by DBC Pierre
'So,' says Gurie, ignoring Moltenbomb. 'Let's get this child into town.' Child my ass.
'Well wait,' says Mom. 'There's something you should know – Vernon suffers from a kind of – condition.' She rasps it like it's cancer.
'Heck, Momma!'
'Vernon Gregory, you know you get that inconvenience!'
Jesus, fuck. My overbite grows a yard. Moltenbomb chuckles from the roadside.
'We'll take care of him,' says Gurie, wiping a hand on her leg. She nudges me down the driveway with her body; effective law-enforcement if you have ass-cheeks like fucken demolition balls.
'But he hasn't done any wrong! He has a clinical condition!' Clinical condition my fucken ass.
Just then, Fate plays a card. The hiss of Leona Dunt's Eldorado echoes up the street. The uterus-mobile from hell. It's full of Mom's two other so-called friends, Georgette and Betty. They always just drop by. Until Tuesday, Mrs Lechuga was the leader of this pack; now she's indisposed until further notice.
Leona Dunt only shows up when she has at least two things to brag about, that's how you know your position in life. She needs about five things to go to the Lechugas', so we're junior league. Fetus league, even. Apart from having the thighs and ass of a cow, and minimum tits, Leona's an almost pretty blonde with a honeysuckle voice you know got its polish from rubbing on her last husband's wallet. That's the dead husband, not the first one, that got away. She never talks about the one that got away.
Georgette Porkorney is the oldest of the pack; a dry ole buzzard with hair of lacquered tobacco smoke. We just call her George. Right now she's married to the sheriff, not that you'd want to imagine them doing anything. And get this: just like the rhinos you see in the wild on TV, she has a bird that lives sitting on her back. It's called Betty Pritchard, Mom's other so-called buddy.
Betty just has this mopey face, and tags along saying, 'I know, I know.' Her ten-year-ole is called Brad. Little fucker broke my PlayStation, but he won't admit it. You can't tell him fucken anything; he has an authorized disorder that works like a Get Out of Jail Free card. Me, I only have a condition.
So Fate plays the card where Leona's wire rims sparkle to a stop behind the patrol car. Ricardo Moltenbomb, the reporter dude, makes a flourish like a bullfighter, then steps aside as an acre of cellulite drains onto the dirt we call our lawn. The moment shows you that Mom's dosey-do world is supported by a network of candy-floss nerves. Now watch them fucken melt.
'Hi, Vaine!' calls Leona. She leads the way on account of being youngest, which means under forty.
'What, Vaine?' calls Georgette Porkorney. 'My ole man grow weary of you at the station?'
Mom takes the catch. 'Vaine's just doing a routine check, girls – come on up for a soda.'
'More trouble, Doris?' asks Leona.
'Well gosh,' says Mom. 'These cakes are perspiring!' Believe me, there ain't the life in those cakes to perspire.
Vaine Gurie preps her throat to speak, but just then Moltenbomb steps up to her with his camcorder and his alligator smile. 'A few words for the camera, Captain?'
An audience forms around them, consisting of Pam, Georgette, Leona, and Betty. Georgette's cigarettes appear. She's settling in. Betty's mope turns into a scowl, she steps back. 'You're not going to smoke on TV, are you – George?'
'Shhh,' says Georgette. 'I ain't on TV – she is. Don't piss me off, Betty.'
Deputy Curie's lips tighten. She draws a long breath, and frowns at the reporter. 'Firstly, sir, I'm a deputy, and secondly you should consult the media room for updates.'
'Actually, I'm doing a background story,' says Moltenbomb.
Gurie looks him up and down. 'Is that right. And you are…?'
'CNN, ma'am – Eulalio Ledesma, at your service.' Sunlight strikes some gold in his mouth. 'The world awaits,'
Gurie chuckles and shakes her head. 'The world's a long way from Martirio, Mr Ledesma.'
'Today the world is Martirio, ma'am.'
Curie's eyes dart to Pam. Pam's mouth jacks wide open like a kid in a fast-food commercial. The shape of the word 'TV!' shines out. 'Your Barry'll be so proud!' she says.
Deputy Gurie looks herself over. 'But I can't just go on like this, can I?'
'You're spotless, Vaine – get a grip,' tuts Pam.
'Is that right. Gh. And precisely what am I supposed to say?'
'Relax, I'll lead you right in,' says Mr Ledesma. Before Gurie can object, he sets down his tripod, aims the camera at her, and steps in front. His voice ripens to melted wood. 'Once again we don the cloak of mourning – a cloak worn ragged by the devastating fallout of a world in change. Today, the good citizens of Martirio, Central Texas, join me in asking – how do we heal America?'
'Gh-rr,' Gurie opens her mouth like she has the fucken answer. No, Vaine, duh – he ain't finished.
'We start on the front line, with the people whose role in the aftermath of tragedy is changing; our law-enforcement professionals. Deputy Vaine Gurie – does the community relate differently to you at a time like this?'
'Well, this is our first time,' she says. Like, fucken duh.
'But, are you increasingly called upon to counsel, to lend moral as well as civil support?'
'Stuss-tistically sir, there are more counselors in town than officers of the law. They don't enforce laws, so we don't counsel.'
'The community is meeting the challenge, then – pulling together?'
'We have some manpower over from Luling, and the dogs are here from Smith County, sure. A committee in Houston even sent up some home-made fudge.'
'Obviously freeing valuable time for you to spend with survivors…' Ledesma motions me over.
Gurie falters. 'Sir, the survivors have survived – my job is to find the cause. This town won't rest until the cause of the problem is identified. And corrected.'
'But surely it's open and shut?'
'Nothing happens without an underlying cause, sir.'
'You're saying the community has to search inside itself, maybe face some hard truths about its role in the tragedy?'
'I'm saying we have to find the one who caused it.'
Twinkles stab Ledesma's eyes. He reaches for my shoulder and pulls me into the frame.
'Did this young man cause it?'
Gurie's chins recoil like snails shot with vinegar. 'Gh-rrr – I didn't say that.'
'Then why should the American taxpayer bankroll you to detain him, on the first day of his probable lifelong trauma?'
Other reporters move toward us down the street. Sweat brews on Gurie's face. 'That'll be all for now, Mr Lesama.'
'Deputy, this is the public domain. God Himself can't stop the camera.'
'I'm just afraid I don't make the laws.'
'The child has broken laws?'
'Well, I don't know.'
'You'll detain him just in case?'
'Gh-r.'
The frown on the sheriff's wife is almost down to her tits. Which is way down. Ledesma sizes her up, his tongue lolls restless in his cheek. Gurie tries to shuffle away, but he swings the camera like a gun.
'Perhaps you'll tell us the name of the sheriff who briefed you?'
The way Georgette Porkorney talks you wouldn't think she gave a shit about the ole sheriff. She gives one now, though. Her phone flies out of her bag in a shower of Kleenex.
'Bertram? Vaine's on TV.'
After a second, Gurie's phone rings in her pocket. 'Sheriff? No sir, I swear to God. Bandera Road? About two blocks from here. Dogs? Yes sir, right away.'
Ledesma folds up his camera and watches Vaine shuffle to her car, defeated. Then, as a crack of thunder chases the last shine from the pumpjack, he turns to me and winks in slow-motion. It has to be slo-mo for how fucken fast it is. I try not to smile. Or drop a load the size of fucken Texas.
'You owe me a story,' he mouths silently, pointing a short, puffy finger. I just nod, and follow my ole lady onto the porch with Leona, George, and Betty. She ushers them inside, then hangs back at the scree
n to see if ole Mrs Porter, childless Mrs Porter, out-of-the-spotlight Mrs Porter, is still watching from her doorway. She is, but she's pretending not to. Kurt the dog's watching, though. He don't care to pretend.
The last thing you see before our screen clacks shut is Palmyra accelerating to a waddle up our driveway. She passes Gurie, and jabs a finger at the stain around her badge.
'Uh-oh, Vaine – barbecue sauce.'
In a black and white world, everything in my room is fucken evidence against me. A haze of socks and underwear riddled with secret dreams. My computer has history to wipe from the drive, like the amputee sex pictures I printed for ole Silas. He doesn't have a computer, see. Silas is a sick ole puppy – don't even go there, really. He trades stuff with us kids in return for pictures, if you know what I mean. I make a note to wipe the computer, or 'Perform some Virtual Hygiene,' as Mr Nuckles would say. My eyes crawl around the rest of the room. Last week's laundry sits in a pile by my bed, Mom's lingerie catalog is under it; I have to return it to her room. And hope like hell she never tries to open page 67 or 68. You know how it is. Then there's my closet, with the Nike box in back. Inside are two joints, and two hits of LSD. Don't get me wrong, I'm only holding them for Taylor Figueroa.
Muddy light breaks through the gloom outside my window. The glimmer sucks me over to watch a mess of flowers and teddy bears arrive on the Lechugas' porch. Now it looks like Princess Debbie's place, or whoever the princess was who died. It's all just in a pile, still wrapped. So you know the Lechugas paid for it. Nobody else sent flowers for Max, that's the sadness of the thing. Pathetic, really.
I'm studying this whole tragedy routine, in back of my jellified brain. The Lechugas have to send themselves teddy bears, for instance. Know why? Because Max was an asshole. Saw-teeth of damnation I feel just thinking it, waiting for fiery hounds to unleash mastications and puke my fucken soul to hell. But at the same time, here's me with water in my eyes, for Max, for all my classmates. The truth is a corrosive thing. It's like everybody who used to cuss the dead is now lining up to say what perfect angels of God they were. What I'm learning is the world laughs through its ass every day, then just lies double-time when shit goes down. It's like we're on a Pritikin diet of fucken lies. I mean – what kind of fucken life is this?
I drag the crusty edge of a T-shirt over my eyes, and try to get over things. I should clean up my mess, seeing as everybody's so antsy, but I feel like smeared shit. Then a learning jumps to mind, that once you plan to do something, and figure how long it'll take, that's exactly how long Fate gives you before the next thing comes along to do.
'Vern?' Mom hollers from the kitchen. 'Ver-non!'
four
'Ver-non?'
'Do what?' I yell. Mom doesn't fucken answer. A typical mother thing, they just monitor the notes of your voice. If you ask them later what you said, they don't even fucken know. Just the noises have to sound right, like, dorky enough.
'Ver-non.'
I close my closet door, and step down the hall to the kitchen, where a familiar scene plays around the breakfast bar. Leona's in the kitchen with Mom, who's messing with the oven. Brad Pritchard is on the rug in the living room, pretending you can't see his finger up his ass. Everybody pretends they can't see it. See the way folks are? They don't want to smutten their Wint-O-Green lives by saying, 'Brad, get your fucken finger out of your goddam anus,' so they just pretend it ain't there. Same way they try and avoid the sting of mourning around this ole town. They can't, though, you know it. Their ribs are pressed tight with the weight of grief. The only hopeful sight is Pam, beached on dad's ole sofa at the dark end of the room. A Snickers bar appears from the folds of her moo-moo.
I go to the kitchen side of the bar, where Leona's still working up to her brags; she has to empty Mom out first, so her voice slithers up and down, 'Oh how neat, wow, Doris, oh great,' like a foam sireen. Then, when Mom's all boosted up, she trumps her.
'Hey, did I tell you I'm getting a maid?'
Mom's mouth crinkles. 'Oh – hey.'
Hold your breath for the second thing. George blows ultra-slim cigarette smoke over Betty as they pretend to watch TV; their ultra-mild smiles come from knowing how many things there are. Mom just frets over the oven. Gives her somewhere to stick her fucken head if no more things turn up. A bug of sweat crawls down her nose, Thk,' onto the brown linoleum.
'Yeah,' says Leona, 'she starts when I get back from Hawaii.'
The house sags with relief. 'Well gosh, another vacation?' asks Mom.
Leona flicks back her hair. 'Todd would've wanted me to do nice things, you know – while I'm young.' Like: yeah, right.
'Hell, but I can't believe today,' says George from the living room. That signals the end of the brags.
'I know, I know,' says Betty.
'You think things have gone as far as they can go, then – boom!'
'Oh golly, I know.'
'Six pounds if it's an ounce, and I only saw her last week. Six pounds in a week!' George weaves a trumpet of smoke around the words. Betty waves them away with her hand.
'It's that diet, all those carbs,' says Leona.
Pam grunts darkly in back.
'I know,' says Betty. 'Why didn't she stick to Weight Watchers?'
'Honey,' says George, 'Vaine Gurie's lucky to stick to the seat of her damn shorts. I don't know why she tries.'
'Barry threatened her,' says Pam. 'She has a month to ditch her flab, or he's gone.'
George points her mouth into the air, so the words will fly over her head to Pam. 'Then forget Pritikin – she needs the Wilmer Plan.'
'But Georgette,' says Mom from the kitchen, 'the Wilmer didn't work for me – not yet, anyway.'
Leona and Betty level eyes at each other. George coughs quietly. 'I don't think you quite got the hang of it, Doris.'
'Well, I guess I'm still trying it out, you know… Anyway, did I tell you I ordered the side-by-side fridge?'
'Wow,' says Leona, 'the Special Edition? What color?'
Mom's eyes fall to the floor. 'Well – almond on almond.'
Look at her: flushed and shiny with sweat, hunched under her brown ole hair, in her brown ole kitchen. Deep inside, her organs pump double-time, trying to turn bile into strawberry milk. Outside, her brown ole life festers uselessly around the jokey red bow on her dress.
I prompt her from the laundry end. 'Ma?'
'Well there you are – go ask that TV man if he'd like a Coke, it must be ninety degrees outside.'
'The one dressed like Ricardo Moltenbomb?'
'Well he's much younger than Ricardo Montalban – isn't he, girls? And better-looking…'
'Hnf,' says Pam.
George leans out of her chair to catch Mom's eye. 'You're going to ask a total stranger inside, just like that?'
'Well Georgette, we Martirians are known for our hospitality…'
'Uh-huh,' snorts George. 'I didn't see many of those cheerleaders up here, after their bus broke down that time.'
'Well but this is different.'
All the girls except for Pam exchange lip-tightenings. George clears her throat a little.
Brad Pritchard finishes with his ass. Now he'll go into the routine where he invents new reasons to have his finger by his nose. As I slip through the kitchen door, I catch his eye, point to my ass, then suck my finger.
'M-om,' he squeals.
Beulah Drive is spongy with heat. I wander over to a lemonade stand some kids have set up on number twelve's driveway; they ask fifty cents for information about the reporter, so I wander back, and check the red van under the Lechugas' willow. My nose flattens to the rear glass. You can see a lunchbox behind the seat, with half a brown apple in it. Some wires on the floor. A chewed-up ole book titled 'Make It In Media'. Then you see Ledesma's head rested on a pair of ole boots. He splays naked across a canvas mat inside, eyes closed, muscles heavy and slick. He jackrabbits when I spot him.
'Shit!' He jerks up onto an elbow, rubbing his eyes. 'Big man – come r
ound to the door.'
I tap a stray teddy onto the Lechugas' lawn, and move around to the side. A blast of sweat hits me when the door opens. The guy's face is waxy. Definitely over thirty. I can tell my ole lady likes him, but I ain't so sure.
'You live in the van?' I ask.
'Tch – the motel's full. Anyway, it gives my corporate Amex a break.' A bunch of glass phials tumble across the floor as he grabs his clothes.
'Mom says you can come up for a Coke.'
'I could sure use your bathroom. And maybe a bite to eat.'
'We have joy cakes.'
'Joy cakes?'
'Don't ask.'
Ledesma grabs a handful of the tiny bottles from the floor, stuffing them into a pocket as he stretches into his overalls. He studies me through quick, black eyes. 'Your mom's stressed today.'
'This is one of her better days.'
He gives a laugh like asthma, 'Hururrr, hrrr,' and slaps me on the arm. Kind of slap my dad used to give me, when he was feeling friendly. We move back over the road and up the driveway, but Ledesma stops by the wishing bench to adjust his balls. Then he shakes his head, and looks at me.
'Vern – you're innocent, right?'
'Uh-huh.'
'I don't know why it gets to me, tch. All this shit raining down on you, I can't help thinking – what kind of fucking life is this?'
'Tell me about it.'
He puts a hand on my shoulder. 'I'd be prepared to help.'
I just stare at my New Jacks. To be honest, intimate moments aren't my scene at all, especially when you just saw a guy naked. Next thing you know you're in a fucken TV-movie, quivering all over the place. I guess he senses it. He takes his hand away, tweaks his crotch again, and leans against the wishing bench, which sharply tilts away.
