Some Things That Meant the World to Me
We were in front of the dumpster, little-Rhonda standing and me sprawled on the ground. The sidewinders were still latched to me: one holding my mouth shut, the other a leash sticking out of my bent arm. Little-Rhonda held each of the snakes' tails.
"I'll take the one off your lips," he said, "if you promise to keep calm."
I nodded.
The sidewinder released me, coiling itself and purring next to me.
My mouth didn't hurt. I rubbed my lips, expecting there to be blood or piercings, but there was nothing.
"One more thing you need to see down there," he said.
I didn't answer him, didn't know what to say after he'd dragged me here. I cleaned all the garbage out of the dumpster and opened the trapdoor. Started climbing the ladder, but I only made it five rungs down, and when I reached for the sixth, it felt thin, brittle, and it shattered and I fell. I fell, and I screamed, and then I landed in a huge pool of freezing tcha-bliss. I wasn't being pulled down through it this time, had to swim myself, swim down to the window at the bottom. I looked through it and saw little-Rhonda, again without his miner's helmet.
As soon as my feet hit the glass, they locked into something, and I couldn't move, my feet attached to some sort of conveyor belt, which pulled me above the kid. I followed everywhere he went, through the fractured house, desert everywhere. I followed above him as he went into the kitchen to make another Bloody Maria. He didn't fill the glass up all the way, leaving a few inches at the top of it. Me, Rhonda, following above him into the garage, as he grabbed the antifreeze. I followed him as he poured some of it into the Bloody Maria, stirring it all together, adding more pepper, more Tabasco. Following as he walked back toward the bedroom, trudging past cacti, Joshua trees, chollas, sidewinders. Toward Letch. Handing him the drink.
"Did you put your balls into it?" Letch said.
The kid didn't answer him, turned to leave Letch alone with his drink. The kid walking out, and I was getting pulled above him, out of the room, and I have to tell you that I didn't want to follow the kid, wanted to stay there and watch Letch drink the antifreeze, wanted to watch him take a big slurp.
The kid walked to his room. The kid crying. Breaking down. Hands over his face. Rubbing his eyes hard. Two purring sidewinders at his feet. I leaned down, my fingers scraping on the glass, knocking on the window, trying to get the kid's attention, but he couldn't hear me. Not yet. The kid getting down on the floor. The kid said to the snakes, "What did I do?"
He got up off the floor, walked back to Letch's bedroom, my body grazing on the glass above him. The kid said, "I don't think I made you a very good drink," and Letch said, "It's fine," and the kid said, "Give me that one, and I'll make you a new one," and Letch said, "Don't worry about it, Rhonda," and the kid said, "Please," and Letch said, "Get the hell out," and the kid said, "But I didn't put my balls into making that one," and Letch said, "It tastes fine so scram."
The kid walking back into the hallway. Crying again. The kid walking through the house's desert. Some ants ate a dead bird, carried specks of meat back to their home. The kid went all the way to the kitchen. The kid picked up the phone. The kid dialed 9-1-1. The kid said, "Someone's been poisoned," and the operator said, "Who?" and the kid said, "My mom's boyfriend. Send an ambulance," and the operator said, "Is he breathing?" and the kid said, "I don't know," and the operator said, "Can you tell me what happened?" and the kid hung up.
He sat at the kitchen table. Wondering if Letch was still alive. I knocked on the glass again, but the kid didn't look up at me.
Minutes later, faster than the kid ever expected help to arrive, there was a siren screeching outside. Knocks on the door. The kid opened it. Two men standing there. One carrying a box. The kid said, "He's in the back," and pointed toward Letch's bedroom. The men hurrying down the hall. The kid following. They pushed the bedroom door open. Letch was sprawled out on the bed, holding his Bloody Maria, only a quarter of it left in the glass. He'd thrown up all over the front of his white t-shirt. He was sweating, shaking, head lolling.
The men ran over to him. One took the Bloody Maria from Letch's hand. The other said to the kid, "What did you use?"
"I didn't do anything."
Letch threw up again.
"You have to tell us what you used, so we can help him."
"I don't know," the kid said.
In the meekest voice I'd ever heard him use, Letch said: "I'm not… so good," and coughed, blood coming out of his mouth.
"Tell us!" the men said.
"Antifreeze."
"How much?"
The kid didn't answer.
"You're in a lot of trouble, son," one of the men said. "Help us.
Still not answering.
"How much?"
The kid held his thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart.
"Jesus," the other man said, reaching inside the box and pulling out a long tube and a water bottle. Then he rolled Letch on his side, saying, "Sir, we're going to have to pump your stomach."
Letch didn't answer.
"Sir?"
The tube snaked down Letch's throat. One of the men held a water bottle up above Letch's head, forcing a liquid into Letch, who gagged and heaved and flailed his arms.
The kid crying.
The men worked on Letch, and the kid wandered back through the desert, down the hallway, finally sitting on the floor in his room. I was right above him, and I knew he couldn't hear me, but I didn't care, saying, "Things can get better."
The kid looked up. "Hello?"
"Can you hear me?" I said.
"Is someone there?"
"I'm right here."
"Hello?"
"I'm here."
"Hello?" he said, wiping the tears from his face, finally looking away from the ceiling.
When the police came and took the kid away, it was the only time I didn't follow him, couldn't follow him. My feet unfroze from the glass, and I floated back up to my life.
I climbed out of the dumpster.
"What did you see?" little-Rhonda said.
"I saw us trv and poison him."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Do you wish he died?"
"I don't know"
"Tell me"
"I used to," I said, "but now I just wish we never met him."
We walked past a bulldozer parked on the side of the road, huge concrete pipes stacked next to it, in the shape of a pyramid. They'd paved most of the road again, the new asphalt black, the color of my Rorschach tattoo.
We kept walking and saw a man standing in front of a boardedup storefront. He had an acoustic guitar with two strings. He wasn't playing any chords, just beating on it and singing at the top of his lungs. Not singing, exactly. Shrieking. He was squealing a John Lennon song that my mom used to sing, but he did it in such a way I never wanted to hear it again.
"Do you think that's a sign?" I said.
"It's definitely a sign," little-Rhonda said. "It's a sign that guy needs singing lessons."