Bad Jobs and Poor Decisions

by J. R. Helton

  “She looks kind of tired,” Betty Sue said.

  “Or bored.”

  “Well, you know how airports are.”

  “Right.”

  “Bye, please come tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  I folded the sketch and shoved it down inside the paper bag. The front door was open. I walked down the steps and rummaged through the bag for my new shirt and cap. Several tin cans hit the concrete under the balcony, rolling into view. Karen was in the garage, in the same pink Mexican dress from the night before, bent over a broken bag of garbage.

  She picked up an open can of corn. “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, this bag broke, and I have to put this garbage in my van and take it to the dump.”

  “Here, I’ll help.”

  “Thanks, Jake.”

  The torn bag smelled horrible, bad enough to make us both gag. Maggots crawled across a dangling Styrofoam package.

  Karen’s eyes were watering. “Oh God.”

  “How long has this stuff been in here?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get it in the van.”

  “You don’t want to put this stuff in your van.”

  “I have to. We can set it on the other bags of garbage.”

  She opened the back door of her new van, and we gingerly set the broken bag of garbage inside. We’d been holding our breath and let it out simultaneously when we shut the door.

  “Thanks. I’ve got to sweep this out, all this cat food and junk,” she said, and pointed to the garage floor.

  I picked up my paper bag. Karen grabbed a broom and began to sweep vigorously.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Are you coming to Calhoun’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, I probably will.”

  “Good, I know Betty Sue will like that.”

  “Right. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  She stared at the ground, sweeping. “Okay. Bye, Jake.”

  * * *

  On the back porch of my house I found a dead blue jay. I kicked the bird off the porch, got the cat food from the house, and filled a pink bowl just outside the back door.

  A cat appeared and began to eat.

  The kitchen was full of dirty dishes and a foul odor permeated the room. I opened a few windows and the front door, letting in a warm breeze. I plugged in some red jalapeño-shaped twinkle lights hanging over a window. There were still Easter decorations on the coffee table: a partially eaten and melting chocolate bunny in a basket with blue, yellow, and pink stone eggs. An old poster titled “Dentists of Detroit” hung on one wall, on the opposite, a Klimt print tilted, barely held up by a tack, next to a print of a stained-glass window by Chagall, still encased in plastic, beside one of my own acrylic paintings—a large portrait of Leonid Brezhnev—next to a remnant of painted wallpaper Susan had put up, suspended by two nails.

  I turned on the stereo and turned it back off. I punched on the TV set, turned to CNN, listened to one news cycle, and turned the volume down. I went to my bookshelves, looked at all the books, and then did the same with a line of albums stacked against a wall. The cat meowed at the front screen door. I let him inside, and he ran behind the couch and hid.

  “You better run, Jack.”

  I went inside the bedroom and looked at the clock. It was almost noon. I picked up a roach off the dresser and set it back down. Two suitcases stood in the corner, packed and ready to go. Plane tickets were lying on the top of one, unlosable. I lay down on the bed and stared at the water stain on the ceiling.

  The cat hopped up on the bed and began to knead my stomach with his front paws. I stirred, and he jumped off the bed, stretched, and tentatively stepped across the carpet.

  “I’ve got to do something, Jack.”

  The cat was silent.

  “What do you think? Is it crazy to talk to yourself?”

  Again nothing.

  “Fine. I’m going to take a bath.”

  I went into the bathroom, threw the stopper into the tub, and started the water. I found an old copy of Vanity Fair atop the toilet and put it on the bath mat. I stripped down, got in the tub, and read for a while. The cat came in and jumped up into the sink for a drink from the dripping faucet. I threw the magazine back on the floor and stared at a poster of a tall blue Hindu god hung on the wall. The man was standing between a blue river and a green tree full of fat peach-colored birds. Four cows lay at his feet. They seemed lazy and happy and wore head ornaments.

  I got out of the tub, dried and dressed, and lay back down on the bed. The cat came in and looked at me. We stared at each other for several seconds.

  “I have got to get out of this house.”

  I went out the back door and drove over to the Magnolia Café on Congress to have breakfast. I had the Economical: two eggs, scrambled with cheese, bacon, whole wheat toast, strawberry preserves, a half grapefruit, milk, orange juice, and three coffees. I left a big tip and tried to start up a conversation with my cute waitress. She was busy and would only fill my coffee cup and smile.

  I checked my watch: one-fifteen. I bought a paper and drove down Riverside to an eight-screen theater. I went inside and watched two films, The Untouchables and Adventures in Babysitting, reading the paper in the break. After the second I left the building, my back hurting from the seats. A liquor store was next to the theater. I bought a cold six-pack and took it to my truck. I checked the ashtray for roaches, found a tiny one, and smoked it. I drank two beers, finished the paper, and went inside for another film. It was some horror movie. I sat in the back row and covered my eyes repeatedly. Then, by the glow-in-the-dark dials on my wristwatch, I saw it was six forty-five. I left the theater, went to my truck, and opened another beer.

  * * *

  Calhoun’s was an old gas station on North Lamar converted into a restaurant, covered in quaint old signs advertising beer, soda, and gas. I pulled into the parking lot and saw Betty Sue getting out of her Toyota. A light rain started to fall. Betty Sue screamed, covered her hair with a magazine, and grabbed my arm. We ran inside, our boots slipping on the pavement.

  “Oh, that was—my hair,” Betty Sue said. “Karen’s already got a table for us, she’s supposed to.”

  In the middle of the crowded room, directly before the stage, Karen sat, her hair in a ponytail, her tan arms resting on the white table.

  “Perfect table,” Betty Sue said. She waved to a man behind the bar. “Hi, Lin. He’s the owner.”

  “Yes, I’ve met Lin.”

  “Hi, Betty Sue,” Karen said, smiling. “Hi, Jake.” She hit the seat next to her and touched my arm. “Sit here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where’s Melissa?” Betty Sue asked.

  “She’ll be here in a minute. She had to get Brian off. He’s going to San Francisco tonight for a concert.”

  “Oh yes, she told me that.”

  Lin came over and gave Betty Sue a kiss.

  “This is Karen,” Betty Sue said. “I think you’ve met.”

  “How could I forget?” Lin said. “Hello, Karen.”

  Karen smiled regally, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “And this is my son-in-law, Jake Stewart.”

  We shook hands.

  “I remember. You’re a very lucky man, Jake.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For one, you’re with the two prettiest women in the restaurant—”

  Betty Sue gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” Lin corrected. “In Texas. And secondly, you’re married to the finest young lady around. I’ve known Susan since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  “Lin’s an old friend,” Betty Sue explained to Karen.

  “I resent the use of the word ‘old,’ Betty Sue, but I’m honored to be in the friend category.”

  “You’re so sweet,” Betty Sue said.

  Lin told us to enjoy our meal and returned to his spot behind the bar. Betty Sue repositioned her silverware and
took a sip of water.

  “Lin has a crush on me. He wants me to go out with him.”

  “Why don’t you?” Karen asked.

  Betty Sue shrugged. “I don’t know. He reminds me of Ashley Wilkes.”

  I laughed.

  “And I’ve always hated Ashley.”

  Karen pulled a yellow Tupperware pitcher from under the table, opened it, and filled an empty glass before her. She daintily took a sip.

  I leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “This is my dinner.”

  “Looks a little skimpy.”

  “I’m fasting. This is a special diet. You want a taste?”

  “Sure.”

  I took a drink and made a face. “Boy, that’s great.”

  Karen laughed. “It is. It’s very purifying.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It’s purified water, through reverse osmosis, a touch of molasses, lemon, and a little cumin powder.”

  “Oh, okay, I know that stuff. My wife was on that diet the last time I saw her.”

  Karen frowned and wiped a water ring from the table. “Oh really?”

  A man approached the table, crouched next to Betty Sue, and they said hello. While they spoke, a tall woman came bustling toward the table trying to hang on to two large purses, a binder, and some green folders. She wore a white dress and a wide-brimmed, floppy straw hat, and was very tan. She sat at the head of the table, looked at Betty Sue and said “Hi” quietly.

  Betty Sue forgot about the man crouched next to her, leaned over the table, and smiled. “Hi, Melissa, I love your hat.”

  “Oh thanks.”

  The waitress arrived and Melissa ordered a margarita on the rocks. Betty Sue and I said we’d have the same. At the last second Karen ordered one too.

  “Karen!” Melissa said.

  “I can’t help it, I’m sorry. There goes my fast.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Melissa said.

  “She’s full of surprises,” Betty Sue said. “I think it’s my fault. I’m corrupting her this weekend.”

  “No, it’s Jake’s fault,” Karen said.

  Melissa stared at me. “Hello, Jake.”

  “Hi.”

  “My son-in-law.”

  Melissa took off her hat. “Yes, I know. Where’s that darling Susan?”

  “She’s on vacation in Mexico,” I said.

  “That sounds fun, I guess,” Melissa said, moving her folders to the floor. “I’m sick of Mexico myself. I almost got rabies the last time I was there.”

  Betty Sue shuddered. “God, that was horrible.”

  The man who’d been speaking to Betty Sue said hello to Melissa from his position on the floor.

  “I thought you were in Europe on tour,” Melissa said.

  The man nodded. “I’m leaving Monday.”

  “With?”

  “Chet.”

  “Right, Chet. How’s Felicité?”

  The man smiled. He seemed stoned. “Huh?”

  “Felicité? Your wife?”

  “Oh, she’s fine. She’s coming too.”

  The waitress hurriedly dropped off four margaritas at our table.

  “Great,” Melissa said, and took a swig of her margarita. “God, what a trip.”

  Betty Sue fluttered her eyelids. “How was Maryland?”

  Melissa made a noise of disgust. “I’m telling you, the music business is so full of sleazoids. I don’t see how Brian ever made it before I started managing him. Everybody is trying to screw us.” Her face hardened, lines firmly set around her mouth. “Betty Sue, you just wouldn’t believe it.”

  “What? I heard something—”

  “You know, it was a Democratic fund-raiser, but I mean, from the very beginning, Brian was supposed to get paid. Good causes are great and all, but we’ve got obligations.”

  “Many obligations,” Betty Sue said, closing her eyes.

  “Exactly, well, Weinstein, or whatever his name is, started pulling all this donation talk crap on me as soon as we got off our jet. He knew we were recording it too, something I’d already worked out equally with the other, uh—entertainers, I’ll call them—and this little bastard starts telling us we can’t record unless such and such percentage goes to this party and this party, which were all basically him.”

  “Who does he think he is?” Betty Sue asked.

  Melissa took another drink of her margarita. Felicité’s husband left the table. “He thinks he’s King Shit of Maryland. Brian couldn’t believe how tough I got with him, but you know, he’s too passive. He just keeps getting used by the same people again and again. He’s got to stand up for his rights.”

  Betty Sue sipped her drink and glanced around the room. “How tough did you get?”

  Melissa finished her margarita and motioned for another one. “Very tough. I told him I’d pull everybody out of the thing that instant and he could shove every thousand-dollar plate straight up his ass.”

  Betty Sue laughed and asked what happened.

  “He knew I wasn’t kidding and that all I had to do was have Brian pull out and everyone else would follow.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So it worked. He became Mr. Shmooze then. He really pissed me off.” She looked at me and made a karate chop on the table. “I told him I’d chop his dick off if he ever fucked with me again.”

  Betty Sue’s mouth fell open. “Melissa—”

  “I’m sorry, these people are impossible to deal with.” She laughed. “Brian an’ them couldn’t believe me. They were calling me ‘Swifty.’ ”

  Melissa went through the details of the concert and what a success it turned out to be and how Brian was off to San Francisco now on their jet at Weinstein’s request. I watched Karen. She sat very straight, perfect posture, her arms still folded on the table. She was nodding and seemed to be faking her interest in the story being told. She glanced at me a few times. When the story was over, the table fell silent. Karen looked to me and turned on her bright, white, and pure smile with ease. We stared at each other for several seconds.

  “You must floss regularly,” I said.

  Karen and Betty Sue laughed.

  “I do,” Karen said.

  “You can tell.”

  Karen sipped at her margarita, which was almost full. “Gosh, you know, I haven’t eaten anything all day. I can already feel this drink affecting me. Will you watch out for me if I get smashed, Jake?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Watch out everybody,” Melissa said, “the Queen of Clean is having a drink.”

  The waitress returned with Melissa’s margarita and we ordered. Betty Sue had the vegetable plate. Melissa and I ordered chicken-fried steaks with mashed potatoes and corn bread. A tall, skinny man with a pointed nose and long hair took the stage. He was wearing a black vest.

  “I just love Tommy Joe,” Betty Sue said. “He always sings my favorite old songs.”

  “He has a new album coming out,” Melissa said.

  Betty Sue nodded, unconcerned, watching the stage. A short man with short brown hair, wearing another black vest and carrying a guitar, walked up to Melissa’s side. He put his hand on Melissa’s shoulder, and they quietly said an intimate hello to each other. He then gave everyone at the table a bland but good-natured smile.

  “This is my new client, Roger Allen,” Melissa said. “He’s a Yankee, but don’t tell anybody. We’re working on that.”

  Betty Sue, Karen, and I stared at him expectantly and got the bland smile again and an “aw shucks” shrug. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.

  Melissa touched his arm. “Are you going to sing? Are you ready?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, “later. I’m just going to play a little backup for Tommy Joe.”

  “Roger’s going to play at the Cowboy Café later tonight,” Melissa announced. “And you should all come or you’ll really miss out.”

  “I’m in,” Betty Sue said, holding up her hand.

  Karen asked if I wa
s coming.

  “Are you going to be there?”

  Karen smiled and turned to Betty Sue. “Am I going to be there?”

  “Yes,” Betty Sue said. “I heard.”

  Karen’s face turned red, and she examined her drink. “What’s in this thing?”

  “It’s called tequila,” Melissa said.

  “Well,” Roger said. “I’ve got to go. I hope I see you all at the café.” He looked at Melissa.

  “We’ll be there.”

  Roger left, and the table was quiet.

  Betty Sue raised her eyebrows. “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm,” I answered.

  “Jake,” Betty Sue began. “I was thinking of going out to the car before our food arrived. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  We stood up and pushed through the mass of well-dressed people at the front door. Outside the rain had stopped, and it was another hot humid evening. We went to the Toyota, and Betty Sue pulled a long, thick joint out of the ashtray.

  “I think,” she said, “your truck is more discreetly parked.”

  We went and sat in my truck and smoked half of the joint. We coughed and said little. I stared at a red stain on the end of the roach.

  “I can taste your lipstick.”

  “I can’t.”

  I handed it back. “You’re immune to it.”

  “That must be it.” She put the roach in the ashtray. “I feel much better.”

  “Me too. Let’s go.”

  Just before reentering the restaurant, Betty Sue stopped, twirled, and asked for an outfit and general appearance rating. I gave her the highest marks.

  The food had just arrived at the table. Melissa was cutting into her steak.

  “I’m sorry, y’all, I couldn’t wait.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  I started to eat my steak. Karen stared at me.

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you stoned?’

  I took a large bite of mashed potatoes and nodded. “Yep. Is it that obvious?’

  “No, you’ve just got this big grin on your face that you didn’t have a minute ago.”

  “It’ll do that to you,” Betty Sue said.

  We began to eat seriously and listen to Tommy Joe. He sang a song about flying over Dallas, and Betty Sue swooned. His voice came straight out of his pointy nose. Karen reached the halfway point on her margarita and refilled the glass with her special bitter drink.