South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  You go ahead, Tara says.

  Go ahead? We’re celebrating you.

  Tara pulls her gloves on. I’m staying here to help Carlos, she says. Then she turns away from Paul and struggles to lift her tack box. I step over and take the heavy box from Tara. I say,

  I don’t mind staying to help.

  Paul glares at Tara. He says,

  I brought the bus so we could celebrate tonight.

  I said you go on ahead, Paul.

  Fine, he says. Come with me, Trevor.

  Paul marches to the bus. Tara turns to me. She says,

  You’re welcome to stay here with me, Trevor.

  Then she smiles at me, waiting to see what I’ll do. The rope handles of the tack box cut into my hands. Paul yells from the door of the bus. He says,

  Trevor, get your ass on the bus!

  I hold the box out for Tara but she keeps her gloved hands at her sides. When Paul calls me again, I set the tack box on the ground at her feet and walk backward to the bus, my eyes locked with Tara’s eyes. She watches me board.

  Then Paul slams the door closed.

  30 Intervention Tour

  Paul’s driver tells me his name is Tony. Tony looks like a Brooklyn bus driver. He’s wearing an old-school duckbill cap and he’s sitting in the pilot chair with the big steering wheel rubbing against his fat waist. Paul went back into a private room without a word and I’ve been sitting up here with Tony watching the big bus eat up the road.

  Every soft surface inside the bus is a shade of tan. The latte-colored carpet is so thick it makes me want to strip off Paul’s boots that mangled my feet raw. A cream-colored couch faces a matching leather recliner. Thick, beige fabric upholsters the walls. The hard surfaces are earth tones too. The wet bar is polished amber with bronze accents. A strip of rust-colored lights runs down the floor like an airplane aisle.

  Just off the passenger side of the aisle, about 10 feet into the cavernous bus cabin, a gold-plated Keiser stationary spin cycle stands upright bolted to the floor. A stationary bike is a strange thing to see on a bus, but this bike would be a strange thing to see anywhere. Its shiny rear disc gleams like a golden deli-slicer blade. Its handlebar grips are curved Sable Antelope horns pointing off the bike front.

  After several silent miles, Paul emerges from the back room wearing shorts and a black T-shirt. He grabs two Heinekens from the wet-bar refrigerator and tosses one to me. He says,

  Good news, killer, we did it!

  Did what?

  I just hung up the phone with Benny.

  We got CalTEARS?

  We’re all meeting tomorrow in my office at one.

  Who’s all meeting?

  You, me, Benny, and their Chief Investment Officer.

  He’s bringing his CIO?

  Paul grabs my shoulder. It’s just a little formality, kid, he says. We got it!

  Congratulations, Paul.

  You did it, killer. You put the biggest ship in the bottle yet.

  I really didn’t do anything, I say.

  Paul puts his hand on my head and musses my hair. He says,

  Sure ya did, kid. If you hadn’t made your photo delivery and persuaded Benny, we’d never have closed him. Now that we have, I’m gonna make you rich. How about a million dollars for your first commission? Not a bad way to pop your cherry.

  One million dollars?

  Not enough? he says.

  No—I mean, yes. It’s enough.

  Paul drains his beer. He climbs onto the golden stationary bike and pedals. You like my shirt, stud? he says

  Paul leans back, pulls his T-shirt straight. I read the tall yellow bloodshot letters screenprinted across his chest—MONKEY BRIDGE: SEE YOU AT MY INTERVENTION TOUR.

  Isn’t Monkey Bridge a hardcore rock band? I say.

  Yep, he says, this is their tour bus. Found the shirt in the back—I kinda like it.

  Tour bus?

  Came with a record label I bought.

  Didn’t their drummer just overdose and die? It was in the news.

  Paul grins. He says,

  That’s why I like the shirt so much.

  I sip my beer. Paul said a million dollars for my commission. What would I do with a million dollars? Buy a new house, a house with a pool. I look at Paul peddling on the bike.

  How much money is CalTEARS moving over? I say.

  Tomorrow I tell them the minimum we’ll take is one billion!

  One billion?

  One billion. And that’s just a taste, he says. We’ll slurp up the entire pension fund by the time we’re done.

  Paul stands up on the pedals and with a shit-eating grin, he bursts into a sprint that shakes the stationary bike straining the bolts where they sink through the carpet into the floor. Sweat beads that had been forming at his hairline drip down his brow and drop to the floor dappling the latte carpet a darker shade of brown. Paul says,

  A billion’s the new million! Thing about greed, kiddo—it’s a disease. And the board’s got it good. Greed doesn’t leave any room for prudence. Greed’s all-consuming. If you want people to believe you—tell them something unbelievable.

  Paul sits down on the bike seat and pedals slower. He says,

  Hand me another Heineken.

  I open the fridge, grab a Heineken, crack the cap and hand him the bottle. Paul guzzles half the beer down. Then he shakes his head showering me with sweat. He runs his fingers through his sweat-dripping hair. He says,

  You think I’m losing my hair, sport? Did you know there are 40 million bald dicks in the United States alone and the sorry fuckers spend a billion dollars a year on hair-growth treatments? Now you, you won’t have to worry. You got a good head of hair, sport. But tell me the truth. Do you think I’m losing mine?

  Before I can answer Paul’s question, which I don’t want to answer, Tony calls back from the front seat and asks if he’s dropping both of us at the house. Paul tells Tony we’re not going to Napa, he tells him to keep driving to San Francisco, and he tells him we’re celebrating tonight. Tony shakes his head. He says,

  I can’t, sir. I got my kid’s play tonight.

  Paul looks at me confused. Then he looks back to Tony. Fuck the play, he says.

  I already mentioned it this morning, sir.

  Too bad, Tony. We’re going into the city.

  I promised my wife I’d make the play, sir.

  Paul gets pissed, raises his voice. He says,

  A man shouldn’t let his wife carry his balls around in her clutch! Now drive this bus into the city or you’ll regret it.

  Paul sets his Heineken bottle in a cup holder, grips the black sable horns, and pedals the bike fast and furious humping up and down as he pumps the pedals going nowhere. The golden disc-blade spins like a tree saw ready to split the bus down its middle. Tony sulks and drives in silence with his lips pinched together as the bus cruises slow and steady down the dark road.

  Thinking about the meeting with Benny Wilson tomorrow makes me nervous. Blackmailing Benny is illegal and I took a risk when I opened my briefcase and walked back into his office with those photos. But we’re just forcing him to do what his board wants him to do anyway. Somebody gets to manage their money for a fee, why not us? And Paul said I get a million dollars.

  I’m still coming off the drugs from last night. Everything hurts. I think that yellow pill Paul gave me in the limo was a mother’s little helper, and barbiturates mixed with cocaine mixed with Viagra mixed with blue Curaçao fly a guy pretty high and now I’m making reentry.

  What a wild night that was. I’ve heard of swingers clubs or sex clubs but never anything like last night. It’s all a jigsaw puzzle of images and it makes my stomach sick to try to piece them together. The Heineken is softening the landing a little, so I grab another one from the fridge.

  I can see that Tony is growing agitated. He keeps mumbling to himself and shaking his huge head. As we approach the Napa exit, he takes a deep breath, sits up straight, puffs out his chest and says,

&nbs
p; I’m getting off here in Napa, sir.

  Paul’s head snaps up, his eyes drilling the back of Tony’s head. Are you fucking senile or just stupid? he says. I told you three times already—we’re going into the city.

  I told you about my kid’s play this morning, sir. I won’t miss it. I’m pulling off in Napa and taking you home.

  Mounted above the windshield is a wide-angle cabin mirror and I watch as Tony furrows his brow and looks at the upcoming NAPA exit sign. He pushes the turn signal on. There’s a long silence filled with the clicking tickta, tickta, tickta of the blinker switch.

  Paul picks his Heineken bottle up by its neck and raises it in the air like a bid paddle at an auction. The bottle magnifies the ceiling light and casts a green-glowing circle on the carpet at my feet. I watch an amber droplet of beer gather at the upturned bottle lip and fall to the floor where it joins the wet stain of Paul’s sweat.

  Then in a flash, before I can ask what he’s doing, Paul rears up on the bike and tomahawks the bottle at the back of Tony’s head. The bottle hits its mark with the hard, hollow crack of a boulder thrown onto a frozen pond.

  Tony lurches forward clutching at his head.

  The bus swerves on two wheels.

  Crosses into the other lane.

  Headlights, honking.

  I rush to the front.

  Leap for the wheel.

  Grab it just in time.

  Turn us back into our lane.

  Tony comes to. He grabs the wheel from me, pulls the bus to the side of the highway and slams the shifter into park. He scoops up the Heineken bottle and winds up to throw it at Paul. I snatch the bottle from Tony’s hand. Paul just smiles from the golden seat of his Keiser stationary bike. Tony stares at me with bulging eyes and for a second I’m sure he’ll hit me. Then he snatches his hat from the floor and storms off the bus and out into the night. I drop the Heineken bottle and race after him.

  I grab Tony’s arm. He spins around and says,

  That son-of-a . . . he could’ve killed us. He’s crazy!

  Paul leans out the door of the bus with steam rising from his sweaty back. He’s laughing. Come on, Tony, he says. Suck it up, guy. Get your fat ass back here and drive.

  Tony turns and walks away from the bus along the shoulder of the highway. Paul calls after him. Fine, he says, I’ll give you a raise.

  Tony keeps walking. Paul says,

  I’ll give you $20,000 more a year.

  Tony stops, turns to face us. He takes off his duckbill cap and looks at it in his hands. Paul says,

  And a $5,000 bonus.

  Tony looks up. He mumbles something to the stars before tugging his cap on his head and walking back to the bus. As Tony climbs the step past Paul, he says,

  I want holidays off too.

  Paul pats him on the ass and says,

  Don’t push me, big boy. Now take us into the city—we’re celebrating tonight.

  PAUL MAKES TONY drive us to a place called Centerfolds. He sends Tony inside with a thick stack of cash he pulls from the floor safe. We wait on the bus. Paul changes back into his street clothes, but I can still smell the decay of his sweat. He opens a bottle of Patrón. I’m feeling sick so I tell him I don’t like tequila. He pours me a shot anyway. While I nurse it, Paul slugs back two shots.

  Tony knocks on the door. Paul sets his shot glass down and grabs an ice pack from the freezer. He opens the door and ushers a stripper onboard. She has a wall of sprayed hair and she’s huddling beneath a puffy silver jacket. Paul pulls a second stripper onboard. She’s spray-tanned the same shade of orange as the first stripper and they could almost be twins except this one’s puffy jacket is red. Paul tosses Tony the ice pack for his head and tells him to wait outside. Tony begins to complain that it’s cold but Paul slams the door.

  Paul whispers to the strippers. I hear one stripper say,

  That’ll cost more.

  Paul hands her another stack of bills. The strippers split the dough quick with fake-nailed fingers used to counting cash and then they tuck it away in their jackets before stripping them off. The first stripper sizes me up. She says,

  We’d have charged less if you’d have sent this guy in.

  The second stripper pushes past her. It’s too late now, she says. Pour us some shots, handsome.

  As I pour their tequilas, I look them over. They have too many rings on too many fingers. Their low-cut jeans have plastic jewels bedazzled into the pocket fabric. One wears a tight pink tank and the other just a mesh half-shirt showing off her nipples. I can tell they come from poor families because braces are expensive and they both have crooked teeth. Tara has perfect teeth. I wonder what Paul’s doing with these cheap rental chicks when he has Tara waiting for him at home. Most guys would think these strippers are hot but if they didn’t have hair extensions and bellybutton rings, and if they didn’t have fake tits and fake lashes, they’d both be average girls that hate their fathers.

  The tequila I’m pouring misses the shot glass and spills onto the counter as the bus jerks forward. The girls giggle. I look up and see Paul sitting behind the big wheel and driving the bus away. Then I look out the window and see Tony running after us with his hat in his hand. Paul laughs. He says,

  The intervention tour is officially under way!

  THE STRIPPERS GRAB ME from either side. The strength in their hands shocks me and I feel like a felon being hauled to the hoosegow by the heat. They pull me toward the back bedroom. Paul turns around at the wheel. He says,

  No, do it here.

  He points to the couch.

  The strippers look at each other. It’s extra if you wanna watch, one says. Paul throws another banded stack of cash at them. They peel off their shirts and four melon-size, rock-hard saline boobs bounce out. I can see the ridges where the implants stop and the normal tissue begins and when one turns sideways, I see purple stretch marks on the profile of her breast.

  They push me back onto the leather sofa. One wrestles with the buttons on my shirt. She strips it off. The other unzips my pants. She pulls them to my knees. Then she tries to jerk off Paul’s boots but the boots won’t budge. Pants at my knees, I sit there with my legs locked together like a dipshit taking a dump.

  I can’t get hard. Paul watches in the cabin mirror while both strippers work on me for five minutes before he pulls the bus over and offers me a Viagra. I shake my head and pull my pants up. I say,

  I feel sick.

  The strippers reach for their shirts. Paul snatches the shirts away. No, you don’t, he says. I paid you two sluts good money to put out, now fuck each other!

  The strippers sigh. They grab each other and make out. I dive into the bathroom and lock the door. I pretend to puke making sure I’m loud enough that Paul can hear. Then I run the sink to blot out the sound of tongue sucking and fake moans coming from the cabin. I rinse my face with cold water. I look in the mirror. I pass my wet hands through my hair and see a flash of Paul in my reflection.

  I open the mirrored medicine-cabinet door to see if there’s anything inside, anything to blot out the pain. There’s just a bottle of expired antibiotics and a foot-fungus cream. I leave the cabinet door open on its hinges so I won’t have to look at my face again. I had no idea what I was getting into two days ago when I pulled that tuxedo on and climbed into the limousine with Paul. The bus is suffocating me. Paul is suffocating me.

  I turn the water off. I can hear Paul barking at the strippers through the door. He says,

  Get into it you dirty whores! Lick that pussy. And I don’t wanna hear any fake orgasms either. You’re gonna earn your pay. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna drive this bus to the Tired Trucker Tavern and make you two fuck every trucker there!

  One of the strippers snaps back. She says,

  Hey, it’s not our fault your buddy’s not into pussy.

  The other stripper says,

  Yeah, maybe if you suck him off he’ll get hard.

  I fall out of the bathroom looking as p
ale and puked-out as possible. I say,

  Paul, I’m sick. I need to get back. If I don’t get back right now, there’s no way I’ll make the meeting with Benny Wilson tomorrow.

  31 The Virgin Athena!

  As I step off the bus, Paul looks disappointed. He grabs me, holds out a Viagra in the palm of his hand. He says,

  Sure you don’t wanna power through, pal?

  I shake my head. Well, be at the office by one then, he says. And don’t be late. Then Paul pops the Viagra in his mouth and grins. I close the door and watch the bus swerve out of sight. My feet are killing me and I cannot wait to strip off these boots.

  I catch Charlie just as he’s closing up the bar. He hands me a bottle of Jack and says he’ll put it on my tab. He asks if I had a good New Year’s. I say,

  It’s been one hell of a ride.

  He nods as if he knows. Then he hands me a whiskey glass to go with the bottle. He says,

  Only drunks drink from the bottle.

  It’s a clear and quiet night. The stars hang low over the dark and blurry silhouettes of ships and the only sound is from a distant stream of water splashing into the still marina from an automatic bilge pump. It must be low tide because the air smells of salt water.

  My mind races through the events of the last month and the images come at me so fast I can’t focus. They all pile up and smash into my head. As soon as I’m inside the yacht, I strip the boots from my blistered feet and toss them in a corner. I grab the bottle of Jack and the glass and head outside to study the stars and sort through the wreckage of my thoughts.

  I step onto the deck and there, leaning against the railing, is Tara. The water stretches out like a cape behind her and the stars swirl around her head. I try to hide my surprise. I say,

  You make a perfect figurehead for a ship. The Virgin Athena!

  A seductive smile rises on her lips. She says,

  And are you my Perseus then?

  I join Tara at the railing. I open the bottle of Jack and pour three fingers into the glass. I hand it to her. She smiles. I look up at the stars. I say,