Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

The only sign that David is irritated is a quick tightening of his jaw. It’s enough to back me off.

“Mr. Song is the friend I was telling you about,” David says. “I’m sorry he couldn’t stay longer.”

“Me too,” I say.

David reaches over and flicks my glass with his finger, a strangely menacing gesture. “We should get going,” he says.

I nod and down my drink, finally accepting that I’m just along for the ride. And you know what, something in that is immensely freeing.

HOW DO I like teaching? I hate it. I hate the kids, who hate me back; I hate the other teachers, both the bitter burnouts and the deluded idealists; and I hate the principals. I hate the classrooms for their fluorescent sterility, and yet I’m filled with scorn when I enter whatever room I’m assigned to and see the regular instructor’s attempts to personalize the space: the inspirational posters, the photos of smiling students, the drooping houseplants. I hate the desks, I hate the pencils, I hate the blackboards.

Why do I continue to do it, then? Because I’m too lazy to look for something else I might end up hating even more. And I stay part-time rather than going on full- so I’ll be free to take any film gigs that come my way, even though five years have passed since I’ve been on a set. I used to tell myself I was going to put together something of my own, a short that would serve as a calling card, but I get sleepy as soon as I pick up a pen or open Final Draft.

At least I’m not alone. Lots of folks are spinning their wheels. Being nothing special is nothing special.

THE CAR IS hot enough to boil blood. David starts the engine and turns on the air conditioner. Two men are smoking cigarettes in a patch of shade in front of the bar, and I think about asking for one. The traffic report comes on the radio. Everything is a mess in every direction. David lights the joint we were working on earlier and takes a hit. He doesn’t offer it to me.

“One more stop,” he says as he puts the car in reverse. “It’s not far.”

We drive to another mini-mall, this one on Olympic, and park in front of a shoe store. At least, I think it’s a shoe store. All the signs are in Korean.

“Do me a favor,” David says. “Go in there and pick out some shoes and send the owner back to pull your size.”

“What for?”

“I want to surprise him. He’s another old friend.”

This is a lie, but I’m afraid of how David will react if I ask again what we’re really up to. I’m going to have to trust that he wouldn’t drop his son-in-law, his daughter’s husband, the father of his grandchild, into anything too shady.

“Pick out some shoes,” I say.

“That’s it,” David says.

A chime sounds when I walk into the store, but the owner, staring at a laptop behind the counter, doesn’t look up. He continues to ignore me as I wander around the store. There’s nothing here I’d actually buy. All the styles are a little off — too shiny, too pointy. I eventually settle on a crazy pair of tasseled loafers made of green suede.

The owner glares at me when I set the shoes on the counter.

“How about these in a ten?” I say.

The guy mumbles something under his breath, then slinks through a doorway into a back room stacked to the ceiling with shoe boxes. The chime sounds again, and I look over my shoulder to see David coming into the store with a finger to his lips. He motions to the front door and mouths, Wait in the car, then hurries over to stand with his back to the wall beside the entrance to the storeroom.

Before I can move, the owner reappears carrying a box. David reaches out and throws a choke hold on the guy, who drops the shoes and struggles to free himself.

“Get in the fucking car!” David yells as he drags the owner back into the storeroom.

I’ve chosen sides or been chosen or whatever, and I can’t switch now. The heat comes down on me like a hammer when I step out of the store, and my legs are shaking. Anybody looking at me would suspect that I was up to no good, but luckily the parking lot is deserted. I move quickly to the car, open the door, and fall into the passenger seat.

The scotch has turned into a snake in my gut, one that’s trying to slither its way back up my throat. I take out my phone and scroll madly through the names and numbers. Hello, Claire? Your dad is beating the shit out of some guy in a shoe store in Koreatown. Should you have maybe told me something before you left me alone with him? Hello, 911? Get me out of here.

The worst part is, I saw the whole business coming and could have sidestepped it but didn’t. So nothing’s changed. Wife, baby, Diet Coke instead of whiskey, and still I stand there grinning like an idiot as trouble bears down on me and wonder if it’ll feel any different when it hits this time.

The owner walks out the front door with David right behind him. The owner’s hair is mussed, and a twist of bloody toilet paper protrudes from his left nostril. David glances at me while the guy is locking up the store, and I sneak my phone back into my pocket. The two of them approach the car. David opens my door and says, “Mr. Lee is going to navigate.”

I climb out and move into the back. Mr. Lee sits stiffly in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Waves of rage and humiliation ripple off him. David starts the car and drives out of the parking lot. One of his knuckles is oozing blood. He checks on me in the rearview, his icy blue eyes searching for weakness. I do my best not to give anything away.

“Where to?” he says to Mr. Lee.

IN THE YEARS between my father leaving and my mother marrying my stepdad, Mom dated a number of men and even let a few move in. I liked those who played Star Wars with me and let me watch R-rated DVDs and showed me how to load and shoot a.22. Others weren’t so great: the one who made me go to Sunday school with the neighbors so he and my mom could have “alone time”; the one who punched me in the stomach when I scratched his truck with my bicycle.

And then there was Bill. He was one who stayed with us for a while, his excuse being that he was waiting for a big check the government owed him. He was a cocky, long-legged redhead just out of the navy who had lots of great stories about serving on the USS Nimitz . He’d call me sailor, and I’d snap to attention and shout out, “Aye, aye, Captain.”

One day he and I went to Walmart while my mom was at work. Two security guards stopped us on our way out and patted Bill down. Unbeknownst to me, he’d swiped a screwdriver, two Snickers bars, and a pack of D batteries. The guards searched me too, and I couldn’t stop crying, because I was sure I was going to jail. Bill hung his head when they laid into him. What kind of man shoplifts with a kid, they wanted to know. “A dumbass,” Bill said. “A real dumbass.” One of the guards prayed with him, then they snapped his picture and let us go without calling the police.

Bill begged me not to tell my mom what had happened, said it was some pills he was on that made him forget to pay. I’d never had an adult ask for my loyalty before, so I gave it wholeheartedly. A week later he snuck off while Mom and I were at the grocery store, taking our TV with him.

Aye, aye, Captain, you son of a bitch.

WE TAKE A short drive to a duplex on Normandie, a run-down heap with faded wood siding and bars on the windows. A pack of kids are kicking a soccer ball in the dirt yard and shouting at one another in Spanish when we pull up in front. David and Mr. Lee open their doors and get out of the car. I stay where I am, hoping they’ll forget about me. When David leans in and says, “I need your help, Haskell,” I say, “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

David frowns and thumbs a bead of sweat from the tip of his nose. “Nothing illegal is going on here,” he says.