Bud Smith - F 250

“Feral’s in there,” she said. “He just passed out a little bit ago. I should wake him up and dump his ass.”

I nodded. I was looking at the boulder wall, the big hunks of moss boulder scattered along the last twenty-five feet of the dune wall. I’d have to finish it today. I needed to get paid. I looked back at the ocean house as if it was a guard on a watch tower. I’d screwed around long enough. The guards would be home tomorrow.

“Come on,” I said.

“Where’re we going?”

“Coffee,” I said, leading her out of the backyard and towards my pickup.

We went and got pork roll, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches; cigarettes and another jug of OJ for her; and coffee for everyone. As we drove back, we joked around about me totaling her mom’s car.

The maroon Le Sabre. The Tin Man lipstick. Little Jackie’s birthday party. Corned beef and cabbage. The art of sliding in the rain.

When we got back to the house, I pulled the tarp off the cement and took a good look. I’d have enough to finish the job. Just a couple hours of work.

Trish wanted to help. I said sure

“What can I do?”

“You can hand me scoops of cement when I need it.”

I made up some cement in the wheelbarrow and went to town. It was quick work. Really, it felt like it was building itself in a way. Sometimes that happens with manual labor. Especially when it’s creative. It’s like making a sculpture. Sure, there is a psychical element to it, but it’s also a lot like painting a picture. You lose yourself in it.

I slapped boulder after boulder down into the cement. Trish kept passing me scoops. Before noon, I was done. A lot quicker than I anticipated.

“It looks beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“For real. So nice. I hope I have a house someday. Then you and me can build some stone walls there.”

“Of course,” I said.

There was a low, guttural groan from the pool shed. The door kicked open. A pool float went flying out. There was Feral, all sweaty. Hair plastered to his head. Shirtless. Swaying.

“Ahhhhh,” he moaned.

“You look like you were being cooked alive, man.”

“It’s like an oven in there!”

I started spraying him with the garden hose. He just smiled at me.

“I like that,” he said.

I soaked him for a good minute and a half before he said, “Alright, alright. That’s enough!”

“Why didn’t you sleep in your van?” I asked. That was his trademark: sleeping in the van when he got blitzed.

“Nevermind,” he said gruffly.

Trish and Feral said they were hungry, and I was done with my work. So I loaded my wheelbarrow and shovels in the truck, and we drove separately to Jade Garden Temple, a Chinese buffet. I was down to my last hundred bucks, but I bought them both lunch. Figured I was going to get paid the next day from the mysterious Scandinavians anyway.

Feral was quiet and didn’t really want to talk. Trish and me kept joking around.

I said, “Hey Trish, maybe I’ll take you with me to L.A. This grump over here wouldn’t even notice.”

She started to pretend to choke him.

“I couldn’t abandon my savage! I’d miss him.”

He knocked her hands away.

“L.A.? Still talking about that?”

“No, it’s a go,” I said. “Just getting the money together. Two weeks tops.”

Feral grinned, “I got something top secret going on.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Trish from the corner of her mouth. She was smirking at me across the table as she ate noodles.

“Big money,” Feral said.

“What?”

Motioning with his fingers, Feral zipped his mouth and threw away the key.

“That’s lame,” I said. “Locks don’t even work with zippers.”

“If it works out, you won’t think I’m lame at all.”

Just before we sat up from the table, I decided to fix Denise and Seth their own take-out styrofoam clamshells full of food. I figured they were still passed out at Lagoon House. It was a safe bet. I felt bad about what happened the previous night.

Through town, we rolled together. When we got to Lagoon House, Seth’s car wasn’t there and neither was Denise’s. The driveway was completely empty, but the front door was wide open.

I went inside. The stereo was on. KISS Alive II. Blasting. The TV was on too, but muted. I went down the hallway and opened Seth’s door. He was on his bed. I flicked the light on.

“Yo, you awake? Got you Chinese food.”

He didn’t say anything.

“It’s late, man. Even for you. Rise and motherfucking shine.”

He didn’t say anything.

I went back out into the kitchen, shut the stereo off, and sat down at the table. Trish and Feral walked in, the door slamming behind them. Its hydraulic piston was weak and needed to be replaced. It didn’t matter. The house was about to get torn down.

Feral went into Seth’s room and started hollering and making fun of him.

“Can’t party anymore, can you? Weak skills, amigo.”

Then I heard Feral curse. He came out of the room, looking like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

He motioned back towards Seth’s room and then ran to throw up in our sink — full of dishes. Trish was in the bathroom. I heard her whistling “Sweet Child O’ Mine” as she brushed her teeth.

I looked in on Seth.

He was dead.

Trish stopped whistling.

I rocked slowlyon the yellow curb with my head in my hands. I was in a suit, the only one I owned, but wearing silver Nikes. The Anderson Bradford Funeral Home loomed behind me. People were in there, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I was numb, shell-shocked — sick to my stomach. I didn’t have a pair of dress shoes to wear to my best friend’s funeral. What was my problem?

I just sat there slowly rocking. The preceding three days had been a devastating blur.

In a mad scramble, Feral had cleaned all his drugs out of the house and driven away in his van before I was allowed to call the police, who in turn alerted the EMTs, who in turn alerted the coroner. You can’t cut out the middleman. The cops insist on being involved whenever there is a dead body.

All of that was a dreadful, painful nightmare that left a massive hole in my heart where Seth used to live. I was just hoping, somehow, to get through Seth’s viewing without breaking down in tears in front of everybody.

Finding a corpse of someone who OD’d is a lot different than it seems on TV, in a movie, in a dream.

I hadn’t eaten since.

A car drove past me and honked lightly. After a few moments, I heard voices and looked up. It was Studio Mike. He had a blonde lady with him. I stood and held my hand out. He gave me a hug. He looked more heartbroken than me. I looked curiously at his head. He wasn’t wearing his Gilligan hat.

“I don’t always wear that hat,” he said.

“Oh.”

“You alright?” Nervous for my answer, he slipped in, “This thing starts at 6:30, right?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed, “6:30.”

He walked away with the blonde, not thinking to introduce me, as he said, “We’re gonna go get a seat,” as if it was a concert. I wished with all my heart that it was.

“Come sit with us,” he hollered back to me.

I nodded.

I wondered if it was his wife — returning from the abyss where ex-wives go until they sometimes come back. My mom had done the same thing once. Cars were coming in the lot. I looked nervously at my wristwatch. It was dead too. I shook it even though it was digital.

Feral and Trish shuffled over. Feral looked like he was there to accept an award. He’d shaved. He had on shiny shoes. He was wearing his best Jerry Garcia tie — a gift from Trish the previous Christmas.