Young Americans

by Josh Stallings

  Jacob was sitting in the living room. He had on a poncho and a sombrero with his name stitched on its crown. He smiled. “Look what Moms brought me.”

  “Attractive look on you.” Sam scanned the room. Jacob flicked his eyes to a hall closet.

  “Samantha, I didn’t forget you.” Esther handed Sam a white cotton dress with flowers embroidered across the yoke.

  “It’s amazing.” It was. Sam could see it with her leather jacket and combat boots.

  “I’m sorry I missed Christmas Eve. Traffic on the 101 was death. No really, death.”

  “You died?” Jacob smiled.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, smart boy, I was dead. Karl had to do CPR.”

  “Sounds dreadful. Did you see the white light?”

  “I did and your Nana came to me, asked me to tell you to do your homework and be nice to me or she’d haunt you.”

  “Cool beans, I never had a ghost before. Bring on the haunting, Nana!”

  “Your brother is a very odd child.”

  “Genetics are a bitch.” Sam sparked a Marlboro, offering one to Esther, who took it and greedily inhaled. After a moment she jetted the blue smoke.

  “Damn that tastes good. Karl hates when I smoke.”

  “Welcome home, Esther.”

  “Thank you, Samantha. What a gift to have both my children waiting for me. You didn’t lose your job did you?”

  “If I did?”

  “Rent is due next week.”

  “I quit my job. And don’t worry, I have you covered.”

  “Good. You are welcome to be here as long as you need to be.” Esther hugged her daughter tightly. Sam resisted at first, then relaxed into the embrace. Growing up, her mother was the glue that had held the family together when Dad went off the rails or was in lockdown. It was Esther they could depend on. It was in her arms Sam felt safe. For this moment she allowed herself to be.

  Sam pulled away. “Karl?”

  “He’s nice, it was fun.”

  “He’s kinda a tool,” Jacob said.

  “He is not your father. But no one is. He’ll do for now, so please be nice. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Sam said.

  “Tonight.”

  “Damn, we have plans,” Jacob said.

  “Change them.” Her smile was soft, her will iron.

  “Don’t fight it, bro. We’ll be here with bells on.”

  “Good. Now I need to lie down. Saving Christmas is hard work.” Sam followed Esther into her bedroom. She picked up the picture of her and Jacob on the swing sets when they were children. She stared from the photo to her mother.

  “Yes, Samantha? You’re angry. Karl?”

  “Not really. You think it was smart leaving Jacob?”

  “Oh, I get it. You can run off to whatever adventures you want. Your father, he certainly did as he pleased. But Mom wants one week for herself and the world comes crashing down. One week is too much for all I’ve done.”

  “You’re a black belt.”

  “Excuse me? Black belt?”

  “At guilt.”

  “That is not fair, Samantha.”

  “Don’t mean it ain’t true.”

  “Did something happen? Is Jacob alright?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “There you go then. He’s almost an adult.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Can we argue the semantics of your brother’s age later? I’m exhausted.”

  “OK.” Sam left Esther lying on the bed.

  • • •

  Sam and Jacob waited to hear Esther snoring before moving the guns, smoke grenades and other evidence of the crime to the Firebird’s false trunk. “How did you get everything hidden?”

  “I was sleeping on the couch, heard her come in. While she went to put her bags in her room I hustled everything into the closet.”

  “We are going to have to be very careful, the woman can smell a scam a mile away.”

  “Why not tell her?”

  “No. I don’t need her grief. ’Sides, it would only worry her about shit she has no control over.”

  Terry peddled up on his ten-speed. Sam and Jacob were sharing a warm Mickey’s big mouth, leaning on the Firebird. Terry was wearing a red sweater with a Frosty the Snowman appliqué. “Don’t say a word, either of you.”

  “It’s kinda sexy in a very kinky way,” Sam said.

  “I think I saw Ian Hunter wearing one like it in CREEM,” Jacob said.

  “Fuck ya both and give me a cig and a beer.”

  “They’re warm.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “That rough?”

  “She invited her friends from work. All old, all straight. ‘Why do you wear eye shadow?’ ‘You aren’t a faggot are you, son?’ Like that all night.” He gulped a warm beer down like he was from the UK. Took the cig offered by Jacob and sucked deep. He pulled off the sweater, revealing a black Bowie tee shirt on under it.

  “Don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you two.”

  “Go on a Nico-style killing spree. ‘Mother I want to . . . kill you,’” Jacob sang.

  “It was a Doors song. She covered it on the album June 1, 1974, with Eno, Cale and Ayers.”

  “Terry, you are a god of music trivia,” Jacob said.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?”

  “I think it’s sexy.” Sam winked.

  “And now you’re fucking with me. Thanks guys.”

  “You know we love you. L.U.V.,” Jacob said.

  “We do. I might even take a run at you, but it would break Valentina’s heart.”

  “I am straight. Tell her I like, like, her. More than that is never gonna happen.”

  “And destroy all her hope? Never,” Sam said.

  “You gotta admit, Valentina is smoking hot,” Jacob said.

  “Yes, she is. If she was a woman I would be all over her.”

  “You really gonna let seven inches of flesh stand between you and what could be true love?” Sam said.

  “Yes!” Terry guzzled his beer.

  “You staying for dinner?” Jacob asked.

  “No, Mom and her pals are doing the whole turkey dealio. Got any boo?”

  “Always.” Jacob pulled out a Bugler tobacco tin packed with joints. He sparked one and passed it to Terry. “Panama Red, be careful.”

  Terry took a long hit and held it, speaking around his tight lips. “Can’t be powerful enough for what I got coming.” He started to pass the joint back but Jacob held his palms up.

  “Keep it.”

  Terry rode off sitting up, hands off the handlebars, smoking the joint. He weaved a little but not badly.

  “I think Terry and Val might make a hell of a couple.”

  “He’s straight.”

  “So you boys keep saying. Sooner or later those lines blur.”

  “You been with a woman?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Dyke. If you weren’t my sister that might be hot. As it is, I want to boil my eyes to clean away the thought.”

  “Sorry, I won’t tell you how hot she was. Long black hair, fine—”

  “La la la, not listening.” He put his hands over his ears and walked into the apartment, leaving Sam leaning against the Firebird.

  Christmas dinner was a fucking disaster for everyone but Esther. She was happy to be left in the dark.

  Karl was pushing past middle-aged into just aged. Thick gray hair permed into a white man fro. Brown corduroy leisure suit. A ruddy, moon-shaped face, red from sunburn and years of a steady diet of scotch and soda. “I want you kids to know how much I respect your mother. I would never try and take your father’s place.”

  Jacob tuned out—this was pure bullshit. If Karl respected his pop he wouldn’t be hitting on the man’s widow. He was feeling very Hamlet. Just needed a sword, a skull and a tapestry to hide behind.

  When Esther went to make coffee and serve the pie, Karl turned his attention to Sam. “Hear
d you were dancing up North. That I’d like to have seen. I’m a big tipper.” Under the table, having slipped off his shoe, he stroked Sam’s ankle with his toes. Her face was hardening.

  “Karl, you toke?” Jacob mimed hitting a joint.

  “Yeah, I’m cool.”

  “Then come on, dude, won’t take a second.” Jacob was up and at the door before Karl could resist. He did what any man who didn’t want to be shown up by a younger man would. He went out back and instantly took a deep hit on the joint Jacob was sparking.

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Fucking fantastic, kid.”

  “Take another hit, I have something to show you.”

  Karl took a long inhale. Closed his eyes. Held it. Opened his eyes. Fuck.

  Jacob was pointing a snub-nosed .38 between Karl’s eyes.

  Karl let a stream of smoke escape his lips. He started to speak.

  “Shhhhh. Keep your fucking mouth closed.” Jacob snapped the hammer back, for effect.

  Karl near shit himself. “Son, you don’t—”

  “Shhhhh. I will kill you and not even think twice. I’m stoned. I’m angry. You hit on my sister again, ever, you die. Clear?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “My pops would. I’m his son. I’m a lousy shot, so it will be close range.”

  “You’re crazy, you need help.”

  “Yes I am, and no I don’t.” Jacob tapped the barrel on Karl’s brow. “Here is how this plays out. You grow some balls and come after me, I will kill you. Or you kill me. Then Sam will kill you. You kill Sam, well then Moms is hell with a shotgun. Getting the picture?”

  Jacob put the revolver in his pocket.

  Karl was panicking. He moved toward the house. “My jacket.”

  Sam stood at the backdoor, holding Karl’s jacket. She tossed it to him. It landed on his head.

  He pulled it off, all dignity lost. “What about Esther?”

  “We’ll tell her you had to book.”

  Karl looked from one hard face to the other. Slowly he turned and was gone into the shadows.

  “Don’t fight my fights for me ever again,” Sam said.

  “Pops would have kicked his ass.”

  “You ain’t Pops.”

  “Neither are you, Sam.”

  From the house they could hear Esther calling their names. They replaced their scowls with smiles by the time they hit the table. They explained Karl got called away to bail out a client.

  “Never mind. He can be kind of a dick sometimes. I’m glad it’s just us.”

  Brother and sister looked at each other and started laughing.

  • • •

  Midnight found Esther in bed and Sam and Jacob looking into the drainage ditch, drinking rum and cokes.

  “I’m gonna say this once. You were kinda badass with Karl.”

  “Yes, sister, I was.” He took a long pull off his drink. “What do you think Candy is doing?”

  “Sleeping, or fucking a stranger. Sorry that hurts, but Candy is a free agent. She once told me she only felt fully alive when fucking or running a scam. I don’t see the flowers-and-hearts ending you do. I see you getting your heart tore up by my best friend.”

  “People change.”

  “Not as much as you think.”

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  “I’d rather be dead than sing ‘Satisfaction’ when I’m forty-five.” —Mick Jagger

  Five days until the heist.

  Kenny’s Shoe Store.

  Noon.

  “Do you have these in a size smaller?” Candy held up a pair of silver stilettos.

  “I’ll check.” White shirt, clip-on tie. The makeup remover hadn’t taken off all the eyeliner. There were still little sparks of glitter in his hair.

  She let out a quiet but very sexual moan when he put the shoe on her foot.

  “Bowie or Iggy?” she asked.

  He leaned back on his heels looking up at her, dropping the salesmen drone act. “Bowie all the way. My turn. Queen or Lou Reed?”

  “Ooh, that’s a tough one. Lou is the godfather. But Queen, I mean damn, did you see them at Winterland?”

  “Front row, pressed against the stage.”

  “No. I was there.” She smiled at him, letting it land, her eyes locked on his. “When is your break?”

  “Now.” He stood up, ripped off his nametag and tie.

  “What about the shoes?”

  “A gift.” He tossed the tie and nametag at the old lady working the register. “Later, Ruth. Get out before they drain your youth—oh hell, they already did.”

  • • •

  “What the fuck did I just do?” the shoe salesman said. They were in a coffee shop eating pie. Candy was licking the spoon and taking every opportunity to get his eyes.

  “You just set yourself free,” she said. “Are you in a band?”

  “Yeah, Sound and Fury.”

  “Like an idiot?”

  “Nice, lady knows her Macbeth.”

  “I think I saw you play . . .”

  “At the Mabuhay? Have to be. Wild show, jungle theme?”

  “You were electric. I better get going.”

  “We’re having a rehearsal tonight, big show coming.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “You wanna come along, to the rehearsal?”

  Candy grabbed his arm and let herself be escorted to a VW van. It was spray painted black with Sound and Fury slashed across the side in lipstick red.

  • • •

  On the ride he told her his name was Cord. Male form of Cordelia.

  “Your nametag said Michael.”

  “He died when we walked out. Happy liberation day!”

  “Vitamin Q?”

  “Why the fuck not.”

  She put it on his tongue and he swallowed. Too easy.

  • • •

  The practice studio was a small warehouse in the Mission. Junkies, drunks, hookers and good old-fashioned bums crowded the sidewalk. Cord eased past them to park in a caged lot next to the rehearsal space.

  Taking the microphone, he was stunning, transformed from shoe-selling schlub to a real deal rock star. Three songs in he started to lose the thread, started forgetting lyrics. Then he started mumbling about “the fuck snake rugs. Who let those reptile bastards in?” Amazing what a few drops of LSD would do to an innocent Quaalude.

  Chi Chi, the band’s cross-dressing guitar player, was losing his shit. “What the fuck is wrong with you? There are no motherfucking snakes. Roaches yes. Snakes no.”

  “Ahhh.” Cord climbed onto a bass speaker box.

  Chi Chi wagged his finger in Candy’s face. “What did you do to our man?”

  “I just met the guy. He seemed cool. I’m Ariana Bend, by the way.” She passed Chi Chi a card that listed Candy as a musicians’ agent. The phone number on it would be picked up by a service—Bend Agency.

  “You for reals, no bullshit?” Chi Chi said.

  “Real as they come. You know Fee and The Tubes?”

  “Hell yes, we’re opening for them New Year’s Eve.”

  “I know. I got them that gig.”

  “Young chick like you, you manage The Tubes?”

  “No. I’m a big fat liar.” Behind her Cord was playing with the invisible webs between his fingers. “Why don’t I get him home. Come back tomorrow and hear you guys. If I like what I hear . . . who knows.”

  “Yeah, who knows.” Chi Chi flounced over to his guitar and let out a power chord.

  • • •

  Candy drove Cord to the bus station. Bought a one-way ticket to Wichita. She cleared his pockets of ID and all cash. “I love you, two heads and all. Kiss me,” he said, looking surprisingly sober. This was not his first trip to weird town.

  She offered up a lude. “Take this.”

  “Only if you will kiss me, let me stroke your scales.” She kissed him long enough for him to grope her breasts. Pulling back she softened. “OK, baby, Q time.” She gave him t
wo more ludes.

  By the time he hit the bus seat, he slumped against the window, out. Watching him go, Candy felt like shit. She had just fucked this kid’s life. Sam’s “us and them” wore thin on Candy. During Sam’s two-year absence, she’d had plenty of time to think. In a class at Foothill Junior College she learned about moral relativism. What she’d just done to Cord was bad. Robbing a doctor who preyed on under age girls was good. For her the lines between ‘us’ and ‘them’ seemed permeable.

  • • •

  The next day, Candy returned to the rehearsal space. A band meeting was in full swing. Chi Chi, dressed as a stubble-bearded geisha, was saying he knew all the lyrics. The fuzzy drummer said he didn’t give a fuck, he just wanted to play. Chi Chi and the skinny bassist were about to tear each other apart when Candy cleared her throat.

  “Where is Cord?”

  “Good question, chica. Where is he?”

  “He dropped me off at my car, seemed better. Said he was going home to rest.”

  “He never made it home.”

  “And this is my fault how? He’s an adult.” She walked around the room, picking up a leaflet for the show. “Four days.” She shook her head. “Hate to see you cancel, what I heard was damn good.”

  “Cord will show up.”

  “OK, how’s this sound? He shows, I hear you play tomorrow, I sign you.”

  “Just like that?” the bass player said.

  “Just like that. You boys ready to take this out of the garage and into the arena?”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Fifteen percent.” She stuck out her hand. No one shook it.

  “Duh,” said the fuzzy drummer.

  “What if Cord flakes?”

  “You boys are fucked and I move on.”

  “I know the songs.”

  “You don’t look the part. You need a front man if you want to open for The Tubes.” Candy turned and clickety-clacked her heels all the way across the room. She stopped dramatically at the door and spun around. “OK, I like you kids. I will send you a singer. You teach him the songs in case Cord is a no-show. Best I can do.” She gave them a two-finger salute and was gone.