Diana Rowland - My Life as a White Trash Zombie

Randy’s trailer was far from nice, but it was a shitload better than my house. Still, he had dishes piled up by the sink and laundry in a pile in the hallway. It had always been like that, I realized, but this was the first time I’d really seen it. Maybe it was because I’d spent the last couple of months where half my job was cleaning—and I didn’t mind it. Or maybe it was that I’d finally had the chance to see that most normal people didn’t live like complete pigs. In the past several weeks I’d been inside dozens of houses. I’d been in million dollar homes and barely standing shacks, and I’d seen the difference between the places where the people took pride in themselves and their homes, and the shit dumps—like where I lived with my dad. And the price of the house didn’t mean a damn thing.

I was drying the last dish when Randy walked in. He gave me a funny look.

“What are you doing?”

I stacked the plate in the cabinet. “Doing your dishes. Duh.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Okay. Just never seen you do that before.”

“I figured I’d help out, y’know?”

“Um, okay. If you say so. Doesn’t fucking matter to me.”

I found myself scowling. Did anything matter to him? I used to love how laid-back he was. About the only times he ever seemed to get worked up was when another guy showed interest in me, and even that never lasted for long—only until he was sure I wasn’t going anywhere. Then he’d be back to being all calm and laid-back, comfortable, with everything the way he liked it.

I was beginning to see that “laid-back” was simply a nice way of saying “doesn’t give a shit.”

“I’m trying to get my fucking life back on track,” I said. Then I shook my head. “No, it’s never been on track. I’m sick of being a loser.”

He plopped down onto the couch and shrugged. “I don’t think you’re a loser. You don’t rape old ladies or steal from welfare moms, right?”

I wiped the water off the counter. “No, but that’s not being a loser. That’s being evil.”

“I s’pose. Hey, grab me a beer since you’re up?”

I pulled the fridge open, snagged a beer, and handed it to him. “See, I think losers are people who don’t want anything for themselves. Or who don’t do the shit that needs to be done to get anywhere in life.” I handed him the beer.

He cracked it open, then glanced at me. “You’re not drinking?”

“Nah. I’m wiped,” I lied. “If I drink I’ll fall asleep.” I paused. “So what do you think?”

He took a swig and then gave me a sideways glance. “About what?”

“About being a loser.”

“Oh.” He took another swig. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He shrugged again. “I dunno. I think if you’re not hurting anybody, it’s all good.”

“But maybe being a loser is about hurting yourself,” I pressed, but I could see that I’d already lost him.

“Jesus, Angel, you’re being awfully deep.” He laughed. “C’mon, look at us. We have fun. We fight, make up, fuck. We grab a beer, smoke a joint, knock back some pills. No one gets hurt. We’re not robbing convenience stores for money.”

“But some of those pills are stolen from people who need them.”

His mouth twisted. “Maybe some, but most are prescribed to people who go from doctor to doctor. The docs don’t care, ’cause they get their money.”

I blew out my breath. “I dunno. Maybe so. You should see the drugs and pills I come across in my job now. Seems like everybody and their mom is on painkillers or anxiety drugs.”

“Whaddya mean? How do you see them?”

“Oh, when someone dies we collect any leftover prescription drugs, and then they get destroyed.”

He hadn’t moved. “So they throw out all those pills?”

“They get incinerated,” I told him. “But they get counted first,” I added, suddenly feeling strange telling Randy about the drugs. “Anyway, thanks for letting me come by,” I said, trying to change the subject. “My dad’s out of jail and being his usual dickish self.”

“You know you can always come stay here.” He pushed off the couch and went into the kitchen, returning a half minute later with the bag of pot.

He lit a joint and passed it to me. I sighed to myself and took the hit even though I knew it wouldn’t do anything. It tasted like shit, and I instantly regretted doing it as the taste faded and the color in the room dimmed. I’m fucking poisoning myself, using up my brains , I thought sourly. These are my brains on drugs.

I passed the joint back to him. “I don’t want anymore,” I said. “Toldya, I’m tired. It’s been a shitty day.”

He eyed me for a second, then leaned his head back and took a long hit. “You’re not turning into one of those squeaky-clean, moralistic fuckers, are you?”

I scowled. “Gimme a fucking break, all right? Would I be here if I was?” And would it matter if I did?

“Dunno. Would you? You’re only here right now’cause you need crash space.”

I stood and grabbed my bag. “I don’t need this tonight. I’ll find a goddamned hotel.”

He made a noise of frustration and snagged my arm. “Lighten up, willya? I don’t give a fuck why you stay.”

I stared at him for several seconds. Why didn’t he give a fuck? Shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that how normal people acted around each other? They should want the other person to be there for them. Did he really want me, or did he simply not want me to be with anyone else?

“Do you love me?” I blurted.

An expression of pure bafflement crossed his face. “You know I do, baby.”

The crazy thing was that I was fairly sure he did, in his own strange way. And I loved him, in a strange, dependent, who-the-fuck-else-would-want-me kinda way.

He stood and ran his hands up my arms, then pulled my purse out of my hand and set it back on the couch. “Is that what’s been screwing your head up? You think I don’t love you enough?”

I shook my head. “That’s not it.” He loved me enough. As much as he could ever love me, I realized. There’d never be anything more or deeper between us. It was better than nothing, though, right? But who’s to say that “nothing” is my only other option?

He slipped his arms around me. “Look, I’ve told you before that you can stay here anytime you want. All the time if you need to. It’s cool.”

I looked up at him. “So you’re asking me to move in with you?”

He looked briefly puzzled. “Huh? Well, yeah. I guess. I mean, I’m here by myself, and we’re already fucking, so it’d make sense if you wanted to stay here too.”

Wow. That was romantic. I didn’t have to look around. I knew what the trailer held. Was this really the best I could do?

“Um, I need to think about it,” I mumbled.

He gave me a squeeze. “Okay. Offer stands.” He slipped his hands lower and pulled me close to him. “I’ll even let you work off the rent,” he said with a laugh.

I knew he wasn’t trying to sound like a sleaze, so I didn’t call him on it. “I can pay,” I said.

He lifted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t like fucking me anymore?”

Shit, that really hadn’t come out like I’d meant. “Sorry. I mean, I have a job now and can split costs with you. I’m not a leech.” I fought back the grimace as the words came out of my mouth. Shit, was I agreeing to live here with him? It’s temporary , I told myself. It’s better than living with my dad.

“Um, okay,” he said, then dipped his head to nuzzle my neck. “If that makes you feel better.”

“Yeah, look, babe, I’m super tired,” I said, putting my hands on his chest. Fucking him would use up my brains like crazy. And I didn’t have any to spare. But if I moved in with him I’d need to stay tanked up on brains. Where the hell would I store brains here, anyway? Maybe get a storage unit and a freezer. Shit, there was no way this would work.