Saïd Sayrafiezadeh - New American Stories

“He can wait outside,” Leo said, nodding over at Del.

“No way,” Randy said. “I ain’t staying here by myself.”

“What? You think I’m going to bite it off? Nibble it like a little fish stick?” Leo said, laughing. “All right. At least have him stand over in the corner so I don’t have to look at him, you little fraidy cat, you.” Then he handed Randy an old wrinkled Playboy to look at while he got ready. The magazine was evidently Leo’s idea of foreplay, but some other kid had already drawn pointy beards on all the naked women.

While Leo was in the bathroom gargling mouthwash, Randy instructed Del to smack the bastard in the head if he saw any blood. “You heard what he said,” Randy whispered. “Shit, he might be a cannibal for all we know.” He pointed at a lamp by the bed that had blue seagulls flying around a yellow shade. He grabbed Del by the shoulders. “Don’t fuck this up,” Randy said. Del walked over and pulled the lamp plug out of the wall. Then he stepped into the corner and listened to the ocean just a block away. He could hear little kids squealing in the undertow, happy vacationers laughing in the sand. The whole world seemed louder that day at the Sea Breeze Motel.

—

“What you thinking?” the Fish Stick Girl asked. She’d finished her workout and was washing her hair in one of the big metal tubs with the last of Del’s detergent. She wore her hair parted down the middle, one side dyed jet-black and the other side platinum blond. It made her look like she had two heads.

“Nothing,” Del said, staring out the window at the SUDS sign swaying gently back and forth in the wind.

“Jeez, what an answer,” she said. “You always say the same thing.”

“Well, don’t ask then.” Somebody had etched WILL WORK FOR DOPE across the grime of the window with a shaky finger. Del turned away satisfied that he would never get that bad.

The Fish Stick Girl turned off the spigot and began squeezing the soapy water out of her hair. “Sweetie, I’m telling you,” she said, “your best bet is the Henry J. Hamilton Rehabilitation Center. It’s a lot of paperwork, but I know some people.”

“What makes you say shit like that?” Del asked. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs hanging everywhere.

“Because you’re the type that does well in a constructive environment,” she explained, sounding like she was reciting a poem. “I noticed that the first time I saw you. At least you should take the test.”

Del decided to ignore her. “I keep thinking about the time Randy and me went to Florida. I ain’t never been that hungry. You couldn’t buy a job, it was so bad.”

“You used to work?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, it was a different world back then.”

“I got more fish sticks,” she said, reaching for her big purse. “Put those goddamn things away,” Del said. “It was almost thirty years ago.”

“You never go hungry at the Henry J. Hamilton Center,” she said. “They have special activities. Wanda keeps track of your SSI. Shoot, they even have some old lady do your laundry. We could be snuggled up watching TV right now. I always tip her a fish stick.”

“Look, I told you, I ain’t moving in that place!” Del yelled.

“Suit yourself. So why did you go to Florida?”

“I don’t know,” Del said. “I read this book. I guess you could say we were looking for a better life.”

“Did you find it?” the Fish Stick Girl asked.

“No, it was just a goddamn book. I ain’t read one since.”

—

When Leo finished with Randy, he motioned for Del to help him up. The old man was gasping for air. Del could hear his knees crackle as he stood up. They sounded like a landslide in an old cowboy movie. A white dab of Randy’s jizz lay on his bottom lip like a salted slug. Leo’s bathrobe came loose, revealing purple stretch marks that crisscrossed his bloated belly. Then he farted and limped over to his Listerine bottle, tipped it up like a wino with a jug. Randy just stood there like a gas station loafer, silent and dazed, waiting for another car to pull in.

Leo scooped some change out of a jar and sprinkled it in Randy’s hand like he was pouring gold dust into a little bag. “That’s it?” Randy finally said, staring down at the nickels, dimes, and quarters.

“There’s quite a bit of money there,” Leo said.

“I let you suck my dick!” Randy yelled.

“Quiet down, you,” Leo ordered. “That’s all I’ll pay for something like that. You got a lot to learn, you. I could have had more fun with a slab of bacon.” He pulled a sweet roll from the pocket of his robe and chomped the end off it. “Now,” he said, “take your ugly friend and get out of here, you. Boys like you are nothing but trouble.” Flaky crumbs floated through the air like tiny golden gnats.

Randy looked over at Del and nodded. “I want more,” he said, and Del swung the lamp at the fat man’s head.

—

The Fish Stick Girl grabbed hold of one of the metal poles that people hang their clothes on and started twirling like a dancer in a strip club. Del dropped his soggy jeans in the dryer and walked back over to the window. He watched her reflection spin faster and faster in the glass. Her long hair flew behind her like a cape. It seemed to Del that she would surely fly into the wall or bounce off one of the big metal machines. She began emitting a high-pitched squeal that sounded like an ambulance rushing down the highway looking for something to feed upon. Del backed away and waited for the inevitable crash. It was like being at the Atomic Speedway on family night, hoping for someone to fuck up and die so the kids would have a good time.

—

Not long after Randy won the Mr. Ohio contest, Del stopped by to ask a favor. “No way,” Randy said. “You never pay back.” He was leaned back in a chair behind a gray metal desk in the garage he ran with his brother, Albert. The big trophy sat behind him on a shelf.

“You’re famous now,” Del said, figuring he’d try a new angle. “What’s that feel like?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Randy said. “It don’t make me no money if that’s what you mean. I didn’t even get the Bob Evans commercial.” He kept squeezing a little rubber ball with his hand. His ears flexed every time he mashed it. Del couldn’t imagine him selling sausage patties on TV.

“Look, man, I ain’t never said anything about what happened in Florida, you know that.”

“Ha! Delbert, that’s all you ever talk about,” Randy said. “Shit, you even told Sheriff Matthews.”

“How about two hundred?” Del asked. “They won’t let me back in my room.”

“I ain’t got it. You realize how much the drugs cost to win a big contest? I got more tied up in these arms than you’ll steal in your lifetime,” Randy said. “Look, I’m not telling you what to do, but you better get out of here before Albert comes back. He ain’t liked you since you fucked up his stereo that time.”

—

Eventually Randy’s heart grew too big for his body. He was one of those pincushions who never take a break, the kind that get hooked on size regardless of the consequences. “They won’t let me smoke,” he wheezed when Del stopped by the rest home to see him. Del looked over at the oxygen tank standing beside the hospital bed. The nurse had told Del that Randy was strapped down because the medication made him hallucinate. He hoped maybe his cousin had some pills stashed away.

“Shit, you don’t smoke,” Del said. “What would Mr. Charles Atlas say about that?”

“I’m way beyond old Chuck now,” Randy said. “Give me a weed.”

“Maybe they just want you to get better,” Del said weakly.

“Fuck that, I’m a dead man. They say my ticker’s big as a football. C’mon, Delbert, gimme a fuckin’ cigarette.” Del loosened the top restraints, and handed Randy his pack. “Watch that door,” Randy said. “That one aide is a real bitch.”