Station Breaker

52 Menace

I'm not sure where I expected the Glitter Menace to live. But a trailer park, admittedly a well-kept one, wasn't in the equation.

Blue Water Cove is eight streets of double-wides with tiny yards. It's the kind of place retirees in the snowbound north dream about moving to. It's modest, but defies the stereotypical description my elitist friends tend to have about who lives in these homes.

The yards are filled with gnomes, flamingos and painted plywood caricatures of grandmothers tending to vegetable patches and cartoony animals.

Laney Washburn's address is towards the back. When I get there, the driveway is empty. It's already dusk, so I feel comfortable enough to sneak around the side and peek in the windows.

I'm afraid to knock on the door and find out her boyfriend is a policeman getting ready to go on duty.

Through an open window in the back, I spot a room full of race car posters. The next window reveals a room with pictures of planets and spacecraft. There's a desk in the corner with an old MacBook covered in glitter. A pair of crutches lays against the wall next to the chair.

This is where the tyrant blogger who helped kill a quarter-billion in government pork sleeps? The disconnect takes a moment to sink in.

There's a flash of headlights in the grass as a car drives down the street. I take a peek around the corner as a van pulls into the driveway.

Laney is behind the wheel with two boys, maybe 8 and 10, jumping around. There seems to be some kind of argument.

She opens the door and puts her crutches on the ground. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, there's less flash than I saw at the press conference. She looks like a grad student ready to pull an all-nighter in the library. The boys pile out, ignoring her, and head for the porch.

"No video games until your homework is done," she says, trying to keep up.

"Whatever," says the youngest as he slams the door behind him, leaving Laney outside.

I watch as she hops up the porch and balances a crutch so she can open the door.

Maybe now isn't the right time to approach her.

I still don't know if I can trust her. I sure as hell know I can't trust those little jerks.

I go back to the side of the window and wait, trying to keep to the shadows, hoping that I don't get arrested as a peeping tom.

The home is filled with yelling about picking things up and who said what to who. A light flicks on in the race car room and the loud shrieks of a video game begin to emanate from a television as the little jerks start to play a game.

A door slams and a light flicks on in Laney's room. Through a reflection in the wall mirror I see her lean against the wall and let the crutches fall away as she puts her head into her hands.

She wipes her nose with her sleeve then goes over to her computer.

I think I'm starting to understand now.

I watch her for a few minutes, trying to think of the right thing to say. I'd call her, but I don't have her number.

Maybe there's another way…

I open up the browser on my crappy phone and pull up Twitter. Using the account I created to talk to Capricorn I @reply her.

Do you think Dixon is innocent?

There's a bubble sound from her computer as the message goes through. A second later I can hear her type a response.

I think it looks suspicious.

I type my reply.

Follow my account. I have something to tell you.

A few seconds later she sends a direct message.

This better be good.

Would you help him if he asked for it?

Probably.

Would you listen to what he had to say and not call the cops?

I'd do the right thing. You figure out what that means.

I need your help.

Who are you?

David.

Bullshit.

Promise me you won't scream?

Why?

I take a deep breath then type:

Look out your window.

Laney does a very slow motion turn. When she sees me she lets out a scream anyway that echoes off the aluminum walls of the trailer park.

"Shut up!" yells one of the boys from the next room.

She sits there staring at me. Eyes wide, not sure what to say.

After collecting her thoughts, she asks, "What happened to your hair?"

"I had a Brazilian. I thought you weren't going to scream?"

"I thought you were lying." She gets out of her chair and finds her way to the window and looks around the yard.

"Come on, get inside." She slides the window all the way open and pulls at my shoulder.

"Maybe I should use the front door?"

"I don't want my brothers seeing you. They won't shut up about it."

I pull myself over the ledge and land in a room decorated with unicorns and spaceships.

"How old are you?" I say, picking myself up off the floor.

She has me sit on her bed then shuts the window and closes her blinds. "Twenty-three. Oh, this?" She looks around. "Infantilization often goes hand-in-hand in dealing with a handicap."

"Oh…"

"I'm not a virgin," she awkwardly volunteers.

"Um, I wasn't asking. I was just worried if your parents were here."

"I'm sorry. That was weird of me. I just never thought I'd have an astronaut with an AFI of 8 say that to me."

"An AFI?"

Her face goes red. "Um… it's a thing space groupies came up with. I'm not one of them, but some of my friends are. AFI means Astronaut Fuckability Index. A five is solid. An eight is exceptional. Elevens are reserved for Neil Armstrong and Yuri Gagarin."

"Good luck with them."

"Elon Musk is a ten." She pauses. "Bennet was a nine. So was Peterson. I'm sorry. This is horrible." She wipes away at her eye. "What the hell happened? Why the hell are you here? I mean, what the hell?"