Not yet, at least.
For a long moment he just stares at the locket swinging back and forth. Finally, he steps forward, and I let the chain unspool from my fingers.
After he leaves, I think of following, letting him lead me to Jess. The daughter I haven’t seen in seven years, who calls every couple of months to say she hates me. My baby. Instead, I pull a pint of Bud and drink it slow. I top off a regular’s beer. I wash some glasses in preparation for the evening rush. Then I lean on the bar and light a cigarette and watch the snow fall.
I think about the guy I hit with the bat, and whether or not I killed him. I wonder how long it will be until Lester White runs down the list of people that knew about the back door of his stash house, until he puts that together with me asking for a loan. I wonder if it’s true what they say about his pit bulls, and I think it probably is.
I wonder if, maybe, just maybe, my phone will ring one more time before I find out.
Cramp by Anthony Neil Smith
I got the E. coli really bad the morning of the heist from hot dogs earlier in the week, but I didn’t see the other three sweating and cramping and squeezing back their bowels like me, suffering in the backseat of Winona’s Saturn coupe. It was me, Winona driving, Lewis back with me trying to keep his distance, and Abe riding shotgun. Abe and Winona had a thing. I’d wanted her first. He’d acted first. I don’t know, maybe I still had a chance. We really had good talks. I hated listening to them fuck at night.
Only two more hours south, the Indiana/Michigan state line. Our first destination, State Line Steve’s Adult RelaXXXation Den.
My roommate Abe thought up the heist on the way home from his aunt’s funeral in Ohio. He noticed the state line porn shops and imagined they’d be loaded with cash since pervs wouldn’t want the shit on their credit cards. Not a bad idea. I’d never robbed anything before, but my options sucked after I was kicked out of school on a “sexual assault” charge. One of Winona’s friends-she said the charges were nothing personal, but the bitch got a sweet settlement from the school. All I’d done was try to show her that a back massage from me would melt her tension like butter. Instead she kneed me and called security.
Winona was still my friend, though. She trusted me, probably because touching her would result in Abe touching me badly. I didn’t want that, remembered two purple fingers and a makeshift cast. One still won’t bend right.
Lewis was melting into the door, telling them to turn on the air.
“No,” I said. “Freezing.”
“It’s fucking May.”
“But he’s sick,” Winona said. “Chills. Come on. Poor guy.”
Lewis said, “If he’s got food poisoning, aren’t we gonna get it too?”
“Could’ve been a bad frank. Just one that didn’t get cooked enough. Or maybe it’ll take longer for one of you to get sick. You’re more muscular.”
“What if it’s the flu? Or worse?”
Abe turned his head. “Would you shut up? It’s a fucking stomachache, that’s all.”
“Actually, it’s bacteria,” Winona said. “Most things that make us sick are bacteria.”
Lewis glanced at me like I had plague. “You sure? How do you know that?”
Her eyes rear viewed him, rolled. “Duh, I was taking classes, remember? To be a med lab tech?”
“You get far enough to know a cure?” I said. Every word strained, couldn’t risk releasing.
She shrugged. “That would’ve been the next semester. It was just too hard for me.”
I didn’t buy it. I knew how smart she was. Her problem was, she’d rather drown herself in lemon drops and Jell-O shooters than study Immunology. Her new major at Grand Rapids Community College was Social Work, her fourth in two years.
“I need a restroom,” I said.
Abe turned farther, couldn’t get his face around that far. “Really?”
“Urgently.”
Lately, things had been “make do.” I was C student from a farm family, got booted from school and had to mop floors at Taco Bell to pay rent. Abe wasn’t sympathetic. He still expected me to pitch in a hundred more than him because, “Hey, I’m not here as much as you.” So I made do. I made do with a half-assed relationship with Winona when she was waiting for Abe to either show up or wake up. I liked our mornings, coffee and Pop-Tarts watching music videos-her, bare-legged, wearing one of Abe’s giant Gap rugby shirts. The guy was a hulk, I’ll give him that. Some mornings she’d stagger towards the table and say, “Sometimes I wish he’d ease up. I don’t need bruises every night.”
Oh, sweet Winnie, I’d be gentler. I’d listen to you. Just let me give you a back massage.
No, I didn’t say that. I said, “Yeah, that’s pretty tough.”
I made do with a crap job, couldn’t dare tell my folks about the assault charges. It didn’t get as far as a trial. I didn’t want to fight it. Figured it was easier to let everything cool out and then start over later, my record clean of anything official as long as I kept away from trying to make something of myself-although that dream of being a vet had pushed me out onto the road and just kept on without me. I supposed I could work in pet stores eventually. Wanted to give Abe’s way a try first.
Made do with a nasty gas station bathroom too. I three-plied toilet paper as a seat protector because of the brown stripes that wouldn’t wipe away. The light kept flicking off. It smelled like week-old stew. And then I released.
Whispered, “Yeeeeeeeeeeessss.”
Moaned.
Took in another breath, like week-old stew and bad pork.
Read black marker graffiti:
Had me a long dick here, 4/25/04.
Jesus Saves
He sure does-saves the best weed for himself.
Galatians 1:20
Lewis pounded on the door. “You can’t set up house in there!”
I reached for toilet paper, pulled. The last five squares fell off. I tried for the backup roll. There wasn’t one.
“Son of a bitch.”
No paper towels for your hands. Just an air dryer.
Lewis shouted, “We can’t risk being seen, asshole. Come on.” Then to Abe, “I’m trying. He won’t fucking answer!”
“Five minutes, all right? Can you wait five more fucking minutes?”
I tried my best. I made do with five squares to deal with my slimy ass, the bacteria turning everything to a syrupy pond scum. I worked it off, sometimes getting a little on my fingers and palm. Shit, shit, shit. The aches were coming back and I had to start clenching. My friends were bound to take off without me if I stayed any longer. The best I did with five squares was about eighty percent clean. Fuck it. I had a long day ahead.
A bigger surprise when I tried to wipe the shit smears off my hands. The water didn’t work. Tried cold. Tried hot. Tried spinning them as far as I could. Nothing.
Fine, then. Okay. Just make do. Maybe the air dryer would evaporate them, kill the little microbes, anything. So I hit the button and held open palms beneath. No air, no heat, no nothing.
I wanted to cry.
Twenty miles later, the nausea moved in.
I’d asked Winona the night before why she wanted to come along. I was surprised to learn Abe had told her. She said, “Don’t know.”
“You could get hurt. You could go to jail.”
“It’s not like we’re killing someone. People rob all the time.”
“But they go to jail for it.”
“A little.” An index finger and thumb almost touching.
I’d figured her out then. She didn’t like Abe because she saw the gentleman underneath the scars. She just liked the scars. Same with anything else in life.
We waited until the parking lot was nearly empty at State Line Steve’s. I was nearly paralyzed by then, any motion set to make me spew. I had another growing cramp bubbling inside too. Abe and Lewis would have to handle the whole thing themselves. I planned on heading for the men’s room.