Vernon God Little

He lifts his kid into the truck as I stumble to the gas station to buy a phonecard. I check the mud-flaps as I pass. Heaven, boy. Between them are painted the words, 'ME VES Y SUFRES.' My vesty surfers, or something. Wait till I tell Taylor.

She answers after five rings.

Tayla.'

'Tay, hi, it's Vern.'

'What, who? Wait up …' Bumping noises come down the line, a man's voice rumbles, then quiet, like she moved into a closet or something. 'Yeah—who?'

'Vern.'

Dead fucken quiet for around a decade, then she comes back, real close to the receiver. 'Oh my God.'

'Tay, listen …'

'Like, I can't believe I'm talking to a serial killer.'

'Shit, I ain't no killer …'

'Yeah, right–they have bodies mounted up all the way to Victoria!'

'Get outta town,' I say. 'That can't be right.'

'But, like, you killed some people, right? Something happened—right?'

'Tay, please listen …'

'Oh, babe. Poor tortured babe. Where are you?'

'Mexico.'

'God, have you seen back home? It's like Miami Beach, the whole town's wired for cameras, with live web access, twenty-four seven. The company that set it up floated shares and bought Bar-B-Chew Barn–my dad submitted a proposal for a sushi bar, right where the unisex used to be! If it comes off, I'm moving back to manage it—can you believe it?'

I watch credits drip off my card like ketchup off a local fly. 'Tay I'm at a public phone …'

Pulsating music and crowd noises break onto the line. You hear the man's voice, then Taylor yells back: 'It's my friend from outta town—okay?!' The door slams. She takes a deep breath, like a backwards sigh. 'Sorry, I'm, like, real vulnerable right now.'

'Hell, I don't want to …'

'You need cash, right? I have, like, six hundred put away for my vacation.'

'It'd save my fucken life.'

She sniffles, then her voice drops a tone. 'You talkin dirty to me, killer?' I swell in my new polyester pants. 'But, hey—where to wire it? Did you stop somewhere? And what if they, like—you know …'

'Shit, I guess that's right.'

'Vern, call me from wherever, like a city, or a big hotel—I'll check with Western Union.'

Her Fate song rings in my ears as I put down the phone. Six hundred bucks will probably buy a fucken beach-house down here. I'm boosted up. I get smart, and decide to call Pam. The line clicks. I swat flies while she hoists a ton of arm-fat to her head.

'He-llo?'

'Pam, it's Vern …'

'Oh my God—Vernie? We're devastated–where are you?'

I detect Mom in the background. I should've known it, they're probably on their nine-millionth burrito by now. Her sniffle wavers up to the phone, but Pam fends her off. 'Are you eating properly? Don't tell me you're not eating, don't tell me that, oh Lord …'

Mom snatches the receiver. 'Vernon, it's Mommy.' She immediately breaks into a runaway bawl. My eyes soak up with tears, which she feeds off, working up an even raunchier bawl. It's hard, this fucken moment in time.

'Ma—I'm just real sorry.'

'Well Vernon, the detectives say things'll be easier if you just come back.'

'I don't think I can do that.'

'But all this death Vernon, where are you? We know you were sighted near Marshall this morning …'

'Ma, I didn't kill nobody, I ain't running for that. I just have to make good, see? I'll maybe go to Canada, or Surinam or somewhere.' Bad fucken move. Mothers automatically detect the missing word in any multiple choice situation.

'Oh Vernon—Mexico? Oh my God, baby, Mexico?

'I said Canada or Surinam, Ma.'

'Well but the longer you stay away, the more trouble will be waiting for you, don't you see that? Vernon? Mr Abdini says you have a defense, he's been poking around, he found some clues and all, and when Lalito moves back we can be a real family again, just like before.'

'You ain't still waiting on Lally …'

'Well but that old woman at the home never called back, so why not? Vernon? It's love, a woman knows these things.'

'Mom—when did you last speak to Lally?'

'Well he's very busy, you know that.'

I snort in an ironic kind of way. I guess it's ironic, when somebody passes off total bullshit as reality. Points drip off my phonecard as if they're points in my soul; I feel like I'll expire when they run out. I make a note to try and keep some points, in case they end up being cross-linked to my soul. Another learning about deep shit: you get real fucken superstitious.

'Where are you? Just tell me that—Vernon?'

'Ask him when he last ate, Doris.'

'Mom, these credits are gonna run out—what's important is that I'm fine, and I'll call when I get settled.'

'Oh Vernon.' She starts bawling again.

I badly want to leave her some cream pie, tell her about my beach-house, and her visit and all. But I just fucken can't. I just kill the call.

Seventeen

'Ay, ay, ayeeeeeee, Lw-pita! Ay, ay ayeeeeeee …'

Tunes scratch out of the radio as we roll south in the truck, Pelayo, the kid, Jesus the Dead Mexican, and me. 'A veritable hotch-potch,' as bastard Mr Nuckles would call us. You'll drop a load when you hear the local hoe-down music; big ole polkas with guitar, bass, and accordion, and all these guys going 'Ay, ay, ay,' and shit. Even better is the station-breaks; announcers holler echoes like they're calling a fucken boxing match. I sit as high as a God on the passenger side of the truck, squinting through the slit of glass between an overgrown dashboard shrine of the Virgin, and a fringed curtain with baby soccer balls hanging off it. Pelayo's kid is in a game with me. His name is Lucas. Every time I look at him, he looks away real fast. So I keep him in the corner of my eye, train him to expect my eyes to move slow, until he's lulled into that pattern; then I suddenly cut back and catch him staring. Ha! He blushes like crazy, and buries his face into his shoulder. For some reason I get waves from this little game, I really do, a flock of butterflies in my heart and all. Don't get me wrong, I'm still an asshole. I haven't gone The Other Way, or anything. But, just honestly, it's like one of those Simple Things in Life, that folk always talk about, but you never know what they fucken mean. Imagine a regular ten-year-old doing this, back home. I don't fucken think so. He would've already primed some cusses, just in case you fucken looked at him.

We heave deep into the guts of Mexico, past Matehuala and San Luis Potosi, where greener scenery blends with my hangover to weave frosted dreams, of home, and of Taylor. I try to push away the silken threads, the octopus flesh writhing, flashing purple and red, puffing tang-spray and honey, so I can air the musty, upholstered ole thoughts, lavender-smelling thoughts I get every day about the dead. Thoughts too big to even shiver at, thoughts just calmly there, to stay forever, like flounces on the satin in your casket. The thoughts combine with the climb into Mexico City to bring soundbites of everyone I know, crying behind their fly-screens, 'Devastated, devastated, devastated, the nightly news, the ni-ghtly newwws, the Nigh- tly Nooze …' until in my mind, I'm chased through skies of churning bile by a black and putrid vortex that swirls across whole states, whole fucken countries, just to gash me, hook out my guts, pulsating, and stomp them with boots and spurs, like a nest of baby rattlers, 'Get that end! Stomp! Cut that fuckin bastard, he's still movin!'