The Early Crap: Selected Short Stories, 1997-2005

by Anthony Neil Smith

  AHEAD OF THE GAME

  Dale had a light heart attack that sent him to Singing River Hospital overnight. While he and his wife Sue waited for test results, he talked about their son’s steroid mess. Ernie smashed records as a high school quarterback during his junior year, but was found out and kicked off the team.

  “Fucking politics,” Dale said. “It should be about looks, marketability, the whole package. Ernie had to take them to keep up, or it would’ve been Boy Scouts or piano lessons or baseball, for God’s sakes.”

  “Lay down. You’ll stroke,” Sue said.

  Ernie got caught in the locker room after a game, taking his shirt off before the shower. One of the receivers slapped his back, said, “Good game,” and saw that Ernie was lactating. The receiver yelled, “Ernie’s got bitch tits!” So the college hints and wooing dried up.

  Doctor Mathiesen came into the hospital room carrying a folder. She wore big-framed glasses and her hair was tall and sprayed up like tumbleweed.

  “You’ve been lucky so far. But now I own you, Dale,” Doctor Mathiesen said.

  The room was dim because one of the florescent bulbs was out. Sue was squeezed into a chair too small for her, the dress draped over the armrests, while Dale sat on the edge of the bed. He was shaped like a bubble, her like a pear topped by blond silk.

  The doctor continued, “Your cholesterol is right on the edge. You could go at any time. Be glad this was a small one.”

  Sue said, “It’s my plan, killing him one steak at a time. Now I’ll have to deep fry it all.”

  Dale smiled at her. Yesterday he thought it was heartburn, but then his arm went numb and tingly so they rushed to the emergency room. The doctor wanted him to stay overnight. Sue went home and Dale couldn’t sleep.

  His and Sue’s combined weight was five hundred seventy pounds, nearly even between them but leaning towards Dale. They met in college at the gym, neither as big as now: Dale was an athlete, into free weights, Sue was fifteen pounds over and loved expensive chocolate. Her first words to him as he passed her and smiled while she slumped on the stepper were, “I’m starving.” He asked her out immediately and they had been together for twenty-two years.

  Doctor Mathiesen crossed her arms and shook her head spastically. “That’s no way to live, I’m serious. Look at you two.”

  “Diets don’t work. Exercise is boring. What’s good about living so long anyway?” Dale said, but it was a front. He was scared. He would be too big for the coffin.

  “It’s just nasty. If you want ten more years, do it my way. You want to go ahead and get it over with, take up smoking. You can sit on your ass and do that.”

  Dale and Sue left the hospital, went to the car. They held hands while Sue drove through Taco Bell and ordered Mexican pizzas, with a couple of chicken soft tacos for Ernie.

  “What do we do now?” Sue said.

  “I guess I change some things, try to stay ahead of the game. You want to diet with me?”

  “I can’t. My career.”

  A couple of years after Ernie’s birth, Sue had packed on another twenty pounds. Dale took some photos of her posing in lingerie. He mailed them off to a plus-sized women’s magazine. They liked the shots, helped Sue get in touch with an agent who had gotten her work as a model ever since.

  “They’ll tell us how to do this,” Dale said.

  “You said we’d always do what makes us happy, right?”

  “I’m happy being with you.”

  “We don’t have a choice, do we?” She let go of Dale’s hand and turned off Market Street. They lived behind an elementary school, a block from the seawall and less than half a mile to the beach. The houses looked as if they’d been built around the old trees that had been twisted after hurricanes. They pulled into their driveway behind Ernie’s truck. A small Tercel was parked on the curb.

  Sue grabbed the Taco Bell bags. Dale followed his wife inside. Ernie was halfway down the hall coming to meet them, walking funny and smiling, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans. Behind him, a teenage girl sat on the couch in the den, brushing her messy hair down, licking her palms and rubbing them over loose strands.

  “Home early? How was it?” Ernie said.

  “Got to lose some weight.” Dale pointed. “She a friend of yours?”

  “That’s Pam. I’ve been telling you about her, remember? We’ve gone out a few times.”

  Dale walked into the den and smiled at the girl while Sue wrapped her hands around Ernie’s arm and told him about the tacos. MTV was on; Dale picked the remote off the floor and cut the volume in half. Pam looked flushed, embarrassed, squirmed like she hadn’t gotten her bra back on right beneath the wrinkled shirt. What Dale didn’t like was that she had to weigh at least one thirty. Puffy cheeks and short hair, thick neck and a huge chest, very cute but dumpy.

  “Nice to meet you,” Dale said before he slumped into his recliner.

  Pam lifted a couch cushion off the floor, put it back in place. Ernie’s socks and shoes were under it. She grinned but turned her face away. Ernie walked in, leaned over the top of the couch to tickle Pam, kissed the top of her head. But she wasn’t having any of it.

  “I’ve got to go now. See you tomorrow?” Pam said.

  “You don’t have to. Come and meet Mom.”

  “Later. Thanks for it all. It was fun. Nice to meet you, sir.” Pam spoke fast and was on the way out with Ernie trailing behind sputtering. Dale would have to talk to him in a little while, tell him that good-looking boys don’t date cows. He got up and walked to the kitchen, where Sue sat at the small round table. She had redone most of the kitchen in peach. The pizzas were out and cut, a place set for Dale, a place for Ernie’s tacos.

  Dale looked at his pizza. Melted cheese and red sauce on tortilla shells. He ate them twice a week usually. But now it just looked like a mess to him.

  “I’m not hungry now. Maybe later.”

  “Don’t start on that. Not yet.”

  “I’m not going to eat if I don’t want to.”

  Sue sighed deeply, dropped her head and rubbed her cheek. The thing was, they spent most of their time in the kitchen. They ate and talked there, entertained friends there. They snacked a lot, tried weird recipes from magazines, the backs of salsa jars, and websites about Thai and Guatemalan food.

  “You’re going to get too good for me,” Sue said.

  “Nothing has to change. I’m just going to take it easy a little.”

  Dale picked up the mail and leafed through it: bills, a Navy brochure for Ernie, and a new GQ. He smiled down at the cute young actress on the cover. He thought the girl’s mouth was too big, lips covering up horse teeth. She wasn’t as beautiful as everyone made her out to be.

  Sue said. “Remember what you said back when we first started dating?”

  “That I’d pay for dinner?”

  “You said I was fat and you liked it.”

  “I’m not complaining. Jesus, I’m married to a model,” Dale said. Sue was beautiful in those shots; you just had to have the eye to see it. Sue was who she was, and that was perfect

  Dale walked out of the kitchen to the front door. He opened it to find Ernie and Pam leaning against her Tercel. They were in the middle of a deep kiss. Kids raced up and down the street on bikes.

  “There you go! Give it to her, boy!” Dale shouted.

  They nearly fell down getting unwrapped from each other. Pam was in her car quickly, cranked and gone down the street before Ernie could get up to the porch.

  “Why did you do that?” Ernie said.

  “Joke. Laugh. She’s cute.”

  “She’s all right. I don’t know, little big.”

  “She’s huge.” Dale stretched out his hands, but could only reach as far out as his own waistline. “But that’s okay. She any good?”

  “Kissing?”

  “You kiss anybody, kisses don’t count. Sex, I’m talking. Y
ou go down on her?”

  “Come on, Dad. Geez.”

  “You want to take a walk with me?” Dale started towards the sidewalk, eyes on Ernie, pulling him along.

  They walked to the beach and then home again. On the way back, Ernie danced like a boxer and did shadow jabs.

  “We should jog,” Ernie said.

  “I’d sprain something,” Dale said.

  Ernie stopped dancing but he jabbed a few more times, raced ahead and waited for his dad to catch up. Dale looked him over. Ernie wasn’t too far gone, but would never gain back the mass he’d had with the steroids. He carried one ninety and looked good though a little flabby, Dale thought. Not as beautiful as he once was.

  “You decided about next year?” Dale asked. They had been talking about college picks, about trying out for football even if he couldn’t get a full scholarship or even get on the starting line. As long as he was back in was fine with Dale.

  “I was thinking, maybe LSU? Pam’s got a scholarship for golf there, and I think it’s a good school.”

  “Yeah, it’s great. Might be hard to make the team, since it’s such a high level, but maybe I can talk to the coach. That’s a national contender there.”

  “I wasn’t talking about football, though. I meant for golf.”

  “Fuck off.” Dale shook his head, wrinkled up his face nasty.

  They waited for a couple of cars to pass before crossing the road to Market Street, and then turned onto their street, lingered in front of the house.

  “Nothing wrong with golf,” Ernie said. “It’s a money maker. I’ve been doing pretty good, actually. I’m a natural.”

  Dale said, “That’s the same as being a natural at taking a shit. It’s not that hard. Since when do golfers look like athletes? They don’t get in commercials or movies.”

  “I see them all the time, Tiger Woods, credit cards and shoe ads.”

  “Exceptions. You’ve got to think long term. Stick with football.”

  “That’s old news. I don’t want to deal with that again.”

  “Why not?” Dale stopped and faced his son. “You could be a star.”

  “I don’t have to be. I’ll be happy with less.”

  Dale’s eyes went wide and he got louder, stuck his finger in Ernie’s chest. “Don’t ever say that, see? Ever.”

  “Why not? I got caught. I went for it just like you said and I got caught. You knew what I was doing and winked at it.”

  “But you quit!” Dale’s face was hot, sweating. “Take off your shirt.”

  Ernie grinned. “Dad.”

  “You heard me, take it off.”

  Ernie glanced at the kids riding down the street on bikes

  “You think they’re going to help? Take your shirt off.”

  Ernie yanked the T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside, stood rock still with his arms by his side, fists balled. His chest was smooth, droopy. His stomach barely pooched out over his waistband. His shoulders sagged above thick arms. Dale walked around Ernie, patted his ass first and said, “Pathetic.

  Dale ran his hand down his son’s back, then down his thighs as low as he bend. He pinched a bulge of skin and fat on Ernie’s side. “You like being this way? You think Pam wants you this way? How about I go home, get some old pictures. Not even a year ago, and I can pull out some of you, damn hard back then. Like a fucking statue.”

  Ernie’s breath was sharp, edging towards crying. But he kept his eyes straight ahead, hardly blinking.

  “Look at me, boy. You want my waist? I’m a bucket of goo. You date a fat girl, you still don’t give up. You do it for her. She wants you on that football team. You can still do something good. This would take you a month to take off, get the muscles back. It would be beautiful.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Ernie mumbled. “I lost my shot.”

  “Once. We get more than one shot.” Dale grabbed his son’s breast, squeezed. “They’re empty, see? That’s over with, behind you.”

  Ernie was rigid, shaking. Dale coughed into his other hand, then let go of his son. He was dripping wet, but his heart was okay, beating a little fast was all. The kids on bikes had stopped a few houses down and were hooting. Dale wanted to chase them away.

  “Take a lap around the block here. Let’s move it,” Dale said.

  Ernie jogged off on the street towards their house. The setting sun caused a purple tint to coat everything, so Ernie looked like he was glowing as he ran. The kids on bikes circled and paced him down the street. Dale started to run after him, but changed his mind. He would follow along in the car.

  BAD FOR BUSINESS

  The rumor was the Times-Picayune critic would visit the restaurant that night incognito, which was the last thing Gill needed with Jessie upstairs hiding from the Feds. Gill’s had opened two months ago on the fringe of the French Quarter and quickly built a rep—laid back post-cybercafé, Creole inspired menu, walls covered with bright neo-outsider art. This was where the young and cool New Orleans came for client lunches, romantic dinners, couple of after work drinks on the red-brick garden patio. Gill needed to impress The Critic to stay afloat, because buzz came and went quicker than seasons changed. Then Jessie showed up desperate and three years late, wrecking Gill’s concentration and making his heart beat fast again.

  It was a strong night, nearly full at eight, booked solid during peak hours. Good atmosphere for The Critic, wherever she was. One of the waiters told Gill he’d seen The Critic a couple of times, when she visited other places he had worked. He was sure to recognize her again, disguise and all (“The glasses. She’s nearly blind,” he said), and would alert the staff.

  Gill stood at the front awhile with Avery, his hostess and girlfriend. She was Brazilian, skin a deep chocolate, wearing black slacks and a white silk blouse. Gill wore a khaki suit, his best brown shoes. The hair was perfect, blond and gelled. He walked around, talked to diners, schmoozed some celebs: teen actors Gill didn’t know named Sarah and Seth and Reese; the guitar player for Bruce Springsteen, Nils Lofgren, there with Jimmie Vaughn; and a table of literary types, known in the circles. But Gill wanted stars, not flashlights.

  One of the waiters waved him over, huddled close and said, “We’ve got a couple of guys over there, say they’d like to talk to you.”

  “Problem?”

  The waiter shrugged. “They haven’t even ordered. Just water and bread. Came in, said something to Avery I couldn’t hear, so she bumped a reservation and seated them.”

  “My luck, she probably bumped The Critic.”

  “She won’t get by us. The net’s up.”

  “These two, are they stars?”

  “None I know.”

  Gill fell into step behind the waiter, who gave a point halfway to the table before taking a sharp left out of the way. These two were probably late thirties, both white, both in black suits, both in good shape. The one with curly hair sipped water, while his mostly bald partner leaned back.

  Gill smiled, his hands behind him. “I’m Gill Pinot, the owner? How’s everything tonight, gentlemen?”

  “Just fine. Haven’t ordered yet,” the bald one said.

  “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

  “We have a few questions.” The bald one pulled an ID wallet from his inside pocket, laid it open on the table. “Special Agent Harker,” a point across the table, “Special Agent Yancey. Federal Bureau of Investigations. We were told you’re the ex-husband of Jessie Little.”

  “Sort of.”

  Yancey grinned. “And that was a ‘yes or no’ question.”

  Gill reached behind him for an empty chair, pulled it to the agents’ table and sat with the back in front of him, leaned his elbows on top. “We did the papers, set the date, all that. I showed up at the church. She didn’t. We had a few phone calls after that, and she signed ‘Mrs. Gill Pinot’ on some things—car loan, charged some clothes. I sued in
small claims. She didn’t show for that either, but she stopped signing, too. Last I saw her was the day before the wedding.”

  Harker said, “We’ve been looking for her a few days now. Now we’re sure she’s in New Orleans. She made a call from the airplane to your home number earlier today.”

  “Somebody answered?”

  “Must have.”

  Gill thought a moment while the agents shared a Got Him Now look.

  “Maybe the machine picked up. I’ve been here since eight this morning. Busy, haven’t called home for messages. Tonight’s pretty important for us.”

  Yancey looked around. “It’s a nice place. Not my usual type of hangout. Guess I’m the falling-apart-blues-and-cheap-beer type. No frills.”

  “Shut up, Yancey,” Harker said. “You sound like some TV cop.”

  The younger agent took another sip of water, but Gill could tell he was hurt.

  “Won’t take much of your time, Mr. Pinot. If she comes around, let us know. We’ll be watching, just in case. I take it there’s no love lost, right? Nothing to gain by helping her?”

  “Nothing I can think of.” Except keeping my business. And maybe some intimate affection. Gill cleared his throat. “We hear there’s a restaurant critic supposed to stop by tonight. Have to be on our toes. What’s Jessie done wrong, anyway?”

  Yancey answered. “Has to do with drugs. We’ve been watching her a long time, think she’s tied directly into a major pipeline operation. Heroin and cocaine.”

  Harker pulled out a card and handed it to Gill. “Like I said, just in case. Can we get some menus?”

  “Sure. And a couple of glasses of Merlot, on the house. Enjoy yourselves.” Gill replaced the chair, shook the agents’ hands, and turned around in time to see the top of Jessie’s head peeking out from behind the kitchen doors—short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses.