Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “All set?” Her voice is cheerful.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, polite as a Boy Scout.

  “Okay. Off we go.”

  Twenty-Three

  We drive out of town, which doesn’t take long. Bumping down a country road, we pass field after field of bare trees and brown ground covered in a thin layer of snow. On the other side of the road is a thick forest. The sky is turning dark.

  “I’m Lisa Jo,” says the lady. “You like music?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  She turns the knob on her radio. Static one way, static the other way. She finds a sweet spot and “Hotel California” comes up, which is a funny song to hear when you’re in another state for the first time in your life.

  Lisa Jo bops her head. “Oh yeah. That’s a good one.” She turns it up. The headlights of the truck are weak, but bright enough for me to see the curves and twists in the road. In a loud voice, Lisa Jo sings along to the Eagles, screwing up the lyrics with so much enthusiasm that I hide my smile with my hand.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” she asks.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “Do you know what colitas are?” she asks. “In the song?”

  I try not to crack up. “I’m gonna guess marijuana, ma’am.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.”

  In the fading light, we pull onto a long driveway that opens into a clearing. I see a double-wide trailer next to a river. Wood is stacked high on the porch. There’s a Trans Am in the driveway but it looks like it hasn’t been driven since dinosaurs walked the earth. We park behind it.

  “Here we are,” Lisa Jo says. “Follow me.”

  We walk around the trailer. Lisa Jo opens the back door and in a small laundry room, she takes off her jacket and her snow boots. Her socks are mismatched, pink and striped yellow. Following her lead, I take off my shoes but I’m still too cold to take off my hoodie.

  When she stands up straight, she studies me. “That the warmest thing you’ve got to wear?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Your dad might have an extra jacket somewhere for you.” She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Hmm, I don’t know if it will fit you. We might have to borrow a coat from one of the neighbors, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She opens a second door and I almost shit my pants. Behind the door is a giant wolf with mismatched eyes.

  “Eddie, meet Outlaw,” says Lisa Jo.

  I catch my breath and watch as the wolf takes a few slow steps forward and nudges Lisa Jo’s hand with his nose. His eyes—one blue, one orange—are runny. His fur is thick in some places, patchy in others.

  “Outlaw is thirteen years old.” Lisa Jo pets the top of his head. “Very old for a Husky. He doesn’t move so good anymore. Doesn’t hear well, either. But he’s a sweetheart.” She pats his butt and kisses the scruff of his neck. “Say hello, Outlaw.”

  The dog raises his head slowly and his tail moves back and forth, once. Step by slow step, he comes over and greets me by sniffing my crotch. I pat him on the head. He limps back to the kitchen. We follow him.

  “Are you hungry?” Lisa Jo asks. “Have a seat.”

  I sit down at the small table in the middle of the kitchen. She starts a pot of coffee and the smell fills the trailer. There’s a crate taking up half the kitchen, ridiculous to call it a crate, it’s the size of a Fiat. Outlaw crawls inside and rests his big head on his paws.

  I have so many questions for Lisa Jo but I have no idea where to begin. Instead, I let her ask me questions. The ones she chooses to ask are all polite, as if she also knows we’re treading water in a dangerous place. She has secrets on me, and my being here means she knows more than is probably good for her.

  “Have you been to Washington before, Eddie?”

  “No, ma’am. This is my first time.”

  “What do you think so far?”

  “It’s nice.” This is not really an answer. “It’s cold,” I say.

  “That it is. That it is.”

  Lisa Jo bends over and pulls out a banged-up pot from a cabinet. I watch her take out two cans of chili, open them, and tap the contents into the pan.

  “So you have two other brothers, right?” she says. “Sal and…”

  “Angel,” I say.

  “Are you the baby?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m the middle. Sal’s the oldest. Angel’s the youngest.”

  “Three boys,” she says. “I can't imagine. Your poor mother.”

  There were four of us, once. What has Dreamer told her about my little sister? Has he even told her about Esperanza?

  “Do you have any children?” I ask her.

  “Yes.” She smiles again, but this time there’s pride in her eyes. “One daughter.”

  There’s something familiar about her face, about those bright, sad eyes that tip downward. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her before.

  Lisa Jo clicks on the burner on the stove and places the pot on the fire. There are dirty dishes in the sink, and the trash needs to be taken out. Everything in the trailer looks run-down except for two things: a new refrigerator and in the living room, a new TV. There are lace curtains on the kitchen window, but they’re gray and torn. Through the rips I can see the darkening sky, the water rushing by behind the trailer.

  “Your father,” Lisa Jo says, “he’s been living here almost a year.”

  I look around, trying to see any signs of Dreamer in the house. What would those signs be? Empty liquor bottles. Maybe, the smell of Tres Flores in the air. A pair of work boots by the door. I see nothing of him here.

  “He works at the packing house.”

  “Packing house?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Fruit. This place? All orchards.”

  The image of Dreamer playing the part of a campesino is too strange for me to accept. He used to make fun of my mom endlessly for being too country. “So my dad picks fruit?”

  “No, he drives a forklift at the warehouse. Swing shift. You’ll see him later tonight.” The chili sizzles against the sides of the pot and Lisa Jo gives it a stir with a wooden spoon. She pours two mugs of coffee. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Both, please.”

  I drink and the hot liquid slides down, defrosting me. I watch as Lisa splits the chili between two glass bowls and places one in front of me with a spoon and a napkin. She sits down, bows her head, and says a quick prayer.

  “Amen,” we say in unison.

  Lisa Jo eats slowly, daintily, like a princess or a first lady, even though she's in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. She folds her paper napkin and dabs at the corners of her mouth—good manners.

  “Are you from here?” I ask.

  “Not originally. I’m from Michigan. My boyfriend was in the army. We eventually moved out here. Things didn’t work out between us, but I stayed. It’s been almost thirty years now.”

  “Why did you stay?”

  She shrugs. “I grew up on a farm. Work here’s the same. I’m a country girl at heart. The big city—that’s not for me.”

  The big city—and prison—are all I’ve known. I take a bite of the chili and wash it down with hot coffee. Carmen has spoiled me on gourmet food, but right now, I appreciate this hot meal. “So do you work at the packing house too?”

  She nods. “I used to, for many years. Until I hurt my back. I sort mail in town now. It’s not a bad job. Good benefits.”

  Lisa Jo has steady work and her own place. She’s not wealthy, but she supports herself. She seems like a nice lady, and I’m worried about what affect Dreamer has had on her life. In my mind, he’s pure chaos. Whatever is balanced, he unbalances. Whatever is peaceful, he disrupts.

  We finish our meal. I tell Lisa Jo to take it easy and I clean up the kitchen. I wash all of the dishes in the sink. I clean out the coffeemaker. On the windowsill above the sink is a small figurine. An elephant holding a daisy. Inscribed on the base, it says You are my sunshine. I gather up the trash and head out the back door.

  From the
living room, Lisa Jo calls, “There’s a special locker about a hundred feet down the driveway,” she says, “to keep the bears out.”

  I zip up my sweatshirt and put on my shoes. Out there in the dark, the cold burns my lungs. I hurry down the gravel driveway. What a way to go out. I walk a little faster. Homeboy, eaten by a bear. That’d be fucked.

  Lisa Jo and I spend the rest of the evening watching television while she knits in the light of a reading lamp. The television is so new, there’s still plastic on it. We watch Dancing with the Stars and the local news. At eleven thirty, she yawns and looks at the clock.

  “Will my dad be here soon?” I ask.

  “He should be.”

  I help her as she makes up the couch with bedsheets and three heavy blankets. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?” she says.

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, Eddie.” Even a missing tooth doesn’t ruin Lisa Jo’s kind smile—not really. Nothing can snuff out a light like that. “See you in the morning, kid.”

  “You too. Thank you.”

  Lisa Jo goes into her bedroom and closes the door. I plug in my phone and turn it back on.

  No texts. No messages.

  Wait, one message. My heart jumps up a little only to be smashed back down.

  NO SERVICE

  Fuck.

  I snap the phone closed and lay it on the floor. With a groan, I stretch out on the couch and close my eyes in the dark.

  I wait. Still no Dad, no Dreamer. I listen to the sound of the snoring ancient wolf in the kitchen, to the rushing river outside.

  I’m locked up, pacing back and forth. I’ve just received the news. My cellie—I can’t remember his name—tells me to calm down. I push him away.

  “My dad’s dead,” I murmur, again and again. “They killed him. They killed my dad.”

  The pain is intense, but so is the confusion, the sense of uselessness. The anger and the love I’ve always carried for my father blend together into a wave that drowns me in my jail cell until I can’t breathe.

  I can’t write him off.

  Because that would be like writing myself off, and…I can’t do that either.

  Someone squeezes my shoulder.

  I open my eyes.

  Tears wet my cheeks—a souvenir from the dream.

  I’m buried in blankets. The laundry soap smells different from the all-natural hippie stuff Rafa uses.

  Shit, where am I?

  I blink.

  Wait—Carmen’s bed?

  No.

  “Rise and shine.” Another squeeze. “Come on. Wake up, kiddo.”

  I push the covers off my face. The small living room is filled with bright sunlight. I squint to see who’s talking to me.

  He’s tall, but much skinnier than I remember. Sunken cheeks, bags under his eyes. His skin is rough and red. Still handsome, in spite of everything. Instead of a gangster’s shaved head he’s got a full head of black and gray hair. Instead of his khakis and white T-shirt, he’s wearing a Bass Pro Shops sweatshirt, jeans, and wool socks.

  Dreamer Rosas.

  Back from the dead.

  I sit up. “Dad.”

  “Mi’jo.”

  He gets down on his knees by the sofa and embraces me for a long time. In my grief, I see the old wolf crouching in the corner of the room at the feet of Lisa Jo, who drinks coffee and watches us with smiling eyes. My chest is tight and hot, like it is about to burst.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” I say. “We thought you were dead.”

  He slaps my back and lets go. I watch as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Shit,” he says. “Not even death can keep your old man down. Believe that.”

  Dreamer tells me to take a shower and get dressed. Lisa Jo has gotten me a warm fleece sweatshirt from one of her neighbors along with a long-sleeve thermal shirt. I come out to the kitchen. There’s another cup of coffee waiting for me along with a bowl of cornflakes. As I eat, Outlaw rests his chin on my knee and looks up at me with those weird mismatched eyes.

  “I’ve got to go to work now.” Lisa Jo pats my back. “You catch up with your dad today, okay? Maybe we can all go out tonight and celebrate with a meal.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

  She nods. “You two be good.”

  After breakfast, my dad hands me a puffy jacket. I put it on and follow him out with the dog. We walk down a path that runs next to the river. There are thin patches of snow here and there. The air is so fresh and clean, it seems to burn the smog out of my lungs. Thick trees grow on either side of the water, which is shallow and quick and makes me feel cold just looking at it.

  My dad walks next to me, his boots crunching in the gravel. Outlaw limps slowly next to us, setting the pace.

  “So,” my dad says. “You have any trouble getting up here?”

  I feel shy around him, so I tell him about my trip. I include all the details. I tell him about the bus, Memo, the almond blossoms, the snow. I thank him for the ID, the bus ticket, and the care package, but I don’t ask where the money came from. Nervous—I’m talking too much. He seems to enjoy it, and laughs at my jokes. For the first time since I left Carmen’s room, I feel a lightness in my heart.

  We follow the curve of the river and the path narrows. After barely a mile, Outlaw slows down so much, we stop and sit down on some boulders. The old dog settles down in the dirt and flops on his side. His paws are muddy.

  We toss rocks into the river. There are a million rocks in the middle. I can hear the water dragging them across the bottom of the river, slowly grinding them to sand.

  I look at my father’s face. It’s been six years since I’ve seen him, and in that time he looks like he’s aged twenty.

  So I ask the only question I can.

  “What happened?”

  Twenty-Four

  Dreamer starts the story exactly where we left off—at the criminal courthouse downtown on the day of the sentencing hearing for my brother and me.

  Car-jacking. With gang enhancements for our East Side Hollenbeck affiliations, we each got five years.

  “I saw them take you both away. When I got home, the first thing I did was call my connect.” My dad rubs his arms through his jacket. “I went on a bender, you could say. Then I went on another. And another.”

  Sal and I had heard the stories. My father had done heroin in his youth, but stopped cold turkey when he married our mom. He started up again after she died. I watched him through an open door once. I remember seeing the flash of the spoon. The smell. He found ways to keep his heroin addiction under control while we lived at home—shooting up just became part of his daily routine.

  “I sat in the house. I looked around. I said to myself, in a little while, this will all be gone. Furniture. Truck. House. And I was right. I lost it all. Like some fucking tecato.” He smiles to himself—smiles, as if he’s proud of how badly he’s fucked up. “My case worker sent me to Narcotics Anonymous again. That’s where I met Daisy. She was good for me. Cleaned myself up just enough for Ruben to put me back to work. Made myself useful again.”

  He makes it sound so simple, but I know my dad. This was probably years of back and forth, jail to the streets and back again, failure after failure after failure. I toss another rock into the river and watch the white foam swallow it up.

  “So then what happened?”

  My father rubs his arms again. Under his sleeves, I can imagine the old track marks tangling with his gang tattoos, the scars of his drug use snaking through the names of his children—Salvador, Eduardo, Angel, Esperanza.

  “It’s a long story, mi’jo,” he says. “I guess something clicked for me when I moved in with Daisy. She is a good woman. She knows what it’s like—sabes que, she understood. She gets the addict mentality, and she knows what it takes to change it.”

  I say nothing. Outlaw slowly gets to his feet and shuffles toward me. I pet his big fluffy head.

  “So I started to take a li
ttle off the top. Here and there. Some milk money, nothing they’d notice. I socked it all away. Over the years, it added up. A little lifeline for me and for you and your brothers if you ever needed it.” He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his thick hair. “God knows I have my regrets when it comes to you and your brothers. But maybe, I thought, maybe I could do something for all of you now.”

  I study his face. I’m not sure if I believe him, but he looks so sincere and defeated that I want to believe him.

  “But something went wrong,” I say.

  “Your father’s name is Dreamer Rosas.” He laughs. “Of course something went wrong.” He stands up and stretches. His clothes hang on him—he looks like Miguel, the groundskeeper at the church, his old buddy. I have trouble realizing that this scarecrow is the same guy who raised me, the same tough-looking muscleman who carried me on his shoulders when I was a kid.

  We head back to the trailer. My dad tells me the rest of the story in a quiet voice, as if he’s afraid there are people who will hear him here in the middle of the woods two states away from the neighborhood.

  “Eventually, the big homies did the math and found out my payments were light. They were not happy. So Ruben had a talk with them on my behalf. We made a bargain. They took away my collections and I had to pay them back what I took plus interest. But your old man got to live another day.”

  “That’s the story I heard,” I said. “Sal and I—we thought you dodged a bullet.”

  “I did. Multiple bullets.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “You know your dad enjoys a drop every now and then. La Sirena—you remember that place?”

  “Your old dive bar. Of course I remember.”

  “I was there, celebrating my victory. Estaba pedo. I can’t remember. Apparently I started mouthing off about the big homies. I can’t remember that either. Some ESHB captains were in the room. Didn’t like my attitude. Later that night, Ruben and his right-hand man Demon show up at Daisy’s. They want to take me for a ride.”