by P. J. Post
“You need to take it easy, but it’s not as bad as it was yesterday,” she says.
She gently pulls at the edges of the bandage and begins to remove it. I can feel it pulling at the scabs, it hurts, but nothing like it did — it’s more of a dull ache now. I look up and see the concentration on her face. I can see how careful she is trying to be. The tip of her tongue is sticking out.
“What’s your story?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known you for almost six months and as far as I know, you’re like Jason Bourne, I mean before you joined the band. We never talk about you. Family? School? Ever had a boyfriend? I haven’t even seen any friends, what gives?”
“Jason who?”
“He’s a character in a Ludlum book, doesn’t know his past, never mind.”
“Hmm, you guys are my friends — we don’t really talk about you either, do we? But none of that stuff matters anymore. I don’t know if it ever did or does, family that is. As for boyfriends, men are pigs, don’t you listen to my lyrics? Except for you, you’re not a pig.” She kisses the top of my head and drops the used bandages in the trash as she goes to the medicine cabinet.
“No, I’m a pig too. I think it’s genetic or something. But being a pig isn’t the same as being an asshole is it?
She retrieves the medical supplies and sets them down on the vanity.
“Close call,” she says.
“You didn’t really answer my question.”
”I don’t know, maybe I just haven’t met anyone yet, you know that special guy,” she says, waving jazz hands in the air.
“I think you go out of your way not to meet anyone.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“No, I’m serious.
“Do you miss school?” she asks, changing the subject.
“You mean high school?”
“Yeah.”
“I never thought about it. We started gigging so much I just sort of stopped going everyday, and then one day I never went back. I would have graduated this month, theoretically speaking that is. Funny, I didn’t even think about it.”
“I feel bad about it, like I’m kind of responsible or something, like I should have pushed you more to go. You only had a few months left.”
“You’re making the assumption I was passing any of my classes,” I say through a laugh.
“Well still, high school can be so much fun.”
“Hey, you know what? The band is cool. Don’t apologize for what we’ve accomplished, everything started to happen when you got here. Besides, it was miserable for me. You did me a favor. Everyone knew way too much about my family-time and I got picked on a lot, well, I used to anyway. Not a lot of friends back there since Todd graduated. I figured you’d have been picked on too. Not so much?” I ask.
She grins in the mirror from behind me, steps over in front of the vanity and then she slowly begins to slide down, her head sinking behind me. I turn and see her doing the splits, bouncing on the floor. She leans over and touches her nose to the floor, and then she gracefully slides to her knees and stands back up.
“If we had more space I could show you a few other things.” She winks.
“Okay, holy shit and all that, but I give,” I say.
“I was a cheerleader and pretty competitive in gymnastics,” she says as she wipes the blood away from my scalp and wounds.
“No shit? You?”
“Well, don’t act that surprised. I was little Miss Popular.”
“I just never figured. A Cheerleader, wow, popular?”
“I think I’m a little offended,” she says through a fake scowl.
I start to respond and then flinch.
“Be still. The stitches seem okay, but you’re going to have some nice Frankenstein scars,” she says.
“So what happened? Bad breakup, what? What sent you over the edge?”
“People change, that’s all,” she says while smearing the medical goo on the cuts.
“It was only two years ago.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes things happen fast.”
She grabs the scissors and starts cutting the medical tape.
“Hold out your fingers,” she says.
I hold my hands up and she starts sticking strips of tape to my fingers like streamers.
“In high school, I had guys chasing me all the time. I could take my pick, but now, I don’t know why I’m alone. Why can’t I find a nice guy like you?”
“Who said I was nice?”
“You’re one of the good ones, Connor.” She stops and stares at me in the mirror. “You really are.”
I don’t like it when people say stuff like this, because it always rings like bullshit — I know better.
“Now that I think about it, there was this one guy, just after graduation. He kind of swept me off my feet one night, but he blew me off and never called,” she says and gives me a funny look.
“Any guy that would blow you off is an asshole and doesn’t deserve you,” I say.
“Yeah, so what’s your excuse?’ she asks.
“For what?”
She looks away for a moment. “I mean, you don’t have a girlfriend, why not?”
She starts pulling strips of tape off my fingers and applying the gauze bandages.
“I’ve had lots of girlfriends.”
“I mean a real girlfriend.”
“Oh, one of those. It’s been a low priority for a few years. My life has been what sociologists clinically refer to as a cluster-fuck, I saw a special on PBS about it.”
She grins. “So what’s up with the Cameo? That your Mom’s?”
I hold it up and look at it.
“Yeah.”
She nods and lets it go.
Tonya knows some about my past, but since the other night, I think she has guessed a lot more. She’s pretty intuitive. And she pats me on the head when I need it, but she doesn’t cut me a lot of slack or buy into the melancholy thing. I think that’s why I like her so much. I know she cares about me, would do almost anything for me, but there isn’t any of that ugly pity that most people have. It’s like they take one look at your scars and they think they know everything about you — but the pity changes soon enough and they start treating you like a plague victim, right before the judging starts. I get none of that from Tonya.
“Todd mentioned someone at the bank, what’s her story?” she asks.
“Todd talks too much.”
She just raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“Yeah, it’s been a few weeks or so since I met her, you know flirting and all that, but I asked her out today and she has a boyfriend, so no dice.”
She finishes with the tape and then slides a plastic shower cap over my head and hugs me from behind, laying her cheek against my shoulder. I grab her hands and hug her back and then I see it for the first time. She always wears long sleeved shirts and goofy wrist bands that she’s died black or fingerless gloves or both. I never thought about them before.
But when I grab her arms, I pull one of the wrist bands back and see the scars that she’s been trying to hide.
Motherfuck!
I’m suddenly seething and it takes all my concentration to stay still, just barely controlling my anger. What the fuck happened to push her this far? How could this have happened? Who was asleep at the fucking switch to not see that she desperately needed help?
And right next to my fury is fear. I can’t imagine not having Tonya with me. I feel like asking where her parents live so I can go over and kick their asses. Fucking fools.
I have some experience gauging the age of scars and hers aren’t that old. But what frightens me the most is that they weren’t a cry for help, the scars run down her wrists, not across and if she tried once, she might try again.
They look deep, her suicide must have been a close call.
I’m afraid to think about what might have happened to drive her to this dark place. I can’t imagine how much she must have been sufferin
g. The thought of it makes me sick to my stomach.
It’s all I can manage not to throw up.
I try to remain calm and don’t let on that I saw anything, but now I understand that there is much more to Tonya than I ever thought. I want to wave a wand and magically make it better, but I know I can’t. Shit doesn’t work like that.
Tonya turns back and looks at me in the mirror. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. Wait. Is this what you were wearing when you asked her out?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Connor, you’re nice and all, but Jesus, you may be single forever. Go take shower.”
She pats me on the head and points at the clean towels as she closes the door behind her.
I sit here, shaking now, and think about what I saw and I can’t help but wonder about those baggy clothes. I want to know what happened, but I also know that if she wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t work so hard to hide it. If there was any doubt before, I think I have a new friend now.
I’ve found a kindred spirit, I just wish, for her sake, she wasn’t.
6
The Laundromat Girls Cometh
Todd swings by later that evening so we don’t have to take Tonya’s van to the Happy-Time Laundromat, which, by the way — isn’t. Laundry isn’t on the top of the list for Friday night entertainment choices, but we have a plan that eases the mind numbing monotony. We gather the drive-through cups and lids we’ve saved and fill them up with ice, 7-Up and wine, the kind with the screw-off cap — sipping wine coolers in Styrofoam cups through bendy-straws, we’re living large now.
We pile all of my clothes and some of Tonya’s into the trunk.
“Why can’t we use your washer and dryer?” I ask Todd.
“Because that isn’t going to happen. My parents hate you.”
“No they don’t, they love me. What are you talking about?” I respond with indignation.
“They used to love you, then you loaned me that Circle Jerks’ album and now they hate you.”
“That album isn’t that bad.”
“They just saw the name and that was that, you were toast,” he says.
Tonya steps between us and takes a sip. “To bad you didn’t loan him the tape, can we go, please?”
Todd’s Nova has a bench seat, so we all squeeze into the front. Tonya throws one leg over mine so Todd can shift.
“How’s your noggin?” Todd asks as he pulls the Nova out onto the road.
“Better, every day it’s a little better,” I answer.
“If he’d take care of himself, it would be,” Tonya admonishes me.
“So dude, I’m curious, you’ve been doing yours and Tonya’s laundry at your dad’s place?” Todd asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“But she doesn’t go with you, it’s just you?”
“No, of course it’s just me, you know the situation.” The truth is I’m too embarrassed to have her see the house. She offered, but I made almost believable excuses.
“Ever occur to you; you’re being used? You’re like her laundry boy, dude. And you’re not even getting laid for the effort.”
“It’s not like I wash her underwear, she does that herself,” I say.
“Connor!” she shouts.
Todd laughs. “Like that makes any difference?”
I turn to Tonya. “I thought we were friends. Is it true, all this time you’ve just been using me?” I ask through mock sobs.
“Yeah, I’m the wicked laundry witch of the west,” she says sarcastically. “Although, I could start charging you rent...”
“Whoa, way to go Todd, now I’m going to be homeless,” I shout across the car.
“Don’t drag me into this. If you’re stupid enough to take the bait, you’re on your own,” he says through laughter.
“Now that you mention it, I’m kind of peeved about the not getting laid for my efforts though. How would you feel about screwing a young homeless dude?”
“Nope, you’d have to do way more than laundry for that.”
“How much more?” I ask.
“You two need some alone time?” Todd asks.
“As if.” Tonya rolls her eyes and leans away from me.
Todd turns on the stereo and X joins us for the ride. I can feel the heat from Tonya’s leg against mine, her hand curled in tight between us. She’s lying against Todd’s shoulder, just staring out the windshield, her profile silhouetted against the dashboard lights. I stare at her for a moment until she looks over, suddenly self-conscious, I look away.
I rest my cup on her knee and close my eyes, feeling the wind in my face and hair. I can feel her leg moving against mine as she swings her foot in time to the music.
The drive over to Happy-Time ends too soon.
We pull into the Laundromat parking lot and drag our clothes out of the Nova’s trunk.
“I swear they’re filthier now than when we put them in there, do you haul dead bodies when we’re not around?” Tonya asks.
“Not today, why?” Todd responds.
I lean into the trunk. “Is that, it smells like, well, shit?”
“Gross” Tonya says.
Todd looks away. “I think my folks are getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and Tonya squeezes his arm.
“My dad dug up my mom’s prize roses, the ones she does that contest with ever year. Anyway, he hid them in my trunk. It took me all afternoon to get it this clean,” Todd says.
“That sucks,” I say.
“I think it’s my fault,” Todd says and looks back at us.
“No,” Tonya reassures, “it’s not your fault; it’s their problem. Why would you think that?”
Todd’s worried look turns into a grin. “Because, I told them their constant arguing was driving me nuts and they should get a divorce.”
“You are a motivational coach,” I say, shaking my head.
I don’t know if he’s for real or not, but then that’s Todd. Tonya just turns away with an exasperated sigh and heads for the doors of Happy-Time.
The Laundromat is hot and humid as hell and our feet do stick to the floor, making squishy sucking noises as we walk. It has fluorescent lights, some missing lamps, and the plastic covers are so dirty that the whole room has a sickly greenish cast to it — it’s a dump too, and reeks of bleach.
“Don’t let anything touch the floor,” Tonya warns as she starts loading a washer.
Todd picks out a pair of her underwear and holds them up. “Sexy panties. Who are these for?”
“Give me those,” she says glancing at me and then grabs for them. I can see she’s angry and embarrassed.
“Dude,” I warn him.
Todd hands them to her and I can tell he is only dimly aware that he’s crossed a line.
“Sorry,” he says.
Tonya ignores him, tosses her underwear in, adds the detergent and then slams the lid.
“Who has the quarters?” she asks irritably.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few quarters and starts up her machine.
She grabs her wine-cooler and sits down, ignoring both of us.
Todd and me just look at each other and then I get my own laundry going.
As I start it up I hear Todd murmuring under his breath, “Whoa dude, slut at twelve-o’clock.”
“What?” I ask.
“Debbie the pyro, your ex-whatever,” he says, nodding towards the front door.
I turn to see Debbie and her friend Christy walking in. They’re wearing jean shorts, flip-flops and matching t-shirts from some softball tournament. They’re both fried-chicken tan and have stringy bleached blond hair. They drop their laundry baskets onto the floor and stop long enough to light cigarettes and then they see me.
“Oh, Jesus,” I say.
“Look who it is, big fucking rock star. You never called me, you think you can just fuck me and not call? You’re a lying sack of shit, Connor Clay!” Debbie shouts across the room as she stomps towards
me, waving her cigarette like a weapon.
The other laundry goers try to ignore her.
“Piss off, Debbie,” I say.
“Piss her? Piss you!” Christy shouts, jabbing her cigarette at me.
Todd stares at her for a moment and then starts laughing. I can tell he thinks this is the funniest shit ever.
“That doesn’t even make sense, Christy. Look, just go do your thing, wash your clothes and leave me alone, okay?”
“How come you never called, huh?” Debbie asks.
“You set my car on fire,” I say.
“I was mad.”
“Yeah, I got that. It blew up.”
“It was apiece of shit anyway.”
“It blew the fuck up, Debbie.”
“So?”
“It was my car!”
“I know, that’s why I burned it!”
“You’re a crazy fucking bitch,” I say
“I – am – not – crazy!” Debbie screams, flinging ash as she waves her arms.
“I’m done.”
“You don’t get to say that, she gets to say when she’s done,” Christy shouts for no obvious reason other than to participate in the drama.
“Just get out,” I say.
“When I feel like it,” Debbie says.
Tonya jumps up and gets in Debbie’s face. “How about you don’t pass Go, don’t collect two hundred dollars and go directly to fuck off and die!”
“Is this your new whore?” Debbie asks.
“You dated her?” Tonya scowls at me.
“He sure can pick ‘em,” Todd says.
“Oh he didn’t date me, I fucked his legs off, but we didn’t date,” Debbie says. “Does she go down on you or is her mouth too precious? He has a great cock, you should give it a lick sometime. How ‘bout it Connor, you got a bomb-pop for me?”
“Enough Debbie, just enough,” I say.
“No, you don’t get to tell me shit. You aren’t the boss of me!”
I can see Todd laughing and with Debbie’s last comment, he grabs his belly nearing hysterics.
Tonya leans over and looks Debbie in the eye. “You, are a cunt,” she hisses.
Debbie’s eyes widen in shock. I’m sure she’s heard it before, but it doesn’t sit too well nevertheless.
