Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  Brock kept opening and closing his mouth to speak, but Liza forced his words back down. Now Liza was growing manic, reaching her tipping point, her words nonsensical gibberish of hatred as she dug her nails into his knees, slapping his face, crying and shrieking out, and he tried to calm her, but she was inconsolable. She ripped the clinic walls with her words, "No—don't talk—don't you talk to me!"

  Before Brock could be thrown against the ground by Liza's force, two white-clothed orderlies grabbed a hold of her and dragged her to her room. Her shrieks faded as the two orderlies carried her away.

  Brock touched his cheek. She clawed him once, though the marks didn't bleed. He hung his head down, blowing out a deep breath of air and feeling his heart settle in his chest. "I guess I deserved that."

  "No you didn’t, Brock."

  A gray haired woman in her late forties dressed in a lab coat, jeans, and an aqua green midriff approached him. Dr. Schmitz had suffered more wear and tear on her face from the last time he'd seen her. The doctor's everyday routine involved a mix of movie stars, rock stars, and average people with enough money to afford Sun View who fought withdraw with varying success rates. She was happy to see Brock because he wasn’t one of the troubled. She hooked her arm though his and kindly ushered him to her corner office.

  Edging the door closed, she then sat behind her desk and offered Brock a seat. "So what brings you by, besides being mauled by Liza Stanfield?"

  "Stanfield, that's her last name. I'm so sorry me being here caused that."

  "She's on suicide watch, but I don't believe locking up a person in that deplorable condition is healthy. They need sunshine, human interaction, and who knows, maybe taking the jabs at you will make her feel better."

  "That woman blew her top. She wanted me dead."

  Dr. Schmitz pointed at his neck. "Are you sure you’re okay?"

  He waved her concerns aside. "I'm fine. I needed a wake-up call. I came here without an appointment. It's Karma catching up with me."

  "I never believed in Karma. Or luck. Things happen, or they don't, and whether you get what you want in life or not, its earned. Only the timing is luck, and still, it's up to the person to react and deal with their situation, good or bad." She picked up a snow globe on her desk of Sun View Rehab Clinic inside it and shook it up. "Take Liza, for instance. She was doing great four months ago. She was determined to quit drugs. She was going to New York for work in the Broadway musical Cats. Sure, it's a smaller role, but it's work, and she gets caught up in how she used to be an A-lister, and how she deserves better, and then the drugs creep back in, and back here to rehab she goes. Liza's got a long road ahead of her to recovery."

  She placed the snow globe back onto the desk. "I'm proud of you, Brock. I watch "America's Got Flair" every Tuesday when the new ones are on. You're always good at pointing out the obvious in a deadpan kind of way to the contestants." The way she asked the question, the doctor seemed to be afraid he was here to check himself back into rehab. "So what brings you back to us, Brock?"

  He was proud to reassure her he wasn't returning for a stay at California's best rehab clinic. "I received a letter from my sister. I guess she's holed up," he laughed, "at a bed and breakfast in Virginia. Can you believe it?"

  "What is Angel doing these days?"

  It was terrible her own brother didn't know these things, he thought. "I don't know. But she wrote me saying she wanted to see me. It's been two years since I've had any contact. I'm driving out tomorrow on a little road trip to visit her."

  "Oh fun. So you're probably wondering how you should handle the visit."

  He nodded, overhearing another raucous cry from down the hall. When it tapered off, he continued, though he wondered if it was poor Liza again. "Yes. I don't want to say the wrong thing, or scare her off again. I don't know if she's sober, happy, needing money, or just wanting to kick my ass."

  Dr. Schmitz thought for a second. "Then don't go into the visit thinking she needs anything except a friendly conversation. Talk to her. If she needs something more, whether it be money, or," she softly bit her lip, "kicking your ass, she'll let you know. Women are good at that, I promise."

  "So be cool, is what you're saying."

  Dr. Schmitz smiled. "Be cool."

  Liza makes me remember rehab. I guess everything does at some point. I was Casper the shitting ghost, haunting the pot, flushing down vomit, shit, bile, and cocaine, and God knows what else down into the sewers. I feel sorry for the janitors at any rehab clinic. People do anything to get the drugs off of their mind. They tear up the walls, break furniture, rip the paint off the walls with their fingernails, and one dude named Norman would scuff the floors with his shoes until there wasn't an inch of blank space left.

  Forget Liza's problems, Angel was worse off. She'd shove safety pins between the skin of her thumb and forefinger to abate the cravings. Angel was caught doing that in rehab, and her room was cleaned out. I think that was when she decided rehab wasn't for her. She wasn't ready to quit. She just couldn't do it.

  I think both of us had the same reaction after our father’s inheritance that the average Joe Blow does who makes thirty, forty grand a year and then suddenly they win the lottery. They don't know what to do with the fortune that's fallen into their laps. They quit their jobs. Pay their debts. And then what? They have no plan. Nothing to waste the hours away, so they start drinking, getting depressed, sinking into that deepening hole, and they end up worse off than they were without the money, and that's where Sis and I ended up, worse off than before Dad died and we had nothing else left to do but blow our fortune on self-destruction.

  There was a TV special about how we dismantled the Richards estate, and I even remember the TV spot. Some Australian home interior guru and tabloid personality saying, "Room by room, we'll recreate the destruction, and play-by-play, we'll have real witnesses give their true accounts to the rise and fall of the Gene Richards estate."

  Brock's wrist ached, so he concluded the writing session. He wasn’t used to committing anything to paper except signatures on checks. Brock left his apartment and walked down the block and ate a hot dog from a street vendor. After eating, he sat under a tree overlooking the Beverly Hills Open Air Park, feeling guilty for eating a piece of greasy meat, but also frustrated he was still afraid to completely open himself up on the page. Oh well, I guess I have an entire road trip to figure it all out.

  It was already mid-afternoon. He still had to pack his clothing, but at seven o'clock, he had a date with his most favorite blue hairs in the universe.

  BAD ROAD TRIP

  Present Day

  Private investigator Mike Kinsley drove on the back roads of Madison, Virginia, seeking Hampton Hills. It was a small town along the foothills of the Appalachian Valley. His trek had turned into an aimless one, being lost, though he swore he had the directions right. He stayed on the back road surrounded by dense deciduous forest seemingly driving in circles. Everything looked the same. There were no breaks in the woods, road signs, or any indication he was going the right way. After battling to decide if he should check his GPS again, a road sign appeared with the words "Hampton Hills" painted crudely in yellow paint.

  No fancy road signs in this place.

  Mike sipped his morning coffee in victory, awaiting the jolt he needed to get his day going. That was the problem all along, he thought. The coffee wasn't working its magic yet.

  Driving along the bumpy terrain, reassured he was finally on the right track, his thoughts drifted to his mission. He flipped open the top of the file sitting on the passenger seat and viewed the picture of a woman named Peggy Albright. She was thirty-one. Single. Friends said she was visiting Hampton Hills to hook up with an old flame. She didn't come back. The bills were stacking up. Friends and family were concerned. They called the police. The police's case was ice cold. Then Mike had been hired to investigate Peggy's disappearance by her family.

  Rumors Mike was hearing involved other people going missing in the
general area, though the investigation was slow-in-the-coming because the people missing weren't just from this area. They were located across the United States in random pockets of the nation without an obvious pattern. That wasn't his problem. His problem was Peggy Albright.

  "Whoa, something stinks." Mike pinched his nose. "Did I run over a dead carcass?"

  The tires didn't bump over anything in the road. He checked the rearview mirror, and the road was clear.

  "Seriously, what was that?"

  The vents kicked out more fetid air. So strong, it was visible. The color was a dark tint of yellow. The tendrils curled from the trees around the road too, wrapping around their trunks, bending, and twisting, and spreading to obscure the distance. He turned, and Peggy Albright's file was suddenly blank and dripping with ink. No, not ink, he thought, but a strange black oil. It was growing soggy until it started to smolder and smoke the strange color of earthy brown until it vanished into thin air.

  Mike reached out to his police frequency radio when the receiver itself softened, the plastic melting into his hand, threading through his fingers, latching on, and burning through his skin. He slammed the gas, trying to escape whatever was surrounding him. He was speeding ahead and gaining distance until the terrain turned rough. The tires popped, and once the car swerved, skidded, spun out, and then stopped, the dirt had changed into a lake of tar black oil stinking of death. Human bones floated on the surface belonging to hundreds of bodies. Absorbing the macabre scene, Mike's car was sinking fast. Steam obscured the windshield. Everything was so hot so fast, the glass burst, the pieces slicing him up mercilessly.

  Picking glass shards out of his eyes with his free hand, the steaming, boiling, popping oil filled up the car, sloshing in from all the windows. He was scorched alive, the skin melting from his bones instantaneously.

  The last thing Mike processed was the sound of many voices talking or shouting over one another. As they were speaking, he too became one of the voices among the dead.

  NEW PLANS MADE

  Carlos Miloh was blowing grass clippings across the parking lot when Brock crossed paths with him. The super was wearing a white shirt underneath a checkered yellow and black flannel shirt that clung to his sweaty body. Carlos took a break, turning off the blower, and intercepted Brock before he could make it to the staircase.

  “Busy man, eh? Too busy to enjoy your vacation?"

  Brock shrugged his shoulders. “I’m visiting my sister in Virginia. I haven’t seen her in two years.”

  “I have sisters in Mexico, down the Tijuana way, but they have no green card. They speak English as good as they can work a chainsaw. Being a Mexican, you have to be able to work every tool in the shed, or else it's the unemployment line for you."

  Carlos had known him for two years, and the man had the uncanny ability to read people. He surveyed Brock's face and withdrew the truth from him. “This isn’t a fun visit, I take it." He pressed his fingers at each end of his lips. "You're not smiling.”

  “I’ll say one thing, and I’ll leave it at that.”

  “Sure, señor."

  “I don’t think my sister's curbed her drug habit. She's looking to big brother for help. I’m ready to do what it takes to save her from herself. It's a big challenge. I'm not stepping out of her life ever again. I want her to be healthy."

  “You mean that, don’t you?” Carlos leaned down to turn on the blower again, but first said, “I’ll keep an eye on your place. Good luck, friend. Family is all you got."

  Brock's favorite support group didn’t meet for bingo until six-thirty, so that left Brock some time to himself. He packed light for the trip. Brock had no timeframe for how long he’d be staying. He hoped the place Angel was lodging had a washer and dryer he could use if the stay dragged out.

  He sipped his iced tea while he stood on his apartment veranda. Brock thought about Angel. The letter was a rouse to get him to visit her, bring money, and then she would run off again. She would probably find another guy who enjoyed her enough between the sheets to put up with her, and then when it got old, he'd kick her the hell to the curb. Or there could be that one guy out there who dusted her off, gave her a sense of home and normalcy, but then she’d ruin that good thing by stealing one too many twenty dollar bills from the guy’s wallet or hawking the wrong watch or keepsake, and on and on she’d go in the same spiraling cycle of self-ruining.

  At least she’s not in prison or dead. You’re taking her back home with you, and that’s final. I’ll sleep on the fold-out bed. I’m not letting her go back to a shitty life, not after everything I’ve seen her go through.

  Brock felt determined again. When he marched back inside the apartment to attempt another written entry in his memoir for an audience of one, his cell phone rang. He quickly answered. It was Hannah.

  “If it isn’t Mrs. Hollywood herself. Do you have time to remember your roots? Did you speed dial on me on accident? If so, I’ll let you off easy this time and hang up now.”

  “Stop it, Brock. You’re being silly. Look, I've accomplished all of my contract shit. Next Thursday, I'm off to New Mexico."

  "So I'm going on a trip by myself?”

  “I don't understand. Did "America’s Got Flair" call you up early?”

  “No, Angel wrote me a letter. She says she in a small town in Virginia. I’m going to see what’s up. I think she’s either wanting to talk to me about how shit went down between us, or it’s the drugs.”

  There was a painfully drawn out silence between them before Hannah filled it in. “I just hope she’s okay.” Then after another lengthy moment, “I want you to be careful, Brock. Don’t get hurt. I love you. I don't want to see you get wrapped up in her problems. You can only do so much, no matter how responsible you feel about her situation."

  Brock imagined the variety of things that could happen. Angel slitting his throat and stealing his car and wallet and meeting up with her dealer. Or he would be sleeping in a room, the door would be kicked open, and then Angel’s significant other would blast him one in the back of the head and take all of his money. No matter how many scenarios he created, it would end with him somehow mugged, jumped, or killed.

  “I hear you on being careful. But I owe it to her to give her a chance.” He lowered his voice, knowing she didn't completely approve. “If she’s still on drugs, I’m taking her home with me and forcing her to kick the habit.”

  “You can’t force her. You’re not equipped to cure a person of addiction. We’re survivors barely scraping by, but Angel, she has to overcame it her way, not yours.”

  “I just want my sister back. The way things used to be.”

  “It’s not your fault what happened.”

  “I’m the older brother, the more responsible one, and I’m the one who has to step up now and see her healthy."

  “If she gets violent or tries to drag you down with her—”

  Brock was clutching the phone hard. His palms were greasy, and he was blinking sweat out of his eyes. He stopped talking a moment, staring out at the streets, the sun, and the Spanish woman carrying her groceries in one hand and her infant in the other.

  Hannah grew impatient. “I know men, and I know when they clam up, they’re pissed.”

  He lied, though in lying, he'd tricked himself into a better mood. “No, I’m imagining you in your panties wearing your boots ‘n spurs pointing your six shooters at me.”

  “You’re full of crap.”

  “I’m nervous about the trip. That's all, honey.”

  "When are you going?"

  "Tomorrow morning. It'll be a quick road trip."

  Hannah hummed under her breath. "How about I go with you? I have eight days before my flight. I don't even have to be there when you talk to Angel. Angel might like talking to me too."

  Brock perked at the idea of her coming along. He still had to say this, "I guess I feel guilty. I felt like you and Angel are both victims of my bullshit."

  "My decisions were my own, and Angel need
s to understand that too. We have influences, but we also make choices ourselves."

  Brock decided it was a good idea they go together. "Hey, come by tonight, and we'll plan the trip."

  "I do have one question for you, Brock."

  "Yeah."

  "Can I wear my boots during the trip?"

  Maybe nobody can understand this memoir because I don't have a straight stream of consciousness. Well, here goes another try.

  It was about a year into Angel and I taking over Dad's mansion that I remember this. We’d long since quit our jobs. Angel’s job before she signed off was casting for films and being a part-time film agent, and me, I produced movies. Without that work to keep us busy, we got bored. You couldn’t throw a party every day, so we had down time. Sometimes we’d spend that time repairing the walls, the floors, the ceilings, replacing shattered windows, mowing the lawn—and that lawn was huge—or wading in the pool and relaxing, but in the process of cleaning up, we discovered a secret room in the mansion. I thought secret rooms were for crazy rich mad scientists, but my father had a room incorporated into the wall of his bedroom. I discovered it when one of our party guests was found with his head shoved through the wall. I never found out why his head was shoved through it, but it happened nonetheless.

  The secret room was full of high-powered rifles. Dad was an aspiring hunter, though he was the type to buy things without enjoying the hobby. The act of collecting was the thrill. Now we’re talking 30—06's, .22 calibers, .223 Winchesters, Remington 700s, a ridiculous elephant gun, and one of those rifles you crack the double-barrels, I can’t remember the style. Going through the guns, Angel and I just start blasting everything to shit in the house. While we were doing this, Angel shoots through walls and enters rooms through these holes instead of using the actual doors. “This table’s broken,” she said one time with that evil smile of hers and shot the table's legs off. She’d send the refrigerator off the ground with one blast with the double-barreled shotgun. Angel would say, “Welp, the fridge is on the fritz again.” When she shot the front off a running dish water, it was a water works show.