by Irvine Welsh
Eugene only tried to get beyond first base once after that. A drunken pass. He’d attempted to kiss her again, this time more urgently, at a party. In a dirty kitchen that shrunk with the beer and cocaine until they were in each other’s faces, a field of intensity insulating them from the rest of the festivities. It had seemed the right time. But Madeline pushed an implacable, upturned hand onto his big chest and said: — One thing, Eugene: you and I will never, ever fuck.
He’d woken up the next morning, despondent in his crushing hangover. The phone went. It was Madeline. Before he could apologise, she beat him to the punch. — I’m so sorry about last night, Gene. I was kind of loaded. I guess I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.
— Fine, but I –
— Look, I gotta go and sleep it off. Call you later, babe, and she hung up.
And this short message was enough to erase Eugene’s despair and to offer him fresh hope.
Mostly, though, when they were alone together, which meant without Scott, they’d talked about Lana. Invariably Madeline brought this up. It was as if she knew that it crushed Eugene’s libido around her. She would listen intently, eager eyes widening, studying his every reaction. And Eugene had to concede: Madeline sure was a good listener. Even if he began to suspect it was all purely to educate herself, then that quality had been welcome. Because the others, even Scott, just seemed to talk about them. They expected him to forget that he’d given up a promising football career to party with Lana, and then she’d fucking ditched him. And their bullshit advice: they could stick it up their asses.
It was good that somebody could listen.
But now he wanted more. Driving down that dusty desert road, in the storm, the body of the silver Dodge Durango slapped insistently by the winds outside, him choking slowly on the hot, dead, air inside, no turnoffs in sight that would signal civilization, even in the form of a weather-beaten outpost of a gas station. All Eugene could think of was: he wanted more from Madeline.
And as he fought his own soporific comedown she was slumbering deeply, as if oblivious to the storm outside. And he could ascertain by the heavy snoring coming from the back that Scott had also tripped over to dormancy.
In his fevered mind’s eye, she was running towards him, streaked in mud. She was trying to swerve past him like a surging quarterback would, but he’d be building up his momentum in his strongside role and like Willie McGinest he’d bring her down as a lion would a weak gazelle, them both crashing into that filthy dirt …
It was as if his hand made the decision for him, rubbing against the tip of his cock and sending pulsating jolts of electricity into his belly and groin. Eugene felt his body stiffen and his eyes bulge under those Ray-Bans as his breathing became more irregular. One arm locked on the wheel while the other did the business; fabulously obscene images of Madeline popped and sizzled in his fried brain, augmenting the peaceful, innocent reality of her dozing by his side.
Ahead, the horizon, brought closer by the hazy heat, flickered intermittently through swirls of red and black dust. The road was only just visible. Madeline was facing him, her knees brought up to her chest. If only she had turned the other way, Eugene thought, he could watch her ass and jerk off without the possibility of her opening her eyes and instantly seeing him. But there was little chance of detection, he calculated in insect coldness, as she would be too disorientated, sleeping through her yagé comedown, to grasp what he was up to straight off, and in any case, he was doing it through his shorts …
but the bulge …
damn that fuckin bitch …
a cock-teaser even in her sleep … but now we’re getting down and dirty in this mud, baby, oh yeah, real down and dir—
Suddenly Eugene heard a snap followed by a long screech and his free hand shot from his groin to the wheel, which felt like it was being wrenched from his grip as the vehicle jerked to the left, then, as he tried to compensate, violently to the right. Madeline sprang into consciousness as she flew across his lap. She might have felt Eugene’s erection had it not instantly subsided. It was Eugene who was like a man falling on his own shotgun, ejaculating a shattering bolt of fear into his chest.
Time stretched out in slow motion. Eugene experienced first an irritation, then a frustration, that everything was spinning away from him, beyond his control. Then they tumbled over and back, in a twisting, fairground ride, which preceded an almighty, bone-shuddering crash, followed by them coming to rest in the most beautiful peace Eugene had ever known.
It didn’t last long. He heard a desperate screeching coming from Madeline, but the noises in his own head made it too discordant for him to focus on her anguish. His eyes remained closed as Madeline fell silent, save for a heavy, gulping rhythmic breathing. Then Scott’s voice, coming from the back; weary, almost bored in its concern: — Dude, what the fuck … you trashed my fucking vehicle, man … He hesitated. — Like, are you guys okay …?
— I’m bleeding … I’m bleeding! Madeline screamed.
Eugene opened his eyes. Madeline was still crushed into the front seat next to him. He looked her over, then cast his gaze down his own body. There was a gash on his arm, just below the bicep, with red-black blood ebbing from it. — It’s okay, man, he turned to her, — that’s my blood on you. I’ve cut my fucking arm. Look. He held it up to her.
Madeline was relieved, then guilt and concern surged in her as she looked at his wound and grimaced. — My Gad! What happened?
— That fucking dust storm, Eugene shook his head, — I couldn’t see a goddamn thing. You okay, Scott?
— Yeah … I guess so, he heard Scott behind him, — but my fucking car, man, he moaned.
Eugene looked over at Scott. He seemed fine, just a bit bemused. It appeared that the Dodge had come to rest at an angle. It didn’t look too bad. The windshield and the windows hadn’t even shattered. But suddenly, a dull clunk of fear thumped in Eugene’s chest, and he fretted about the dramatic but real possibility of an explosion from a leak in the gas tank: about being incinerated alive. He tried to open the door beside him. It gave an inch, then stuck in the earth. In panic, he turned to Madeline. — We’d better get out of here. Try your door!
Noting his urgent tension, Madeline didn’t hesitate, grabbing for the handle and pushing the door open. Eugene watched her scrambling out the car, looking like a strange bird emerging from a cracked egg, awkward and gawky. Like all the sex appeal had been shorn from her. Or perhaps it was just his own libido vanishing, he considered, as he hastily climbed out after her. Scott followed, falling out of the rear of the vehicle onto the sand and shale, looking back nervously as he scrambled to his feet.
The warm wind was driving hard, whipping dust and grit into their eyes. Eugene wrapped the towel around his arm. They checked the car as best they could. Eventually satisfied then that there was no gas-tank leakage and the vehicle, though at an angle, was stable, Scott shimmied under the car. — The axle’s gone. Snapped clean in two, he sulkily informed them.
They got back into the Dodge, slamming the door shut and locking the blowing sand out.
There was a silence for a while, as they sat at the uncomfortable angle, stealing despondent glances at each other. Madeline’s eyes suddenly lit in inspiration and she suggested that they checked their cellphones. Scott admitted in embarrassment that he’d lost his. Eugene’s had run down and he couldn’t charge it up. Madeline tried hers, but was unable to get a signal. — What kind of network are you with? Scott accused.
— T-Mobile. She looked defensively at him. — And what about the one you lost? What network is that?
There was more silence. Then Scott passed the small first-aid kit over from the back, and Madeline helped Eugene clean and dress his wound. Fortunately the cut was less deep than it had seemed.
Eugene attempted to work out their location. He had earlier given up on the map – the reverb from the drugs aftermath and his fatigue had made the lines and symbols and colors one big head-fucking mess. He had an autistic yo
unger brother, Danny, who did these incomprehensible drawings. Now Danny’s art made more sense than the gazetteer he was compelled to revisit. Instead of taking the Interstate 80 across the Sierra Nevada, they’d gone north out of Black Rock City onto the 395 and then started to hit some of the back roads to get into the Nevada desert in order to do the yagé. He estimated that they were now probably about two hundred miles northeast of Vegas. — If the axle’s gone, I guess we’re gonna have to stay here until help comes or the storm blows over and we can phone or look for somebody, he ventured.
Scott shook his head in the negative. — I wanted to go to fucking Vegas, man …
Eugene looked at Madeline, who remained impassive, then turned back to Scott. — Don’t think it’s gonna happen, bro.
— And I had somebody coming to paint my apartment, Madeline said, sweeping her road-heavy locks back from her face. — I needed to get things sorted out.
Scott’s big dark eyes fell searchingly over Eugene. Shaking his head, he asked petulantly, — How the hell did you manage to crash?
Sucking in a deep breath, Eugene struggled to force the words through his tightening jaw. — It’s kind of called fatigue, man, he sneered. — If you recall the idea was that we’d fucking share the driving duties, remember that one? His sarcastic voice rose. — But I guess that poor old Eugene here had to do the lot cause you guys were still out of it. I do nat believe that you have got the fucking audacity to complain! Asshole! Eugene snapped, and then was out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Scott glanced at Madeline, who smiled tensely. Her grin vanished as a sound came from behind them. It was Eugene. He opened up the back of the Dodge and pulled out the tent.
As he struggled with the steel and fibreglass poles in the strong winds, Eugene hoped that it would stay up, and he was secretly relieved when Scott and Madeline appeared by his side, even if their coming to his aid meant that his quiet martyrdom would be harder to sustain. They worked in silence, assembling the frame and laying down the flysheet, then pulling over and securing the tent. They took the sleeping bags and some clothes in from the Dodge. As they finished constructing their camp, the storm began to subside.
— I wonder how long we’re gonna be out here? Scott asked. Then he quickly added, although he was aware that Eugene’s behavior had shown this not to be judicious, — I’m sorry, but I gotta say it, buddy: I’m really pissed about the fucking vehicle. I got it for the band. I told my old man that it was my goddamn livelihood and he fronted me the twenty grand. It’s eating at me. I have to say it. I have to speak about it.
Eugene gave his old college buddy a measuring look. He saw a thin, wiry guy with a crew cut and girl’s hands. Scott had never done any kind of work in his life. Worse, thought Eugene in some bitterness, he probably never would. He was just sitting around, ass plonked on the stools of various North Beach bars, telling the diminishing number of bodies who cared to listen about the various bands he was planning to get together, while he waited on that trust fund kicking in. Swallowing down his anger, Eugene realized there was nothing to be gained by blowing up at Scott now. Besides, he was tired. — Sorry, dude. I’ll sort things out. Tommy at the garage in Potrero Hill will be able to fix this.
— So now we just, like, wait here?
Eugene sat cross-legged, looked around the parameters of the orange tent. — Look, man, I thought this was for the best, he yawned, feeling his body start to relax again, the way it had after the yagé. — I’m pretty pooped. I gotta get some sleep. Somebody will come by. This is America, he smiled, — you’re never more than a mile from somebody trying to sell you something.
Scott and Madeline quickly looked at each other, a flashbulb consensus that this was the best course of action. They began to bed down in their respective sleeping bags. Yep, somebody would come by, Eugene thought. Kick back. Rest. Relax. Repair. Get strong. It sounded so good.
The old 1982 blue Chevy pickup truck had been the first thing that Alejandro had bought when he came to America. It had cost him two hundred dollars, most of it borrowed from his sister Carmelita. It was a rusted wreck, but he had talent as a mechanic, and had lovingly resurrected the vehicle. He knew that a truck could always earn you extra money.
Now it was holding up well, the engine ticking over nicely as they cruised down a back road through the desert, Alejandro and his younger brother Noe, who sat in the passenger seat, silently completing a crossword-puzzle book.
When he contemplated their flight from home, Alejandro couldn’t think of Phoenix, although they had now lived there for almost three years. That city was only Carmelita’s home; the place she’d dragged them to.
Not that he held his native town in any higher regard. It was an old fishing village, south of Guaymas on the Pacific Coast. It had survived, and indeed, for such a poor part of Sonora, could even have been said to have thrived, as a transport hub. It was close to Highway 15 and was also a stop on the coastal train route. The main town centre, an ugly 1970s series of poorly maintained low-rise buildings, sat uncomfortably next to an old village that had grown up around a small harbor, which held fewer brown-rusted boats every year.
They were simple people, Alejandro thought in a cold rancor; fools who had fished for years when there was nothing left to fish. Some of them in the village seemed to have barely noted their slide from poverty into destitution. They believed the fish would come back. Then, when they started starving, they moved north, then across to America.
The place Carmelita had taken them to.
The town had nothing going for it. On the highway you would see luxury air-conditioned coaches full of wealthy norteamericanos bypassing it, heading for the foothills of the Sierra Madre occidentals and historic Alamos with its beautiful Spanish colonial architecture. Those tourists would never come near his home town.
On leaving school, Alejandro sweated at menial work in a garage and its attached shop. It was owned by a wealthy, aggressive, fast-talking chilango, named Ordaz, who had promised that he would train him as a mechanic. Eighteen months later, Alejandro was still stacking shelves in the shop, and cleaning the garage and washing cars. He had yet to hold a spanner in his hand.
Alejandro had confronted Ordaz about this. His slick city-boy boss had simply laughed in his face. When Alejandro grew vexed, his employer’s expression took on a sinister hue and he told the youth to gather up his stuff and leave.
So there was nothing to keep them where they were, save their mother’s grave in the old cemetery at the base of the hills above the town, and the local prison, some 150 kilometres away, which held their disgraced father.
It had been Carmelita who had sent for them after she herself had obtained a job through a friend who was working in Phoenix. She was offered employment by a wealthy family following the professionally prepared CV she had sent them, and the smiling photograph, Alejandro recalled with distaste.
She had found them a place to live and got Alejandro some gardening and landscaping work and also enrolled Noe at a local school. Now they all cleaned up after the guero. Did his gardens. Watered his lawns. Looked after his spoiled children. Served his food.
And she did more than that, the filthy whore …
Alejandro seemed invisible to his employers. That was unless something went wrong; then he would instantly feel the eyes of accusation upon him. One woman went as far as to blame him for the theft of an artifact that she was subsequently found to have mislaid. No apology was issued to him, despite the police being called and aggressively questioning him. But mostly they ignored him as he watered and tended their gardens in order to stop the desert reclaiming them, under a hot and merciless sun.
What did these people respect? Those gringos? When you saw them on the television, they always said it was hard work, but they let their women lie around by the pool all day. Sent their children to school and more school and trips and vacations. They themselves spent all their time on planes and in hotels and in cars. Where was the work?
They respected n
othing but money, Alejandro had considered. Money and the gun. After the Chevy, his second major purchase had been a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. When he had it in his pocket, he felt stronger. More worthy of respect. It changed him; his face, his walk, but in such a subtle way.
Because now they seemed to see him. Even if he was feared rather than respected, he sensed that he was no longer invisible to them.
Alejandro drove through the storm in his old Chevy pickup truck, irked at his teenage brother trying to work out those pointless puzzles by his side.
Noe was weak, Alejandro considered. He was becoming a norteamericano. Would he end up a cowardly murderer like their father? Perhaps not. There was a certain niceness about the kid. But Alejandro recalled that it was his mother who had said that about their father, when he’d once asked her what she had seen in his papa. He was the sweetest man, his mother told him. But Alejandro had seen how alcohol could debase and corrupt that decency and charm. Felt it in himself. When he’d gotten drunk, punched, then hit with the pool cue, and then attempted to strangle, the hombre in the bar who had insulted him. He looked at Noe again. Was it not his father who had taught Alejandro the old saying: La puerca más flaca es la primera que rompe el chiquero.
The weakest ones are the first to rebel.
He could see his idiot father now, his pained face and sad, shifty eyes, the glint of his bald pate behind the glass screens of the prison. Despite Carmelita’s promptings, Alejandro had only gone to see him once; to abuse and curse this pathetic, wretched creature, to witness him cowering in his gray prison issue tunic, his shiny rat’s eyes filling with tears.
And then there was Carmelita. Let her have children of her own to boss and baby. He, Alejandro Rodriquez, had had enough.
Alejandro again regarded his puny little brother, who looked at him in such a strange way since they’d taken the bitch’s money, the money she had gotten from whoring herself to the wealthy gringo.
