old Debbie' s memories assault her mind. She doesn' t know if to smile or to be afraid. Questions pile inside her head like fish on a dock coming out of a big trawler, heap after heap, and no answers. Whys and hows and whats come and go and she has no clue what the answers are. At times she thinks that the parking lot meeting didn’ t' happen, that her head is playing tricks on her. He may not show up at the Night Owl, or he may loose that piece of paper, or he may die on his way to see her. Stupid thoughts she thinks, but they don' t go away; instead, they multiply.
She realizes that she had acted cold towards Ken, and that he had been taken aback by her standoffish stance but she had been caught unawares, and had reacted under the rule of the gun which now controlled her life: watch your back first, worry about others' feelings later. She knew it but he didn' t. Maybe he thought he got the cold shoulder and would never bother to try to see her again. If so, what the hell does she care? But she cares; she cannot fool herself. She cares, she wants to see him, wants his arms around her, just like in the beach, just like in their cheap motel rooms full of youth and indolence.
Who is she fooling? She was a whore, and this older Ken came back for more of the same, pussy for hire, came to see if she is still available for a few bucks. She slams sandwiches into the boxes. He probably has a fat wife at home and wants some side action.
Too much trouble, thinks Debbie; Ken is going through too much trouble to just get laid. Colfax is full of young pussy for hire, why her? Maybe he' s afraid of cops, of getting nabbed as a john. She doesn' t know. At times she slams sandwiches into the boxes and other times she has a blissful smile as if she were seeing the image of the Virgin Mary reflected on the walls, smiling back at her.
"Yo, Debbie," says Maria. She is standing next to Ana and both look at Debbie with curious faces.
"You don' t seem to be all there," says Maria tapping her head. "You' re too quiet. You' re giving us the creeps, you know."
"Sorry, I just ... I just have a few worries."
She is back in reality mode. She checks her surroundings, feels the gun under her shirt, its hardness, and reminds herself not to let her guard down. Ken or no Ken, she has to watch her back, always.
The Fool
What was I expecting to happen? Fireworks? Fiddles playing on the background? A big wet kiss and my fucking lousy life fixed for good and for ever? All I did was scare the hell out of her, moving on her like a big and clumsy clod expecting a warm embrace and she jumping away as if I were Frankenstein reincarnated. Instead of walking away happy I did it embar
rassed to death. I don' t know what I was thinking. After twenty years I' m nothing but a stranger, a fleshed memory, a memory that perhaps she wants to forget, that of a paying customer, that of a witness to the Atlanta incident, that of the jerk who left her standing alone on a Dallas sidewalk.
I look at the piece of paper she gave me, with its round and childish calligraphy. I drove by the place, just out of curiosity, and what a dump it is. One of those dives that cater to the local alcoholics and unemployed, to the spent and rat race dropouts. Well, what the hell had I expected? A damned yuppie bar in a fancy location with a parking lot full of Lexuses? That' s Debbie, a street creature, as gritty as dry coarse sand paper, and she feels at home among her people.
The day I left her standing on Dallas, I didn' t leave her because of her past, because of her capability to pull a trigger and empty a gun in a scum bag who was trying to kill me. I ran away from her addictions. A junkie is two people, the one you love and the one who tries to destroy both you and the person you love. It' s a deadly love triangle where the addicted persona has the upper hand. The only way out is to kill the addicted persona, and the one you love may not have the will to do it, and if she tries, it may cost her her life. I' m sorry, but that' s not living. I’ m too much of a coward and that day in Dallas I ran out on her. Regrets? I don’ t know; perhaps it was the right thing to do, but the what if question has never ceased bothering me.
That was over twenty years ago. Debbie is still alive and is holding two jobs that I know of. A junkie cannot last that long, cannot hold a job. Holding two, even if one is serving drunks at a dive, is beyond a junkie' s capability. She has to be clean, or maybe she has reached a compromise with her addicted side and somehow both manage to survive in the same body. That wouldn' t beyond Debbie because I have to admit, she is tough and she isn' t dumb.
I don' t know why I worry. She is not my problem and it is obvious that she doesn' t see me as anything other than a dolt who came out of nowhere to startle her. I drive my truck in circles. I stop at the gas station' s Taco Bell and sit on a booth until my butt feels the pain of supporting my fat head. The paper she gave me is getting dogeared. I ran my fingers over it as if I could feel her skin under my fingertips by doing so. I smell the paper and it smells like paper. Surprise. Still, I want to catch the smell of her hair, that smell mixed with salt and wind.
I' m a dupe. I' m not a kid anymore but here I' m, acting like a pussy whipped teenager, chasing after memories that no longer held up against reality, that never did. She is probably laughing at me now, or wondering how she can get rid of me. I think that I should head back home, but I don' t have a home. I have a house with a woman in it who is the mother of my son, but that is not home. If this thing is a joke, may as well see it to the end and maybe I can make sense of the punch line. I suspect the joke is going to be on me, but I don' t care.
She did gave me the paper, so maybe she does want to see me again, perhaps more out of curiosity than anything. Knowing Debbie, she would have told me to go to hell on the spot if she really didn’ t want to see my mug again. The more I think about these things, the more confused I get. I' m going back to the Springs to take care of my business. I will come back later tonight to stop by the Night Owl. Or maybe not. I truly don' t know what the fuck I' m doing.
Showdown at The Night Owl
Ken walks into the bar not knowing what to expect. His landscaping crew could blend with the rough looking patrons and he is not surprised at that. It is Debbie that worries him, that intrigues him. Is she going to give him the cold shoulder? Is she gonna have the bouncer kick his ass right back to the parking lot? Is she even here?That would be a good joke, give him this address and she doesn’ t working here. At least it is not a gay bar, from what he can see so far. That would have been a good one too.
The ambiance light come mostly from garish beer signs hung over all walls and the Rockolla that is now playing ZZ Top . There is no TV but plenty of smoke and subdued conversations and the occasional laugh. It has been a long time since Ken has been in such a place, too busy making a living to live a life he thought he had left decades ago.
She is behind the bar filling two mugs from the tap. Once done, she carries them to one end of the bar where two biker guys are sitting. They don' t look like accountants posing as bad ass bikers but are the real thing. Ken is sure they even smell bad, like rancid leather. So far so good; she wasn' t bullshitting him. Ken sits at the opposite end of the bar and watches as Debbie is talking with the bikers, getting their money and coming to the cash register. She sees him and her pretty smile flashes and Ken feels he' s melting on his stool. Damn, he thinks, that smile, he gets shivers up his spine. It is like he has regressed twenty years and ... his common sense tries to reign upon his memories. Don' t be such a fool, he tells himself. She' s just trying to be polite.
Her back is now to him because she is giving the bikers their change. Skinny she is, and her little ass looks firm. Perhaps there is more sag to her shoulders than he remembers, but everything, even her hair, looks the same. Ken' s member starts to swell in his pants and he is both embarrassed and incredulous at his physical response. That' s what he needs, he thinks as a sarcasm, his dick doing the talking for him. He is still wiggling on his stool when Debbie turns around and walks toward him.
"Hi there," she says. Ken can now see her smiling dimples.
"Hi Debbie." He smiles too, but he' s not sure if he is doing a good job of it.
"I was wondering if you were going to show up."
"And I was wondering if you were going to be here."
They look at each other, as if double checking that they were who they claimed to be.
"Anything to drink?" asks Debbie.
"A Bud will do."
"Tap or bottle?"
"Tap."
While Debbie fills the mug, Ken notices that his hands are shaking. What a fool he is, he admonishes himself; she' s just an old acquaintance, one who went to bed with him many a time, one who shot a man to save him, one that looked at him with eyes that spoke of a desire he doesn' t understand. Stop, he says to himself, don' t be such an idiot. Debbie comes back with the full mug. They make small talk, what have you been up to lately, where do you live and so on, polite conversation that skirts what they want to say to each other but they don' t know how. Debbie goes off to serve customers and to take care of the waitresses. Ken is glad for the breaks that let him gather his thoughts, and Debbie is too. Ken cannot see any needle marks on her arms. Debbie noticed his eyes inspecting her for needle scars. I thurts her but she understands why; nobody wants to deal with a junkie. With a whore and a murderer it is not a problem, but with a junkie, it' s not worth the aggravation.
"Are you married," asks Ken.
"Nope. Was twice but that is history." Debbie remembers Billy and her stomach turns. "How about you?"
"Yes," says Ken. "Yes and no."
"How' s that?"
"My marriage is just in paper. We sleep in different rooms and don' t talk to each other."
Debbie rolls her eyes. She has heard this sob story so many times from so many losers, about the horrible wife at home and how getting laid by a mistress would be so good to their self esteems, and the story tellers all look at her as the purveyor of that self esteem booster. So this is what all this is about? Glyn had said to her," I love my wife and I' m very happy with her, but I like you too."And he got laid because he had been sincere. Debbie cannot stand bullshitters.
"Sorry to hear that," says Debbie in a flat voice. Ken shrugs.
"You know how it is, you try to do the right thing but it blows up on your face."
"Tell me about it."
Ken restraints his urge to reach across the counter and take her hand. She would probably jump away as if he were a leper, he thinks. Still, Debbie can see that desire in him, and she doesn' t know what to do about it, doesn’ t understand what it means. Is it just a middle age lust for an affair? Is it a true desire for her? Come on, nobody ever ha
d such a feeling for her, and would a man who knew her as a whore and a drug queen ? Yet, he looks at her like nobody else has ever done. She feels uncomfortable at the same time she feels a sort of pride, at being wanted. She is glad when the bikers ask for another round and she can move away to gather her wits.
Ken doesn' t know if he should run out of the bar back to his miserable but somewhat understandable life or to stay put and continue talking with empty words. He wants to leap over the bar and embrace her, tell her that ... that he doesn' t know what the hell he' s doing or why, but that it feels right to have her in his arms, to smell her skin, to see into her eyes. Of course, he is nothing but a damned fool, he thinks, so he stays put and gulps his beer down. He didn' t know this was going to be so hard.
Debbie gets busy as the bar fills with more customers, and she' s glad for it. She wishes she could be her old self, the free lancing prostitute without a care, and she could just walk to Ken and say to him," Hon, I want you. Let' s find a room." But she' s not that Debbie any longer. She has been burnt too many times, and now she is a careful creature who protects her feelings like a mother gator does her egg nest. They continue to have short conversations where their eyes speak better than their words. There is a wall of fear, of doubt that surrounds them. Fear of being wrong, of being rebuffed, of being laughed at, of doubts about what their feelings are. Is this love? Neither can tell, They never had it in their lives before. They feel things that make them happy in a way they cannot explain at the same time that confuse them and scare them because such feelings are so foreign to both.
The skirmishing game goes on for hours, Ken drinking to drive his fear away and say to Debbie that, well, to tell her something that makes sense, that somehow he feels linked to her by invisible yet powerful ties he can neither explain nor describe. Debbie stays busy. She also wants to ask him Do you want me? Do you want me to be your whore again? For free or for a fee? What the hell do you want? But she can' t. Memories of quiet motel rooms where heat and sun shine and sea breeze imbued the air and sneaked under the sheets and under their skin fill her head. So stupid, she thinks, that was then, young and stupid, and this is now, old and still stupid, but not the same. Still, somehow she wants to believe that what has passed could be so again.
Snapshots of Modern Love Page 14