How the Hula Girl Sings

by Joe Meno

  “No, no, this bird is sick. Can’t even fly. Wouldn’t last a night in the outside world. And it’s got the smell of human on it.”

  “Smell of human?” I asked.

  “Sure, sure, if the other birds smell it, they’ll peck it right to ribbons. It ain’t fair this thing got its wing broken. No, I think I’ll make a splint for it and keep it in my room till it looks a little better.”

  “If that’s what you think.” I smiled.

  “We better get up moving for work.”

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Five-thirty.”

  “Christ.” I laid back down in the bed, then sat up again. Junior got up off the wood floor and opened my door and stepped out into the hall.

  “Whatcha got there, slim?” a cold voice whispered. It was L.B. from across the hall. Another con. He had served five years for robbing a truck-stop diner and an eighteen wheeler. When L.B. was finally apprehended, the owner of the tractor trailer visited him in court and knocked out seven of his teeth with the end of his boot before three or four bailiffs could keep the truck driver at bay. “Is that a wee little bird?”

  “Found it beside my head,” Junior mumbled, staring into its tiny black eyes.

  “Looks like a wee little songbird. Is that what it is?”

  I stepped out into the hall and looked this other con over. He was short but thick, like a wrestler. His skin was pink and his hair was blond but shaved off. He had big nostrils that flared hard as he breathed. He had a pack of smokes rolled up in his left sleeve and the shiniest, whitest teeth I had ever seen.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked me.

  “Luce Lemay,” I grunted.

  “You the one that ran down that baby, I heard.”

  I nodded just once, then looked down at my feet.

  “I did five in the pen for unarmed robbery myself. Nearly got away but I forgot to take off the goddamn air brakes.”

  “Huh.”

  “I heard you was from town.”

  “Not exactly. Grew up out on a hog farm.”

  “Hayseed, huh?” L.B. snorted. He kept giggling like he was having the goddamn time of his life.

  “So whatcha plan on doing with that bird there, Junior?” he asked.

  “Make a splint for it.”

  “A splint? What the hell good’s that gonna do? You already got your goddamn hands all over it, slim. No other birds are gonna wanna go near that thing. That one’s good as dead. Bird with a broken wing oughta be killed.”

  Junior shook his head and unlocked his room. He stepped inside quickly and slammed the door closed.

  “Big dumb fool,” L.B. sniveled. He unrolled his package of smokes from his sleeve, then fingered one on out. “Care for a smoke?”

  “Not at all.”

  He ran his tongue over his smooth white teeth. The two front ones popped right out onto his tongue. They glimmered and shone smooth and hard.

  “Goddamn.” He frowned, digging his fingers inside his mouth. “These buggers keep falling out.”

  “You get them made for you in the pen?” In the pen nearly everyone had bad teeth. Teeth that were as forlorn as their owners’ lives. It was an easy sign to see who was a lifer or repeat offender by looking at their teeth. If you were pretty young, pretty new, that is, your teeth would be in a sad state of dental hygiene. If you stayed in prison long enough, you might be lucky enough to receive a whole row of shiny new teeth. It appeared to me this L.B. must have spent some considerable time behind bars to have such a perfect smile like that. “So they give ’em to you in the pen?” I asked again.

  “Hell no. Grinded ’em down myself.” L.B. grinned.

  “Yourself?”

  “They ain’t nothing but driveway gravel. I used a file to shave ’em into shape.” He held one of the teeth between his thumb and forefinger. It was smooth and shiny like a work of art.

  “How do they keep from falling out?” I asked.

  “Little bit of spit and denture grip does the trick.” He plugged the two gravel teeth back into place and spat a silver droplet of drool on the floor. “How’s all your teeth?” he asked me, moving his face closer to my mouth.

  “They’re all fine. Thanks for looking anyways.”

  I stepped back inside my room and closed the door tight. The Virgin Mary breathed a soft red breath to herself as I got dressed for my first day of work. A dirty white T-shirt and a pair of blue pants.

  I met Junior outside the hotel. I sat on the front stairs and smoked a good-morning cigarette until he came out. Boy, he was all decked out in dark blue slacks and a dark blue shirt that had his name embroidered in nice white letters. He was all cleaned up and looked straight and good.

  “That bird’ll be OK all alone by itself, don’t you think?”

  “Think it’ll be just fine,” I said.

  “I left my door open and told L.B. to check on it sometime today.”

  “You trust that feller going in your room?”

  “There ain’t nothing in there to steal. Besides, I’m just looking for any reason I can to bust out his awful teeth.”

  I laughed and lit up another cigarette and watched Junior comb his hair up into a greasy pompadour that he checked in a car’s side mirror.

  We walked the half-mile to the Gas-N-Go and stepped inside, with Junior mumbling about the bird.

  “Maybe I’ll get that thing a nice cage.”

  The Gas-N-Go filling station was a gray-white building that rose like a short little chapel, coming to an arch with its thin black roof. There was a time when I was a kid and loved the strong-sweet smell of gasoline so much that I’d gotten myself into trouble starting small backyard fires, mostly lighting up dead birds and soda pop cans. That’s the first thing that hit me about the place. That sweet-strong smell of old summer days lighting fires in the dirt.

  “This here second chance is only worth a damn if you take to using it right.”

  Clutch Everest was the owner of the Gas-N-Go and the nicest goddamn man I had ever met. Both his arms were covered in faded black jailhouse tattoos; a skull, a swallow, a grass-skirted hula girl. He was an old black-haired con who had served time for lighting his ex-wife’s house on fire in the middle of the night, burning her and her new husband up pretty bad. He said he had no remorse about the whole thing. The pen had made him a man and had introduced him to Jesus Christ and the fundamental nature of the second chance.

  “At first, when I burned down Delilah’s house, I used to think of myself as dead. When they pulled that girl and her new beau out all burned up red and black, well, I thought I was dead right there. Left my goddamn soul buried under that heap of ash. I began living my life without direction or hope. Then, after a few months in the pen, I properly met Jesus Christ and straightened out my life good.”

  “Huh.” I nodded. Junior Breen, Clutch, and me all stood behind the white counter, facing the double doors. The windows of the service station shone with the glimmer of the rising sun, moving over all our faces. I looked around a little as Clutch spoke. There were three short rows of a variety of sundries and snacks, bags of chips and cookies, soda crackers and motor oil and the like. The last aisle faced a length of glass-door coolers that chilled some soda and juice and beer. There was an old microwave near the counter in front and a rusty coffee machine beside it, dripping the morning’s first brew. The sun had just begun to peek through the top of the glass, shining right into my eyes. It felt good moving over my face, all that warmth and sun made me feel good to be out of the pen and still alive.

  “The Scriptures told me all about different kinds of saints that had taken to ill-begotten ways and led various lives of sin, but then they called on the Lord Jesus’ name and found themselves clean and saved. I figured if it worked for Saint Paul or Saint Teresa, all those words might have some meaning for me.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Hell, son, I can tell I’m boring you, but this is all for your own good. You’re out of the pen now and have a fr
ee life and it’s easy for a man of your own special kind of moral quality to fall back into his old ways. Your father was a good ol’ pal of mine. I guess, for his sake, I just don’t want to see you heading back up to Pontiac for another sentence anytime soon.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Means a lot.”

  “It oughta. I’m trusting you and Junior to be honest and hardworking, and if even for a minute I have a sneaking suspicion you’re ripping me off or slacking or ain’t flying straight, I’ll fire you so fast your blessed young head’ll spin like a top.”

  “I understand.”

  He offered me a hand to shake. “Good. Let’s get to working then.”

  That day Clutch showed me the ropes. He walked me through ringing someone up on the register, how to turn the pumps on and off, what shut-off switch to throw in case of some emergency, what kind of thieving to watch out for, who should and shouldn’t get the bathroom key, and which nudie magazines he favored to read. Junior watched and nodded and smiled and winked at me, patting me on the back after I rang up my first customer all right.

  “This boy is smarter than a whip,” Junior smiled. “You’ll have no problems from him, Clutch.”

  “I hope not. I’m trusting you two can be responsible enough to take care of this place in a few weeks all by yourselves.” Toward the end of the day, right around about six o’clock, while Junior was out front sweeping around the pumps and ol’ Clutch was in back going over the previous day’s receipts, a little towheaded boy came in.

  “May I have the bathroom key?” the boy asked. He had short blond hair cut into an uneven buzz, and some dirty blue jeans on with muddied knees. His sneakers were untied and caked in mud. There was a nice red scab just beginning to peel along his chin, the fault of those untied shoelaces, no doubt.

  “Sure you can have the key. Keep it clean.”

  “Sure will.” The boy smiled up at me, then disappeared right behind the last aisle. When he came out of the latrine, he fidgeted with something in his hands, then stopped and moved whatever it was around inside his pocket again, then dropped the silver bathroom key on the counter and started on out. The boy’s little round face had been bright and red and covered in sweat. He had nearly run right out the front doors, nervous and suspicious, holding in his breath.

  “Hold it right there,” I said. “Whatcha just stuck in your pocket back there?”

  There was a small but ominous bulge in the pocket of his blue jeans. Just the right size for some candy or cookie.

  “Empty out that pocket, son.”

  “No, sir,” the boy snarled. His greasy little blue eyes were determined and round.

  “What’s your name, boy?” I asked.

  “Monte Slates,” he muttered, digging his hands into his pockets tight.

  “Well, listen, Monte Slates, unless you want me to call your parents and the police on down here for lifting candy bars or cookies or whatever it is, I recommend you empty out your pockets and show me what you’re hiding in your hand.”

  The boy’s face was red.

  “I’d really rather not, sir,” Monte whispered, scared as hell. He stood before the counter, completely still, holding his hand inside the back pocket tight as he could.

  “Well, I’d really rather you did.”

  “Do I got any other choice in this matter myself?” he asked.

  “None that I can see. Unless you turn over whatever it is you got hidden away, I’m gonna have to go in the back there and tell my boss I caught a shoplifter. And believe me, my boss is meaner than hell when it comes to someone stealing.”

  “Christ,” this kid, Monte, frowned, “I don’t wanna go through that.”

  “No, I guess you don’t.”

  Monte shrugged his shoulders and pulled his fist out of his pocket, then opened up his hand. There was a silver foil-packaged condom smuggled tight in his palm.

  “How old are you, boy?” I asked.

  “Eight,” he mumbled. “And nearly a half.”

  “Nearly a half, huh? What’s a boy your age need a thing like that for, son?”

  “Make the best water balloons.” Monte frowned. “Throw ’em off the top of the underpass down at the cars.”

  “Huh. I see. I guess I did a bit of that recklessness myself when I was about your age,” I whispered to myself. “You get this out of the machine back there?”

  “Yes, sir. For two quarters.”

  “Well, why don’t you just go on and buy a bag of balloons for a dollar somewhere instead of wasting your money on those?”

  “The lady at the dime store knows me and won’t sell balloons to me anymore ’cause she caught me throwing water bombs at her car.”

  “That wasn’t too lucky, was it?” I grinned a little, then handed the kid back his prize. “Make sure you don’t hit any squad cars. I hear the sheriff doesn’t have much of a sense of humor here.”

  He took the condom and put it in his back pocket and shot out the door. Junior came in and looked back over his shoulder as the boy ran off and disappeared around the front of the pumps. Junior walked up to the counter with a smile and a confused look.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “I just had a conversation with myself from twenty years ago.”

  Junior just blinked and turned the Marlboro sign on the door over to “Closed.” Clutch appeared from the back room and wiped his eyes. He looked all worn out.

  “You boys did good work today. Go ahead and take yourselves a six-pack home.”

  “Thanks, Clutch.” Junior winked at me and pulled a silver six-pack from the cooler. We each had two before we even made it back to the street that led to the St. Francis Hotel. Just as we turned the corner to our block, a squad car came up and pulled beside us along the curb.

  “Good evening, fellas,” Sheriff Dwight Fontane said with a smile. I froze. Junior just shrugged his shoulders and took a swig of his beer. Sheriff Fontane slipped the car into park and hopped on out, tugging his gun belt around his waist. His face was sharp and square and came to a flat edge with his cinder-block chin. He was a little overweight, with bright eyes and a happy smile.

  “Whatcha boys got there?” the sheriff asked. “My, I’d love one of those about now.”

  Junior smiled, taking another swig. “Care for some?”

  The sheriff twitched his black mustache once, then shook his head. “I better not. It’s an election year.”

  Junior relaxed, patting me on the back.

  The sheriff stepped up to Junior, sticking his hand out to shake. “Dwight Fontane, good to know you.”

  “Likewise,” Junior said.

  “You boys just been released?” the sheriff asked. “You’re working already?”

  “At the Gas-N-Go, down the road.”

  He smiled. “That’s good to hear. Already back on the straight and narrow.” He looked me in the face, then frowned sadly. “You’re Luce Lemay?” he asked. “It’s been three years already?”

  I shook my head. “I’m out on parole.”

  “Parole, huh? Well, glad to see you’re back among your own people.”

  I stared down at my feet. “Yes, sir, we aim to make the best of our situation,” I said, not too convincingly.

  “Who’s your parole officer?”

  “Man named Blakes over in Colterville.”

  “Talked to him yet?” the sheriff asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s nice enough. Kind of busy all the time, I guess. Not like me,” he said with a grin. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time. Just stopped you to say, well, I guess my wife was the one who suggested I let you know we’re praying for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, still staring at my feet.

  “Guess I should be working,” he said, climbing back into his squad car. He gave the car a start, grinding the engine hard. “Shoot, already started.” He smiled to himself, then pulled away, and we watched as he disappeared from view, both of us surprised by the welcoming.

  We ma
rched on up to the third floor and Junior stopped suddenly outside his door.

  “Christ. I forgot all about that poor bird.” His face looked serious and grave. He slid his key into the lock and gave it a turn. He pushed the door open, holding his breath in tight, listening for that baby bird’s little chirp. There was no sound. No sound at all. He stepped inside his room slowly, then became perfectly still.

  “No,” he kind of whimpered. “He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  I looked around Junior’s big square shoulder and shook my head. There, lying on the floor, with a long dark nail pounded through its throat, was that little baby bird.

  “He wouldn’t,” Junior snarled. “He just wouldn’t.”

  That baby bird just laid there completely still, held in place by the black nail which had been driven through its little neck. The evening light broke right through the window, casting the bird’s black shadow along the floor.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumbled.

  “That ain’t right,” Junior whispered. “That just isn’t right at all.”

  He turned around, walking past me, and strode across the hall. He laid his big fist against L.B.’s door in a heavy, thunderous knock. L.B. opened his door quick, grinning with the most wicked smile I’d ever seen.

  “Got you some kind of problem there, Junior?” L.B. chortled. “Looks like you got something on your mind.”

  “Nothing at all,” Junior smiled. Then he sucked in a breath and curled up his fingers into a big fist and slammed that bastard L.B. hard across his grinning mouth. Crack. Junior swung again, this time smacking that bastard’s short, protruding nose. A thick line of blood dribbled around L.B.’s mouth. Junior grabbed the smaller man around the neck and began slamming his fist into the side of L.B.’s head.

  “All right, Junior, all right,” I said. But he didn’t hear a word. He grabbed L.B. around the collar of his shirt and flung him hard against the wall, sending him straight into a hanging mirror that shattered all across the back of L.B.’s head. L.B. sunk to the floor, covering his face, swearing and cussing and kicking at the air around him. There were little shards of mirror that twinkled all along his pink skin, shining bright over the tiny scratches and his swollen, bleeding nose.