Sin With Me

by JA Huss

  I’m in her private space facing a window that’s got a nice view of the mountains and a whole parking lot filled with mature palm trees that blow in the desert wind.

  “What’s funny?” Plu asks.

  “Your name, ya know. You used to be Plumeria. So exotic and shit. But now you’re Dr. Brown. Which is about as boring as it gets.”

  Plu smiles at me. Then writes something down on her pad of paper. She’s fucking gorgeous. Always has been. Long dark hair. Almost black. Olive-colored skin with large hazel eyes. She looks like some kind of desert princess and the view outside her office makes me think of an oasis.

  Which is good, right? That’s what you want to think of when you come see a therapist.

  “I know your mother made the appointment,” Plu continues with a new more business-y line of questioning. “And I don’t usually allow this. But since we’re old friends, I made an exception. So tell me, Madison, what do you want to talk about today?”

  I sigh. I want to scream at her that I don’t want to talk about anything. But I’m the one who came. And she took the appointment. It’s not her fault I’m here, it’s mine.

  “Your brother?” she prods.

  I don’t meet her gaze. Just continue staring out at the oasis. Pretending I’m the desert princess, not her.

  “It’s been seven years now, right?”

  I nod.

  “And it’s still hard for you?”

  I nod again.

  “I know you were close,” she continues. And then she laughs so abruptly, it startles me. “Remember that time when he got drunk at your parents’ anniversary party?” she asks, tilting her head a little like she’s trying to recall every detail, but it’s eluding her.

  I nod again. It seems to be the only response I’m capable of.

  “He was so funny the way he did all those old dances with you that night. God, I miss him.”

  My throat is tight. It feels like there’s a boulder stuck in there and I can’t swallow.

  “But I think my favorite memory of him was in ninth grade when he got stuck up in that tree, trying to save that nest of baby birds. Do you remember that? You were, what? Eight? Nine?”

  Jesus, this woman is bad at her job.

  “He had a kind heart, didn’t he?” Plumeria goes on.

  “He did.” I force myself to speak, even though my throat feels like it might close up.

  “He always raised the most money no matter what the fundraiser was for. Foster kids, feeding the homeless, Toys for Tots.”

  “Yep! He was the best,” I say, forbidding myself to cry.

  “And then he was gone,” Plumeria says. She looks at me and her smile fades. “It’s hard when people die young, Madison. It’s not hard for him, because he’s gone. But it’s hard for you. And all the people he left behind, right?”

  I just stare at her for a few seconds. How the fuck she ever got a license to do this is beyond me. “I’m not here to talk about him.”

  “Good,” she says. “Let’s talk about you. What are you doing these days?”

  I sigh. Shrug, so I can pull myself together. “Just keeping busy I guess.”

  “Do you work?” she asks.

  I laugh. If Perfect Plumeria Brown thinks I’m gonna open up to her about my current situation, she needs to take a few more psych classes.

  “Well, what do you do?”

  “I run a business,” I say. “I do aerial photography for real-estate agents.”

  “Oh, how interesting. Tell me about that.”

  “Well… it’s new. I just started it.”

  “OK,” she says. “So what did you do after college? You finished, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, with more venom than I should. “Majored in business. And I’ve had lots of businesses since then.”

  “What kind?” she asks.

  “Well.” I sigh, not sure I really want to admit all my failures. But I’m looking at the clock, which says I have twenty more minutes left of this nightmare. So I either come up with shit to say or make a scene walking out. So I start telling her. It’s safe, anyway. No feelings at all attached to those failed ventures. Plu just nods and smiles. Like she approves of what I’ve been doing. And when I’m done she just sits there. Still fucking smiling.

  “That’s all of them,” I say.

  She looks down at her pad of paper and writes something down. I crane my neck a little to see what it is, but she’s got her pad tilted up so I can’t see. When she brings her attention back to me she says, “Why do you think you have trouble committing?”

  I laugh. “I never said I have trouble committing. I don’t even know where you got that idea.”

  She taps her pen to her pad, five times. Like she made bullet points on there, listing all my failures, and she’s enunciating each one. “You seem to have lost an awful lot, Madison.”

  “Look, the wedding business was going well until Carlos’ stupid daughter got pregnant with another man’s child. That’s not my fault. And the pet bakery was great for a while. But it was just a trend, OK? I didn’t realize it had no staying power. People make mistakes. So I’ve made some mistakes. But I’m only twenty-five fucking years old. Stop judging me.”

  “I’m not judging you, Madison. I’m just thinking… you’ve let yourself lose a lot.”

  “Let myself… Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t go into these things wanting to fail, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Of course not,” Plu says. “You want to win. Everyone wants to win. You just don’t seem to be able to get the job done for some reason. It’s my job to help you figure out why.”

  “I know why,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks. And this suddenly feels like a trick. Like she’s been letting me blab on about business but now she’s back here, to the place I don’t want to be.

  A little timer goes off. Just a small ding near her desk. So I stand up and say, “Well, it’s been fun, Plu. Thanks for the chat.”

  I don’t even wait to shake her hand or listen to her goodbyes. I go for the door and ten seconds later I’m back in the safety of my car.

  Alone.

  It takes me ten minutes to start it up. And then another five to wipe that whole therapy session back there from my memory.

  Ford, I decide. I’m gonna think about Ford. I really need that guy’s real name if I’m gonna use him as my escape fantasy. But I’ll probably never see him again. I did blow him off last weekend.

  And then I laugh. Blow him.

  I think I’ll call him Lumberjack in my fantasy from now on.

  So I do. I picture me and Lumberjack fucking outside in the alley like we did last weekend. In fact, I think I’ll pretend this is a weekly thing we do. You know, to keep the relationship fresh.

  I like that. It’s enough for me. Fantasy men come with no expectations at all. No commitment. No risk of failure. Lumberjack man is a win if ever there was one.

  And I could use a win.

  I could really, really use a win.

  Chapter Thirteen - Tyler

  Kids can be so cute. Especially on Halloween. Probably because they’re all hopped up on sugar. Watching little Spidermans (Spidermen?) chase ghosts and shit and pretend to catch them in webs is hilarious. Watching their parents try to maintain control over them is even funnier. I’m kind of enjoying seeing them tear all over the firehouse/haunted house/carnival situation, wreaking havoc, until two things strike me.

  One—I wonder what the hell happens if an actual call comes in. The engine is decked out like a hearse. Which can’t be the kind of thing you want to see charging toward you if your house is on fire. And…

  Two—These kids remind me of me, and Evan, and Scotty at that age.

  And just as I’m about to drop down heavy into a deep pit of memory, Dean comes over to me. He’s wearing a long, black, leather overcoat on top of a black turtleneck with gold chains and leather pants with these funky-looking platform shoes.

  “Well, hello there. And you are…?


  “Shaft, baby! ‘I’m a bad mother—’”

  “‘Shut yo’ mouth,’” I say.

  Dean seems pleased that I’m just cool enough to know the lyrics to the Shaft theme song and he slaps me some skin. (I’m hip as shit. Everybody says so.)

  “That’s it, my brother,” he says. “Um, what exactly are you supposed to be?”

  I glance down at myself. I’m wearing my usual boots, my usual jeans, BUT I’m wearing a plaid, flannel shirt instead of my usual t-shirt.

  “Dude… You can’t tell?” I ask.

  “I dunno, man. You look kinda like this rich motherfucker I know named Tyler, but that cat never wears a shirt with buttons. Too much effort, he says.” Dean smiles a magnetic smile. “Nah, for real, man, whatchou supposed to be?”

  “I’m Paul Bunyan.”

  “Paul Bunyan the lumberjack?” he asks.

  “The same. Just a bad, axe-swinging motherfucker. Can you dig it?”

  “You know I can,” he says, slaps me more skin (Seriously. I’m hip as all giddy-up), and then heads over to stop a couple of little witches from fucking with Gladys the French Bulldog, who is wearing a tiny beret and a Picasso shirt.

  “Yo,” he shouts. “She can’t have chocolate. She’s a dog, baby!”

  I look around. I see Bear and Rod dressed like Penn and Teller, which would be kind of an oblique costume choice most other places, but this is Vegas. The irony is that Rod’s playing Teller, the one who doesn’t talk, and if there’s one guy on the planet who cannot shut the fuck up, it’s Rod.

  Alex, true to his love of cooking, is dressed like Guy Fieri. Blond-tipped wig (I hope it’s a wig) and everything. He’s got two little rug-rats hanging on his arms, one on each, and he’s doing bicep curls with them. Damn, man. If I live to be fifty, I hope I stay in good enough shape to do shit like that. If.

  Even new guy Brandon is here. Which surprises me. Being new to the company and being as quiet and creepy as he is, I figured he’d spend Halloween at home sharpening his knife collection or whatever. But then again, Evan did tell me that story about him saving those kittens, so nothing should be surprising about this guy. Not even the fact that he’s dressed like David Bowie circa the Major Tom era. Body paint, face paint, copper-colored hair, the whole nine. I’m getting more and more curious about him, so I approach him as he’s ladling some punch into a red plastic cup. I feel like there’s a lot more to know about this fella and I aims to find out what it is. (When I go into investigation mode I like to talk to myself like an old-timey detective from the movies.)

  I saunter up, casually, grabbing a cup for myself. “How’s it going, man?” I ask, super-pleasant. (I’m pleasant as fuck when I wanna be. Everybody says so.)

  Brandon just stares at me. For a long time. Like a really long time. He stops ladling and just… stares at me. And then, after what feels like a month, he says, “Good.”

  And then he turns and walks away. OK. Nice. Feels like we’re really taking our relationship to the next level. (To be continued, Brandon. To be continued. I’ve got your number, pal.)

  And over there is Baby-Face Jeff. In a full-on Captain America costume. Because of course he is. Of course he is. Because he really is just like Scotty. It’s so obvious. He’s got something he’s trying to prove to someone. And it breaks my heart to watch him. Even though he’s laughing and having fun and playing with the kids—or maybe owing to the fact that he is—it breaks my tiny, knotted heart.

  And I’m trying. I really am. Everyone’s having fun and acting silly and I’m trying to just be here and be present like Dr. Eldridge encouraged me to be, and not think about Scotty, or Scarlett, or THE DREAM, or my mom, or my dad, or—

  “Trick or treat,” a tiny voice interrupts my self-struggle.

  I look down and standing just below waist height I see a tiny dude dressed like Charlie Chaplin from The Tramp. Little bowler hat and everything.

  “OK. Um. Trick,” I hit back at him.

  He stares at me with a confused look that makes his stick-on mustache crinkle.

  I try to explain, “See, you say trick OR treat, and then I either give you a treat or you give me a trick. So I’m curious to see what the trick is. You got one?”

  His little face scrunches tighter. “No. It’s just a thing you say. Can I have some candy now?”

  I laugh. I like this kid. “I don’t have any on me, man. But there’s a bunch of candy on that table over there.” I point at a giant pile of individually wrapped candy bars and stuff on a nearby table. Jesus. Feels like they could’ve gone out and gotten some better options for growing bodies. But if it was just a bunch of apples and shit, no one would show up. The whole point of having this thing is to provide parents who want it a safer alternative than door-to-door trick-or-treating. Because, you know, the world is a shitty place and evil people do evil shit all the time. And all the proceeds from the carnival go to the boys and girls’ club so that kids also have a safe place to go hang out after school if their parents aren’t home or can’t afford nannies or whatever. Because, again, evil and shitty are we.

  Chaplin’s tugging on my shirt tail now, saying something else. I must have drifted away again for a sec. “Sorry. What, man?” I ask.

  “I said, are you a fireman?” He says. He rubs a runny nose with the back of his sleeve and knocks his mustache askew. This little fucker’s so goddamn adorable I just wanna eat his stupid face. Not literally. That’d be fucked up.

  “No, dude. I’m not a fireman,” I say.

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  I don’t really have a good answer for this. At least not one appropriate to share with a child. The honest answer, of course, is ‘drugs, booze, and from time to time I fuck strippers in alleys and stuff.’ But I’m not sure that the truth would go over well in this instance. So I start fumfering, “Um. I, uh. Y’know, I kind of—”

  “He’s a superhero.” Evan’s voice comes from behind me.

  Evan comes strolling over now. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. Because this year he’s decided to be Jay Gatsby. Which I don’t think is totally fair because he’s already basically Jay Gatsby all the time anyway and also because I think it’s just an excuse to wear a tuxedo. You know how sorority girls use Halloween as an excuse to dress like whores and get away with it? That’s Evan and the tuxedo. He’d probably wear the shit everyday he’s not at work if he could. It’s too bad he didn’t live in Vegas in the 60s. Guy missed his time. Anyway. He comes sauntering over with a curious little smile on his face.

  Baby Chaplin does not seem satisfied. “He’s not a superhero,” he says.

  “Sure he is,” says Evan. “You don’t recognize him?”

  Kid eyes me closely. “I don’t know a superhero with a beard.”

  “That’s because he’s in disguise,” Evan whispers. And hell, at this point, I’m just as curious to find out who I am as Chaplin is.

  Evan leans down low so that he’s on Chaplin’s level. I lean down too.

  Evan whispers even more secretively, “He’s the Dark Knight.”

  Chaplin’s brows knit tightly together. He steps back. I stand up. Try to look superheroic-ish. “Yeah,” I say. “You know. Like in the movie? When the Dark Knight comes back from exile and he’s all dirty and homeless-looking? That’s me, kid.” I wink at Evan, who shakes his head a little and smiles.

  Chaplin takes me in for a good, long beat. Then he says, “I didn’t see that movie.”

  “No?” I say. “Well, then you don’t know that it’s not true!”

  I strike a pose. Evan puts his arm on my shoulder. I wish I had a picture of this moment, quite frankly.

  Chaplin looks us both up and down and then finally exhales. “You guys are weird.” And he heads off to see Captain America, who is handing out the candy. (I decide not to contemplate too deeply the implications of Captain America serving as essentially a high-fructose drug-dealer.)

  “Kid’s not wrong,” Evan says. “You are weird.”

  “No. He’s no
t wrong,” I say, unable to mask my forlorn tone.

  Evan takes note. “You doing OK?”

  I nod.

  “I’m really glad you came, man. I think it’s important.”

  I nod again.

  “What’s going on with that girl, by the way? The Pole Artisan.” (Thanks, Evan.) “I was only half-joking. You shoulda asked her to come with.”

  “I did.”

  “You did? When? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Last week,” I say. “I beat up these two guys who were chasing her with a gun and then we fucked in an alley and I asked her then, but she kinda said no.”

  “Oh. OK.” Evan pauses. “Dude—”

  “Man, I don’t wanna talk about it. OK?” I cut him off.

  “Yeah, OK. That’s fine. Hey, we’re gonna put Bear in the dunk tank, you feel like you wanna—?”

  I cut him off again. “No, man. I think I’m just gonna go.”

  “Really? No, dude. Just, you know, hang here for a while longer.”

  “Nah, bro,” I manage back. Suddenly I have hit a huge fucking wall. Or it has hit me. Hard to tell which. “I think I just need to go home.”

  “You want me to come with you? Or you wanna come over? Robert’s just there alone handing out his homemade granola bars. We can watch him and laugh at the kids’ reactions.”

  “That actually sounds kind of hilarious, but no. No, I’m good. I just wanna go to bed.”

  He eyes me skeptically.

  “Seriously, dude,” I say. “I’m OK. Really. I’ll be fine. ‘Joy cometh with the morning,’ right?”

  “What? What is that?” he asks.

  “Not sure. Think it’s from the Bible… I’ve told you about Nadir?”

  “Which one’s Nadir?”

  “The Farsi translator. The genius one? The engineering degree? The guy who helped me create the specs for the bomb-defusing robot.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I remember,” Evan says, stoically.

  “Yeah. I ever tell you what Nadir had planned to do with his share of the money when we sold the thing?”

  Evan shakes his head no.

  “He was gonna to use it to build schools for girls, and build fresh-water centers, and rebuild bombed buildings and shit. And every time he would talk about it I would be like, ‘Dude, just take whatever we get for this thing and get the fuck out of here. Move to… Switzerland… wherever, and just fucking, y’know, roll. Like a pimp.’”