Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

– None of this is gonna fit.

– It’s all baggy shit, try it on.

I end up decked out in a pair of drawstring pants that just go over my waist, the cuffs dropping to the middle of my calves, and one of those hooded surf tops with the kangaroo pocket in front. There’s no way his shoes are gonna work for me, so I stick with the trail sneakers I put on way back at the bungalow.

I stop, pull my Levis out of the bag, and go through the pockets. Nothing.

– Rolf?

– Dude?

– Do you have my cash and stuff?

– Yeah, sorry, man, kind of went through your pockets while you were out. Look in the zipper pouch on my day pack under the sink.

I open the sink cabinet and take out Rolf’s red, white, and blue day pack. In the pouch I find the cash, the Carlysle ID, and the Christmas card I took from Wade’s kitchen table. I also find the Anaconda and Danny’s pistol. I stuff the card and money in my pocket. I look at the ID. I don’t recall the border guard making any record of my name when I crossed, but with my face all over the TV who knows what he’ll remember. I dump the useless ID in the garbage bag and leave the guns in Rolf’s pack.

– You’re up, Rolf.

He scoots out of the driver’s seat and Sid scoots in under him, a smooth and practiced move. He comes back and I sit on the floor while he strips naked except for the money belt. Up front, Sid slips System of a Down into the stereo and cranks it up.

Rolf dumps his clothes and finds Sid’s black leather pants.

– Haven’t worn a pair of these since I moved to Mexico.

He’s Sid’s height, but a couple pounds heavier. He has to lie on his back, kick his way into the pants, and suck in his stomach to button them.

– Sweet.

He shrugs on a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt with black stripes running down the arms, and gets his feet into a pair of Red Wing work boots.

– Kinda metalish for my taste, but fuck it, we’re incognito, right?

I don’t say anything, just tilt my head toward Sid. Rolph looks over his shoulder toward the front of the van. Sid is singing along to “Chop Suey!” Rolf looks back at me.

– What’s up, dude?

– Where did you get him?

– He’s the kid brother of this chick I used to hook up with in San Diego. Couple years ago he came to Mexico on a surf trip and looked me up. We stayed in touch. I needed a ride and some help here, so I called him.

– You know he’s a psycho.

– Dude. I knew he could get pretty violent. I mean, his pop kicked him and his sister around pretty fuckin’ hard, so that’s like his socialization, right?

I don’t say anything. He licks his lips, nods.

– OK. Yeah, dude, I know. He’s psycho. Why do you think I brought him along?

– What?

– Dude, no way I’m gonna go bustin’ a cap in any more people. I most especially don’t intend to be doin’ it now that I am north of the border. That would be unwise. But there may be killin’ to be done.

– So you brought Sid.

– So I brought Sid. Killin’ time is hard time. And, if we get caught? Hard time is not in my plans. Sid can take that heat.

I don’t say anything to the man in front of me, the man I used to go fishing with in Mexico.

– Dudes!

Rolf looks over the seat into the front of the bus.

– What’s up?

– We need gas. Baker’s right up here. I’m gonna pull off. And, dudes, we can check out the World’s Tallest Thermometer.

I stay in the back and look at Rolf’s day pack and think about the guns in it.

SID PULLS off the I-5 onto Baker Boulevard, into the heart and soul of Baker. That heart and soul is an expanse of tarmac that hosts the Mad Greek, the “Original” Bun Boy, the Country Store (“the Luckiest Lotto Dealer in California”), and the Will’s Fargo, Bun Boy, and Arne’s Royal Hawaiian motels. All have a great view of the thermometer. Then again, all of Baker has a view of the hundred-and-thirty-four-foot thermometer.

– Sid?

– Dude?

– Isn’t this stop playing against the plan to keep moving?

– Dude, we need gas. Oh, man, check it out!

He’s pointing at the thermometer.

– I’m gonna get a picture.

He grabs a disposable camera from the glove box and jumps out of the VW. We watch as he runs to the base of the thermometer, stands with his back to it, holds the camera at waist level, pointing it up at himself, and clicks a picture. Then he runs back and jumps in.

– That is gonna be rad.

He pulls the bus under the brightly lighted awning of a Shell station.

– Uh, dudes, I could kinda use some gas money.

Rolf pats his pockets, ignoring the seventy-five grand wrapped around his middle.

– Yeah, dude, I’m kinda tapped too.

I reach in my pocket. After buying the BMW, I have just under four thousand left. I take five hundred off the roll and hold the cash out to Sid.

– For travel expenses.

– Dude, you sure?

– Yeah.

– You are so cool. Thanks, dude.

He hops out to fill that tank and climbs back in a couple minutes later.

– Dude in the station says we got to have a strawberry shake at that Mad Greek place. How ’bout it? My treat, seein’ as I’m flush.

He parks at the far end of the lot, away from the lights, and goes in for the shakes. I get out and stand, stretching my cramped limbs and trying to walk the stiffness out of the wound in my left thigh. My head is still goofy. If I turn it too quickly everything blurs and I have to wait for all the ghost images to catch up with the real world. But my stomach has settled and I’m looking forward to my shake.

Sid comes back. I slide the side door of the bus open, sit on the floor with my feet hanging out, and sip my shake. Rolf stays in the front seat, sucking hard on his straw. Sid is pacing back and forth in front of me, drinking his shake and trying not to look like he’s watching me, but he is.

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to talk to him. But I need him to like me. I need it to be harder for him to kill me, if it comes to that. When it comes to that.

– Sid, why don’t you sit down?

– That’s cool, dude, I’m OK.

– You’re making me a little nervous, have a seat.

He shrugs and sits next to me, leaving as much room as possible between us. He kicks his feet against the tarmac, takes a sip, and lifts his shake.

– Good, huh?

– Yeah.

– Yeah.

There’s a loud gurgling slurp as Rolf hits the bottom of his shake. He climbs out of the bus and points at the Mad Greek.

– I’m gonna piss, dudes. Then we roll.

Sid bobs his head.

– Dude, yeah, we, like, still have to find a spot to bury the clothes and shit. I mean, that’s cool right, Hank? That’s the way to do it?

– Yeah, sure.

Rolf walks toward the restaurant. Sid watches him disappear inside. He sucks some shake into his straw, pulls the straw from the waxed paper cup, and shoots a stream of shake onto the ground. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

– It’s OK, dude.

– What’s that?

– If you think I’m a freak. Like the story of my life. Whatever.

He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, fills his straw with shake again, and starts Pollocking little abstracts on the ground between his feet.

– I don’t think you’re a freak, Sid. I just don’t know what you’re doing here.

He shrugs.

– I don’t know.

– Is it the money?

Thinking about his cabinet of fetishes, knowing already it is not about the money for this guy. He shakes his head, hard.

– No, dude, I don’t want your money, man. I mean, like, I like money. I’m not that big a freak, but.

He takes another sip of his shake, then pulls the top off and dumps the rest of it on the ground, obliterating his design.