by Owen Thomas
She shakes her head but can’t look away fast enough.
“Right. Look who I’m asking.”
“What? I didn’t do anything. What happened to it?”
“Spare me, okay? I’m not an idiot. Well, not always.”
She shrugs. I lift the paper towel off of my head, which is still bleeding and hurts like hell. I change to a fresh paper towel and then check hers. It looks better but then the blood finds its way back to the pyramidal opening in her head. I give her a new white square and drop the old red one on the pile.
“Anyway… I didn’t have that kind of money even when I did have a job. And even if I had it to give you, I wouldn’t keep your violin.”
“As insurance.”
“Yeah, I know. But it’s yours. And it’s not worth three thousand dollars.”
“How do you know?”
“I know a lot about things that aren’t valuable enough to sell. Anyway, I’m afraid your violin got a little wet. I’m thinking that’s an impairment of collateral.”
There is a small gasp of concern. “It did? It’s wet?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Fish tank.”
“Oh my god. Water will ruin it.”
“It might have just gotten the neck. I think you’re going to have to let it dry out.”
I lean back and unzip the backpack and pull the violin out by the scroll. The neck has splintered into two pieces. The scroll is attached to the body only by the strings. Brittany drops the bloody bandage and screams, lunging for the instrument. She rips it from my hands and hugs it to her chest, sobbing.
“My violin! Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry. I… you dropped the bag. I guess I stepped on it.”
“You stepped on it?!”
“How the hell was I supposed to know there was a violin in there? Where’s the case anyway?”
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. My violin.”
“Brittany…”
“DJ took it. He needed it.”
“For what?”
“For … never mind. Oh my god. I can’t believe it’s ruined.”
The blood has started again. She lets it trickle and then wipes it off the side of her face with her hand. She is crying again. I hand her another paper towel.
“Come on. Here. More pressure.”
She swats it away. “Oh my god.”
I let her grieve. She keeps mumbling about how she cannot believe I ruined her violin. I stop pleading my case and we sit in silence for a couple of minutes. I begin digging further into the bag. I pull out a hand full of DVDs.
“What the… You’re stealing my movies?”
She looks up from the violin guiltily, sniffing wetly. “We’ve seen all of his like a hundred times, Mr. Johns. I was just borrowing them.”
“Oh. Really. Borrowing.”
“I was.”
“I don’t think this is really your speed.”
“I like Al Pacino.”
“You don’t know anything about Glengarry Glen Ross, do you?”
“I can handle violence, Mr. Johns. I’m not a baby.”
“And Primary Colors?”
“Travolta’s hot.”
“All the President’s Men? JFK? Taxi Driver? Manchurian Candidate?”
“So?”
“So aren’t you a little young to be so politically cynical?”
“No. I don’t know. They’re your movies.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got two decades on you. That’s some serious disillusionment momentum. I grew up swallowing the Regan Revolution. I’ve had to unlearn supply-side economics. I pulled every muscle in my body contorting myself so I could appreciate the moral equivalency between the Contras and the Minutemen.”
She stares, uncomprehending.
“The poster child for American patriotism was Oliver North. There were, like, actual posters. And coffee mugs.”
“Yeah, I don’t know who that is.”
“Forget it.”
“So…those are too dark, is what you’re saying.”
“I’d have thought you’d take, I don’t know… Terminator. You left Terminator?”
“Sucks. Terminator III is better. T-2 at least.”
“T-2 is good. T-III is garbage. Alien?”
“Sucks. Alien III is better.”
“Die Hard?”
“Sucks. Die Hard III is better.”
“What is it with Gen Y’s and bad sequels? You don’t like anything original.”
“All of your shit’s so old. You don’t have anything new.”
“Good enough to steal.”
“Borrow. I can’t believe you smashed my violin.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to tell you except maybe you shouldn’t have brought it with you to a burglary.”
“I told you…”
“I know. Will you just hold this on your head. Please?”
She snatches the paper towel and blots her face and then wads it up against her scalp. I keep digging.
“And what the hell is this?”
I pull out handful of stiff white lace. A merry-widow-garter thing. And sheer stockings. And dirty white pumps. And a silk kimono.
“Give me those!” She lunges sideways and pulls them out of my hands. I don’t fight her. As the lace leaves my grasp, a box of condoms falls to the floor. My condoms.
“You’re stealing my condoms?!”
“DJ ran out, Mr. Johns! We’re trying to be safe. Don’t you want me to be safe?”
“Safe? Yes… I… safe?! You’re using drugs….”
“I don’t really use drugs, Mr. Johns…”
“You’re burglarizing my home to keep … Richie off your back. You’re bleeding all over my living room. None of that’s particularly safe.”
“Well, yeah, but we’re careful with the sex. And he was out and I just found them in the drawer…”
“And you thought you’d borrow them.”
“Yours look better anyway. Newer.”
I dig back into the pack. “What’s all of this for, Brittany? The lingerie, the … shoes …” But then suddenly it’s clear. “Oh, I see.”
“No you don’t. Shut up.”
“No, I get it. You were loaded for bear tonight, weren’t you?”
“No. No.”
“Yes. If I agree to give you the drugs or the cash, then swell, and if not, well then you’ll just try to … to … Jesus Christ, who do you think I am? Whose idea …”
“They’re mine!”
“Oh, like hell. What are you? Sixteen? Fifteen? You could have at least removed the tags. They’ve never been used. Except the skanky kimono. And these shoes, which I think were used as little shovels.”
“Funny. Ha, ha, ha.” She yanks the pumps out of my hand.
“And a bottle of Wild Turkey. Well that’s just perfect. How romantic. Man-o-man, Brittany. You really take the cake.”
“I just … I just needed…”
“Yeah. I got it. This is what happens from here. First, we’re calling an ambu...”
“No.”
“Yes. Your head’s still bleeding.”
“So. Your head’s still bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine. You probably need stitches.”
“I do not need stitches.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion. I have a headache. There’s a difference.”
“Second, we’re calling your mom.”
“No way! We are not calling…”
“Yes. Brittany. Yes we are. She thinks you’re dead or worse. Where’s your dad? Can you call him? Is he in Columbus?”
“New York.”
“You know his number?”
“Yes.”
“Want to call him instead of your mom?”
“No.”
“Fine. We’ll let your mom handle that. Third, we are going to sit down with your Uncle Chuck and you are going to tell him everything you told me.”
“No. I hate that
fucker.”
“Hey! So do I!” I drop the backpack and grab her by the elbow and give it a good jolt. The violin falls discordantly into a heap of lace underwear. “Believe me. After this is over we can get together for coffee and then go put some dog shit in his mailbox. Okay? But in the meantime, he and a bunch of government lawyers want to send me to prison.”
She stares at me and I can see an impotent rage welling in her eyes. I loosen my grip but do not let go. I am ready to protect my face if she starts swinging.
“And it’s not just about me, Brittany.”
“Oh, right. Liar.”
“Okay, right now, it’s mostly about me. Yeah. I admit it. But somebody has to do something about this Richie character. He’s not just going away. You or DJ, whoever that is… Who the hell is DJ, anyway? Does he go to Wilson?”
“None of your business. You can let go of my arm now.”
“How old is he? Is he an adult?”
“I’m not talking about DJ.”
“Fine. True love. I get it.”
“I seriously doubt it. Probably haven’t gotten it in years. Explains a lot. Explains a full box of rubbers. Explains why you kissed me.”
“You kissed me, Brittany, and you know it.”
“Not the way it felt to me.”
“Okay, I’m not having that conversation. My point is this. If Richie is as pissed as you claim, then you or DJ could get hurt.”
“Or you.”
She raises her eyebrows and gives me a shit-eating smile. The blood makes her look more than just a little insane.
“Yes. Sadly. Or me. Unless I am already safely behind bars.”
“Well, I see we’re back to you again. That was quick.”
I let go and stand up and head towards the kitchen.
“Okay. Okay. Look. Mr. Johns.”
I’m looking for the phone. It lies dead on my kitchen floor. I fish my cell out of my pocket.
“Wait. Wait. Stop. I have a better idea.”
“No thanks.”
“You’ll like it. I promise.”
“Not if it involves a garter belt and a bottle of hooch.”
“Please. Pleeeeeeease.”
I turn to look at her and put the cell phone dramatically on the kitchen counter and cross my arms. She no longer looks insane. She is a child again. I feel like a father. I feel like my father.
“What.”
“Drive me to the hospital emergency. After you’re satisfied that I’m not going to die, you can call the cops or whatever.”
“And your mom.”
“And my mom.”
“And…”
“And a sit down with Uncle Chuck.”
“At the hospital.”
“No. At my house. Police station. I don’t care. Not the hospital.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want … I don’t want my mom and Chuck … I want to take care of the medical thing first. Okay? My mom will freak out.”
“Why?”
“She’s not good in hospitals.”
“That’s crap.”
“It’s true. I swear. My little brother died in a hospital and she was there and … well, not a good scene. Okay? I’ll talk to her, but not in the hospital. She’ll be all oh my god, you’re dying, you’re dying! And I’ll be like, mom, dude, just chill out. It’s just a flesh wound! And she’ll be all, The blood! The blood! And then Uncle Chuck will just feed off of her and try to get all macho about it. Listen to your mother, Brit. Listen to your mother, Brit. He, like, spits my name out. I hate that. You won’t like it if the law gets involved, Brit. And since I’m already in the hospital, mom will make me see Dr. Warren, who’s this obgine she forces me to see even though I totally hate him because he’s a perve.”
I must look confused.
“You know… obgine? O... B... G... Y…”
“Why would she make you …”
“You know they’re gonna think you raped me.”
“What?!”
“They’ll want to check me out.”
“Not if you tell them I didn’t do anything, they won’t.”
“It’s standard procedure, Brit. Standard procedure.”
“What… you mean you have experience with this?”
“No. Well. Once. I wasn’t raped or anything. They just kind of jumped to conclusions.”
“From what?”
“That’s none of your business. But it might have been something I said.”
“Great. Well, just what are they gonna find?”
“Look, forget all that. When I talk to them I just… I want to be more, like, in control. I want to be cleaned up, not covered in blood, no physical harm. It’ll all go over easier. You know?”
“Yeah. I know. I know a load of bullshit when I hear it. What’s the game? What’s the real reason?”
“That is the real reason. I promise.”
“How’d your brother die?”
She looks at me like I have slapped her.
“Car accident. Fucking jerk. What, you think I made up my brother dying?! Why do you think my parents divorced? What else do you want from me? I told you I’d call them. I’ll talk to them. I’ll go see them. What the fuck do you want?”
She is indignant and visibly disgusted with me. Her face is wet with fresh rage, contorted in hate and contempt and I feel it all in my chest. Am I so weak that I care? Do I really care what she thinks of me? This blood-smeared white-trash strumpet in training? She who has destroyed my career and defiled my house and my car and killed my fish? She whose juvenile delinquency and seedy friends and law enforcement relations have jeopardized my freedom? Of course not. Fuck her. She can think whatever in the hell she wants to think.
More tears. God she’s a mess.
“Brittany, I’m really sorry about your brother. Okay? That was out of line. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be, you know… insensitive. It must have been awful for you.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My head really hurts, Mr. Johns.”
It is the only thing she has said to me that I can believe.
“Okay. Come on.”
“My way?”
“Your way. Hospital first.”
“No calls ‘til I’m discharged.”
“Okay, you win already. Let’s go. Can you stand?”
She tries to stand, but it takes both of my hands to slowly pull her to her feet. She sits on the edge of the couch, hands on her knees.
“How you doing? You okay?”
“I don’t feel…”
There is a deep gurgling that sounds like it is coming from somewhere beneath the sofa. She doubles over and empties her stomach next to grandma’s broken violin.
Karl Gustafson is putting out his trash, dragging two brown plastic garbage cans to the curb. They are full of wood scraps and saw dust. I haven’t spoken more than maybe fifteen words to him in the three years he has lived next to me. He nods in greeting as I escort Brittany, my sixteen year-old prisoner, dripping blood, across the driveway to the car. From the living room to the front door, I have made an effective pretense of keeping a firm grip of her arm to keep her steady. From the front door to the car, it dawns on her that my motives are more complicated and less altruistic. She wriggles and squirms as we walk.
I nod back to Karl Gustafson, who is taking a long second look. Brittany’s other arm – the one I am not squeezing – is suddenly in rapid motion. I flinch and tighten my grip, bracing myself for the punch or the slap or the gouge. The arm swings around my neck and she pulls herself up into my face. Her lips are on mine before I can push her off. It is less my surprise – which is prodigious – than the scent of fruity shampoo mixed with vomit that accounts for the strength of my recoil. I push but she hangs on. I relax and she lets go. She gives a coy sideways wave to Karl, who is now motionless at the ghoulish spectacle unfolding on my driveway.
Karl waves back meekly as I open the passenger door and stuff her in. I
fasten her seatbelt like she is a child. She does not resist. I slam the door and she presses her bloody cheek up against the window, playing the corpse.
“Little home accident here, Karl,” I chirp out as I round the front end. “Off to the hospital.”
I climb in and slam the door and back out of my drive way too fast. My back end makes scraping contact with the street, doing nothing to lessen Karl’s interest. He watches in stupefaction as we drive off, Brittany Kline’s face still mashed grotesquely against the window.
“Why did you do that?” I almost shout. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Do what?” She says, sitting up. She acts like we are going to the mall.
“Kiss me, that’s what. Again! I want you to stop kissing me.”
“What if I like kissing you?”
“No. You like messing with me and I want you to stop it.”
“Chill, Mr. Johns. I don’t have cooties or anything. Where are you taking me?”
“…”
“Where…are…you…”
“St. Ann’s.”
“I want to go to Riverside.”
“Why? It’s farther.”
“It’s closer to my house.”
“Fine. Riverside. Brittany, how the hell did all of this happen? How did you get mixed up with people like …”
“Don’t start with that. Okay? You don’t know my friends.”
“Were you just, what, running away from home forever?”
“It’s not the first time.”
“Okay. But why?”
“None of your business. No offense, but you’d have to live with my mom to understand. She’s a little…”
“What… strict?”
“Psycho.”
“Don’t you think she’s worried out of her head about you?”
“Listen, the only time she cares is when I disappear. Trust me. This is good for her. Good for me.”
“Right.”
“No really. Disappearing works wonders. You should try it sometime.”
She flips down her visor looking for a mirror. Finding none, she grabs the rearview and twists it her direction.
“Hey, I need that.”
“So do I. Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this? Oh my god.”
“Well, you’re gonna get everyone’s attention, that’s for sure.”
