What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  Apparently I’d parked on a strip where kids from town like to drag race. They flew past, whooping and hollering. I moved my car. The next place was quieter. So quiet it was creepy and scary. I tried not to remember what happened that other time, years ago, under a bridge. I felt sorry for him.

  The next morning—a whopping four hours of sleep under my belt—I went to McDonald’s and used their toilet, then quickly pulled my washcloth out of its baggie, rinsed it, added some hand soap, and cleaned up my face, my neck, my pits, and my chest. I wanted to strip, straddle the sink, and clean up my Big V, but that would have gotten me arrested if anyone came in.

  With my luck, someone would have snapped a photo and my straddling butt and I would have ended up on YouTube.

  I dried off with my handy-dandy hand towel and pulled my hair out of its sloppy ponytail. It looked simultaneously greasy and as if I’d been electrocuted. I brushed it out and braided it.

  My eyes appeared almost drugged, I was so wiped out. “Well, now, shoot,” I said out loud. I was pale. Sickly. Cement and hay mixed together—that was the color of my complexion. “My, aren’t you gorgeous.”

  I shut the door of a stall and changed out of my sweats and into a red cable knit sweater, jeans, clean underwear, a white-lace bra, and knee-high boots. My figure, as he said, “Curves. You’re not fat, Dina, but you have enough to put in a man’s hands. Put yourself in my hands.”

  I stamped down a well of sweeping hatred that bubbled up like a volcano. I would spit volcano fire, lava, and smoke at that man’s ferret face if I could. I would kill him and hide his piggy body if I could.

  I bought a large coffee and settled into a stall. I put in six creams. I wished they had liquid whipping cream—that’s what I like in my coffee. There is a lot I will give up when I am broke, but I will spend my second-to-last dollar on coffee. I will spend my last dollar on paint. Call me crazy and reckless, but I’ll do it.

  I would try the other half of the street today for jobs, and if that didn’t work, I’d move on.

  My cell phone and e-mail were burning up with their messages. Crying. Swearing. Yelling. Cancellations for my paintings and collages, deafening outrage.

  I didn’t blame them at all.

  “Hello. Can I talk to the manager?”

  “I’m the manager. And the owner. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Grenady Wild, and I’m looking for a job.” I shook her hand. It felt so odd to use the name Grenady, but right, too.

  “Tildy Green. What kind of job?”

  The woman staring back at me looked like she could wrestle a bull to the ground and win. She had thick, straight gray hair and a white streak arching from a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead. She had strong features and broad shoulders, and was cleaning a hunting rifle behind the bar.

  I didn’t know you could clean guns in a bar/restaurant, but there were only about ten other people in there at the time and none seemed to be bothered by it. I sure wasn’t. “Anything you have.”

  “I don’t have anything. You’re new in town.”

  It was a statement, not a question. She could meet someone and know she was new? I thought this town was bigger than that. “Yes. I am.”

  “You came to town without having a job.” She peered down the barrel of the gun, searching for any problems, then waved me to a barstool so we could talk.

  “Yes, I did.” I sat down. I could hardly stand anymore. I had been up and down the entire street asking for jobs. There were none. Or no one wanted to hire me. That was a distinct possibility.

  “You missed the quilt show.”

  “The quilt show?”

  “Yes. Quilts all over the place. I love quilts.”

  It was almost funny that a woman cleaning a gun with such care loved quilts.

  This restaurant/bar was called The Spirited Owl. It had a lodgelike atmosphere with both log and brick walls.

  It was a two-story building with a faux balcony on the second floor. There was a covered boardwalk out front with several Adirondack chairs on it. The original wood floors had been scuffed by thousands of cowboy boots; white tablecloths covered circular tables, each with a small bouquet; leather booths lined the walls; and a huge rock fireplace with a hearth warmed up the place.

  It had the longest bar I’d ever seen—an exquisite, shiny piece of wood, built to seem old, with curves and scrolling and a gold foot rail. Behind the bar, a huge mirror reflected the expected, vast array of bottles of liquor. Above the mirror was a row of stuffed owls. The owls wore aviator sunglasses. It was a quirky touch.

  There were fishing poles and black-and-white photos of the Wild West on the walls, and two canoes hanging from the ceiling, amidst several fishing nets. Comfortable, classy, not cheap.

  I read part of the menu posted outside before coming in, so I knew a little about the cuisine: Tildy’s Wild Steak, Hail to the Hamburgers, Lusty’s Lasagna (I wondered who Lusty was), Cowgirl Calzone, Shooting Straight’s Chef Salad, Home on the Range Soup and Salad, I Won’t Club You Club Sandwich, Kickin’ Chicken, and Buckin’ Bronco Salmon. It also had an extensive alcohol offering, and the desserts, especially the pies, made me hungry thinking about them.

  It was the gun-slinging west meets “I want my steak medium rare and I’ll have the house red wine with that.”

  “If you don’t have a job, I’ll take a beer,” I told her. “Please.”

  “What kind of beer?”

  “What do you recommend?” She told me what they had, at length, with questions about my tastes and preferences. So complicated. But this is Oregon. We’re particular about our beers. “I’ll have a Sisters Pale Ale.”

  “Coming up.”

  I put my head in my hands for no more than five seconds. My spinning and fuzzied-up brain needed a rest. Good golly God, my face was horrendous.

  “Here ya go.”

  “Thank you.” I sucked some of that beer down and enjoyed the hell out of it. I did a Personal Financial Calculation. I was under $450 now because of gas costs and my coffees. I could not afford a hotel. If I was hired, I would probably not be paid for at least two weeks unless I had a job where I received tips. Like this one.

  “Where ya from?”

  “I’m from . . .” I’m from I Don’t Want To Tell You. “Portland.”

  I could feel her sizing me up. “Born in Portland?”

  I didn’t know where I was born. No clue. Two people knew, and they were long gone. “Near there.”

  “Why you here?”

  “I like central Oregon.”

  “Why?”

  She was trying to figure me out. I got it. “This is a nice . . .” What was it? “This is a nice town. I like the mountains. I like the space. I like the open air and the views.”

  Her expression said, “Yeah, right.”

  “You’re cagey, aren’t you?” She went back to cleaning her gun again. “Really, why are you here?”

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “Why would I? It’s my bar.”

  “And it’s my beer, and if I wanted to answer twenty questions I’d put myself on a game show.”

  “I haven’t asked you twenty questions yet, now, have I? I’m on number seven. Besides, you asked me for a job, so I can ask you some questions.”

  “You said you didn’t have a job.”

  “Maybe I will soon. So quit dodging around and tell me about yourself.”

  Tip money would be helpful. If I ran out of money, I’d be out of coffee and cream. That would be bad.

  “I need a job. I was a waitress for eleven years and tended bar for four of those. I can handle multiple orders at one time and multiple assholes. I make an excellent martini. I prefer to shake them, but I’ll stir it if it must be done. My specialties are mint juleps, cosmopolitans, Singapore slings, blood and sands, and black bombers. My Bloody Marys are outstanding, and I make a pretty tasty Ginger Rogers, Galapagos, and Sex on the Beach, which is the most asinine name for a drink on the planet. People orde
r it so they sound cool, and I think they’re idiots. Not a bad drink, though.

  “The bars I’ve worked in had rednecks and convicts, millionaires and college professors. I can handle anyone who comes in here, sit them down, shut them up, and get them their order on time. Sometimes I even smile. I don’t take any crap from anyone, even the customers, so if you want some sweet little thing in here who will smile even when some slovenly, sweaty-palmed creep is trying to grab her ass, you don’t want to hire me. Someone pulls that on me, I will punch first and ask questions later.”

  I saw a slight smile. “Sugar, I don’t expect any of my employees to take any crap. None. You could swing if you want, and I’ll back you up with the baseball bat behind the bar.”

  I wondered why she didn’t say she would use the gun instead of the bat, but I didn’t ask. “I work hard and I’m on time. I’m efficient. I know how to listen to people who want to bend the ear of the bartender back one hundred and eighty degrees. I’d like the job.” And I needed the money. I didn’t want to resort to Dumpster diving again. I will if I have to, I’m not above it, but I’d rather not.

  “I might hire you, but I don’t need anyone right now.” She smiled. It softened her face.

  “If you do need someone, will you call me?” I scribbled my number and e-mail on a napkin. “My bartending and food handlers licenses are up-to-date.”

  “Any drug problems I should know about?”

  “No. None. I don’t do drugs.”

  “You have a criminal record?”

  “No.” Not quite officially. Not convicted. Only arrested. Done only a small amount of time. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that is American and red, white, and blue. I went back to my Sisters beer and studied the suds. She heard the pause, I know she did.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “A woman decided she didn’t like me.”

  “Stole her husband?”

  “If you knew me, you would know I’d sooner swing a rattler than take someone’s husband.”

  “I don’t mow other women’s grass, either. Why’d she hit you?”

  “Because I hit first.”

  Tildy raised her eyebrows.

  “She called me Barbie Princess.”

  Tildy made a hissing sound. “That would tick me off, too. How insulting.”

  “It was. There’s no need for that kind of trash talk.”

  “Absolutely not. I would have slugged her.”

  We were interrupted by a crash.

  The crash was so deafening, it sounded like a bomb had dropped through the roof and we were caught in the center of the explosion. Glass from the windows went flying. Tildy and I hit the floor. I heard wood splitting, a car horn blaring, and, strangely, country music.

  A light fell from the ceiling and shattered. Two picture frames fell and broke. I covered my head again.

  When the noise stopped, except for the horn and the country music, I turned, my heart pounding, to figure out whether I needed to run for my sorry life.

  The hood of a blue truck was inside the restaurant. A truck.

  It was old, I’d give it thirty years.

  Another plate of glass came straight down, and I covered my head again as it split and went flying. A table wobbled and toppled over. The vase broke.

  Tildy stood up and swore. “Damn that crazy mother shit drunken alligator head.” She slapped the bar with both hands. “Lunatic. Rotten breath, brainless idiot!”

  She stalked out of the bar, her cowboy boots crunching glass. She did not have the gun. Probably fortunate.

  I stumbled up and ran over to the truck to make sure no one was underneath the wheels. My legs trembled. When I saw no one was under the front tires, I raced outside to check the back ones, hoping the thing wouldn’t blow.

  The hood of the truck was four feet in. Tildy yanked open the driver’s door as other people ran toward us, including several police officers.

  “I am going to skin you alive, Reuben!” Tildy shouted, pulling the young man out by his arm and his collar. She let him crumble to the ground. “Skin you alive like a dead skunk!”

  I bent over him to check for damage, surprised at Tildy’s rough handling of the driver. There was blood on his face, but it wasn’t gushing. Liquor emanated from him like waves of shame. Whew. Reuben had a skull tattooed on his upper arm. I have always hated skulls.

  “Am I . . .” Reuben stuttered from the ground. “Ding. Dang. Think I ding danged my own darn head . . . am I . . . uh-oh . . . owls and spirit . . . late for work, Aunt . . . Aunt Tildy?” His eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out, drunk as could be.

  “Hello, Tildy.” A police officer tipped his hat to her, two more coming up behind him.

  “Do you see what this lousy slug of a raving, drunk nephew did to my restaurant? I think my sister must have dropped him too many times on his head, because he is dumber than a dead toad.” She kicked a tire, twice. “Now I’m off my rocker! Off my bleepin’ rocker!”

  “He gave us a chase,” one of the officers said. His name tag said Lieutenant Mark Lilton. He was a six-three African American and wore horn-rimmed glasses. “I believe he’s drunk once again. This is his third. Some people learn slowly.”

  Tildy pointed at Reuben. “Now, you arrest this drunk slug. Lock him up for a long time. I’m not paying no bail—never have, never will, you know that, Mark. Being locked up is the only thing that’s gonna sober him up. I’m pressing all charges I can possibly press. Teach him a lesson.”

  “Will do, Tildy.”

  “And I’m going to get rid of his truck,” Tildy declared. “He is not fit to drive.”

  “I didn’t hear that, Tildy.” A police officer named Sergeant Sara Bergstrom spoke up. She had dark hair, gray streaks. “Not one word of that reached my ears.”

  “Me either,” the third officer, Justin Nguyen, echoed. Justin had black hair, dimpled smile.

  “To get rid of the truck, that’s a fine idea,” Lieutenant Lilton mused, then adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “Not that I’m encouraging it. It would be illegal to steal a truck, destruction of property. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Even if it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Oh me, oh my!” Tildy threw her hands in the air. “My heart beats in fear of the law.” She toed her nephew, not gently. “Thank God he didn’t kill anyone. I’m glad he didn’t kill himself, either, cause when he wakes up, I’m gonna kill him.”

  “I didn’t hear that either,” Sergeant Bergstrom said. “You can’t kill people. It’s illegal. Jail time. Blue scrubs. No beer. No wine.”

  “That would be an unfortunate decision, Tildy,” Lieutenant Lilton said. “And now that you’ve made the threat, if that boy ends up hanging by his ankles, we’ll have to come to you first, and I don’t want to do that. You make the best bleu cheese burger in town and I would miss that like the dickens—by the way I’m reading Charles Dickens right now—but I will uphold the law.”

  “Right,” Officer Nguyen said. “So if you commit a crime, Tildy, don’t get caught.” He grinned. Dimple, dimple. Darling. “Do you have raspberry pie today? No? What about peach? Great. Can you save me a piece? Last time you all ran out, ruined my day.”

  Tildy told Officer Nguyen she would save him a piece.

  The officers turned to me and smiled. “You’re new in town,” Sergeant Bergstrom said. “Welcome.”

  The other officers shook my hand, smiled, and I introduced myself.

  Tildy swore up a storm again at her “tiny-dicked, tiny-brained nephew,” then turned to me. “You got yourself a job, Grenady. Start tomorrow. Wear black. I’ll get you a Spirited Owl apron. They’re red. I gotta get this glass cleaned up, damn this damage. We may open late, but I’m openin’. I’ve got a Middle-Aged Women Gone Wild group comin’ in, and they will not like it if I’m shut. It’s their only night to relax.”

  “I’ll be here. Thank you.” Oh boy. I sure could be here tomorrow. Tips! Immediate money!

  His drunken loss, my gain.


  Whooee. I had a job.

  That night I thought of my interview with Tildy. The “Tell me about yourself” request always throws me. What should I say about myself? What should I not say about myself?

  I’m a crack shot and can hit damn near anything.

  I’m a collage artist and painter.

  I used to have a little green house. I sold it. That was a huge mistake.

  I can smash beer cans on my forehead.

  I fight dirty. Someone comes at me, and my instinctive reaction is to smash and pulverize. It has gotten me into trouble.

  I love to decorate. Things must be pretty around me or I feel like I’m losing it.

  I have a temper, my anger perpetually on low seethe, and I have struggled with self-esteem issues and flashbacks for as long as I can remember.

  I can wear four-inch heels and designer clothes like wealthy women, make social chitchat, and pretend I’m exactly like them. I am not like them at all.

  Some of the kindest people I have ever met were missing a lot of their teeth and loved their guns and pickups.

  Some of the worst, most narcissistic, uncaring people I’ve met drove Mercedes and belonged to country clubs.

  I survived my childhood. Now I’m trying to reinvent myself to survive once again.

  Who am I?

  Where did I come from?

  Those questions I can answer easily: I don’t know.

  5

  She never should have gotten away.

  That was a mistake. He had not expected things to take so long. It had always bothered him. He liked things neat. Planned. Perfect.

  He wanted to see her again. Before.

  He would do it! He would think of a way. He pulled four strands of hair out of his head, then made a design on the table in front of him.

  He giggled. He twitched in his chair.

  He told himself a nursery rhyme. He changed the words to create a new rhyme. He sang it out loud. He wrote it in his rhyme book.