Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

Dad drank. That’s why Mom can’t stand drinkers now. He hit her once, when I was a baby. Divorce never came up, though. She says they were made for each other. What do you call that? Love? It’s pouring outside. The wind flings rain against the window. I rinse my glass, dry it, and put it in the cupboard.

Mom is staring at the TV. There’s a magazine in her lap, People . She runs her finger over the face of the movie star on the cover and says, “I actually believed I’d see you here someday.”

“Don’t count me out yet.”

“Come on, kiddo.”

I shrug. Who knows? What I can say for certain is that Whatever needs to happen next isn’t going to happen here.

LET’S JUST SAY a woman was involved. She wasn’t the only reason I pissed everything away this time, but she was there at the start and not at the end, and it killed me that I couldn’t keep her. Jenny Pool, Jenny Pool, Jenny Pool. We did our best, right?

I’d pulled myself together and was doing the job thing and the exercise thing and the early to bed, early to rise thing. I got a callback for a play — a small role, but a good one — and went out to celebrate. Jenny was the hostess at the restaurant. My buddy knew the owner, and we closed the place. The staff joined us at the bar. Jenny told me a joke I didn’t get. She danced with a lonely Guatemalan dishwasher and brought tears to my eyes. By morning I was convinced that she was the missing piece of the puzzle.

Her dad was an actor, so she swore she’d never date one. Of course that’s all she dated. We both went into it like it was our last chance. It was a moony, miserable teenage kind of whirl. I said things like, “I wish I could crawl inside you,” and, “How many lives did it take us to get here?” She bought me a puppy that my landlord wouldn’t let me keep. I snuck it to the pound and told her it ran away.

I got the part, but the play fizzled in rehearsals. This made me a little introspective. Jenny took it as something else. She had abandonment issues, Whatever that means. All of a sudden we didn’t see eye to eye on anything. Picking out fruit at the supermarket was a goddamn prizefight. Someone said she’s in Sedona now. The love of my life, quite possibly.

THE ROUTE TO Paul’s house passes by my high school and the burger stand where I got my first job. Mom says a Korean family owns it now. Change upsets her, but I couldn’t care less. Last night’s storm has left the street a mess. I step over fallen palm fronds that resemble dried sea creatures. The clouds have blown away, and the sky is as blue as it gets.

Paul’s at work. On a Saturday? An emergency call. Kelly asks if I want to come in. I sit on the couch. A picture of them on their wedding day hangs over the fireplace.

“Where’d you guys get married?” I ask.

“Maui.”

“I’ve got to get over there someday.”

She stands in the doorway to the kitchen, holding the phone. The baby is coming soon. Every little twinge inside probably stops her in her tracks. Her friends have told her how much it’s going to hurt. She’s waiting for me to explain why I’m here.

“I need to ask you a favor,” I say. “I want you to make sure Paul visits our mom more often.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to him about that?”

“I need you to work on him, too. She had that party the other day, and it was nothing, but you guys didn’t even stop by.”

“We had things to do,” she says. “We’ve invited her here plenty of times, you don’t know.”

“She’s getting old. Look in on her once a week or so. No biggie.”

“You should hear her. She’s not exactly nice to me.”

I raise my hand. “Once a week or so.”

Kelly has more to say, but I’m done. No need to go in circles about it. She gives up and walks into the kitchen. I watch HBO until Paul gets home. His face is dirty, and he seems tired. I don’t have the heart to start in on him. I pretend I dropped by to see what’s up with the car.

THE BACK DOOR sticks. I fix that and clean out the rain gutters. Mom is angry with me. She thinks my leaving so soon is a mistake. I tell her she can come visit when I get settled, make sure I’m on the straight and narrow. We eat a silent dinner. I notice she’s having trouble with her fingers, uncurling them, but she won’t answer my questions about it.

I lie awake in the dark, trying to see the future. I’ll find a job, get an apartment. Something good will finally happen. The silence is broken by sobs. I pull on some pants and hurry to Mom’s room. She sits up at the sound of my voice but looks right through me. Tears shine on her cheeks.

“Please don’t die in the ice,” she cries.

“Mom,” I say. “Mom.”

Her eyes begin to focus. The fear drains from her face, leaving it gray and devoid of expression. You poor woman, I think, as if she were a stranger.

“I’m fine,” she says, coming back to herself. “Let me be.”

THE CAR IS a real beater, an old Sentra, but the engine is in good shape. Paul gives me the keys, and the title is in the glove box. I can live with the dents and dings for now. Mom and Kelly are standing on the porch. Paul watches them, ignoring what I’m saying. Mom reaches out and touches Kelly’s stomach. The baby is kicking.

We sit together at the kitchen table and eat lunch. It’s been a long time. Mom is nervous. Her hands shake when she passes the coleslaw, and she laughs at anything even vaguely funny. Paul shows us a scar on his leg, where he was burned by a motorcycle muffler. Conversation goes here and there, just like it should. We help each other along. I’m antsy, though. I don’t know where I’ll be sleeping tonight, and I’d like to get a move on.

Paul wants to see what I did in the bathroom. The bead on my caulking is a little crooked, and I also didn’t do the greatest job matching the pattern on the linoleum in a couple spots. He tries to be funny when he points these things out. I turn on the shower, and the pipes rattle and groan.

“There’s a project for you,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “Don’t worry about anything.”

“Oh, so you’re the big daddy now.”

“What do you mean ‘now.’ ”

I pretend to swing at him, and he pretends to block my punch.

Everyone walks me to the curb. I put my TV in the trunk. The lock is broken, but it shuts tight. Mom presses some money on me. I take it without counting it. She tells me again I’m making a mistake. That’s fine. That’s her part in this thing. I promise Paul I’ll pay him back. The three of them are waving as I drive off. My people.

YOU PICK YOURSELF up and go on. That’s what you do. Over and over and over. The big drunk Limey wants to know where the movie star footprints are. Three blocks west, I tell him. Across the street. Can’t miss them. I draw him another Guinness.

Martin’s drinking rum. He’s a director. Videos, I think. A nice kid. I show him the Spider-Man comic, my good luck charm. I keep it in a Ziploc bag behind the bar. “Ever seen one of these?” I say.

When my shift is over, I walk the Boulevard. I’m still not drinking, so I try to keep myself occupied. It’s Friday night, and the tourists are out. I offer to take a picture of a German family crouched around Clint Eastwood’s star. Music blasts out of a souvenir shop, and there are so many lights my eyes hurt. Dizzy, dreamy, I flop down on a bus bench and smile at the passing cars. Sometimes happiness sneaks up on you like a piece of a song on the wind. Just that random, just that rare. Jenny Pool, Jenny Pool, Jenny Pool. Hollywood sends its love.

DEE DEE’S MOVING AGAIN, FOR THE THIRD TIME THIS year. She doesn’t feel safe anymore, not since she asked the Mexican guy down the hall if he would fix her leaky faucet and his wife called her a puta and threatened to kill her. She says her life has taken a dangerous turn, and she’s always on the run from one assassin or another. That’s just the speed talking. Her green hair bugs me, too, and the haughty tone she adopts with waitresses and 7-Eleven clerks. But Grady’s God-knows-why sweet on her, and he’s my only friend, so here I am, watching her have a nervous breakdown and wishing I was somewhere else.