by Jane Etarie
ORBIT BEACH
By Jane Etarie
Copyright ©2012 Jane Etarie
Published by Murder Island Press
Cover Art by Dude Esquire Design
ISBN 978-0-9880515-0-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and people are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances otherwise are purely coincidental and unintentional.
ONE
Lost
GLEN GREEN IS A PEAR
Oh my god, not again. I didn't know what the the hell it meant the first time I saw it, and I still didn't know what the hell it meant like the fourth time I saw it. I guess it meant I was lost. I guess it meant I was a fucking retard. I guess it meant I was going around in circles like that big shit that wouldn't go down the toilet this morning. That's what the hell it meant.
I mean, it was kind of funny at first. Like a big joke. Like where the fuck's my car? Look at me, I'm so fucking stupid I forgot where I parked. But after a few laps, I was all like, this is not cute, this is so not cute. How could this be happening to me? Why me? I just wanted to cry. I just wanted to get home. I was tired and cranky, my feet hurt, I was getting hungry, and I was out of vodka. So I started panicking. Seriously, I was terrified. Like I couldn't breath. I was all like, Where is my car? Where is my car? Oh please god help me find my car.
So I guess I prayed? I was like, Please god... I'll be a better person... I'll do anything you want. I'll lose ten pounds. I'll lose twenty pounds. Just please help me find my car. I'll help lost children or something. I don't know. I'll be nicer to bums and old people and the cripples or whatever. I was desperate.
I'd heard when I was younger, like in Brownie Scouts or some shit, that when you are lost, you should stay where you are. So that's what I did. I just sat down on the curb and went into my handbag, half hoping it would somehow show me where my car was. Nope. Nothing there. Keys. Tampons. All sorts of shit to put on my face. Empty mickey. Empty pack of cigarettes, which I threw on the ground. All useless.
I started to cry. I didn't know what I was going to do. I felt helpless. Like I didn't know what I could do or was supposed to do. I'm not sure how long I sat and cried. I found some toilet paper in my handbag. I grabbed a square, pulled apart the plies, and ripped them into strips. One by one they melted in my mouth, and I started to calm down.
I had to admit it— I needed help. I mean, I don't know quit. I don't. But my car was obviously not there. I looked everywhere in that fucking parkade and it definitely was not there. But this totally wasn't my fault. My car got stolen is what happened. I was convinced. I was the innocent victim in all of this. I felt like I'd just been raped.
Some asshole was driving around in my car like a fucking hotshot, laughing and high fiving his criminal friends. Picking up slutty bitches. Picking up nasty hookers. Doing drugs. Listening to my gangster rap. Listening to my digital music player. Spilling beer. Smoking and cumming all over the interior.
And when they'd finish their ghetto orgy they'd just strangle the hooker. They'd strangle her and steal her drugs. Snatch the money from her bra. From her thong and her purse. And then they'd shove her in the trunk, with her neck all twisted. Dead. And burn my poor car in some gross hooker alley. In some gross hooker parking lot.
So I called the police. The lady was all like, Nine one one, please state your name and location and some other shit. And I make my voice like it's all cracking, like I have snot coming out of my nose, like I'm trying my best not to cry, like I'm calling in sick to work. And I tell her that I need help, that my car's like stolen, that I'm standing by a pillar that says Glen Green is a Pear at the parkade in the Skycenter Mall. But I'm not so sure where.
And she asks if somebody carjacked me or some shit. Did I see someone steal it? Am I in any physical danger? And I'm like, No. And then she's all like rude and cuts me off and tells me that 911 is for emergencies. That she would connect me to the police department dispatch or whatever.
So after a few minutes some other bitch answers the phone and asks me what my problem is. I tell her what happened, and she starts harassing me with all sorts of stupid questions about my car. She asks if it was stolen in the last twelve hours? Yes. From the location that I was currently at? Yes. Did I call the towing company? Yes I did— but really I didn't. The make, model and year? It was a black 1995 Escalade four wheel drive SUV. And I assure her that even though it's like sixteen years old, it's in great shape. Old lady driven before I bought it. Classic, I tell her, not old. And I don't mention the busted out headlight or the huge ass dent in the rear, in case maybe the insurance will pay for it.
And there is no way I know the VIN or the plate number. There's VG, though, which I remember, because like vag. There's a bumper sticker that says My Marine Son Protects Your Honor Student, which was not mine, but I kept on there so the cops wouldn't pull me over after the bar. There's another bumper sticker that says Bad Girls Drive Bad Toys. That one was mine. And a decal that says Bad Girls Drive Bad Toys on top of the windshield.
I ask her if she can like send an officer or something. That if I could get a ride home that'd be great. And she explains that they can't. That the officers are needed for emergencies, but that she could arrange for a cab if I needed one. And she tells me that if I could get more information and make it in to the detachment later, that I could complete some forms or some shit. But I was done. I just wanted to go home and drink. And I don't think she really cared anyways. Just totally unsympathetic. I felt like she hated me, like she was judging me. Like maybe I'd brought this all on myself, like those raped girls who dress all slutty. I don't know. It was like she secretly enjoyed my misfortune. Enjoyed her job too much. Like she'd been fingering her dirty pig hole the entire time.
Whatever. I wanted to call her a cunt, call her a sick perv and hang up. But sometimes I'm just way too polite. So I was like, All right, thanks... Ok, Sweetie, ok, bye... You have a good night, too... ok, bye.
So I'm like all sick and emotional and check my messages while I'm waiting for the cab. And then I get a real kick to the gunt.
Messages:
Boo
i'm br8ing up with u. sorry.
Change
I think the driver was like Eastern European, like some Russian Polack or some shit. I couldn't understand what the hell he was trying to say, but I think he was trying to be funny, or cheer me up. Like he knew I was upset. He'd look over his shoulder and say something, and then like pause and raise his unibrow, like he's waiting for me to laugh, and then he'd say something else and start laughing. I don't know. I just looked out the dirty window. I wasn't in the fucking mood for his ESL comedy routine.
We got to my place and I realized I didn't have any money on me. I had my bank card, but his cab was old and shitty. So I tell him, like real slow and loud so he can understand, Can you wait a minute? I need to run up to my apartment. I need to go to my apartment to grab some money.
And I don't know what the hell he was saying, like he didn't trust me or like he didn't understand English, but it was like he kept repeating twelve dollar or some shit. You need to give me twelve dollar. Twelve dollar. Twelve dollar. He was starting to sound like that Chocula puppet or whatever. His hairy finger kept tapping his palm, and his unibrow started pointing down.
And it's like, normally I am the most patient person in the world. For serious, I am so patient and understanding that I can easily be taken advantage of. But I was just really upset. I mean, I know he was just trying to do his job, but I didn't care. I didn't care that he came to this country for a better life. From some shit hole that didn't exist anymore. Probably blown up by the Russian army, the women sold into prostitution. And I didn't care that his family had been killed and raped and eaten while he watched. That he
had to live like a rat in some gutter of a bombed out building. That he had to live by his wits, like some wild animal, running with the dogs in the streets— his new family— in a country where dog is a source of protein.
I didn't care about any of that. I was just too stressed. Too upset. I was crying. I dug into my jacket pockets. There was a bit of change. There was a lot more change in my purse. Only I was having trouble counting it all over his nagging— What, you call cab and no have twelve dollar? Why you call cab if no twelve dollar? And he was all like going on about how I wasn't going to trick him, how I couldn't trick him. Calling me girl.
It was impossible for me to count the change. I didn't have enough anyways. So I got out the back and came around to his door and was all like, Fuck You! I don't need this shit, you asshole! You fucking terrorist! I was crying, he was so mean. And I grabbed the change I had, I think it was like just over three bucks, and I was all like, Here... here's your fucking money! Take it all!
I admit it— I was hysterical. I threw the dirty pennies and nickels and dimes and some gum wrappers into his cab, so it like went all over the place. He turned and started picking it up like some fucking bum. Like some Transylvanian gypsy bum.
Here... It's all there... Count it. Count it! Go buy yourself some fucking English lessons... buy yourself a ticket back to Russia, you... you fucking Polack...
And I was like bawling and I ran up to my apartment entrance and let myself in. He was still parked out there, penny picking, but I didn't give a shit. He could wait out there all night. I wasn't going to fucking buzz him in.
Butter
I was so hungry I could've stuffed my face like those fat fuckers on tv. You know, the eleven hundred pound animal who gets his bed forklifted onto the back of a flat deck. Gets paraded around town when he drops a few pounds. Like the dude who has six buckets of greasy chicken smuggled up to his room on a string when his family stops filling the trough. Or the man who gives birth every day to shits the size of two babies, or maybe a couple of big hams.
I keep a picture of one of those beasts on my fridge. And I looked it, and I thought about those sick pigs, and the people who loved them. And it's like, when you love someone enough to remove their twobabyshit and stink from their room, and wipe their big bedsore ass with some filthy old beach towel— that is true love. That's like real love. Like real devotion. And it made me cry even more.
I checked the fridge. And then I checked the freezer. I needed ice cream. Like those girls on tv, like Jennifer Aniston or some shit, in her T-shirt pajamas and socks. Like the girls who eat it straight from the tub when they get dumped or when they're on the rag. The entire tub, like they don't even care, like they're crazy. Only I didn't have any ice cream. I didn't have anything. I was left with nothing in this world.
My fridge and cupboards were empty. I'd just finished off a two week cleanse with a food and booze binge. And I never did get to the Whole Foods and LiquorHeaven to restock because I was looking all over the fucking place for my SUV. There were some condiments. Uncle Noberto's Hot Organic Salsa. Real Dijon mustard from Dijon. And some cleanse shit. Chlorophyll, aloe vera, alkaline water, pHour salts.
And there was no way I was eating the soy butter or tahini. The thought of that tar— that shit— in my mouth, caught in my raw crying throat, choking me, while I struggled to swallow, was too stressful. So I ate an old jar of maraschino cherries before I decided on the tub of butter. I didn't have ice cream, but in my self loathing and self pity, butter would do.
I stripped down to my underwear and went to the freezer. I grabbed the Grey Goose and couple mini Jagers and polished them off. I had half a bottle of Syrah that I'd used for cooking and drank that too. And before I hit the Scope, I remembered the bottle of Jamaican rum in the bottom of my closet that a coworker brought me back from her trip.
So I sat in the kitchen, crying, eating my butter, drinking my rum. The butter was actually pretty good. It was like low sodium and whipped. Like artisanal butter. Churned by people in traditional Dutch garments, so it wasn't as gross as you'd think. I had a lot of rum left, but I was worried about running out. And then I had like this flash, like I just remembered something important. My heart raced— I thought I might have some Patron in the cupboard. Only really I'd drank it a couple of months before. So I got up all clumsy and excited, like some thirty year old retard running down the stairs in his pyjamas on Christmas morning, and I knocked over the butter.
I looked at it on the ground. It didn't even spin on its rim or bounce or move. Just an instant thud, butter side down, like shit. Like dead butter shit. And I felt like everything in the whole world and the whole universe was against me. Like I was a dog being kicked while it was down. Like I'd never catch a break. Like nothing would ever go right for me again. Whatever. I just scraped it off the floor and ate it— I didn't fucking care about anything. But I mean, really, in hindsight, I should have just ordered pizza.
So I called Robert and of course he wasn't picking up his phone. At first I left a few texts, shit like: robert, seriously, we need to talk, please call me. call me asap, ok?... robert what's wrong? we need to talk— call me... robert, let me know what's up, ok?
I was texting and leaving all sorts of messages. I left him like fifty messages. I yelled at him. I cried. Sometimes it was just the sound of me sucking on the bottle. And I don't know why, but in one I was like laughing and talking in an English accent.
And then I was all like, what the hell am I doing? Why am licking his asshole? He probably loves that I'm grovelling. Loves that I'm begging. Like, What did I do wrong!? What did I do wrong!? Oh please take me back! Having a good laugh that I was sending these pathetic psychotic messages. So I was all like fuck that, the pity party's over.
And I was like seriously thinking about dumping his sorry ass. Like just forget him and move on. I mean, it's not as if I'm a woman with no prospects. Only I'm the kind of girl who when I love, I love hard, and I love for real. Like I believe that when you're ready for love, and you meet the right person, the Law of Attraction takes over, and love finds you. And the more I thought about it and the more I drank, the more I realized that me and Boo were meant to be together. It's like everyone says, when it's right, you know it's right. When it's the One, you just know it's the One. This was it. He was it. The One. We were like a romance movie. An epic eighties love song. Like one of those books with Fabio on the cover. It's like when Beyonce sang Crazy In Love, she was singing about us. And like when we had sex, it was like that dude in Kings of Leon was singing Sex is On Fire just about us. We were like, one of those great loves.
When I was a little girl, I wondered who I'd marry when I grew up. It was like usually a faery tale prince, or Alan Thicke, or my dad or stepdad or something. And when I was about to graduate high school— before I got kicked out for some shit that I didn't even do and wasn't even my fault— I would daydream of what my life would be like. And I know it sounds crazy, but I would wonder like, where is my husband? Where is he right now? Do I already know him? Is he that twenty-five year old guy? That guy parked outside my high school in the flat black Camaro with Slayer painted on the hood? Or maybe he was someone else? What was he doing right now?
And I would come up with all these fantasies. Sometimes he was in prison. All sweaty, pumping iron in the yard. Sent there for like a crime of passion. Or maybe for killing some asshole in self defense or whatever. He would be let out soon. We would meet in some shitty bar, and the chemistry would be instant. He'd have crazy ideas, all sorts of crazy ideas, and I would laugh. Like dreams of a better life for us. Like starting up his own custom motorbike shop, or maybe a bar, or a taco stand or whatever. And he'd go out of state to secure a loan with a business partner. Like a prison contact— maybe even a very close cellmate. And then he'd get arrested for breach of parole. And I would wait. I would wait for him and I'd write everyday. And he would see our child for the first time when he got out five years later.
Or when I looked at that po
ster in my locker, he was a Chippendales dancer. The third guy on the left with the long blond hair and the killer smile and the killer tan. The tight pants and bow tie. We'd meet at a show. It would be like a bachelorette party for one of my friends. All the bitches are horny and lathered. And he picks me. Out of all my friends, he picks my face to swivel his crotch in front of. And after a lap dance and getting his thong in my face, I'd develop an eye infection. But it's ok, we'd hook up. And after a steamy courtship, he'd have to decide. Jet-setting and living high on the hog with the Chippendales, or settling down with me. Only it would be a happy ending— I'd travel with him and watch all the shows with our babies.
And other times he was like a gigolo. A male prostitute. Standing on the corner in his cutoffs, wifebeater, and Doc Martins. With his peach fuzz moustache. So hot. Leaning into old men's cars. Leaning into my car. And he'd kind of mumble when he talked, and always look away, never look you in they eye. Wanna date? Ya. Ya I do. And he would smell like Jean Paul Gaultier's Le Male and I would be his forever.
But as it turned out, that boy— my future husband— was in second grade. And was like about to spend another year in second grade because he was in the hospital for a few months with viral meningitis or some shit.
So I made up my mind. You don't just let something like this slip through your fingers. You don't just let some random bullshit destroy your dream. And I wasn't just going to like throw away the last five months of my life. Five of the best months of my life. Fuck that. I had too much invested in this. And I was done with the dating bullshit. Done. It's like, we only have so much time in this life and I wasn't going to waste anymore of it. That window— my time, my youth, my opportunity— was closing fast. My mind was set. My path, my direction, my future was set. I was going to like call Robert back and say, Robert— I am not giving up on you. I am not giving up on our love. You do not just give up on a love like this.
