Vernon God Little

by DBC Pierre

  I get some waves about it. For all I know, Deutschman could be trying to quit schoolgirls, he could be on the schoolgirl wagon, taking one day at a time and all. And now – heeere's Ella. I make an effort to think more like my dad's videos. I mean, the client has an Unfulfilled Need, so – here's a Timely and Caring Service. What's more, part of our Extensive After-Sales Service is that nobody will ever know. It's a Market Gap, for chrissakes. But my conscience still calls me from Brooklyn. 'Nah, Boinie,' it says. 'Yez openin up a whole can a woims for da guy.' Then I think of Mom at home. Probably with the power off, probably getting laughed at, on account of her poverty, and her lack of fucken pizzazz. Localized smirking from douche-bag Leona. I'm committed.

  The bike whirrs between flaky shacks and trailer-homes, down streets without edges, until the light almost disappears from the sky. We come to a cheap wooden house, of the kind you can build in a weekend, painted clean, though, with a neat little lawn, and tidy edges of bricks and gravel. Ole Mr Deutschman's place. We crunch past a clay figure of a sleeping Mexican, and carefully lay the bike in the gravel beside the house. Mr Deutschman ain't expecting us. This is known as Cold Calling, in the trade. I take hold of Ella's shoulders to give her a final briefing.

  'Ella, it's just look and touch, okay? Nothing heavy – okay? Call me if he goes too far.'

  'Chill out, Bernie – I'm the one with the poles, remember?'

  God she's fucken scary sometimes. The plan is for her to be shy and sweet, and leave the initiative to him. Like: yeah, right. I told her not to even open her mouth if she could help it, but that's asking a whole shitload from Ella, you know it.

  She crunches around to Mr Deutschman's door while I crouch in the gravel, out of sight. I pretend to rummage in my backpack. A couple of fat raindrops smack me like birdshit. Typical fucken Crockett's. Then I hear the door open. Deutschman's voice warbles out.

  'Who's this here?' he says, all kindly and ole. He has the voice quality of genuine oleness, like he swallowed a vibrator or something.

  After I hear them go inside, I unload my pack and crunch around to the door, scanning the street for neighbors. There's nothing to see, except an ole parked Jeep, and not much to hear except wire twanging in a gust. I try Deutschman's front door – it opens. I hold my breath until Ella's voice chimes out from deep in the house.

  'Mama buys them because cotton's supposed to be – wow, your hands are cold...'

  Game on. I close the door behind me, and creep into the living room. A new smell imprints on my brain; the smell of ole pickled dreams, like organs in a jar. Other people's house-smells hit you harder when you're not supposed to be there. I move down this narrow hallway toward Ella's voice, past the bathroom, where other industrial smells hang. Then a car turns onto the road outside. I dampen the sound of my heart with my hand until it hisses away up the street; the car that is, not my fucken heart. I shuffle forward again.

  Deutschman and Ella are in the room at the end of the hallway. The door stands ajar. I flatten myself against the wall, and crane for a peek through the gap. Mr Deutschman sits on one of those hard ole beds that you just about need a ladder to get up to. The bedclothes are symmetrically draped under his symmetrical ass, which makes a neat little crinkle on top. Next to the bed is a polished wooden table, where a lamp stands on a knitted doily. A wallet, a Bible, and a black-and-white picture in a heavy brass frame sit alongside. A friendly lady shines out of the picture, with clear, trusting eyes, and curly, woolen hair that blows alongside blossoms in a breeze. You can tell that breeze blew a long time ago. On the other side of the room is one small window that overlooks junk in the back yard, including a rusty kind of love-seat.

  Ella stands at the end of the bed with her dress held under her chin. 'Ha! That tickles – wait up, you wanna see my south pole – or my north pole?'

  She pulls her panties down to her knees; doesn't inch them down, sexily or anything, but fucken yanks them, smiling like you just found her in the Mini-Mart. See what I mean about Ella?

  'My, what's this here?' Deutschman's fingertips tremble onto her bare ass, his breathing gets jerky.

  I take a deep breath too. Then I jump in with Mom's Polaroid. Snap!

  'The psycho!' says Deutschman. His lips seem to quiver in midair, then his head slumps onto his chest, with shame I guess.

  'Mr Deutschman, it's okay,' I say. 'Mr Deutschman? We're not here to make any trouble, the young lady is here by choice, and I'm just here with her. You understand?'

  He raises dull eyes at me, and swallows some silent words. Then he looks back at Ella. She cocks her head like a game-show hostess, and fixes him with a grin. God she's bent, I swear.

  'Mr Deutschman,' I say, 'I'm real sorry to barge in like this, I mean no disrespect. But, y'see, you and I have special needs, we can help each other out.' Deutschman hangs his mouth open, listens like a Texan. 'See the young lady here? I bet you'd like to spend some time with her. Your needs'll probably get well satisfied.' I copy the salesmen in Dad's videos, who always spread their hands out and chuckle, like you must be the dumbest fuck in the world if you don't see how easy things are. 'A little cash is all we need, in return for everything. Your joining fee today could be three hundred dollars, for instance – one flat, easy payment – and I'll leave the two of you to hang out some more. I won't even come back at all. And Mr Deutschman, you can have this picture, and we'll never come by again, or say a word. That's our solemn promise to you, ain't it, Miss?'

  Ella puts her hands on her hips, grinning like a Mouseketeer, with her drawers around her knees. Deutschman stares at the floor awhile, then reaches for the wallet on his bedside table. He empties it of banknotes, and hands them to me without a word. A hundred and sixty dollars. My heart sinks.

  'Sir, is this all you have? Just this money here?' I look down at him, all ole and shaken, and my heart sinks some more. I open out the wad of cash and peel a twenty off the top. 'Here, sir, we don't want to clean you out or anything.'

  Some fucken criminal I make. He takes the note without even looking up. What suddenly stings me, though, is this: Ella's getting all the attention she craves, and getting paid for it. Deutschman's using up some stale ole cash, and getting the kicks he probably dreamed about his whole adult life. My ole lady's getting peace of mind about my so-called job, and a new little income. And all I get is the privilege of juggling this big ole mess of lies and fucken slime. The thing has me so bummed I just want to get the fuck out.

  'I'll leave you two alone now,' I say, turning to the door.

  When I reach the door though, I hear Deutschman groan behind me. I spin around to see him sliding onto his feet. Ella's panties fly back up her legs.

  'Don't stop,' says Lally from the window. He turns from the camera to call over his shoulder, 'Leona – come see what we got for the show!'

  I grab Ella, her dress half-scrunched into her panties, and pull her out to the hallway, fumbling and dropping Mom's camera along the way. Deutschman clatters into the bathroom ahead of us, eyes and mouth jammed open. I flick the photograph to him through the door.

  'Destroy it, sir, and whatever you do – don't talk to that guy.'

  Floorboards bounce as we charge to the front door and out over the steps. We're met by raindrops flying sideways through the porchlight, weaving at us like angry sperm. I yank Ella around the corner in a spray of gravel, to where my stuff is tucked in the shadows. And there stands Lally with his camera.

  'Whoa, kids – wait up.'

  I take Ella's shoulders and shove her away. She spins toward the road, one arm flailing, the other still adjusting the ass of her panties through her dress. Lally swaggers over to my pack, planting himself between me and the bike. He gives his balls a luxurious grope.

  'My but you're such a career man these days.'

  A thousand cusses jump to mind, but none of them come out. Instead I fix his leer in my mind, lower my head, and launch myself into his guts. 'Dhoof!' he flies back onto the bike, the camera spins through the air, the
n glances off his head with a crack.

  'Sack of shit!' He unpeels his spine from the bike's frame and takes a swipe at my ankle. 'Wanna play in the real world, cock-sucker?' he snarls.

  I snatch up the camera and rip out the cartridge. Then I take aim at him with my leg, and kick for all my life's worth. I connect hard, and he crashes back across the bike, dazed and bloody, in a shower of gravel.

  'Wow, Lalito,' calls Leona, still out of sight behind the house. 'Your star just saw a spider back here – is this how the job's supposed to be?'

  I haul up my backpack and sprint onto the road. Ella breaks cover from behind the parked Jeep across the street, lunging for my free hand. I pull her head-first into the dusk and we steam down the road, hand-in-hand, chased by fast-moving clouds.

  'Lalo,' says Leona behind us. 'Be honest, now – as a name, do you prefer Vanessa or Rebecca?'

  Our heartbeats trail us along rows of warped shacks, past makeshift porches dangling yellow light, into creekbeds, over bluffs; we suck air like jet-engines until we're spent. Lally will be back on the road by now, searching. Pissed as hell. And the law won't be far behind him. Feel the powerdime glow hot.

  'Fuck,' puffs Ella when we finally stop.

  I kneel next to her in the bushes behind her house. From here you can see down an overgrown alley that runs between her back fence and the shack next door. At the end of the alley, you can just make out the Johnson road. Keeter's, and the escarpment beyond, roll deep and black behind it. As my breath settles, I hear the first crickets, and the pulse of rustling grasses in the wind. Moist air from Ella's mouth strokes my face. I turn to look back through the bushes, where the outermost lights of Crockett's twinkle. In amongst the quiet you hear a soft bustle from town, then a car approaching. A learning comes over me gently, warm like a stroke. It is that I have seven fucken seconds to plan the rest of my life.

  'Ell, I have to trust you with something important.'

  'You can trust me, Bernie.'

  'We got a hundred and forty dollars. That's seventy apiece.' I pull the cash from my pocket, and rifle through it for a ten-dollar bill. I stuff the ten into my pocket, passing the rest to Ella. 'Can you take sixty of this to Seventeen Beulah Drive? Can you do that for me? You'll have to tie up your hair, change your clothes, and sneak down there like a shadow. Can you do that?'

  'Sure I can.' She nods like a little kid, you know how they nod too much. Then she stares at me through shining eyes. 'What're you gonna do?'

  'I have to disappear awhile.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  'The hell you will. They'd catch us in a second.'

  She presses her lips shut, and stares some more. I swear she's like your cat or something, how she just stares. A truck growls along the Johnson road. I tense until it passes. Ella just keeps staring. Then a door bangs in the middle distance, and a lady's voice screeches out.

  'E-lla!'

  Ella's face drops. I guess this was a real adventure we had just now; you can tell it broke the ice with Ella Bouchard. I squeeze her hand, for recent ole times' sake, and pick up my pack. 'If you see my ole lady, tell her I'm sorry, and I'll be in touch. Or, no, better – don't tell her anything, just slide the cash under the door. Okay?' I stretch out of the grass, but Ella's hand intercepts me at the leg. I look down at her face. It suddenly seems configured to make brave decisions in life, like willpower soaks through her pores or something. She leans up to my mouth and plants a clumsy kiss.

  'I love you,' she whispers. 'Stay clear of Keeter's track, they's settin up that SWAT thing tonight.' She reaches for my hand and stuffs all her cash into it, all but my mom's sixty dollars. Then she springs to her feet and swishes away down the alley like a cotton ghost.

  'Eee-lla!'

  'Comin!'

  I still feel her spit on my lips. I wipe it on my arm. As I melt into the dark on the escarpment side of the road, I see a figure bobbing through the light at Keeter's corner. It's Barry Gurie's unmistakable fat head. He ain't rushing. The hiss of a car approaches from the other direction. Lally's car. I run before its lights sweep the road.

  Act III Against all odds

  fourteen

  Martirio twinkles like a nest of fireflies from the land above Keeter's. You can see the new sign at the Seldome Motel, and one corner of Bar-B-Chew Barn is visible, alongside the radio mast. If you squint, you can see the working spine of town, a centipede's legs of pumpjacks lit up along Gurie Street – fuck, fuck, fuck. I trace the spine as far as I can, down to Liberty Drive, at least. My town is beautiful from up here. It's as if a star shines for every creature in the constellation of Martirio, and a few more shine besides. There's just one tiny black spot at the northern edge of town, where no star shines at all. That'll be home.

  Waves are coming. My survival instinct wore off when I left the Johnson road. Now, stamping Lally's video into the fucken ground, I can taste the salt of waves. They come with pictures of Mom in her darkened kitchen, scraping up any ole crumb of hope, to parlay into pie. But all she scrapes is bullshit. It slays me. She'll be muttering, 'Well at least he has a job, and we still have his birthday to look forward to.' But I'm halfway to the escarpment, on my way to goddam Mexico. Probably forever.

  It's a little before ten. I can reach the highway in a couple of hours, then maybe hitch a ride, or catch a bus or something, down to San Antone. I take a last look at Martirio sparkling across the flats, my universe for all these long years. Then I set off toward the hills, all crusty and alone. My coping mechanisms open up to some cream pie. Remember that ole movie, with the beach-house? Plenty of folks must do that, for real. Nothing says you have to be a particular kind of person to do that. I imagine Mom coming down, after things blow over. I buy her some souvenirs. Maybe I send a maid back with her; she can jam that up. Leona's fat ass. A learning: deep shit sweetens your plans like crazy.

  It's midnight when the first headlights flicker through the branches by the highway. To be honest, I don't even know which way is south. My ole man thought Scouts was for sissies, so I don't even know which fucken way is south in life. Instead of trying to figure it out, I call some Glen Campbell to mind, to help me lope along, crusty and lonesome, older than my years. 'Wichita Lineman' is the song I call up, not ' Galveston '. I would've conjured Shania Twain or something a little more sassy, but that might boost me up too much. What happens with sassy music is you get floated away from yourself, then snap back to reality too hard. I hate that. The only antidote is to just stay depressed.

  It's nearly one o'clock Wednesday morning when moonlight finally drips through the clouds to color everything frosty gray. Texas is so fucken beautiful. If you ain't here already, you should come. Feel free to skip Martirio, that's all. Herds of trucks and cars pass on the highway, but none of them look like they'd stop. I mean, I know they won't stop if I don't get up and stop them, don't get me wrong. I just don't like my chances. A better idea is to wait for a bus, which has an established tradition of stopping. I settle in the crook of a bend in the highway, pull my jacket from the pack, and fashion a backrest against a bush. I sit and wait, and turn some learnings over in my head.

  Where TV lets you down, I'm discovering, is by not convincing you how things really work in the world. Like, do buses stop anywhere along the road, to pick up any kind of asshole, or do you have to be at a regular bus stop? You see plenty of movies where some crusty dude stops a bus in the middle of the desert or something. But maybe that only applies in the middle of the desert. Or maybe only the drivers who saw those movies will stop. This all scuttles through my head, and starts to warp into other kinds of movies, like the one with the black devil-car that has a vendetta against this guy. I feel my hair wisp in the breeze, the grasses and bushes wisp around me. Just nature and me, wisping, while the devil-car has this vendetta.

  A chill wades through my skin to wake me. It's after five in the morning. I hear the roar of a bus on the highway, and hoist my pack up to the roadside. A motorcoach hammers around the bend, glowing c
ool and cozy inside. I flap my arms, and make like I just arrived from the scene of an urgent reason to travel. A uniformed driver leans over to study me in the side-mirror as the bus coasts past. Then, 'Pschhsss,' he pulls over and stops, two hundred yards down the highway. I fly towards those tail-lights.

  The door puffs open. 'You in trouble?' asks the driver.

  'I have to get to San Antonio.'

  'Martirio's only a few miles away, you should pick up the next service there – I can't just stop on a whim, y'know.'

  'Yeah, but – I'm stuck out here, and…'

  'You're stuck out here?' he looks around. 'We have like predetermined stops, you can't just hail the service any old where.' I shoot him these puppy-dog eyes, and he eventually says, 'I'd have to charge you the whole fare, like from Austin – thirteen-fifty.'

  I climb aboard without even checking where the cowgirl's sitting, or even if there is a cowgirl. I just gulp down the aura of crumpled bedclothes, of travelers messy with chippings of sleep, and shuffle to an empty row at the back. My adrenal gland coughs as we move away, half expecting Lally to appear, or Ella's mom, or some kind of shit. I don't even want to think what, because Fate always pays attention to what you think, then slams it up your fucken ass.

  'Drrrrrr,' the motorcoach hits the road, and after nameless miles I hang suspended on the knife-edge of a doze, my brain like crystal grits. Then we pass a field of manure or something, the type of smeary tang your family pretends not to notice when you're in the car with them, and it suddenly floods my senses with Taylor Figueroa. Don't ask me why. I sense her in a field by the highway. She's down on all fours behind a bush, naked except for blue synthetic panties that strain hard into her thigh-vee, and glow dirty ripe. I'm there too. We're safe and comfortable, with time on our hands. I surf her upholstery with my nose, map her sticky heem along glimmering edges to the panty-leg, where the tang sharpens like slime-acid chocolate, stings, bounces me back from her poon. In my dream I bounce back too far. Then I see we're in a field of ass-fruit, and suddenly I don't know if it's Taylor 's scent, or just the field I can smell. I scramble back to her cleft, but the edges have vanished. The forbidden odor dissolves into the body-heat and aftershave of the bus. I wake up snorting air like crazy. She's gone. Empty distance rolls past the window.