Pretend I'm Dead

by Jen Beagin

  Johnny wasn’t there yet, so she sat in her car and waited with her camera in her lap. The native drummers had just finished their set and were making a beeline for their rusty van in the parking lot. The sun was five minutes from the horizon and looked like an oblong glob of Murphy Oil Soap. The rest of the sky was on fire. If Yoko and Yoko were around, they’d be drooling all over the place.

  She turned to Carmen-Maria-Sofia in the passenger seat. “You forgot to put your seat belt on,” she said. “And I can see your underwear.” As she reached over to adjust the doll’s dress someone tapped on the window, startling her.

  It was Johnny. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, and the front of his T-shirt was covered with what looked like tiny metal shavings. She pictured him filing the bars of a cage and then quickly realized it was scratch-ticket dust. He must have scratched twenty tickets on his way to work.

  “Hey, Oven Cleaner,” he said.

  She rolled down her window and smiled. “Oh, hey. I remember you. Sort of.”

  “Why you spying on me?”

  She snorted. “I’m not spying.”

  “Yes, you are, and you’re taking pictures,” he said, pointing to the camera in her lap.

  “You know, there’s a support group for people like you,” she said. “It’s called Paranoia Anonymous. Ever hear of it?”

  “How do you know Betty?”

  “Betty who?”

  “That Betty,” he said, and pointed to the doll.

  Mona massaged the back of her neck. “I’m her cleaning lady,” she confessed, and looked down at her camera.

  “Betty has a maid?”

  Mona winced at the word “maid.”

  “I’m surprised she gave you that doll. If I remember right, she’s pretty attached to those things.”

  “She didn’t exactly hand it over,” she said. “I, uh, kidnapped her. I’m going to use her as a bargaining chip in case something goes wrong.”

  He laughed. “Like what?”

  “Well, in case she doesn’t pay me.”

  “What are you going to do—break the doll’s kneecaps?”

  “I was thinking of smashing her face with a hammer.”

  “How much she paying you?”

  “Enough,” she said. “Hey, if you wouldn’t mind posing for some head shots, I’ll totally split the money with you.”

  He laughed. “Think I’ll pass.” He looked wistful all of a sudden. “I suppose she wants pictures to channel her bullshit.”

  “Yeah,” Mona said, nodding. “She’s convinced you’re about to die of a massive heart attack, but I think that’s my fault—I sort of put the idea in her head.”

  He put his hand on his chest and frowned.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Mona said. “I only have a year to live.”

  “Listen, my shift starts in an hour. Why don’t you come in and have a drink? I want to talk to you about something.”

  “You’re not going to kidnap me and then torture me, are you?”

  He shook his head and gave her a quizzical look. “I’m not mad. Tell me your name again, though.”

  “Mona,” she said.

  He opened the car door for her. “Should I bring my camera?” she asked.

  He laughed. “No.”

  She brought the camera anyway. Inside, he directed her to sit at one of the tables and then brought her a draft from the bar. “On the house,” he said, placing it on a coaster in front of her. He sat down heavily. He had what looked like sheet creases on the side of his face. She brushed imaginary crumbs off the tabletop and then sipped her beer. He smiled tightly at her.

  “How long you been working for Betty?” he asked.

  “Couple months.”

  “So you’ve figured out she’s not right in the head.”

  “She’s pretty weird,” Mona admitted. “But I wouldn’t say she’s barking mad or anything. Although, I found this crazy poem once about a machete—”

  “I wrote that,” he said quickly, and laughed. “Holy crackers. I can’t believe she still has it.”

  “Still has the machete, too.”

  “Well, that was my inspiration. That and her off-the-wall temper.” He added a stick of gum to the wad in his mouth and chewed solemnly. “I’ll tell you a story about Betty, just to give you an idea of who you’re dealing with. You see these scars?” He pointed to three white marks, one on his left eyelid and the others under his right eye. They looked like miniature quarter moons. “Betty and I went out to dinner one night and I told her I was leaving her. This was ages ago. She freaked out and got really drunk. Only, she doesn’t drink, so I had to carry her to the car. I put her in the backseat and she passed out. I was going to drive her home and then go sleep at my brother’s.

  “So I’m driving down 74, which is two lanes, heading to her trailer, and it’s pitch-dark, no moon or nothing. I’m doing about eighty. Then all of a sudden she’s awake. Wide awake and screaming. So what does she do? She sits up and puts her hands over my eyes—while I’m driving. And not just peekaboo style—she’s trying to claw my eyes out with those fucking talons of hers.

  “There’s traffic coming in the other direction. I can see the headlights through her fingers. I take my foot off the gas and one of my hands off the wheel and try to snap her wrist. Meanwhile, we sail off the highway and the car rolls into an arroyo.” In a gesture she recognized from hours of staring at him, he ran a finger over the scars beneath his eye. “We should be dead. Actually, I shouldn’t say ‘we’—she didn’t have a scratch on her.”

  “Was this in her Cadillac?”

  “No, thank God. And it’s mine, by the way, not hers.”

  “She told me she won it in the divorce.”

  He shook his head. “Not part of the deal. I never signed it over to her. She forged my signature.” His jaw tightened.

  “You don’t have a heart condition by any chance, do you?” she asked, trying to change the subject. “Betty’s pretty convinced you’re going to keel over any second.”

  “Listen,” he said. “You and I have met for a reason.” He parked his gum in the side of his mouth. “We were supposed to meet, I mean.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You sound just like her.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we both believed in: there are no coincidences.”

  “Terrific.”

  “This is going to sound crazy, but you’re supposed to get my car back for me, and I’m supposed to introduce you to my nephew.” He started chewing again. “I just figured it out right this second.”

  “By ‘get my car back’ you mean steal it, right?”

  “It’d be the opposite of stealing, since it’s my car.”

  “Well, if you’re the rightful owner, why don’t you go and get it yourself?”

  “Because it’s complicated.”

  “It sounds pretty straightforward to me.”

  His face reddened and he looked at his hands. “Betty has some dirt on me,” he said. “That’s all I can say about it.”

  “How am I supposed to get your car back? Just out of curiosity.”

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “You go to the radio station, right? At around midnight, when she’s on the air, and you just take it. I have a set of keys, okay? Then you drive it to my brother’s place in Arroyo Seco. Ten miles. That’s it. You put it in his garage, he drives you home, and it’s all over in an hour.” He smiled at her. “Or maybe my nephew gives you a ride.” He winked. “Anyway, I’ll be here, see, so she won’t suspect nothing.”

  “Uh, won’t she suspect something when she sees you tooling around town in it?”

  “I’m moving to California next month. And anyway, she won’t report it stolen because it’s not really hers. You see? It’s all a game.”

  “So she will know you’re in on it.”

  “Yeah, but she can’t prove it,” he said. “It’s complicated, like I said. You just have to trust me.”

  She imagined herself behind the wheel of the Cad
dy and smiled. Then she imagined Betty chasing after her with a machete.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What’s in it for me?”

  “My nephew.”

  “Is he, like, a male prostitute or something?”

  “No! He might be your new boyfriend. He’s weird, like you. Artsy-fartsy or whatever. You’re perfect for each other.”

  “Maybe I don’t want a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, you do. I can see it in your face. Listen, I’d give you money if I could, but I’m broke. You can ask anyone. So meet my nephew and just think about it. You don’t have to worry—I’m not holding you to anything.”

  “You should probably let me photograph you now. As a gesture of goodwill.”

  He hesitated. “Fine,” he said. “What should I do?” He brushed hair out of his face with a thick hand. “Should I smile?”

  “No, look natural. Look in my direction but not right at me.” She took a few pictures. “Now look off to the side. You should look like you’re talking to someone. Tell me your nephew’s name.” She continued snapping away.

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “That’s his name—Jesus.”

  “You mean Jesús? I can manage the Spanish pronunciation.”

  “No, it’s Jesus. He was born on Christmas. His mother’s white.”

  And out of her mind, obviously. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-seven. Trust me, you’ll like him.” He smiled. “Come by tomorrow night around ten and I’ll make sure he’s here.”

  They’d probably be mutually horrified by each other and the meeting would be over in five minutes. He’d excuse himself and go to the restroom, then climb out a window. Or vice versa.

  But maybe not. Johnny seemed utterly confident of their destiny together. She was touched by his conviction and enthusiasm. Could she really date someone named Jesus? Well, it wouldn’t last long—after all, she might be dead in a year. Perhaps dating Jesus would somehow get her into heaven, if it existed.

  * * *

  HE LOOKED NOTHING LIKE HIS namesake. In fact he looked like a Spanish greaser. He wore pomade in his black hair and was dressed in a plain white T-shirt, a belt with a Western star and wings on the buckle, dark jeans, and gray suede shoes. His eyes definitely qualified as squinty, but he may have just needed glasses.

  “Nice to meet you . . . Jesus,” she said.

  “Likewise,” he said. “But listen, you can call me Jesse if you’re more comfortable with that.”

  “How many people call you Jesse?”

  “Lots,” he said. To her surprise, he did some silent counting on his fingers. “Ten or twelve, at least.”

  “Lame,” she said. “I’ll stick with Jesus.”

  He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

  They were sitting at a small circular table Johnny had reserved for them. It was one of a handful on a platform overlooking the stage and dance floor. The VIP section, as it were. Johnny had a perfect view of them from the door, which was roughly fifty feet away, and his eyes swept over their table every fifteen seconds, like a spotlight. It was country night, unfortunately. Live music and line dancing. The crowd, which was sizable, especially for a Tuesday night, could be summed up by the phrase “big hats, no cattle.” Luckily the crappy band was between sets, so they didn’t have to shout to be heard.

  Not that they were talking much. They’d covered the basics in ten minutes: he was a college dropout; he lived alone; he had two jobs; he worked in a plant nursery during the day and waited tables at night; he painted pictures in his spare time—religious figures were his subject, though he wasn’t religious; he grew up in Cordova.

  “Near that church with the miracle dirt?” she asked.

  “Not far from there.”

  She explained how she’d stopped at that church when she first came to Taos and stocked up on holy dirt. “I used to bathe in it, practically.”

  He tipped his head back to laugh, just like his uncle. “Did it work?” he asked. “Are you cured?”

  “Still need crutches occasionally,” she said.

  Now there was a lull. Jesus seemed slightly uneasy. They ordered a third round of margaritas. He slurped them down like water, just like her, so they had that in common, but he was too pretty for her. His teeth were too white and straight and she could tell he had a washboard stomach—on purpose. No bueno. Still, there was something about his skin that made her want to bite him.

  “So your uncle seems to think we’re destined to be together.”

  He shrugged. “He thinks everything’s a sign. It gives his life meaning.”

  “Has he done this to you before?”

  He took a long sip of his drink and held up two fingers.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  “But it’s been a while. He’s seeing fewer ‘signs’ now that he’s clean. Thank God.”

  “AA?”

  “GA,” he said. “He hasn’t set foot in a casino in two years. A miracle.”

  Should she mention that he was covered in scratch-ticket dust yesterday? No, she decided. Leave it alone. Maybe scratch tickets didn’t count.

  “What were the other girls like?”

  “The first one sold him a winning lottery ticket. Her name was . . . Debbie, I think. This was, like, six years ago or something. She worked at 7-Eleven. He was positive we were going to live happily ever after, which ended up being, like, ten minutes. The second one was a blackjack dealer at the casino here in town. He won some money at her table and gave her my phone number along with a tip. Or instead of a tip, knowing him. Her name was Magdalena, which he thought was extremely significant. Turns out she had four kids. I was like, what the fuck.”

  “And here you are again. You must be an optimist,” she said. “Or a masochist.”

  “Actually, I just want to make John happy. He’s had a hard life. Plus, he lives for this shit. And he’s moving to California in a month, so I figured what the hell.” They were silent for a minute and she watched him fidget with his cocktail napkin. “Are you an optimist?” he asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, I’m just desperate and hard up,” she said, and laughed. “Seriously.”

  “Where do you hang out usually?”

  “In my living room.”

  “Do you have roommates?”

  “Just me, myself, and I,” she said. “We bicker constantly.”

  “Do you have friends?”

  “I haven’t gotten around to making any, but it’s on my list.”

  “I’ll be your friend,” he said, and smiled.

  She was startled by the lack of irony in his voice and thought of Mr. Disgusting. He’d said the same thing on their first date, and look what happened there.

  “You look confused,” he said, “but I’m serious. We should be friends.”

  “What happens when you fall in love with me? Or vice versa?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Why not? Am I hideous? You can tell me.”

  He motioned for her to come closer. She leaned toward him and got a whiff of his musky cologne.

  “Gay,” he whispered.

  “Oh,” she said. And here she thought she had gaydar. Well, it explained why he noticed that her shoes matched the stripe in her shirt earlier. So the pressure was off. She felt her neck and shoulders relax.

  “I have a feeling I’m not your type anyway,” he said.

  “You would be if you were wearing ten extra pounds and a mustache,” she said. “And a hairnet, maybe.”

  He laughed.

  “Your uncle doesn’t know, obviously.”

  “No one in my family does. I’m very discreet. I’ve never dated anyone from around here. I’ll have to tell them eventually, but it’s . . . hard. I’m an only child and my parents want grandchildren—bad. It’s, like, all they talk about.”

  “Here’s what I think we should do: let’s put on a show for your uncle. Let’s pretend it’s love at first sight. It’ll be f
un.”

  “But we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.”

  “So we’ve had a couple of drinks and we just realized we’re made for each other,” she said. “Happens all the time.”

  “What are we supposed to do—make out?”

  “No, no,” she said. “We gaze into each other’s eyes, like this. Then eventually we hold hands across the table. Then you touch my leg or something. Then we leave in a hurry.”

  They leaned toward each other until their faces were a foot apart. “Boy, this is really intimate,” she said. “Do I have bad breath?”

  “You’re fine. You have nice eyes.”

  “No, you do.”

  “Listen, there’s another reason I wanted to meet you—John asked you to get his car back, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s been trying to get me to do it for years. Just say no.”

  “Just say no,” Mona repeated. “That never occurred to me. I was going to tell him I have polyps on my uterus.”

  He laughed. She reached over and touched his earlobe, then watched his face redden. “You’re really good at this,” he said.

  “This is the best date I’ve been on in a while, believe it or not.”

  He awkwardly brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “I think we might be overdoing it.”

  “Nonsense.” She glanced at Johnny. He was sitting on a stool at the door, beaming at them. She took Jesus’s hand and kissed it, then held it to her cheek and closed her eyes. “I really, really like you.” She sighed.

  “You’re going to give John a fucking heart attack. He’s totally staring at us. He’s probably making wedding plans already.”

  She lowered his hand away from her face and held it across the table. “I suppose we should get out of here before the band starts up again.”

  They finished their drinks and walked toward the door, holding hands. Johnny was still sitting on a stool, talking on a cell phone. He winked at them as they passed. “You kids be careful,” he called out.

  “Where you parked?” she asked.

  He pointed to a bicycle.

  “Do you want a ride?” she asked.