Me & Mr. Cigar

by Gibby Haynes

  “I get it. We can’t go there, we can’t go to Carla’s, we . . .” My brain sputters to a stop.

  “Let’s just go to my mom’s house and chill out. I know she’s home, plus I’m starved.” He shoots me a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Chicken-fried steak?”

  “Yep.” All at once, I feel better. “I love your mom’s chicken-fried steak. Sweet.”

  HANDS UP . . . WHO WANTS TO DIE?

  Chicken-fried steak: a dish in which a crappy piece of meat is beaten and battered and fried like chicken till it’s golden brown; asphyxiated with creamy gravy then served with mashed potatoes and some kind of greens. It’s awesome. It gives you diarrhea, and it was invented in the southern part of the Great Plains, in the Panhandle region of Texas. Lytle reminds me it’s the state dish of Oklahoma, and I remind him the reason that Texas doesn’t float off into the Gulf of Mexico is that Oklahoma sucks. He says Texas sucks back, and then we agree that chicken-fried steak was probably invented in Colorado anyway.

  So, the chicken-fried steak is stunning. I finish off my second serving, brace for diarrhea, then collapse onto the couch, Mr. Cigar in the crook of my knee, with the TV show Cops Reloaded flickering away on Lytle’s mom’s TV screen. Then I awake to the sound of British air raid sirens.

  My sister, Rachel’s, ringtone.

  THE CALL OF THE WILD

  “Hey,” I answer. I haven’t talked to her in at least a year. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Oscar, I’m sorry to call so early, but I really, really need your help.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “Well, Oscar, I kinda got in a, uh . . . You remember JJ, right?”

  “Yeah, your creepy ex. What? What did he do?”

  “He didn’t do anything. Back when we were going out I loaned him five thousand dollars one time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And I kind of, not really, got involved in some stuff because—”

  “What?”

  “Listen, he used the money to pay back his cousin, who’s an asshole. His name is Ricky and he found out where JJ got the money, so now he thinks I’m rich and can pay JJ’s . . . whatever. Debt.”

  “Rachel, you are rich.”

  She groans. “I know. He thinks I’m liquid rich, though. I live in a seven-thousand-dollar-a-month apartment and have six thousand dollars in my checking account, and my show next—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, what does the asshole cousin want?”

  “He’s got JJ and wants thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “What? He kidnapped JJ and wants thirty-five thousand dollars’ ransom? Call the FBI, jeez! Thirty-five thousand?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “What do you mean it’s not like that?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, basically . . . if he gets busted, JJ and I get busted . . . but . . .”

  “But what? Oh man, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay and JJ’s okay. He’s not really getting kidnapped, but I kind of promised him . . . them . . . the money, and I can pay you back. It’s not that big of a deal. But, Oscar, I need thirty-five thousand, and all I have is six thousand.”

  “Oh. Not that big a deal? And you promised him? What does that mean?”

  “I know, I know . . . I know it sounds totally weird, but I need thirty-five thousand dollars, and I know you’re the richest teenager in Texas.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “And you had a party the other night. You always tell me how much you make at your parties. Please, Oscar! Please!”

  “I’m not—”

  Click.

  WTF? I call her back. It goes straight to voice mail.

  THE INVENTOR OF BACON

  Lying there waiting for her to call back, my head is spinning. Government agents. Crooked cops. Quasi-kidnapping. New York City street hassle thingy. I don’t know. And on top of that, a much deeper understanding of Mr. Cigar, who is sitting on my chest licking my neck.

  I try to call my sister again; it goes straight to voice mail.

  I text her to call me when Lytle walks into the living room wearing purple knee-length satin boxing shorts and a Carlos Santana T-shirt.

  “Hey, man, you passed out last night mid-Cops. You didn’t even make it to Locked Up Abroad.” He yawns and stretches. “What’s going on? Who called? There were sirens, and I heard you say, ‘Whaaaat?’ real loud.”

  “Oh, dude. It was my sister . . . She’s in some freaky situation with her ex and needs thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa, dude . . . Just thirty-five thousand? Ha ha. I thought your sister was a stylin’ NYC artist? She’s got a sick pad. What’s the dealio?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, but the way she’s describing it, it sounds like ransom for a kidnapping. But the police can’t be involved.”

  Lytle nods. “Well, yeah, I can dig that.”

  “Yeah, no shit. We got disconnected and it’s been straight to voice mail for the last twenty minutes.”

  “She’ll call back, man. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Sure, man. Where do you want to go?”

  “Mom’s kitchen.”

  “Sweet.”

  Lytle turns on the TV. As bacon gently sizzles on the stove, a text pings. I look at my phone. caller unknown. The message ominously reads: BRING THE CASH TO YOUR SISTER’S APT. FRIDAY AFTERNOON! DON’T BE A FOOL.

  Holy . . . shit. That doesn’t sound like my sister, unless she’s turned into a wacko prankster with low-level tech skills. I think she might actually be in trouble and need my help.

  The only things certain that I got from her story were that she needs thirty-five thousand dollars. And: no cops! I’m only about eighteen thousand short and fifteen hundred miles away. I know I could drive there in thirty hours, and I know I owe my sister. But I don’t know where to get thirty-five grand. We got ripped off at the gig. I’ve got maybe seventeen grand in my checking account.

  “Lytle?”

  “Yeah, man?”

  “You know your uncle who you always say we should do business with, but then we always agree he’s too shady to consider?”

  “Jimbo?”

  “Do you think Jimbo might be able to turn a quick deal?”

  “What kind of deal?” Lytle asks.

  “I don’t know. One where we can double our money in a simple flip kind of deal.”

  “Oh, that one . . . Why?”

  I stare at my phone. “I think my sister’s situation is a tad more serious than I first realized . . . We need to bring her thirty-five grand, and we need to be there by Friday, apparently.”

  “Wait a second. We? Friday? Bring? Deal? Jimbo? Wow, dude. I’m in!” Lytle’s voice drips with sarcasm.

  “No, seriously. Dude—”

  “No, seriously, I’m in,” he interrupts, standing right in front of me. “This’ll look great on the résumé. Do you really think she’s in harm’s way?”

  “I don’t know if she’s in trouble for sure, but for sure she needs money. She’s never asked me for anything like this, and I feel like I owe her . . . I mean my dog . . . the lawn mower . . .”

  “Yeah, the lawn mower that can fly,” Lytle says. “You crack me up, man.”

  “Likewise. Call Jimbo. See what he says.”

  “Cool, man. Calling Jimbo.”

  A CARROT FROM THE WHEELCHAIR GUY

  Rachel’s phone now goes directly to a temporarily-out-of-order message. Lytle protests as the TV goes from an old Western to a radar view of the North Texas area. A thunderstorm is rolling in from the north, and the National Weather Service reveals a huge squall line extending from the Panhandle to Texarkana. The storm is heading our way. I look outside: the sky is crazy. Divided by an enormous looming wal
l. One half is partly cloudy and sunny. The other half is a green vertical sea of boiling thunderclouds. They are hundreds of miles away, perhaps, but they’re so tall it looks like they’re next door.

  Finally, the annoying emergency weather beeping signal gives way to a broadcaster warning that numerous funnel clouds have been observed across the entire North Texas region, yet there are no reports that any have hit the ground. Back to the normally scheduled program . . . a killer episode of Bonanza. I love this weather, and I love Bonanza. Both used to scare me when I was a little kid, and they still do. It’s just nowadays I sort of look forward to being scared . . . Now Hoss, cradling a bouquet of flowers, enthusiastically announces to Candy that he’s going into town and he’s “takin’ the wagon.” Candy chuckles a “wow” then nods his approval. Just then Lytle walks into the living room from the front porch and howls at the notion of Hoss-sex in the Wild West. He then looks at me, waving his phone. “We’re in business.”

  “The weather is so fry-king cool, man,” proclaims Lytle. “I just talked to Jimbo, and it’s totally on.”

  “Wow, you said ‘Fry King.’ I get it. But . . . totally on?”

  “Well, Jimmy has a ‘friend’ who happens to have a large amount of totally bangin’ Cali,” Lytle said.

  “Did you just say ‘totally bangin’ Cali’?”

  “Yes, I did. Totally bangin’ Cali that we can get for two grand a pound.”

  “Cool. And what do we do with pounds of totally bangin’ Cali? Sell it in totally tiny bags for the rest of our tiny lives?”

  “I get you, man. But no. First of all, he is the friend with the large amount of weed.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “And he knows a guy we can turn around and sell it to for four grand a pound.”

  I shake my head, dubious. “If he knows a guy we can sell it to, why doesn’t he just do it himself? That’s why he has a large amount of totally bangin’ Cali. Right?”

  “I know, dude, but here’s the answer. It’s not that the guy is untrustworthy, it’s just that Jimbo doesn’t trust the situation.”

  “This is really starting to not make sense now . . . So if Jimbo doesn’t trust him, why should we?”

  “You’re asking the same questions I did, Oscar. He doesn’t know the guy, but he knows of him. He knows that he’s the weed guy for all the kids in Shady Oaks.”

  I have a brief, unpleasant memory of Sergeant Cletus Acox. “Shady Oaks . . . now, that part makes sense. Jimbo lives in Shady Oaks, dude.”

  “I know, I know, but everybody knows everybody in Shady Oaks, and the other day the weed guy cold-called Jimmy at his apartment wanting to buy some weed and it kind of freaked ol’ Jimbo out. He’s always said he’d never do business with anyone in his own neighborhood. So that’s one reason he won’t trust the guy. But another reason, and I think it’s the main reason, is because the weed dude is white.”

  “Ah ha ha ha ha ha.”

  “Yep, but you know the weed dude. It’s Larry Teeter.”

  “Oh, wow . . . You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope. He gave Jimbo his number, so all you gotta do is call up Larry, and bam, we’re in business.”

  “That might work, man,” I say. “I saw him the afternoon of the gig. He seemed friendly. I could actually just go knock on his door . . .”

  “Cool, man. You don’t have to. Just call him up. Jimbo gave me his number and I’ll call Jimbo to set it up.”

  RUDE AIR-CONDITIONING

  The weather finally hit town. The temperature dropped like thirty degrees, then there was crazy lightning, exploding thunder and sideways rain, turning now to a major hailstorm pummeling the metal roof of Lytle’s mom’s house, sounding like a giant oak tree slowly getting snapped at the trunk . . . for like ten straight minutes. The storm is relentless. Then it stops.

  The green clouds open to the west and a silver-blue skyline delivers amazing yellow horizontal light. Crispy sunshine accentuates the hailstones, now a solid white bumpy layer, everywhere.

  Despite the storm’s passing, it continues to deliver gentle rainfall. A sun shower, if you will. In the southern United States, and apparently in Hungary as well, when this phenomena presents itself they say, “The devil is beating his wife.” A truly awesome expression, however perplexing. After all, why would the devil feel the need to tie the knot anyway, did a clergyman perform the ceremony and what in God’s name does the devil’s wife look like? Well, apparently even devils need love, it could have been one of those Internet preachers and, whatever the devil’s wife looks like, she must be hot. The oddly dry cold air feels great. Three cars in front of Lytle’s house have shattered windows and car alarms are sounding all over the neighborhood. To go from ninety-something and humid to seventy and dry was awesome. I love Texas weather. Lytle calls his uncle. I call Larry. Jimbo is waiting for the word, and Larry answers his phone.

  “Hey, Larry . . . You’re never going to believe this, but this is Oscar.”

  “Wow, dude. This is kind of weird. How did you get my number, man? What’s up?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a trip, Larry,” I begin. “See, I know Jimbo . . .”

  After that I tell him a bunch of lies, and he agrees to the transaction. We’re set to do the deal around 10 o’clock tonight at his Shady Oaks apartment—on our way out of town.

  TCB

  Jimbo is on his way. Larry’s waiting for us too. Backing out of the carport in Lytle’s pickup, I see that the steam created by the hailstones and the humidity is making a weird optical fog, maybe six feet in the air, with wisps rising higher, making an occasional circular rainbow over the sun. Crazy. All I have to do now is run by the bank, grab some of Lytle’s clothes (they fit me), get the weed from Jimbo and head out west to Shady Oaks . . . then meet Larry, do the deal, and get on the Interstate.

  We’ll have a little over thirty-five grand with a projected arrival time in NYC of early Thursday morning. My sister’s phone continues to go straight to VM. No answers to my texts.

  THE INCREDIBLY FANTASTIC JOURNEY VOYAGE

  The bank run goes smoothly, and walking into the house I can tell instantly that Jimbo has already arrived. The air is thick with the unmistakable odor of high-quality pot. They don’t call it skunkweed for nothing. Jimbo appears out of Lytle’s room and I say, “Smells like a good deal, man.”

  As I hand him the cash, he’s laughing. We shake hello, goodbye, and thanks. He waves back at us on his way out the front door, a smile on his face and a pocket full of bills.

  Lytle throws together enough clothes for the two of us, and I grab my backpack, which contains a toothbrush, an aerosol can, and a wireless remote control. Doesn’t sound that impressive, but it is an astonishingly powerful package to carry around like some schoolbooks. Not to mention my additional secret weapon—Mr. Cigar, another powerful package indeed. And so stealthy, no one would know what either of them really is. The last sliver of the sun is disappearing in the western skyway, way past Fort Worth.

  We’re stepping out the front door of Lytle’s mom’s house as it dawns on me: the insanity of this journey. I love Lytle, and we have done some fairly impossible things together, so I believe he knows what he’s in for and what he’s capable of. Plus, he’s pumped, and we’re probably going to have a great time. And double plus, we’re taking his pickup truck.

  He claims it’s indestructible. Ugly but sturdy . . . or . . . butt-ugly sturdy . . . with a killer stereo. Now we just have to sell the weed to Larry Teeter.

  TRANSPARENT RADIATION

  I keep asking myself if this is truly crazy, but she is my sister. I’ve never been on a real road trip. Plus, a weird Blackwater-CIA guy wants my dog, and I gotta blow town for a while. No big deal. I’ll see my sister and come back in a few days, at least until I get the high sign from Carla that Nostril Man isn’t on the prowl anymore. I’m looking forward to not looking over my s
houlder.

  Maybe the MDMA from the other night is affecting my judgment, because I’m actually looking forward to the trip, and I feel great. I had a great dinner last night. I didn’t have diarrhea and slept for like thirteen hours. Lytle’s truck used to be one of the landscaping company’s work trucks, and it has this fold-out plywood thing for equipment in the back seat. It makes a great bed, so we’ll be able to drive basically nonstop. I drive while Lytle sleeps and Mr. Cigar DJs. When Lytle wakes up, we go to a Waffle House, then he drives while I sleep. Hopefully we’ll get to NYC before Mr. Cigar has to drive and Lytle DJs. Opera gives me the hives.

  I hate opera, which is what Lytle listens to if he’s not off in IDM land.

  It is a cloudless, crisp evening for this time of year. The moon is coming up bright into a blue-black sky. The shadows are heavy, but the night seems optimistic.

  We pull off down Third Street to MLK Boulevard, NYC-bound with two dudes, one dog and a cardboard box the size of a large ice chest filled with one-pound bags of gigantic stinky buds of California marijuana. So stinky we put a tarp over it. A futile attempt to hide the acrid smell. It’s hard-core. We might as well have just hit a skunk. But Lytle’s mom’s house is not too far from Shady Oaks, where Larry lives.

  It’s funny, I suspect our pot just came down this same road. Only it was headed our way then. Everything is going to be cool.

  I AM GINA’S KIDNEY

  About halfway there in the wooded hollow right before Catfish Creek (where you’re more likely to catch a washing machine than a catfish), there’s a police car on the side of the road. Halfway across the bridge, just past the cop, I sneak a look back. He’s pulled out onto the road and turned on his lights. The cab of the pickup is suddenly filled with red flashing lights. For some reason the thump-thump-thump of the metal slats on the bridge is particularly loud tonight. I pull the truck over, stick it in park and look over at Lytle and Mr. Cigar. Wide-eyed, we simultaneously mouth an elongated Ohhhh shiiiiit. We are totally fucked if this cop has half a nose.