Trying the Knot

by Todd Erickson

  Jack picked up a palm and drummed it to the hip-hop beats, “Sorry, Boba Fett, it’s not the New Wave crap you listen to – it’s NWA, you dig?”

  Ben turned off VH1’s Pop Up Videos, and tossed his leather coat to the side, and Jack suddenly leapt to his feet and charged at him. “Hey, that’s Alexa’s shirt!”

  “Oh, I thought it was yours.”

  Jack yanked at the tiny disembodied Polo horse, and he barked, “It was a Christmas gift from my sister, and I gave it to Alexa. You cut up her shirt, jerk.”

  “Sorry, guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Jack resumed his cross-legged position on the floor. Eating from a can of ravioli, he said with his mouth full, “You’re such a fart knocker.”

  “Chill, man, it’s only a shirt.”

  “Dude, she’ll kill you.”

  “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll buy her a new one, a Ralph-freaking-Lauren Polo,” Ben said. “I’ve been called an asshole once today. I don’t need to hear it again from some derelict kid.”

  Ben made a fist and gave his occasional houseguest a quick punch. Jack’s fat upper lip disappeared, and his eyes became two slits forewarning Ben to dart out of the way. Instead, he unwisely gave Jack another affectionate whack.

  Jack swiftly knocked the back of his hand against Ben’s testicles. Doubled over, Ben found himself in a headlock. Struggling to free himself, Ben realized there was no escape while Jack deliberately and teasingly released the tension of his grip. At that moment, Alexa appeared at the sliding glass doors and let herself in per usual. She towered above them on roller blades.

  “Slack-jawed faggots,” she yelled, wheeling wildly around the room.

  Jack wrapped one arm around Ben’s stomach, and he lifted him up off the floor, so his butt neared Alexa’s chin. Straining to keep his stronghold around his victim, Jack encouraged, “Hurry up and give him a wedgy.”

  With her hand down his pants, Alexa announced, “Oh nasty, free baller is not wearing any underwear.”

  Ben farted loudly, and he was instantly dropped on his head. Alexa hurled a fist full of palms at him and cracked open the window from where Jack shot squirrels. Calling Ben various obscenities, she flopped down on an overstuffed chair and removed her helmet.

  “Hey, why aren’t you in school?” Ben asked. “Just because Jack-off is a dropout doesn’t mean you can cut school.”

  “I don’t recall your giving birth to me,” she said, shaking her dark hair loose from the helmet. “Go mother someone else.”

  “Don’t have a cow, dude, school doesn’t even start until after Labor Day,” Jack reminded, and he passed a palm to Alexa.

  “What the hell are these things?” Ben asked, picking up a handful of the leaves.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Ben’s face flushed with anger. “You mean, you’re the ones who stole the Palm Sunday palms from the church? You’re both going straight to hell. Do you hear? Don’t pass go, and don’t collect two hundred dollars.”

  Alexa crammed stale Cheez-Its into her mouth. “But I thought you were an atheist.”

  “One year without ‘em ain’t going to hurt,” Jack said.

  “Their absence just reinforces their importance,” Alexa said as if she had thought long and hard about it. She ignited one of the palms with a Zippo lighter.

  “What were you thinking?” Ben asked. “Who all knows about this?”

  “Vange knows,” Jack said, and he quickly corrected himself, “or rather, she did know the day we ganked them.”

  Unnerved by the past tense reference to Evangelica, Ben asked, “How’d you pull it off?”

  “Al went to confession,” Jack explained, “and I snuck in the back of the church and kifed the whole box.”

  “All two-thousand palms,” Alexa bragged.

  “Vange knows about this? I can’t believe it, we’re all going burn in hell,” Ben marveled. Paranoid, he yanked the curtains closed. “My God, they’re laying right here out in the open for the entire world to see.”

  “Oh, lighten up,” Alexa said. “It’s no worse than your weed laying all over the house.”

  Ignoring her, Ben began collecting the scattered palms. He asked, “Jack, you hear anything new about Vange, from your dad or Shayla?”

  “They’re at the bar,” Jack said. “I ain’t heard anything from anybody.” He looked tough and unconcerned, too precocious for his own good.

  “Think she’ll die?”

  Shuffling palms into a pile with his feet, Ben said, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “At least the wedding tape is already made,” Alexa said. Usually she accompanied Vange on piano for various wedding gigs.

  “Who’ll wear her bridesmaid’s dress?” Jack asked.

  Alexa snorted with disgust. “Not me, I’d rather hammer my head into a nail.”

  Ben searched a crate full of cassettes until he found the wedding tape, which he slipped into his coat pocket. Evangelica and Alexa often collaborated for weddings as a way to make extra money, and they had spent weeks perfecting the soundtrack to Kate’s wedding. Kate let them pick out the music, a responsibility they did not take lightly. However while they practiced, Vange pretended she was Tina Turner and Alexa was Ike, and she’d goad Alexa into roughing her up for kicks.

  Checking the sunburst clock, Ben informed the thieves he was confiscating the entire stash of palms to dispose of them properly. He considered it foolish to leave contraband strewn about the house because it might be stumbled on by any number of Samaritan neighbors who kept a steady flow of casseroles flowing past his grateful palate.

  “Only if you give us some pot,” Alexa said, hoping to reach a compromise. “Fair is fair.”

  Ben retreated to his bedroom and emerged with a plastic baggy that he threw at Jack, who demanded, “More!”

  “You’ll have to wait until tonight.”

  “This is a gyp,” Jack protested.

  “He’s good for it,” Alexa said with resignation. “His girlfriend has a hook up.”

  “Who is she this week?” Jack asked. “Chelsea Norris? She’s the hottest girl in this town.”

  “More like her mother,” Alexa corrected, and she swiped the marijuana from his trembling hand. “Quit sniffing it as if you’re going to inhale it, you high-on loser who can’t even complete the twelfth grade.”

  With the box of stolen palms strapped to his bike, Ben drove mindlessly around ‘the loop,’ from one end of Main Street to the next connected by the highway. He traveled this route often, especially when he felt restless or was in a bad mood. When it was too hot to sleep, Evangelica accompanied him in the middle of the night. Together they would coast down the highway stretching out alongside Lake Huron.

  Evangelica and Ben usually endured this circle of monotony until becoming slaphappy with boredom. Once feeling certifiable, they returned to his place to listen to the old Johnny Cash records his mother left behind when she ran off to join the flea market circuit. Although Mrs. Dooley still only spoke broken English, she loved Johnny Cash. In her mind, Cash was America itself.

  Ben and Evangelica sometimes had sex listening to those old records, but it was not mandatory. He wished she were on the back of his bike now, clutching onto him whispering weird obscenities about the people they left in their dust. She claimed to have an orgasm this way, talking dirty while his crotch rocket rattled and pulsated between her legs.

  When Ben felt he could not endure cruising Main any longer, he drove to the newspaper building and parked the bike. There was no one at the front desk, and so he ventured to the back room where monstrous piles of barbaric printing equipment loomed as far as the eye could see. He had never been inside the Porthole building before and had no idea where to find Thad.

  “Looking for someone, Benny?” a female voice asked.

  Startled, he turned around to find Nick’s beautiful sister, Nanette Paull. She was dressed in an all-black, body clinging dress. She ran her fingers through her flowing, henna
dyed hair, and she feigned wanton surprise by placing a hand over her augmented breasts. Her dagger-like fingernails were painted the same blood red as her full, pouting lips.

  Ben flashed a look of confusion. He did not recall her having a silver nose ring, and her chest seemed larger. Nanette lived life in designer limbo, scrambling after whatever upscale thrift store items crossed her path.

  “Is Nick here?”

  She shook her head and flashed him one of her perfectly deviant smiles that made him forget his own name. “No, but if you happen to run into him, tell him his big sister is in town for the nuptial festivities.” She leaned back against the counter and inspected her long nails as if waiting for someone in particular. “Thad’s upstairs. He’s a little drunk.”

  Benjamin nodded and backed away.

  “The stairs are to the left,” she called after him.

  Ben found Thad poring over clippings laid out onto an illuminated glass newspaper page. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, he cut and pasted the newspaper columns while muttering to himself. When he became aware of Ben’s presence, Thad motioned him to sit down and pour himself a drink.

  “Vodka, man, isn’t that a job hazard?” Ben asked. “What’s up with Nanette’s funeral garb?”

  “It’s a new Goth look to match her trendy new name.”

  “Morticia?”

  “Tristana,” Thad corrected, lighting a cigarette. Ben’s arrival was as good of an excuse as any to take a break from working.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s waiting for the illustrious editor and chief – Seth Poole – while he explains to the wife and kiddies why he has to work late again. You know newspapers, it is one late-night deadline after another,” Thad ranted.

  “No way.”

  “Way. Eventually, they’ll end up back here snorting white powdery stuff and engaging in sordid sex acts until dawn.”

  Ben laughed, “What a twisted imagination you have.”

  “Who said anything about make believe?” Thad asked, and he took a sip from his vodka pint. “Don’t look so shocked.”

  Thad knew the intimate details of everyone’s life, and Ben hoped Thad was oblivious to his own secrets. “You know too much.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s what happens when you don’t have a life.”

  “Portnorth’s very own Kitty Kelly,” Ben said, referring to slash and burn celebrity biographer. “Plan on writing a small town tell-all anytime soon?”

  “Nope, but I can probably tell you a thing or two about yourself.”

  “Real comforting. What’s up with the lunchtime cocktail?”

  “I dragged Chelsea up here and poured a drink down her throat, to calm her down after she exploded all over breakfast. Actually, you just missed her,” Thad said, and Ben sighed with relief. Thad continued working on the newspaper layout as he nodded facetiously to the beat of some pre-Mellencamp, John Cougar song.

  “What’s her deal? I couldn’t believe how bad she lost it,” Ben said as he fished a foreign object from a shot glass.

  “I guess the tighter you’re wound, the more likely you are to go berserk.”

  “Yikes, don’t go postal on us,” boomed a loud voice. “Coastal postal, get it?”

  A man who could only be described as an oaf clomped down the steps as he descended from the third floor attic. He wore a short-sleeved pink dress shirt with gray slacks, and a cheap tie was flung over his hulking shoulder. Everything he said was a proclamation. Typically, he flaunted his less than in-depth knowledge of every conceivable topic.

  Running his fingers over his graying blond beard, Seth Poole cleared his throat and instructed, “Go ahead and grab lunch, Thad.”

  Ben picked up a pair of scissors and twirled them around his index finger. He put the shears to his shirt and snipped away at the remaining Polo horse he had begun mutilating at breakfast.

  Poole grunted at Ben and said, “Easy there, tiger, we don’t want anyone committing Harry Carry around here.” He lumbered away hiking up his pants and called over his shoulder, “Lock up shop when you go to lunch.”

  Near speechless, Ben managed, “Gross, Nick’s sister is sleeping with him?”

  “And you heard it here first,” Thad said. He pasted a newspaper column in place and puffed away on a cigarette. “You know, Chelsea didn’t mean the things she said earlier. Don’t be so hard on her right now.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s a mega bitch.”

  “She can’t understand why Vange did what she did.”

  Flushed with animosity, Ben asked, “What makes her so special? We’re all having a hard time dealing with this.”

  “She’s struggling with personal problems.”

  Ben snorted as if he did not believe perfect Chelsea could allow herself such a human pastime as personal problems. “More like inner demons.”

  “I think she wants to quit law school and run away.”

  “Oh, how practical,” Ben said sarcastically. “Who does she think she is, Thelma or Louise?”

  “It’s a phase I guess.” Thad threw up his hands as if to say he was ready for lunch. “She’s suffering from a prolonged adolescence.”

  “Whoa, I wish I had the luxury of dropping out of law school.”

  “You dropped out of a community college or wasn’t that luxurious enough?”

  “Don’t even start. What will she do now?” Ben asked.

  “She’ll probably turn on, tune in, and drop out and become obnoxiously hip.”

  “It’s totally whacked, we’re all quitters.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “All of us except for Nick and Kate, of course, and just look at them – getting hitched and settling down. He’ll become a doctor, and she’ll teach elementary school,” Ben pondered aloud. “Sound like the all-American dream.”

  “Sounds like a nightmare, if you ask me.” Thad poured himself another shot and toasted, “To the newlyweds.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Thad could not help but think about Chelsea, and how she had sat on his desk earlier and spouted her case why he should tell Kate about Nick’s fling with Vange. Because he was unsure what to do, he decided to approach the subject with Ben for his input. “You know, Chelsea thinks I should say something to Kate.”

  “About?”

  “Um, Nick and Vange.”

  “Seriously? You’re not thinking about it, are you?”

  “Considering Kate is my cousin,” Thad reminded him needlessly, “don’t you think I owe her at least that much?”

  “What good could come of it? It’s none of Chelsea’s business. Just because her life is miserable, she wants to ruin everyone else’s,” Ben said, not entirely convinced of his own logic. “She’s always hated Nick.”

  “So it seems, but it still doesn’t excuse me from telling Kate. She has a right to know, I saw Nick with Vange.”

  “So what, they were making out.”

  “It was way more than making out.”

  “Trust me, Kate doesn’t want to know.”

  Thad stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged, “If I do tell her, it has to be before the wedding or not at all.”

  “Not ever.” Ben checked his watch and commented Thad had less than twenty-four hours to make up his mind. He lifted his feet up off the desk and drew his knees to his chest. Spinning around on the swiveling chair, Ben asked, “Want to get high?”

  “Here?”

  “Good a place as any.”

  “Sure, but let’s go upstairs,” Thad whispered.

  “You mean, the love nest?” Ben asked, and he puckered his lips and made a long smooching noise. When they paused on the stairs, he pinched Thad’s butt.

  “Try and control yourself,” Thad said dryly, and he lifted the door leading to the third floor attic, the site of the Portnorth Porthole editor’s lust-fueled affairs.

  Ben settled in on a rickety old office chair and started rolling a joint. Near the huge dirty window overlooking downtown
, Thad gazed silently out at Portnorth’s only traffic light. The most congested time for traffic was weekdays at three o’clock when the local schools set free their captives, or when the churches released their Jesus devotees on Sunday mornings. There was no actual rush hour because the town’s only industry, the quarry, worked its employees in shifts around the clock.

  At the gas station across the street, Ginny Norris sat in her white Mustang convertible. Her wispy short blond hair blew in the wind, and she looked carefree as ever. Her sparkling blue eyes fixated in the direction of Ben’s motorcycle and a dreamy expression befell her face. Even from the distance of three stories, she radiated a delightful vitality that was pleasantly intoxicating.

  “Thad, man, if you’re going to stick around this fall, you should join the bowling league,” Ben suggested.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you bowl like a girl, everyone’s usually too drunk to notice,” Ben said, running his finger along the edge of the paper to secure the joint.

  A loud voice startled them from behind. “Hey! What’re you cats doing up here?”

  Both Ben and Thad bolted upright, but they laughed with relief when they noticed it was merely Nick. Satisfied he had sufficiently startled them, Nick jokingly taunted, “Ah-ha, caught in the act. Wouldn’t this make a nice headline?”

  “I can think of a few more scandalous ones,” Thad said under his breath.

  As Nick pulled up a chair, his easy-going nature remained unaffected; he ignored Thad’s remark and its obvious implications. In spite of everything that had transpired since morning, Nick was in too good of a mood. It was as if he believed hard enough, then his wedding would unfold as perfectly as Kate imagined.

  Nick asked jovially, “Enjoying the view of the sprawling metropolis?”

  “Sure thing, man,” Ben said. He attempted to secure the joint Nick had all but wrecked by scaring the hell out of them.

  Thad withdrew from their casual banter, and he returned his attention to the scene unfolding across the street. He managed to catch a glimpse of Chelsea in the middle of her daily run. Smiling proudly, Ginny Norris offered her daughter a friendly wave, but Chelsea failed to notice. Thad wondered if she was thinking about Evangelica too.