You Want More

by George Singleton

  “There’s nothing sad about my mother’s death,” Landry said. Staff said, “Rn, radon, 86.”

  “Well, maybe one thing,” Landry said. “She had a lot of jewelry, and I didn’t know if it was worth anything. I ended up taking it to this place Sparkleworks, in downtown Steepleburg. It supposedly wasn’t so much a pawn shop as a place that specialized in estate jewelry.”

  Staff stopped talking. She stared at Landry.

  He said, “This man named Lou said two diamond rings and a locket and a bracelet weren’t worth but three hundred dollars. I didn’t know. It ain’t like I’ve had time on the Professional Bowlers Association tour to take up night courses in gemology. So I sold it all for that amount. Maybe a month later, I looked on their website and saw one of my mother’s rings going for $2,700 and the other for $4,260. The locket? Four hundred. That bracelet? Sixteen hundred bucks.”

  Staff said, “Stop.” She said, “Who are you? Is this some kind of joke?” She thought of the ring she’d sold Sparkleworks for fifty dollars. She thought, Leon, Landry, Lou. She tried to remember if there existed an element with plain L for its symbol. She said, “Li, lithium, three.” Landry looked through his armpit at Staff. “I have a feeling that estate-jeweler dude thought I was dumb as okra. Standing there so smug wearing his seersucker suit and a bow tie. Seersucker for a c-sucker, if you ask me. Excuse my language.”

  “It’s a small world,” Staff said. “I wouldn’t want to caulk it. But that same pawn shop? I think that guy ripped me off, too.”

  Landry didn’t waver from his eye contact. He said, “Know what I’d like to do? If I won this RV, I’d like to smash it right through the plate-glass window of that place. The front of the Winnebago’s the same height and width as Sparkleworks’ display window. That’s one thing all pro bowlers are good at, being able to measure things out by sight. If I got caught, I could say I lost control of the wheel. If I didn’t, I’d grab my mother’s jewelry, and nothing else. After hours, of course.”

  Staff held up her free hand. She said, “Don’t you think when they took inventory for the insurance claim, they might notice how everything stolen happened to be yours?”

  “Huh,” said Landry. “It might be fortuitous that I met a woman like you. Did I say that right? You’re the smart one, I can tell.”

  “You said it right. Woman. That’s the way to pronounce it.”

  Landry opened his mouth, then smiled. Staff noticed that one canine overlapped the next tooth, much like a bowling pin edging over to knock down its lane-partner.

  “Can’t use my own car to do it,” he said. “It’s one of those ad-wrapped cars you sometimes see around town. Somebody might go to the cops and say, ‘Hey, I saw a little Ford Focus with Brunswick, Vise, Dexter, Rogaine, Tanner’s Natural Chamois, Newman’s Own Dog Treats, and PBA written all over the hood and sides.’”

  Staff almost caught herself saying, “How come you and I never met about ten years ago?” Instead she said, “You’re putting a lot of thought into a crazy idea. Are you getting delirious? Am I about to win this RV?”

  The man with the tattoos evidently collapsed.

  Ned-Ned the Pumpkinhead blurted out, “And we’re down to two finalists!”

  What Staff didn’t say to Landry Harmon was, “I want to go with you.”

  IN THE HISTORY of hands-on competitions, Staff had learned while researching at the library, most winners suffered through at least forty hours. One man in Beijing withstood a challenger over four days and three nights just to win a rickshaw. A woman won a thoroughbred in Kentucky; a man won a champion bull in Texas; an eighteen-year-old college student with a fake ID put up five hundred dollars to participate in, and then win, a “Touch the Foreclosed Drive-Thru Liquor Store” contest in Shreveport, Louisiana, sponsored by a forward-thinking local bank, whose president later got charged for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

  Compared to those the Winnebago seemed easy.

  The sun stood high in the State Line RV World parking lot. It had been forty-one hours.

  “Just you and me now, I guess,” Staff said to Landry.

  He reached into his left back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his upper lip. Staff drew her fingers across her forehead. She couldn’t tell if sweat trickled down her temple, or if a persistent fly kept landing on her. She untangled her toes back and forth, feeling nothing but moisture.

  WCRS went into a long commercial after playing Steve Miller’s “Going to Mexico,” and then Hellbent Heidi showed up with her microphone. To Landry she said, “So. You thinking about going to Mexico if you win this nice Winnebago?”

  Landry said, “No, I don’t think so.” To Staff she said, “What about you?”

  Staff shook her head. She said, “Matters who gets elected president next. Probably not Mexico, but maybe Canada.”

  One-Stroke, the sound effects specialist, went, “Boi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoing!” and then said—in the deep, sinister, stereotypical Hispanic accent he employed during a politically incorrect daily feature called What Would Hey-Zeus Do?—“It’s time to spill the beans.” Normally, callers in this segment had to admit some kind of immoral activity that involved spousal cheating or workplace theft in order to win two free tickets to a concert, or two free entrées at Wild Wings, or two free suet stations from State Line Bird Supply.

  “Christ went forty days and forty nights,” Hellbent Heidi said. “Y’all willing to go that far to win this fine Winnebago here at State Line RV?”

  Both Landry and Staff said, “Yes,” and then, “Go away,” at the same time.

  Heidi said, “Well, it seems like we’ve gone completely into Stage Irritable, folks.” She said, “What we got up next, Ned-Ned?” Then she turned off her mic and said to Landry and Staff, “Don’t y’all turn hateful. If so we’ll find a way to disqualify you.”

  Landry apologized. Staff avoided eye contact, knowing her face might be taken as a challenge. She said, “What if we take our hands off at the very same time? Would we split the prize? Would one of us have to buy out the other? I mean, would we split the prize, and maybe have to promise to accompany one another to, say, professional bowling games all over the country? Plus Mount Rushmore?”

  Heidi said, “That’s a good question. Let me go ask our manager.”

  Staff turned to Landry. She said, “Just in case, you know.” Landry said, “It’s called a tournament. Professional bowling tournaments, not games.”

  Hellbent Heidi returned and said, “They decided that if y’all happen to take your hands off at the very same time—and they used the word ‘indiscernible’—if y’all take off your hands in such a way that no one can say something like, ‘He pulled his hand off one-hundredth of a second before she did,’ or vice versa, then it would be up to y’all to decide how you’d share the RV. Hell, Bobby said he’d buy it back from you for thirty grand, and y’all could split the profit. There’s property taxes and insurance to think about, too.”

  Staff and Landry shared a look, and Staff knew they were both thinking about the estate jeweler, and how they weren’t about to let themselves get ripped off again.

  Staff said, “This Winnebago’s brand-new.”

  Landry said, “Blue Book has it going for right under a hundred grand.”

  Staff said, “Anyway, who’s Bobby?”

  “Bobby owns State Line RV,” Hellbent Heidi said. “It’s up to y’all. Easiest solution, if you ask me, is for one of y’all to quit before the other one so’s we ain’t got no quandary.”

  Morning Woody leaned into his microphone and said, “You might add that we’d appreciate one of them making a decision soon, Heidi. They saying a summertime thunderstorm’s headed our way. I ain’t too keen on getting electrocuted.” And then, perhaps using the same techniques employed by the FBI during long-term standoffs, he began a loop of four excruciating songs by the heavy metal band Jackyl, one of which included a chainsaw solo.

  Staff and Landry plugged onward. They held onto the
RV through the night. During breaks, they used porta-potties. They opened Nutri-Grain granola bars for each other, and Landry laughed when Staff said she’d poured prune juice for him instead of Gatorade. Landry mentioned how he didn’t have groupies like some of his pro bowling competitors. He said, “I used to be completely bald on top before using Rogaine.”

  Staff said, “I’m thinking about retiring early from the library. Somebody needs to do a study about the effects of breathing musty books eight hours a day for sixteen years. I bet it’s on par with asbestos.” Rain began to spatter. Lightning spasmed in the distance. Later on, Staff would tell Landry that this was the moment when she first imagined them driving the RV through the front glass at Sparkleworks.

  On and on they talked. Landry pulled his shirttail out, and the deejays made a pact to stand up to their bosses should they ever want to hold another hands-on contest. At the forty-eight-hour mark, Landry said, “You ever seen that movie 48 Hrs.? That’s a good movie. It’s on about all the time, one channel or another, on cable.” He looked up at the clouds. At only eight o’clock a.m., the sky had turned dark.

  Staff said, “I’ve never seen it.” “When this is over,” Landry said, “maybe we can rent it on the Netflix. That movie should’ve won some Oscars. You ever seen Another 48 Hrs.? It’s not as good, but it still should’ve won some Oscars. I met Nick Nolte one time. He likes to bowl in between making movies. At least that’s what he told me.”

  A long rumble of thunder rolled in from the west. Staff said, “I’m not playing around, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Landry said. Later he would tell Staff, “What I was really thinking was, ‘This is the best date I’ve ever been on.’”

  The rain beat down, soaking their clothes and shoes. Landry tightened his grip on the ladder. He said, “No matter who wins, let’s promise to see each other again.”

  Before Staff could say, “That would make me happy,” a bolt of lightning zapped the WCRS radio antenna, sending an explosion of sparks across the parking lot, followed by a clap of thunder that roared harder than anything Jackyl could’ve captured on vinyl. Staff and Landry let go simultaneously—they agreed that they did so, and Hellbent Heidi later lied and said she’d seen it too, them releasing in such a way that even an Olympic stopwatch couldn’t have detected an outright winner.

  Staff and Landry ran to the tent, where they found the deejays huddled with Bobby. There was supposed to be an official ceremony for the winner of the RV, complete with a photographer, in Bobby’s office, but the lightning had knocked WCRS off the air. Bobby said something about how rules change every day, and then asked which one of them would sign the title papers. When Landry and Staff shrugged, he pulled a quarter from his pocket. “If this don’t work out,” he said, “we’ll do rock-paper-scissors-dynamite.”

  Landry won the coin toss and asked what Staff wanted to do. He said he had a feeling, and that he trusted her.

  Staff stared at him. “We could both sign,” she said.

  Bobby said, “I don’t give a good goddamn what y’all do. I already got my free advertising.”

  And so Staff and Landry signed their names to the RV’s title as the storm continued to pelt the tent. Bobby handed over the registration and an owner’s manual. The radio people scrambled to their cars, leaving the tent and the busted antenna behind. The wind still blew, and Staff and Landry stepped out into the rain. The cars they’d come in, a Jeep and an ad-wrapped Ford Focus, sat with two spaces between them, like a 7-10 split.

  “Your cars will be safe,” Bobby said. “You can pick them up later. We got an automatic fence around the place. And let me tell you, if someone wants to steal something, I don’t think it’s going to be one of y’all’s junkers. Listen, it’s been two and a half days. I’m out of here. Congratulations.” Bobby headed straight for his car, got in, and drove off.

  STAFF DIDN’T HAVE second thoughts until she and Landry were inside, alone, drying themselves off at the kitchenette with hand towels bearing the logo of State Line RV World. Maybe she shouldn’t have had them both sign the title, she thought, or maybe it was the most prescient thing she’d ever done. All she knew for sure was that she wasn’t ready to part ways with Landry Harmon.

  “Well?” he said, rapping his knuckles on the faux-marble countertop. “Shall we take this baby for a spin?”

  Staff nodded. Landry thought to take off the temporary tag. Staff rode shotgun. Landry guided the big RV onto I-85. He didn’t seem to have a destination in mind, and Staff didn’t care. Soon they were crossing the state line into South Carolina. Just beyond the first rest area, they listened to the mechanical voice of the emergency weather channel: People living in low-lying areas should seek higher ground in case of flooding. Yet, people should seek low-lying areas if tornadoes develop. They passed a highway patrol car attending to a fender-bender, then a white pickup truck angled sideways in a ditch, then two tractor-trailers that had pulled over to wait out the rain, their hazards flashing. The interstate was no place to be. Landry took the next exit, which happened to be Steepleburg. Staff hoped he wasn’t planning to drop her off at home, but Landry just talked about taking the RV to Milwaukee, the site of his next tournament.

  Staff thought, If you talk about something too much, you might make it real. She pointed out the library where she worked, saying, “That’s where I’ve spent way too many hours.” They passed an all-night pharmacy and a mall so vacant of anchor stores that older people called it “the track,” because that’s where they walked early mornings. Landry straddled the white lines as they passed a hamburger joint once featured on a cable show about out-of-the-way dives. A prop plane flew across their line of vision, wobbling its way toward the county airport. Two dogs briefly splashed along beside the RV, barking at the tires.

  Staff thought about everything she had to lose, and it wasn’t much. More lightning flashed, its prongs reaching the ground like an upturned vase of a half dozen dead roses, and then the rain went horizontal.

  “If there are power failures downtown,” she said, “there’ll be no security cameras working, no burglar alarms. We’ll know for certain if the traffic signals are out. If they are, we could drive right through that jeweler’s window and no one would know.”

  Landry gave a low whistle. He looked at her. He said, “How serious are you?”

  Staff gave her best impression of a concrete slab. She said, “How serious are you?”

  By now they were coming into downtown Steepleburg.

  Landry shook his head and then nodded. “If we were to do such a thing—and mind you, I’m not saying we should—we’d want to get in and out real quick-like. I’d only take my momma’s stuff. But you could take whatever you wanted.”

  Staff didn’t care about the ring from Leon. But wouldn’t it be funny, she thought, if they sold china at Sparkleworks? Wouldn’t it be funny if the headlights of the Winnebago shone on a nice set of Staffordshire?

  “Maybe I’d get a little something so I could look fancy rooting you on at that tournament in Milwaukee,” she said. “Earrings, or a bracelet. Something nice but not ostentatious.”

  Neither of them said a word as they passed under a darkened traffic light.

  Then Staff put out her left hand, and Landry took it. Staff felt her face begin to soften and relax, and then she broke into a bright smile, showing perfect, straight, white teeth.

  “Wow,” Landry said. “What’s wrong?”

  Staff said, “Ha-ha.” She gripped his hand tighter. Her heart pounded faster than the windshield wipers. Up ahead, through the crashing rain, a plate-glass window reflected their headlights like a beacon.

  TRADITIONAL DEVELOPMENT

  MAL MARDIS SPUN TWO SPENT ROLLS OF COLOR FILM on the bar, didn’t look up at Gus, and realized that cutting basic cable alone wouldn’t solve the problem. He’d also have to find a way for his wife to quit subscribing to the magazines. This morning’s mission was no different than when Bre
nda renovated their bathroom, den, or what used to be a two-car garage. Mal was supposed to drop off the film at any of the one-hour developers twenty miles from their house, use that time to buy at least two dozen frames, go back to the developer—Eckerd, JackRabbit, Walmart, One-Hour Photo—select the nicest shots, and ask that the person behind the counter now blow them up into eight-by-tens. Then Mal, according to his wife, could use that hour to visit Gus, have two non-brown liquor drinks, return to get the enlargements, and come home. Soon thereafter, Brenda would nail up on available wall space twentyfour photographs of the old kitchen, all of which looked down on the new tiled countertops, the laminated flooring, the new cabinets that replaced a gigantic island that once took up so much space they had to move the table outside to rot. Mal didn’t get it. Keeping pictures of old rooms on the wall pretty much, to him at least, kept the new room looking old.

  “You don’t see women getting face lifts then plastering pictures of their old selves all around the vanity,” Mal said to Gus. He sat at the counter. At the far end sat a man known as Windshield, who claimed that he still had tiny fragments of glass imbedded in his face from when he took a hard exit out of a Ford truck. Gus’s bar had a sign out front that only read “Gus,” for back when he bought the place he couldn’t remember if it should be “Gus’s Place” or “Gus’ Place.” Neither looked correct. No one who ever came into Gus Place knew the grammatical rule or cared. One time some fraternity boys came by and painted an H on the end of his name. Another time somebody from the Latin Club came and changed it to read “Caesar Augustus,” which Gus kept for a good month until Mal told him that it might be an omen that he was going to get stabbed by an everyday regular drinking customer.

  Mal tried to think of another analogy about the new kitchen, something about a hip replacement.