Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

The power lines are down, but the lights in the houses around us are still on. There are some cracks in the walls, but I guess whoever built the homes did them to code. There’s no power, though: the clatter of generators is an undercurrent to the noise of the neighbourhood.

Annie leads us to a small bungalow, badly in need of a paint job, set back from the street behind a chain-link fence. As she pushes through the gate, a huge monster explodes out of the shadow of the porch, roaring, desperate for blood.

“Jesus fuck!” I take a quick step back, glad that I’m not the first one through. The monster is a Rottweiler the size of an SUV. It launches itself at Annie, almost bowls her over. But Annie has clearly been through this dance before. She braces her legs, catches the dog’s paws on her shoulders, then quickly pushes it back down before it can slobber on her. The beasts’s barks are loud enough to drown out the generators.

“Hey, Rocko.” Paul isn’t quite as skilled as Annie, and the dog nearly does knock him over. Then it’s off him, heading right for Reggie.

There’s a horrible second where I think the dog is going to knock her right out of her chair. Instead, it skids to a halt in front of her, tongue lolling, head tilted to one side.

“Well, hello there,” Reggie says. A delighted smile crosses her face – the first I’ve seen all day – and then Rocko is gone, leaping towards me.

All the restraint he showed with Reggie vanishes. He actually leaves the ground, front paws outstretched, pink tongue flicking out flecks of saliva.

I don’t have a great history with dogs. I like them just fine, but they don’t always like me back – I regularly have nightmares about a little terrier from a job we did in Long Beach, who I am convinced wanted to eat my kidneys.

“Annie,” I manage to get out. And then I’m on my back in the grass, Rocko slobbering right in my mouth, plastering me with delighted licks. I decided that it wasn’t worth pissing off Annie, or her mom, so I actually did make an effort with my clothes. I’m wearing a summer dress with a floaty skirt, and no sooner does Rocko have me down than he grabs hold of the hem and pulls.

I am a government agent who can hurl a car with the power of thought, and there is absolutely nothing I can do.

“Rocko!” Annie shouts. “No!”

She has to yell twice before Rocko lets go. He bounds away and starts humping Africa’s leg. I push myself up on my elbows, blinking in embarrassment.

A whistle pierces the air. The dog about-turns instantly, huge paws scrabbling at the ground, heading for the porch. He comes to a stop and sits immediately, next to the woman who’s just come out the front door.

She’s tiny – half Annie’s size, even smaller than I am. She’s wearing slacks and a polo-neck sweater, her greying hair pulled back in a tight bun. She’s in her early fifties, with full lips and huge, milky-blue eyes. She has a cannula inserted in her nostrils. A cart trails behind her, holding a small tank that looks like a beer cooler, connected to the cannula.

“Stay,” she says to Rocko – even sitting, he comes to halfway up her arm. He woofs delightedly, nuzzles her hand.

Annie straightens up. “Hey, Ma.”

“Did you bring my Paul?” The woman’s voice is curiously wheezy.

“Over here, Mrs Cruz,” Paul waves.

Annie’s mom makes her way down the front steps, lifting the tank, moving with surprising speed. Rocko stays where he is, still slobbering. “Look at you,” Mrs Cruz says, pulling Paul into a massive hug.

Paul hands her a bottle of wine when she lets him go. “I brought your favourite.”

“That’s so sweet. Thank you, my dear. We’ll have to drink it together. How’s your little boy?”

“Up in Arizona for a few days,” Paul says. He keeps his smile plastered to his face. His son Cole is six or seven or possibly ten, I don’t really remember. I know Cole likes soccer and Pokémon and that his mom is, as Paul calls her, a “difficult person”, but I admit to blanking on a lot of the other stories Paul’s told us.

Mrs Cruz pats Paul’s cheek. “I bet he misses you. And he’s always welcome here, you know that.”

Annie’s smile is a rictus. “Hi, Mom. Nice to see you. Remember me? Your daughter?”

“Yes, hello, dear. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? You must be Regina. I’ve heard so much about you.” She doesn’t offer Reggie a hand, or bend down, like most people do when they meet her – just gives her a nod, along with a wide, welcoming smile.

Annie gestures to me. “This is Teagan.”

Mrs Cruz’s eyes narrow. “Aren’t you the one always giving my daughter trouble at work?”

“Uh…”

“Every time Annie comes home it’s Teagan this, Teagan that, Teagan said some such or other.”

“Mom!” Annie looks like she wants the ground to open up and swallow her, which is fine, because I’ll jump right in after her.

“Well, you did! Anyway, Teagan, happy to have you. Ignore my Annie, she can be a little touchy sometimes.” She turns to Africa, ignoring Annie’s protests. “And you are?”

And Africa does the oddest thing. He swoops into a low bow, one arm at his stomach, the other spread wide.

“I am Idriss Kouamé, madam,” he says to the ground. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Annie and I share a glance, and Annie mouths What the fuck? I just shrug.

“Such a nice name!” Mrs Cruz tells him. “And I’m Sandra-May. You might not want to bow to me, though. My late husband did that when he asked me to dance for the first time, and our marriage didn’t turn out so good.”

“Um, hello ?” Annie says.

“Oh please, Annie, you know what I mean. Come on in, come on in. Paul, I’ve been meaning to ask you, could you take a look at the cabinet again? It’s still sticking a little, which makes me think the hinges need some more oil, but I’m not really sure.” She marches Paul up the steps, his arm in hers, Rocko trotting at their heels.

“Mom likes the boyfriend,” I say to Annie, as we lift Reggie’s chair up the steps. “That’s half the battle, right?”

“Yeah. The other half would be convincing her not to disown me if we ever broke up. She thinks Paul’s gonna be the one to straighten me out.”

“Annie!” Mrs Cruz’s wheezing voice reaches us. “Take your shoes off before you come in the house, haven’t I told you enough?”

The outside of the house might need attention, but the inside is warm and clean. There’s hardly a speck of dirt on the carpet, and absolutely zero dust on the shelves. It has nothing to do with that old piece of shit about poor people being proud of their homes: it’s because Sandra-May Cruz can’t tolerate any dust. It kills her lungs. Ditto for cologne or perfume – Annie specifically asked us not to wear any tonight. Somewhere out of sight, a generator is running.

Sandra-May has to stop several times before she gets to the kitchen, wheezing and coughing. She waves away all offers of help. “Be damned if I can’t make it to the kitchen in my own house. Annie, dear, get down the good glasses. Not those ones – the ones in the cupboard over.”

The kitchen is cramped, with ancient appliances and a broken clock on one wall, but whatever is cooking smells amazing. Meat and sizzling oil and gravy and spices, all mixed together. Pots bubble away on the stove.

“You have a wonderful house,” Africa says.

“Like hell. It’s small and noisy. Those youngsters from next door never stop their racket. Parties till six in the morning!”

“That’s why I keep telling you to move,” Annie says.

“Out of Watts ?”

“To a bigger house, away from the towers. We’ve had this conversation.”