When he noticed her, his first impression was: crack whore squatting to piss. She had a greasy dirt-streaked face, dirty clothes, like she belonged in a third world country-not America.
What was she doing there? He wondered if she was really taking a piss.
Maybe he would get a free show.
“You know her?”
“Nope, never seen her before,” Lauro said.
Angel lobbed the egg near her.
She ran to a white mini-van covered in rust spots, missing a rear bumper.
A man, her father by the looks of it, jumped out of the back of van as she got inside with the rest of her family.
They were huddled around ice chests, piles of clothes. Angel saw the black trash bags filled with everything they owned.
The children had their faces buried in their mother’s arms.
He yelled, “Go park at a Walmart!”
The dad got in the van, drove away.
Lauro laughed, uneasily, “That’s cold, man.”
Inside Verde Park, near the Verde Community Center, the preteens were playing, catcalling to Miss Padilla again in their squeaky little voices. “Hey mamacita! I want to do the wild thing to you!”
Another said, “How much for a blowjob, bitch?”
In unsure voices that could crack glass, they catcalled, giggled. They tossed their football back and forth.
Miss Padilla, she couldn’t remember faces anymore. Her life before she got clean last year made it so. But the kids would not let her forget. She still liked to straddle her neck in gold jewelry. She still liked to wear the same hot pink, skin-tight, halter-top dress.
Angel said, “Check out Miss Padilla. Baby got back.”
At a fast clip, she bustled up Van Buren Street. Her chest puffed out, tits bouncing all over the place.
He did a little bump and grind dance, dry fucking the air. “I wouldn’t mind riding that train.”
“You’d fuck her? She’s like forty, and she used to be a prostitute.”
“I’m just playin’.”
Lauro smiled, “What’re you getting your mom for her birthday? Something nice?”
“I was thinking of some gold jewelry.”
Miss Padilla wore giant gold earrings that glinted in the sun.
Lauro saw the gold around her neck.
“I fucking dare you! You won’t do it!”
She bustled toward them like daring them to stop her, daring them to do something about it. But without looking them in the eye, she strutted past. Angel grabbed the jewelry from her neck. She started screaming, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!” Then she was shouting, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!”
Before they knew it was happening, she had opened her Chanel purse, pulled a gun. She boomed the way thunderclaps rumble through clouds, across the sky, “I’m gonna teach you not to fuck with decent folk!”
Without thinking, Angel ran. It didn’t register in Lauro’s mind right away that Angel had run. Lauro bolted a second later, as fast as his fat little legs would carry him. He was too slow, and it was all the excuse she needed to shoot him twice in his back with the.38 snub-nosed revolver. Like a spooked stampeding cow, Lauro belly-flopped into the ground. The momentum of his dead weight carried him skidding across the scarred pavement on his chin.
She boomed, squeezing off the last four shots in the revolver, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!”
She waved the gun, blasts cutting the palpable heat rising on the air. Inside Verde Park the kids screamed, fell, one by one as the errant bullets struck them.
Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!
Angel didn’t look back. He just kept running all the way to Washington Street where the metro light rail thrummed in place, its doors open. Had the train been waiting for him? He didn’t have time to consider it. Not that he cared, and jumped inside.
The Ikea was both colossal and confusing. There was so much shit to buy, Brandy Ashton didn’t know where to begin. Some of the displays looked very modern to her, and hinted of a future that would leave her behind in the dust unless she bought something. Also, she noticed the only way to get through the store was by taking the longest route possible.
Brandy realized what the mad architects behind the maze were cleverly doing; resented them for it. Though it was her first visit to the store, she wondered why she had even bothered.
Finally, she settled on a Bolman 3-piece bathroom set, a Svalen bath towel (the one with the angry fish with the sharp teeth), and an Idealisk corkscrew. She had been saving an exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel all month, and bought some brie that morning to pair with the wine. Thinking on the wine paired with the cheese, she tingled.
But then she thought of the long bus ride home. The #65 bus she had taken from the metro light rail-how she would have to wait another ungodly amount of time on the bus going back. She thought again of the wine, the cheese, and everything was okay.
“Excuse me?” Brandy said to the girl at the work station. Her name was Erica according to her nametag.
Sullenly, Erica looked at Brandy.
“Can you help me?” Brandy finally said, wondering if she broke a two-by-four over Erica’s head, would it wake her up? “I have a question about that entertainment center over there.”
Erica glanced back at the copy of Cosmopolitan (underneath: Rolling Stone). She closed the magazine, as if helping Brandy was a waste of her time. The disdain was written on her pretty, young face: how dare she be bothered.
Brandy said, “How much is it? There’s no ticket on it.”
“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Is it available?”
“Yes, but we don’t have the bottom doors in,” motioning to the bottom cabinets. “They won’t be in until Saturday. You’ll have to come back if you want them.”
“Is there any way to have the doors delivered?” Brandy asked.
“No.”
Surprised, Brandy said, “There’s no way to have them delivered? What about the floor model, is it for sale?”
“No,” said Erica, annoyed, trying to hide it.
“Is there a manager available?”
Erica gave a look that said: I can’t believe you’re wasting my time with this. No longer trying to hide it, she said annoyed, “Why do you want to talk to a manager?”
“Why do I have to explain myself to you?”
Now Erica had the look of a person holding their breath: that frozen, bated breath expression when something totally unexpected is said and they are trying to figure out what to say next, how to respond.
More than anything, Brandy hated dealing with these kids. Spoiled, bratty kids who acted like they were owed the world. Erica looked fresh out of high school-young, pretty; but Brandy knew, attitude trumped looks, any day. She had at least fifteen years on Erica, and still, she looked just as good. The only difference were the little crow’s feet growing at the edges of Brandy’s eyes that perhaps betrayed her age.
She waited for Erica to say something. Finally, she said, “Because you’re not being very helpful. Maybe there’s something the manager can-”
Erica talked over her, “We can deliver the doors. Where do you live?”
“The west valley.”
“We can deliver them, but it’s going to cost you eighty-nine dollars.”
“So they can be delivered? Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I still want to see the manager.”
So, little Erica made the call. Talking a few minutes on the phone, she said, “The manager will be here in ten minutes, if you still want to wait.”
Go fuck yourself.
That was the look on Brandy’s face.
Jesus, she hated dealing with these kids. She wished she had that two-by-four. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to bash in Erica’s pretty little face.