Snow Job

by Charles Benoit

  “We’ve been friends since fourth grade. That shouldn’t stop just because I’m moving to Florida.”

  I took the cellophane wrapper off the tray of Life Savers, moved it closer to the gum.

  “Florida’s my chance to start fresh, you know?”

  I scraped an old piece of masking tape off the top of the register with my thumb, flicked it toward the garbage can by the door.

  “But here, in this town, I mean, I feel like . . . like I’m . . .” She looked around as if the answer was on a shelf. “I’m trapped. Nothing’s gonna change for me here. Not for me, not for you, not for any of us. We’re stuck. And I’m scared that if I don’t go now, in ten years I’ll still be here, still working at Pizza Hut, still living at home, still—”

  “You should buy a hat.”

  Karla looked at me, tilting her head that cute way she did when she was confused.

  “A big one. The floppy kind,” I said, still scratching at the register. “The sun’s different down there. And you get burnt up here as it is.”

  She smiled. “Yeah,” she said, slower now. “I do, don’t I?”

  “You’ll get all burnt, then you’ll start peeling, and when you do, you look like some leper, skin dropping everywhere—”

  She laughed and, after a moment, so did I. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll buy a hat. A floppy hat. Geez.”

  I looked across the register, looked into her eyes. “I’m gonna miss you.”

  Karla reached out and threw her arms around my neck, pulling me close, leaning over the counter to do it, packets of Life Savers rolling off onto the floor. I felt her face against mine, smelled the perfume she always wore. I closed my eyes and hugged back. I wanted change, and now I was getting it. My best friend leaving town, my other friends probably wishing I would go with her, drug dealers asking me for favors, and me doing them. I hugged tighter, wondering what would happen next.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” Karla whispered. “You’ll see. It’s gonna be the best year ever.”

  THE LIGHT BLUE Trans Am pulled up just after ten. Frank Camden climbed out of the passenger seat, said something to the driver, slammed the door, and headed into the Stop-N-Go.

  It was last week that Frank had pushed the six-pack of Coors off the counter when I had laughed at his phony ID, but by the way he nodded as he walked past the counter, saying, “Hey, how’s it going?” it was clear Frank didn’t remember any of it.

  I watched him in the round mirror, and as Frank studied the cooler window, I studied him.

  Silver and black silk shirt, red polyester bell-bottoms, wide belt with a silver buckle, black platform shoes that made him two inches taller, feathered-back hair with every damn strand in place.

  Look up poly in the dictionary and there’d be Frank.

  He stood with the cooler door open, making up his mind, deciding on two twelve-packs of Löwenbräu. The most expensive beer in the store. Frickin’ private school east sider.

  I was thinking through how to play it—tell Frank to piss off as soon as he set the beer down or wait until he handed over that fake ID?—when, from down the aisle, Frank half shouted, “That was one bitchin’ party, huh?”

  Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. And it must have showed.

  “Last week, Flint Street?” Frank set the beer on the counter. “Babe city.”

  “Flint . . . ?”

  “The college party,” Frank said. And smiled. Not a sarcastic asshole smile. A real smile. I still didn’t like it.

  “You were hanging out with Andy and those twins when I got there. Probably didn’t even see me—the place was mobbed.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty crowded,” I said, trying again to remember any of it.

  “Were you there when that guy got his head stuck in the fish bowl? Holy shit, that was rich.”

  Was I there? I was tempted to ask.

  “Hey.” Frank tapped the top of a twelve-pack. “Didn’t know you knew the Zod.”

  The Zod. I faked a grin. “Yeah, we go back a bit.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s cool, that’s cool.”

  No, it wasn’t. And I was hoping that now we were all even, Zod would go back to pretending I didn’t exist, forgetting who ratted him out to the police, forgetting everything about the kid who got him sent to jail.

  “So, anyway,” Frank said, “how much?”

  “How much what?”

  Frank laughed. “The beer. How much?”

  “Oh, right,” I said, skipping the ID check, the whole badass clerk thing feeling stupid now. I punched the keys, hit TOTAL. “With tax it’s . . . nineteen fifty-eight.”

  Frank dug in his front pocket and took out a tightly wound roll of bills. He peeled two twenties off the top. “A pack of Kools too.”

  I rang it up, gave him back his change. Frank dropped the coins in the Save the Children jar, folded over the bills, and slid them into his shirt pocket, balancing the cigarettes on the top of a twelve-pack as he lifted them off the counter. “You and Zod hitting the Mirage tonight?”

  The Mirage.

  Mirror balls on the ceiling, flashing lights on the floor, a line fifty-people deep to get in every night. “The hottest disco in town!” At least that’s what the commercials on the radio said. I’d never been there, never wanted to go anywhere near it, with or without Zod. But then why did I hear myself saying, “Yeah, maybe”?

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Frank said, backing toward the door. “And, hey. Merry Christmas.”

  I just sorta waved, not sure anymore what to say.

  I DIDN’T HEAR her come in. But when I looked up from the Rolling Stone I was reading at the counter, there she was.

  “So, we meet again,” Dawn said.

  I felt my heart jump, felt myself grinning like an idiot.

  She looked out the front window at the swirling snow. “It’s Christmas Eve. I figured you’d be closed by now.”

  “This ain’t no wimpy 7-Eleven,” I said. “We hang tough till midnight.”

  Dawn set her leather purse on the counter, flicked the melting snow out of her hair. “I was surprised to see you at Reggie’s house the other day.”

  “I was surprised to see myself there too.”

  “Did Stevie—sorry—did Zod ever pay up?”

  “In a way, I suppose.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “He paid you in drugs.”

  “Yeah . . .” I said, drawing it out like it was a question.

  “That’s because he knows you.”

  “If he knew me,” I said, “he’d know I don’t do drugs.”

  “Exactly,” she said, and then waited for me to catch up. She unwrapped a stick of gum as I worked through it.

  It took a moment, but I got there. “He knew I wouldn’t take it.”

  “Yup. That’s why he gave it to you.”

  “Then why go through all the bullshit?”

  Dawn put the gum in her mouth, reached over the counter, and tossed the wrapper in the trash. “I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

  “You think there was something to it? The whole thing with the bet and the payoff?”

  She smiled. “And you don’t?”

  The back room doors flung open with a squeaky thump, and George pushed a loaded shopping cart down the main aisle. “Break time’s over, kid. Santa’s got some soup cans for you to stock.”

  Dawn glanced at George, then back at me. “What time do you get outta here?”

  I checked the clock. “Thirty minutes.”

  She looked down at her purse, gave a little shrug. “Wanna . . . I don’t know . . . do something?”

  “Like what?”

  She sighed, and for a second I thought she looked nervous. “Maybe check out a midnight movie?”

  It was Christmas Eve, I’d worked the last six hours, had all of fourteen dollars on me, and I barely knew this girl. Plus there was that whole psycho coke-fiend boyfriend thing.

  There was only one possible answer.

 
; I said, “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

  Dawn looked up and smiled.

  “Hey,” George shouted across the store. “These soup cans ain’t gonna stack themselves.”

  I kept my eyes on hers. “What do you want to see?”

  She laughed. “If I tell you, you won’t go.”

  “Saturday Night Fever, right?”

  Dawn squeezed her lips tight, turning an invisible key at the corner of her mouth.

  “Gosh,” I said, hamming it up. “I guess there’s only one way I’m ever gonna find out.”

  She slung her purse onto her shoulder. “See you at midnight.”

  I watched her brush the snow off the windshield of a battered blue and white VW Beetle and drive out of the parking lot, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” drowning out whatever George was saying.

  “ADMIT IT,” she said. “You liked it.”

  It was two hours of disco, silly clothes, and dancing. Pure poly heaven. I was hard-wired to hate it. But—what do you know—I liked it. There was no way I was going to admit it, but I liked it.

  “It was a lot darker than I thought it was gonna be,” I said.

  “What were you expecting, a comedy?”

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting a gang rape and a suicide, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah,” Dawn said, and after a pause, she added, “that part was a little too realistic for me.”

  She pulled out of the mall parking lot and onto the main road. The snow had stopped while we were in the movie, and the plows had cleared the roads down to asphalt. A town truck went by going the other way, spraying her VW with salt. Karla usually freaked when that happened. Dawn didn’t seem to notice.

  “That guy in the movie,” I said. “The one Travolta played?”

  “Tony?”

  “I can’t believe how his family treated the brother just because he didn’t want to be a priest.”

  “All families are screwed up,” she said. “It’s sorta the definition.”

  “Fits for mine,” I said. “I got two sisters. One younger, one older. Right there tells you how crazy it is.”

  “Careful, I’m a girl too, you know,” she said, as if I needed a reminder. “What makes it so crazy?”

  “Eileen—she’s the oldest—married, got a couple of kids. They’re all right. Most of the time. But Eileen?” I shook my head thinking about it. “She’s just like my mother. Acts like she’s my mother too. Until she needs something. Then she’s all, ‘Oh, you’re my brother, you gotta help.’ It’s all drama with her. Always has been, and I don’t see it getting any better.”

  Dawn nodded. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

  “Then there’s Gail.” I took a deep breath, let it out as a sigh. “She’s younger than me, but she’s done a lot more crazy shit than I ever have. She’s not at home anymore.”

  “In jail?”

  “No. She might say she is. My parents couldn’t deal with her, so they sent her to live with my aunt and uncle in Vermont. I don’t know, she might even like it there. It’s a lot quieter at home, though. And a lot less interesting.”

  “Sounds like you miss her.”

  I smiled, remembering. “Me and Gail, the way we got along, you’d think we were ignoring each other. But it was just about giving space. We’d have these long talks. Not every day or anything, but you know what I mean. She’s smart. Always has a book with her. Wouldn’t know it from her grades, though. But that’s because she was suspended all the time. More than me, even. Mostly because of her mouth. She cannot stand being told what to do. She sees things different and doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks about her.”

  Dawn nodded. “My kind of woman.”

  “Yeah, Gail’s okay,” I said. “Crazy, but okay.”

  “I got a younger sister too.” She laughed softly. “I guess you could say she’s crazy.”

  “As crazy as you?”

  “No. Regular crazy. Technically she’s mentally retarded, but the way some people treat her . . .”

  “Oh,” I said, sounding as stupid as I felt.

  “She’s the best person I know. She’s this big, goofy bundle of love. Like it’s the only thing she knows. Unless she’s in a mood, then watch out. But she can’t help herself. Unlike most people I know.”

  I assumed she meant Reg, but there could be dozens more people in her life that were the same way. There was no way for me to know. All I could do was make sure I wasn’t one of them.

  Dawn looked over at me, smiled. “Anyway . . . the movie. What’d you think of the music?”

  “Are you serious? It sucked.”

  “I liked it. It made the movie better.”

  “If by better you mean more depressing, then you’re right.” I turned in my seat to lean against the passenger door. “How would you have ended it?”

  “What, the movie?”

  “Yeah, if you were directing it, what would you have done with the ending?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “I would. First, I’d get rid of the music, then I’d give it a happy ending.”

  She faked a shudder. “That would ruin it.”

  “What have you got against happy endings?”

  “That’s what we all want, isn’t it? A story with a happy ending.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Dawn laughed. “Absolutely nothing. But good luck getting one.”

  Sunday, December 25

  I PRIED OPEN AN EYE IN THE DIRECTION OF THE CLOCK: 9:45.

  Back when we were kids, me and Gail and Eileen would have been up hours ago, tearing into the mound of presents. By seven a.m., there’d be nothing left to unwrap, and every battery in the house would have been rounded up to power my Major Matt Mason Space Crawler or a Barbie Dune Buggy. It was noisy and hectic and hot, and it would only get worse—or better, if you were a kid—when our grandparents dropped by with their armload of presents.

  That was forever ago. Long before Eileen got pregnant and Gail got her attitude. Now it was just me and my parents, and they’d be leaving for Eileen’s soon, bringing a carload of toys for the grandkids. If my parents timed it right, Gail would call from Vermont when they were at Eileen’s. That way they could spread the call around the three of them, none of them wanting to have to talk with her for too long. I could’ve used a long talk with Gail, but I’d have to miss it.

  I was scheduled to work from one p.m. till closing. Eleven glorious time-and-a-half hours. It took a lot of sucking up, but it was worth it, since it bought me the kind of valid excuse that would get me out of spending the day trapped at my sister’s, watching the football game with our parents, her in-laws, and other assorted strangers. If it was just the kids, I’d go. It’d be fun watching them play with all the toys, letting them beat me at Sorry! or whatever game they’d be getting. And it was Christmas, so they’d be on their best behavior. I couldn’t say that about anyone else who’d be there.

  Stretched out in my bed, I thought about Dawn.

  She’d dropped me off after two, not even a hint of a possible good-night kiss, both of us playing it straight platonic, some vague lines about it being fun and doing it again sometime, everything cool until she said, “And whatever you do, don’t tell anybody I went to the movies with you.” That’s when Reg popped back in my head, all coked-up and beady-eyed, looking for a reason to cut some punk kid’s throat.

  Over Saturday Night Fever of all things.

  And I didn’t even get any. Well, it wasn’t like it was the first time that had happened. Or didn’t happen.

  Besides, she had a boyfriend. He was older, and he had money and his own place, and even though he was bat-shit crazy and a dealer, I knew that I had zero chance with her. I had a good chance, however, of getting my ass kicked because of her. Still, as I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, I knew it was the best Saturday night I’d had in a long while.

  Five minutes later, I took my usual seat across from my mom at
the kitchen table. My father was at the sink, rinsing out his TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT! coffee mug. “So, you finally decided to get outta bed, huh?”

  Obviously, I thought, mumbling something that could pass for a greeting.

  “A Merry Christmas to you, too,” my mother said, her smile telling me how to play it.

  “Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said, saying it like I knew I should. “You too, Dad.”

  He grunted. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” There was no reason not to be polite. It was Christmas, after all. It was the least I could do, since I hadn’t gotten them anything.

  My mother lit a cigarette, her fourth that morning by the look of the ashtray. “You bump into Santa when you rolled in last night?”

  It wasn’t funny, but I chuckled on cue. It had only taken a second to read their mood—light, TV family-ish, a hint of that when-I-was-your-age nostalgia mixed with a heavy dose of artificial holiday spirit. It was a rare mood, easily shattered, so I went along, sticking to the aw-shucks response I knew they were looking for.

  “Whoever dropped you off needs to learn some manners,” my father said. “What’s he doing beeping like that at two in the morning?”

  “Got me,” I said, pausing, then adding, “But next time I see her, I’ll ask.”

  That got the raised-eyebrow reaction I knew it would, my parents glancing at each other, their little boy growing up so fast. My mother puffed on her Winston. “So, is this a girl from your school?”

  “No, she graduated last year,” I said, assuming it was close to the truth. “We caught a late movie.”

  They shared another knowing glance while I made a golly-gee face. It all felt silly, but they seemed to like it.

  My father passed me a cup of black coffee, then my mother handed me an envelope. “This is from both of us and . . . well, you’ll see. Merry Christmas.”

  This was new.

  We were past sitting on the floor and opening presents as a family, but my mom was still big on gifts for Christmas. Cash was for birthdays and graduations—if you got that far—but not Christmas. Then it was store bought and wrapped with a bow, just like the ads showed. I gave a puzzled smile and pretended to weigh the envelope. A card, hopefully with something inside. “Is it a new coat?”