Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

“Like a dumb bitch.”

“Mom!” Jesse wails, upset by the swearing.

“I’m sorry, mijo, ” Lupe says. “I’m mad is all.”

I thought she’d be happy to see me and her money, that the thrill of winning would do for her what it does for me: wipe away all the trouble it took to get there.

“Come on,” I say. “I hit it big. Let’s celebrate.”

“Celebrate with yourself,” she says.

It’s a long, silent ride back to the valley. Jesse falls asleep in the backseat, and Lupe is busy texting, her hair hiding her face. I think about how excited I was this morning, looking forward to our date, and I wonder if there was ever any way it could have been what I wanted it to be.

By the time we get to the condo, the sun is sinking fast, dragging the day down with it. I say something that I hope will turn Lupe around and make her see the good in me, something that starts with “Please” and that I’d be ashamed for anybody else to hear, but she won’t listen, won’t even let me help her unload Jesse. I watch in the rearview mirror as she unbuckles the seat belt, slings the sleeping kid over her shoulder, and carries him to the lobby without looking back.

The streetlights come on as I’m driving to a bar I know with a hot backroom poker game. This normally gets my blood pumping, because I’m the kind of guy who does better at night than during the day. Night’s when my people are out and about. Night’s when the rules change in my favor. But right now I just feel sick. Sick of the hustle and the juke and the mask. I’ve got a pocketful of cash and luck running my way, but all I can think about is everything I’ve ever lost. And that’s no good, man, no good at all, because if you sit down to play carrying that load, you’re dead from the shuffle and cut.

A TEXT COMES FROM Vince. All it says is Cal and Esther, and I have no idea what it means. Vince’s messages are often cryptic like this. I assume it’s because he wants to pique my interest in hope of receiving a response, but that doesn’t make his coyness any less irritating.

I knew Cal and Esther at UCLA. We were friends, kind of, but lost touch after graduation. It’s been years since I’ve seen them, long enough that they don’t know about Julie, about Eve. Last I heard they’d gotten married. I think Vince still sees them now and then.

So? I text him back.

They’re having a housewarming June 12. Boys’ night out?

I think about it for a minute, then text Sure without consulting Julie first. She doesn’t have to approve everything.

My nigga, Vince texts back.

My boss, Big Gay Bob, sticks his head into my office and asks if I saw the editorial about teacher layoffs in this morning’s Times . I didn’t, but I say I did.

“The councilman wants to respond,” Bob says. “Give me something to run by him.”

“Your wish is my command,” I reply in a funny voice, then spin around to my computer like I’m going to get started right away. Instead, I sit there and pick a scab on my knuckle until it bleeds.

OUR CONDO HAS a small balcony that overlooks Wilshire Boulevard. The street is four lanes wide and noisy all the time. There’s always a bus making a racket or a couple of Korean kids racing tricked-out Nissans. Still, the balcony is the only place I can be alone. Five floors above the Miracle Mile, facing south, the orange lights of the ghetto like a fire burning in the distance.

Julie and I have an arrangement: As soon as I walk in the door from work, I get a gin and tonic and a little time to decompress. Fifteen minutes on the balcony to myself, that’s all I ask. After that I’m ready to be a good husband, to do the daddy thing.

Tonight that means letting Eve crawl all over me and tickle me with a big pink feather. She learned this from a cartoon, tickling someone with a feather. I pretend to laugh as she attacks the bottoms of my feet, my nose, my chin. When she sees how much fun I’m having, she gives me the feather and demands that I tickle her so she can pretend to laugh too.

“Don’t rile her,” Julie says. “Dinner’s ready.”

We’ve started saying grace before we eat because Julie wants Eve to have traditions.

“What are we, fucking Amish?” I said when she first came up with this.

“It’s important,” she said.

Julie and I grew up in regular families, families that ate dinner in front of the TV and talked about going to church on Christmas but somehow never made it. I used to fetch my dad beers from the fridge for quarter tips. The rules are different now. We’re supposed to raise Eve to be one of those kids who weren’t allowed to drink soda or play with toy guns, which is fine, I guess, if all the other kids are like that too. I want her to fit in. I want her to be happy.

I clean up the kitchen after we eat, load the dishwasher, and Julie gets Eve ready for bed. We tuck her in and kiss her good night together, then settle on the couch. Julie flips through a magazine while we watch our shows. Other nights she messes around on her iPad or works a crossword puzzle. What this means is that she’s always so distracted that she can’t follow the plot of even the dumbest sitcom.

“Who’s he again?” she asks.

“The blond girl’s uncle,” I say.

My mind wanders too. I find myself thinking about little adventures I had as a kid, songs I used to be able to play on the guitar. My fingers twitch as I try to pick out the chords to “Under the Bridge.” Julie laughs at me.

“What are you doing?” she says.

I feel fat sitting there on the couch with my wife in the watery light from the TV five stories above Wilshire Boulevard. Bloated. Like a greedy mosquito too full of blood to fly.

THE COUNCILMAN STOPS by the staff meeting to tell us what a great job we’re doing. I write his press releases, help with his speeches, and take care of his website. He’s okay. He’s got more personality than brains, but what politician doesn’t? He also has this way of talking down to you sometimes. He knows three things about me — that I went to UCLA, that I have a little girl, and that I sometimes eat Taco Bell for lunch — and that’s enough for him. Every conversation we’ve ever had has revolved around one of those subjects.

Later we all gather in the break room for Maria the receptionist’s birthday, cake and everything. I show up because you have to in a small office like this. I eat some ice cream and tell a funny story about Eve, but what I really want to talk about is what happened on my way to work this morning, that guy taking a shit in front of me.

I was waiting at a long red light, and a bum squatted on the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the street, dropped his pants, and let go. I tried to turn my head but couldn’t. It was as if a bully had grabbed the back of my neck and was making me watch. I want to talk about how seeing that made me feel. Like everything was about to fall apart. Like pretty soon we’d all be shitting in the street.

The rest of the day slips away from me. I stare at the ceiling of my office mostly, at a water stain that looks like an octopus. My cell rings as I’m getting ready to go home. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I say.

“This is Sophie.”

My lungs seize up. I force a breath.

“Remember me?”

A couple of months ago Julie took Eve to her parents’ place in Oxnard for the weekend. I stayed behind to catch up on some stuff, and Saturday night Vince and I went to dinner, had a few drinks. I felt pretty good driving back to the condo, a little drunk, a little high. The music on the radio was the perfect sound track for the movie I was in. The streetlights played their part, the cars, the buildings pulsing to the beat.