Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

I took my hand off his neck. “Stay down on the fucking counter, shut your mouth, and don’t look up until we leave.”

I could see the anger snapping in his eyes as he glared up at me, ready to fight, but it all drained out when he got a good look at my face. He looked away and went still, breathing heavily through his open mouth, anger replaced by fear.

You can tell when someone has reached a place in their heads where consequences no longer matter to them and any word or movement is liable to turn a confrontation into a crime scene. That’s what he was seeing now. I found myself poised, eyes locked on this piece of shit and wishing that he would twitch or say something that would give me an excuse to let go of my restraint.

We stood frozen across the counter from each other until the sound of the door slamming got my attention. Anne had stalked out of the office.

Disappointment mixed with shame as I stepped hastily away from the counter. I followed her out the door and caught up to her at Number Eight. She stopped with her key out, but instead of putting it in the lock, she spun to face me.

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

“That guy was a jackass.” I hadn’t cared much one way or another what people thought of me for years now, but all of a sudden it mattered.

“So what? I’m an adult. If I think something needs to be done, I’ll do it. I don’t need you protecting me like I’m some helpless little girl.” She jabbed the key at me. “You know what you just did? You just took away my adulthood in front of that man. Worse, you made me look like a victim.”

I felt my face grow hot. “It wasn’t even about you, alright? I just don’t like people treating women like that.”

“What was that? Women? So if he had been staring at some guy’s package, you’d have been fine with that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. You think all women are weak, right?”

“No, of course not.”

“Right. Let me tell you something. I can fight and I can shoot, probably a damn sight better than you can, and I’ve been doing both since I was a kid. I don’t need you to defend me, especially against some caveman staring at my tits. And that connecting-rooms business? What’s that about? Is that so you can keep me safe, since I’m so helpless?”

I put my key in number nine’s lock and turned it hard. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s for my benefit, not yours. You’re the only alarm I’ve got, so knock if you smell anything. Or better yet, you go ahead and take care of any bags that show up, and let me get some sleep!” I went inside and slammed the door, harder than I needed to.

I was embarrassed and angry, but not so much that I couldn’t admit that she was right. Or at least partially right. I wasn’t standing up for her. I hurt that guy because I had gotten angry and couldn’t stop myself from using it as an excuse to lash out at someone.

I have had, in my long life, something of an anger-management problem. On my good days, I can walk away from it. Other days I seem to clutch at it like an addict, and like an addict, I’m ashamed of what happens afterwards. Over the years I’ve lost the respect of close friends, and more than once I almost lost Mags because of the things I’ve done. People can like you if you stand up for yourself, or someone else, but only up to a point. There’s a line that you can’t cross without becoming a monster and a savage in their eyes. It’s hard to earn that respect back, and sometimes you can’t, especially to yourself, so I try my best to keep a leash on it.

I grew up angry, but when I came back from the war, I realized that it had gotten a lot worse overseas. That I had gotten a lot worse. I’ve felt pretty proud over the last thirty years that I had matured, maybe come to terms with it. Turns out, that’s only because hiding out on my farm I haven’t had anyone to get mad at. It was humiliating to lose control and look like an ass in front of Anne, and I swore that it wouldn’t happen again. It was an old promise, worn and familiar.

I flicked on the light, and threw my keys and wallet on the dresser. The room was small and shabby and smelled faintly of cigarettes. It came complete with matted brown carpet that looked more like it was growing out of the floor than covering it, and a sagging twin bed sporting a polyester floral comforter that was probably dirtier than the carpet. I’ve stayed in worse places, but not in recent memory.

I walked to the tiny bathroom and stripped off my clothes. They reeked of sweat and smoke. I filled the sink and scrubbed them as best I could with hot water and hand soap, then squeezed them out and laid them across the air conditioner vents to dry.

I took a long shower, and the heat seemed to draw the fatigue of a long day and night up out of my bones and into my muscles, making me heavy and dragging me down.

I got out and dried myself on the thin, sandpapery towel, then slid the bedspread off onto the floor and lay down on top of the sheets. At least those were probably washed between guests. I felt leaden and absolutely still as I listened to the muffled drone of the little air conditioner.

In my mind I could hear Shadroe Decatur’s slow drawl. You gonna get that little girl killed, Sarge. She ain’t never seen a hard corner in her entire life and you’re gonna bring her right into the grinder with you.

“Everybody starts out looking soft on the outside,” I said out loud.

“But you look under that, and I bet there’s steel in this one. I’m sure Patrick saw to that.” Shad’s memory was silent, but I could picture his weasel face pinched in disapproval.

I closed my eyes and tried not to remember how he died. In seconds I was fast asleep.

When I woke up, it was late afternoon, and I was starving. My clothes were dry and stiff and smelled a hell of a lot better. I put them on thinking about steak and knowing that Anne must be as hungry as I was.

I pocketed my key and stepped out into the cool wind and butter-yellow afternoon sunlight. I stood in front of her door for the long moments necessary for me to kick down my pride and knocked.

She answered immediately. Her hair looked damp, but she was dressed. The bed was rumpled and I noticed that she had also distrusted the comforter. She had folded it neatly and set it on the chair by the door.

“Hey,” I said, trying to gauge her mood. She didn’t look angry.

“Hey.”

“You get some rest?”

“Yes. You?”

I nodded and rubbed at my stubbly chin. I needed to remember to buy a razor. And clothes. I took a deep breath. “Look, Anne. I’m sorry about earlier. How about I spring for dinner to make it up to you?”

Her lips twitched up at the corners. “That must have been pretty hard to get out, you looked like you were going to choke for a minute there.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. Now it’s my turn. It’s been a really bad couple of days for me, even before I came out to your house. I don’t normally bite people’s heads off like that.” She ducked inside and grabbed her purse and keys, and then stepped past me towards the car. “But you were still totally wrong.”

“That’s big of you, thanks.”

We wound up at a steakhouse a few miles from the motel. The large dining room was mostly empty since dinner was still two hours away for most folks. I asked for a table by the window so I could keep an eye on the car and got it with a gracious smile.

Anne snapped her menu shut and said, “I’m picking the next place.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a vegetarian, and so far you’ve picked a burger joint and a steakhouse, that’s why.”

“Well why didn’t you say something when we drove up?”

She shrugged. “Maybe you’re buying dinner because you’re sorry, and maybe I’m letting you drag me to a steakhouse because I’m sorry.”