by Larry Brown
He come in there where she at finally. He been crying, she tell it by looking at him. He not hurting for himself, he not hurting for his hand. He cut off his hand and throw it away she ask him to. He hurting for her. She know all this, don’t nobody have to tell her. Why it don’t do no good to talk to her. She know it all already.
“Baby,” he say. “I goin to bed. Had a long day today.”
His face look like he about sixty years old. He thirty-one. Weigh one sixty-five and bench press two-ninety. “You comin?” he say.
She want to. Morning be soon enough to drink something else. He be gone to work, Randy be gone to school. House be quiet by seven-thirty. She do what she want to then. Whole day be hers to do what she want to. Things be better tomorrow maybe. She cook them something good for supper, she make them a good old pie and have ice cream. She get better. They know she trying. She just weak, she just need some time. This thing not something you throw off like a cold. This thing deep, this thing beat more good people than her.
Angel say, “Not just yet, baby. I going to sit in here in the livin room a while. I so sorry you cut your hand,” she say.
“You want to move?” he say. “Another state? Another country? You say the word I quit my job tomorrow. Don’t matter. Just a job,” he say.
“Don’t want to move,” she say. She trembling.
“Don’t matter what people thinks,” he say.
She think he gonna come over and get down on the floor and hug her knees and cry, but he don’t. He look like he holding back to keep from doing that. And she glad he don’t. He do that, she make them promises again. She promise anything if he just stop.
“Okay,” he say. “I goin to bed now.” He look beat.
He go. She by herself. It real quiet now. Hear anything. Hear walls pop, hear mice move. They eating something in the cabinet, she need to set some traps.
Time go by so slow. She know he in there listening. He listen for any step she make, which room she move into, which furniture she reach for. She have to wait. It risky now. He think she in here drinking, they gonna have it all over again. One time a night enough. Smart thing is go to bed. Get next to him. That what he want. Ought to be what she want. Use to be she did.
Thirty minutes a long time like this. She holding her breath when she go in there to look at him. He just a lump in the dark. Can’t tell if he sleeping or not. Could be laying there looking at her. Too dark to tell. He probably asleep, though. He tired, he give out. He work so hard for them.
Tomorrow be better. Tomorrow she have to try harder. She know she can do it, she got will power. Just need a little time. They have to be patient with her. Ain’t built Rome in a day. And she gonna be so good in the future, it ain’t gonna hurt nothing to have a few cold beers tonight. Ain’t drinking no whiskey now. Liquor store done closed anyway. Big Star still open. She just run down get some beer and then run right back. Don’t need to drink what she got hid anyway. Probably won’t need none later, she gonna quit anyway, but just in case.
She know where the checkbook laying. She ain’t making no noise. If he awake he ain’t saying nothing. If he awake he’d be done said something. He won’t know she ever been gone. Won’t miss no three dollar check no way. Put it in with groceries sometime.
Side door squeak every time. Don’t never notice it in daytime. Squeak like hell at night. Porch light on. He always leave it on if she going to be out. Ain’t no need to turn it off. She be back in ten minutes. He never know she gone. Car in the driveway. It raining. A little.
Ain’t cold. Don’t need no coat.
She get in, ease the door to. Trying to be quiet. He so tired, he need his rest. She look at the bedroom window when she turn the key. And the light come on in there.
Caught now. Wasn’t even asleep. Trying to just catch her on purpose. Laying in there in the dark just making out like he asleep. Don’t trust her. Won’t never trust her. It like he making her slip around. Damn him anyway.
Ain’t nothing to do but talk to him. He standing on the step in his underwear. She put it in reverse and back on up. She stop beside him and roll down the window. She hate to. Neighbors gonna see him out here in his underwear. What he think he doing anyway, can’t leave her alone. Treat her like some baby he can’t take his eye off of for five minutes.
“I just goin to the store,” she say. “I be right back.”
“Don’t care for you goin to the store,” he say. “Long as you come back. You comin back?”
He got his arms wrapped around him, he shivering in the night air. He look like he been asleep.
“I just goin after some cigarettes,” she say. “I be back in ten minutes. Go on back to bed. I be right back. I promise.”
He step off the porch and come next the car. He hugging himself and shaking, barefooted. Standing in the driveway getting wet.
“I won’t say nothin about you drinkin if you just do it at home,” he say. “Go git you somethin to drink. But come back home,” he say. “Please,” he say.
It hit her now, this enough. This enough to stop anything, anybody, everything. He done give up.
“Baby,” he say, “know you ain’t gone stop. Done said all I can say. Just don’t get out on the road drinkin. Don’t care about the car. Just don’t hurt yourself.”
“I done told you I be back in ten minutes,” she say. “I be back in ten minutes.”
Something cross his face. Can’t tell rain from tears in this. But what he shivering from she don’t think is cold.
“Okay, baby,” he say, “okay,” and he turn away. She relieved. Now maybe won’t be no argument. Now maybe won’t be no dread. She telling the truth anyway. Ain’t going nowhere but Big Star. Be back in ten minutes. All this fussing for nothing. Neighbors probably looking out the windows.
He go up on the porch and put his hand on the door. He watching her back out the driveway, she watching him standing there half naked. All this foolishness over a little trip to Big Star. She shake her head while she backing out the driveway. It almost like he ain’t even expecting her to come back. She almost laugh at this. Ain’t nothing even open this late but bars, and she ain’t going to none of them, no ma’am. She see him watch her again, and then she see him step inside. What he need to do. Go on back to bed, get him some rest. He got to go to work in the morning. All she got to do is sleep.
She turn the wipers on to see better. The porch light shining out there, yellow light showing rain, it slanting down hard. It shine on the driveway and on Randy’s bicycle and on they barbecue grill setting there getting wet. It make her feel good to know this all hers, that she always got this to come back to. This light show her home, this warm place she own that mean everything to her. This light, it always on for her. That what she thinking when it go out.
THE RICH
Mr. Pellisher works at the travel agency, and he associates with the rich. Sometimes the rich stop by in the afternoon hours when the working citizens have fled the streets to punch their clocks. The rich are strangers to TUE IN 6:57 OUT 12:01 IN 12:29 OUT 3:30. Mr. Pellisher keeps his punch clock carefully hidden behind stacks of travel folders, as if he’s on straight salary. As if he’s like the rich, free of the earthly shackles of timekeepers. He keeps a pot of coffee on hot for the rich, in case the rich deign to share a cup with him, even though Mr. Pellisher pays for the coffee himself.
But the rich don’t drink coffee in the afternoons. The rich favor Campari and soda, Perrier, and old, old bottles of wine. The rich are impertinent. The rich are impatient. The rich are rich.
Mr. Pellisher can see the rich coming from his office window, where he pores over folders of sunny beaches and waving palms, of cliff divers and oyster divers. The rich arrive in Lincolns white and shimmering, hubcaps glittering like diamonds. They are long and sleek, these cars the rich drive, and clean. No one has ever puked on the floormats of a car belonging to the rich. Empty potato chip bags and candy wrappers are not to be found—along with Coke cans and plastic straws—on the car
seats of the rich. If they are, they were dropped there by the rich.
He straightens his tie when he sees the rich coming, and sets out styrofoam cups and sugar cubes. He straightens his desk and pulls out chairs, waiting for the rich. And when the rich push the door open, he springs from his desk, hand offered in offertory handshake. But the handshakes of the rich are limp, without feeling, devoid of emotion. Mr. Pellisher pumps the hands of the rich as if he’d milk the money from their fingers. The fingers of the rich are fat and white, like overgrown grubs. Mr. Pellisher offers the rich a seat. He offers coffee. The rich decline both with one fat wave of their puffy white hands. The rich often wear gold chains around their necks. Most of the rich wear diamond rings. Some of the rich wear gold bones in their noses. A lot of the rich, especially the older rich, have been surgically renovated. The rich can afford tucks and snips. With their rich clothes off, most of the rich are all wrinkles below their chins.
The rich live too richly. The rich are pampered. The rich are spoiled by the poor, who want to be rich. To Mr. Pellisher, who is poor, the rich are symbols to look up to, standards of excellence which must be strived for. The rich, for instance, are always taking vacations.
Mr. Pellisher turns the air-conditioning up a notch in his office, as the rich begin to sweat. He offers coffee again. The rich refuse. The rich have only two minutes to spare. They must lay their plans in the capable hands of Mr. Pellisher and depart to whatever richening schemes the rich pursue. Just one time Mr. Pellisher would like to take a vacation like the rich do, and see the things the rich see, and have sex with the women the rich have sex with. He often wonders about the sex lives of the rich. He speculates upon how the rich procure women. Do the rich advertise? Do the rich seek out the haunts of other rich, in the hope of ferreting out rich nymphomaniacs? Or do the rich hire people to arrange their sex? Just how do the rich make small talk in bars where only strangers abound? Do the rich say, “I’m rich,” and let it go at that? Or do the rich glide skillfully into a conversation with talk of stocks and bonds? Are the rich perverted? Do the rich perform unnatural sex acts? Can the rich ever be horny? Do the rich have sex every night? Watch kung-fu quickies? Eat TV dinners? Buy their own beer? Wash their own dishes? Are the rich so different from himself?
He thinks they are not. He knows they are only rich. And if some way, somehow, he could be rich, too, he knows he would be exactly like them. He knows he would be invited to their parties. Summoned to their art exhibits. Called from the dark confines of his own huge monstrous cool castle to sit at the tables of other rich and tell witty anecdotes, of which he has many in great supply. He knows the rich are not different from himself. They are not of another race, another creed, another skin. They do not worship a different God.
Mr. Pellisher has many travel folders. He spreads them before the rich, as a man would fan a deck of cards. He has all the points of the globe at his fingertips, like the rich, and he can make arrangements through a small tan telephone that sits on his desk. He is urgent, ready. He has a Xeroxed copy of international numbers taped beneath the Plexiglas that covers his desk. He can send the rich to any remote or unremote corner of the world with expert flicks of his fingers. He can line up hotels, vistas, visas, Visacards, passports, make reservations, secure hunting licenses, hire guides, Sherpas, serfs, peasants, waiters, cocktail waitresses, gardeners, veterinarians, prostitutes, bookies, make bets, cover point-spreads, confirm weather conditions, reserve yachts, captains, second mates, rods, reels, secure theater tickets, perform transactions, check hostile environments in third-world countries, wire money, locate cocaine, buy condos, close down factories, watch the stock market, buy, sell, trade, steal. With his phone, with the blessing of the rich, he is as the rich. He is their servant, their confidant, their messenger. He is everything anybody rich wants him to be.
But he wonders sometimes if maybe the rich look down on him. He wonders sometimes if maybe the rich think that just possibly they’re a little bit better than him. The rich are always going to dinner parties and sneak previews. The rich have daughters at Princeton and sons in L.A. He knows the rich have swimming pools and security systems. He wonders what the rich would do if he and Velma knocked on their door one night. Would the rich let them in? Would they open the door wide and invite them in for crab? Or would they sic a slobbering Doberman on them? The rich are unpredictable.
The rich do not compare prices in the grocery stores or cut out coupons. The rich are rich enough to afford someone to do this for them, who, by working for the rich, does not feel at all compelled to check prices. No, the rich have their groceries bought for them by persons whose instructions do not include checking prices.
Mr. Pellisher, poor, lives with the constant thought that leg quarters at forty-nine cents per pound are cheaper than whole chickens at seventy-nine cents per pound, and even though he does not like dark meat, Mr. Pellisher must eat dark meat because he is not like the rich. That is to say that he is not rich. He figures the rich eat only breasts and pulley bones. The rich do not know the price of a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. The rich have no use for such knowledge.
How great Mr. Pellisher thinks this must be, to live in a world so high above the everyday human struggles of the race. The rich, for instance, never have to install spark plugs. The rich have never been stranded on the side of the road. The rich have never driven a wheezing ’71 Ford Fairlane with a vibrating universal joint. Or put on brake shoes, tried to set points, suffered a burst radiator hose. They have never moaned and cursed on gravel flat on their collective rich backs with large rocks digging into their skin as they twisted greasy bolts into a greasy starter. The rich have it so easy.
The rich are saying something now. The rich are going on vacation again. South of France? Wales? The rich have no conception of money. They have never bought a television or stereo on credit. They owe nothing to Sears. Their debutante daughters’ braces were paid for with cash. The rich have unlimited credit which they do not need. In addition, the rich have never dug up septic tanks and seen with their own eyes the horrors contained there.
It appears that the rich are meeting other rich in June at Naples. From there they will fly to Angola. The ducks will darken the sky in late evening. The rich will doubtless shoot them with gold-plated Winchesters. The rich have never fired a Savage single-shot. The rich will go on to Ridder Creek in Alaska, where the salmon turn the water blood-red with their bodies. The rich have never seined minnows to impale upon hooks for pond bass. The rich do not camp out. The rich have never been inside a mobile home.
Mr. Pellisher has dreams of being rich. He plays Super Bingo at Kroger’s. He goes inside and makes the minimum purchase twice a week, and gets the tickets. Each one could be the one. This is not the only thing he does. He also buys sweepstakes tickets and enters publishers’ clearing house contests. But he never orders the magazines from the publishers. He does not affix the stamps. He has an uneasy feeling that the coupons from people who do not buy the magazines wind up at the bottom of the drawing barrel, but he has no way to prove this. He has no basis for this fear. It is unreasonable for him to think this. It is a phobia that has not yet been named.
The rich wish to have their matters taken care of immediately. They have their priorities in order. The rich have mixed-doubles sets to play. The rich have eighteen holes at two o’clock. Mr. Pellisher has taken to putting on the weekends and acquiring some of the equipment necessary for golfing. He watches the Masters’ Classic and studies their pars and handicaps.
The rich are saying something else now. The rich wish to know which card Mr. Pellisher requires. The rich can produce MasterCharge, etc., upon request. The rich are logged and registered in computers all over the world. The wealth of the rich can be verified in an instant.
Mr. Pellisher has filled out all the needed forms. He has written down all the pertinent information. He has been helpful, courteous, polite, professional, warm, efficient, jovial, indulgent, cordial, ingratiating, fami
liar, benevolent. He has served the rich in the manner they are accustomed to. There is no outward indication of malice or loathing. But inside, in the deep gray portions of his mind where his secret thoughts lie, he hates the rich. What he’d really like to do is machine-gun the rich. Throttle the rich. He would like to see the great mansions of the rich burned down, their children limned in flame from the high windows. He would like to see the rich downtrodden, humbled, brought to their knees. He’d like to see the rich in rags. He’d like to see the rich on relief, or in prison. Arrested for smuggling cocaine. Fined for driving drunk. He’d like to see the rich suffer everything he ever suffered that all their money could heal.
But he knows it can never be so. He knows that the rich can never be poor, that the poor can never be rich. He hates himself for being so nice to the rich. He knows the rich do not appreciate it. The rich merely expect it. The rich have become accustomed to it. He doubts the rich ever even think about it.
He tells none of this to the rich. He would like to, but he cannot. The rich might become offended. The rich might feel insulted. The rich might stop doing their business with him. Mr. Pellisher feeds off the rich. He sucks their blood, drawing it, little by little unto himself, a few dollars at a time, with never enough to satisfy his lust, slake his thirst.
