by Lisa Teasley
“Those people at your party.”
“Well I’m not nineteen. They were kidding. God, just a joke. What the hell difference does it make anyway?”
She is sitting on the edge of her seat, her anger not serious, full of life.
“I’m twenty-five, you twit,” she says.
I don’t believe her.
“I’m twenty-five.”
I start to laugh, she stares at me with the straw between her lips until she is laughing too. A dude walks up to us, asks if he could buy us another drink. She is laughing really hard now, and as I come to the tail end of it, I look up at him, seeing Clive, so I fucking hate him.
“Leave us alone.”
Nepenthe stops laughing, looks at me deadpan, gets up to walk out.
I follow her at about eight paces behind, she is holding onto her bag tightly, looking down at the sidewalk. Four or five blocks down, I follow her into a pet store. The owner sits above our heads on the steps. She bends down into the aquarium, staring at the reptiles. She wipes her forhead as if sweating. There is a chameleon with eyes like two fists working independently of each other. He looks at me, then back at her, and I’m feeling defeated. That she is not as young as I thought, shouldn’t be such a big deal. I just thought she had to have been so much more unspoiled than me for him to have left me for her. I don’t know what the fucking difference is. I am too jealous, and want to own her.
Driving down the 1 we go through this rain cloud, then sudden bright sun. Nepenthe puts on her shades, contained, shut in. Her skin glows, hot ice cream, milk burning. Clive used to carefully place cookie dough on the sheet, size and order, everything according to plan.
Coming up on Big Sur, Nepenthe switches the tape. She hugs the soft shoulder of the road. What would it feel like if she lost control. What will it be like, sober, in daylight, watching her face when she cums.
“We can eat at Nepenthe,” I say to her smiling. She looks at me, at first sadly, and then she warms up.
We walk into the restaurant, I give them my name because she is embarrassed. The hostess looks at her with fish eyes bulging out with enthusiasm.
Nepenthe tells me she has to go to the bathroom, and I do too. I follow her, she seems annoyed—I can tell by the tight quickness of her step—but, I’m going anyway. She opens the door to the bright pink, gold, green and blue, flowerchild sort of design of the bathroom. She looks in the mirror, I look at her from behind. I take her in my arms and kiss her,
“We can spend the night in Cambria at the motel with fireplaces you turn on with a switch,” she says, her breath in my face.
“That would be good,” I say, letting go of her.
She enters the stall, and I listen to the stream of her piss. Strong and steady, I could lie down beneath it.
“Yes, that would be heaven.”
The Profit in Fort Bragg
Eustace has a shadow on his lung. His fiancee, Gita, along with her oldest friend Arielle, drives him straight from the doctor’s office, three hours north of San Francisco to Gualala for fresh air.
Arielle spooks the view. Now half her body thrown out of the window, her butt moves in and out of the passenger’s seat. Against the wind’s whip she defiantly shakes her blonde curls. Eustace lies in back, knees up, feet on the armrest. Shadows of passing redwood tree branches snake his tinted cinnamon face. It makes his pain ring to think the women are death-free.
“Pull over here!” demands Arielle.
Gita speeds up, pretending she missed her chance. Arielle bops her on her bony knee.
“Those were seals down there!” squeals Arielle. “I wanted to see the seals. Hey, Mr. Peanut Butter man, didn’t you want to see the seals?”
“Sure,” he says, closing his eyes. “I wanted to see the seals.”
“Should I turn back?” Gita flicks her tobacco-toned hand over finely waved kinks cut close to her head. Hoping to catch his eye, she peers at Eustace in the rearview mirror.
“You’d never turn around anyway, so why ask?” Arielle relaxes back in her seat, folds her arms, sighs.
Wild calla lilies grow off the side of the road. Eustace opens then squints his eyes so their gold tongues flicker with light. Waves splash up the cliff, then leave it foaming at the mouth. He imagines the waves sweeping up to swallow the car into the belly of the ocean. Eustace shivers, picks his sweater up from the floor and lays it over his chest like a blanket.
“You want the window up?” calls Gita.
“No!”
“You couldn’t drive much faster,” Arielle says, switching radio stations.
“Turn your voice and the radio down a couple decibels, will ya?” Gita snaps her finger twice in Arielle’s ear. Arielle snaps twice back.
Eustace peers up at the sky. He sees buzzards circling overhead. Gita suddenly swerves to avoid the dead deer in the road. Eustace laughs, mocking a madman.
Arielle covers her ears, then rubs the side of her face, the peach fuzz on her cheeks like cashmere. She puckers her lips and eyebrows.
“I’m hungry,” Eustace says, still laughing.
“How inappropriate!” answers Arielle, looking back at the deer, then at Eustace.
“We’re almost there,” Gita says.
“Yeah, but I’m hungry.”
“So stop here, Gites,” Arielle says, pointing at the sign.
Gita pulls into the lot of the Old Meca Mexican Cafe. Arielle springs from the car, stretches her small, tight gymnast’s body. Tall and lean Gita stands, holding the car seat back for Eustace, who very tiredly and over-dramatically drips himself down on the concrete. His face moist with sweat, his full lips shining, Gita takes his head in her hands. Imagining jellyfish, she kisses him, her taste buds like tentacles. Arielle walks ahead.
Waiting at the door for them to finish, Arielle pivots in her wrestling shoes, her ankles twisting. She waves her arms out like a plane, spins around, daydreaming herself out and away. Then from her left, seemingly out of nowhere, a young boy approaches. She sees he’s carrying a black baby pit bull with light blue eyes.
“What’s his name, sweet thing?” she asks, firmly stroking the puppy’s head between his ears.
“Mine,” the boy says. Maybe twelve or thirteen, his hair is long and greasy, his face curiously jailbait-sexy, his childlike chest covered in a too-large Charlie Manson T-shirt.
“I figured he’s yours, but what’s the baby’s name?”
Slowly his eyes light up as if in recognition, then he cups the puppy’s face in his hand.
“I said, ‘Mine’.” His smile grows slowly, a front tooth appearing to be chopped in half.
“How much you want for Mine, darling?”
“Much as you got,” he says, his right hip swings out as he shifts his weight.
“I got thirty. Will that do?”
He opens his hand, the fingernails filthy. He hands the puppy to Arielle, she looks into his eyes and he licks her chin.
“What the hell?” Eustace asks, Gita following.
The boy sticks the money in his back pocket, looks first at Eustace, then Gita, points and then laughs. As he walks off Gita watches, her thinly plucked eyebrows together.
“What in the hell are you going to do with a pit bull, Arielle?” Eustace asks, his hands awkwardly feminine on his hips. Gita holds Eustace’s arm, then leans into Arielle to get a closer look.
“Just smell him,” Arielle says. “Hmmmmn. I think I’m in love.”
“Oh, for Chrissake,” Eustace says, unlocking himself from Gita. His nostrils flare, then he heavily pushes the cafe door open, and disappears behind it.
“He is cute,” Gita says, stroking the puppy’s head. “But can you have pets in your building?”
“Who cares?”
“When are you going to learn, Ari? And how are we ‘sposed to sneak him into the hotel?”
“They’re separate cabins—totally private—you’ll see. They won’t notice us. Stop worrying. Go tend to your boyfriend. I’m not hungry, anyway.” Ar
ielle tiptoes to kiss Gita’s cheek, then pushes her toward the door.
The swollen and plush cushion of the red booth calls Gita. She plops down, listens to the swish of the vinyl as it sucks in her round bottom. Eustace holds his hands together over the closed menu. He won’t look at her, a restless expression crossing his beautiful face.
The waitress favors Gita as she takes their order. Eustace slips down in his seat, fixates on the stomach beneath the pad and pencil, counting the lifts of her bulge with every breath. Hoping the waitress doesn’t notice, Gita hits his knee. The menu falls from his lap to the floor. Gita bends to get it, hands it over sweetly to her.
He turns to watch the waitress move in pants that separate in many full folds, listening to the squishing sound of her thighs. Gita wrinkles her nose, and bops his knee again.
“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. Stop being so mean,” Gita says.
“Mean?”
“Yes, mean. Mean and short.”
“Has it slipped your mind, Gita, that my grandfather died only last year of TB?”
“No, it hasn’t. But you don’t have TB, and you won’t be getting it. You had a simple pneumonia, and the doctor said you’ve responded very well to the antibiotics. This has turned around. You’ll kick it.”
“Glad to know you’re so confident.”
“All of this sarcasm helps nobody.”
“It’s been two months, Gita, two months on and off these fucking meds, and you still believe it’s a ‘simple pneumonia.’ Why don’t you use your head, for a minute, huh?” he asks with wild eyes. When he sees fear in hers, he calms back down. “I’m just tired, Gita. So fucking tired.”
“I know, honey. Look. Quit that damn job. That’s where you got sick. You’re done enough for mankind.”
“Have I?”
“So all of this self-sacrifice is still noble to you? You want to work in a shelter for the rest of your life?”
“Don’t start any shit with me today, Gita. I won’t have you putting down every commitment I make.”
“Every commitment? God, you constantly exaggerate.”
“Oh come on. It’s enough that Arielle is along, and now she’s got a killer dog with her.”
“He’s a harmless puppy. What do you care? It’ll keep her occupied. Let other people be happy sometimes, will you? My sympathy for you is running out.”
“Is it now?”
Arielle enters cradling the puppy. Gita clasps her hands together on the table, looks up at her as if everything between them was perfect, and then she smiles.
“Give me the keys, Gite—I’ll run and find some food and supplies for the dog, and be back before you’re done.” Reading the scene, Arielle shoots a look at Eustace.
“Are you supposing that little hillbilly kept up on all the shots? That dog could be carrying anything,” he says, shuddering.
Ignoring him, Arielle holds her hand out, Gita pops the keys in, and she walks out.
“Lay off her,” Gita says.
“Sometimes I wonder about you two.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yeah. You’re so damn protective of her. And tell me, why is it you never want to be alone with me anymore?”
The waitress brings their beers, he holds his up to toast.
“To all the black men dropping like flies,” he says.
“And many happy returns.” Gita clinks his bottle hard.
She cups herself around, nips him on the ear. She swallows down half of her beer, wipes the foam from the corner of her mouth.
“I mean it, Gita.”
“What?”
“Why haven’t you wanted to be alone with me? It’s been weeks.”
“It has not. And I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Hot plates,” the waitress says, smiling again at Gita. “Very pretty necklace.” Gita fingers it and smiles.
“Thank you,” she says overly polite, waiting for her to leave.
Eustace twists the melting cheese around his fork, piles a mountain of rice, pushes it into his mouth.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but you know you shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Okay, we can pretend you didn’t.”
“Eustace.”
“One beer couldn’t make things any worse.”
“Fine.”
“You’re not really going to marry me, are you?” he says with big eyes, food in his mouth.
Gita gives him a weary look, then continues to eat in silence. They finish their meals without another word.
Arielle returns with the dog, a bag and the keys. She puckers her lips in a taut pout, announces she’s taking a bus home.
“You are not leaving,” Gita says, bringing the bottle down hard on the table.
“Sure, I am. I’ve decided. We’re in the way. I’ll just take Mine home, and get us settled. Eustace needs time alone with you. Anybody can see that.”
Eustace inspects his pinky fingernail, then uses it to pick between his two bottom teeth. When he’s done he carefully cleans it, and wipes both hands. Gita folds her arms in front of her, stares at her plate, then back at Arielle who is still standing there cradling the dog, the other hand clutching too hard at the bag. The puppy stares from Gita to Eustace then back again, his tiny tongue hanging out.
“Stay, Arielle. The more, the merrier,” he says finally.
Arielle looks at the ceiling, then at Gita.
“Well, I’m not going to beg. I invited you because I want you here. You know that. You’ll piss me off if you leave.”
Arielle looks at Eustace, his arms are folded, and he’s shaking his head from side to side. The waitress clears the table, leaving the check.
“Fine. Okay. So, let’s go find this fucking ‘St. Orifice’ or whatever the hell it’s called,” Eustace says.
He gets up, leaves more bills on the table than needed, takes Arielle by the arm. Gita hangs back, picks up the extra ten dollar bill. He opens the door for them, turns around with a cavalier smile for the waitress.
For armpit air, Gita pulls at her blouse before she starts the car. Although Arielle spots the Russian architecture of the hotel, she lets Gita pass it before saying a word. She gives the puppy a perfect view from the window. When they double back, the yellow of the scotch broom dazzles at either side of the road. Llamas and sheep munch on the cold, wet grass.
With the key that Eustace had uncharacteristically dashed to fetch, they drive up the dirt road to their magnificent cabin on the hill. Arielle skips up the path, holding the puppy, sending loose pebbles flying behind her. She bangs on the door as if someone were home, and waits there for Eustace to make it up the walk. He stops at the apple tree to pat its slender trunk. Gita wraps her scarf around her neck, focusing on the pile of wood on the porch. She closes her eyes, imagining smells of mustard, syrup, wine, as she hears Eustace jiggling the lock. Once inside, Arielle bounds the three steps in one jump to the bed, and lands on her back. The puppy jumps off, they hear his bark for the first time.
“You two can take the floor,” she says laughing, spreading her arms out like angel’s wings on the blanket. Eustace wanders around, staring at the woodwork and how it all connects. The puppy follows Eustace, sniffing at his feet. Gita makes her way toward the bathroom, pointing out the cot to Arielle who still lies with her arms spread out, her eyes shut in two delicate smiles.
“A Japanese tub! And look at the tile! Isn’t it fabulous?” Gita calls.
“At two hundred dollars a night, it ought to be fabulous,” replies Eustace, putting wood in the fireplace. The puppy still sticks close by.
Arielle descends the steps slowly, and stops in front of the bay window. Gita joins her, putting an arm around Arielle’s stomach and the other around her neck, her hair spilling between Gita’s fingers. They watch as the wind blows the apple blossoms, falling like snow from the tree. Squatting in front of the flames, Eustace watches as they grow, the heat licking his hands and his nose. The puppy barks, and he picks him up.
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“I’m taking the dog out for a shit,” he announces, looking at Gita and Arielle. They don’t budge from the window. “Then, we’ll go into town for some munchies.” He clutches the puppy lovingly to him, kisses him on the head, then with sudden paranoia wipes his own mouth with the back of his hand. He waits another moment for some response, but they barely acknowledge his absence as he shuts the door.
“So why the hell did you invite me to your seduction fest?”
“Seduction fest? Hardly. Well, why’d you come?”
“You asked me! I don’t belong here in this love palace,” Arielle says, dropping her hands from her back pockets. “Which is exactly what I thought the very first time I came here.”
She sits on the floor, staring out the window at twilight. Gita watches her white skin glow, but it moves into gray when Arielle looks back at her.
“Just wanted you with me, is all. I miss you,” Gita says.
“You’re gonna mush on me?” Arielle cracks a smile.
“No. I just didn’t want you alone moping. Forget about Tommy, already.”
“I have!”
“You haven’t. It’s been months of distracted, aimless bullshit with you. Remember, you dumped him.”
“And I shouldn’t have?”
“No, it’s best you did. But don’t feel so sorry for yourself, either. In the end, you always get what you want,” Gita says, drawing a map with her finger in the dull blades of the dark pink rug.
“And that is, at this point …?”
“A new job, a new man. Daddy newly wrapped around your finger.”
“That’s not fair, Gita. What the hell is eating you? And why don’t you set a date, already? You’ve been keeping him hanging for two years. Do you love the guy, or what?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know, anymore. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I’m tired of taking care of him. His life is taking care of strangers, and he leaves the rest up to me.”
“He’s been good to you, Gita. All of this time—what is it now—five years? Better than any man I’ve ever had, and you know it. He’s sick, for Chrissake. Cut him some slack!”
“He’s just about well. Anyway, he’s always sick. He’s a fucking hypochondriac. A neat freak, a germ freak. Obsessed with dying. Obsessed with imagining all of the possibilities of his death. I’m too young for this shit. I want to live!”