Her mouth is straight – a wise-ass.
She takes the DVD to the counter,
pays,
leaves
and stomps through the gas station parking lot,
along the sidewalk
to an empty bench.
I drop down next to her.
‘So DVDs. Bruce Willis. What else?’
She considers this.
‘I just think old stuff is underrated.
Like Cyndi Lauper.
She’s awesome.
Why the hell isn’t she on the radio all the time?’
‘Cyndi Lauper?’ I snicker.
‘Yeah, Cyndi Lauper.
And Dusty Springfield.
Do you even know Dusty Springfield?’
‘Oh, sure, Dusty and I go way back.’
I wink at her but her expression is unreadable.
I struggle to find something else to say.
‘You wanna grab some pizza?’ I ask.
She waves the DVD case in my face.
‘I’ve a date with Bruce.’
I’m not sure I like her,
but after the day I’ve had, I don’t wanna be alone,
not for a third consecutive evening
with a bag of chips, my phone and the internet;
that sort of night can only go one way.
‘Hang with me for an hour,’ I beg.
‘You might be a murderer,’ she says.
‘Do murderers take their victims for pizza?’
‘You’d know.’
I swallow hard. Maybe I do know.
Maybe murderers look like the rest of us.
Maybe one looks a lot like me.
‘You know, when I said let’s go for pizza,
I meant would you buy me pizza cos I’m broke.’
‘You must be if you can’t afford gum,’ she says.
So she noticed.
I wink at her again, hoping she’ll find me
cute, not criminal.
She doesn’t give anything away,
puts her hand into the pocket of her denim shorts,
pulls out some crumpled dollar bills.
‘Don’t go spending that on liquor and loose women.’
I push her hand away.
Yes, I’m starving,
but for conversation.
I want to talk to her,
forget why I’m in Wakeling,
be seventeen instead of a grown-up –
serious and sensible.
And hell, if I make her laugh
maybe she’ll let me kiss her,
help me forget everything
for a while.
Her phone beeps.
‘I have to go.’
Across the street, a truck mounts the kerb.
‘Enjoy the pizza.’
She throws the cash on to the bench.
‘And wear something revealing next time.’
I laugh. And it’s real.
‘I’ll dig out my purple hot pants,’ I say.
She smirks. ‘I’m Nell, by the way.’
‘What sort of stalker would I be
if I didn’t already know that?’
She nods, smiles and
rushes off to meet the waiting truck.
SCRATCH CARD
I should put the pity-cash Nell gave me
into Ed’s account
so he can get a snack.
I don’t.
I return to the gas station,
buy a scratch card,
take it back to the apartment and
scrape away silver foil
with the edge of a dime.
I think about Nell in her shorts and baggy T-shirt,
not Ed in his jumpsuit.
I try really hard not to think about Ed.
And I don’t beat the odds:
no matching numbers
beneath the panel of clover.
I think of Nell.
I think of her
and I scratch.
UNLUCKY FOR SOME
Ed was convicted of shooting a cop,
a pretty ugly thing to do.
But you don’t see every killer getting the gurney.
Some guys get fifteen years,
others get life.
So death for Ed
but not for everyone.
Cos it all depends on
who you kill
and
where you kill them
too.
Like,
don’t shoot a white cop in Walker County, Texas.
If that’s your plan, do it in Arlington, New York –
no needles or electric chairs there.
Just doesn’t seem fair to me.
Just seems a bit fucking random.
GOLD
Reed sends me a photo of the glossy gold medal
he’s won for the steeple chase.
He gets a medal every year
even though hundreds of city kids do the
programme,
but he rarely comes first –
that’s my job:
gold for the five thousand metres.
Just not this year.
Congrats, man!!!!!
I reply.
But I’m not noble enough
to be genuinely pleased.
A DIFFERENCE
Ed waves widely – Ronald McDonald style.
‘Did Al call you today?’
He’s almost bouncing in his chair.
I shake my head
but my body
lightens,
untightens.
Did the judge have a
change of heart?
‘So the biggest thing happened.
The cop that died and got me locked up,
Frank Pheelan,
his wife told the judge she didn’t wanna see me die.
She asked him to change the sentence.
Al’s gonna make it part of the appeal
in Houston next week. What d’ya think?’
I think about how much
I need water.
I didn’t drink enough today
while I worked on the car,
and the minestrone soup Sue made for lunch
was too salty.
‘Does this stuff make a difference?’ I ask.
And can Al even mention Pheelan’s wife
at a state level appeal?
When Al explained the process he didn’t tell me,
but I’m sure
Angela told me a long time ago
that they have rules about what can be raised
at each stage.
Ed’s expression stiffens.
I’ve said something wrong.
‘Sorry, I don’t get the system. I don’t …’ I tail off,
cos what I’m thinking is,
I don’t know what to say to you, Ed,
or how to say it.
I shout at Angela
cos I’ve known her my whole life.
But I don’t know what makes you tick
or what would even happen if I shouted.
Ed sniffs.
‘I think it’s gotta make a difference.
No way they can kill a man
when the victim’s family says stop.
You know?’
I nod, eagerly this time.
‘I see what you mean.’
Ed sits back in his chair. Sighs.
‘Look, I know it’s a long shot,
but Al says it can’t hurt.’
He grins like a kid who’s been
promised a chocolate dessert,
and it dawns on me that Ed
doesn’t believe he’s going to die;
he thinks Al will convince the judges
he never deserved any of this.
Water gurgles through a pipe on the wall.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
clear my throat.
It’s hotter in here than out in the s
un,
and that’s saying something.
‘You OK?’ Ed asks.
‘I’m thirsty is all,’ I tell him.
He laughs. ‘Oh, get used to that feeling, man.
You know they got air con in the main prison?
Air con and strawberry soap.
But you know what I’d love?
A Coke.’
I lower my gaze.
‘I forgot to put money into your account,’ I lie.
‘Nah, that isn’t what I meant.
Just gets to be a furnace in this place
and they don’t go giving extras cos it’s summer.
But I could destroy a cold Coke.
When it gets over a hundred,
I spend whole afternoons salivating
over soda cans and vending machines.
Like, you put your coins in,
the machine gobbles them – clunk, clunk –
and then – bang –
the can drops to the bottom
all cold and sweaty.
Wet.
Thinking about that’s like porn to me, man.’
He licks the air with his tongue.
I laugh loudly.
He laughs too,
and after a couple minutes we can’t stop,
tears on our faces.
When the hour is up,
I feel a whole lot better.
Ed’s happy.
The cop’s wife
could make a difference.
So maybe things will turn around.
I mean they could.
It’s not impossible.
Not totally.
PHILIP MILLER
A fat guy in a tight shirt
smiles from behind an office window.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask
as the guard retrieves my belongings from the locker.
She glances over her shoulder.
‘That’s Philip Miller, the warden.’
Mr Philip Miller,
father to a whole farm of lowlifes,
responsible for keeping them
chained down,
locked up,
sealed in,
so the rest of the state can sleep easy.
And he stands there
grinning.
The jackass.
THAT’S WHO
My face is in my phone,
distracting myself with Mets news,
their win against Toronto.
But Ed is always there,
in the corner of my mind,
fidgeting.
What does he do to pass the time?
How can he stand it?
If that were me on the row,
I’d lie awake listening to killers snore,
imagining my walk to the death chamber,
the length of the gurney,
the smell and feel of the leather straps,
the last faces I’d see –
the team doing the dirty work
and the guests in the gallery.
What sort of asshole buys scratch cards
instead of a soda for his dying brother?
Me,
that’s who.
NIGHT RUN
I pull on my shorts and sprint full pelt
out of the building and
along Main Street,
past the gas station, motels,
pizza and fried chicken places,
until I reach the diner.
I couldn’t run five thousand metres at this speed
but I’m not training.
I’m not running to strengthen my performance.
I even forgot to wear my watch.
I slow and peek through a side window to
see if Nell’s at work.
She’s not.
She’s probably at home
watching TV or
eating ice cream.
Something normal,
I guess.
Which is how I’d like my life to turn out.
Eventually.
TAILGATING
I slow my pace on my run home
when I come across a huddle of cars
belting out music in the high school parking lot.
Kids, kegs, buckets of chips.
I walk and watch.
A guy in a Houston Texans jersey
guzzles a bottle of beer
then raises his head and roars at the sky
as though downing booze is a superpower.
He stumbles, trips,
totally wasted.
I pass through the gates
and drift around until I spot two girls
by the trunk of a car
pouring vodka into a bowl.
‘Hey,’ I say.
The redhead looks up, eyes bloodshot.
‘Hey,’ she replies.
Her friend, a curly blonde,
whoops and wraps her arms around my neck.
She smells of aniseed.
‘You came!’ the blonde shouts, as though
expecting me.
‘You’re Lucy’s cousin, right?
From Jacksonville?’
She dips a red cup into the bowl
and offers it to me.
It’s sweet and toxic.
‘I’m Peter,’ I say,
so I don’t have to answer her question.
They both do some sort of wormy dance,
hands twirling,
asses wriggling.
Behind them in the trunk is a phone,
a wallet.
‘Lucy told us you were cool,’ the redhead says.
‘Where is Lucy anyway?’
She stands on tiptoe.
I take her hand,
twist her around so I’ve my back to the trunk
and she’s looking at me, not for Lucy.
The blonde pours more sauce into my cup.
I knock it back in two seconds flat.
‘Oh, you’re a bad boy,’ she whispers,
lips brushing my ears.
But I’m not interested in being
a bad-boy-bit-of-rough,
a new guy who’s
prime for picking
cos she thinks sex
is the most terrible thing she could ever do to her
lousy parents.
I wrap an arm around her waist,
put my other hand behind me,
find the wallet and
slip it into the band of my shorts.
I thought it would be easy,
but I didn’t think it would be this easy.
I’m about to give the girls some story about
locating Lucy
when someone taps my shoulder.
I turn.
It’s Nell.
‘Wanna take off?’ she asks.
‘Yes, please,’ I say,
and follow her out of the parking lot
along the dusty, dark road
like a lost dog.
JUST NO
Nell leads me along the side entrance
to her yard.
She drops down into the deep end
of a dry-bottomed
swimming pool
and waves for me to follow.
‘This is my dad’s place.
Mom lives in Dover, next town over.’
She pulls a crushed joint from her pocket,
lights one end,
inhales like her life depends on it.
Night insects whinny to one another.
A car revs its engine, sounds its horn.
A dog is barking in the neighbour’s yard.
‘So, your thing is stealing stuff then?’ she asks,
unimpressed.
I yank the wallet out of my shorts.
‘I’ll give the stuff back,’ I say.
‘I was looking for cash.’
Apart from some store loyalty cards
and a couple of photographs,
there’s only ten bucks in it.
/> ‘I should have stolen her iPhone,’ I say.
Nell snorts. ‘In Wakeling?
You’d never sell it.
You’d get as far as talking about a stolen phone
and be down at the station.’
She grabs the wallet.
‘I’ll post it through Tanya’s mailbox tomorrow.
Say I found it.’
‘So you approve of theft?’
‘I don’t care what you do, Joe.’
‘Are those girls your friends?’
‘Friends? No. They’ll be driving
rug rats around in minivans
before they’re twenty years old.’
‘You don’t like minivans?’
She passes me the joint.
I inhale, hold it in my lungs,
let it run through my blood
until the tiles of the swimming pool
soften against my back.
‘No to minivans, little league and baking.
No to all that shit.
I’m not going to be a statistic.
I’m getting out of this hellhole alive
and I’ll fight anyone who tries to stop me.
I want more.
But you can’t say that too loudly round here
cos who the hell do you think you are, right?’
I exhale. ‘I understand.’
She climbs the metal ladder
at the side of the swimming pool,
stands above me,
a silhouette.
Moonrise Page 6
