by Diana Wagman
He gathered the hot dogs and wrapped them in a soggy napkin. Marcus would not forget to make him eat them. He turned off the cooker, put the lid on it, and handed his father the cash box. Then he stood on his tiptoes on the milk crate to close the shutters as his father watched.
“Fucking idiot,” his father said as he turned away. “Tell your mother I’m going out.”
His father went one way, toward the exit, and Oren took off toward the RV that was home. His ear was ringing where Marcus had hit him. He always hit him on the same side. Oren wondered, why did he never give this ear a break?
Oren ran until he reached their motor home. “Mama?” he asked at the door. “Mama?”
The door opened just a crack releasing a strip of harsh light that hit him right in the eyes. He squinted at the person in silhouette peeking out at him.
“Something the matter?”
It was Jimmy, the agent for the Ferris wheel. Jimmy had a secret tattoo on his thigh of a naked woman being burned at the stake. It was a picture of his wife, he told Oren once. She hadn’t been tied to a stake, but she was passed out in bed and Jimmy said he hoped she woke up long enough for it to hurt like hell.
“Can I come in?” It was his home. “Dad said he was going out.”
“You cold? Take my sweatshirt.” Jimmy took it off. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath.
“Is my mother in there?”
“Just take it.” Jimmy threw the sweatshirt at him and the zipper hit his face. “Leave your mother alone,” he hissed. “Leave the bitch alone.”
Oren tasted blood on his lip. He let the sweatshirt fall as he called again. “Mama! Open up.”
“Oren?” his mother called to him, “Baby, is that you?” Her voice was way up in the top of the trees somewhere, high and thin as the whistle from a plastic toy. “Baby? Go away now. Give your mama some time alone.”
“You heard her,” Jimmy said.
Oren took a step forward and Jimmy shoved him hard enough to send him back on his ass. Jimmy was chuckling as he shut the door.
Oren got up and started running again. The rain didn’t bother him. He knew the exact number of steps to the place he was going. The only place he could go. It didn’t matter if the carnival was set up in Kentucky or Wisconsin. Each ride always sat in its same place, the popcorn wagon smelled of chemicals and rancid oil, the merry-go-round calliope slid off-key in the same measure. There were always discarded tickets under his feet, and fat people in shorts and tank tops, and mothers yelling at their children. Oren was never sure the carnival really went anywhere at all. Maybe they just pretended to drive all night. When he woke up, they were always in the same K-Mart parking lot or the same field just outside town.
He ran until he reached The Amazing Amazon, threw open the door and collapsed inside the warm stink and recorded monkey cries. The educational attraction where his fifteen-year-old sister, Fiona, worked was a forty-five-foot semi trailer transformed into a jungle habitat with fake foliage and a broken waterfall. It housed an ancient parrot, a nine foot red tailed boa constrictor, two corn snakes, some water turtles and an ever-dying collection of tree frogs. The star attraction was a pair of great green iguanas, male and female, who had just given birth to a small clutch.
Oren’s arrival triggered the automatic voice. “Welcome to the amazing Amazon, the largest tropical rainforest in the world. As you walk the path, look up and watch for—”
“Done already?” Fiona cut off the recording.
“Dad.” He didn’t need to say anymore.
“Yeah. I’m in the shit too. The last stupid tree frog died.”
“Maybe you can get another one in Kansas.”
“What’d you do this time?”
“Some boys stole the hot dogs. I tried to stop them.”
“You’re a fucking fuck-up. Do you know that?” She shook her head at him. “Loser. Capital ‘L’.”
Even as bitchy as she was, she was a kind of comfort. “How’s Cookie?”
“You and that lizard.”
“Iguana.”
“At least I haven’t killed him yet.”
Oren crawled through the plastic bushes and behind the exhibits. In a special tank under three incubator lights, two tiny great green iguana eyes blinked. Oren reached in and carefully lifted baby Cookie out of his cage. He was only seven inches long and Oren cradled him against his chest, smiling at how the iguana calmed his thumping heart. He stroked Cookie’s dewlap, and the round scales on either side of his head. Cookie let his legs fold and settled on Oren’s palm. They were friends. Best friends. Oren carried Cookie out and together they watched Fiona feed baby mice to the corn snakes. She had to poke the hairless blind infants into the snakes’ mouths with a chopstick and then massage the snakes’ throats until they got them down. They were old snakes, far from wild anymore. As he watched, Oren made a plan. One day soon, he would kill his father. He would chop him into small pieces and feed him to the snakes. Slowly. One spoonful of flesh would look just like those hairless pinkies. If he kept his father tied up and alive, the meat would be fresher, the snakes would eat more, and his father could watch as he was eaten alive day by day.
Oren pushed the computer off his lap. The websites about head injuries were all bad news. She had to be coherent. She had to feel pretty good if his plan was going to work. He stood up filled with heat, with frustration, with his own incredible stupidity. He jumped up and down. Fucking idiot! He bumped his nose against the wall but it didn’t give him the satisfaction it obviously gave Cookie. He threw himself from one side of the hall to the other, colliding into the walls, slamming his shoulder, then his hip, then his other shoulder. He grunted with every blow. This was it. The pain, always the pain helped him forget. Forget the mother lying in the bed. Forget the plan. Forget he was an idiot, fucking idiot, idiot. He swung his head down between his knees and then back up. Up and down. He gritted his teeth and kept himself from screaming.
Stop it. His good voice told him. Stop. Look at the carpet. Look at this superior carpet.
It glittered in the overhead light. He crouched and dug his fingers into the wool and plastic-treated fibers. He had put this carpet in. He had gotten a very good employee discount. He had a good job at Carpet Barn and Uncle Nolan had been so pleased. Uncle Nolan said Oren was the best tenant he’d ever had. It was a very high quality carpet. He took deep breaths and he thought about the carpet and his happy uncle and his breath came in gulps. It was a woven carpet, not the cheaper tufted. It was a deep plush pile. Perfect for a house without children or dogs. It was spotless and would stay that way until he left. He would make her take off her shoes before she walked on it again. He took a deep breath. Yes, that’s what he would do. And with her shoes off, she would not be as ready to run away. Good idea, he told himself. Damn good thinking. It was going to be fine. She was hurt, but she was not dead. Hurt badly maybe, but—
Why me, he began. Then he stopped himself.
Because I deserve it,” he said out loud. He rubbed his shoulder where he had banged the wall. It was sore, probably bruised, but it would be a reminder that he was who he was. “Because I am a special person.”
He had a plan. He only needed Winnie to wake up to begin step two.
6.
Jonathan heard a noise from outside. He stood up. The neighborhood was changing. When they moved in, it had been mostly Latino. Back then it didn’t look so nice, some of the houses were rundown or had junk in the front yards, but families had lived here. People waved when you went out to get the mail. When he and Winnie brought Lacy home from the hospital, the El Salvadorian woman next door had brought so many pupusas Winnie had joked Lacy would be taking them in her lunchbox to kindergarten. But then, during the housing boom, a lot of their neighbors had cashed out and bought bigger homes in the far suburbs like Palmdale and Lancaster. The yuppies and hipsters had moved in, or developers who had renovated and rented. Instead of being a neighborhood, it felt like a way station, starter homes for young peopl
e who wanted to move out as quickly as possible. In the past year, with the economy in the tank, there was more graffiti and many more break-ins and muggings. Jonathan knew it. Everyday he checked the LAPD Northeast Division website and read the crime blotter. It was his job to watch out for Lacy of course and even Winnie. She wouldn’t take his money, but he was still the man. He felt responsible, not like some dead-head or dead-beat ex-husbands. Look at what a good job he did coming over here, fixing things, making sure the windows were closed, the back door locked. He was indispensable.
Buddy stood and bristled. He gave a single short bark.
“Good boy,” Jonathan said. “Good dog.”
He tiptoed to the side window in the dining room. The table was littered with old mail and newspapers, various articles of clothing Winnie had dropped as she went past. When he lived with her he had hated her mess. Her casual attitude about where things belonged had driven him crazy. She didn’t know how to take care of her stuff, herself, or when he met her, even how to boil water. She had grown up with servants, staff to cook and clean and stay with her for the long months her mother was away making films. Her mother. He snorted. Daisy Juniper was a piece of art—or work—or both—whatever that expression was. She was crazy and she cultivated her insanity. She had called from her New York penthouse in the middle of the night more than once.
Winnie would roll over him to answer. “It’s her,” she always said even before checking the caller i.d. or picking up the receiver. Then, “Daisy,” into the phone, not hi Mom, or hello or what the fuck are you calling me for this time.
“Don’t cry,” seemed to be the next thing Winnie always said. Daisy had problems with men. She brought out the worst in them, and Jonathan could almost understand it.
“Did you call a cop?” Winnie would ask, but Daisy never had.
Usually Daisy stayed on the phone for an hour or more and she stayed in Manhattan. One time she had actually gotten on the plane and arrived the next day, sunglasses not really covering her beaten face. She hid in their house, this house, until her face returned to normal. One afternoon as he had made her lunch, the famous Daisy Juniper, two-time Oscar winner, had rested her pale, lovely head on his shoulder and cried. His arms had gone around her, startled by how fragile she seemed although almost his height. Winnie felt solid in his arms and in his bed. He worried he could crush Daisy, but when he relaxed his grip, she snuggled in closer. At the time he was lucky to get any kind of acting gig. His two film roles hadn’t gotten much notice. His agent wanted him to audition for a brand new game show, Tie the Knot.
“Don’t be a game show host,” she whispered. “You’re too good for that.” And one slim-fingered hand slid inside his pants.
No wonder Winnie was such a goddamn basket case. Since the divorce, she said Daisy didn’t call as much. They had lost touch. But that wasn’t his fault.
He heard the noise again. He peeked outside. It was just a neighbor from across the street rolling out his trashcans. The guy was young, white, and looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. Another Los Angeles screenwriter or director or producer out of work and home in the middle of the day.
“I gotta go,” Jonathan said to the dog. “I wish I could stay longer, but I can’t.”
He crouched and inhaled the salty, dirty dog smell. He closed his fists around Buddy’s ears and held on tight. He pressed his forehead into the back of Buddy’s neck. He needed to buy socks, but he couldn’t remember where Jessica had told him to go. He and Winnie had danced in the aisles to the Muzak at the 99-cent store.
“Do you think I’m too old for a tattoo?” he asked Buddy.
Buddy wagged his tail.
As a present for their third anniversary, he was thinking of surprising Jessica with an intricate “J & J” tattooed onto his shoulder. It had to be high enough so a short sleeve would cover it next time they did Tie the Knot in Hawaii. He had asked the production assistant at work, a college student with ink up and down both arms, if it hurt.
“Shoulder’s not too bad,” the kid said. “No offense, but it hurts more when you’re old—older.”
“How old do you think I am?”
The p.a. had just shrugged, too smart to say what he really thought. “It’s cool when older guys get tats. You know, ones that mean something to them, not just like, for beauty.”
As if beauty on Jonathan was a ridiculous notion. But it was going to be a drop-dead gorgeous tattoo. Romantic, but not too flowery. Jessica had already told him the best place to go, where all her young friends were doing it. Jessica had an amazing flower thingy in the curve of her lower back, just above her butt. A tramp plant or fan stamp or something. Of course if he put his tattoo up high enough for a sleeve to cover it, no one would ever see it except Jessica. He wanted people to see it. He wanted the p.a. at work to see how beautiful it was. It was a complicated decision. He still had a month to make up his mind.
7.
Dave “Kidney” Hollister made sure the curtains were closed and the door of his motel room locked before he gently lifted his gray Samsonite suitcase onto the bed. He tunelessly whistled Michael Jackson’s Thriller as he ran his hands over the hard plastic. He took the time to do an MJ type hip thrust and a spin. He attempted the moon walk. It was all a little ridiculous in a sixty-five-year-old overweight man in JC Penney jeans and a safari jacket, but he couldn’t help himself. Today was his day.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he said to the suitcase. “Daddy’s coming.”
He undid the combination lock and slipped it from the handle. He rubbed his hands together before sliding back the catch. The top popped open. There were clothes inside, nothing but very dirty clothes, a lot of them smeared with a suspicious looking mustard colored substance. The perfect ploy, Kidney knew, to keep customs officials from digging too deep. He tossed the clothes on the floor and carefully, gingerly removed the suitcase’s false bottom.
Five beautiful black-headed pythons, each in its own partitioned space, undulated and hissed at him. Three were the more typical tan with brownish stripes, but two had unusual cream and red markings. He was looking at a fortune in snakes. His fortune. They were exquisite, perfect living specimens. Reluctantly, he closed the suitcase so they wouldn’t escape. He could have stared at them all day, but they had been on a long, strenuous journey with him from Australia and he needed to feed them quickly before they attempted to eat each other. He took a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream container from his backpack. That morning he had gone out behind the motel, in the dead grass bordering the 405 freeway, and collected some common western fence lizards. He opened the ice cream bucket and looked inside. Only one lizard had died. The others were busy gnawing on it. Good. They would be well fed when they became food. The circle of life.
Kidney opened the suitcase again and with his bare hand grabbed lizard after lizard, dropping them in, one by one, a meal for each python. He replaced the false bottom and closed it up. He didn’t think his babies would mind dining in the dark. There was one lizard left in the container, plus the dead one. He put the top back on and put it in the motel fridge’s tiny freezer. He grinned thinking about housekeeping finding his treat.
He whistled and danced a little more, looking at himself in the mirror over the dresser. His jacket said it all: adventurer, wild man, ready for anything. He would definitely wear it when he went out to celebrate tonight. He masqueraded as a photographer. His camera bags were all outfitted with false bottoms and hidden compartments. Today they were filled with blue-tongued skinks from New Guinea and chameleons from Madagascar. In the most protected pockets, he had geometric turtles, endangered and therefore worth a pretty penny, from South Africa. He had become a top-notch reptile smuggler with a superior reputation. He’d always—since he was a kid—been good at catching reptiles. Now he was good at bringing them into the country and selling them. Of course it was illegal and the penalties if caught were massive fines and some serious jail time. Fuck it. He couldn’t think about that now. And anyway, his
country owed him. He had lost his job of twenty-two years when they closed the Saturn plant in Spring Hill, Tennessee. Twenty-two years working the line and nothing to show for it while management made out like royalty. They were the real crooks. He smiled at the suitcase on the bed. This was much more fun. Maybe the economic downturn had done him a service.
His penis was talking to him. He needed a woman. He wished he didn’t have to pay for it, but the ones he liked never liked him. Not all on their own. If he was willing to spend the cash, he could get the hottest slut in town. Cash for the slash. But it was fucking expensive. Eighty bucks for a blow job in the back seat of his rented Ford Fiesta was criminal. A fool and his money are soon parted, his father used to say. He was not a fool, but he needed a little release. It was easier away from the States. The women of the jungles where he did his business were happy to oblige and they were usually free. He had gotten hooked on the taste of dark meat. He might even settle down with a couple of women on a plantation in New Guinea or someplace, but here he was in L- fucking-A, beauty capital of the world, and he wanted a hot little honey to ride. And he would have one, even if it cost him.
“Hey,” he said to his reflection. “Hey, baby.” He did the signature Michael Jackson move: pulling down on his imaginary fedora. He spun again, stumbling a little on the carpet. He caught sight in the mirror of his jowls flapping like the tails of his jacket, but he just laughed. He knew the chicks he wanted were only interested in the size of his wallet. “And after today, baby, it’s gonna be gi-normous!”
He had meetings later, but first he had to call that kid and collect the money for his iguana. The kid said he wanted wild, not captivity raised, to strengthen the gene pool. Kidney told him that was wise, but he really had no idea. He wasn’t a scientist, but the kid wanting a great green iguana from him instead of a legal buy from a pet store meant a special trip to Paraguay next week and that meant extra goddamn money. Jesus, he was making a killing this time around.
