T. Boyle - T.C. Boyle Stories II - Volume II

—

In the morning — the morning, that was the hurtful time — Raymond woke to a shifting light, the peeling tan upthrust trunks of a grove of eucalyptus, and the sky revealed in a frame of leaves. He was on his back, something underneath him — a plastic tarp — and a blanket, heavy with dew, thrown over the cage of his chest. Beside him, snoring lightly and twitching in her sleep, was a woman with dirty fanned-out blondish hair and the deep indigo tattoo of a scorpion crawling up her neck. But that was no surprise — nothing was a surprise, unless it was the sidewalk, and this wasn’t the sidewalk. This was — he lifted his head to take in the half-collapsed teepee fashioned of blue tarps backed up against a chain-link fence, the scrub at his feet, the trash scattered over the leaf litter and the pregnant rise of the mound giving onto the railroad tracks — this was the woods. He saw Pal then, Pal poking his whiskered head out of the teepee to give him an unfathomable look, and beyond Pal, Sky’s red Mongoose mountain bike, for which — and it was all coming back to him now — Sky had paid nearly a third of his monthly SSI disability check. So this was Knitsy, then, and that was Sky inside the collapsing teepee. Or wigwam. Call it a wigwam. Better sound to it.

His head slipped back to the tarp. He tried to close his eyes, to fight down the stirring in his lower abdomen that was like the first stab of stomach distress — what his mother used to call the runs — but the thirst wouldn’t let him. It was there again, powerful, imperious, parching him all the way from his throat up into the recesses of his skull. I’ve got to get out of here, he was thinking, got to get up and out of here, find money, find work, a toilet, a tap, four walls to hide myself in. But he couldn’t move. Not yet.

That first night, the night she locked the door on him, they’d been drinking bourbon with beer chasers, and all his muscles were sapped — or his bones, his bones seemed to have melted away so that all he wanted to do was seek the lowest point, like water — and the best he could do was hammer on the door and shout the sort of incoherent things you shout at times like that until the police came and she told them she paid the rent around here and she didn’t know him anymore and didn’t want to. He wound up sleeping in the back of the building, under the oleanders against the fence, which made his face and hands break out in shining welts that were like fresh burns. He was planning on using his key after she left for work, but she didn’t leave for work, just sat there in the window drinking bourbon and waiting for the locksmith. That night he pounded on the door again, but he melted away when he saw the police cruiser coming up the street, and after that, he gave it up. First month, last month, security: where was he going to get that? He tried calling his brother collect in Tampa but his brother wouldn’t take the call. The bars were open though, and the corner stores with the Coors signs flashing in the windows. He got loaded, got hammered, wound up on the sidewalk. Now he was here.

He dozed. Came to. Dozed. And then, out of some beaten fog of a dream, he heard footsteps crunching gravel, a yip from Pal, and a voice — Sky’s voice — raised in song: “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane.”

Knitsy stirred, and they both came up simultaneously into the bewilderment of the day. Her hair was bunched on one side, her dress torn at the collar to reveal a stained thermal T-shirt beneath it. A warm, brewing odor rose from her. She looked at Raymond and her eyes retreated into her head.

Sky was standing over them now, a silver twelve-pack of beer in each hand. “Hey, you two lovebirds, Christmas came early this year,” he said, handing a can first to Raymond, then Knitsy. The can was cold; the top peeled back with a hiss. Raymond didn’t want a beer — he wanted to clean up his act, go back to Dana and beg her to let him in, if only for a shower and a shave and a change of clothes so he could go back to his boss — his ex-boss, the smug, fat, self-satisfied son of a bitch who’d canned him because he had a couple of drinks and came back late from lunch once or twice — and grovel at his feet, at anybody’s feet, because he was out of money and out of luck and this was no way to live. But he took that beer and he thanked Sky for it, and for the next one after that, and before long the sun got caught in the trees and every single thing, every little detail, seemed just as fine as fine could be.

—

When the beer was gone and he could taste nothing in his throat but the rinsed-out metallic sourness of it, he pushed himself up and stood unsteadily in the high weeds. Judging from the sun, it must have been past noon, not that it mattered, because Dana didn’t get home from work till five and if he went over there and tried the door or the windows or even sat out back in the lawn chair, the old lady next door would have the cops on him in a heartbeat. She was his enemy, in collusion with Dana, and the two of them were out to destroy him, he saw that much now. And what had he done to deserve it? He’d got drunk a couple times, that was all, and when Dana came needling at him, he’d defended himself — with his hands, not his fists, his hands — and she’d gone running next door to Mrs. Ruiz and Mrs. Ruiz had called the cops for her. So he couldn’t go there, not till Dana came home, and even then it was a stretch to think she’d open the door to him, but what choice did he have?

There was a smell of menthol on the air, and he couldn’t place it at first, until he looked down and saw the litter of eucalyptus buds scattered underfoot, every one a perfectly formed little nugget awaiting a layer of dirt and a little rain. They were beautiful in their way, all these silver nuggets spread out before him like spare change, and he fumbled open his fly and gave them a little dose of salts and urea to help them along, a real altruist, a nature boy all the way. Was he laughing? Yes, sure he was, and why not? Nature boy. “There was a boy, a very strange and something boy,” he sang, and then he was singing “Here Comes Santa Claus,” because Sky had put it in his head and he couldn’t get it out.

Beyond the railroad tracks was the freeway, and he could hear the continuous rush of tires like white noise in the background of the film that was his life, a confused film begun somewhere in the middle with a close-up of his dangling empty hands and pulling back for a shot of Knitsy passed out on the tarp, her head thrown back and her mouth hanging open so you could see that at least at some point in her life she’d been to the dentist. Pal wasn’t in the frame. Or Sky either. Half an hour ago he’d slipped a couple of beers in his pockets, whistled for the dog, and headed up the tracks in the direction of the pier. Raymond looked off down the tracks a long moment, looked to Knitsy, sprawled there in the weeds as if she’d been flung off the back of the train as it roared by— Lovebirds? What in Christ’s name had Sky meant by that? — then started up the slope to where the rails burned in the light.

He wasn’t a bum and he wasn’t a drunk, not the way these others were, and he kept telling himself that as he made his way along the tracks, lit up on Sky’s beer under the noonday sun that was peeling the skin off the tip of his nose. He’d always had a place to stay, always fended for himself, and that was the way it was going to be this time too. All it was was a binge, and the binge was over — it was over now — even if he didn’t want it to be. He was out of money, and that was that. He was going to walk into town, find the unemployment office, and put in an application, and then he was going to see if he could patch things up with Dana, at least until he could collect his first check and find himself a room someplace — and no sense kidding himself, Dana was nothing but a pain in the ass, dragging him down with her bourbon, bourbon, bourbon, and he was through with her. Finally and absolutely. He didn’t even like bourbon. Please. Give him vodka any day.