Sheep Meadow Story

by Jack Ketchum

  "Forget Carla. We'll have fun. I've never taken you to a party. You want something? I've got some 'hides and some pretty good dope. I was going to buy some coke but Zia says not to bother, there'll be plenty at the party."

  "Another drink is all. I'll get it. You go and get ready."

  The East Side, for chrissake.

  Maybe they could grab a bite at Vinnie's.

  ***

  He'd read somewhere that dirt was just something out of place. A cigarette in a pack wasn't dirt but a butt on the living room floor was. Fur on a cat wasn't dirt but a tuft of it lying in a corner was. Dust was mostly composed of flakes of dry shed human skin. Misplaced.

  Dirt.

  By that reckoning Stroup was dirt.

  Zia's apartment was huge and minimalist-modern. She'd crammed it with people who ordinarily Stroup wouldn't have given the time of day. Nor they him, had he not come in with Brauna. Lawyers. Brokers. Surgeons. Bankers. Agents. They moved through the rooms like a lolling school of sharks and you knew that if somebody so much as pricked a finger there was going to be blood on the waters. He had never seen so many ties and suspenders in one place in his life. It looked like the casting call for AMERICAN PSYCHO.

  He kept drifting back and forth to the wet bar hearing things he didn't like. Sensational and far and away and at this point in time and awesome and by the very same token and be that as it may and worst of all as far as Stroup was concerned the exact same thing. The only thing that was exactly the same about them was that they were all smug assholes with far too much money.

  He kept hearing about their fucking plans, their aims, their long-term goals.

  The only goal Stroup had in life was to outlive Al Sharpton.

  Brauna kept disappearing on him. And every time she'd disappear she'd come back a little more manic-sounding. Coming out of this bedroom or that bathroom. Bolivian Marching Powder. Stroup abstained. He didn't like to mix his poisons. Brauna on the other hand was mixing Quaaludes, scotch, wine and coke and god knows what else. Brauna was having a hell of a time. With what she was nearly wearing and those nipples at attention she was very popular.

  Finally he cornered her.

  "Sniff," he said.

  "What?"

  "You're getting messy with the white stuff. Left nostril. Sniff."

  She did.

  "None of my business but do you think you should be doing too much more of that? You're spilling your scotch."

  She was.

  She exploded at him anyway.

  "You're fucking RIGHT it's none of your business! JESUS, Stroup! FUCK YOU! Who do you think you ARE? YOU to be telling ME what to do? You goddamn LOSER! You write fucking AD COPY for a living!"

  "It's not exactly ad copy, Brauna."

  "YOU MADE ME PAY FOR THE FUCKING CAB, STROUP!"

  He hadn't. She'd volunteered the money. He just hadn't refused it, that's all. He made it a point never to refuse money. And hell, she could buy and sell him.

  People were looking. Fuck them. Time to get out of here. He took her arm.

  "Listen, Brauna…"

  She pulled away. For the second time that night her ass made contact with a wall. It was a tight ass and a soft wall. You could hear the thump over the Whitney Houston.

  "Don't you tell me to LISTEN! I'm not your WIFE! I'm not your ANYTHING! YOU'LL FUCK ANYTHING THAT WALKS, Stroup, you asshole. And you want me to LISTEN?"

  "That's not true. I won't fuck anything that walks. I am polyamorous, though."

  That seemed to confuse her. Then she made a comeback.

  "Get the fuck OUT of here, Stroup! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! You understand?"

  She headed for the bathroom.

  He turned and saw suspenders. He didn't try to stop her.

  ***

  In the cab across town which this time he did have to pay for he thought he saw Carla at the corner of Central Park West and 66th but it turned out to be the movie actress Lori Singer. Singer was a blonde and Carla was a redhead so he wondered how he'd got that wrong. He thought he heard his name mentioned over the dispatch radio but that couldn't be.

  He had the blues he guessed. He told the cabbie to let him off at 66th and Columbus just so he could walk the rest of the way. It was warm and breezy. The air would do him good.

  At the corner of 66th and Broadway a couple of kids in their twenties wearing jeans and teeshirts and both of them slightly overweight were necking in front of the bank. They looked happy. Probably they were in love. Love was a Wonderful Thing. Three tall jocks in the latest Gap sweatshirts walked by. Once they'd passed the kids necking by a few yards and just as Stroup hit the curb opposite one of them turned around.

  "Take it INSIDE!" the guy said.

  The kids stopped necking and looked.

  "You WISH you had something to take inside," Stroup said, "except for your miserable excuse for a cock. Fuck you, handjob! You useless piece of SHIT!"

  The lovers were looking at him now. A crazy man amidst them.

  "Carry on, kids," he said.

  SATURDAY

  "Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave."

  - Song of Solomon, 8:6

  Midway through ADVENTURES OF A CAT-TLE-BUR-GLAR the doorbell rang.

  Stroup peered through the peephole. Some guy with a backpack.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Stroup?"

  "Uh-huh?"

  "Messenger service."

  He opened the door. The guy handed him an envelope, a receipt and a ballpoint pen. Stroup signed his name.

  "Have a nice day," the guy told him. Have a nice day was an imperative. He didn't like it.

  He closed the door and opened the envelope. A summons. Carla was taking him to small-claims court. He was told to appear in person on such and such a day at such and such a time. The fucking Stairmaster-using, aerobic-sweaty cunt-lapping shaved-twat nympho bitch. She was taking his ass to court.

  He tore it in two and then thought better of it and Scotch-Taped it back together again. The last thing he needed was trouble with john law. He tossed it on his desk.

  Midway through MY HOLE AND I the phone rang. He heard his boss' voice on the other end. His boss was calling on a Saturday. That was unusual. His boss was telling him to pick up. So he did.

  "Max?"

  "Stroup? Glad I caught you."

  Like he had a life, maybe. Like he was going somewhere.

  "You're calling on a Saturday, Max. That's unusual."

  "I know. Listen, Stroup. There's no way to say this but straight out. You've been downsized."

  "What?"

  He was small enough already.

  "Downsized, Stroup. The agency's tightening its belt. You and three others."

  "Which three?"

  "That doesn't matter. I'm sorry, Stroup. You always did good work. You got it in on time. I appreciate that."

  "So why are you firing me?"

  "I'm not firing you. You've been downsized. We can get kids who'll do the work for less."

  "Less than ten percent? Are they crazy?"

  "Ambitious, Stroup. They want to work for a prestige agency."

  "That's what we are, a prestige agency?"

  "No need to be bitter, Stroup."

  "After fifteen years you're dumping me and I'm not supposed to get bitter."

  "It's my day off, Stroup. Give me a break."

  "I'm sorry to spoil your day, Max."

  "Could you mail us back your manuscripts? Naturally we'll pay you for whatever work you've completed."

  "Naturally."

  He hung up. ADVENTURES OF A CATTLE BURGLAR was worth twenty dollars to him. MY HOLE AND I was worth thirty. THIS GUN SWEATS WHEN IT GETS HOT was worth another twenty. He had a handful of short stories worth fifteen each.

  He threw them in the garbage.

  His phone rang. Max again.

  "You wouldn't throw those scripts away, would you Stroup?"

  Str
oup hung up on him.

  He looked out the window. It was a nice sunny day.

  ***

  He made himself a tuna sandwich and turned on CNN. He felt distracted. He could hardly pay attention. He kept glancing at the dresser drawer.

  The Republicans were behind in the polls.

  The kid with the Glock in Florida had confessed tearfully that it was he and not his schoolmates who'd impregnated his twelve-year-old girlfriend with the child of Behemoth Yuggdoroth Nit. He'd shot up the school so that somebody would stop him from doing it again. Stroup thought that was considerate of him.

  In Connecticut some guy was suing the police department. He'd taken the test to become a police officer and they turned him down because his score was too high. The New London Deputy Police Chief said that anybody that smart would probably get bored with the job.

  When he got up to bring his plate into the kitchen and passed his desk with the summons on it he thought he heard his name mentioned in connection with the New London story but that couldn't be.

  He sat down again. He lit a cigarette and watched more CNN. He glanced at the dresser drawer. The Democrats were behind in the polls. Some diabetic in L.A. went into the hospital to have his ulcerous foot removed and they took off the wrong one. The diabetic was switching hospitals.

  In Pakistan a court ordered an eloped teenage girl and her school-bus-driver boyfriend to be given a hundred lashes prior to being stoned to death. Her father evidently agreed with the courts. He'd reported the elopement.

  The news was getting to him. He started surfing channels with the good old universal remote. He got a college football game and a tennis game and a goddamn New York Yankees game. He got Super Sabado. He got an antique show and a cooking show and MURDER, SHE WROTE and some wildlife thing about snails and tree frogs and Weather On The Ones and NAVY SEALS and MATLOCK and MOMMIE DEAREST.

  Fuck it. Back to CNN. He thought for a moment that he'd clicked on in the middle of Willow Bey saying something about his sex life but that couldn't be.

  He considered calling up a buddy. But then he couldn't recall having any buddies. Must be one or two around somewhere. Or maybe not.

  He went over to his desk and re-read the summons. That was his name, all right.

  He looked up Carla's number at the restaurant. Some woman answered.

  "Taverna Lesvos. May I help you?"

  He realized he was growling. He had to quit that.

  They had the ball game on. He could hear it in the background. Classy joint.

  "Carla there?"

  "I'm afraid not. Is there anything I can help you with?"

  "Randi around?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "What exactly are you afraid of?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind. Any idea when she'll be back?"

  "Carla?"

  "Yes."

  "May I ask who's calling?"

  "Her ex."

  "Oh. I really don't know. Probably not until this evening I guess. They took a picnic over to the Sheep Meadow. It's such a lovely day."

  "The Sheep Meadow?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I thought they were supposed to be working their asses off over there. I thought you were always fucking swamped."

  "Excuse me, sir?"

  "Hell, yes. I don't care what you did."

  He hung up on her. He walked over and re-read the summons. They even had the amount he owed in there. Two thousand, seven hundred and six dollars and ninety cents. She was hitting him for the ninety cents. He glanced at the dresser drawer. He opened it and took the.38 revolver out from under his socks and underwear. He'd arranged to have the revolver straw-purchased for him in Pennsylvania some years ago when he still thought New York was a dangerous place and not just an annoying one.

  He checked the chamber and put it in his pocket.

  He took the remote off the bed and put it in his other pocket and then he left the building.

  ***

  The bar at Taverna Lesvos was packed. Up front near the TV they were standing two-deep. Everybody riveted on the Yankee game. Perfect.

  New York had invented baseball. Who the hell were this new generation? Hadn't anybody ever told these assholes that the entire point of a baseball cap was to keep the sun out of your eyes? Maybe wearing them backwards was some anti-redneck maneuver or maybe a form of rebellion. Like refusing to eat your spinach.

  He stood at the far end of the bar as far from the game as possible and ordered a scotch. The bartender was a blonde who had to be all of seventeen. He waited until the bases were loaded and the Yankee pitcher was winding up and then took out the remote and turned on the Food Channel. Strawberry soufflй, it looked tasty. The boys at the bar moaned and shouted and pointed at the TV like Donald Sutherland pointing at Brooke Adams in INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS. The bartender didn't seem to know what in hell was going on. She looked flustered. By the time she got hold of her remote and switched they were pitching Bud Lite.

  More moaning and groaning.

  After awhile the place settled down again.

  Meanwhile Stroup pocketed the remote and waited until somebody hit one deep into left field and the Yankee fielder was running hard to get under, hustling real good. He turned on the Home Shopping Network. They were selling jewelry there. Nice stuff. Young executives-and-CEOs-to-be yelled and stomped their feet and raised their fists into the air like Nazi Youth watching a parade of orthodox Jews go by.

  The bartender was doing something with ice and a shaker but she was a little faster this time and got to the remote just in time for everybody to watch the players retire the field.

  Guys groaned and bitched and finally quieted down again.

  He ordered another drink. Smoked a cigarette.

  He waited until the Yankee first baseman was rounding third and headed for home on a terrific grounder to right field and turned on the Weather Channel. It was pouring in Duluth. Sunny in California. California needed rain. There was serious rage in the room this time. Well-bred wasps turned into Chicago gangsters before his eyes. They were screaming at the bartender to fix the fucking TV, dammit! what the fuck is going on? They spilled beers and slapped the bar with their baseball caps which at least was a decent usage for the damn things and leapt and roared.

  He felt like a bullwhip in a herd of cattle.

  When he switched to The Learning Channel on what looked to be a Yankee homer the place went the rest of the way to hell and somebody shouted SCREW this shit! I bet they got the goddamn game on at the End of the World. Yeah! somebody else said, LET'S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! and they did.

  The exodus pleased him.

  It got nice and quiet in there.

  He sat awhile with the remote in his pocket thinking how much Liana hated baseball and how these guys were going to be disappointed there too and finished his scotch and paid and tipped and left the bar.

  ***

  He crossed Central Park West at 67th and walked through the parking lot at Tavern on the Green. Tourists walked in and out past the liveried doorman. Half-lame carriage horses stood blinkered and waiting, hoping not to die in traffic. What a life.

  He dodged sweaty long-distance runners and bicycles on Park Drive and walked past the hot dog vendor and through the cyclone wire gate to the narrow dirt path and gazed out over the wide green grass below. He checked the trees nearby.

  No Carla. Just a pair of blonde three-year-old kids and their Indian nannies. Strollers by Armani.

  Carla was lazy as a grub when she wasn't either working or eating pussy. She also had delicate skin. The day was bright. She'd go for the trees.

  He dropped the remote into a garbage can.

  He wouldn't need it anymore.

  He headed east along the northern border. Smelled fresh-cut grass. The grass smelled good. But how these sun-crazy fucks could stand the humidity he didn't know. The guys all had their shirts off and the women all wore halters or bikinis. Too bad it wasn't the other way around but still t
here were a lot of tits out there. He saw headphones and strollers and blankets and Frisbees and kites. He thought one of the kites had his name on it but that couldn't be. He saw black kids and white kids playing together. They were running around a tree, laughing. He thought one of them called his name but that couldn't be.

  The area across from Mineral Springs' red brick refreshment stand looked like a good bet to him. There was a low outcropping of rock surrounded by a dozen or so tall trees and it was just a short walk from there through the gate to get a frozen yogurt or a smoothie or a bagel or a pretzel or bottled water or a lemonade or a hot dog or whatever the hell you wanted. He saw people in the shade in front of every tree he came to, dozens of them, happy or sleepy or having fun or all those things together. He saw a woman blowing bubbles for a tiny wide-eyed baby in a carriage. One popped on his nose. Soap-spit.

  And then he saw Carla. She and Randi were on a blanket and propped against an oak tree a few yards away. Carla was feeding her potato chips. They were laughing. He realized he was growling. There was no point in stopping now so he didn't. He put his hand in his pocket and walked over.

  They still hadn't noticed him but he was about to change that radically when his eye went to a blonde kid in a varsity letter-jacket, green, number thirty-four according to the jacket who was standing leaning against a tree maybe forty feet away from them and he was thinking what the fuck is some asshole doing in a letter jacket in all this heat? is he nuts? when the guy pushed away from the tree and opened his jacket and pulled out something short and black that looked like a combination pistol and machine-gun and started spraying the field and trees left to right.

  Stroup hit the dirt. He saw the woman with the bubbles go down with red exploding from her shoulder and a guy with headphones double over like sombody'd kicked him in the stomach. He saw a kid maybe seven years old take one high in the forehead and then his father lurching toward him before his hip burst open.

  People were screaming. Scrambling for cover.

  The guy's automatic was moving toward Carla. They hadn't even gone down. They were holding one another, wide-open targets, the dumb lezzie bitches.