Marguerite wore too-tight blue jeans and a denim shirt she shouldn’t’ve tucked in, Staff thought. Though this woman had youth on her side—she might’ve been twenty-eight at most—she’d fry in the sun. Staff wore an oversized linen dress from a company called Blue Fish that she’d not selected out of her closet in a decade. It was loose, with enough room to spread her legs should she need to urinate in between the every-four-hours-and-fifteen-minutes breaks for food and porta-potty.
Staff nodded. She didn’t smile. She wished she’d brought along earplugs and chosen not to wear deodorant. She said, “Staff.”
Staff’s mother had named her after a dinner plate, though Staff liked to think she was named after an entire setting, or the factory over in England. Staffordshire Puckett. “She’ll have enough problems with your last name, when kids start rhyming,” Staff’s mother said often to her father. “At least Staffordshire sounds regal.” It was only a coincidence that, having been named for a plate, Staff soon developed a flat visage to match her moniker.
The condition wasn’t exactly medical, but when she remained unsmiling—most of the time—her expression remained frozen in the countenance a mother rat snake might display while regarding her hatchlings. It didn’t help that Staff’s forehead appeared abnormally large, or that her neck was shorter than average. At the sight of her, ex-projectionists from movie theaters underwent flashbacks of blank screens when reels snapped apart. Art historians approached to ask if she was related to any of the wide-eyed, flat-faced girls portrayed in famous nineteenth-century portraits. They even had a term now for the look of her so-called resting face. Staff didn’t like the term.
Fortunately for Staff, her body from the neck down did not look unlike those seen in 1960s auto-parts pin-up calendars. Staff’s measurements came out—even at age thirty-nine—to 34C, 22, 36. Most heterosexual men soon forgot about her deadpan face. Gay men concentrated on her skin tone. All women distrusted her.
“Staph!” said Marguerite. “Like the infection? Steph, or Staph?”
“Yeah, like the infection,” Staff said, hoping to cause the woman to release her hand prematurely. Staff sidled a half-step in Marguerite’s direction. “My brother’s named Mersa.”
The man to Staff’s left said, “I’m Cy, but they call me Cyclone. Y’all might as well let go of this RV now and go do some women’s work. I already won a car this way back two years, and a Westinghouse washing machine for Lorene just six month ago.” He wore khaki pants and a white T-shirt that read “I’M TH EVIL.”
Marguerite said, “I’m Marguerite! I guess we’re in charge of the back end of this Winnebago here.”
Staff looked over at Cyclone and wished she had a pistol in her pocket. He was exactly the kind of person she hoped to leave behind once she won this RV and hit the road for bigger and better places, a more worldly life. She said, “S-I-G-H, Sigh? Like that?”
Cy narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you okay?”
Staff said, “I’m killer.”
She didn’t say, “One time at a bus stop over in Atlanta somebody called 911 thinking I’d had a stroke.”
She thought, If I’d worn cut-off blue jeans and a red-checked blouse knotted midriff, all these men would be out of the competition by now.
Disc jockeys from WCRS judged the contest. The station was doing a remote broadcast from State Line RV World, raising a giant antenna with a satellite dish in the middle of the parking lot. People had come from a four-county area to see their favorite deejays: Morning Woody, Crazy Ned-Ned the Pumpkinhead, One-Stroke, Cyclin’ Mike, and Hellbent Heidi. On air, Hellbent Heidi came off as a vixen and claimed to have a skin condition that caused her to work naked, but here in the sun, she wore a traditional Eileen Fisher dress over her size 18 frame.
Marguerite said, “I feel like we’ve met before.”
“I’m an archivist over at the Steepleburg Public Library,” Staff said. “If you’ve ever been on the third floor where we keep historical documents, maybe you’ve seen me.”
Marguerite said, “Say that word again? Ach-what?”
“You the one insisted on taking the Stars and Bars out of the History Room?” Cy asked. “I wrote a letter to the editor about that. I don’t want my tax money helping out no library won’t honor my ancestors.”
Marguerite said, “Arch-ive-ist?” stressing the middle syllable.
“Archivist,” Staff said, pronouncing it correctly. “Archivist.” Her face didn’t change. She didn’t smile or frown. But she turned to Cy and stared so hard that he held his hands up in surrender.
Ned-Ned the Pumpkinhead roared, “We’re down to eighteen!” Morning Woody cut short “Satisfaction” and segued into “19th Nervous Breakdown.”
Marguerite said, “I can’t say your job.”
Cy looked at his hand like it had betrayed him.
Staff said, “Way to go, Cybernetics. Nice concentration. Maybe you come from a long line of ancestors who didn’t concentrate when bullets came their way.”
Hellbent Heidi stormed over, took Cy by the arm, and led him toward a tent set up with free bottled water for contestants. “I’m calling my lawyer!” Cy yelled. “That woman’s evil!”
Marguerite fanned herself with her left hand. She said, “It’s hot.” She said, “I ain’t asking for no sympathy, but I just got out of a relationship with a man who trafficked cocaine and heroin from Mexico. He said he worked for the Humane Society and that he rescued poor dogs and cats and goats from across the border down there in Juarez, but in reality he was shoving drug-filled rubbers down their throats, bringing them over, and then, you know, waiting for them to poop. I’m glad I got out of that! My mother warned me! But who wouldn’t be attracted to a do-gooder Humane Society man? Anyway, he got caught, and I got questioned. The whole reason I want this RV is so I can do the Lord’s work and travel around really helping animals in need.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Staff thought. She’d braced herself for stories such as this. She’d done her research after hours in the library, reading up on scams, tricks, hoaxes, pity-me tales. A man up in Detroit lost his chance at winning a Cadillac because he believed another contestant’s story about six kids and food stamps. A woman in Oregon didn’t win a foreclosed house after being fooled by a man who claimed to have been on death row, falsely accused, for seventeen years.
Now Staff looked at Marguerite and considered what phobias her fellow contestant might possess. Dogs? Snakes? Tight spaces? Heights? But she needed something closer at hand. “It’s supposed to get up to ninety this afternoon,” Staff said, “and then the bees are coming out.” As an archivist, she understood that five percent of the population suffered from bee-sting allergies, including, perhaps, one of her remaining competitors.
Marguerite said, “What?” and walked away from the Winnebago.
“And we’re down to seventeen!” yelled out Morning Woody. He switched from the Allman Brothers Band into “19th Nervous Breakdown” again, blaring the song across the lot.
“I didn’t want no RV anyway,” Marguerite said as Hellbent Heidi escorted her to the contestants’ tent. “Hey, can I get a four-pack of them WCRS koozies as part of my consolation prize?”
STAFF HAD ENTERED the contest soon after her fiancé, Leon—a math instructor turned semi-professional Texas Hold ‘Em player—left her. He’d proposed after two months and then changed his mind, convinced that she made fun of him both at meals and in bed, because she kept a poker face at all times, something he could never do at the tables in Tunica, Shreveport, Vicksburg, Cherokee. After he was gone, she took the engagement ring to a jeweler in town called Sparkleworks, only to be told that the diamond was a zircon. The man at the counter, who sported a bow tie, would offer only fifty dollars for it, which Staff took.
Now, in an attempt to escape the relentless this-is-not-worth-it thoughts that accompanied boredom and fatigue, Staff cataloged Leon’s annoying mantras: flush beats a straight; straight flush beats a full house; tapping fingers probably means a b
luff; pair of kings beats a pair of queens; guy clears his throat twice when he’s got a flush; pupils dilate when things look futile. Next she occupied her mind by recalling, chronologically, the displays, shows, and collections she’d conceived and produced at the library: The History and Importance of Pine in the County; The History and Importance of Peaches in the County; Confederate Money; Nineteenth-Century Garments; The History and Importance of Dairy Cattle in the County; The Sibling Outsider Artists Hilty and Duck Dodgen of Rock House Springs; Hairstyles of Our Congressmen; The History and Importance of Blackberries in the County; Cherokee Weapons and Implements. She went through it all. Staff recalled a one-month show about modern-day treasure hunters who had searched for the lost gold and silver of the Confederacy, which sparked townspeople to buy metal detectors and shovels to excavate the farmland and backyards of unsuspecting fellow citizens. Though the library’s director scolded Staff for causing minor chaos, hardware stores on both sides of the river offered her discounts on any purchases.
Staff stared at the back end of the Winnebago, with its spare tire cover depicting the presidents’ faces. She was still bored but undaunted. She thought about traveling to Mount Rushmore. She bet that, had she been born in a different time, and in South Dakota, she could have been a model for the sculptor, Gutzon Borglum. Staff daydreamed of sitting on a stool while Gutzon lovingly carved her in stone.
Next she daydreamed about Leon, seated for three-hour stretches, maybe in Biloxi, wondering if he could bluff a pair of ducks he held with a king-queen-jack showing on the river, knowing his opponents probably held face cards.
She ran down the list of famous archivists she’d learned about in graduate school. She wondered how her classmates—most of them plain, sincere librarians employed at colleges—felt about their career paths, if they’d grown as restless as she had. Staff thought about the periodic table, what she might plant in her summer garden, actors who might be attracted to her inscrutable stare.
By nightfall Staff had outlasted a woman on a Jazzy who’d tried to readjust her grip by scooting her machine to the front of the RV but braked too late, smashing into the grille and injuring herself. Staff then overtook a man with no arms—the crowd favorite—who had kept his forehead pressed against the end of the bumper until he fell asleep and slid right down to the pavement, disqualified. Within the hour she wished she’d brought along a sweater to go over her dress, but she stayed focused by thinking of warmer locales. She caught herself picturing El Paso. Another place she’d never visited.
One woman started crying uncontrollably when the radio station blasted “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. She yelled, “That was our song!” ran to her 1988 Camaro, and peeled out of the lot, almost running over the woman on the Jazzy as she exited the first-aid tent.
“We’re down to six contestants, folks!” Morning Woody said into the microphone. “And now it’s almost time for our fifth break. Three…two…one…hands off! Let’s see if Ms. Staffordshire Puckett might have to use the bathroom yet. We got bets going on whether or not she’s wearing Depends.”
Staff thought, Have I been so focused that I haven’t eaten? Have I not used my breaks to devour protein shakes and granola bars, like I promised myself? She said aloud to no one, “Have I dehydrated myself unknowingly?” and then released her hand from the back of the Winnebago.
In the contestants’ tent, Staff picked up a Gatorade, a bottle of water, and a blueberry muffin. She realized she’d stood there holding onto the RV in such a trance that she’d not comprehended the sun going down eight hours earlier, hadn’t noticed the bats and nighthawks swirling around the giant antenna, attracted to State Line RV World’s bright lights. She’d blocked the music WCRS blasted and replaced it with Shostakovich.
“You okay?” said one of the EMS workers, a stocky woman wearing cotton pants hitched past her navel. “We were worried about you. Thought you might’ve gone into a self-induced coma or something.”
Staff nodded. She didn’t smile.
“Your facial muscles don’t seem to be working,” said the EMS worker, shining a penlight into Staff’s eyes.
Staff forced a tight smile. “Please don’t do that.”
The EMS worker backed off, and one of the remaining contestants sidled up. “I get drug-tested all the time,” he said, “what with my being a professional athlete.”
Staff turned to see the man with advertising logos all over his shirt. He wore polyester pants and had one of those unfortunate bald patterns with a small island of hair at the top of his forehead, surrounded by scalp. When viewed from above, Staff thought, this guy’s head might look like a period surrounded by parentheses. Staff said, “What?”
“I’m Landry Harmon. I know that not a lot of people watch the pro bowlers’ tour, but I’m in the PBA. I have two wins so far. I mean, I’m no Parker Bohn III, or Norm Duke, or Walter Ray Williams Jr., but I’ve done okay. I’m no Dick Ritger or Dick Weber, but my name ain’t Dick. I’m no Earl Anthony or Pete Weber. But I’ve won. I’ve bowled a three hundred more than I can count. Well, about seventeen times, in tournaments.”
Staff noted that her ex, Leon, looked exactly the opposite of Landry Harmon. How could a semi-pro poker player have a BMI of twenty while spending so much time on his rear end, staring at cards in a smoky arena? And how could a man like Landry Harmon—who probably lifted weights between matches—end up so soft, frumpy, and glisten-headed? Did he eat nothing but French fries while his opponents took their turns? Staff said, “Hello.”
“Have you ever bowled?” Landry asked. “Your face reminds me of a bowling ball, and I mean that as a compliment.”
Staff shook her head. No one ever complimented her face, and what Landry had said sounded more like an insult, but he pored over her features with what appeared to be genuine admiration.
“Daggum, woman,” he continued, “you have the most beautiful skin of all time. And I admire how you stood up during breaks like Muhammad Ali used to do between rounds, to get inside his opponent’s head.”
Staff said only, “Huh,” and turned away so Landry wouldn’t see her cheeks flush.
AFTER THE BREAK, Landry Harmon followed Staff to the back end of the RV. He put his hand on the ladder. He said, “I should be holding onto the tow ball, make myself feel right at home, but it’s so low I’m afraid my back will give out. I already got a questionable back. From bowling. On the Professional Bowlers Association tour.”
Staff thought, The whole time I was mentally cataloging displays from the Special Collections Room, Landry Harmon probably recited whatever statistics people who played bowling kept in their heads.
She said, “You mentioned that.”
“It’s probably not a good idea for me to touch the spare tire, like you’re doing. Get it? Spare. In my world, a spare’s not a great thing, compared to a strike.”
Later, she would wonder what kept her from attempting to irritate him. There was something about Landry Harmon’s face—not blank and hard like hers, but soft and gentle. If his face were an animal, it would be a koala, Staff thought. If bedding, a down-filled pillow. She knew nothing of bowling and said, “What’s your handicap?”
Landry Harmon’s short-sleeved shirt was emblazoned with his sponsors: Brunswick, Vise, Dexter bowling shoes, Rogaine, Tanner’s Natural Chamois, Newman’s Own Dog Treats. He said, “Why you want to win this Winnebago? Please don’t tell me you ain’t got nowhere to live and get me feeling all sorry for you.”
Staff shook her head. “Just want to travel, see some places out West, nothing more than that.” Of course, there was a lot more. Leon breaking up with her had been a splash of cold water. If she won the Winnebago, she could sell her sad little house in this sad backwards town, quit her sad sleepy job, and start living her life for real, every day an adventure.
Landry turned and stared at the sun coming up. The deejay started playing a George Harrison song. Landry said, “I don’t have no sob story neither. Being a pro bowler, I pretty much live on the
road. Right now I drive a Ford Focus. Sure, it gets great mileage, but it doesn’t have a bathroom, a dinette, or a private master bedroom with a flat-panel HDTV and solar-blackout roller shades.”
Staff couldn’t explain the attraction she felt.
She thought, God put me here to meet this man Landry Harmon. She said, “I read up about a man who tried to win a boat in one of these radio-station promos. It came down to him and a woman. The woman said she wanted the boat so she could give it to her father, who liked to fish. The man said he needed it because his wife had drowned somewhere off the Gulf Coast, and they’d quit looking for her after a week, and he wanted to go down there and keep searching for her body. The woman put her hands up to her face and lost.” Landry and Staff kept eye contact even when two more contestants quit.
“My mother died,” Landry said. “It wasn’t sad, really. She died the way she wanted to. She had cancer and chose not to undergo chemo or radiation. She lasted almost three years.”
“I’m not falling for it,” Staff said. She didn’t break into a smile, or laugh, or shake her head. She said, “Hg, mercury, 80. Tl, thallium, 81. Pb, lead, 82.”
Landry placed his left hand over his right, one rung higher on the ladder. “Anyway, she got to see me win on TV. She saw me win Southeast Amateur when I was in college. She had no regrets. Died peacefully at hospice.”
There were only three contestants left: Staff, Landry, and a man covered in tattoos holding onto one of the windshield wipers. Staff peeked around the corner of the Winnebago as best she could, to see if the tattooed man had fallen asleep, but instead she saw Hellbent Heidi passed out in her canvas folding chair. Crazy Ned-Ned squirted Reddi-wip onto her hand. One-Stroke started to tickle beneath Hellbent Heidi’s nose, and Staff yelled out, “Stop that right now!” as she might at visiting schoolchildren wanting to touch a fragile document in the Special Collections Room. Hellbent Heidi raised her head, and everyone else involved went, “Awwwww.”
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