I wonder how many people I pissed off when I was happy.
When I don’t immediately react, Mars says, “Ain’t that something?”
I say, “That is something.”
“Jill Anderson’s sort of all right — looking. Nice ass.”
“I prefer brunettes.”
Mars nods. “Brunettes with nipples the size of dinner plates.”
“Brunettes who paint shoddy replicas of the solar system.” I squint, taking in the size and construction of the painting. “Who cheat at board games.”
“If that’s your thing, dude.” Mars rolls his eyes. “You know what my thing is, though?”
I prepare for one of his profanity-laced monologs and realize with pain I’ve come to enjoy them.
“Granny nightgowns. The long jobbers with the sleeves. They’re normally made out of cotton or what’s that other… with the squares. I screw girls who wear these,” he gestures to the thong on his head. “But I have a thing for those nightgowns. They remind me of my grandmother. She knew what was up.”
It isn’t every day a man reveals deep sentiment for his grandmother in the same thought that contains a reference to a thong on his head. Mars is silent, wistful. We stand in Craig Anderson’s office and think about women we love.
“Now let’s smash the shit out of these people so we can go,” he says. “I’m bored and this isn’t fun anymore.” Mars yanks the picture from the wall. He smashes it on the desk and pulls the photograph from its mat “How’s this for on task?”
I shake off my hesitance. We rip and rip until you could use what’s left as wedding confetti.
Inside a drawer, Mars finds a thick wad of money. He gives it a shake next to his ear. “Yo ho, lookie here!”
“Put it back,” I say.
“What’s the big deal, Pluto? They’re all hundreds. Just one or two?”
“Posit,” I say, “you are Craig Anderson. What causes you more consternation: replacing a wad of money or a macaroni valentine from your adorable daughter?”
“What’s ‘posit?’” he says.
“It’s a fancy-ass word for question, Mars.”
He scratches his ankle again. “And is consternation some kind of pervert thing?”
“Just leave the money there, Mars. Leave it right effing there.”
“You want to ask someone a question, why don’t you just say question?” Mars sighs and produces a flask from his jumpsuit. “I have a headache.” He takes a long, rueful drink.
I remember a comment Jill hurled to the friend about a wine cellar. “Basement,” I say to Mars.
We find the door to the wine cellar in the kitchen. Jake the dog, whose eyes are like popcorn, is back, yelping and sputtering and getting in our way.
“Fucking dog,” Mars growls. I smell the spice of rum. Had he been smeared with diesel grease and walking late into my class, he would have been indistinguishable from my students.
Craig Anderson has racks of pompous-looking California reds and whites. I start with the whites. I don’t know anything about wine. They all sound the same when they hit the floor, which begins to look like a Jackson Pollock. I would say this to Mars but I’m certain there would be an explanation involved and I am suddenly overtaken by a spasm of yawning. I sit the rest of it out. Mars smashes and poses, smashes and poses. Jill’s thong hangs from his back pocket, a red grin.
He hands me the last bottle, a Spanish white, so I can do the honors. Instead, I place it on the empty racks.
“A watermark. Making the others pale in comparison, becoming the reference point for everything else.”
Mars says, “Do you two want to be alone?”
I turn to him, newly surprised by his slovenly appearance.
“Question.” He screws and unscrews the top of his flask. “We’re tearing around all bionic, destroying dolls and shit. To teach them to appreciate the stuff they don’t appreciate? Why don’t you steal what they do care about? Steal their stereos and money so they learn to pay attention to their love letters, or whatever.”
I say, “You don’t understand. The specific nature of…”
Mars shakes his head, sucks from the flask again.
Now we both stare at the bottle. After a moment, Mars says, “These people didn’t kill your wife, man.”
I let out a massive sigh that takes longer than I think it will. “I don’t think the weights I’m using are working.”
He takes another drink, thinks about it. “You’re probably not doing enough cardio.”
…
Back in the Andersons’ kitchen, I do a mental survey. Refrigerator, records, wine bottles: have we forgotten anything?
Jake the dog has lost interest in us and laps water out of his bowl. Mars and I register him at the same time. “All we have to do is shoot the dog and we’re through.”
I am joking.
Mars pulls the gun out of his pants. “Good call.”
“No.” I use my biggest voice. “We don’t do anything with the dog.”
“This wasn’t as much fun as I thought it’d be,” he says, and aims.
…
Anna kissed me whenever we left each other and whenever we, after being apart for even an hour, met up. That day I stood next to the car as she adjusted the driver’s seat and rearview mirror to take into account our differences. Ramon had an abscess on his cheek, a bump I figured would heal by itself. Anna reiterated: it was always better safe than sorry as far as the cat was concerned. I stopped listening in anticipation of her certain, thrilling kiss. Finally she delivered it to my bottom lip. I gave the roof of the car two protective slaps, then watched as she reversed into the street. She was hit by a bus of Fresh Air kids, whose driver didn’t know that in that area of the state driveways spring up like wild violets. I ran. The kids were bellowing out the windows. The cat carrier on the dotted yellow line, swiveling like a nickel.
…
Before I can stop him, Mars pulls the trigger and a bullet goes into the rump of Jake the dog, whose breath smells like bacon and friendship. The dog makes a muted sound and collapses.
“What the fuck?” I startle us both with my volume.
Mars smoothes back a piece of hair. “That’s the point of all of this, right?” His eyes are bright. He is happy.
My hands shake. “You shot the dog.”
“Chillax.”
Chillax, I think. The dog is dead. Pomeranian finito. The Anderson family will come home with tan lines. The dog will still be dead. Jill will cry. Craig will trim his mustache, then die. No one will learn anything. Maria will go to art college and compare sob stories with girlfriends who will say, I hate my calves, and Maria will say, An English professor broke in to my house, desecrated my room, and shot my dog. In the losing game, Maria will always win. Because of me. The dog is dead. Chillax. Chill and relax. Hybrid.
We hear a wheezing sound and turn. Jake’s eyes are open. He lies on the linoleum, stiff, staring out with an unfocused gaze. He tries to raise his head when I kneel next to him but pain halts him.
Mars grunts. “It must have grazed him.”
I stand and lift the receiver of Jill Anderson’s kitchen phone. The dial tone is strong, unwavering.
Mars panics. “Who are you calling? Why are we waiting?” He consults the windows to check if the neighbors have heard the sound of a gun in the middle of the otherwise peaceful Wednesday afternoon.
“Let’s go.” He pulls the arm of my jumpsuit.
A voice answers after two rings. “Nine-one-one-this-is-Theodora-what-is-your-emergency?”
“I’d like to report a robbery,” I say. “And a shooting. A robbery and a shooting.”
Mars’s enormous jaw goes slack.
I give her the information, respelling the name of the street. When it comes to the matter of who I am, there is no reason to be coy. “I’m the robber.”