Cold Plate Special

by Rob Widdicombe

  From the sidewalk a few members of the White Tee-shirt Brigade were visible from around the corner. Loitering, hanging out, probably waiting for their next victim. I tried to tell myself, well, what’s the worst they can do, blind me in the other eye? All I had to do was cross the street, go down the alley and take the back way to Shred’s. They would still see me, but if they gave chase at least I’d have a decent lead on them. I took another deep inhale of humid air, told myself not to exude the aroma of fear, and ventured forth.

  I made it across the street and headed down the sidewalk. Until I cut into the alley, I was actually walking almost toward them for a minute. They were about a stone’s throw away, which was what worried me. I tried not to look but I couldn’t help it. I tried to radiate total confidence, sticking my chest out, holding up my head with a slight tilt that showed I didn’t care about anything in the world outside of my own awesomeness. My heart was pounding like a Keith Moon drum fill, my neck and ears burning with test anxiety. I could tell they saw me. Just before I ducked into the alley, I saw in my peripheral vision the unmistakable sight of heads turned in my direction. I expected to hear the Rebel Yell shouted out, the sound of feet pounding, clouds of gravel dust swirling up from the alley floor as they swooped down on me for the kill. But, nothing. When I got halfway down the alleyway I looked back. Nothing. They didn’t even care. At first I felt relieved, but then I realized it kind of hurt my feelings. They ignored me. Not that I wanted to get my ass kicked, but I was expecting a little more life out of them. No shouts, no name-calling, nothing. They must have been coming down off of their afternoon crack highs.

  When I got down to Shred’s his van was gone, but I figured Kenny would be inside. I hated to knock on the door and make him get up out of his coma, so I just turned the knob and let myself in.

  “Hello?” I called. I walked down the hall and Kenny was asleep on the couch. His face was twisted into a cartoon grimace. Maybe he was dreaming about pain. I got my backpack and went into the bathroom and took off my clothes. They were so dirty, they were almost crunchy. I turned on the tub faucets and hit the shower knob. The hot water came right away and the water pressure was excellent. Way better than at my apartment. I stepped into my shower thinking how much I hated my place. It had no style or flair or water pressure. And I probably paid twice as much for it as Shred paid for his. Aside from having to avoid getting water near my cut, the shower was the best I’d ever had. It was almost sex. And there was even soap, so I didn’t need to break out the bar I brought. After I lathered and rinsed, I stood there in the hot water and just let it massage me. I tried to picture all my troubles going down the drain along with the sudsy gray water. I washed my armpits like three times. I tried to focus on a zing for Motorcar. Bastard sonofa…but the water just felt too good to think up zingers. I had plenty of time. Then a vision shot up through me, up through the night crawlers in my stomach and straight up to my brain: Motorcar stretched out on a huge Medieval torture rack, chains binding his wrists and ankles, little altar boys in black robes stabbing him with corkscrews. It was lovely. Motorcar’s girlish screams were vibrating the iron bars in the dark windows of the torture chamber. So sweet. The idea of lowering him into a vat of boiling Clorox, or watching as his entire body is eaten live by West African fire ants while he’s handcuffed to a sticker bush was so satisfying. So much easier than composing a zinger speech. But, whatever—I didn’t have any fire ants to throw on him or a vat to boil Clorox in. I had my words, whatever they were going to be. I was on the right track, the healthy track. I had to make my words into boiling Clorox.

  The showdown was coming. I was alive, godammit!

  I stepped out of the tub and grabbed the rolled up towel from my backpack. I started drying off when I realized my bandage felt funny. The steam and hot water had gotten under the tape and it was coming off. I wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror and started pulling gently on the bandage. It came right off, no pain at all. My cut was sick looking—a purple and pink crusty line of gore overtop a dark bruise. Swollen. The stitches were the clear kind, like fishing line. Maybe it was fishing line. State hospital cutbacks. I’d have to change the bandage there and figure out some other way to get Summer to make out with me. I dabbed some ointment on the gore and taped on the new bandage. Then I wrapped the towel around my waist and headed for Kenny’s room.

  For clothes, all I brought was another pair of navy blue khaki shorts and another polo shirt, this one tan. I held it up tan one. What was my problem? Tan was just a slightly darker version of beige. I had been a willing participant in the beige lifestyle. I just couldn’t wear this damn shirt. So I put on a pair of briefs and the shorts, stepped into my flip-flops, and went out into the hall shirtless.

  I stepped slowly into Shred’s bedroom. I wondered why Shred got the art studio room and a bedroom, but Kenny only got a bedroom. Maybe Shred paid more rent. Maybe they flipped for it. Shred’s clothes were piled up on several mountains across the floor. His mattress had no sheets. There was a giant fake plastic terra cotta pot with a dead ficus tree in it, dead brown little ficus leaves on the floor all around it. I made my way over to an old dresser covered with magazines and old clothes. In the third drawer I opened there were three tee-shirts, miraculously clean and folded. The first one was dark blue with a Confederate flag iron-on done with African colors: red, yellow and green. Was this supposed to be some kind of joke? Probably, I thought, but I still wasn’t brave enough to wear it. I wasn’t going to provoke the rednecks if I didn’t have to. Maybe that’s why it was still in the drawer. The next one I looked at was light blue and said: NEWTON CHEESE FARMS. Suitable in a quirky way, but I didn’t feel I was quite up to that level of backwards cool yet. Plus it had an ink stain on the sleeve, and I wanted to look my best. The last one was a band tee, some group I had never heard of called Spentilator. It was way huge, like X-Large. I decided to make it work, so I put it on and tucked it into my shorts. It was kind of like wearing a tent, but it beat the hell out of my polo shirt, so I went with it.

  Out in the living room, Kenny’s eyes were shut, but he still said: “What’s up, Jarvis?” I was surprised by his congeniality.

  “Not too much,” I said. “You?”

  “You mind grabbing me a beer?”

  “Sure.” I went into the kitchen and got him a PBR out of the fridge and myself a glass of water, which I chugged at the sink. When I handed Kenny the beer, his eyes were still shut. There was only one eye operating between the two of us.

  “So how’s that old leg doin’ there?”

  “It’s fuckin’ great. Wanna saw it off for me?”

  “Okay.” There was an awkward pause, but somehow it was made better by Kenny’s eyes being shut. “So, where’s the Shredster today?”

  “Band practice.”

  “Really? He’s in a band?”

  Kenny didn’t answer.

  “I didn’t know that. What’s he play?”

  “Bass.”

  “What’s his band called?”

  “Killabeaties.”

  “What does that mean? Like, killer beats?”

  “Yeah, and diabetes.”

  “That’s so cool!”

  Kenny just smirked, as in, big deal, I’ve seen it all.

  “Is that what he shreds?”

  “What?”

  “Is that how he got the nickname? By shredding it on the bass?”

  “Shreds everything. Boy is outta control.”

  “Okay, um…I’m going back over to Summer’s. She invited me over.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You need anything else, chief?”

  “Chief?” he snickered. “Yeah, chief, you could get me another beer for when this one runs out.”

  “Won’t it get warm, though?”

  He didn’t answer. So I got him another beer. I set it on the table and left. He didn’t even say thanks.

  So Shred was a musician, too. Dude was blowing my mind. As soon as I got halfway down the blo
ck, I was in a full-on sweat. The late afternoon high was brutal. I took my same route back, down the alley, and when I emerged onto the sidewalk, I saw that most of the rock throwers were gone from their hang-out corner. I felt a sort of serene triumph. I knocked on Summer’s front door, setting off the rumbling stampede of barkers. A girl opened the door. She was tiny like Summer, but she had a big hive of hair up in a crazy bun, filled with the biggest collection of hair things I’d ever seen: different colored clips, barrettes, those girlie rubber bands, and a couple of black plastic chopsticks lodged in the back, impaling the bun. She had more going on in her hair than most people had going on in their lives.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Nellie.” She was cute, too, but she rocked a more elegant kind of cute than Summer, who was more button cute or elf cute. Nellie’s face was sculpted, high cheek bones, a delicate line of chin. Classy.

  “I’m Jarvis,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” I stepped inside as the dogs lined up to alternately say hello and smell my crotch. Summer was in her mannequin studio. It was the creepiest place I’d ever seen in my life. There were a dozen or so mannequins standing around, painted in different crazy colors, dressed in various punk and other weird fashions, some with random objects glued to them. One appeared to be completely covered with things found in the street! Stove knobs, pieces of metal tubing, twisted bits of wire, crumpled aluminum foil, a chunk of asphalt. So it wasn’t just things found in the street, it was the street. There were also random arms, legs and heads everywhere. Some of the appendages were hanging from hooks on the ceiling, mostly legs. It was like a scene from hell. In addition to the mannequin bodies and body parts, there was all kinds of cloth piled around—gingham, lace, checkers, retro prints. Summer was messing around with a loose arm on a naked, flesh-colored mannequin, and I figured that was the one Nellie brought over.

  “She’s in her element,” Nellie said.

  “I see.”

  They were both painfully attractive, these girls. That Shred had it made, hanging out with these wild cute babes all the time. I wondered if he’d ever managed a threesome with them. Hot. Then I thought—why not me? Maybe I would be the lucky third. I felt the tingling early stages of a boner just thinking about it.

  Summer proclaimed that the new mannequin’s name would be “Francine.” I asked if the others had names but I didn’t get an answer.

  We went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. The dogs were by far the centers of attention. I thought about how awesome life would be if I was a dog. Then Summer and Nellie started talking about things I didn’t know about, people, music, events. I guess I was starting to get used to it, like being in a strange country and you just have to put up with people speaking in a foreign language all the time. You want to shake them and go: “What are you saying! Speak English!” But you know if you do then you’ll get thrown into some dingy foreign jail with rats crawling over you and sewer water to drink.

  After a while, Summer suggested we all go to Avalon for happy hour. I guess she didn’t realize it wasn’t exactly super cool to invite an alcoholic to happy hour but maybe she wasn’t used to being around one. A recovering one, that is. Most of the people in their scene looked to me like they were already drowning in the lake. It reminded me of a tee-shirt I saw once: I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings. I hadn’t been to a meeting since my AA sponsor tried to hang himself in his grandparent’s basement. Poor Jeff, he fell off the wagon and couldn’t deal with the guilt. Couldn’t deal with killing himself either. He ended up only bruising his neck and then he moved to Albuquerque.

  “Sure,” I said. “Happy hour sounds good.”

  Avalon was a dark and classy place with candles on the tables. The walls featured framed photographs from the 30s, 40s and 50s, Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, Will Rogers, who reminded me of Ben. The air conditioning was excellent, maybe even too cold. Summer didn’t bring the dogs. We sat at a table near the bar. The girls knew the waitress. I wondered how anyone got away with anything in this town. Summer ordered a Long Island iced tea and Nellie, an apple-tini. I got a Sprite with a lemon wedge so I could feel like part of the group.

  “So what brings you to Richmond?” Nellie asked. I was immediately psyched that she asked me something, rather than letting me sit there squirming while they discussed incomprehensible topics.

  “I was looking for a job down here, but that’s a bust for the moment.” I pointed at my eye.

  “Yeah, what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Hill kids threw rocks at him,” Summer answered for me.

  “Oh…” Nellie said, with instant understanding. “Those dirtbags should all get jobs.”

  “They have jobs,” Summer said. “Smoking meth and stealing car stereos.”

  “They should be Major League pitchers,” I said. “Really good at throwing things.” They laughed, and I was glad to be navigating the conversation so well. But then it turned to other topics: the inherent spirituality of polar bears, how Republicans suck, and Democrats too for that matter, Burnt Thunder again, some guy they knew named Freebone got a DUI, how Farns is back from his trip, how dogs and mannequins are better than people. That I agreed with.

  They ordered a second round of drinks and I guess I was feeling all right. But I could really smell the alcohol in Summer’s Long Island. It partly repulsed me and partly called out to me: Drink, drink, my young apprentice, drink me. I really wanted one, but I held tight. Being on this trip and around these people was no place to fall off the wagon. I could go completely crazy, drink fifty drinks and end up in a straight jacket. Stuck in that medical college place with med students poking me with metal probes while I wrestled with the helicopter spins and space robots and giant imaginary Satans. The very thought of it made me want to do a shot of Jägermeister. What an evil circle.

  After a couple more rounds, they had a pain-free buzz going and I had a sugar rush. They talked about a couple of weird indie films I’d never heard of, but other than that, I kept up pretty well. We cruised back to Summer’s and Nellie took off. Technically, Summer was drunk driving, but I didn’t say anything. Who was I, Billy Graham here? She playfully bumped into me a couple times on the way into her house, causing bottle rockets of possibility to shoot all through me in all crazy directions. Something was happening. Her little soft neck with the wisps of hair floating around the back of it—I was a complete and utter goner.

  “Wanna watch a movie?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  This was good. A movie. Sitting on the couch together. There were opportunities for snuggling. This was very good. Summer listened to her messages and sent a couple of texts. Then someone knocked on the door, dammit. I went to answer it but the door opened before I even got there. It was Klavin, looking like he overslept in his grave. He just came right on in like he lived there. Major cock block. I hated him in that moment.

  “Hey, Klavy-Klav!” Summer was so glad to see him, it made me physically sick.

  “Hey,” he said like a beached fish.

  I couldn’t see how or why this cool interesting girl could possibly be friends with someone whose personality level was absolute zero. Or maybe they were more than just friends. That fucker, moving in on my game.

  “We’re gonna watch Stranger Than Paradise,” Summer said. “Is that okay?”

  Klavin didn’t answer. She popped in the DVD and sat on the couch between me and Klavin. So at least I didn’t have to sit next to the guy. The movie was in black’n’white.

  “Old movie, huh? Cool.”

  “Not really.”

  I guess it was an art film. Of course it was an art film. What else? As the movie got going, I realized it was the oddest, driest and most nonsensical thing I’d ever seen. But it was funny. Not belly laugh funny but subtle funny. I think I was getting it, but I had no way to be sure. When it ended I felt like I’d just woken up from a strange dream, suddenly transported somewhere else. Cleveland maybe?

  �
�How’d you like it?” Summer asked.

  “It was good. Funny.”

  “Yeah. It’s my all-time favorite movie.”

  Klavin got up and just stood there. I guess it was his way of saying: Had a great time guys. Take it easy.

  “You going?” Summer said.

  He nodded. Before he cruised, she gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. I hated to see that but at least he was leaving.

  She put on some music. Something mellow and atmospheric. Then she sat on the couch next to me, close. Dangerously close.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Stereolab.”

  “Cool.” I liked it. I put my arm over the back of the couch behind her and fished for something to say. “Thanks for showing me the movie.” I couldn’t come up with anything better.

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled.

  I was done. That was it.

  Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to kiss her.

  And she kissed back.

  Her mouth and lips and tongue were so soft and generous, I was immediately swimming on ribbons of warm liquid velvet. I barely even noticed that her tongue was pierced. That was a first for me. I kissed her neck and I kissed her face. I tried not to let my bandage interfere, but that was impossible. She didn’t seem to care though. Carly would have cared. Carly would have said: No way I’m kissing you with that bandage on. But why the fuck was I thinking about her? Summer’s neck was so soft and luscious, I was in golden electric heaven. She was breathing fast. Something quite serious was going on in my shorts. I started running my hand up her thigh, heading for the promised land but she steered it away. I tried again and she pushed it away again. Now we were kissing very deeply, and I was really checking out the hunk of metal lodged in her tongue. So crazy. I felt like I was being transported to another place again, only this time it wasn’t Cleveland at all.