Idiot Wind

by Peter Kaldheim

  ‘Can’t smoke in the house, I take it?’ I said.

  ‘No way,’ Gino said. ‘My pop’s got emphysema. He’s always after me to quit. Says if I don’t wise up I’m going to end up sucking oxygen from a tank just like him.’

  ‘Was he a heavy smoker before he got sick?’ I asked, thinking of my parents. Both of them Raleigh smokers. Two packs a day each, for as long as I could remember.

  ‘Nope, that’s the bitch of it,’ Gino said. ‘My old man never smoked a cigarette in his life. But he played jazz clarinet in the Quarter for more than thirty years, and I guess all the secondhand smoke in the clubs finally got to him. It’s a damned shame. Pete Fountain called Pop one of the best clarinetists in New Orleans. Now his lungs are so shot he can’t blow three notes without getting winded.’

  ‘Jesus, that sucks,’ I said. ‘What a lousy break.’

  ‘Yeah, it sucks all right. Even though he never complains, I can tell it’s killing him that his playing days are over. Once in a while he’ll take his clarinet out and finger the keys while he’s listening to one of his Sidney Bechet records, but he never puts the mouthpiece to his lips any more, and that’s a fucking sad thing to see.’

  ‘If your father’s so sick, aren’t you worried about moving all the way to Tacoma?’ I asked, without thinking. And immediately regretted it. Who the hell was I to ask such a question? The last time I’d visited my parents, they were still smoking Raleighs. How many years had that brand been off the market now?

  ‘Sure, of course I am,’ Gino frowned. ‘I offered to stick around, but my parents say there’s no need. I guess if Pop takes a turn for the worse I can always fly back to New Orleans quick enough. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Anyway, come on, we’d better get inside before Mom burns the bacon.’

  If you’ve ever seen an oversized cowbird chick in a nest full of fledgling sparrows, you’ll have some idea how incongruous Gino looked when we joined his parents at the breakfast table. They were both so tiny it was hard to believe they’d spawned such a hulking son. Still, there was no mistaking Gino’s paternity. Take away the nasal cannula that snaked down from his nostrils to the portable oxygen tank parked beside his chair and Gino’s father’s face was as Italian as a jug of Chianti – even Gino’s wiry beard couldn’t hide the family resemblance.

  I’d been unsure what kind of reception I’d receive as an unexpected guest at their table. It turned out I needn’t have worried. They treated me as if I were an old friend of Gino’s, and once I got used to the novelty of hearing two pure-bred Italians speaking with Southern drawls I soon relaxed and enjoyed their company as much as the heaping portions of scrambled eggs and bacon Gino’s mom dished up.

  After breakfast, Gino and I tag-teamed the dishwashing, while his parents got dressed for Sunday Mass. They invited us to join them at church, but Gino begged off, claiming he still had a lot of last-minute stuff to take care of before hitting the road – and the first thing on his list was to take me out for a test drive in his Fiat to let me get a feel for how it handled.

  The Fiat was parked beneath a tree in the side yard. When we pulled off the protective tarp, it was such a beautiful machine I immediately had second thoughts about driving it cross-country. It was a Fiat 2000 Spider Turbo convertible, vintage 1981, without a single blemish visible anywhere on its cherry-red paintwork. Driving such a pristine car all the way to Tacoma suddenly seemed like a daunting challenge. Nonetheless, I gamely played along and took the wheel as Gino put me through the paces on the local backroads. It took me a few bucking false starts to get used to the Fiat’s tight clutch, but by the third stop-and-go I was shifting smoothly and, as far as I could tell, Gino was satisfied with my performance.

  Everything seemed fine when Gino had me pull into a gas station to fill the Fiat’s tank for the road. However, by the time we got back to his parents’ house he’d had a change of heart. To my surprise, he announced he’d decided to ship the Fiat out to Tacoma by truck after all. He swore his decision had nothing to do with my driving skills. I wasn’t so sure about that. But I took him at his word when he said it was only my lack of a driver’s licence that had him worried.

  ‘God forbid, some asshole gets you into a wreck, how am I going to explain it to my insurance company? They’ll shit-can any claim I put in once they see there was an unlicenced driver at the wheel. Sorry, man, I don’t think that’s a risk I want to take. But don’t get pissed. You can still ride along with me in the Audi and help spell me at the wheel. Okay?’

  ‘Better than okay,’ I admitted. ‘Tell you the truth, soon as I saw there wasn’t a scratch on it I started sweating the whole deal myself. I think shipping it by truck is the smart play, Gino. Go for it.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I think, too. Except now we’ll have to wait another day to hit the road. I’ll need to do some scrambling in the morning and find a trucking outfit to come pick the car up. My parents have enough to deal with already. I’m not dumping another problem in their laps on my way out the door.’

  ‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘Makes no difference to me what time we leave. I’m just happy to have a ride.’

  It was mid-morning on Monday by the time we finally made our getaway – and not a moment too soon, either. I doubt I could have survived one more gorge-fest at Mama Cardello’s table. The woman’s favourite Italian imperative verb seemed to be: Mangia! And, bless her heart, she just wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was feeling fat and happy when we hit the road, but Gino was in a grumpy mood and hardly spoke a word all the way to Baton Rouge. Thanks to my snoring, he’d been up half the night, and every time I saw him yawning at the wheel I was sorry I’d accepted his offer to bunk on the floor of his bedroom instead of sleeping in the Audi.

  Not wanting to poke the bear, I kept silent and just stared out the window at the roadside advertising. Judging by the signs, the economy of southern Louisiana seemed to be driven by two main engines – shops selling guns and ammo, and seafood shacks offering boiled crawfish and baby-alligator fricassee. Which made sense, I supposed. After a hard day’s hunting on the bayou, spraying swamp critters with lead, nothing says laissez les bon temps rouler like a heaping plate of mud-bugs and gator, n’est-ce pas?

  After a coffee stop in Lafayette, we pushed on toward Lake Charles, and as the caffeine kicked in Gino livened up and broke his long silence by asking me a question I’d been asking myself for longer than I cared to admit:

  ‘No offence, Pete, but what the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked, surprised more by the blunt way he’d put it than the question itself. Then again, what did I expect from a graduate of Parris Island? Conversational politesse? Tell it to the Marines!

  ‘Come on, get real,’ he snorted. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You tell me you went to Dartmouth, and talking to you I can believe it. What I can’t figure out is how a guy with an Ivy League degree ends up out on the street, living like a bum. Tell me to fuck off if it’s none of my business. I’m not trying to bust your balls here. I’m just curious, that’s all. How did it happen?’

  ‘Ever make it to the ’64 World’s Fair in New York, Gino?’ I asked.

  ‘The World’s Fair? Yeah, I stood in line two hours for a Belgian waffle. So what?’ he replied. ‘The fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Remember the slogan at the DuPont Pavilion – Better Living through Chemistry. There’s your answer, Gino. The secret of my success. Booze and cocaine. I couldn’t have done it without them,’ I said, with a half-assed grin. ‘Even with an Ivy League degree.’

  ‘Well then, I don’t care how smart you are, you’re still a moron,’ Gino scowled. ‘You make like it’s a joke, but what’s so goddamned funny about pissing your life down the drain? Or pissing on everyone that’s close to you while you’re at it? Because that’s what junkies always do, isn’t it? Piss on everything and pretend it’s just for laughs!’

  ‘Jesus, Gino, this is you not busting my balls?’ I objected. His quest
ions were a painful reminder of how shabbily I’d treated Susan and Danny and Bobby Bats. Everything Gino had just said was true – and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ Gino said, though he didn’t sound sorry in the least. ‘I’ve got no sympathy for junkies. I made the mistake of marrying one.’

  That explains it, I thought. The sudden note of bitterness in his voice had caught me off guard. But as Gino’s story spilled out over the next fifty miles, I realised he had every right to be bitter.

  He’d been working as a mechanic at a Mercedes dealership in Albuquerque when he met his future wife, a barmaid named Cindy who had just moved to town from Minnesota and landed a job on the day shift at the roadhouse where Gino did his after-work drinking. Cindy was ten years younger than Gino, so he’d been hesitant at first to ask her out, but they were soon making wedding plans. After they tied the knot, they started saving every dollar they could spare for a down-payment on a house, so when a bartending slot on the night shift at the roadhouse came open, Cindy had jumped at the chance to change shifts and double her earnings. That’s when the trouble started, according to Gino.

  ‘The night crowd was full of cokeheads, and the stupid bitch couldn’t resist temptation,’ Gino said. ‘She started using, but I didn’t notice at first. With the two of us working opposite shifts, it wasn’t hard for her to hide what she was up to, and she managed to keep me in the dark for months. She was already hooked by the time I wised up, and when I confronted her and started ripping her ass for being such a dumb fuck she burst into tears and told me she’d just found out she was pregnant. Can you believe that shit? If she hadn’t been carrying our baby, I think I’d have strangled the bitch.’

  After Gino’s tirade, Cindy had vowed to clean up her act for the baby’s sake, but like most junkies’ promises it lasted no longer than her next opportunity to score. Claiming they needed money now more than ever, Cindy had insisted on keeping her job at the bar, and Gino had reluctantly agreed. ‘More fool me,’ Gino said. Having been caught once, Cindy took greater pains to keep her coke habit hidden from him this time around, and it wasn’t until a few weeks before her due date that she finally slipped up and got sloppy, walking into their apartment one night after her shift with pupils like saucers and a telltale white crust around her nostrils. It was her bad luck that Gino, usually asleep when she got home, had gotten up only minutes before to use the bathroom. Even half-asleep, he couldn’t miss the evidence, and he went batshit.

  ‘I gave the bitch an ultimatum,’ Gino said. ‘Either she quit her job immediately and kicked her coke habit for good, or I was filing for divorce and sole custody of the baby. She knew I meant it, too. And no judge was going to side with a druggie parent in a custody case, so she stayed at home and kicked cold turkey. But by then the damage was already done. Two weeks later, she gave birth to our son, Dominic, and he was born with a deformed skull. The doctors said he had a condition called craniosynostosis.’

  ‘Craniosynostosis? What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s when the gaps between the skull bones in a baby’s head merge prematurely,’ Gino explained. ‘The gaps are called sutures, and they’re not supposed to close up until your brain has stopped growing. If the fibres between sutures turn to bone before the brain is done expanding, you get too much pressure on the brain and all kinds of complications.’

  ‘God, that’s terrible. Is it treatable?’ I asked.

  ‘It would have been,’ Gino said bitterly. ‘If Dominic had lived that long.’

  ‘Christ, Gino, what happened?’

  ‘Two days after his christening, his worthless cunt mother killed him, that’s what happened. I was working at the shop when I got the call from a nurse at the hospital telling me to get over there right away, that my son was in critical condition with swelling of the brain. I jumped in my car and blew every red light on the way, but I was still too late. Dominic was gone. When I showed up, Cindy was already being questioned by the cops. The ER doc had called them in. He’d seen shaken-baby syndrome before and suspected Dom had been throttled. Of course, Cindy denied doing anything wrong, but I knew how short-tempered she’d gotten after kicking her coke habit and I had no doubt the doctor was right. And, sure as shit, when the pathology report came in, it confirmed his suspicion.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gino,’ I said. ‘Did they arrest Cindy?’

  ‘Yeah, the county DA brought manslaughter charges against her. Which was a fucking joke. She should have been charged with murder. The bitch knew Dom’s condition made him extra vulnerable to brain injury. He was scheduled to have corrective surgery at the end of the month, but until then the doctors had warned us to be especially gentle with him, so she knew better. She just didn’t give a fuck. No matter how much she cried about it afterward. At her trial, her defence attorney tried pleading post-partum depression. The jury didn’t buy that bullshit. They convicted her of first-degree manslaughter, and the judge sentenced her to five years in prison. She got off easy, you ask me. But there was nothing I could do about it. Except file for divorce and hope sooner or later some prison dyke gives her the punishment she deserves. You understand now why I’ve got no sympathy for junkies?’

  ‘Sorry, Gino, I had no idea. But I get it, believe me.’

  ‘Then do yourself a favour and start owning your fuck-ups instead of playing them for laughs. I’m just sayin’.’

  ‘Point taken,’ I replied, duly chastened. What else could I say? He was right. Still, that didn’t make his criticism any easier to swallow. I hoped this wasn’t a foretaste of what he had in store for me in the miles ahead. If so, it was going to be a longer trip than I’d bargained for. Nevertheless, Gino’s horror story gave me plenty to think about and, as we pushed on toward the Texas border, I couldn’t help reflecting that I’d treated those I loved with no more care than Cindy had treated little Dominic.

  Like Gino said, that’s what junkies do. When you’re an addict, you live in the moment, because that’s where the rush is. You never think about the collateral damage until it’s already done. Of course you’re appalled afterward, but that only makes you hate yourself for being such a selfish prick. Eventually, you begin to doubt you’re even capable of loving anyone. Or worthy of being loved in return. Which is too depressing to contemplate, so you turn around and get high again and the regrets keep piling up.

  I could understand Gino hating Cindy for what she’d done, but I doubt he hated her any more than she hated herself. Like me, she probably thought prison was where she belonged. That’s how I felt when I got arrested and sent to Rikers Island a few months after Kate’s death. Like I deserved to be punished. Not for selling cocaine, but for betraying Kate and my family. Though it was too late to redeem myself with Kate, I’d written to my parents from prison and begged their forgiveness, promising I’d come see them after my release. But it was too little, too late. My parents’ hearts had hardened just like Jack’s, and my father brushed me off with a terse reply. He said he hoped for my sake I’d get my life together one day, but he couldn’t forgive me for treating my mom – the woman he loved – with so much disrespect.

  What did you expect? I thought. You made yourself a stranger, and now you’re being treated like one. Even so, I took the news hard. If I’d been locked away in solitary confinement instead of a cellblock, I couldn’t possibly have felt any lonelier than I did the night my father’s letter arrived. I hoped for Cindy’s sake her parents hadn’t disowned her, too, because though Gino might think she’d gotten off easy I knew better. Like me, she’d be paying for her mistakes long after her sentence was up.

  It was mid-afternoon when we reached the Sabine River and crossed over into the Gulf Coast oil town of Beaumont, Texas, where the brown air was acrid with the stench from the refineries’ cracking plants. If I had closed my eyes, I would have thought we’d just taken Exit 13 off the Jersey Turnpike – the only other place I’d ever been to that smelled as bad was Elizabeth, New Jersey, another refinery tow
n no one drives through with their windows down. We’d been travelling for nearly six hours, but Gino showed no signs of tiring and he pushed on through to Houston, where we got mired in the start of the evening rush hour and slowed to a crawl as we worked our way past a three-car pile-up in the eastbound lanes.

  The traffic reporters from the local radio stations were out in full force above the wreck, their helicopters circling like buzzards over roadkill, and whenever a copter came into view Gino would give it the finger. I assumed his contempt for helicopters stemmed from his time in Vietnam. Over the weekend, he’d briefly mentioned that he’d spent his tour as a helicopter mechanic. But he hadn’t said more than that and, despite being curious, I hadn’t pressed him for more details. Most Vietnam vets I’d known were similarly reticent about their wartime experiences, rarely sharing their stories with people who hadn’t been to war themselves. I was one of those people – part of the fortunate majority who’d spent the war years safely shielded from service by a college deferment – so I knew better than to pry. Nevertheless, it wasn’t hard to imagine why Gino was still flipping the finger at helicopters so many years later. As I sat there silently beside him, refraining from comment, I pictured a helicopter all shot to shit, returning to base with casualties after taking fire from Viet Cong machine guns. Then I pictured a nineteen-year-old mechanic tasked with patching it up – and having to hose out the blood of his fellow Marines before repairs could even be started. If I’d been through what Gino had, I’m sure I’d have given those traffic copters the finger myself.

  Two hundred miles later, we rolled into San Antonio, and Gino stopped for gas and more coffee at a Flying J truck stop. I got out to stretch my legs and to use the restroom. On my way back outside, I paused for a moment to check out the ‘You Are Here’ road map posted in the restaurant’s lobby and was disheartened to see that we were still five hundred miles from El Paso and the New Mexico border. Fucking Texas was endless.