Charlie Huston: Six Bad Things

– My daughter wants a nose job. She is sixteen and she wants a nose job. Why? There is nothing wrong with her nose. She has my nose. Is there anything wrong with my nose?

I look at his flat and crooked nose, and shake my head. He smiles.

– Of course there is not. For me, this is a perfect nose. But for my daughter? She has a point. And I love her. So for Christmas, I will get her the best nose money can buy.

He stops at an intersection, looks both ways, and turns left.

– I tell you this to warn you, Henry. Because the truth is, the man who will work on you? The man who will change your face? I would not let this man near my daughter’s nose.

THE NEXT day Miami gets pummeled by Oakland. The final score is too embarrassing to believe. But in the late game, I get to watch Detroit run back the first kickoff of sudden-death overtime for a game-winning TD over the Jets. And that’s fun. So next week the Dolphins and the Jets will square off in a winner-takes-all game for the division.

The motel is in Henderson, I think. The room is big. It has to be for the pieces of rented hospital equipment to fit. The doctor comes and looks at my face and says we should wait until the burns heal, but Dolokhov says we need to hurry. So the doctor gives me something to make me sleep.

I sleep.

It’s Christmas Sunday.

I am not home.

The doctor stops by to look at my bandaged face. He nods a few times and makes a joke about not being able to unwrap me yet, and then he leaves.

My face feels swollen and hot, but I have a button in one hand that I can push when the pain is too much. I push it quite a bit. In my other hand, I have the remote control for the TV. I use it to see things. I have been seeing things all week.

I see a computer graphic, a map with the faces of dead people, and a series of lines tracing their deaths to me.

I see my friends in Mexico. Pedro on his front porch, shaking his head and denying that he ever knew me. He looks OK and I’m happy to see that, but it also makes me sad because it reminds me that I will never swim again in the Caribbean and have to sit on my porch afterward with cigarettes in my ears. And, behind Pedro, I think I see one of his children in the background playing with a cat. And that makes me smile. It hurts to smile, so I stop.

I see Leslie and Cassidy being interviewed, and someone asking Cassidy if she was scared of me, and her saying that I seemed nice. I liked you too, Cassidy.

I see Danny explaining how he felt it was his duty to pursue me when he realized who I was. Telling the story of how he trailed me north on the I-5 and lost me and went home and found my parents’ address online. He starts to talk about how he had “patrolled” their neighborhood and saw me with Wade and attempted to “apprehend” me. His lawyer shuts him up before he can say any more.

I see the funeral of Sheriff’s Deputy T.T. Fischer.

I see Wade’s widow, Stacy, with her kids. They are all crying, the kids. Stacy is cursing me and saying that if she had known what a monster I would turn out to be, she would have killed me when we were in school together. Her kids are beautiful. You have beautiful kids, Wade.

I see Rolf’s body being removed from the El Cortez.

Sid’s body at the trailer.

Dylan’s body taken from Tim’s apartment.

Timmy.

So many bodies.

I see the APB they put out on T’s car, and the California booking photo of him that they put up on the screen. I see the discovery of the “Death House,” aka Sandy’s house. But I don’t see T or Sandy. Stay low, guys. Stay low.

And I see Mom and Dad on their porch, begging me to please come home and turn myself in. And the TV shows them over and over, and every time I see them, I push the painkilling button and everything goes away.

I also see David Dolokhov’s dangerous man. He stays with me in an adjoining room, and I watch him all the time. I watch him to see what a dangerous man is like.

This one is medium tall and has a potbelly and very little hair. He’s a bit over forty and wears those cheap reading glasses you get at drugstores. When he talks, which is never very often, he has a Slavic accent, but it’s very different from Dolokhov’s. He also drinks a lot of beer without seeming to ever get drunk and, based on the tunes I hear coming out of his room, he’s a big R&B fan. He did me a favor and picked up a copy of East of Eden for me. I lost the one I had in Mexico and never got to finish it. Of course, I’m too doped-up to read, but it was a nice thing for him to do.

He comes into my room now and hooks up a new bag to the IV needle stuck in my arm. Sucking on a straw hurts and I can’t chew at all, so I’m getting fed through a tube for now. I’m also not allowed to smoke, but as long as I have the button in my right hand, that doesn’t bother me much. Maybe I’ll quit.

When the dangerous man is done, he gestures, asking silently if I’m OK. I give him a little thumbs-up and he nods. I can’t tell if he’s quiet by nature or if he’s simply gotten into the spirit of my own silence. He goes back to his room, leaving the connecting door open, and turns on the radio.

I watch him because I want to know what a dangerous man is like. Because that is what I am becoming. That is what I will be. That is my deal with David Dolokhov.

I will be his new dangerous man. And for my services, I will be paid. David Dolokhov will pay me with the lives of my mother and father.

So, as it turns out, I will not buy their lives with dollars.

I will buy them with violence.

“Purple Rain” starts to play in the next room. I flip away from the news. Tired of it. A week without a new dead body and they’re running out of things to say.

The Dolphins-Jets game is on. But I don’t watch it. I’m not a hunted man anymore. I’m a found man. I don’t have to hide myself any longer. So screw football. Pitchers and catchers report in eight weeks.

I turn off the TV, and hit the pain button.

My gratitude to Simon Lipskar, Mark Tavani, and Maura Teitelbaum for professional support and friendship.

Thanks to Dr. Cybele Fishman, who generously gave her time to discuss the dos and don’ts of impromptu plastic surgery.

Virginia Smith continues as my first reader, trusted critic, and wife. I have no words to thank her.