December 7, 2013 § 23 Comments
Ten miles out of Austin, Turner’s front wheel hit a chughole and the tire flatted. “Fuckitfuckfuckfuck!” he cursed, realizing that he had neither tube, nor patch kit, nor levers, nor pump. He didn’t know it, but he had also bonked. What he knew was that the flat had coincided with the weakest, most drained and exhausted emptiness that he’d ever felt.
“You okay, young feller?” The rusted Ford pickup pulled up next to him.
Turner looked gratefully at the farmer in overalls, and less gratefully at the mug of the dog who had his paws on the door and his head out the window, and who was softly snarling. “No, sir. I flatted and … “
“Well I kind of reckoned you had. Toss ‘er in the bed and we’ll get ‘er patched and aired up and get you on the way back to wherever in the heck you’re goin’. Farm’s just a piece up the road here.”
Turner set the bike in the back of the pickup, pushed aside a bunch of boards, some rusted pipe, and what looked like a year’s supply of empty Lone Star beer cans. When he grabbed the door handle the dog, who hadn’t budged, growled louder. The old man laughed, showing a jagged set of mostly incomplete and missing teeth stained deep red from chewing tobacco. “Don’t you mind Pooter,” he said. “He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Pooter had short black hair, a flat head, big jaws, a long tail, a big chunk missing out of one ear, and a wall eye. Oh, and he had big, long, shiny white teeth. Turner got in and Pooter went completely silent. The moment the door slammed shut the dog reached over and bit the shit out of Turner’s hand. “Ow!” he yelled, jerking his hand away.
“Goddammit, Pooter!” the farmer said, slapping the dog in the head. “You okay, sonny?”
Turner looked at the broken skin on his hand and the blood drops. “I think so.”
The farmer glanced at the bite marks and concurred. “T’ain’t nothin’. We allus give him one free bite. After that he don’t get no table scraps. He don’t like you because you’re sittin’ next to the window. Scoot over here, nozzle your leg thisaway so you don’t hit the stick, and thataway Pooter can stick his nose out the window.”
Turner sidled over to the center of the bench seat, which was ripped and had foam stuffing coming out in big chunks. “My name’s Turner. Thanks for stopping, mister.”
“Name’s Clem,” said the farmer, handing out a big callused hand.
“Clem?” asked Turner, feeling weird as he looked at the man’s enormous belly and grizzled beard stubble.
“Yep. You know how come we call ‘im ‘Pooter’?”
Turner thought he’d try a joke. “Because he has bad gas?”
Clem laughed. “Darn tootin’ he does! That was a good guess, which makes you a purty fart smeller!” He laughed at his own joke and the dog ripped off a terrible canine stinker, with his butt pointed towards Turner’s face.
“Say, hold this for me, would you, sonny?” He reached down between his legs and handed Turner a styrofoam cup filled with tobacco spit. The pungent smell and the sight of the sloshing mess made him queasy. Clem reached over to the glove box and managed the complex task of shifting, driving, pulling out the tobacco round, and cutting a plug with his pocket knife all at the same time. As the truck lurched between gears, the cup jolted and about half of the warm, red spit spilled out onto Turner’s leg. Then the dog farted again.
“Can’t throw up,” he kept repeating. “Can’t throw up.”
That “piece up the road” turned out to be a very big piece, and when the old Ford bounced to a stop at the end of the long rutted driveway, Turner was completely nauseated. And starving.
Clem got out of the truck. “Lou Anne!” he yelled.
A very large grandmother with long gray hair stuck her head out of the back door. “What is it?”
“This young feller needs one of us to fix his flat tar and the other one to fill him up. He’s hungry, sure, ain’t you, sonny?”
“Yes, sir,” said Turner.
“I have plenty of pancake batter left over from breakfast, dear. Could you eat some pancakes?”
“Yes, ma’am. If it’s not too much trouble, ma’am.”
She smiled. “No trouble at all!”
“Let’s fix this ol’ tar,” said Clem, and Turner followed him into the garage. Clem took out a screwdriver and jammed it against the rim to lift off the tire. With a deft flick of his wrist he made a giant scratch on the edge of the aluminum rim, then shot the end of the screwdriver up through the tire and the tube, massively puncturing both. “Well, shit-I-reckon,” said Clem. “No damn wonder you flatted. This here tar cain’t even stand the blunt edge of a screwdriver.”
“No,” Turner agreed. “It sure can’t.”
“Looky here,” Clem said, holding the wheel by the hub and spinning it. “You must have banged it good. It ain’t running true no more.”
The wheel had a slight wobble in it as it spun. “No, it isn’t.”
“Well we can shore fix that right up.” Clem reached into a pile of tools and pulled out a small set of pliers. With a few hard twists on the spoke, it broke. “Well shitcakes and apple pie,” said Clem, spinning the wheel again, which was now completely out of true. “Bet we can tweak one of these boogers on the opposite side to sorta tensionize it right,” he said.
Turner felt like he was in an emergency room watching a physician perform malpractice on his baby as the old farmer broke out four more spokes. Clem threw down the pliers in disgust. “Them things ain’t made worth a durn,” he said. “You go on into the kitchen and get some grub and I’ll drive you back home. I’m shore sorry I couldn’t get you fixed up, sonny.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Clem,” Turner said, looking in despair at his mangled front wheel and destroyed tire and tube. “Thanks for trying.”
December 6, 2013 § 14 Comments
The apartment was completely still. Turner got up off the couch and padded down the hallway to the single bedroom door, which was ajar. He looked in. “Clem?” he said, but no answer came. The room was empty.
Strangely, he felt relieved. Clementine scared him. He had to figure out where he was going to stay. “My parents are going to freak fucking out if they find out about this,” he thought. Turner returned to the living room and noticed that his two bags of clothes and books were gone. The sun was now properly up, and the room was light. “Oh, shit,” he said. All of his books were neatly arranged in the small bookcase against the wall. “Where are my fucking clothes?”
He went back to Clem’s bedroom, sweating now, knowing what he was going to find, which he did. His jeans and shirts had been neatly hung in the closet, and she’d folded his socks and underwear and put them in a drawer in her chest. The top drawer.
The small kitchen was even worse. A note on the counter, written in a pretty cursive script, said this: “Cereal’s in the cupboard, milk’s in the fridge, see you this afternoon.”
Feeling like a guy who’d gotten drunk, then married in Las Vegas, Turner didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to find another place. Filled with determination and a clear vision of what was necessary, and an even clearer vision of what would happen if he didn’t do what was necessary, along with each of the catastrophic details painted in brilliant colors and sharp outlines, Turner began what would become the pattern for his life, in other words, when faced with great decisions and impending doom, he hopped on his bike to go for a quick ride.
“To clear my head,” he told himself.
By mid-morning he’d pedaled all over central Austin, through Tarrytown, up around the golf course on Lake Austin Boulevard, and had even meandered along the western edge of town to Camp Mabry. He’d completely forgotten about the dilemma that he’d been so determined to solve. Instead he was sweaty and feeling rather blissful and a touch hungry.
As he headed back towards Clementine’s he then began what would be one of the great sub-patterns of his life, in other words, when faced with a destination that he really didn’t want to go to, he went to the bike shop instead. Uncle Joe had wheeled out the last bike and they were all lined up perfectly, shiny. He recognized Turner and nodded to him.
“Hi!” said Turner.
“Nice day for a pedal.”
“Yeah. Hey, I got a question for you.”
“Where’s a good place to ride my bike around her?. You know, like an out and back type thing?”
“Come on in.”
Turner followed him into the shop, and it smelled like a bike shop, that odor of shiny new bike mixed with turdboxes-on-two-wheels in the service area, a funny mix of musty and fresh that was murdered in its sleep by the modern concept store, where the thing for sale now is a bicycle experience instead of, you know, a bike sold by an experienced biker. “You liking that bike?” Uncle Joe asked. It wasn’t an innocent question, and Uncle Joe watched him carefully.
“Oh, man, it’s the best!” A torrent of “cool” and “awesome” spilled forth.
Uncle Joe smiled, a little to himself. He knew this kid was a live one, and he knew it because his quick glance had taken in the sparkling shine on the bike, a bike which should by now have had some modest layer of dirt and grime on it, and he knew it because, well, he’d seen it all before. He pulled a map out of the rack in front of the register. “This will be a good twenty-five miler for you.”
He spread it out and the fresh map smell spilled out adventure and excitement from the grids and twisting roads. Uncle Joe patiently traced out a route with a pencil. “This will take you to Manor, east of town. About an hour out and an hour back. Put some air in your tires before you go. You’re running a little low. A hundred will do you, there’s a pump outside.”
Turner went out to air up his tires, and as he began a cyclist in jersey and riding shorts pedaled up and waited his turn. He looked different from the other cyclists that Turner had, inexplicably, been paying attention to since he’d started commuting to school. This guy was in his mid-twenties, and he was solid without an ounce of fat on him. Turner looked at his big, muscular calves and his even bigger thighs.
The guy took him in at a glance. Turner felt like he’d just been evaluated, instantly, but he wasn’t sure about what. “Nice bike you have there,” said the guy, sticking out his hand. “Baker. My name’s Baker.”
Turner blushed at the compliment, because his off-the-rack Nishiki was so plainly inferior to the shimmering Italian racing machine that Baker was on. All of his pride at the cleanliness of his bike drained away, and he felt like a little kid in a push-car talking to a race car driver. “It’s just, you know, a cheap commuter bike.”
“No, actually it’s not. Those are pretty solid components. Dia-Compe brakes, SunTour derailleur, Sugino cranks. You could race that bike.”
“Really?” Turner felt suddenly inflated again, then ashamed at having insulted his own bike, of which he was so incredibly proud.
“Hell, yes,” said the guy, as Turner handed him the pump. Baker grinned. “It’s never the bike that needs to be upgraded,” he said. “It’s the legs.”
Turner got a half-block away from the bike shop, pedaling up 24th Street along fraternity row, when he noticed a clicking sound coming from his crank. He pulled up on the sidewalk, got off the bike, and bent down to check it out.
“Hey, look,” someone said. “It’s fuckwad asshole.”
He looked up from his squat into the face of two frat brothers from Sig Ep. One of them grabbed his handlebars and looked at the other guy. “My vote is we take the bike, wrap it around his twiggy fucking neck, and throw them both into traffic.”
The other guy laughed. “Let me kick him in the head first.”
Turner straightened. This was going to end badly. Then a third voice chimed in. “I’d advise you to let go of the bike.” It was Baker, who’d ridden up. Baker wasn’t a college kid, and he didn’t look like one. He looked like a man.
“Who are you?” said Sig Ep the first.
“If you don’t let go of the bike and let my pal go on his way, you’re gonna find out.” Baker started to unclip from his bicycle, the powerful muscles in his arms lightly flexing as he gripped the hoods.
The frat guy holding Turner’s bike released it. “Thanks, dude,” Turner said to his newfound friend.
“Don’t mention it,” Baker said, re-clipping and riding off.
The wheels under the Nishiki were spinning now as Turner raced away. In a flash he remembered that he’d set out to find somewhere to live, but had done nothing more decisive than pedal around on his bike, air up his tires, and avoid getting beaten to a pulp. Then he remembered Uncle Phil’s map. The sun was shining on this warm Austin winter day.
Instead of going right on MLK and back to the apartment, he turned left. ”I wonder how far twenty-five miles is on a bike?” he wondered.
December 5, 2013 § 9 Comments
The next morning he woke up with that call of the wild, the raging, pounding urge to piss. Turner’s eyes flicked open and for a few brief, half-waking millimoments he tried to remember where he was and why he was sleeping on a couch and why he was covered in a strange blanket that smelled like a woman.
His brain quickly put the pieces together, but that brief uncertainty, happening as it did in a mostly dark room in a very strange place with very early sunlight filtering in through the blinds, deja-vued him back to the time he was thirteen and he’d taken a backpacking trip up into the San Cristobal mountains of southern Colorado.
They had gone from sea level in Texas to the thin Colorado air in a day and a half, driven the rental car up the rutted and rocky dirt roads as far as they could, unloaded their crap at the trail head, and set out at first light for a nine-mile hike up the Rainbow Trail. The incredible weight of the 40-pound canvas pack on his 90-pound frame, the unbelievable tilt of the trail, and the grinding mash of his not-quite-broken-in heavy leather hiking boots made the first hundred yards of that unforgettable death march almost unbearable.
But the pounding, migraine-intensity headache from the altitude sickness and the constant vomiting had made him think he would die. If Candy Donner hadn’t dropped back to help him, maybe he would have.
“Here, dude,” Candy fired up and handed him a joint.
“What is it?”
“Medicine. You’ll thank me later.”
“It’s marijuana, right? Will it hurt me?”
“It will save you. Leads to heroin, though.”
The altitude sickness receded somewhat, replaced first by intense paranoia which was itself later overlain with profound, raging hunger. When they took their first break and Pops opened up the plastic tube of peanut butter, a fight almost broke out. All the kids were stoned and hungry and tired and out of sorts.
“This sucks,” said Benny Donner, who was a year older than Turner and who went on to distinguish himself by committing suicide at age eighteen, a blow from which his dad never recovered.
When they shouldered their packs, what had in the beginning felt impossibly heavy now felt as if it had grown to double the size in the short ten-minute break. Candy dropped back with some more weed, and in a fog of anger and sickness and paranoia (“They brought me up here to kill me,” etc.) and, eventually, more hunger, Turner crept up the trail.
That first day’s ordeal had begun at daybreak and ended just before nightfall, and the only way he’d gotten through it was Candy’s cornucopia of drugs. With several hours to go, and even the adults in survival mode, Candy had unleashed the psilocybin. “Just chew and swallow plenty of water. They’ll go down. Nasty as shit, but they’ll go.”
Turner madly crushed the dried up fungi, getting pieces of it stuck in his braces, the taste so awful and inedible and bitter and obviously poisonous that it was clearly going to be good, or at least better than now. ”I wonder if this is what a vagina tastes like?” he wondered. The mushrooms got him to the first base camp, where he flung down his pack.
“Fuck this, I hate backpacking, I hate Colorado, I hate mountains, and I hate … ” he trailed off, randomly slapping at the black clouds of delighted mosquitoes that swarmed about him, the mushrooms amplifying the personalities of each mosquito so that before slapping each one he had to consider its personality: Was it a bad mosquito?
Its family: By killing this insect am I depriving a hungry family of baby mosquitoes back at the nest of their father?
Mosquito nests: Do mosquitoes have nests?
And of course fucking: How do mosquitoes fuck? And how big are their penises?
“Turner, are you okay?” Pops had rolled him over onto his back with the toe of his hiking boot, and was now looking down at him, somewhat concerned.
“Do mosquitoes have nests?” he asked.
Pops, relieved that Turner was asking the kind of questions he usually asked, smiled. “Dinner will be ready in a few. Hang in there.”
“How big is a mosquito penis, Pops?” he asked, but Pops, who was also tired and hungry, was headed over to the campsite and didn’t hear him. Turner desperately wanted Pops to turn around, but he didn’t.
Turner did in fact “hang in there,” mostly, it seemed, by his neck. No food had ever tasted better than that awful freeze-dried beef stroganoff. They’d tried it in the backyard and no one would eat it, not even the dog. At the top of the Rainbow Trail and on the brink of collapse after fourteen hours of utter hell, it was the finest cuisine anyone had ever had.
As the drugs receded and the altitude sickness set back in, Candy had taken Turner down to the edge of the stream to wash the dishes, where even more mosquitoes awaited. The nine campers had licked their utensils absolutely clean, so rather than use the biodegradable soap in the icy cold water, the boys just dipped the pans and forks and spoons in the water and rubbed the grease around with their fingers.
“Aren’t we supposed to wash them?” asked Tuner.
“Fuck it, you think anyone will notice or care? Shit, you think the pioneers washed their dishes?” Candy then whipped out one of the steel fuel canisters that he’d sneaked from the campsite and started unscrewing the lid.
“When I pop off the top, just jam the spout under your nose and inhale, deep motherfucking inhale.” Turner did as he was told, the jolting stench of the kerosene coursing up into his head. “Again,” Candy commanded. “Poor man’s buzz. Now go to bed.”
Turner crawled into his sleeping bed with an awful, jagged kerosene high, but he went to sleep right away and he was the first one to wake the following morning. It was still, toasty warm inside his sleeping bag, the inert body of his brother next to him, the inside of the tent dripping with moisture, and the sound of birds outside, the headache gone. That half-moment between sleep and wakefulness, trying to piece together where he was and why, suspended in thought and time, safe in the warmth of the tent, it had been the most delicious moment of his life.
Until right now.
December 4, 2013 § 10 Comments
When Turner rode up on the sidewalk and down the walkway that led to his apartment, he knew something was wrong because he could see a big pile of shit parked in front of the door. He got off the bike and confirmed what he’d thought. The pile was all of his belongings.
He rapped on the door, and after a couple of minutes Will opened it, shirtless. “What the fuck do you want?”
“You can’t just throw my shit out on the lawn. I live here.”
“Set foot in this apartment and I’ll break out all your fucking teeth.”
Turner looked at Will’s muscled chest and arms. “Your frat is a bunch of douchebags,” he shot back, but he didn’t try to enter the apartment. “Give me a couple of big trash bags at least, willya?”
The door slammed, reopened, and out flew two large Hefty’s. “Get lost, Turner. If my dad didn’t know your dad I’d beat your ass just for standing there.” The door slammed again.
Turner bent over and began stuffing his few possessions into the garbage bags. “Thank dog my fuckin’ books are paperbacks,” he said to himself. As soon a he got the bags knotted, it started to rain, and amid more curses he embarked on what he would later consider his greatest ever feat on a bicycle: Crossing Austin and descending Congress Avenue in the rain with two enormous trash bags.
He swung off onto Lavaca and pedaled up to Clementine’s apartment. He must have looked like the bedraggled rat he felt like, and he was cold. She opened the door and looked him over, saying nothing, but not moving aside, either. “How’re things working out for you, Turner?” The corners of her mouth were turned up, but he wasn’t sure if she was smiling or if she was insinuating victory with her lips.
“Great,” he said. “Today seemed like a perfect day to ride in the rain with all my shit stuffed into a couple of garbage bags. It was either that, or, you know, get all my teeth beaten out by my roommate.”
She laughed, but still didn’t move. “I’m shocked, absolutely shocked. To think that those Sig Ep boys would stick together like that. And you being a philosopher and bicycle rider and all.”
“Money’s thicker than water, I suppose.”
“Money’s also thicker than blood, honey. Money’s the thickest shit there is. I suppose you want in?”
“Grass, ass, or rent money, Turner. Nobody sleeps for free.”
“Okay,” he smiled. “Just promise me that when it’s your turn to throw all my shit out onto the lawn, you’ll do it on a sunny day.”
She stepped aside and he walked in, still breathing hard from his crosstown effort. His nostrils sucked in the air of the apartment. The whole place smelled like woman.
September 22, 2013 § 18 Comments
The hunger washed over Turner with a primal violence. His side ached. The side of his face hurt. He was exhausted. And on top of everything, he was hungry right down to his cells. “I gotta get some food,” he said.
“Let’s grab a burger. GM Steakhouse is just a few minutes’ walk from here.”
Turner hated the GM Steakhouse. It was run by Johnny Papadakis, a fat, sweaty Greek guy who loved the frat guys, the frat clothes, the frat cars, and most of all the frat money. Everyone hated Papadakis, but they loved his burgers. They were giant, lean patties cooked on the grill while you stood in the cafeteria line, with big, freshly baked buns and equally fresh lettuce, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, and avocados. The GM Burger with Fries was also pricey, at $5.75 it was a once-monthly treat, and almost worth the abuse and harassment that Papadakis ladled out to everyone in the line who wasn’t a frat brother or sorority sister.
“That place is a huge frat hangout. Do we really want to go there after robbing the entire Sig Ep fraternity, stealing one of their cars, and then vandalizing it?”
Clementine smiled. “How old are you, Turner?”
“You gonna spend the next four years here slinking around with your dick in the dirt, scared of your own shadow because some frathole might beat you up?”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan, actually.”
“Well, it isn’t. They’re just a bunch of big bullies. We’ve stared ‘em down once. We can stare ‘em down any time. And I’m hungry.”
They walked down the Drag and into the burger joint. It was packed and the line was long. The two students in front of them were Indian. The guy ordered after looking at the menu. “I’d like the, uh, the GM Burger, please.”
“Sure,” said Papadakis, waiting to pounce. “Everything on it?”
“Yes, please. Everything but mustard.”
“One GM Burger!” Papadakis roared out. “With butt mustard!”
“Butt mustard for the Indian fellow!” roared the line cooks in unison.
Everyone snickered and the guy, chagrined, didn’t know what to say. “How much butt mustard, sir?” asked Papadakis.
The guy smiled weakly. “Everything except mustard, please,” he clarified.
“Oh! Cancel the butt mustard for the dark fellow! No butt mustard for the Indian fellow!”
The customers were guffawing too. Turner and Clementine ordered, got their food, and sat down.
“How’d you wind up at a frat party?” she asked him. “You don’t look the part.”
“My roommate’s Sig Ep, he’s a junior. He invited me.”
“That’s a problem.”
“When he finds out about your little stunt, you’re going to catch hell. Those guys stick together.”
“Now who’s scared of her own shadow?”
“I’ve been around, Turner. I’m six years older than you, and I know these fratholes.”
“I’ll just stare ‘em down, like you said.” He was getting scared again. “Plus, you don’t even know Will. His dad and my dad work together. He’s like a big brother to me. He’s a good guy. I’ll tell him what happened and he’ll probably argue with me but it won’t be a big deal. I’ve known him for years.”
Clementine had finished eating. “I gotta go fill my prescription. My hand is killing me. Want to come with?”
“No, thanks. I have a paper due on Monday. I gotta get on it.”
She looked at him for a second. “You’re just blowing me off, right?”
Turner blushed. “No, I’m not blowing you off. I have a paper in my philosophy class and it’s a really hard class and I gotta get a good grade in this class.”
“You’re hoping I’ll just go away, aren’t you?”
“No! Why would you say something like that?” He was desperately hoping she’d just go away.
“Well, then, walk me home.”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“Two blocks up, just off Lavaca.”
He got on his bike and pedaled slowly, to match her casual amble. They came to a small apartment complex. Hers was on the ground floor. She went to the door and tried to get the key out of her purse. Turner dismounted. “Let me help.” He got out the key, and put it in the lock. The door swung open. He stood aside to let her in, and she was suddenly facing him. She put her arms around his shoulders and pulled his mouth to hers.
Her mouth was so hot and wet that his mind went blank. She pressed her chest against him and he felt the pressure of her breasts and the force of her pelvis as she pushed against him. Her tongue pried open his mouth and she entered him, filled with fire. Then she disengaged and pulled away. “You coming in?” she said.
He opened his eyes. He was soaked in sweat. His heart was pounding. “No,” he said. “I can’t.” He reached down and picked up his bike, threw a leg over the top tube, and rode away. “Don’t look back,” he said to himself. “Whatever you do, don’t look back.”
And he didn’t, with the soft and hurt and angry reproach of “Fuck you, Turner!” ringing in his ears.
September 21, 2013 § 14 Comments
Clementine burst out laughing. “Poor little puppy!”
“What’s so dogdamned funny?” asked Turner.
“Your face! It’s all purple! Open your mouth, okay?” she said. Turner complied. “Well, that’s good. At least they didn’t break out any of your teeth. ‘A tooth is more precious than a diamond.’” Then she laughed again. “I told you they were gonna kick your ass.”
“You were right. But they’re also gonna give you back your money, Clem.”
“No way.” She went from disbelief to serious. “Really?”
“Yeah. But they want to give it directly to you. Let’s go.”
“You know what?”
“You’re really cute when you’re scared shitless.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Which means you’re pretty much cute all the time.” She hopped out of the car.
When they walked into the Sig Ep frat house the living room was filled with the entire brotherhood. Galen and Powers were the only ones sitting. The hatred was so thick you could eat it. “Hi, fellas!” she said, and mock curtsied. She looked at Turner and said in a stage whisper, “I’m so nervous!” Then she turned to Galen. “Where’s the little girl’s room? I have to pee.”
“Up there, whore,” he said, pointing to the staircase. “Second door on your left.”
The next five minutes lasted forever. Turner was sopping wet with sweat and fear. The frat brothers had formed a phalanx around the couch, and looked at him with loathing and contempt, but no one said anything.
Clementime skipped back down the stairs. “Is this it?” She pointed to the stack of bills in front of Galen.
“Yeah.” He began counting it out. “One hundred, whore. Two hundred, whore. Three hundred, whore.” He was taking his time. Each time he said “whore,” the brothers joined in, like a chorus. Finally he reached the end. “Twenty-four hundred, whore.” He shoved the stack of tens and twenties over to her.
She curtsied again and scooped them up. “You still owe me a hundred.”
“Shut up, Clem,” Turner said. She ignored him.
“I counted fifty-two little squirt guns last night, times fifty, minus the hundred you gave him.” She pointed at Turner. “You still owe me a hundred.”
Galen surged up from the couch, his fists clenched. “You fucking cunt!”
But Powers pulled him back. “Give her the money,” he said.
Trembling, Galen reached into his pocket and dumped out the final hundred dollars. Clementine scooped them up, too, and put them in her purse. “Thanks, boys!”
She spun on her heel and headed towards the door. At the moment when the furious brothers would have set upon them and torn them to shreds, she clasped Turner’s loose hand and pulled him along with her. The tsunami stayed itself. They walked out the door.
The moment it slammed shut, she let go of his hand. “Run, dammit, run!” Clementine sprinted off, and Turner followed. They went around the corner and jumped into the car. Turner was bewildered. “Go!” she shouted. “I said go, goddammit!”
He put the car in gear and sped off. “What’s going on?”
They hit Lamar and he turned right. She began to laugh. Then she pulled out her purse and took out the money, setting it neatly in her lap. Next, she pulled out another large stack of bills and began counting them, her feet up on the dashboard and her skirt riding down towards her lap so that he could see the white fabric of her panties. “One thousand, seven hundred, and forty-six!”
“What the hell is that?”
She didn’t answer, but divvied up the stack. “Here’s your share. $873. Not bad for a morning’s work, huh?”
“What the hell is it?”
“It’s your share.”
“My share of what?”
She giggled. “I might not have gone to the bathroom.”
It took a second, but it sank in. “You’re kidding.”
Turner now saw himself being arrested. “Clem, how could you?”
“They’re a bunch of fucking thieves. As soon as I saw ‘em all downstairs I figured I would just pop into the bedrooms, real quick, and empty a few wallets. Fuck ‘em.” She dumped Turner’s share in his lap.
“Now, if you don’t mind, make a right.” Turner steered the car down the street. “And park it right here.” He parked. “Okay, get your bike out of the trunk. Let’s go.”
“I don’t know. Your apartment, maybe? You still owe me eighty bucks.” They had circled around back to West Campus and had parked the car underneath some large, shady oaks on a quiet street near the Scottish Rite girls’ dorm. Clementine took a knife out of her purse and methodically slashed all of the tires. Turner had taken his bike out of the trunk and watched, stupidly, as the air hissed out.
“I have no idea what’s going on, Clem. I don’t want this money. I’m now guilty of receiving stolen property. That’s a felony. Jeez, Clem. I don’t want it.” He stuffed the money back into her purse. ”This is all fucked up. See you, Clem.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve slashed the tires on your own car. You’re nuts. Your roommate is gonna kill you. I’m going home.”
She grinned again, walking happily alongside him as he pedaled. “It’s not my roommate’s car, Turner.”
He hit the brakes on his bike. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t be such a dummy.”
“Dummy? You said it was your roommate’s car.”
“After you assaulted me by pushing me out of the truck and breaking my wrist … “
“I didn’t do that!”
” … I walked back to the party and borrowed one of the cars that had the keys in it.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“I borrowed it from some nice fraternity fellow while he was drunk and having fun with the nice stripper lady and now I’m returning it. The fraternity brother will be glad to have his car back, won’t he? Or should we go pee in it, too?” She was giggling, but serious.
September 20, 2013 § 20 Comments
“We can take my car,” said Clementine. “Can you put your bike in the trunk?”
“I dunno,” said Turner. “We can try.” They went over to her car, a brand new BMW 325i. “Fancy,” he said.
“It’s my roommate’s car. Here,” she handed him the keys. “You drive.”
“My writs hurts like hell, especially when I shift.”
Turner slid behind the wheel. “Let’s go to the frat house first instead of my place. It’s closer.”
Clementine lit a cigarette. “Do you smoke?”
“Does my smoking bother you?”
She blew a long stream of smoke in his face and smiled. “Good.”
After a few minutes they reached West Campus. “Why don’t you park around the corner?” she suggested.
Turner shrugged. “Okay.”
“What are you gonna tell ‘em?” She was excited and smiling.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
“You’re such a cowboy tough guy,” she said. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”
“They’re gonna kick your fucking ass. I guy I used to fuck was a repo man. He was a complete badass and he still got his ass whipped every now and then. You know what his first rule was?”
“Don’t ever repo when they have friends or family around. They’ll gang up on you and smash your face. And he used to repo with a sawed-off and a baseball bat.”
He looked at her and swallowed. Now he was even more scared. “I ain’t scared.”
“No,” she agreed. “You’re completely terrified.”
Turner walked up the pathway to the entrance of the huge frat house. It was the biggest one at UT, and as he walked in the front door and entered the massive living room he realized that the guys were big, too.
Galen was sitting in the big leather couch holding the remote. He looked over at Turner and nodded. Three other guys were sitting on the couch, and a couple of others were in padded lounge chairs. “What’s up?”
“I came to get that girl’s money.”
Galen’s face went blank. “What?”
“The girl’s money from last night. I came to get it for her.”
The next thing Turner knew, he was flying across the room. He hit a table with his back, flipped over it, and crumpled in a heap. Galen was on him and before the other guys could pull him away he’d landed a kick to Turner’s head and to his kidney. His mouth filled with blood and the pain in his side was so sharp he couldn’t breathe.
If the brothers hadn’t held tightly onto Galen, he would have killed Turner. “Get out of this fucking house you motherfucker!” Galen was screaming.
A very big dude appeared, even bigger than Galen. “What the hell is going on?” Everyone stopped. It was John Powers, the president of the frat.
“This little fucker came in here and threatened me, that’s what,” yelled Galen.
Turner spit out a mouthful of blood and stood up. The pain in his back and side was so bad he gasped. “I want the money,” he said.
Galen lunged again, but they pulled him back. “I don’t owe you anything motherfucker!”
“What money?” asked Powers.
“From last night.” Turner said. “He ripped off the girl that was at the frat party.”
“Girl? What girl?”
“The whore!” yelled Galen. “He’s the cunt whore’s pimp!”
“You a pimp?” Powers said, dubiously.
“No. I was at the party. And he ripped her off.”
“Wait a minute,” said Powers. The rest of the guys crowded around.
“You came to our party, drank our beer, watched our strippers, fucked our whores, and are now coming back to get money from one of our brothers?”
“I didn’t drink your beer or fuck your whores. He ripped her off. I ran into her this morning. She’s got a broken wrist because your buddy threw her out of the fucking pickup in the middle of the night. She could’ve been killed.”
Powers looked at Galen. “Really?”
“Lying little cock, I did not.”
“I’m here to help you fuckers out. She wants to file a police report and charge you with attempted murder, then sue you for her medical bills. That’s gonna make a great story, isn’t it? ‘Frat hooker sues Galen Asshat for assault after rush party goes awry.’”
Powers got serious. He was a graduating senior. “What do you want?”
“I want the girl’s money back.”
Powers looked at Galen. “You have her money?”
Galen nodded. “Go get it,” said Powers. “You don’t want this in the Daily Texan, and neither do I.” Powers turned back to Turner. “But we’re not giving it to you. She’ll have to come get it herself.”
“Okay.” He limped out the door. And then, long before it was popular, he said, “I’ll be back.”
September 19, 2013 § 10 Comments
Turner made a beeline for the Whole Foods Market on Lamar. It was a shabby little store that had opened a few weeks ago, filled with hippies that sold organic food and body odor. The twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, however wrongly obtained, was going to fill his stomach, and his guilt decreased in direct proportion to his mind’s realization that the gnawing hunger in his gut was about to come to an end.
“This is what they mean,” he mused “when they say people will kill for food.”
He picked up a large loaf of dense Russian bread, a pound of butter, and a few apples. He stomach was flipping over inside his abdomen. Turner went to the shortest check-out line, where a girl in front of him was fumbling with her purse. “For fuck’s sake hurry the fuck up,” he thought.
Then he noticed that she had a cast on her wrist, which was making it difficult for her to get her money. He peered over her shoulder as she tried to dig the bills from her wallet. She only had a couple of dollars and was buying a carton of milk. She turned her face in profile and Turner almost cried out as he recognized her from the fraternity party.
What happened next was too awful, and it happened without thinking.
“Hey,” he said. She turned around. “You dropped this.” He shoved the twenty towards her on the conveyor belt.
She recognized him in an instant. “You fucking little cunt,” she said, snatching the money. The cashier watched, slackjawed.
The girl paid and walked out. Turner didn’t have any more money with him, so, leaving his food on the belt he followed her outside. She spun around. “Quit following me,” she snarled.
“I’m not following you,” he said. “I’m just getting my bike.”
“Where’s the rest of my money, you little thief?”
“I’ve got some of it,” he said. “The dude who kicked you out of the car has the rest.”
“Well let’s go get it, then. That’s my rent money, not to mention the money to pay the doctor for this fucking cast on my broken fucking wrist.”
“I can give you my part,” said Turner. “But I can’t give you his. The dude that has it isn’t my friend and he’s not gonna give it back.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Clementine.” She stuck out her hand. “We haven’t fucked yet, so I guess we can shake hands.”
Turner laughed and took her hand. It was smooth and small. She had a pretty smile, even though she was mad and still wearing last night’s makeup. “I’m so sorry,” he hung his head and blushed.
Clementine brushed away the hair from her forehead. “I know you are, you little chickenshit. Why else would you have given me that twenty? Anyone else wouldn’t have. But you’re still a little fucking thief.”
“How’d you get home?”
“How do you think? I flagged a drunk who took me to the hospital. I just got out.” She held up her cast. “Painkiller’s wearing off and it hurts like shit. I need some drugs and my money.”
Something about her had Turner by the throat. Maybe it was her toughness, or maybe it was the way she’d called him a cunt in front of the cashier. Or maybe it was because she was pretty. “Let’s go get your money, then.”
It was her turn to be surprised. “How are we gonna do that?”
“First we’ll go to my place and I’ll give you the $80 bucks from the hundred I got. Then we’ll go find the dude who stole the rest and get it from him.”
Clementine grinned. “This is gonna be fun! You’ll get your ass kicked or maybe even shot. Can I watch?”
“It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”
“Deal,” she said, and handed him the twenty. “Let’s go.”
August 29, 2013 § 21 Comments
In the dawn silence of the room, Turner’s eyes popped open. He moved, almost without motion, to extract himself from the bed he shared with his slumbering brother.
In the kitchen his bare feet tingled from the cool linoleum, and when he pulled open the door of the refrigerator the cold air blasted him in the face. He grabbed the glass milk bottle and peeled off the aluminum cap. Noiselessly he took the box of Kaboom and tumbled the cereal into his bowl.
“Kaboom!” he thought. “What’s the ‘Kaboom’? Is it the clown?” He peered at the gaudy character on the cereal box and read the text: “Minimum daily requirements of vitamins and iron in 12 oz. sugary oat cereal with marshmallow stars!”
The first part sounded pretty bad, but the sugary oat cereal and marshmallow stars sounded great. He sniffed the sweet smell. “Kaboom!” he said to himself. “Today’s gonna be kaboom!” He crunched the smiley oat faces and savored the marshmallows. “Kaboom!” he said again.
Turner went to the shed, got his bike, and pushed it into the front yard. “I ain’t no grandpa chickensissy,” he said to himself, feeling nonetheless very chicken and a fair bit sissy, too. The bike was too big. He stretched his leg over the top tube and rested his butt on the saddle, his left foot on the pedal and his right foot barely touching the ground. He pushed hard on the pedal and shoved off with his right foot.
The bike went forward, wobbled, then fell over. The side of the bike dug into his leg, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying, because it hurt.
Turner picked the bike up and tried again, and fell again. By the fifth try he was covered in dirt.
“C’mon, dummy,” said a voice behind him. It was Cason. “I’ll hold ya.”
Cason balanced his brother so that he had both feet on the pedals, then gave him a mighty push. The bike shot forward and Turner stomped madly. For a brief moment the bike balanced, the pedals turned, the wheels spun, and he was riding, he was riding, he was riding! Then the bike left the dirt patch and hit the edge of the sidewalk. Turner didn’t know what to do, so he stopped pedaling and the bike flopped over. This time, ground up against the concrete, it really hurt.
“Aw, Turner!” Cason yelled. “Ya had it, ya dummy! Ya had it!”
Cason left in disgust to get his own bike. Then he came zooming out of the back yard and rode a pair of neat circles around Turner, who was trying to remount. “You ain’t no bike rider! Not today you ain’t!” Cason zoomed off down the sidewalk and disappeared.
That brief few seconds had infected Turner, however, with the conviction that he really could ride the flying machine, and he refused to let go of the spinning, zooming feeling that had gripped him as he’d pedaled. He remounted, pushed off, wobbled, and fell. Then he did it again. And again. And again.
Finally, the bike didn’t fall, and it happened at the very moment that Cason was coming back around the corner. Turner mashed the pedals harder, desperate for the bike to stay upright, and its gyroscopes obeyed.
Cason braked and put a foot down as his brother zoomed by. “Hey, Turner!” he yelled. “Wait for me!”
Turner didn’t hear anything, though, except his own voice shouting “Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!”
August 28, 2013 § 23 Comments
At dinner that night, Turner was the last one to be seated. He was usually the first. Cason, who was always last, was first, eager to crow about the day. Turner stared at his little bowl of sliced cucumbers and swirled the oil and vinegar and black pepper around in circles, trying to make the oil and the vinegar mix.
The house was one of the few that had survived the Great Storm of 1900. Its floors were made out of longleaf pine from trees that were already over a hundred years old when they had been milled into boards, so that now they were so hard you couldn’t penetrate them with a nail and a five-pound hammer.
The house had degenerated into a dilapidated rental, with the original heavy cloth wallpaper still tacked to the walls. It was a floral pattern of light green prints that had faded into brown on a once-white background which had itself become a faint, uneven yellow. The curlicues of the flowers were so intricate that Turner could stare at them and lose himself in their folds and twists and turns, forever if need be.
He could tell that tonight was going to be a wallpaper night.
“Did you boys have fun on your bikes today?” Mom asked.
“I rode over some roots and a big crack and down to the end of the street and jumped off a curb!” Cason bragged. “And I rode around the garden five times and rode over some more roots and out in the alley!”
“Did you have fun, too, Turner?” she asked.
Turner vaguely heard something as the cucumbers winked back at him and he tried to spear an oil bubble with his fork. “Huh?” he said.
“Turner didn’t have no fun!” Cason said with glee. “He was a grandpa chickensissy!”
“A what?” asked Pops.
“A grandpa chickensissy!” Cason was so happy with this new word, he had already made up a little jingle that went “I’m so prissy like a grandpa chickensissy.” He had put it to a little tune and had been humming it all afternoon. Even though it was directed at him, Turner loved everything Cason did and had started humming it too, against his will.
“What in the world is that?” asked Mom.
“A grandpa chickensissy is a sissy who’s too chicken to take off his training wheels and so he keeps falling like a crybaby and he does it for a hundred years ’til he’s a old man and then he’s a grandpa chickensissy!” Cason was so pleased with the definition he looked like he would bust open from pride.
“Don’t call your brother names,” Pops said.
“Turner don’t care,” said Cason defiantly. “You’re a grandpa chickensissy, aintcha?”
Turner had climbed up into the wallpaper with his bowl of sliced cucumbers. He’d been given an important mission: Find the secret curlicue passageway that had the magic pepper grinder that would make the oil mix perfectly with the vinegar so there wouldn’t be any more oil bubbles. He’d gone way deep into the wallpaper now, and there was no turning back.
Inside his head there were three worlds. The first and the best world was Cason’s World, a place full of excitement and fun and madcap antics and hilarity and danger and adventure, but a place that always ended with him getting humiliated or getting a nasty pummeling or worse, like the time Cason shoved an entire unshelled pecan up his nose, or the time he shot him out of a tree with an arrow that had had its rubber tip removed, or the time he’d made Turner drink half a bottle of ammonia and then told Pops and he’d had to get his stomach pumped..
The second and worst world was Turner’s World, a terrifying place filled with angry adults and bad consequences and lots of places to do the wrong thing and people trying to make you eat anything besides cucumbers with oil and vinegar and black pepper for lunch and dinner, and scowling at him for always wanting Kaboom cereal for breakfast. The third and middle-best place was Pretend, where Turner could wander off and do whatever he wanted. The only down side to Pretend was that after a while he always got yanked back down into Turner’s World, and the longer he was in Pretend the rougher the landing in Turner’s World ended up being, although if you hung out very long in Cason’s world you were certain to get a whipping, no exceptions, ever.
“Aincha?” Cason said again.
“Ain’t I what?”
“Aincha a grandpa chickensissy?”
Turner took a moment to assess where he was. It looked like Cason’s World, because he was getting namecalled, but it might also be Turner’s World, because if he caused a ruckus he’d get yelled at by Mom or Pops. He thought for a second.
“Nope, you dope,” he said to Cason, using a phrase that was guaranteed to earn him a kidney punch at bedtime. “I ain’t one of those.”
“What are ya, then?” Cason taunted him.
Out of nowhere it came, or maybe it came from the magic-est curlicue in the wallpaper, or maybe it came from out in the dirt-and-weeds front yard, where his bike was laying on its side, or maybe it was simpler than all that and it was just fate, Turner’s fate. “I’m a bike rider.” he said.
Cason laughed, but now he was angry. “No you ain’t! You can’t even pedal without falling like a crybaby chickensissy! You ain’t no bike rider! You ain’t! You’re a bike faller chickensissy, that’s what you are!”
“Am too,” Turner retorted, stabbing a cuke and popping it into his mouth. “Am too!” he said again.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Mom.
“If you do any more namecalling at the dinner table I’ll tan your hide, Cason,” said Pops.
Cason’s euphoria bubble had popped and he sank down in one of the deep, black troughs that would characterize his life until, many years later, he ended it. Cason scrunched up his eyebrows and stared angrily at his dinner. “You ain’t no bike rider, you ain’t, ’cause you can’t ride a bike.”
“Am too,” Turner hummed. “Am too.”