Guardian Angels and Other Monsters

by Daniel H. Wilson

  Some faces are appearing in the Goose window—the shadowed, washed-out figures of drunks in a Greek chorus. They’re relishing the excitement, buzzing with it, and I know I’ll hear their feverish conversations about this for weeks. Deeper inside, Mallory has her piece of plastic up against her head, elbows thrust out, calling the police with barely any interest.

  And as the urchins stand up, I see Hemingway’s eyes tighten. The old man leans into a tight right hook and catches a kid upside the head, unaware. It knocks the kid’s hoodie off and he stumbles back in shock.

  “Ow!” he whines.

  Snatching his bandana off his face, the kid touches his eye tenderly, glaring at the old man where he stands huffing and puffing.

  “Why’d you do that?! Fuck!”

  The kid wheels around and looks right at me and the Shine, a hurt expression on his face, the beginnings of a beard and mustache tracing dirty lines around his mouth and under his nose. I realize he’s looking for sympathy. Christ.

  Kids these days.

  “C’mon,” says his friend, grabbing his elbow.

  The urchin hops on the back of his friend’s bike, holding his face with one hand and his friend’s shoulder with the other.

  “You’re a dick!” he calls halfheartedly over his shoulder, as the getaway driver pedals furiously, headed toward the river and the bridge.

  Hemingway watches them go, breathing hard, fists clenched, a little smile hooked into the corner of his mouth.

  Joe sleeps with a married woman.

  Like I said, shit is going down all the time. Sometimes I watch it go down, and other times I’m more involved. Like with Sherry.

  She started out with careful looks and moved on to suggestive conversations—the close kind, where the other person is watching your lips the whole time. One day I asked her if she was trying to get me into trouble and she said “a little bit.”

  That seemed like the right amount to me.

  Don’t get me wrong—Sherry’s husband is a nice guy. I don’t feel for him, exactly, but I don’t not feel for him either, you know? He’s older than me, always in fleece and tinted glasses and wearing half a grin, like maybe he doesn’t understand quite what’s going on. Or maybe he just can’t hear that great. He’s the only one in the bar who actually watches the television. I’ve seen him sitting and watching, eyes shining, his back hunched like a kid on Saturday morning.

  Jaws is on, he’ll say to nobody. Pretty Woman. The Terminator. Sort of endearing, especially because he passes on watching sports. Which I can respect.

  So anyway, Mr. Nice Guy isn’t a very observant type. He never perks to it when I give Sherry a little squeeze as I pass by. Or vice versa. Of course, Mallory knew what was going on the day after I first let anything happen. So it’s a good thing bartenders the world around know better than to talk about people’s business.

  That’s the only way they keep this whole thing from exploding.

  Sherry and Mr. Nice Guy have an apartment above the Goose. It’s only a little place but right in the middle of the neighborhood, which is good. It makes it a lot easier to sneak up every now and then, to grab a little more than a squeeze.

  So there I am, sitting outside with the Shine, just shooting the shit with him, when I see her pale face peeking through the window. She glares at the Shine, but then her eyes are on me and those painted-on eyebrows are dancing up and down. Even a dope like me can figure out what’s on her mind.

  Problem is the Shine doesn’t do stairs very well, and he’s real loud going up and down them. I’m not trying to draw attention to this whole tryst situation, especially with all the chattering crows perched on their bar stools. Sherry comes out and walks past, not even throwing a glance my way. She unlocks her front door and stomps up the wooden steps, leaving it cracked open behind her.

  “Shine, buddy,” I say. “I’ve got to see a duchess about a new suit.”

  The Shine turns to me, kind of sad-looking with stickers all on him. But I gotta get up there while the getting is good. I stand and glance around.

  Up the block, I see Adrian perched on the corner with his guitar and his purple beret. The busker is a short guy with long graying hair, probably used to be handsome, but now he’s nearly as old as I am, and worse, buried under the layers of coats and scarves and shit you’ve got to keep on you if you’ve got no place to leave them. The guy can play that guitar though—enough to hit the Goose at four o’clock and pay his tab when it closes every night. I doubt he’s got a home, but the busker doesn’t show it in how he stands or talks.

  “Adrian, buddy,” I’m calling, putting on a big shit-eating grin and pulling the Shine along behind me toward the street corner. I seem to have already got this decision made, even though I’m not sure where exactly my thinking is coming from.

  “Can you do me and my friend Jack Daniel’s a little favor?” I ask.

  A little scowl flashes over his face at the interruption, but then I guess he gets it. The busker puts on a grin as wide and fake as mine.

  “Anything for Jack,” he says.

  Then Adrian holds the leash for me while I head upstairs.

  Joe and Sherry argue about the Shine.

  Sherry’s ready to go in her little apartment. But first she has to pick at me, like any woman does. And if you want to get into bed with her then you shut up and take the ribbing, like any man does. But this time she hits me on my weak spot.

  She hits me on the Shine, telling me it’s him or her.

  “Goddamn it, Sherry,” I’m explaining. “The Shine is no threat to anybody. He’s dumb as a bag of hammers and twice as ugly. He’s got nothing to do with you. I swear to God, what kind of an insecure person—”

  “He’s a machine, Joe,” she says. “I’m a woman. I’m made of flesh and blood—”

  And malice and jealousy. Shine’s a damn sight more human than she’ll ever be.

  “Then think of me, why don’t you? He means something to me.”

  “What? What’s that robot to you? Compared to me?”

  “He’s my—”

  Friend? Nah, she’ll jump on that like a nuke on a Pacific atoll.

  “He’s my job, you understand?”

  “Is that why you spend all afternoon drinking with him? Talking to him?”

  “Yeah, Sherry. I’m a workaholic,” I say, bursting into laughter. “I’m a goddamn workaholic and you knew that about me from the start.”

  And now she giggles too, in spite of herself, putting a hand over her mouth like a little girl. And whatever else there is about her, I’ve got to admit she’s wide at the top, thin in the middle, and damn wide at the bottom. I can tell she’s half-drunk already, and as usual, so am I.

  “Come here, goddamn it,” I say, pulling on her.

  I take Sherry in my arms, fingers settling over the ridge where her bra strap cuts into her fleshy back. Pulling her close, she turns her head and rests her cheek on my shoulder, curly black hair tickling my chin. I feel her big doughy breasts mashing against my chest in a way that makes my crotch tight.

  “You’re jealous of a robot,” I say to her.

  Her hand steals down between us and settles in a good spot.

  “I’ll think about laying off the Shine,” she murmurs. “But you got to trade me something.”

  “Anything you want, darling,” I murmur.

  The Shine goes missing.

  Sherry hits the street first and I wait in the cool stairwell a couple minutes so we’re not seen leaving together. Pretty much grade-school-level espionage, but we’ve got to at least pay lip service to this thing. Besides, it makes it more fun.

  Stepping out on the street, I’m feeling warm and cold, a little pang of regret, sure, but mostly just satisfaction at a job well done. Whistling, hands jammed in my poc
kets, I lean against the wall and wish I smoked. The afternoon rolls by for a few minutes, slow and golden. Bits of cottonwood fluff are floating down the hill from Forest Park. Cars are flickering like minnows through creek water.

  It’s nice there for a minute, is what I’m trying to say.

  Then I get a bad feeling. The corner is empty. No Adrian.

  And no Shine.

  “Oh goddamn it,” I mutter.

  I turn and beeline for the Goose. The front door is propped wide open and I round the corner hot, blinking in the sudden gloom, my hands clenching and unclenching.

  The Shine’s my job and my friend, you see, and I’m worried about him.

  That goddamned dirty bum, Adrian, is across the room, leaning in his chair against the railing with his arms laid out like it’s the crucifixion, a battered guitar case at his feet. He’s got his amber whiskey poured already and his unlaced boots propped up on a chair. The son of a bitch is laughing at something.

  The phone behind the bar is ringing, ignored, as usual.

  Sherry’s at the counter, leaning on her elbows, eyes wide under her black mess of curly hair as she watches me pass. The look on my face must not be very nice.

  “Adrian,” I urge. “Buddy, where’s the Shine?”

  “Huh?” he says.

  It’s the single most infuriating word in the history of the English language, or hell, any language that doesn’t involve clicks or hieroglyphics.

  “The robot I left you with,” I repeat. “Where is he?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Shit, man. I thought you knew I was high.”

  “You’re high,” I say.

  “I’m…high,” he says, bursting into giggles.

  My fists come unclenched. I knew better. That’s the bitch of it, especially when you’ve been around and supposed to have learned something about life and the degenerates who populate it. I knew better, and I left the Shine to go get laid.

  Behind the bar, the phone is still ringing like a godforsaken fire alarm.

  Adrian sees my face and leans forward. He’s real earnest now, like he’s got an important message.

  “Hey, Joe,” he says. “I did see something.”

  In an exaggerated motion, he nods toward Sherry.

  “What?” I ask.

  He nods his head at her again, nearly falling off his chair.

  “What?!” I exclaim over the ringing of that goddamn phone.

  This time he does tumble off his chair, laughing. Climbs to his feet like a drunk in the surf and now I go ahead and leave him.

  Sometimes you need a second to regenerate your ability to deal with people. I’m headed out the door to try and find that when Mallory calls to me. She’s finally answered the phone, receiver pressed to her collarbone.

  “Your boss is calling for you from the post office, Joe,” she says.

  Dave. Great.

  “I’m not here,” I say, headed out the door.

  “He’s in a panic. He wants to know what’s going on with the Shine,” says Mallory.

  “I’m not here—”

  Right then, I see it—a flash of silver from Sherry’s purse.

  The big leather sack is sprawled over the bar like a deer that’s been hit and thrown off the highway. Inside, I can see the Shine’s leash.

  Something comes loose in me.

  “Goddamn it, Sherry!” I exclaim. “What’d you do with him?!”

  “Fuck you!” she replies, on instinct. “Don’t holler at me—”

  “Well, where is he?!”

  “I don’t know! Who?!”

  “What’s this?” I ask, snatching the leash out of her purse.

  “I found it on the sidewalk, you—you…asshole!”

  Mallory is already around the bar. She’s skinny as a praying mantis and her grip is strong when she wants it to be. Right now her fingers are closed around my elbow.

  “All right Joe,” she’s saying.

  I pull against her, halfhearted.

  Seeing me dragged out throws some more coal onto Sherry’s fire, and she gets up, eyes wide, chin dipping as she really winds up for a fastball.

  “And you’re lousy in bed—,” she hollers, freezing as she hears herself. A ripple passes through all the shoulders of the people hunched over the bar.

  Well, shit. Now I’m in for it.

  The Goose is my place, you see? I can’t imagine leaving here. But I got a feeling Mr. Nice Guy won’t be so nice once he hears about this. They say you don’t shit where you eat and all, and I knew better on that account, too.

  What a fucking day I’ve got going here.

  “Thanks, Sher,” I mutter, as Mallory shoves me out the door and onto the sidewalk where I belong. I automatically collapse into my usual rickety chair, the leash clenched in my hands. Mallory turns around and kicks the stop on the front door and yanks the window closed to cut us off from the dark grotto inside the Goose. She stands there staring at me.

  “Should I push off, Mal?” I ask her.

  Mallory’s steel pincers are settled on her hips and her wide watery blue eyes are set on me. Her reddish-blond eyebrows are raised high over a starscape of freckles, and I realize she looks worried. Which surprises me.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  The Shine is helpless and stolen and he was counting on me. My only friend—the only one who can stand being near me for more than five minutes—is a goddamn robot. And I still can’t hold up my end of the bargain.

  Okay isn’t the word.

  “Dave is looking for you,” she adds. “He sounded pissed off.”

  In moments of panic, they say sometimes a person goes on autopilot.

  “Another round, hey, Mallory?” I ask.

  I try not to sound pathetic saying it, but that’s just not possible.

  Joe learns important information.

  So the Shine is disappeared—possibly thanks to a vindictive harpy with spiderwebs tattooed all over her neck—and I’ve got no idea how to get him back. I’m going to lose my job and my best friend and maybe even my favorite roost here at the Goose.

  A lot of stink eye is coming out of that window.

  I sit and turn the leash over in my hands some more, but there’s no clue there. So I take to looking for the answer at the bottom of my shot glass. Not there either.

  At any given moment I can only think of a couple things to do and I just finished drinking one of them. So, I set a few bucks under a half-empty beer back, hop up on unsteady legs, and get to hoofing it up the block.

  Scanning the corner where I left him, I see no trace of the robot. I start to think about asking people if they’ve seen a goddamn loose robot but then remember I smell like spilled whiskey, and it’s Portland and speaking to people here scares the shit out of them. Instead, I pick a direction and start down a side street.

  I walk like that until I’m sweaty, looking for some glimpse of my pal.

  But the Shine doesn’t leave tracks and he isn’t loud and he’s become a common enough sight that people probably won’t call the cops on him. Shining Armor sure as shit could have wandered, but more likely Adrian sold him to some two-bit junky and my best friend is in a pickup truck on his way to a pawn shop.

  I only hope they don’t strip him down for parts.

  Just then I notice a mail van chugging up the street. A familiar chubby face is swimming behind its dusty windshield. Turning on my heel, I hook it right up somebody’s driveway and keep going until I’m hidden behind a narrow Victorian house. Pressing my back against the mossy concrete foundation, I sit still and listen as the van idles past and keeps going.

  Fat Dave is out here looking for me. Well, that’s it, I suppose I’m up shit’s creek. Time to do what
I usually do in this situation. I wheel around and head back to the bar.

  At the Goose, I see my money is still on the goddamn table along with my half-drunk beer. Mallory sure takes her sweet time. I drop back into my usual seat and allow myself to take a long, hangdog sigh.

  Then I notice a shadow slinking toward me and I remember there are a lot of eyes besides mine on this street. And this guy headed my way is a regular panopticon.

  Jim—everybody calls him Jimbo—is tough to figure. He walks around in a little shuffle, shoulders hunched like it was cold. His head is pointed down, but his eyes are up. He’s watching, but his gaze never lands on you. His fingers are bent to hold a cigarette whether he’s got one at the moment or not, and he’s got that permanent five o’clock shadow of a lifelong drunk.

  Jimbo doesn’t stop here at the Goose much—he’s the type that coasts up and down the street all day long, back and forth, like the walking dead. Except you know what he does? He picks up trash when he sees it, holds doors for people, things like that. He’s a goddamn Good Samaritan, on permanent patrol, and if you start looking out for them you’ll find there’s a lot of people like that.

  “Hey, Jimbo.”

  I say it the way everybody says it, and he nods, balding head bobbing, and keeps walking past like he does with everybody.

  “You got a second?” I ask, gesturing to my table.

  Jimbo kind of coasts to a stop, not looking at me, just waiting in the same kind of way that the Shine waits when I ask him to. He’s got that curl in his spine like you see on a whipped dog. There’s a story there, I’ll bet. But I don’t really want to know it.

  “You seen anything weird last couple of days?”

  He shrugs and starts ambling off. Too vague. I gotta tighten it up.

  “You see who did it? Who took the Shine?”

  Jimbo stops. He nods at the empty chair. I nod back, so he sits.

  “Mal!” I call into the Goose. “Another round when you get a chance, please?”

  Sitting hunched, Jimbo’s gnarled fingers find each other, tying themselves into a knot over the table, like he’s praying. And he probably is—praying for what Mallory’s bringing.