by Anne Panning
SUPER AMERICA
Super America
Winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction
STORIES BY ANNE PANNING
Paperback edition published in 2009 by
The University of Georgia Press
Athens, Georgia 30602
www.ugapress.org
© 2007 by Anne Panning
All rights reserved
Designed by Mindy Basinger Hill
Set in 10.5/15 pt Minion Pro
Printed digitally in the United States of America
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover
edition of this book as follows:
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Panning, Anne, 1966–
Super America : stories / by Anne Panning.
232 p. ; 21 cm.
“Winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-2996-3 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-8203-2996-7 (alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3566.A577 S87 2007
813′.54—dc22 2007006700
Paperback edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-8203-3347-2
ISBN-10: 0-8203-3347-6
British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
Cover design: Mindy Basinger Hill
Cover photos: sign image from the series Downstream From Los
Alamos by Frank Hamrick, www.frankhamrick.com; grass image
© istockphoto.com / Amanda Rohde
ISBN for this electronic edition: 978-0-8203-3571-1
For Mark,
with love and gratitude
and
In memory of John Mitchell,
professor, poet, friend
CONTENTS
Super America
Hillbillies
All-U-Can-Eat
Pinned
What Happened
Tidal Wave Wedding
Chiclets
Cravings
Five Reasons I Miss the Laundromat
Freeze
Acknowledgments
SUPER AMERICA
SUPER AMERICA
My father picked me up from college after my Acting II midterm. He passed me a smoke. It was spring break, which in Minneapolis meant old glacial dung clung to the curbs and sides of houses. Coarse, used snow lay scattered like margarita salt on the street. I was nineteen.
My father’s current car was a rusted-out Gran Torino station wagon. It was so big and dark inside it felt like driving around in someone’s little cabin. Fifth gear didn’t work, so he ground it in fourth the whole way home. Home was New Prague, pronounced like bag, which I’d quickly learned was one of many incorrect pronunciations I’d been using all my life. It was my roommate, Van, a Vietnamese American kid from Edina, who told me: “Prague—you say it like hog—is the capital of Czechoslovakia. Just so you know.”
We stopped for Chuckwagon sandwiches at Super America on Highway 5. I popped mine in the microwave for too long, and the cheese bled out the plastic wrap onto my hands. It quickly hardened like glue. I scraped it off with my top teeth. A couple of airplanes flew overhead, and I remembered Van was heading for South Padre Island right about now. He’d ordered new swim trunks from J. Crew and had been walking around in them the night before.
My father told me he had to make a call. He had an ill-defined job he called “sales rep,” though I knew he wasn’t a company man. I waited in the car, gray poppy seeds tumbling from my sandwich onto my old wool coat. People looked pissed that we were monopolizing a gas-pumping lane even though we weren’t getting gas. Nice cars slid carefully around us, the drivers’ noses hawked over the steering wheels like bird beaks. One guy gave me the finger. I made major eye contact, gave him the peace sign, and wolfed down the rest of my sandwich.
My father seemed to be taking a long time. He often made frequent visits to the bathroom, then more phone calls, then asked that they brew a fresh pot of coffee for him while he read the Hollywood gossip magazines. “You’ll be in these someday, Theo,” he’d told me once. “You got a whole lot more going on than what’s this kid—Matt Damon? Dime a dozen.” My father knew a little something about just about everything. My mother, a bitter divorcée who loved animals more than people, called him a font of misinformation. She owned exotic, or what I called nuisance, pets like ferrets, chinchillas, and most recently, sugar gliders, these tiny flying marsupials from Australia with huge black eyes and gray fur. One lunged at me when I’d visited last time. It went right for my face, and my mother said, “Poor thing. These little guys are used to a heavily treed environment.” Its sharp claws sunk through my thin T-shirt. Then it pissed on me. I nearly slammed it to the ground, but I knew my mother would cry. In Acting II class, we’d had to impersonate a family member for our midterm, and I did her, after one of her sugar gliders had died. For a prop, I used some girl’s Beanie Baby sloth stuffed in my shirt pocket as the dead sugar glider. My acting professor, Babe Powers, wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, clapped her hands, and said, “An Oscar contender, Theo. Bravo.”
My father was taking way longer than usual. I decided to swing the car back by the dumpster and go look for him. The keys still hung in the ignition, a tiny Rubik’s Cube dangling off the chain. It took three tries to get the car started. My father claimed there was a trick to it that involved pumping the gas pedal three times, turning off all the heat and control knobs, and pushing on the brakes at the very last minute. Somehow, I managed.
Inside, I checked the men’s bathroom, but it was empty. I peed and took my time. I cruised up and down the aisles in the store—Fig Newtons, travel packs of Kleenex, frozen breakfast burritos—but my father didn’t appear. I smoked a cigarette outside and tried not to look like a loiterer. Back inside, I asked the clerk, a woman with gray teeth who could’ve been my mother’s age, if she’d seen a guy in a Carhartt coat and blue jeans, six feet two, big moustache, bushy hair. She thought for a minute, then said, “Problem is I see so many of them types.” I nodded. She had a point. When I walked out of the store, she said, “You paying for gas?” and I shook my head.
I sat in the car for a few minutes, flipping back and forth between anger and worry. For all I knew, he’d been abducted. Or maybe he’d met some sleazy woman and gone off with her. Or he’d run into a bad drug deal and had to haul ass out of there with no time to let me know. Who knew? For now, there was really nothing else to do but get in the car and drive around the block looking for him.
As soon as I turned onto the road, it started to sleet. Big cloudy gobs like someone was hacking lugies on the windshield. I turned off the radio and started practicing the monologue I’d have to do for Acting II after break. It was from Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms. I hit a red light, waited, then completely panicked when a hitchhiker practically ran into the car. I pulled over, squinting through the sleet. The Gran Torino wobbled to a stop on the gravel strip. It was my father. He had his hood up and looked wired. He flagged me down and jumped into the front seat. He smelled like fried food and bong water. He laughed and rubbed his jeans.
“Theo,” he said. “Pretend you’re an actor in a movie and FOLLOW THAT CAR!” He pointed straight ahead at an old Subaru wagon. Its bumper sticker said: “Mean People Suck.” Garfield was suction-cupped to the window by all fours. I gunned it.
“So, how’s school?” my father asked, as if he hadn’t just ditched me, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. The Subaru signaled a left turn, and I shadowed.
“I’m As and Bs,” I said.
“Shit. That’s good.”
“So what’s with the car?” I asked. “Why are we following?”
My father told me it was top secret, but if we play
ed our cards right, we’d be sitting on easy street in a flash. My father spoke clichés like a second language. My English professor had done an exercise in class the first week where we had to list as many clichés as possible. Whoever had the longest list won. I did so easily but was embarrassed when the guy then turned on me and told the class clichés were the mark of a lazy writer. He’d said to me, “Smart as a whip. Cute as a button. Sharp as a tack. What fresh life can you breathe into these tired clichés, Theo?” He wore cords and vests. His beard was tight and pubic. He’d fingered his Tweety Bird tie and looked up at the ceiling.
I switched my major to theater the very next week, after my acting professor told me I made a convincing Russian immigrant.
The sky grew dark, and the sleet starting freezing to slush against the windshield. We were now on gravel roads, and I was riding the Subaru’s ass. My father told me to keep following as it turned into a long, gravel driveway. A shelterbelt of poplars shook in the wind. We were in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere, as far as I could tell. My father ground his teeth in a way that made me want to shake him. An old windmill creaked above us. Finally, both cars rumbled to a stop. A woman ran out of the Subaru, held up a finger to us to wait, then ran in the house.
“Okay, Boss,” my father said. “It’s show time.”
I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about but followed him up to the house. It was white and cruddy looking with plastic stapled over the windows. A big metal tub sat outside full of hay and frozen shit. Some kid’s bike with training wheels leaned against the house in a way that made me feel depressed. Empty cages were tossed on top of one another like a small circus had busted loose.
“So, is this a house of ill repute?” I asked my father, who stood, finishing his grit, by the back door.
He narrowed his eyes at me and exhaled. “Don’t talk college,” he said. “That was my one rule about you going off to the Cities like that. Don’t be an ass. You got to talk normal. You gotta stay who you are.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and shook it real slow.
“I was kidding,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Come on.” He stamped out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and tossed it in the bushes.
Inside, the house smelled like hot lightbulbs, wet wool, and an odd citrus air freshener that seemed to be covering something up. We walked through a messy kitchen with clothes tumbling hot and steamy in the dryer, then passed through a dining room full of empty boxes. The woman, to whom my father didn’t introduce me, shushed us as we approached the living room.
“Shh,” she said. “They’re just getting up from their naps.” She stepped over what appeared to be a baby gate jammed across the doorway but made us stay out. The living room was divided by a series of little gates down the center. On one side, a miniature horse lay sleeping on the couch. It was no bigger than a golden retriever, but it was gray with white spots on its nose and back. The television flashed brightly, but the sound was muted.
The woman sat down beside it. She rubbed her hand up and down its rump as if it were her lover. “This is Pacman,” she whispered. “Little stallion. Parents are War Paint and Bonnie Buster. Good bloodline. He’s already been broken to drive.”
I sneezed from the rich, ripe scents in the room, and the horse startled. It tried standing up on the couch, but its little hooves caved into the soft cushions. The woman picked it up and set it on the carpet.
“Good-looking horse,” my father said. As far as I knew, he knew nothing about horses, but he was sizing it up and down as if he were considering taking it for a spin. “How tall’s this one?” It came up to his knees.
“Twenty-seven,” the woman said. “That’s regulation for the miniature horse breed. Good proportions, too.” Then, as if she’d only just noticed me, she reached out a hand and offered it to me. “You must be the son. Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Tulip.” Her name didn’t exactly suit her. Her yellow-gray hair fell out of a twisted bun. The Bud Light T-shirt she wore was full of ragged holes, and when we shook hands, we were eye to eye. She was easily six feet tall.
“Theo,” I said. “Pleasure.”
“Theo’s going to be a movie star,” my father said. He slapped me on the back, and the horse whinnied. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, and stepped back. “Don’t want the little guy getting pissed off.” Pacman started minigalloping in circles around his side of the living room. He was like a little toy come to life.
“Tulip and I go way back,” my father continued. “We’re what you’d call bosom buddies.”
My father winked. Tulip blushed. I stuffed my hands in my coat pockets and jumped when the animal on the other side of the room began screaming like a hyena. Luckily, it was all caged up and hidden by tree branches. I couldn’t make out what it was, though.
Tulip laughed and stepped over the gate. “That’s Isadora, my lemur. She’s still a little wild but I’m working on her. Your dad says he’s good with primates.”
“You are?” I looked at my father, who nodded. I was beginning to think the whole thing stunk of something funny. I was anxious to go. It was spring break, and so far I’d spent my time in a Super America parking lot and some crazy woman’s house of pets. Was my father drawn exclusively to women who owned exotic pets? Was he a fetishist in this way? This was what I began to wonder.
Tulip lured Isadora out of the cage, then slung her around her hip like a toddler. She had bright, orange-colored eyes and a tail longer than a baseball bat but skinnier. It stood straight up in the air like an antenna. But Isadora didn’t seem to like me. She hissed. She bared her teeth at me. She tried pinching me. My father laughed and said I was monkey meat. Tulip looked irritated, as if we had upset her little animal kingdom, and motioned for us to go into the kitchen, which we did. I saw Pacman watch us walk away while an NBA game played behind him on the screen.
“Have some coffee,” Tulip said. She gestured to the coffee maker, stained and splattered with brown drops. “It might be cold but you can nuke it. I’ve got to pee.” Thankfully, she took Isadora with her into the can, just off the kitchen. Right after she closed the door, the dryer stopped and made a ticking sound. My father poured himself a cup of coffee and did, indeed, nuke it.
“So,” I said. “What the hell.”
“Yeah, it’s something, huh?” My father lit up a smoke, which seemed pretty ballsy inside someone’s house.
“What do you mean?” I asked. My father always talked in circles, and it pissed me off.
He leaned against the kitchen sink with his coffee and cigarette. He looked like a trucker come in from a long haul. “I mean Tulip’s gonna set me up with the two of them. Like a rig. I mean, it’s a sort of trade deal. Long story, but what’s gonna happen is I’m gonna train Isadora to ride Pacman. You know? Like ride on her back like a little jockey?” My father nodded and looked extremely pleased by the whole idea. “Later on I’m also going to get Pacman a little cart to pull and Isadora’s going to ride in it.”
“And?” I said. Ever since I’d started college in Minneapolis, I’d managed to avoid spending much time with my father. He and my mother still lived in the same town, New Prague, but they’d been divorced ever since I was twelve. He still loved my mother—all three of us knew it—and kept hoping I’d somehow help get them back together. He’d call me up to run ideas by me. Usually they were stupid and poorly timed, like the Christmas my mother had tonsillitis and he’d strung flashing colored lights around himself and stood outside her apartment building, singing “It’s Now or Never.” The local newspaper had caught it on camera and it was in there the week of New Year’s. On my fifteenth birthday, my father strapped a pillow around his stomach, wore a maternity dress, and knocked on our apartment door. “Thank you for giving birth to Theo,” he said. This was right after my mother had had an emergency hysterectomy. She’d slammed the door in his face. I had lost count of his pathetic attempts at reconciliation with her and was glad I’d been—until now—removed from them for a while.
“I’m going to bring them to your mother as a peace offering.” My father sucked the end of his cigarette down to the filter like a joint. I’d actually been smoking quite a few joints at school. After rehearsals, me and all the gay guys would get high and then go to the bars on Cedar Avenue: Blondie’s, Five Corner’s Saloon, the Triangle Bar, the 400 Club. I’d never known any gay guys before college, and it turned out to be true that theater was full of them. One of the guys, Benton Riley, from Redwood Falls, told me he’d known he was gay ever since he was about six but never got to be gay until he’d come to college.
“You know Mom’s seeing someone else,” I said. It was true, but not serious, as most of her boyfriends had been. The guy, Bill Lewis, was way younger than her, one of the groomers at the pet shop, kind of a motorhead actually. I knew it would kill my father to hear this, but I didn’t care.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “They serious?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven’t really been around. But she’s told me.”
Just then Tulip came out of the bathroom with wet hands, which she wiped on her jeans. Isadora looked agitated and kept crawling up and down her back. She had a face more like a rat’s than a monkey’s and looked like a miniature Albert Einstein with fluffy white tufts around her face.
“Well,” Tulip said. “I suppose I need to start my good-byes.” She sighed and took Isadora’s tiny face in both her hands. She kissed her on the lips. “Sweetheart,” she said, “Mommy’s gonna miss you.” I swore I saw tears in her eyes.
I looked at my father to make sure I was understanding this right, that we were actually taking the lemur along with us. He raised his eyebrows at me in a way that said, “Cool, huh?”
“Just give me a moment alone with Pacman,” Tulip said, and went, with Isadora in her arms, back into the living room.
“I need to tell you,” I said to my father when she was out of range. “I am not getting into the car with a miniature horse and a lemur or whatever the fuck.”
