Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

“Running away’s a bad habit,” Kate said when I was done. “Have you ever tried to stand your ground?”

“I will. I would. For you.”

“I have a child. I have a life. Jesus Christ, man.”

“Invite me back in. You’ll see.”

She opened the screen door, and I stepped inside. While she made a pot of coffee, I started the DVD over again.

HEY, EVERYBODY SAID when I dropped by the doughnut shop. What’s up? Where you been? Not much had changed. Ray Ray was trying to sell an old Buick, and Whitey had shaved his mustache. I told them about living in Downey, near Kate, and my new job at an auto-parts warehouse.

José said, “Oh, shit. Bud’s got to be rolling in his grave, you with his daughter.”

“You’re gonna thank me for that, right?” Whitey asked. “Who sent you out there in the first place?”

We took our coffee to one of the outside tables, where we could smoke. The sun reflected off the bumpers of passing cars and sliced into us like laser beams, and the exhaust hanging in the air made everything taste funny, but nobody complained. That’s how it was with them.

“I taught her to play chess,” I said. “She whips my ass every time.”

“So it’s for real, then. You guys are a thing?” Ray Ray asked.

Whitey laughed at him. “A thing? A thing?”

Bill appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t recognize me right away. The guys all stared at their shoes and watches. His lips were cracked and bloody, and a black smear of something dirtied his forehead.

“Do I owe you money?” he asked.

“We’re good.”

“Speak for youself.”

“Okay, I’m good.”

Bill laughed at that, spat on the sidewalk.

He was more like me than most. I had problems staying put, and he couldn’t ever seem to get away. I tried to explain it to Kate that night, but back then I was just getting used to saying what I meant. I still felt like I was learning the logic of a brand-new dream. She listened to me fumble for words, then put her arms around me and told me she was proud of me. I could lie here forever, I thought.

THREE ASTRONAUTS ARE SIGNING AUTOGRAPHS AT THE mall, side by side at a long table next to Santa’s castle. A red, white, and blue banner behind them screams YOUR AMERICAN HEROES, but Santa is a bigger draw, with his fake snow and plywood candy canes. It’s Christmas, after all! Mommies in sweatpants and stained T-shirts drag their children past the table and into the castle, where an elf will snap a Polaroid to send to Grandma or maybe Daddy and his new wife, while the astronauts, ignored, sip from cans of soda and dream of Thai bar girls.

One of them cups his ear whenever anybody speaks to him, an old man with a face like the end of an orange. He once walked on the moon — the moon! I watched it on TV as a kid. Fucked me up for years. I couldn’t wait to blast off. He must have some answers, the ancient astronaut. If I could muster the energy, I’d get up off this bench and ask him why my hands sometimes feel like they belong to somebody else. I’d sing along to the Christmas carols and take the See’s candy lady dancing. Or maybe I’d fill a bottle with gasoline, stopper it with a sock, and set fire to this circus. I don’t know.

I MEET ANOTHER husband at the bar. He offers to buy me a drink, which is supposed to be a joke, because all the booze is free. He’s loosened his tie so that the knot hangs to the middle of his chest, and he can’t stop running his fingers through his hair.

“Which one’s yours?” he asks, and I point to Judy. She has a good job, management, and this is her company Christmas party. I tried every way I could to get out of coming, but she put her foot down. She has that right, I guess.

“Do you love her?” the other husband asks.

Of course I do.

“I love mine, too,” he says with a grin.

Judy is talking to her boss over at the buffet. I watch from across the room as she smiles one minute, nods seriously the next, the transition so smooth and professional it seems almost rehearsed. She’s lucky that way. The seams never show. “All you have to do is try,” she’ll say when I ask how she does it, and every time she says it, my spit turns to battery acid and my head hurts for days.

Mostly, though, we’re fine. We keep it simple. She likes strawberry daiquiris, silver jewelry, and anything with Gene Kelly in it. I know what kind of flowers to buy on her birthday, and we need about the same amount of sleep. I have heard her crying in the bathroom when she thinks the shower is drowning it out, but we’re still rolling along, and that’s better than most.

The other husband’s wife joins us at the bar. She’s wearing Frosty the Snowman earrings. “So you’re Mr. Judy,” she says. “You’re in publishing, right?”

“Is that how Judy puts it? I’m a proofreader.”

“Proofreader,” her husband says. “What the hell’s that?”

“A job. A bullshit job. Lots of people have them.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“So you’d rather be doing something else,” the wife says to me.

“Not really.”

She eyes me over the rim of her wineglass. I can tell she’s not going to back down. It’s these kinds of conversations that will kill me.

“What are you two doing for the holidays?” she asks.

“We’re not real big on the whole holiday thing.”

“What does that mean?”

I answer with a shrug.

“When you have kids it’ll be different,” she says. “They really make this time of year special.”

Judy finally motions for me to join her. I excuse myself and follow her out to the patio of the restaurant.

“Float me a smoke,” she says.

Two men, coworkers of hers, approach us with their arms around each other. They are singing “Silent Night” and try to get Judy to join in, but she pats them on their backs and steers them inside.

“Wash your hands,” I say. “This place is a hotbed of Yuletide cheer.”

“Best behavior. You promised,” she says.

People are dancing in the restaurant. The windows are beginning to fog. There’s a small black spot on my white shirt. I can’t figure out where it came from.

Judy takes her cell phone from her purse and dials our answering machine. After listening for a minute, she looks confused, then presses the code to replay the messages and holds the phone out to me.

“Your brother called,” she says.

“I don’t have a brother.”

“Merry Christmas.”

SPENCER WRIGHT, THIS is your life. No, really, hey, my name is Karl Wright, and I’m your brother, half-brother, Whatever. It’s a hell of a story, but I tracked our old man down and he gave me your name and they had computers at the library. He said he thought you were living in L.A., so it was pretty easy. Do you know about me? He married my momma after he married yours. Anyway, I’m gonna tell you right off the bat, I’ve been away for a time, and where I was locked down they had a shrink who said a lot of my anger and stuff comes from not having family ties and missing out on that, so I’m doing something about it, or trying to anyway. I said back off, nigger! Sorry about that. I bet this tape’s gonna run out, so let me get to it. I’m in town, I’ve got a room down here at the Hotel Cecil, and I’d love to hook up with you for a few minutes, lunch, Whatever you can spare. Seeing your face and hearing your voice is all that’s important. Leave a message at the desk for Karl Wright. If I don’t hear from you, don’t worry, I’ll get the hint. Love you, bro. Already. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

THE DESK CLERK sits behind bulletproof glass. All transactions are conducted via a sliding drawer, and one must be buzzed in through a security gate to get upstairs. The sign warning against drugs, prostitution, and firearms makes me smile. Have you never dreamed of such lodgings?