Steve Katz: Kissssss: A Miscellany

“Well you can't see mine, anyway. Not unless you pay me. And don't be cheap.”

The Wagoneer swung around and stopped by the three of them. Timarie looked in. “I don't want to ride in there. They feed their dogs in there.”

“Shut up and get in before the Boy Scouts get here.”

“It stinks.”

“Your breath, man. That's what stinks.”

“You better buy nicer cars, man; or, I'm gonna start riding with Frankie. He asked me.”

“Frank asked you? That's dope, man. You should ride with him,” said Willie.

“I know it. He wouldn't buy the fuckin' Jeep, man.” Timarie climbed into the shotgun seat, and looked down at Rick. “O, slap that chop back in your pants, man. Drive this funk.”

“You suck him while we drive. I like it out in the fresh air. Then we park up the hill there by Wizenor's Park, and we do some nasty.”

“Man, you don't know me yet. I study with Lorena, man. You put it back where it belongs, or I cut off that dick and give it back to you mama.”

“I'll beat you across the knees with it, bitch. You'll never skate again.”

“You'll miss the spot, just like them hopeless lames.”

In the back of the Jeep Willie wore a baby seat on her head while Nolly tongued her nipples. The Jeep pulled out of the parking lot, drove a few blocks west, and started to climb a hill. There was no moon. The stars were out full blast.

Their poor Reggie was the victim. Neither Sarah nor Michael had ever been this close to a victim of the current plague of automatic weapon teenage drive-by violence. The newspapers were full of it. Public radio was full of it. TV was full of it, especially MTV, where gangsta rap and some of the hip-hop were full of it. Movies appeared, that were also full of it. But this was their first near experience of it. Of course, it hadn't happened directly to them, and they had known Reggie only as an instructor, but the news landed on them like a ton of unwelcome gigabytes. Reggie had, after all, been responsible for getting them together. Somehow, as tragedy often does, this made them feel closer to each other, in their mutual emotional cyber-slump, that was complicated by Sarah's choosing to work in MS because that system was in general use in her office, whereas Michael had chosen to work in Mac because he felt it could more quickly satisfy his urge to be creative.

Following the lead of the other students, they taped ribbons of black crepe to their monitors. Many wept as they looked at their screens, and a message came up on both IBM and Mac that everyone was invited to contribute to a fund to defray costs of the funeral. Reggie had a family, but the mom and dad were persistent hippies living incommunicado in Southeast Asia. Michael turned to look at Sarah working in the row of IBMs against the opposite wall. She leaned forward to consult a manual and her sweater pulled out of the waist of her black stirrup pants to reveal a line of her tattoo on the chalk-white knife-edge of flesh. Michael turned back to his screen where he was trying not to wilt against the many complications of Adobe Photoshop. Just his luck, he thought, to finally meet a woman he liked, but was forced to separate from because she worked in DOS. Sarah had a similar conflict. She was learning to surf the Internet, and didn't know yet if it would be possible to communicate across the chasm that separates DOS from Mac. Along with her skepticism about relationships in general, she knew it could be an added strain if email created difficulties.

As soon as she fired up the Fairlane, the cops pulled away. It had taken a couple of days to find it. Whoever stole it had left the car in the farthest space of the northeast corner of the United Artists parking lot, almost in the woods. They hadn't damaged it any more than the few familiar dents she had been carrying on it. She let it idle as she adjusted the mirror. The cop car swung around, and for a few moments lit up her back seat, and she saw something there. Before going to the art theater to see Farewell My Concubine she had cleaned everything out. The dome light no longer worked, so she shined her Mini Maglite into the back seat. She was surprised they hadn't stolen it from her glovebox. She lit up some blankets, a plastic tote of baby stuff, and a scatter of clothing odds and ends. She reached over, and shifted the blankets. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “a baby.” The cops were already gone. They couldn't have been very thorough. A whole baby they had missed. It was asleep, looking peaceful and cute, but she knew that wouldn't last. Babies cry. They shit in their diapers. That's their job. That was why she had decided at a certain point never to have one herself. Tolerance and patience were not her virtues. She preferred maybe something that barked, though she never got one of those, either. All she'd ever had was Gil, and now he was gone, all but his car.

The baby started to twist its mouth into a terrifying suck-and-pucker. That was definitely something she preferred not to deal with. She hated to go back to the police, who had been so gruff with her, letting her know they had more important things to think about than her damned Fairlane. She wished Gloria was with her. Gloria liked babies.

As she slowly swung the car around some people ran into her headlight beam. They had popped out of the woods and were rushing towards her, waving their arms. Her first thought was to speed up and get out of there, but she noticed that one of the people was a little girl, and another a smallish woman. The man, gaunt and unshaven, with a pitiful expression of grief and urgency, not at all threatening, tapped on her window, and signaled for her to roll it down.

“Pliz. Pliz. Bebby. Car, home. Bosnia, Bosnia, Bosnia.” He slapped his chest as he said Bosnia.

“Is this your baby?”

“Pliz. Yes. Pliz. Bebby. Girl bebby.” He pointed at the creature in the back seat about to start crying. “Sofia bebby. Wife, Halifa. Me, Muhamet. Live home car. Live car. Pliz.”

“You were living in my car?” It happened fast, she thought. “You're from Bosnia?”

“Bosnia. Bosnia. Bosnia.” He banged his chest some more. “Many pipples dead. Dead pipples war.”

“I'm very sorry. This is my car. It's a Fairlane. I have the keys.”

He gasped as if he couldn't find enough air to say the words. The little girl came to the window, and he lifted her. She smiled, revealing some missing teeth. “Sleep car. Pliz. Bebby. Mine bebby sleep and mama. Bosnia war.”

The baby started to cry. She couldn't stand it. Questions like: How did they get here from Bosnia? How can they live in a car? Where do they eat? crossed her mind; then they crossed her mind out.

“Take your baby.” She unlocked the back door. The whole family jumped in and sat down.

“Car home,” said the father. The baby had big lungs.

“No. Bosnia home.”

The whole family together beat their chests. “Bosnia, Bosnia, Bosnia,” they wailed in unison.

Harriet couldn't stand it. She got out of the car, and looked in at the family. “Okay,” she shrugged.

“Okay, America,” said the man.

“Okay,” said the woman softly, as the baby slurped onto her breast.

In an instant, Harriet decided to leave it all behind. She headed for the bus stop, and abandoned everything — the car with the memory of Gil and his grandmother, and all the feeble ghosts of her virginity.

“Can't believe. No, man. What I just saw. I can't believe it, man.”

Only Timarie was still awake. Willie snored in the back, and Rick's lips flapped against the steering wheel.

“You gotta come look with me. This is—” He grabbed her shoulder. “This you gotta see, Timarie.”

“Yeah. Right. Rick wakes up and kills me if I'm gone with you.”

“You gotta be quiet, though. But you gotta come.”