by Chuck Kinder
Besides their criminal children, the bane of Ralph and Alice Ann’s lives were the neighbors, who complained haughtily about the frequent midnight howls heard from that hard-luck house, so unlike any sounds ever issuing from other houses on that quiet, residential, tree-lined street. Not to mention the occasional police patrol car’s flashing lights, which drew the nosy neighbors like moths to their windows, on their moral high horses, as they observed the events of Ralph and Alice Ann Crawford’s family life unfold before them in that losing battle of good intentions against unfortunate circumstances running amok and human nature.
As Jim passed back through the house, he found Ralph’s young nephews, Ralph’s sister-in-law Erin’s twin boys, slumped slack-jawed and drooling before the television in the game room, and they couldn’t return to consciousness enough to answer when Jim asked where he could find their uncle Ralph. So Jim clomped on across the flagstoned floor through the French doors that opened onto the enclosed back yard of burnt grass and scraggly orange trees. The humid air was damp with the fallen oranges’ odor and so thick with flies Jim had to bury his face in his hands as he stumbled across the yard like a blind man whose seeing-eye dog has run off.
Jim found Ralph in his office, which was the end room of a wing the Crawfords often rented out as a student apartment. Ralph was standing on a chair, shading his eyes with his hands, his face pressed flat against the inner wall of his office, and Jim could see only the back of Ralph’s dark, woolly head. Jim leaned in the open doorway and took a sip from a pint of the cheapest vodka. When Jim asked Ralph if he would like a little drink, Ralph gasped and clutched his throat and tumbled backward off the chair.
Oh Jesus, don’t do that! Ralph wailed from the floor. —Don’t ever sneak up on a fella like that. Jesus, I broke my arm! I did! Ralph whined and huddled on the floor hugging his right arm. —I bet I broke it in two, maybe three places.
Jim walked over to the wall, picked up the chair, and stood on it to take a look himself. Jim shaded his eyes and peered through the tiny hole drilled high on the wall.
She’s not home right now, Ralph said. —I was just checking. I really busted my arm. I’m not fooling.
Is that same gorgeous blond coed renting the place? Jim was curious to know.
You bet, Ralph said.
You have any mix? Jim asked Ralph, and stepped down from the chair.
I bet I could scare some up, Ralph said, and pushed himself up off the floor. He was still rubbing his arm. —In the kitchen. Tonic, juice, Coke, you name it. You know, you shouldn’t come up on a fellow like that, old Jim. You don’t know the harm you could cause. You about scared me to death. I could have had a heart attack. Her boyfriend is a Vietnam vet. He was a killer Ranger or Green Beret or something. He’s got these evil tattoos.
One of these days you’re going to deservedly eat hot lead, old Ralph. Or get sent up the river.
Well, you’ll probably be my cellmate. I didn’t drill that little hole in the wall, by the way. I just happened to come across it. By accident. Somebody else drilled that little hole. So don’t try to lay that one at my doorstep. And I hardly ever take a peek, anyway. Really, I don’t. Just now and then. Only when I absolutely have to. Only when I think my life depends on it. But I’ve seen some things, let me tell you.
Ralph rehung the framed Life magazine-cover photograph of Ernest Hemingway over the tiny hole.
Jim took a gander at the sheet of paper in Ralph’s typewriter on his desk. He rolled it and read.
Hey there, that’s nothing, Ralph exclaimed, waving his paws at Jim. —I was just working on my correspondence. I’m sucking up to some editor.
Doesn’t look like any letter to some editor to me, Jim told Ralph. —What’s this I-dream-of-sucking-your-breasts business?
There are editors with breasts, Ralph said.
Come on, Ralph, tell me who it’s to. I’d tell you, old dog.
Okay, Ralph said. —Okay. It’s to my friend in Montana. The woman Buffalo Bill introduced me to when I was up there. You know. Lindsay. She’s coming down for a litde visit. Now you keep that quiet. I shouldn’t have told you that. Boy, was I dumb to tell you that.
Don’t get so paranoid, Ralph. Who in the fuck am I going to tell? Who cares, anyway? Anyway, you can trust me. You know that. So, when is your squeeze coming down?
Pretty soon, Ralph said. —If we can get everything figured out. We’ll stay at the apartment in Berkeley. I’m going to run off that kid I’ve been sharing the dump with. That student. I promised him an A for his trouble. And he’ll get it, too. I’m a fellow who keeps his word about such matters.
Back in the kitchen Ralph placed a carton of orange juice and a botde of tonic on the table. Cats roamed about everywhere on the counters. They took turns jumping in and out of the room through a tear at the bottom of the screen door. Jim shooed a couple of the flea-infested creatures off the table and placed the pint in its center and sat down wearily.
What are Erin’s boys doing here? Jim asked Ralph. —Where’s Alice Ann?
Who knows, Ralph said. —Alice Ann and Erin are off somewhere. Erin dumped the twins on me. Shopping, they said. That was hours ago. Maybe it was yesterday. I can’t remember. They’re probably off in some hot tub smoking dope. Erin has these hipper-than-thou friends. I can’t let myself worry about it.
What time do you have, Ralph? Jim asked.
Ralph looked at his watch and then shook his wrist. —This sorry thing never keeps good time.
At least you have a watch that works. So what does it say?
About two o’clock. Which means that’s only the ballpark. Give or take ten, fifteen minutes. I don’t know. It could be a half hour off, for all I know. Why? Do you have a heavy date or something?
I’ve got a doc appointment at three. Get some ice, Ralph.
A doc appointment? Are you okay? Is something wrong with you? Ralph said. He held an ice tray under water at the sink.
I had an appointment set for earlier today. For one o’clock. But things came up. Or things didn’t come up is what I should say.
What? Ralph said, and shook ice cubes from the tray into a bowl. —What in the world are you talking about, old Jim?
They just happened to have a cancellation at three. Lucky for me, I guess. If I don’t make it at three, I’ll have to wait two weeks for another opening. I hate the fucken medical profession.
Well, what’s wrong with you, old Jim? Ralph put the bowl of ice cubes on the table. He emptied the cold contents from a couple of coffee cups into the sink, then rinsed them out and sat down. —You have a little dose of something? You been sticking your thing in places you shouldn’t?
You’re the one to talk, you dog, Jim told Ralph. Jim poured vodka over ice he put in one of the cups and added a splash of orange juice. —Ralph, if I tell you, you have to promise to keep quiet. You have to take this information to your grave with you. I’d have to have your word of honor on it. Which is pretty much a joke, I know. But this is really private business.
Sure, old Jim, Ralph said. He cocked his head and bent forward, his elbows almost to the middle of the table. There was a slight squint in one eye, like a man taking aim. —Mum’s the word, old Jim. Honest to God. What? What is it, old Jim?
Ralph, I just can’t tell you.
Jesus, old Jim, you have my word on it. Hey, if you can’t tell me, who can you tell? Is it really a dose of something? Something like that? I was just fooling when I said that, but is that it? Who you been pumping, anyway, old Jim?
I found this lump, Jim told Ralph. —On my, you know, testicles.
Jesus, old Jim! Oh no! You did? Really? That’s awful. That’s awful, old Jim. A lump, you say? Hey, listen, it’s probably nothing at all. An infection. An ingrown hair. Something like that. That’s my best bet. Hey, listen, what we need is a real drink. Some good stuff, that’s the ticket. I’ve got some good Scotch stashed in my bedroom closet. I hope I have, anyway. If those damn thieving kids haven’t found it yet. What do you
think, old Jim?
That’s all right, Ralph. This stuff is okay with me, Jim told him, and fixed another drink.
Have you had any symptoms? Ralph said. — You know, any of those seven warning signs. How big is the lump?
About the size of a fucken coconut. What warning signs?
A coconut? Holy moly, Jim! Signs, you know. Like coughing.
I cough my head off.
Moles that change shape or color?
You want to see? Jim said and began unbuttoning his shirt.
No! Ralph said. —No, that’s all right. I’ll take your word about a thing like that. What about weight loss? Any weight loss?
Can’t you tell?
So you’ve lost a few pounds?
A few. So, old dog, your little honey is hitting town.
Holy moly, Jim. Not so loud. People could walk in the door any moment. The walls around this place have ears, I’m here to tell you. I’m not kidding. There’s no such thing as personal privacy around this place.
Do you love Alice Ann, Ralph?
What? Ralph said. —Do I love Alice Ann? Is that the question? What is that, some kind of trick question? Do I love Alice Ann? Well, what do you think? Sure I love her. Sure. She’s my wife of almost seventeen years, isn’t she? We’ve got these two kids, haven’t we? Criminal children, true. But they’re ours. Living proof, I guess. Of our enduring love, I guess.
Do you love the lovely lady in Montana, too, Ralph?
Holy moly, Ralph said. —I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. You’ve never heard me claim I have all the answers, have you? Things just happen. You know that. You know. A fellow can just get caught up in events. Just swept along with the tide, as it were. Through no real fault or design of his own. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Much less have any real sense of direction, or purpose, for that matter. One sorry foot in front of the other is about the best I can manage.
Ralph, do you tell the lovely lady in Montana that you love her?
That’s not a word I, for one, use lightly. Love is not a word I, for one, throw around.
Is she a great piece of ass, Ralph? Your lovely lady in Montana.
My lips are sealed.
Does she bang like a screen door, Ralph?
You better believe it.
Does she go down like a submarine, Ralph?
She doesn’t even come up for air, Ralph said, and laughed.
You really are a romantic rat, aren’t you, old Ralph?
I try.
On those special tender occasions, Ralph, do you?
Do I what?
Do you tell her you love her truly? That you love her more than your wife of nearly seventeen years, who also happens to be the mother of your two criminal children.
I already told you, love is not a word I toss around.
Do you make her promises, Ralph? At those tender times.
I never make promises, Ralph said haughtily, that I can’t keep.
What about in your letters, Ralph? Do you put it down in black and white? Do you write to her about the nature of your everlasting true love?
Mostly, Ralph said, if it’s any of your beeswax, I write about the weather.
The weather, Ralph? What about that I-dream-of-sucking- your-breasts business, Ralph? Ralph, does your lovely lady in Montana have those sort of magical breasts that like great mountains create their own weather? Do those wondrous breasts create their own rainstorms and springtimes and months of summer?
1*11 say. She*s got these breasts that won’t quit. Hey, you’ve been smoking dope already today, haven’t you? I don’t suppose you have any joints on you, do you? I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to share, would you? Alice Ann and Erin put a big dent in my stash last night. And then those criminal kids found what was left sometime this morning and cleaned it out. I hardly got a pull off that last poke of dooby. So what else is new.
So your girlfriend has a pair of the world’s most amazing breasts, eh, Ralph? Poor old, rotten, Running Dog Ralph, on the ropes of romance.
What’s a poor fellow to do? Actually, I don’t write about the weather when I write to her. Actually, I hardly even give the weather a second thought. Unless I’m getting rained on or trying to light a cigarette in the wind. Actually, the weather is just something I mostly try to stay out of. Actually, if the truth be told, old Jim, I do tell Lindsay that I, you know, love her. I do make promises that I have no idea if I mean to keep. I do toss that word around, old Jim. That awful four-letter word. Love. Old Jim, this is between you and me and the four walls, but boy, I’m in a real pickle.
Romance, old Ralph, is a fucken rat hole.
Hey, Ralph said, what does this business have to do with lumps, anyway? We were discussing your lump, the last I remember.
Love is like a lump, Ralph.
That’s one for the books.
Think about it, Ralph.
I don’t want to think about it.
Love can consume you, can it not? Just like cancer. And doesn’t love have its own seven warning signs?
What warning signs?
All right, Ralph. What about jerking off? Have you been jerking off more than usual? Even a little more? Say, six or seven times a day? Now that’s a sure warning sign of love.
I’m the first one to admit I jerk off like a monkey, Ralph said. —But I’ve been choking my chicken six or seven times a day since I was about eight. That has nothing to do with love.
Ralph, you’re the kind of poor sap whose brains are in his dick.
I’d talk if I were you.
Jim picked up the nearly empty pint bottle of vodka and killed it. A huge yellow cat jumped on the table and began sniffing around. Ralph scooped it up and tossed it back over his shoulder, and it hit the floor running.
Ralph, let me ask you something. When you drink a lot, do you, you know, ever have trouble getting the old horse out of the barn?
You mean get a hard-on? Ralph said. Ralph laughed and covered his mouth with his hand. —Who me? No. Never. Not me. Jesus Christ. What are you talking about, anyway?
Never? Not once?
Jesus Christ, Ralph said. —Nope. Never. Nada.
Jim took the empty sperm-sample jar out of his shirt pocket and placed it beside the empty pint botde on the table. Ralph lit a cigarette and squinted through the rising smoke at the litde plastic jar. He reached out and picked the jar up and turned it around in his hands. He read the label. —What in the world is this? This has your name on it?
I want to ask you for a favor, Jim said to Ralph.
Listen, old Jim, I hardly have two nickels to rub together, Ralph said, and put the jar down on the table.
It’s not money, Jim told Ralph.
In that case it’s yours, Ralph said, and laughed and picked up the sperm jar again to look at. —Name it. Within reason, of course. Hey, take my criminal kids. Take my wretched dog. Take my wife. If she ever comes home again. Take her, she’s mine. Or whatever that old joke is. Why does this have your name on it, old Jim?
I’ve always thought of you like a brother, Jim told Ralph.
—Like we’re really somehow related, you know? Like we’re blood brothers or something who somehow got separated at birth.
Do you want me to drive you to your doc’s appointment? Is that it? Give you some moral support. I know how docs freak you out.
