With Death Laughing Page 5

  Dropping onto my knees, I hunch over the suitcase. Up close, it resembles an Iraq War veteran. The cordovan cloth is scratched and abraded, pocked with blood and mud. If I’m not imagining things, there’s a bullet hole in it.

  Employing the scissors, I saw through the rope holding it together. The scissors are dull and the rope is stubborn. Right when I’m about to quit, the rope snaps in two. I pull apart the suitcase—three dozen bundles of napkin-wrapped cash tumble onto the coffee table. The bills are in assorted denominations. They gleam faintly sexual, almost extraterrestrial in coloration.

  I put one and one together. The nut job is the robber Dalton is hunting for. The cheese has been stolen from banks. For the next hour, I count the dough. When I’m done, I become the unwilling guardian of fifty grand.

  Anxiety rappels up my nervous system. I want to wash my hands. To calm myself, I commence deep breathing exercises. Five breaths in, eight breaths out. In, out. In, out. I do this for fifteen minutes.

  No dice.

  I’m having a category-five panic attack.

  Two trains of thought sidetrack me. They override my jangled nerves, beating them back into a corner. For a fact, Superman would never succumb to nervous tension. He wouldn’t compulsively wash his hands. And the bank robber’s note said to give the suitcase to Jesus Christ. I ask myself the question that lives at the heart of the question itself: what would Jesus do with pilfered bank money?

  I’m not the bravest man. Nor am I the smartest. I am a wretched sinner, a defrocked priest. Think hard, I tell myself.

  The answer hits me in the pit of my stomach: I cannot be second-best to Superman anymore.

  It’s many hours later. I’m in bed, too hot to sleep. The curtains rustle—a wiry man jumps through the opened window. He’s in military jungle fatigues, a ten-day stubble lays siege to his gaunt cheeks. He has no eyes—two black holes bore into me with a fury greater than the midday sun. It’s my dad. In character, he bullies me: “What are you doing with that money? Don’t tell me you’re gonna do something stupid. I’d hate to think I raised a fuck-up.”

  Then he dissolves into nothingness.

  What I never told Alonzo, what I’ll never tell him, the war at home, the one that my father said would follow Vietnam—it’ll never end. Not until we break on through to another world. Any world, just not this one again.

  □ □ □

  I was out of prison two-plus weeks. Sixteen days, eight hours, and counting. Things weren’t getting better with Rhonda. In her own fashion she attempts to reunite us. One sultry evening in the kitchenette she says, “Let me give you a hand job.” She’s smiling, and means well. But I’m irritated from lack of sleep. I reply: “Not now, doll.” Rebuffed, she lambasts me with heavyweight accusations, claiming we’re incompatible. I clam up, cowering behind a wall of narcissism. Rhonda complains: “Is anybody there?” I answer: “No one’s around. Come back later.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I don’t know what kind of woman daddy thinks I am—but I’m not the Prolixin casualty he saw today in Pioneer Park. And I am not the halfway-house queen of his dreams. I’m no-man’s-land. And from what I’ve observed daddy is no better. I can only imagine what’s he’s like in bed. Tentative, probably.

  It’s past midnight. I’m on Sixth Street. A hot breeze whispers across my skin, rats chitter in the palm trees above me. An unmarked white SWAT sedan rolls up to the curb. Two plainclothes men step out of the car. I stop breathing—the first cop is aiming an orange taser resembling a sophisticated dildo at my nose. The other guy wields a family-size pepper spray canister.

  It’s party time—I’m the hostess.

  I activate my force field. For extra mileage, I point a finger at the sky. I point a finger at the ground. I point a finger at myself. I think pigeons are shitting on my head—the cop with the taser is yelling at me.

  “What are you doing here, girl?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said what in the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” He turns off his body cam and smiles. “Maybe you need a vacation in county jail. A visit to our spa.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I sure can. You have no rights.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Listen, honey. Don’t be boring. It’s against the law. Just answer my questions. What’s your name?”

  “Sugar Child.”

  “I love it. I’ll name my dog after you. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “This is your lucky night. I’m Cassidy. My buddy is Dalton. We’re your newest friends.”

  “Swell.”

  “You on meds?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “What kind?”

  I can barely get the word out of my mouth. “Prolixin.”

  “Tasty. You fresh from lockdown?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You in treatment?”

  “No.”

  “You got your permits with you?”

  “Yeah. I just purchased them.”

  My permits are cut-rate forgeries. Complete hatchet jobs. I paid a guy on Mayfield seventy-five bucks for a set of residential and travel cards, each valid for six months—they’ll never hold up under scrutiny.

  “You want to show them to me, Sugar Child?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my permits are good.”

  “They’re good?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay. I’ll buy that. You’re a nice girl. You stay that way.” The more Cassidy talks, the more Dalton toys with my mind, deliberately pointing his pepper spray canister at my crotch.

  I rejoin with a gaze that says: you can’t hurt me. My force field is impenetrable. Asshole.

  Cassidy interrupts the cold war I have going with Dalton by inviting me on a fishing expedition: “You know that hustler in Pioneer Park? The old man in the priest’s robes?”

  “Who?”

  “The slob that begs for money.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Nope. Never seen him.”

  “I thought everyone knew the dude.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You shouldn’t fib.”

  “I’m not.”

  He thrusts, I parry. I’m content with that. Cassidy isn’t.

  He applies more pressure. Where are you staying tonight? I stonewall his ass. Dalton is pissed. After all, it’s a party. And he’s having no fun. Then, a voice wafts over us—it’s their car radio. All units to Base Line and Waterman. An armed robbery is in progress. A Mexican with a gun.

  Dalton winks and says: “See you later, Sugar Child.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I reexamine the stolen cash in the morning—I left it on the coffee table. That was a bad idea. The money looks repulsive in daylight. Deflated by the sight, I go and forage in the mini-fridge. I find a wilted carrot. I gnaw on it. I wash it down with a glass of tepid brown tap water.

  The answering machine’s blinking red light catches my eye. I walk over to it and punch the play button. Alonzo’s drunken rasp knifes my ears: “I know you’re there. Trembling in the dark like a culo. Let me explain something. Do you remember my mom? She’d stand in line for hours outside the welfare office on Gilbert. To get government commodity foodstuffs. Sacks of weevil-infested white flour. The temperature out there topping a hundred and five degrees. That’s who we are. People with no mythology.”

  I’m unnerved by Alonzo’s message. The tracheotomies have murdered his voice. He’s sick, and possibly dying. Yet the prospect of death doesn’t mellow him. And he’s holding me hostage—in a fraternal Stockholm syndrome. Which only reinforces the bondage-like rapport between us.

  I struggle to stay away from the kitchenette sink. But the faucet’s bewitching drip is a siren’s song. Like a zombie I sleepwalk to the sink. I flip on the hot-water tap. I scrub my hands with dish soap. When I rins
e them, my fingertips are pinking with blood. In a trance, I repeat the process. After the fifth time, my palms bleed. Seeing my own blood again—three times this week already—triggers a vicious flashback. To the night the cops took me into custody for the assault on the tech executive.

  Rhonda is out getting a pedicure on D Street. I’m alone in our rooms. The doorbell ding-dongs. I yammer: “Who is it?” The answer shortens my lifespan. SWAT police. I do my algebra. I can let the assholes in. Or jump out the window. Rightfully, I select the latter. Only a loser would stick around to get nailed.

  It’s heigh-ho, up and over the window sill into the wild blue yonder and the pavement below. I don’t get far—molecules of anxiety siphon the strength from my legs. Long enough for the cops to break down the door.

  The first cop inside shoots me in the hip with a rubber bullet. Pow: I am knocked off the sill to the floor—the bullet leaves a contusion bigger than a jumbo pizza. I writhe on the carpet, happy it can’t get worse than this. To prove me wrong, another SWAT cop pepper-sprays me square in the face. A SWAT special operations unit brings in a robot—a toy-sized metal box on four wheels—to sweep the rooms for contraband. Then I’m taken downstairs to the lobby.

  Initially, I am transported to a substation north of Base Line. A bunch of SWAT tac squad cops in the booking room take one look at me and chorus: “Kill the faggot, kill the faggot.”

  Brilliant, I muse to myself. Truly brilliant.

  I’m thrown into the holding cell with a drunk Mount Vernon hustler. A bit of rough trade. Irate because he’s been socked in the jaw by the desk sergeant. He grips the bars and screams he’s in pain and wants to see a doctor. Three officers charge into the cell to whale on him. Within seconds, there’s a stew of blood and skin on the walls.

  In the middle of the night I am cuffed and driven in a patrol car to county jail. I’m escorted into another holding cell. Still handcuffed, my clothes are taken from me. I’m moved again—dumped nude in a strip cell. Nobody knows where I am. Maybe no one ever will. My balls shrivel with fear as plainclothes detectives interrogate me. One claims he’s a lawyer to get me to confess. I say zilch. What’s there to admit? That Rhonda went for a pedicure? Nope. That’s not me.

  At dawn I’m issued a regulation orange jumpsuit and transferred to a felony tank. I’m fortunate enough to score an upper bunk. I also discover a John Dos Passos paperback novel hidden under my smelly plastic mattress. The book has no cover and looks as if someone used it to stop a bullet.

  The paperback is a welcome diversion—the tank’s toilet is backing up. It’s regurgitating fecal matter from our tank and the other tanks in the jail. We’re getting everything. Nonstop.

  I bury myself in the novel, reading fifty pages until the warders order me from the tank. They yell: “Leave the book behind!” Shoeless, I slosh through watery shit to the gate. I’m shackled and chained to a string of other prisoners. We’re corralled to court for arraignment.

  I make a grand entrance into the courtroom, tracking brown footprints. I spot Rhonda among the spectators in the pews. My baby girl. Her loyalty is breathtaking. I try to smile at her. But I can’t. My mouth won’t cooperate. Because my bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars. I can’t afford that or a private attorney, so I’m assigned to a public defender. A young pup who doesn’t know squat. He’s convinced a jury of my peers will convict me. Opting for the alternative, we go to trial by a single judge. Next stop: Muscupiabe.

  It seems wrong to think about these things now, but memories are deceitful. They have a habit of showing up like cockroaches when you least expect them. I simply cannot forget how the curtains came down on Rhonda and me.

  I’ve been out of prison three weeks. Rhonda is in our walk-in closet, jamming clothes into a suitcase. From the doorway I bleat: “Why are you leaving me?” My question is an exercise in rhetoric. She’s already spelled out her departure’s catechism. It’s summarized in three words—I’m an asshole.

  She lifts her valise, assaying the stockings, towels, panties, and bras she’ll ration in the days ahead. Then she looks at me, sniggering: “Do you want me to say it again? You’re an asshole.”

  I did a nickel for this crap? No, I did not. I wag my head, indicating she’s not going anywhere. Rhonda gingerly places the suitcase on the floor. Bam: she springs at me, raking my face with her fingernails. I lurch backward. Whoa. What the fuck. She hoists the valise and flits from the room. Her high heels clack with terrifying finality out the door.

  In agony, I reel into the bathroom. An unsympathetic mirror confirms what I fear. I’m the reluctant owner of four deep and symmetrical bloody claw marks on each cheek—stretching all the way down to my chin. Rhonda always pampered her nails, encouraging them to grow into steak knives. I’m aghast. Will my face heal, or am I going to look this way forever?

  For the next week, it’s touch-and-go. The claw marks don’t blanch. Rhonda doesn’t call. Alonzo comes by, but his visits bring an alcoholic’s uncanny knack for jabbing at what hurts most. He has a solemn, canonical liturgy: “I never approved of your old lady. Never did. She’s a North End white girl. She isn’t the kind to stick around when the shit hits the fan. Yeah, okay, okay. She didn’t divorce you while you were in the joint. But that’s fucked up. She was waiting to do it when you got out. She’s passive-aggressive. You’re better off now. You don’t have to worry about her stabbing you in the back. But your face is totally ruined. I’d see a dermatologist if I were you.”

  □ □ □

  The phone is ringing again. I steel myself. It’s got to be Alonzo. Asshole or not, he needs my support. I shut the faucet, leaving bloody fingerprints. I sashay into the other room. I pick up the receiver and gabble: “Alonzo? You all right, man? Listen, it doesn’t matter what you think of me. I don’t care if you disrespect me. I’m cool. I mean, it’s Christmas. And if things get—”

  A canned voice breaks in: “This is a prerecorded message from the law firm of Dougal and White. We represent Blessed World. Your former employer. You are being contacted in regard to your usage of their property. Your refusal to return a uniform estimated in value at three thousand dollars is now a criminal offense. Because of the aforementioned item’s worth, this is a felony, punishable by incarceration. Your ongoing usage of the apparel for purposes of soliciting money also constitutes a felony. This message is to advise you to cease and desist. You have twenty-four hours to return the uniform to Blessed World’s office. Any other action on your part will be construed as adversarial. If you plan to return the uniform, please press one. If you have questions and wish to negotiate the surrender of the item at a later date, please press two. If you—”

  I slam the phone down, my blood pressure skyrocketing through the ceiling. Who do those punks think they are? Nobody talks smack to me and gets away with it.

  Consider my résumé. It’s an alphabet of jails, handcuffs, palm trees, smog, and pepper spray. I don’t have friends in high places. I don’t know the mayor like that other donations solicitor does. So what. I’ll get by.

  NINETEEN

  I amble downstairs, still peeved about the message from Dougal and White. The clock in the lobby says it’s one hundred degrees. I exit the hotel—I’m late for work.

  A small knot of consumers are talking and smoking by the halfway house steps. One has a broom and is sweeping butts from the gutter. He finds a choice one, sticks it in his mouth. Another consumer, a diminutive Samoan woman in a recycled surgical gown, buttonholes me. “Hey, Pastor! How are you this morning?”

  I check the tubercular brown sky, the sun hiding behind a skein of tissue-paper clouds that stretches from Little Mountain to Waterman Canyon. My neck is killing me—I couldn’t swallow the carrot I had for breakfast. I squeak: “I’m maintaining. You?”

  She repays my question with great news. “It’s the best day of my life. I just got accepted into a treatment program out in Highland. Near Patton. I’m going there this afternoon.”

  “Very nice. For how long
?”

  “Twenty-four months.”

  “That’s a considerable stint. A big deal.”

  “My insurance pays for the thing.”

  “How marvelous. Merry Christmas, sugar.”

  The consumers laugh at me. Most wear plastic intake bracelets from Patton State. The oldest of them sees me looking at his bracelet. Annoyed by my curiosity, he takes his lit cigarette and expertly flicks it at my robe. Sparks dance around my feet. I’m too tired to protest. So I just leave.

  □ □ □

  I walk south on E Street to Fifth Street, and over to Seccombe Lake. It’s hot and muggy—I have no deodorant. At the lake I watch ducks cavort in the oily water.

  I hear a crow cawing. I swivel my head. A monstrous black bird is sneering at me from a lakeside tree. My skin turns cold with dread—crows caw at me and SWAT cops and lawyers have memorized my name. I recite a self-prescribed rosary: pain explains life better than love does. Jesus in heaven, please help me get through this day. That’s all I fucking want.

  TWENTY

  That’s right. Today is another opportunity for me to mess up. Or get things straight. Which way I’ll go, I don’t know. It’s a toss of the dice. Between the donations bucket and myself stands an abused Christmas tree. I found it abandoned in Pioneer Park. A motherless tree with no decorations on its emaciated branches. Apart from the tarnished gold star fastened to its balding crown.

  I’ve been talking to it for hours. “Do you need water? Some presents underneath you? Or boys and girls to smell your bittersweet fragrance?”

  I hurl the tambourine in the air. Without looking, I catch it behind my back. The .25 pops out of my cummerbund and clatters onto the sidewalk. Two pigeons inspect the gun, pecking at the barrel. I threaten them with the tambourine—the filthy, loveless birds fly off to El Pueblo’s garbage dumpster.

  A tiny crowd has gathered to watch my routine. Two tourists from Germany named Roland and Greta.

  They drop a dollar in the bucket. Roland says in heavily accented English: “You are authentic, Pastor.”