“Longer than six hours, call your doctor.
But personally, I don’t want to know.”
Freak Lives In
A big dilapidated mobile home,
way out of town on ten acres of trees.
They form two crooked lines on each
side of the gravel driveway. At the end,
where road meets trailer, vehicles
litter the unpaved parking area. Mud,
that’s what it is. Squishy red slop.
It slurps at my shoes as I follow Marshall
to the door, noticing for the millionth
time in my life the incredible scent of wet
cedar. How do people live in the city,
where all you inhale is exhaust and piss
and subterranean steam? Of course, it
doesn’t smell a whole lot better inside,
where it’s booze over BO over a vague
fart stench, all fogged with a blend of
smokes—tobacco, weed, something else.
Eau d’party! Now to figure out just how
much “eau” I’m up for. I’ll start with a beer.
I toss a five-spot into the “Keg Donation
Can,” on top of maybe six single dollars.
Considering probably twenty people
are slurping suds out of red plastic cups,
I’m thinking Freak’s going to come up
a little short. Since he earns his keg cash
selling dope, no one’s too worried
about kicking in, but I like to pay my way.
Don’t want to be beholden to anyone,
except maybe Hayden, who would be
horrified at the red mud getting tracked
everywhere. She and my parents would
see eye to eye on that, at least. Personally,
I’m kind of enjoying all the “shoe painting”
going on. It’s so not-neat it gives me shivers.
My eyes are welded to the floor, so when
someone taps my shoulder, my arm
jumps, tossing something-I’m-guessing-
is-Pabst into the air and over my shoulder.
Hey! Not much into wearing beer! Try to
keep it in the cup, okay? But then she laughs,
and before I can turn to face her, I know
it’s Alexa. We’ve laughed together before.
She Follows Me
Over to the keg, where I rectify the spill,
refilling her cup, too. Someone has turned
on music, if you can call Slayer music.
More like a growl with a beat and some bass.
Whatever. All I know is it’s really loud.
“I’m going in the other room where my ears
can take a vacation.” It comes out invitation-
like and Alexa takes me up on it.
We manuever carefully through a tangle
of partying people and it’s a challenge
to make it to the back room—once a bedroom,
but now set up like a den, with crippled chairs
and a seedy sofa where, unbelievably,
Marshall is tongue-to-tongue with Lainie
Brogan. Guess she was swayed by the promise
of an everlasting boner. I’ll never look at her
the same way again. There’s one open seat,
and Alexa sinks into it. I opt for the arm,
pray it holds. It’s either converse with her
or keep staring at Marshall, who has coaxed
Lainie onto his lap. Oh, hell, no. They’re
not going to get it on right there, are they?
“Holy crow. What got into her?” I ask,
and Alexa knows exactly what
I’m referring to. Vince broke up
with her yesterday. She’s just trying to
make him jealous. Sure enough, on the far
side of the doorway stands my ex-good
buddy Vince Rosario, looking unnervingly
like the Incredible Hulk. He’s even a pale
shade of green. “Damn. Hope Vince
hasn’t changed his mind. He could snap
Marshall in two without even trying.”
Instead, he watches the sordid scene
for a couple of seconds, turns, and walks
away. Pretty sure Marshall never knew
he was there. I’m also pretty sure Alexa
was right. Lainie knew. She’s smirking
around her semi-exposed tongue. “Man,
some girls are downright disgusting.”
Alexa laughs. Ain’t it the truth?
And most guys like them that way.
True Enough
Except, “Not me. Personally, I prefer
class ladies to crass women.” There seem
to be mostly the latter here tonight.
And we class ladies appreciate that.
Alexa’s smile seems more predatory
than classy, but I keep that to myself
and change the subject. “So why were
you in Carpenter’s office today?
Curricula-tory problems?” She cocks
her head, perplexed. “Sorry, lame joke.”
Oh. Now she looks consternated, but
tells her story anyway. Believe it or not,
Carpenter called me in because of a post
on my Facebook page. I called Karla Decker
a whack and said I wished someone would
cut off her head so she’d finally shut up.
I guess someone saw it and sent it to Karla,
who told her mom, who reported me for
making threats against her daughter.
Jeez, man, I didn’t say I was bringing
my chain saw over, you know? I guess
zero tolerance isn’t enough with all
the gun violence in the news. Now they
feel the need to investigate any little burp
that might be a sign of stomach cancer.
How about you? Did you burp or what?
“More like a major silent-but-deadly fart.”
I tell her about my supposed infraction.
It takes a while, including a cup refill,
but I get to the end, omitting the “amen”
at home. Alexa listens without comment,
other than a nod or vocalized Yeah. I want
her to say, “That’s so fucked up.” I want
her to say, “Why in the hell would they be
worried about a freaking essay dismissing
God?” Instead, she goes to straight to Luke.
Well, Luke, Plus
The first thing she says is:
I kind of hope there is a heaven.
Wouldn’t it make you feel better
to know Luke isn’t really dead,
and that he’s watching over you?
To which I reply:
“Considering I was the one who
always had to supervise Luke,
I think he’d do a piss-poor job of
watching over me. Next question.”
Slightly stung, she continues:
I’m not big on church or religion,
but I want there to be something
more. Wouldn’t it be cool if we
could come back, get another chance?
I’ve considered that, actually.
“I don’t think it’s possible, so I’ve
decided to up the ante on the cards
I’ve been dealt. I don’t need another
chance if I kick ass in the present tense.”
Speaking of Kicking Ass
There seems to be a little row in the other
room. Everyone here crowds that way,
anxious to see what’s up. That action
pries Lainie and Marshall apart, and when
someone yells, Get him, Vince, I start
thinking maybe it’s time for Marshall
to lea
ve, just in case this is a matter
of misplaced rage. “Hey, Lainie. You
didn’t know Vince would be here, right?
I mean, you wouldn’t set up my buddy,
would you?” If there’s one thing I hate,
it’s games, especially the kind that get
my naive friends into trouble. Lainie’s eyes
narrow, and she gives me a vile smirk.
Why don’t you shut the fuck up, ass licker?
What I do is none of your business.
“Nice mouth. Careful you don’t catch
something ugly hiding in there, Marshall.”
With a chorus of groans, the group in the hall
swells backward into the room, and there’s
a loud thump just beyond them. “Time to
go, I believe. Marshall?” Against all that
is logical, the dimwad shakes his head.
Nah. I’ve got plans for little Lainie girl.
You go ahead without me. You’ll get me
home, won’t you, Lainie? Totally unfazed
by the commotion in the hall, he kisses her
again, and she kisses him back, in the most
ludicrous display of igorance I’ve ever
witnessed. “Well, I’m going,” I tell
Alexa. “At least, if I can find a way
out. Think I could fit through that window?
Okay, probably not. Thanks for the company.”
I stand, but before I can take a step, she puts
her hand on my forearm. Take me home?
I actually rode with Lainie. Looks like
she’s got more on her mind than me,
and it’s a very long walk in the rain.
Or even not in the rain. But you know—
I’m babbling, aren’t I? Her grimace
makes me smile. “I happen to admire
those who babble, and if you can help me
safely escape the morass, I’m more than
willing to drive you home, milady.” Now
I’m babbling, but I think she likes it.
She Takes My Hand
You go first, and fast.
I’m going to be sick. Got it?
I do. If there’s one thing more
imperative than watching a fight,
or even winning one, it’s getting
the hell out of the way of a likely
vomit blast. I’d duck myself.
“Too much beer! Move, man!
You like the smell of Pabst puke?
Out of our way!” Like magic, the mob
parts, and we hustle by the human heap
on the floor—Vince pounding on . . . ?
No clue who. And I really don’t
care. Best of luck, Marsh. Sweet
little actress Alexa keeps her
fist to her mouth, approximating
the sounds of imminent upchuck.
We escape into the mist-mellowed
night, laughing and surfing mud
all the way to my truck. I open
the passenger door, sort of boost
her up inside. “Quite the performance.”
I thought so myself. She looks at me
with eyes the approximate color of ripe
blueberries, and in those eyes I find
recollection of a time when Alexa
and I might have merged into coupledom
had I not fallen instead for her best friend.
Well, her then-best friend. The tiniest tip
of her tongue comes to rest against her
upper lip and I know what she wants and
for some insane reason, I sway toward her,
wanting to kiss her, and I am a millimeter
away from doing exactly that. “I can’t.”
It comes out a hoarse croak. “Sorry.”
She pulls her feet inside, and I close
the door, walk around to the driver’s side,
climb up beneath the steering wheel.
Wordlessly start the engine. We withdraw
to separate cubes of space, only feet apart,
but a universe away from each other,
both of us wondering what that meant.
We Are Quiet
For a mile or so.
Very quiet. Finally,
she tosses a pebble into the silence.
You’re really in love with her.
Splash. Glug, glug, glug.
“Hayden is easy to love.”
Really?
“Really.”
I don’t see it.
“Why not?”
Because you two are not
the same kind of people.
“That’s true. I’m a guy
and she’s definitely not.”
You know what I mean.
She’s starting to get pissed.
“Actually, I’m not sure I do.”
Come on. She’s a raging Jesus
lover. You’re anything but.
“Well, there is that. . . .”
The small injection of humor
goes unnoticed, or ignored.
Doesn’t that bother you?
“Once in a while.” More like
often, but I keep that to myself.
She reflects for a second or two.
Don’t you want to, you know . . . ?
Okay, this word duel grows old,
not to mention hard to keep up
with. “Don’t I want to what?”
She tsks irritation. Stop being dense.
Don’t you want to have sex with her?
Because I’m pretty sure she’s not
going to do that. Not without a ring
around her finger and a Bible verse
before—God-inspired foreplay.
Enough!
“Why in the hell is everyone suddenly
so interested in my sex life? Mom’s
positive I’m getting some, you’re sure
I’m not. And Marshall thinks I need
pharmaceuticals to masturbate.”
The last, of course, is total bullshit,
meant to elicit a reaction, and it does.
Alexa snorts laughter. Wh-what?
“Nothing. I made up the part about
Marshall. Just wanted to see if you
were paying attention. But I did have
to defend my actions—or lack of them—
to my mom. Just because she got knocked
up her senior year, guess she figures—”
Wait. Your mom got pregnant . . .
with you? Now she’s way too serious.
“That’s what they tell me. I was born
approximately five months after
a fancy shotgun wedding. Pretty sure
my grandfather wishes he’d pulled
the trigger. Then again, pretty sure
sometimes my dad wishes so, too.”
There’s a Lot More
To this tale of regret, details gleaned from Dad’s
inebriated ramblings. Confessions not confided,
but rather overheard. Like how he was a junior
at UOregon, a star forward on the Ducks
varsity basketball team, and head-over-heels
in love with another girl the night he met Mom,
who was much too young to be hanging out
at a frat party. How, despite a team prohibition
against alcohol, and a personal vow to remain
faithful, he went ahead and indulged in a drink
or four, which loosened his inhibitions enough
to make him forget about the love of his life
and engage in a fifteen-minute ride-of-his-life
with a wicked eighteen-year-old wild child
from out in the sticks. How, despite the guilt,
and swearing to himself he’d never again
cheat on his girlfriend, when Mom showed
up at his door he
invited her in for an encore.
Three times they had sex, that was all, but
apparently that was more than enough to get
Mom in a family way, and even though
his heart belonged to someone else,
he agreed to do the right thing and marry
Mom, losing both the love of his life
and his shot at a career in the NBA. Not
to mention, gaining a wife who rocked it
in bed but was pretty damn boring otherwise,
followed by a couple of problematic sons,
an upside-down mortgage, and a tidy job
only made interesting by the coaching gig.
Now all they do is play the blame game,
especially after what happened with Luke:
If only; you should have; why did you?
But that’s a lot to say before I drop
Alexa off, so I hold it all inside
and make do with this: “The last thing
I want for myself is a shotgun wedding.”
I expect her to reply with a comment
about the availability of birth control.
Instead, she says, So, you’re afraid
of your life becoming complicated,
and Hayden makes that easy for you.
I Want to Deny It
But I can’t, not completely. So I stutter,
“B-b-but, that’s not why I love her.
She’s beautiful and smart and sweet . . .”
And uncomplicated, yes, and I really
don’t need complications in my life.
You’re right. She’s all those things, but
there’s something else there, a nasty
little undercurrent. I mean, I thought
I knew her, but . . . Just, be careful.
Second time tonight someone’s told me
to be careful while referencing Hayden.
I should probably jump to my girl’s defense,
but Alexa’s right. Hayden can be snippy.
“No worries. I can fight her off if I have to.”
Alexa’s laugh is warm, rich gingerbread,
and I’m glad I didn’t have more to drink.
I most definitely share my father’s genes.
Don’t want to have his history in common,
too. But I don’t have to worry about that
with Hayden, do I? Suddenly, it strikes me:
Alexa hit that nail square on the head.
If There’s Anything Worse
Than the professional psychotherapy I endure,
it’s amateur pysche dissection, intentional or not.