Fiddleback 2

by Jeff Vrolyks

  * * *

  After a shower and a shave, wearing a clean tee-shirt and twice-worn blue jeans, Eddie took the keys to the Camry and got a move on. He headed toward the Sacramento Mall on the other side of town, in a district known as Old Town. What a remarkable city, he thought. High skyscrapers and low smog, bumper to bumper traffic on the freeways, congestion everywhere else, bums at every intersection. The enormous white capital building with a dome and monolithic stone columns reminiscent of the White House. Even the damned governor was unlike anyone Nebraska had ever elected. In California they elect muscle-bound governator’s. Our governor can’t out-bench-press your governor.

  “Jesus, another cop,” Eddie said to the empty Camry cabin. There were friggin’ cops everywhere. He couldn’t go two blocks without spotting one. “Ahh,” Eddie remembered, “the serial killer at large.”

  A skimpily dressed woman with a shock of red hair (it had to be a wig) stood at a street corner. Was she a prostitute? Is a pig’s ass pork? Eddie grinned sidelong as he cruised by her. She finger-waved at him when she perceived his interest. Why weren’t the cops harassing her? Maybe she provided them with a special complimentary service. Speaking of special services, Eddie just drove past the third massage parlor in less than a mile, and laughed at the sign in the corner of a window: Full Tension Release.

  “I bet,” Eddie said. He intoned: “Uh yes, I’d like an F.T.R. massage, please. Got a knot in my lower back that needs rubbing out. Interesting thing about my back: it’s on my cock.”

  There’s nothing remotely like this place in Nebraska, Eddie thought. And Sacramento was tame compared to cities such as L.A. and San Francisco. Maybe if he stayed out till nightfall he’d witness his first murder. Murder, now there’s a postcard for Tall Brown and Short Brown. He made the postcard in his mind: a colorful shot of a dead hooker lying face down in the gutter, a knife in her back. It would need a caption, of course. Wish you were her, written in slanted electric-blue scrawl. Maybe. How about having the knife in her back gold plated, the caption then reading The Golden State. Eddie giggled. How about a picture taken through the lens of a rifle scope, snapped from a freeway overpass, a motorist centered in the crosshairs. California traffic: it’s murder, all right.

  He lowered the driver’s side window and enjoyed the wind drumming his face, the distinct smell of big city, which included but was not limited to the hot pitch of asphalt and combusted diesel fuel. It was a lovely big-city day for a small town dude; it was hard not to smile. He wondered how long he’d live in Sac Town. Sackatomatoes, as some people called it.

  He parked in back of the crowded mall parking lot, strolled toward the mall whistling, smiling at all whom he passed, verbally greeting those who smiled back. He felt the weight of the jade idol in his jeans pocket. Occasionally he touched it over the denim. A beautiful blonde was walking away from the mall in his row. He stuffed his hand inside his pocket, now touching it directly. She must have sensed that he was checking her out because she looked away from him at nothing in particular and held that angle as she passed him.

  “Geez, relax, lady,” Eddie muttered, probably too quietly for her to hear. “I ain’t going to rape you, sheesh.” On second thought he considered a lot of people were uptight these days in Sacramento. A city whose population sign was slowly but steadily ticking backwards. An exaggeration, sure, but it was happening. Eddie figured he’d meet the serial killer soon enough. Maybe next weekend, maybe sooner. He had several questions to ask him, the biggest being the most obvious: why are you doing it? He wanted to settle in his new home and job first, then make arrangements to meet up with him.

  He stepped into the shade provided by of the large structure’s cement edifice. It was a clothing store, Macy’s. Before entering he glanced down to evaluate his clothes. They were pretty shitty by anyone’s standard, so this was the store for him.

  He picked out a pair of slacks, some Dockers, two pairs of shorts, a couple nice shirts and one dress shirt, three tee-shirts, a tie, some black leather loafers, boxer underwear, white socks and black socks. He carried his items not to the first clerk he spied, nor the second or third, but the fourth, who looked like a winner. He waited in a short line with his overflowing jumble of clothes. The old crone in front of him took her bags and receipt and left. Eddie dropped his mound on the counter, greeted the heavily perfumed and well-dressed matronly clerk with a warm smile. His right hand touched the jade idol in his pocket.

  She stared curiously at him for a moment before asking if he found everything all right. He did, thank you. She scanned the items slowly—she was in no great hurry— glanced up at him coyly, which he returned with an almost imperceptible wink. She blushed as she began bagging the items. If one was forced to guess at what this prim and stately woman’s behavior might have been during this transaction, one would have been dead wrong.

  Oh yeah, I picked a winner, all right.

  “Would you like to donate a dollar, five, or ten to the Susan B. Komen foundation?” She asked in a high tone.

  He removed the checkbook from his back pocket and said, “Why does it stop at ten dollars? Is Susan et al on the brink of discovery, and another ten should do it?”

  She smiled bashfully and shrugged, then giggled like a girl thirty years younger than herself.

  “I take breasts very seriously,” he said. He considered a moment, cleared his throat and said, “Let me turn a poem to suit the occasion, for your pleasure.” He looked over his shoulder, satisfied that nobody was currently behind him—though if there were, nothing would change; the transaction would crawl along and tough shit if you didn’t like it.

  He looked earnestly in her eyes and said, “No breast is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a breast be washed away by the sea, womanhood is the less. Each breast’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in womanhood. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.”

  Her mouth hung open, her expression bedazzled. She wanted to say something, Eddie was sure of it, but she seemed to be stuck on stupid.

  “John Donne is the poet I just injured,” Eddie informed, “but I’m sure he would have been a crusader of the C-cup had he knowledge of this wretched disease.” He set the checkbook down on the counter and muttered softly (but not softly enough), “Or known a pair like yours.”

  Her cheeks blushed somehow deeper—a natural rouge more slutty, more French-looking than anything you might find painted on a 1970’s porno actress’ face—and once again she giggled. She had been a matronly forty-year-old at first glance, but my how those matronly layers seemed to peel away like a sweet red onion by the giggle; damned if she hadn’t arrived at adolescent coquette just now.

  “If Misses Komen insists on a ten dollar limitation,” Eddie said, “go ahead and push that little button ten times for me. A hundred dollars so that breasts may have a fighting chance. Sound good, Nancy?”

  She sobered at his calling her by name. “Have we met?”

  “No.” He pointed to the nameplate over her left breast.

  She looked down at her nameplate and became embarrassed. “Of course,” she said. She hesitated before requesting money, as it would expedite this most intriguing encounter. “A poet and a philanthropist. The consummate bachelor,” she said, having noticed his bare ring-finger and a still-empty line behind the young man. “That will be five-hundred-and-seventy-two even, dear.”

  He took the pen from the counter and wrote a check, tore it off and handed it over. She processed it through Check Scan, frowned at the unsatisfied machine, then tried it again. Her confused eyes met his.

  “It’s okay, Nancy,” Eddie said both calmly and persuasively. “It’s just fine. Isn’t it?”

  She nodded, hit the override button on the register. The drawer slid open; she buried the check under the money tray, closed it, tore off the receipt and placed it in the giant white handled-bag with a red star, handed it to Eddie.

  “Thank
you kindly,” Eddie said. “You have a great day, Nancy.”

  “You too. I hope to see you again… soon.”

  She watched him off.

  He changed out of his crappy clothes in the Macy’s men’s room, almost threw them away before deciding they’d be just fine to work in. He placed them in the bag beside his new threads. He went with Dockers and a nice button-up shirt: not too dressy but plenty classy. Before the mirror he teased his hair a little, wet his hand and teased it some more. He gave himself one final evaluation before calling it good and leaving.

  He sauntered along the upper-level walkway: destination food court. The mall was packed this Sunday afternoon. It’s astonishing how difficult it is to find black people around here, Eddie thought. He had spent a week on the east coast several years back (a family vacation spanning nine states), and blacks were plentiful out there—Nebraska, not so much. He scanned around, weaved through knots of people, around red plastic communal tables with people dining on rank shitty food. When he spotted a pair of young black girls, he smiled broadly. He engaged them at their table, where they were chewing on Mongolian Barbecue and conversing idly with one another. Together they looked up at Eddie unexpectedly; one wiped her mouth clean with a napkin.

  “Good afternoon, my fair young ladies,” he said affably and sort of bowed at them while tipping his invisible hat.

  One giggled; the other smiled up at him.

  “Could you watch my bag for me as I order a couple tacos?”

  “Sure,” said one. The other nodded.

  “Be right black.” He coughed. “I mean back.”

  Five minutes later Eddie returned with a tray of food from Paco’s Tacos. He seated himself beside one of the girls as he said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all,” one said. “Of course not,” said the other.

  “I’m Edgar Verboom,” he said, “but beautiful people tend to call me Eddie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Eddie,” said one of the two, then giggled some more, prompting the other to laugh.

  “I’m Nichole.”

  He took Nichole’s hand and kissed the top of it gallantly.

  “I’m Jennifer, Eddie,” said the hereto non-introduced lovely lady and offered her hand, which was kissed no less passionately than was Nichole’s.

  “What kind of name is Verboom?” Nichole asked.

  “It’s Dutch. Means the tree.” He shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Leave it to the Dutch to come up with mundane surnames, huh?” Unsurprisingly they found humor in that. “I just arrived in California yesterday. I’m trying to get used to the area and people here. It’s rough being in a new state, you know? Especially going from the Midwest to Cali; completely different in every conceivable way.” He shifted from one’s eyes to the other to involve them both equally.

  “Yeah, must be tough,” Nichole said. “Are you from Holland?”

  “Originally, yes. Moved to Nebraska with my dad when I was a kid.”

  “Nebraska,” Jennifer said with an arched brow. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from there.”

  “It’s a dull place to be,” he said and leaned back in his flimsy chair. “I tell ya, good luck finding specimens such as yourselves in Nebraska.”

  “Specimens,” one said and giggled.

  “If I may be blunt,” Eddie said, “the biggest strike against Nebraska is its lack of diversity. Personally I prefer the company of women such as yourselves.”

  “You’re into black women, huh?” Said Nichole.

  “Into? That’s kind of an ugly way to put it. I’m drawn to them, admire them. A beauty surpassing all others.”

  “Aren’t you a talker,” said Jennifer with adoring eyes.

  “What do you think of her?” Nichole said and pointed discreetly at a table ten yards away, where a young couple dined. The woman was gorgeous. Not Victoria’s Secret caliber, but not far from. A trophy wife for a young successful businessman.

  “Her?” He studied the trophy for a moment before returning his attention to his company. He crinkled his nose and said, “Bleh. Not my thing.”

  The two ladies exchanged impressed stares.

  “So what is there to do around here for fun?” Eddie asked.

  “Parties,” said one. The other agreed emphatically.

  “You two are in high school, yes? Seniors?”

  “Yes,” said Jenny. “How about yourself? Are you graduated?”

  “Yes, last year.” He took a bite of his taco. It tasted like the shit was smoldering under a heat-lamp for three days, but was priced like the shit was just killed off a free-ranged farm thirty minutes ago. The girls followed suit by digging into their bowls of Mongolian Barbecue which didn’t look half bad. Eddie should have gotten that.

  After a few more hard-swallowed bites, Eddie took notice of Nichole’s nearest hand, reached over and put it in his. Her eyes fixed on their conjoined hands. He glided his thumb over the top over her smooth-skinned hand.

  “I’ve never seen such a beautiful example of a hand,” he said. “Your skin is so soft and smooth. I adore it.”

  The two girls looked at one another with bewildered expressions that might have said Who IS this guy?

  He released her hand, then looked into the eyes of the girl opposite him and said, “I’m going to ask you two for a favor. I fear that if you reject me, I’ll be devastated to the point that I may relocate back to Nebraska.” He let them see his puppy-dog eyes. They were great ones.

  Their attentions were raptly on him, mouths open.

  “I have this friend. My only friend, really. Timothy. He’s a great guy, but a little shy around women. We were going to hang out a little this evening, have a beer or two. I can’t help but wonder how much more enjoyable it would be with your company. If you can’t I’ll understand, and all I’ll ask of you is for directions to the freeway leading back to Nebraska.”

  They both smiled. One nodded as the other said sure, they’d be happy to.

  “Great,” Eddie said with palpable relief. “It wouldn’t just mean a lot to me, but to my friend. He really is shy. Try to make him feel good about himself, if you would.” He bit into his shit taco.

  “Where do you live?”