Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

“I said I’d give you money for gas,” Linda whines.

“That’s not it, I don’t think,” I reply.

I pop the hood, and Reggie gets out with me to see what’s wrong. I’m lost looking down at the smoking engine. I was a salesman, for fuck’s sake, stereos, TVs, etc. Cars are not my thing. Reggie pulls out the dipstick, wipes it on his handkerchief. When he reinserts it and removes it again, it comes out clean.

“When’s the last time you put oil in here?” he asks.

I admit that I can’t remember, and the way Reggie looks at me, almost wincing, it’s obvious that he’s finally figured me out, and I’m filled with shame. I try to explain in a whisper. “It’s my wife,” I say, but right then Eightball pokes his head out of the window and yells, “So what we gonna do?”

Reggie turns away from me to reply. “We’re going to get us some lunch.”

It’s just as well. He wouldn’t have understood anyway. That this was the car she rode in, and my baby, too, and that now she’s ruined it and left me nothing from our time together. But it isn’t over yet, is it? I ask her. No, it isn’t.

The four of us walk to the next exit and come up off it on the edge of Chinatown. That sounds fine to Reggie, a little chow mein, some egg rolls. To get there we have to cross the freeway on an overpass, and they pause in the middle to watch the cars gurgling by beneath them, but not me. It’s all I can do to keep from running.

THERE’S A FOUNTAIN in the main square of Chinatown, tucked in among the empty restaurants and the stores crammed full of dusty souvenirs. Dirty water trickles down a rocky hillside studded with small gold bowls labeled LOVE, LUCK, MONEY, and the like. The coins people have thrown at them glimmer so hopefully, I almost have to turn away.

Reggie passes out pennies and dimes, and he and Eightball and Linda line up at the rail and take turns tossing.

“Ooooh, yeah,” Eightball crows when he hits his mark. He raises his hands over his head and does a victory dance.

“You cheated,” Linda insists. “You leaned.”

“Bullshit, woman. Ain’t no leanin’ involved.”

I sit on a bench a short distance away and watch the red paper lanterns strung overhead twist in the stiffening breeze. The gulls were right, a storm is coming. I can feel it in the air.

“Hey,” Linda calls to me. “Thanks for screwing everything up.”

“Come on, now,” Reggie says. He takes Linda by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t you worry. You’ll have your wedding yet.”

I let my eyes drift to one of the store windows, and I swear I catch a glimpse of Simone reflected in it. It’s the first time she’s revealed herself, and a leathery strap of panic jerks tight around my chest. When I blink and look again, she’s gone, but I know what I saw. The day takes on a dead, gray quality, like someone’s thrown a shovelful of ashes on the sun.

Linda and Eightball and Reggie approach me. They’re talking and laughing, but I can’t understand them anymore, and I don’t feel anything when Reggie lays his hand on me. I’m as numb as a tooth. I gurgle some kind of nonsense and pull away, and the next thing I know, I’m running down an alley and all the signs are in Chinese and the buildings are Chinese and everything smells like rotting meat. The wind in my ears is a woman screaming, and the clouds are boulders rolling in to crush me.

“Why?” I yell. “Why now?”

Dizzy with fear I stumble upon a pagoda with a neon beer can in its window. They’re churches over there, aren’t they? Temples or something. The door swings open before my hand even touches it, and, sure enough, Buddha smiles down from a shelf above a dark and quiet bar. I take a stool and order whiskey. Its heat spreads through me, resoldering all the connections. The bartender lights some incense, and my heart slows to normal. I’ve got fingers now, I’ve got toes, and that makes me okay, I think. I wipe away the tears on my face and take a deep breath. It’s close enough to hallowed ground that she can’t set foot in here, and there’s twenty dollars in my wallet. I’ll just wait her out.

A woman wearing a mail carrier’s uniform goes to the jukebox, and soon the music starts. She motions to the bartender, who picks up her drink and carries it over and places it on a fresh napkin next to mine.

“Is this too weird?” she says.

Ha ha ha!

WE’VE CUT THROUGH the crap by the time Reggie comes in. We’re laughing and telling jokes, and I’m resting my hand on her thigh.

“I need you outside,” Reggie says. “It’s an emergency.”

I have every right to ignore him. Number one, there’s nothing between us — no money has changed hands, no vows of friendship. He merely showed up at my door this morning and by nightfall will be on a bus back to Barstow or Bakersfield or wherever he’s tumbled in from. And number two, I haven’t forgiven him, and won’t, that moment back there on the side of the freeway, when, struck suddenly by the truth of me, his eyes showed nothing but scorn and disappointment. I don’t demand understanding, but I do believe we’re all entitled to a little tact.

So I hesitate. I sip my drink and let him dangle until he sucks in his bottom lip, rubs his open hand over his face from forehead to chin, and squeezes out a “Please.” Only then do I say to my new drinking buddy, “Don’t move a muscle,” and motion him to the door.

The clouds have thickened and swallowed up the sun, and the first fat drops of the storm splat onto the asphalt of the alley. Eightball is sitting on the ground, his back against the pagoda. His eyes are closed, and he clutches his stomach. Reggie kneels beside him, reaches out to touch him, but hesitates as he’s about to make contact.

“The girl stabbed him,” he says.

“Who?” I ask. “Linda?”

“They was fussing in the restaurant, and she up and took a knife off the table and stabbed him.”

The shakes begin in my knees, and I worry that I’m about to lose it again. I need to get back inside where Simone can’t see me. All I can think to say is, “So he’s dead?” and as soon as I do, Eightball scrambles to his feet and rushes me, furious.

“I ain’t dead, you stupid motherfucker, and I ain’t gonna die.”

Reggie tries to hold him back, but he breaks away and gets right in my face.

“And you best tell that little ho she better watch her motherfuckin’ back, ’cause I’m goin’ to fuck her shit up when I catch her. I’m goin’ to cut her a new pussy.”

“Deshawn!” Reggie shouts.

Eightball pushes me and turns to him. Spit flies from his mouth as he shouts, “And you can step off, jack. I still owe you a fucking up for runnin’ off and leavin’ my momma all alone.”

Pain finally gets the best of him. He grits his teeth and bends at the waist, his hand going to the flower of deep black blood on his shirt. A jet screeches somewhere above the clouds, and the rain comes down harder.

Reggie stands slump-shouldered, staring at nothing. Where are the hymns now? I don’t know why I didn’t see from the beginning that he’s just as undone as I am. I head back to the safety of the bar, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder and a beseeching look. What more can he want? I brought his goddamn son back to life.

“I got to get him to a hospital,” he says.

“Try Union Station over on Alameda. You can find a taxi there. Or call 911.”

“Could you help me?”

It’s cold in the alley, and wet. Greasy puddles have begun to form where the rain splashes off the eaves of the buildings. Very faintly, I can hear the jukebox playing inside the bar, and I’m glad I don’t believe in anything anymore, because that means I won’t go to hell for saying, “No, I can’t.”