Eric Puchner - Model Home

“Guess what I turned up,” the woman with hairy armpits said, showing Jonas off.

One of the shirtless men opened his eyes. He seemed disappointed. There was a jean jacket draped over his lap, a skeleton smoking a cigarette painted on the back. “It’s boob o’clock,” he said. “Come and get it.”

The girl with the baby didn’t laugh. The other man put down the Dr Pepper he was holding and leaned forward, as if he needed two hands to steady himself. He reached up to touch the gum still tangled in Jonas’s hair. Painted on his stomach, which was large and flabby, were the words THE FAT MAN ROCKS.

“Whoa, dude. Kid’s been roading it for months.”

“Would you like a sandwich?” the girl said.

Jonas was too hungry to say no. The woman with hairy armpits opened the cooler and handed him a sandwich on crumbling brown bread: peanut butter and jelly. It tasted better than french fries.

“Dr Pepper?” she asked.

“If there’s any left,” the man with the jacket said irritably.

The fat man held up his can. “This is my fourth appointment with the doctor today,” he said proudly.

“What’s your favorite song?” the girl with the baby asked, ignoring them.

Jonas could not think of one. In general, music did not interest him as much as its baffling significance to people. “Mr. Frog Went A-Courtin’,” he said finally. It had been his favorite song when he was a little kid, mostly due to Miss Mousie’s tragic death.

“No shit,” the guy with the jacket said. “They do that?”

“Cal Expo. Eighty-four, I think. Phil pulled it out of his ass.”

“You’re high, dude.”

“I’ve got it all right here!” the fat one said, tapping his head.

“Try, like, your own ass.”

The fat man frowned. “At least I don’t have a goofy jacket,” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“All the album covers out there, and you pick Skeletons from the Closet ?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a greatest hits album!”

The guy with the jacket blushed. “I like the visuals. They’re really kinetic.”

“You guys are like a broken record,” the girl said. “Blah blah blah.”

She leaned down and kissed the baby, which was smooshed against her breast but no longer sucking. She stood up slow as a grandmother and leaned into the back of the VW, laying it gingerly on a sleeping bag surrounded by pillows.

“Put her on her stomach,” the guy with the jacket said. “She sleeps better.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? She’ll die of SIDS!”

The guy flicked something off his shoulder. “You’re so, like, negative. It’s bringing me down.”

“What’s SIDS?” Jonas asked politely. He was hoping they’d offer him another sandwich or at least remember about the Dr Pepper.

“Sudden infant death syndrome,” the girl said, glaring at the guy with the jacket. “Babies stop breathing for no reason.”

“See what I mean?” the guy said unhappily.

The music was loud enough, blaring out of the bus, that Jonas wondered how anyone could sleep. But the baby seemed to be used to it. Perhaps it was deaf already. The fat man saw someone he recognized and jumped out of his chair, his stomach bouncing as he ran off. He came back, panting for breath, and explained that someone in B6 had backstage passes. The catch was he was only giving them away to girls. Excitedly, the woman with hairy armpits squatted in front of the side mirror of the bus and began to fix her hair with two hands.

“I’ll take Eva along,” the other girl said.

“Are you whacked?” the fat man said. “He won’t give them to us if you’ve got a baby.”

The girl peered nervously into the bus, her top still hanging down on one side. The sight of her naked breast depressed Jonas, as if he’d seen through a magic trick. “Don’t leave the car,” she said to the guy with the jacket. “Or I swear to God.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Keep our hungry bro company,” the fat one said. “He’s in need of some calories.”

The guy with the jacket protested, complaining about being stuck with Jonas, but they were already gone. The guy sat down mopily in his chair. Jonas waited for another sandwich before finally getting one out of the cooler himself. He was hoping he would see Griselda or Major Meltdown walk by. They’d spot him from far away and then run over to meet him, smothering him the way they had that night in the van. He tried not to give in to the other fantasy, the less reasonable one, but as usual it was too glamorous to resist: his mother, clean and beautiful and smelling of cigarettes, swooping out of the crowd of grubby people to take him home.

“Man, there are some biscuits here,” the guy said, watching a girl walk by in cutoff jeans and a bikini top. He shook his head. “I’m telling you, everything changes when you have a kid. It’s like maximum security. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, bro. Before the warden gets you.” He looked at his lap. “What do you think of this jacket?”

Jonas could tell he wanted him to compliment it. “It’s very attractive.”

“Fucking believe it. Cost me sixty dollars. You see tons of Shakedown Street s. Or American Beauty, how obvious can you get!” He got up and leaned his head into the back of the bus, a yellowed band of underwear peeking above his jeans. He told Jonas he had to take a leak. “Don’t move. Baby’s out like a light, but just in case. I’ll be back in five.”

Jonas watched him vanish into the labyrinth of booths. The sun was very hot. Sweating, Jonas ate his third sandwich, chewing it extra slowly in order to make it last until the man came back from the bathroom. He did not return. Jonas wondered whether he’d said he would be back at five, not “in.” Eventually an ambulance wailed into view, blaring its siren and nosing through the crowd. Jonas plugged his ears. People gawked at the ambulance as it passed, shambling out of its path.

The baby started to cry. Jonas poked his head inside the bus: its little limbs flailed around, jerking like a puppet’s. The crying got louder and more frantic. Jonas could see all the way down its throat, its tiny uvula switching up and down. He started to worry. The baby wouldn’t make any noise at all for about five or six seconds, its face darkening to a grapey purple — a screamless scream, strange and terrible and frozen — before catching its breath finally and letting one fly. It was like playing with the mute button on a TV. The screamless screams began to get longer. The baby was dying. Clearly, it couldn’t breathe. If it was SIDS, the girl had not mentioned any way to stop it.

Jonas lifted the screaming baby out of the van and held it to his chest. It seemed as fragile as a kitten. Its heartbeat raced under his thumb, a spastic flutter, like something in the throes of death.

He would go find the baby’s mother. She’d know what to do. B6, they’d said. Jonas scanned the parking lot for a sign before spotting one right above his head. R11. How big could the parking lot be? Even if he couldn’t find the baby’s mother, he was bound to run across the ambulance. Jonas rushed into the throng of people crowding the booths, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Strangers stared at him as he passed. He imagined that someone might grab the baby from him, so obvious were the symptoms of SIDS, but instead they dodged out of his way without blinking.

The baby stopped screaming, burrowing into Jonas’s chest like a mole. The silence frightened him. He shook the baby, and it began to scream again. He’d read somewhere that you should keep people awake if you thought they might die. He passed a row of motorcycles; some men with long, Moses-y beards pointed at him and laughed. Jonas hurried on, the muscles in his arms beginning to burn. The baby sputtered and gasped, as if it were choking. Near the entrance to the arena, where people were waiting to get in, he saw a woman with a plastic chair strapped to her back, a baby in a floppy bonnet enthroned there like a queen. Jonas ran up to the woman, thrusting the baby in his hands at her and telling her it was sick.