by Logan Miller
6.
His venomous puppet.
His murderous Pinocchio.
Deputy Sparks.
Third-generation white-mongrel trash. A dash of Mexican sperm in there somewhere. Grade-A toilet fly. The cognac of forlorn hope. Cud served as salad. A stream of piss tapped and bottled as Vitamin Water. Pure zero multiplied to infinity. A cur beaten to a shrieking aggressive shiver. Acne pocks, small womanish hands, thinning hair combed to the side, a wispy mustache, an unhealthy sweat to his greasy skin, angry to the bone with frail yellow teeth like sucked-on Tic Tacs that leaned at angles like old fence posts. DNA, what a motherfucker.
He’d come a long way indeed, started a long way down, plucked out of the hot frothy muck of poverty and reckless breeding by a silver-starred god from the machine. He’d been harshly judged the first day of kindergarten and lived painfully with that judgment until he dropped out of school midway through seventh grade. After that it was a predictable route to crime and an unpredictable route to the badge.
It had now been over a decade since Sheriff Darius Gates rescued Lester Sparks from a murder rap and, once rescued, knew that he could play puppet master with him until the end of his days. He’d caught the kid cold, a once-in-a-career catch, the murder weapon still in his hand, miles from nowhere in the badlands. Gates was napping in the cruiser along an empty county road, feet kicked up on the dash, hat knocked over his eyes, when he heard the gunshots bap-bap out of a ravine. Yes, a once-in-a-career catch.
Lester Sparks had killed the hitchhiker just to see if he could do it.
He was still a juvenile at the time, sobbing in the jail cell, praying to God for salvation. Well, that night Sheriff Darius Gates was God and Lester Sparks was going to become his experiment. The murder weapon disappeared, the body of the transient never found, and Sparks walked free without so much as an incident report.
But he owed him. And he would happily repay the debt. Lester had found someone who cared.
Two years later Gates helped him get his GED, then a slot in the academy. Within five years he was deputized and patrolling alongside Sheriff Gates in the patriotic cruiser.
Gates had given him a new life, dignity and respect, standing within the community. A badge and a gun. A uniform. The emblems of power and authority. The son he never had. The father he’d never known.
To own someone’s life. That was real power.
ᴥ
Gates parked the cruiser outside the squat building that sat on a square of concrete in the unincorporated prairie. A lone outpost for lawmen. His outpost. He pushed through the front door. Sparks was eating a bowl of cereal at his desk and reading something on his computer. It was only the two of them. And that’s how they liked it. Thousands of square miles all to themselves. The only authority. The final authority.
“My daughter’s getting married,” Gates said.
“Congratulations.”
Sparks slurped a spoonful and stuck out his fist to give him a bump. Gates slapped it away. A wounded look from Sparks.
“Stand up and shake my hand like a man,” Gates said.
“Sorry.”
Sparks set down his bowl and rose out of his chair and they shook hands.
“When’s the wedding?”
“Don’t worry, Lester, you’re invited.”
Lester nodded and then said, “I got that coin for you. It’s on your desk.”
“It’s a chip.”
“Well, it sure looks like a coin.”
“Well, it ain’t.”
Gates lifted the bronze medallion from the surface of his desk and read the inscription. “To thine own self be true.”
“Didn’t Jesus say that?” Sparks asked.
“Sounds like it.”
“He said just about everything else.”
“Him and Shakespeare.”
Gates turned over the medallion and read the other side.
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”
“That’s definitely Jesus.”
Gates did not answer and slid the medallion into his pocket.
7.
The sun was casting low across the prairieland and there was only gold about its color when Gates rolled down the dirt driveway toward his home a half mile from the blacktop road. At night the house was only a faint globe in the darkness beyond and a traveler passing in a car could only squint and wonder who lived out there and why. He and Lelah had moved there after the divorce halved his savings and forced him to sell the family ranch he had hoped to grow old and die on.
He pulled to an easy stop in the withered grass behind the house and checked himself in the rearview mirror. He squirted Visine into his eyes and made sure his nostrils and face were clean. He put a stick of peppermint gum in his mouth and exited the cruiser.
When he stepped through the backdoor and into the kitchen he jumped from her loud greeting.
“Surprise!” Lelah said. Three sparkling candles fizzed from the chocolate cake in her outstretched hands. “Congratulations, Dad, three years clean and sober.”
She set the cake on the kitchen table and kissed him on the cheek.
“Hurry, blow them out before they melt all over the frosting.”
Gates leaned and blew on the candles. They went out for a moment in swirls of gray smoke and then flared and sparkled anew. He leaned and blew again. The candles sputtered out and then flickered and the flaming trick was rekindled. He smiled and conceded to the magical candles and she laughed. She plucked the candles from the cake and carried them sparkling to the sink and ran water over them. The small kitchen was suffused with the smell of burned paraffin and they fanned at the smoke with their hands.
“Did you get your chip?” she asked.
Gates fished the bronze medallion out of his front pocket. Lelah placed the medallion on the windowsill beside two other bronze medallions with edges aglow in the backlight from the falling sun. One medallion for each year of sobriety.
“How was the meeting this morning?” she asked. “Did you speak?”
“Not this time.”
Lelah cut into the cake and looked up at her father before finishing the wedge.
“More?”
“That’s perfect, honey,” he said.
She gave them each a slice and they sat at the little round table. Gates took the gum out of his mouth and tore a strip from his paper napkin and balled the gum inside.
“If you ever want me to come to a meeting for moral support,” she said, “or just to have me around, I’d love to be there for you.”
“It’s sort of a private thing for me, honey. Something I have to do on my own. But I appreciate the offer. Everyday it gets easier. I don’t even crave that junk anymore.”
“I’m so proud of you, Dad.”
She looked at him and her eyes were wet with emotion. He nodded and dug his fork into his cake.
“You might want to have a sip of milk first, Dad. Or else it’s gonna taste like gum.”
She poured him a glass of milk from the half-gallon carton and he drank the gum taste from his mouth and then ate the first bite of cake.
“It’s good, huh?” she said.
“It’s delicious. Did you make it?”
“I just finished spreading the frosting when I saw you pulling down the drive.”
She smiled at her father and he smiled back at her.
“I think you’re really brave for making the changes you’ve made in your life.” She looked down at the table and twisted her napkin. “I had some real doubts at first about you staying sober. And I’m sorry that I did. I never should’ve doubted you.”
The intimacy was excruciating for Gates but he managed to hang on without changing the subject. “That’s all right, honey,” he said. “I was a real jerk.”
“I’ve read a few books lately on addiction. I understand now that it’s a disease. And I just want to tell you again that I’m
here for you, whatever may come. I’m here with you every step of the way. One day at a time. I love you. And I’m done with my speech. That’s it.”
“I love you too, honey,” he said.
They sat there in the waning daylight, lifting their heads and smiling at one another in between mouthfuls, the cake delicious and warm from the oven, the milk cold and silky, the rays of the setting sun through the country window amber upon their faces.
“I told Caleb that he’s gotta cut his hair and shave before he marries you. He looks ridiculous.”
“Dad, you just ruined a beautiful moment.”
“It’s my moment,” he said as he brought his fork to his mouth. “If it’s gonna be ruined, then I wanna be the one ruining it.”
“I like the rugged look. I happen to think Caleb looks very handsome right now.”
“Hey, if you wanna marry a hippie.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Glad I’m not.”
“You can if you want to, Dad. It’s legal now.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You set yourself up for that one,” she said.
“I did.”
Lelah stood out of her chair and took her plate to the sink and washed it with a sponge and set it in the drying rack. She grabbed her purse off the back of her chair and kissed her dad on the cheek.
“I’m going to stay with my hippie tonight,” she said.
“And leave me all alone on my birthday? After all that talk about support and being there for me?”
“Redtube, Dad. Check it out. You’ll be just fine tonight.”
“What’s that? I thought it was YouTube.”
“You’ll like Redtube better.”
“Is that one of those sex sites?”
She giggled and opened the backdoor.
“You’re hurting my ears,” he said. “Drive safe.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She closed the door and he heard her truck start up and pull down the long dirt driveway into the dusk. He stared down at what remained of his cake slice. He thought that he would feel bad about spinning such lies to his daughter but he felt nothing at all. He waited for the sting of remorse but it was not in him right now and would be a long time coming if ever it came again.
There was only one thing on his mind. A singular bladed focus that cut out everything else. He took the bindle from his shirt pocket and tapped a line on the table beside the chocolate cake.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
If there’s a hell, Darius, you’re gonna burn in it.
Yeah, but I’m betting that there ain’t. Not beyond this one.
He took the cocaine into his body and his eyes flamed and he saw fire dancing up through his ribcage and across the walnut folds of his brain and he exhaled mightily and sat there in the kitchen until his breathing calmed and he could think clearly again. It was dark outside now.
One of these days, Darius, your chameleon skin is gonna run out of colors.
8.
“We have reviewed your application, and unfortunately, we are unable to provide you with a small business loan at this time.”
The brothers sat across from the loan officer of Southwest Capital Bank.
“Why not?” Jake asked.
“As I said, we’ve reviewed your application and—”
“No shit. But why not? We’re only asking for fifty thousand dollars to grow our business.”
“As everyone knows, these are economically hard times.”
“When have they not been hard? We didn’t fuck them up. You did.”
“Jake—relax. C’mon, bro.”
The loan officer suffered the insult with a short inhale and sigh before continuing.
“According to your financial statements, your business took in just under twenty-eight thousand dollars last year. Frankly, without any collateral or capital to speak of, you are a high-risk applicant. Ten years ago, maybe. But not today.”
Jake leaned forward, lowered his voice, and geared up for a proposal that would resolve the issue happily for both parties—a fair trade.
“Look, we’ll give you and all the employees of this bank free firewood for the next two years. All you can burn.”
“Sir, that’s illegal.”
“For who?”
“This bank does not traffic in bribes for loans.”
“My brother is a goddamn veteran of this country. That’s gotta count for something.”
“Sir—”
“What the fuck have you done for it?”
“I’m gonna need you to leave.”
“No, you need to leave.” Jake raised his voice and looked around the bank, trying to rally support for his cause. “We want to speak to someone else. We want to speak with the manager of this piggy bank.”
“That would be me.”
Jake’s voice dropped. “You’re the manager?”
“And the President.”
“Well, that’s a real fucking stupid policy. You should hire someone else. No wonder you’re a rinky-dink wannabe outfit. I bet you’re not even on the stock exchange.”
“And which stock exchange would that be?”
“You know the one.”
“No. I don’t. Please tell me.”
“That’s your fucking job to figure out. Not mine.”
“Leave before I call the police.”
Jake pondered his options. His face was burning. He could feel the sweat rising through his pores. It had always been this way with the white-collared men with college degrees. They had the power and he had none. He could kick the living shit out of these pasty donut pussies, but to what end? The world favored these assholes. All the laws too. They created the system. They owned it. Built it. He threw his chair back and strutted across the shiny floor and pushed through the glass doors. Caleb followed behind his older brother and then turned around and limped back to the loan officer.
“I apologize for that, sir,” Caleb said. “My brother is just a bit frustrated, is all.”
“My job isn’t easy either.”
“When can we re-apply?”
The question caught the loan officer off guard. But there wasn’t a hint of irony in Caleb’s tone or demeanor.
“I’d give it at least six months.”
“Thank you, sir. Have a good one.”
ᴥ
They were five miles down the road and Jake had lit his second cigarette before a word was spoken between them.
“Bro, can you do me a favor?” Caleb asked.
“What?”
“Next time, try and see it from his perspective.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“He ain’t the boss.”
“He said he was.”
“Even if he says he is, he ain’t. He don’t own the money in that bank. He’s just following orders, doing his best not to get fired.”
“What are you a fucking financial expert now?”
“There’s just no use getting riled up is all I’m saying, and taking it personally. That won’t do us no good.”
“If it ain’t personal, then what is it?”
“It’s just a man trying to keep his job.”
“Well, at least one of us is trying hard. Fuck. I’m giving it all I got.”
“Then take it by the smooth handle, Jake.”
“What the shit-fuck does that mean?”
“Don’t grab the saw by the blade. How’s that?”
“As long as you grab the saw when it ain’t running and with gloves on, you’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got all the answers.”
“I know an asshole when I see one.”
“Remember, Jake,” Caleb said, half-serious. “Smiles are contagious.”
“So is the middle finger.”
Jake threw him the bird. Caleb responded in kind.
“See,” Jake said, smiling. “It’s goddamn fucking contagious.”
“And please don’t bring up the mili
tary stuff anymore. Okay?”
“I’m proud of you. That asshole should know what you’ve done for this country before he decides to reject us. He should know who’s sitting in front of him.”
“Please?”
Jake nodded and took a long drag of his cigarette. He curved his mouth and blew the smoke out his window.
“You’re moving out, aren’t you?” he said.
“Me and Lelah are gonna look at some trailer homes this weekend. There’s one for rent near the Chama.”
“I’m happy for you two.”
“I’ll still cover my rent for a few months.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“Get a night job. Lelah is asking her boss if there’s anything available. I told her I’d clean toilets if I have to.”
“I’m happy for you,” he repeated. “Really happy. You got a good lady.”
Caleb looked across the cab at his brother, his eyes fixed on thoughts beyond the road, cigarette pinched between work-swollen fingers, the lines on his face bending downward in slow defeat, engraved with growing shadows that would never brighten again, only become longer, larger, deeper—he’d aged ten years in the last three. Caleb could see now with clarity what had always been there. Underneath the hard exterior, the raw male energy, the sweat, the dirt, and the grime, there was a pervading sadness about Jake; he’d never be what he wanted to be, and deep inside, perhaps subconsciously, he knew it now. Jake’s quick smile and rough charm had always concealed that sorrow, but it was there, ever-present, churning below the surface and growing with intensity in each passing day as the sands of time escaped him.
“I’ve always tried to look out for you the best I could,” Jake said. He stole one more drag from his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. “I can’t say that I’ve done a very good job of it.”
“You’re my older brother, not my father.”
“Thank God. Anybody would’ve been better than that asshole.”
Caleb took the can of chew from the dashboard and packed a lipper and spit the first tobacco juice into an empty Sprite bottle.
