Elsewhere, California

by Dana Johnson

  “I want to take care of myself,” I said.

  “Have some respect for yourself. Don’t clean people’s toilets. You are educated at a university. You are smarter than all the idiots I know. It’s stupid, this idea. Look.” He punched a pillow and turned over on his side, his back to me. “I won’t let you do it.” That time, I let him not let me do it. But that was the last time.

  And so I work. I worked. I fell into jobs that required little of me. I taught art to children with learning disabilities and physical disabilities for a few years—a job I was recommended for through April, an old college friend with whom I am no longer in touch. The years passed and all I know is that she is somewhere out there. The last job I had, Massimo helped me, too. He knew someone who knew the person advertising for the position. But I felt that Massimo being involved with my whole venture compromised my goal. I didn’t want to be a hypocrite, working merely for show.

  “Avery,” he had said, stroking my face, genuinely amused. “How do you think people get jobs? Do you think everybody is lucky? Do you think that magic happens simply because you work hard?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. Exactly.”

  He laughed his big, booming laugh that I love so much. The laugh of someone who marvels at and enjoys the misconceptions of a child. “Avie baby,” he said, wiping the moisture under his eyes. “Half the people working at my firm are the daughter or the son or the cousin of some idiot.”

  I suppose I have always known that, but I have never been the one to think it’s okay to take advantage of such arrangements. Why should anyone have much more, do much more, get much more, when they have not worked for it, but their mother or father or spouse has? And why should someone have so little when they work and work? But my scruples crumbled. I took the job. “And now I’m the girlfriend of some idiot,” I said, which made him laugh again.

  The job I had was not hard. I taught basic drawing, which I’d learned autodidactically, as a child and in college. Things that anybody could learn and teach. Exercise in techniques like still life, figure drawing, landscapes. There were eight students in the class, and even though I had taught before, I didn’t know how to be. What would be me? I thought of all the different possibilities. I could be the professional, measured and single-minded. The compassionate instructor, all soft touches of encouragement, smiles after gentle entreaties to take the charcoal off the page. No need to press too hard or think about the task at hand. Or I could be the teacher who was jokesy and folksy, the coolest thing in the room. I settled on all of them.

  When I first walked into the studio, there were only three students there. A painful-looking young girl, her body trying to disappear, hunched over and apologetic before she had even met anyone. She smiled at me, a quick, nervous flash before she looked away. Abigail. Her name was Abigail. An older woman, maybe sixty or so, sat across from Abigail. “Hello! My name is Sally,” she had announced loudly. “Sal!” She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and pulled on the neck of her black Bob Dylan T-shirt. Her big hands were a jumble of turquoise and amethyst. Sal was the first to speak, but John was the first one I noticed. He was tilting back in his chair, his arms clasped behind his head. How was he managing, I wondered, leaning back dangerously in his chair, with no hands anchoring him to the table? Effortless. But no, the tip of his Converse was hooked under the table. He had black hair that stood up in chunks. A silver hoop earring. He said nothing. He just stared at me with gray eyes, without a smile on his face, and I thought, He is trying to make me nervous. He is trying to intimidate me. I used the trick of staring back to show that I was not nervous or intimidated. But I was. “Hey everybody. I’m Avery,” I said with the most casual cheer. “Glad you’re here. Let’s wait a few moments until the others get here, before we get started.” When the others did arrive, I could only think about John. I only knew his name was John because I had finally asked him at the end of class.

  “Hey, I didn’t get your name,” I had said. He was walking out, his back to me.

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s John.” He didn’t turn around fully to face me. He had said it over his shoulder. And his tone was such that I remember it exactly. In my ear. In my head. Right now. It was as though I had asked him a question to which there was only one answer. Later that evening, when I told Massimo about my first day in the studio teaching, I told him about it all, except for John. He said, “Nobody you wanted to fuck?” He asked this, laughing, to joke, but I knew he wanted an answer. I threw a pillow at his head. “Shut up,” I said. “Shut up.”

  “Shut up,” I say. I’m startled to hear Massimo’s voice, now, asking me. “What?” He puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “Nothing. I was just talking to myself.” He looks at his watch. He comes to me. He holds my face in his hands. “Come here,” he says. He kisses the back of my neck. He takes my hand. “Lay down with me.” I have to start getting ready soon. It’s late afternoon. But I let him pull me. I would like to go to sleep.

  OWEN’S BEEN WORKING practically since we moved here. Gives Mom and Dad money to stay at home. He says he can’t stand to be without money and he hates to ask Dad for anything. He’s always saying, Don’t mess around and try to ask Dad for more than two dollars at one time. Might as well be asking for a million the way the old man be acting. And that was before Keith came to live with us.

  Everybody has to work because of the pizza me and Keith ate, and the leftover meatloaf, which Dad totally went spastic over, because of what Mom had to cook in place of the pizza. But we didn’t know. We were hungry, so we ate it all. Mom came home from work and was going to heat up the pizza and the meatloaf and make some greens to go with it. But it was gone.

  I’m in my room when Mom gets home, goofing around with my baseball cards, putting them together in groups of color that kind of match, even if they don’t match exactly.

  Avery! she yells, and I know I’m in trouble about something. Where the meatloaf at? She opens the oven door and closes it. Where them pizzas that was in the freezer?

  Me and Keith ate them, I tell her. She shakes her head. Don’t nobody get paid until tomorrow. Ain’t nothing in this house.

  She looks in the cabinets. She says everything we have. There’s a can of mackerel, some Jell-O, half a box of grits, and some pinto beans. Only got half a bag of them, she says. I’m waiting for her to just let us have it. Keith is standing next to me, and when I look at his face, he crosses his eyes while Mom’s back is still looking in cabinets. If I laugh, forget it. She will go off on us. Just because she hasn’t yet doesn’t mean she’s not going to. I look away from Keith but when I look at him again, he’s not making goofy faces. He’s just looking down at his shoes. Fake Nikes. Instead of the swoosh thing, they have these weird squiggles on them. I told him when he first got them that I could draw stuff on them to make them better, make up some totally different kind of shoe that’s even badder than Nikes, and he just goes, I don’t care. They’re shoes. But you don’t like them, I told him. They could look way better if you tried. He just shrugged. What about these high-waters? This gay-ass little kid shirt with a bear on it? I guess he was right. He couldn’t even steal anything. Mom and Dad would totally be able to tell if he did.

  While she’s going on about the food, I’m surprised that Mom isn’t even more mad. Sometimes she’s real pissed but most of the time lately she just acts like she’s tired. She lets us slide this time. She makes something crazy with everything that’s left in the cabinets. It’s crazy, but it’s good, too, I swear. She boils the beans. Then she fries them up with the mackerel. She boils the grits. Lets them get kind of hard and then she fries that up with little pieces of bacon we have. Two pieces left. We have the greens with all that. I think it was good, but nobody else does.

  When Dad comes home, he looks in all the skillets and pots. What in the hell is this? He takes off his cap and scratches his head. We ate earlier. At all kinds of different times because no one eats together in my house. Never do.

 
; What is it? Mom says. It is what it is, she says, smoking her cigarette.

  Well, if that what it is, Dad says, we gone have to do better than that.

  Better make some more money, then, Mom says. Or quit your school, she says. But Dad isn’t for that. He thinks school is everything. All of a sudden, he decided that he was going to night school for a real estate license, and so that’s what he’s doing, so there’s less money.

  And that’s why everybody has to have a job.

  Keith picks up money mowing lawns and helping people clean up junk out of their garages. He even helps Joan sometimes.

  I’m a babysitter. That’s what I do this summer. Joan got me the job. It’s her daughter’s kid I babysit. He’s a nice little kid, Jonas. A brat only some of the time. Joan trusts me better since I’m a little older. She never held what happened at her house against me. She’s a real nice lady. I can’t figure her out. She’s just so nice all the time. I don’t care, though. I get two bucks an hour and sit for three hours with the kid, usually a couple of times a week, and then on the weekends I can even make ten bucks. Joan told me. She said, I knew you’d be good at it. You’re so watchful and observant. Like it’s hard to watch a kid. He’s six. There’s not that much to do.

  It’s July and I’m watching Family and I’m babysitting Jonas because his parents are on a date. They’re seeing Whitesnake play, which is so cool. I told Jonas’s mom Lee, and she just stares at me. You like Whitesnake? she says. She pulls up on her bangs to make them stand up more. Big blonde bangs just like the lead singer in Whitesnake. Huh, she says. Okay. She smiles at me. Don’t let Jonas stay up after eight, she says. C’mon! Let’s go, Jonas’s dad yells. He’s not that hot. He doesn’t have a chin or something. And his red hair doesn’t look as cute on him as it does on Jonas. And he’s not that nice. They had to get married right out of high school. Eighteen years old. Owen told me. Married bliss, Brenna says.

  Somebody’s knocking on the door and I get scared because it’s dark and who would be knocking on the door? I get up and go to the door. I turn down the TV. Stay here, I tell Jonas. He gets up and comes with me to the door. He never listens to me. Who is it? I yell at the door.

  It’s yo Mama! Brenna says, and I can hear Keith laughing through the door. I open it. You guys better get out of here, I say. But they push through the door.

  Yeah, get out of here, Jonas says. He puts his little hand in mine.

  Nice, Brenna says, looking around and picking up stuff. She picks up this bowl of jewelry that’s on the kitchen counter, where Lee keeps all her jewelry. This place is nice. Brand-new and just built, but they don’t hardly have any furniture or anything.

  I swear to God if you steal something, I will tell them you did it, Brenn.

  And for once Keith can tell I’m freaking out a little because I really, really want to keep this job. C’mon, he tells Brenna. Avery’s parents don’t play. They will whip both our asses. He sits down on the couch though, and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

  Off, I say. Feet off.

  Why, he says. This ain’t your crib. Ain’t nobody here to see me.

  Yeah, Brenna says. Pull it out. She always says that. She means pull whatever I have stuck up my ass out of it. She sits down next to Keith and I notice something right then that makes me scared. I don’t know why I am scared but that’s the feeling. She puts her hand in his hand, like nothing. Like it’s their house, that’s how they’re sitting together on the couch. Jonas walks over to Brenna. He holds out this red fire truck he loves. Look at this, he tells her. You want me to go put out a fire for you? I can do it, he says.

  Nah, Brenna says. Keith just stares at him. She tells Jonas, Don’t put the fire out. I like fires.

  SO WHAT IS going on when I come home from babysitting? Mom is bent over our kitchen table shaking and wiping her eyes. She tries to puff on her cigarette but can’t. She has to put it down or drop ashes all over the floor and table. Keith is doing some kind of spastic dance that has a lot of crazy steps that don’t make sense together. Funky chicken and then the robot and then he kicks up his heels like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins when he does that really cool dance number “Step In Time.” Then the swim. That’s his favorite dance to do when he’s acting stupid.

  Look you guys! he says. Look Auntie Vicky.

  He swims through the air and hops on his toes then holds his nose with one hand while the other hand moves down making Ss in the air like a snake. I’m drowning, he says. You guys, help me, I’m drowning! He’s yelling in a high girly voice. Mom is almost on the floor. She’s telling him, You need to quit playing, you need to stop. You a mess. You so silly.

  Ave, do the swim with me, he says and pulls me next to him. I don’t even know what to do at first but I don’t want Mom to stop laughing. She looks at me and her right eyebrow is up like a upside down V. I can’t have fun like Keith, though. I’m thinking about too much. How do I look? Does it look good? But it’s not supposed to look good, the swim. It’s supposed to be a joke that I’m playing but I keep taking it all way too serious. Come on, Keith says, and tries to do the bump with me like when we were real little kids. We made up dances to songs. We did the bump to the Jackson Five singing A, B, C, it’s easy as one, two, three. And that one song I used to really like. One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch girl. We didn’t even have to practice. We could say, okay. Four bumps, three “Kung Fu Fighting” kicks to the left and then to the right. Then robot for a little bit and then march in place. But Keith isn’t telling me what we’re supposed to be doing. I’m not sure what he’s going to do next. I just stick to swimming in place for a minute and then I drown until I’m on my knees and can’t go down any more. It’s not funny anymore to Mom. She smokes her cigarette and stares at me. I try one more time. I just do free moves, that’s what Brenna calls them, like the hippies. I twirl around and sing, When the moon is in the seventh hour and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planet and love will steer the stars. I twirl and twirl, thinking Treat Williams is such babe. I love that movie.

  Mom’s mouth is open now. Keith stops dancing. Mom says, What you call yourself doing? She’s smiling, though. That’s something.

  She’s having some kind of fit, Keith says. Somebody done hexed her.

  Something, Mom says. She mashes out her cigarette. You doing your own thing though, that’s something. Don’t know what it is, but go head on with it.

  I stop dancing and take a bow. Free Moves. I’m the queen of Free Moves, I say.

  Okay, Free Moves, Keith says. I’ma call you that now.

  All right, Mom says. Messing around with y’all. Got to get my work clothes ready for tomorrow. Go and sit down somewhere. She gets up and empties her ashtray in the trash. Got to iron something for me to wear, she says. So me and Keith stop dancing.

  Let’s sit down goofy ass, Keith says. We both sit down at the table and swivel in our chairs. Keith makes a song with his fingertips on the table. Guess this song, he says. I listen real hard but it’s easy to figure out anyway. I move my head to the music. I sing, Fame! Is it any wonder you are too cool to fool?

  Too easy, Keith says. Why you home already? They must have not stayed at that concert long.

  No. They didn’t. I slide the placemat around the table. I got driven home by Jonas’s dad Caleb and he didn’t say five words to me. He goes, Hey. You ready? Night. Thanks. His hand stayed on the steering wheel and I was daydreaming that it would be kind of cool if he would just take his hand off the steering wheel for a second. Put it on my leg. Say, Avery, you’re cute, you know that? But no. All I get is, Night. And he doesn’t even wait until I’m in the house. He totally burns rubber on me. What if there was like, some weirdo who jumped out of the ivy and tried to strangle me or chop me up in a million pieces, like in Halloween? He doesn’t even care.

  Whitesnake is shitty anyway, Keith says. They look like girls. Girls with white snakes.

  What are you talking about?

  Girls with dic
ks, dummy.

  What?

  That’s what whitesnake means, dummy. Keith gets up and starts talking in a high voice like a girl. Look at my long white snake. He puts his hand in the front of his jeans like he’s holding a big hose that’s all out of control and spurting water everywhere. Then he does a curtsey and skips around the table.

  That’s funny to me, Keith skipping around the table. I am a dummy. How come Brenna never told me what Whitesnake meant? She’s always knowing what something nasty means. Keith slaps his hand down on the table. Wake your ass up! I’m talking to you negro!

  Shut up, and don’t come over to my job anymore. I smack him across the back of his head when I get up to go watch TV. Nobody else is watching it now so I can watch whatever I want. Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert if it’s on.

  I sit on the floor close to the TV and Keith sits next to me. It’s on. Cool! I say. We watch Bachman-Turner Overdrive and Keith rolls his eyes.

  I say, What’s up with you and Brenna anyway? I’ve been wanting to know this all night but couldn’t ask in front of Mom because she would be all over it, telling Keith that he has no business going around with Brenna.

  Look how you look at them dudes. You want to get down with all of them, I can tell, Keith says.

  I watch them throw their hair all around and thrust their crotches at me and point their guitars at me. At me. Yeah.

  But I say, Gross. I don’t want to get down with anybody. You. You’re the one, Keith. Are you making out with her or something?

  He scoots closer to the TV and turns up the sound.

  You hate them. Why are you turning up the sound?

  He doesn’t answer me.

  So what, it’s none your business. She kiss good, too. She’s my hoochie coochie girl.