Dead Boys: Stories

Culver City

SHELLY’S ACTING AGAIN, ACTING LIKE SHE CARES, SAYING, “I swear to God, honey, this will change our lives forever.” Reaching across the kitchen table, she burrows her fingers between mine and gives me a pout and wiggle that’s pure porno, and I have to smile back even as I’m thinking, Who is this tramp?

There are eight Polaroids spread on the table. Eight Polaroids that show a famous young actor doing things with a famous older actor. Sex things. On a bed, on a lawn, in the sparkling water of a swimming pool like the one we’ve always dreamed of owning. Shelly was at a party in the Hills last night, and she claims the photos fell right into her purse out of a book she pulled off a shelf. Somebody will pay for them, she’s sure. First we’ll try the actors, then the Star or the Enquirer or somebody like that. She figures $100,000 easy.

It’s dirty business for a Sunday morning. I’m starting my first cup of coffee, and she just got home. We spend a lot of our time like this, at opposite ends of the day. I want her to go to bed happy, but the holes in her scheme are as obvious to me as the hickey she’s tried to cover with a smear of flesh-colored makeup.

I’m working on a tactful way to tell her that she’s gone too far this time, when the kid, giddy at seeing us so calm for once in each other’s presence, snatches a Polaroid and makes a run for it. I yell and lunge, but he’s halfway to the TV, slowing to examine his prize. I go over the back of the couch like a hurdler, completely forgetting about the coffee table on the other side. It collapses with a splintery crack, and the kid’s screaming even before I land on top of him. He’s okay, though, just scared. I rub his head until he eases off into a whimper. His teary eyes reflect a couple of cartoon mice skidding across the TV screen, and he slips away to watch them.

Back in the kitchen I crumple the Polaroid and throw it on the table, where it blooms like a flower as soon as it hits. Shelly grabs it and shoves it into her purse with the others, out of my reach.

“People get killed behind this kind of shit,” I say. “Get them the fuck out of here today.”

She rolls her eyes like I’m an idiot. She was different once upon a time, or I was. Her face turns tired, her mouth hateful. “Like you’d be any help,” she says and, without even a good morning for the kid, slinks off to bed. I’m left to ponder that hickey and what to do about it. I stir my coffee and watch it swirl in the cup. If it was possible for me to dive into it and drown, I can’t say that I wouldn’t.

CULVER CITY IS south and east of everything worth anything in L.A. We’re all between jobs here or between marriages, between runs of good luck. We wait out our slumps in flaking stucco apartment buildings, count the stars on our cottage cheese ceilings. There are three different kinds of palm trees between me and the 7-Eleven, and, when the wind’s right, the faintest tang of ocean — just enough scraps of paradise to drive you nuts. We’ve been here too long now to go back, though, no matter how bad it gets. At least Shelly and I agree on that. The great state of Texas can kiss our asses. It was her dream to come out here, and I jumped at the chance to make it happen. That’s how crazy I was about her. With all the nothing I’d seen in my life up until I met her, she seemed to be an extravagant gift from a very stingy God.

I THROW THE kid in the truck and head out to see a man about some work, a Mr. Caldwell, who got my number from the sign I keep tacked to the bulletin board at the Laundromat. He sounded drunk when he called, but that doesn’t bother me. Some of the nicest bosses I’ve had have been alkies. A low chain-link fence surrounds his house, and the yard is an expanse of white rocks that crunch like ice cubes beneath my feet. The doorbell plays a church song.

Mr. Caldwell takes a long time to answer, an elderly black man in a bathrobe. I smell booze right away, but like I said, so what? I’ve woken him up, so we spend a few minutes getting straight who I am, him squinting at me over the bifocals hanging on the end of his nose.

“You got something to haul something in, right?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.” I point to my truck out on the curb. The kid is pressing his face against the window, licking the glass.

“That your little partner?”

“We’re letting Mom have the day off.”

What Mr. Caldwell wants me to haul is his dog. It’s old and blind and arthritic and hasn’t been able to get to its feet for a week now. He wants me to take it to the vet and have it put to sleep because he can’t bear to. I say I’ll do it for fifty bucks. That’s double my usual rate, but I figure I deserve it since it’s Sunday and I’ll have to explain to the kid what’s going on and everything. Mr. Caldwell says that’ll be fine and invites me in.

The dog is lying on a blanket in the middle of the living room. It’s bigger than I expected, part shepherd maybe. Its cottony eyes fidget as I move closer, and a shudder ripples from its snout to its tail. Other than that, it might be dead already. A bowl of food placed near its head is busy with flies.

“He’s been a good friend to me,” Mr. Caldwell says.

“I’ll bet,” I reply.

“Sonofabitch broke in here one night a while back, and Rowdy took ahold of his ass and didn’t let go until the cops showed up.”

“A real watchdog, huh?”

“Smart, smart, smart, too. He could count, I swear to you, and knew all the colors. I’d say, ‘Get me that red shoe,’ and he’d trot over and pick it out of a whole pile of them.”

Poor old dog, poor old man. I have to move things along, though, because who knows what the kid’s up to out in the truck. When Mr. Caldwell stops talking for a second to thumb the tears from behind his glasses, I suggest we carry the dog on the blanket, me taking one end, him the other. He stalls, offers me a drink. “I’m driving, but you go ahead,” I tell him. He pulls a pint of something from between the cushions of the couch and has a swig. I wonder if he’ll find another dog to keep him company, or whether he’s decided, no, this is it, never again, as old men sometimes do.

The dog doesn’t even stir on the way to the truck. We lift it up and over the tailgate and set it gently down. Mr. Caldwell leans in and arranges the blanket so that just the dog’s head is sticking out. He kisses his fingers and touches them to its nose. I almost tell him to keep his money when he opens his wallet, but that would be stupid. Shelly didn’t speak to me for a week once after she saw me give a bum a dollar at the supermarket. As we’re driving away, the kid stands on the seat to look out the back window at the dog.

“He’s dying,” I say. “We’re taking him to the doctor.”

“Did that man kill him?”

“No, that man was his friend.”

I’m prepared to answer the harder questions, the ones I would have asked at four years old, about angels and heaven and death in general, but the kid’s already turned his attention to the truck’s radio. He punches the buttons, jumping from station to station, never holding on one for more than a few seconds. It’s something his mother would do in the same situation, not giving a damn about anybody but herself.

SHELLY WOULD HAVE you believe she’s on a first-name basis with half the famous people in Hollywood. According to her, all kinds of stars are always coming into the coffee shop where she waitresses. They ask if she’s an actress and invite her to parties and nightclubs, which is why she rarely makes it home before dawn, even though her shift ends at one. Of course it bothers me. I’ve even given up watching TV with her, because we can’t go fifteen seconds without her saying, “I know him,” or, “Look at Jimmy there. I’ve been to his house,” as if I was some stranger she was trying to impress.

She swears she’s been faithful, but what’s that hickey about, then? And the bastard in the Escalade who dropped her off that other time, the one I saw through the curtains with his hands all up in her shirt, what about that? In her book these questions reveal my jealousy, paranoia, and lack of trust. In her book they’re an excuse to gut our checking account and disappear for three days. “How could you do that to your son?” I asked her after that episode. “Three days never killed anyone,” she said.

If I was anything like my dad, I’d knock her on her ass, and that would be that. But my dad only used his fists to shape the world to his liking because he was too stupid and impatient to wait for things to fall into place on their own. Shelly and I loved each other before, and we will love each other again, I’m sure of it. We can only, all of us, run so far before what we really are and what is meant to be catch up to us. She’ll slip into the apartment one morning just as the sun is beginning to peep into the dark corners and unroll itself across the floor, just after the sprinklers in the courtyard have shut off, leaving each blade of grass crowned with a ghostly drop of water. She’ll be tired and ashamed but happy at the same time, as anyone is who suddenly comes to their senses. “What was I thinking?” she’ll say, or something like, “I’ve been so foolish.” And there I’ll be at the kitchen table with a fresh pot of coffee and a full pack of cigarettes, as cheerful and steadfast as one of those birthday candles you blow and blow on but just can’t blow out, no matter how hard you try.

SHELLY TURNS ON her side to make room for the kid on the couch. “Who’s this?” she asks every time another video starts on MTV, and the kid names the band. If he misses one, she goes over and over it with him until he gets it right.

“See how smart he is?” she says.

“So when’s he going to learn to tie his shoes?” I reply, and believe me, unless you’ve ever been the person who has to bring up these kinds of things, you don’t know how mean it can make you feel. That’s why I decide to leave them to their fun. I go into the bedroom with the calculator to figure out how we’re doing at sticking to our budget. Turns out, not half bad. With the fifty from Mr. Caldwell and the tips I finally talked Shelly into kicking in, we have twenty-five extra this week to save or spend as we please.

It’s not even noon yet, but I lie down on the bed with the intention of taking a short nap and starting the day over with a better attitude. I roll onto my stomach and grab a pillow and think how nice it would be if Shelly joined me. I’ve been doing without for a long time now, one of those things where she’s always tired and I’ll be damned if I’ll beg. It’s still her who comes swimming into my head, though, when the TV fades and gravity gives way — on all fours, smiling over her shoulder, astride me, bounce, bounce, bouncing, a pale nipple grazing my lips, long blond hair taut across my knuckles, the backs of her knees sliding sweaty into the crooks of my arms. I kiss her feet, I kiss her stomach, I kiss the perfect swell of the young actor’s perfect ass while the older one tugs at me, insistent.

My eyelids ache from the strain of being forced open so suddenly. Sour and sweaty and mortified, I fling myself toward Shelly’s purse and upend it, but those goddamn Polaroids are not part of the mess that spills onto the carpet. Drawer by drawer, the dresser gives up nothing, and the nightstand is a bust. I’m sliding my hand between the mattress and box spring when Shelly opens the door.

“Tell me where they are,” I say.

“They’re mine. I found them.”

“Stole them, you mean. I’m getting rid of them.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on, Shell, this isn’t our style, selling what isn’t yours. We’re not that desperate, are we? We’re not hurting that bad.”

This stops her for a second, cools the fire in her eyes, and I think, Damn, I’ve done it! But then she says, “I hid them better than you know how to look, so just leave my shit alone,” and slams the door so hard the pictures she’s hung on the walls jump and rattle, all those ballerinas and kittens and vases of flowers. I sense she’s bluffing, so I go through her purse once more, unzipping every pocket. Way down at the bottom I come across a rubber, a silly glow-in-the-dark number that makes me wonder what kind of clowns she’s fucking. I’m afraid I’ll kill her if my hands don’t get busy doing something else, so I gather all the clothes tossed around during my search, pile them on the bed, and take my time folding them, doing my best to put everything back exactly where it belongs.

THE PIZZA PLACE in the minimall closes early. The sun hasn’t even set, but the owner’s already drawn the steel grate across the windows, which gives us a really pleasant perspective on the parking lot. Shelly puts her foot down when he starts to mop the floor, saying, “Do you mind? We’re eating here.” Her tone always riles me these days.

“Give the guy a break.”

“He should learn how to treat his customers,” she says.

“He just wants to get out of here at a decent hour.”

“You’re such a dick.”

The kid climbs from under the table and grabs another slice, then worms his way back out of sight. Shelly picks at her pizza, eating the pepperoni, and after that the cheese, bit by bit, until only the crust is left, freshly skinned and gory with sauce. It pains me to see food wasted, but I bite my tongue when she pushes the crust aside and starts on another piece. I’m trying not to make her mad, because I want her to spend the rest of her night off with us, instead of going to the party I overheard her talking to her friend about on the phone. I plan to buy her a lottery ticket after dinner and let her rent Whatever DVD she wants.

A fire truck passes outside, and we turn at the same time to watch. When it’s gone, I catch her eye, and she shoots me a cute little pout. I’m thrilled to discover something we share that she hasn’t forgotten, even if it is only the chills sirens give us.

While I’m paying the owner, his wife is cleaning out the display case. She removes a pizza with a couple of slices missing and carries it toward the kitchen but stumbles on the way. The pizza slides off the pan and lands on the floor. Her husband barks at her in a language I don’t understand, and she snaps right back at him. Whatever he says next makes her glance at me and shrug. He follows me to the door and locks it behind me.

Shelly has seen the pizza fall, too. She pulls me down to her mouth and whispers, “You know what they’re up to, don’t you? As soon as we’re gone, they’re gonna scoop that thing off the floor so they can serve it tomorrow.”

“Oh, please,” I say.

“Bet you a million.”

I look inside at the two of them standing behind the counter, watching us.

“You’re wrong.”

“Like you know. Like you’ve spent any time working in restaurants.”

“They’re good people.”

Shelly snorts and shakes her head. “I swear to God.” She’s already walking away, dragging the kid after her. What exactly was it, I wonder, that destroyed her faith in me and everything else? This city hasn’t kept its promises, but its lies were no worse than those we left behind. I wave to the owner of the pizza place and his wife. They wave back. An ambulance screams down Venice in the same direction as the fire truck, and I shiver alone this time and picture myself dying that way.

THEY CAME IN through the front door, I suspect. One strong yank on a crowbar is all it took to bend the bolt of the flimsy lock and splinter the jamb. The apartment looks like someone has picked it up and shaken it, everything upside down and across the room from where it was when we left. Shelly waits outside with the kid while I make a quick circuit. I throw open closets and fling aside the shower curtain, but whoever it was is gone.

The TV lies faceup against the overturned couch, too heavy for them maybe, but then I notice the DVD player in the corner, and the boom box. It hits Shelly at the same time it hits me. She rushes into the bedroom and comes out crying a few seconds later.

“They found them,” she sobs. “They took them back.”

My anger at her for not getting rid of the Polaroids when I told her to is a weak spark against the happiness swelling inside me. I was so right about those pictures being nothing but trouble, I don’t even have to say it. I wrap my arms around Shelly, and she really cuts loose. Not even by pressing her face into my shoulder can she muffle the wails that climb out of her. I hold her tight to let her know that I forgive her. I kiss the top of her head.

“I was fucking out of here,” she gasps.

“It’s okay.”

“Those fuckers.”

A neighbor pushes open the useless door and gapes at the mess.

“You call the cops?” he asks.

“We’ll handle it,” I say. “Thanks.”

Everything that was in the refrigerator is slopped together on the kitchen floor with everything that was in the cupboards. The kid slides around in the mess, laughing and smearing his face with flour and ketchup. I laugh, too, because now that it’s all been wrecked, we’re free to build something new out of the pieces, and I’m the man with the plan; Shelly will surely have to grant me that.

She’s stopped crying but looks like she could start again any second. I think back to Texas, to me and a cousin parked outside a liquor store a couple towns down the highway from ours, egging each other on, pistols cocked, and how the only thing that saved us was a cop car rolling into the next space at the instant we’d decided to make our move. I remember how we tore out of there and drove straight to a reservoir and sank our guns in the muddy water. I remember bawling because I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been, and I remember praying that I never got that stupid again. I have an idea Shelly’s feeling a lot like that now.

I right the couch and sit her down, and when I put the TV back on its stand and plug it in, it works fine. I tell her to relax, I’ll whip the place into shape in no time. The kid pitches in as best he can, and we heave and ho and sweep and straighten, singing silly songs and sharing cans of root beer. He looks so much like his momma when he’s happy. Every so often I lean over the back of the couch and touch Shelly somewhere. She actually manages a smile, and not once does she push my hands away.

THE LIVING ROOM is dark when I wake up, except for the hissing glare of the empty TV screen that silhouettes the kid asleep on the floor in front of it. Shelly is gone from where she was, on the couch beside me, and I rise and walk to the bedroom, already knowing that she won’t be there either. The room is still sweet with the smell of her perfume, and I’m able to follow the scent all the way down the hall and into the courtyard before the night gobbles it up. From there laughter and a revving engine lead me to the parking lot, where I watch the Escalade that dropped her off that time bounce over the speed bumps in the driveway as it carries her away from me.

Back in the apartment, I sit at the kitchen table and smoke a couple of cigarettes. The people in the next unit are arguing about money, and the guy upstairs flushes the toilet and turns on the shower. It’s something I’m usually able to ignore, the dreary murmur of these other lives at the edges of my own, but not tonight. The kid screams himself awake when I pick him up. I quiet him and wrap him in a blanket. There’s no way to lock the ruined front door, so I just pull it shut and leave it.

I’S EASIER TO think out on the bright, straight streets, behind the wheel of the truck. With half of me busy watching for stop signs and keeping to the speed limit, the ringing in my ears fades, and I try to put this latest disappointment into perspective. I let my hopefulness get the better of me again, which is just the kind of lamebrain leap I’m always making. The women at the coffee shop know where Shelly is, and I could get it out of them by saying the kid is sick. I could drive right up to so-and-so’s fancy house and barge right into his party and tell Little Miss Starfucker exactly what I think of her sneakiness, but what good would that do? She’d laugh in my face and call me an asshole. We wouldn’t talk for a few days, until I apologized for embarrassing her in front of her friends, and then we’d be right back where we started. I’ve been running in circles like that for years now, with her just one step ahead of me, and not once did I consider the possibility that I might never catch up. I was always sure she’d wear out before I did.

THE KID IS hysterical again. He struggles to open the door of the truck, and I almost kill us both, veering into oncoming traffic as I try to stop him. I pull into the minimall to calm him down, but he’s tired and cranky and won’t let me touch him. The lights are still on in the doughnut shop, and I tell him that if he’ll be a big boy, he can have Whatever he wants. He allows me to take his hand and lead him inside.

I don’t say anything when he orders more than he can possibly eat, I just have the clerk add on a coffee and pay for it all. We sit across from each other at a little plastic table. When I ask for a bite of one of his maple bars, he shoves it back into the bag and hugs the bag to his chest. Sad music is playing on the radio, and the beginning of a thick fog smears the lights shining down on the empty parking lot. I’m reminded that there’s an ocean nearby, that we’ve come about as far as there is to go in this direction.

THE SUN IS rising when the kid awakens. He sits up next to me on the seat of the truck and sleepily watches the breakers fold into the shore as we zip along beside them, headed north. A guy once told me Oregon was a nice place to raise children. Said the trees there were older than anything we know. It sounded like something to see. Our clothes are in back, a few other things. We don’t need much. Shelly can have the rest.

She should be getting home right about now, drunk probably, a fresh hickey on her neck. The note I left was pretty basic. When it was time to put everything on paper, there wasn’t much to say. Still, I imagine her crying as she reads it. Or maybe she’ll be angry and tear it into little pieces. Not that it matters.

“I’ve got to pee-pee,” the kid says.

I pull off the freeway and swing back under it to a parking lot on the beach.

“Want to wear my sunglasses?” I ask, and the kid smiles at me with his momma’s smile as I set them on his face. We get out, and I unbutton his pants so he can do his business. There are seagulls here, surfers, a few fishermen. I walk to the crumbling edge of the asphalt, pick up a handful of sand, and fling it at the waves. The breeze blows right through me.