Bad Jobs and Poor Decisions

by J. R. Helton

  “This thing’s really strong,” she said. “I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  Betty Sue offered some of her vegetable platter. Karen hesitated, then popped one slice of cooked yellow squash into her mouth.

  “I’ve already ruined the fast anyway. I’ll start again tomorrow.”

  When the plates were as empty as they’d get, we eased back into our chairs, and the waitress cleared the table. Melissa and I ordered more margaritas. Felicité’s husband now returned with Felicité. They sat at the far end of the table across from Melissa and politely gave their attention to the stage. The waitress brought the drinks. I wiped some salt from the rim of my glass and watched the table in front of ours. A pregnant earth-mother type braided her little girl’s long red hair into one thick strand. An older man wearing slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, his chest pocket full of pens and folded paper, happily sang along with Tommy Joe. An old woman next to him, her hand on his arm, watched Tommy Joe intently. The little girl turned a rigid silver bracelet in her hands, then put it on top of her own head, slowly crowning herself queen. Karen’s knee brushed, and then rested fully, against my leg under the table. For the rest of the set, then, we bumped knees steadily and didn’t look at each other. Tommy Joe finished his last song. Roger made a beeline back to Melissa’s table, and Felicité and her husband left. Roger bent down and whispered something to Melissa, who in turn spoke to Betty Sue, who summoned the waitress and gave her a credit card from her Guatemalan purse.

  “We’re going to go over to the Cowboy Café and listen to Roger now,” Betty Sue said. “Did y’all want dessert?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Karen said.

  I handed Betty Sue a twenty. She said thank-you and put the bill in her purse. Tommy Joe came to the table and gave Betty Sue a kiss. Felicité’s husband returned without Felicité and did the same. Lin Calhoun appeared beside her, and Tommy Joe commented that the line formed behind him. Betty Sue’s eyes and smile took on a new, glazed shine. She told Tommy Joe how much she loved his singing and that she would return the next weekend. Melissa and Roger left the restaurant. Betty Sue rose from her seat, and the three men followed her to the door. Karen grabbed her yellow Tupperware pitcher. The waitress stopped Betty Sue and had her sign for the meal. I lingered at the table for a second. Several customers eyed it hungrily from the door.

  Outside I caught up with Betty Sue and told her I’d meet them at the café. Karen was already starting her van.

  Betty Sue jingled her keys. “Okay, dear.”

  “Was this the man I’ve heard about?’

  “Yes it was. What do you think?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “Me neither, but he’s crazy about me.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  She opened the door of her car and slipped inside. “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  I parked a block away from campus, on the west side of Guadalupe, and walked. BMWs, Saabs, Porsches, and pickup trucks sped up and down the Drag. I passed a bookstore, a hamburger stand, the Varsity theater, and a coffee shop—my old hangout, Les Amis—still filled with intense poets drinking espresso at wrought-iron sidewalk tables. A woman smelling strongly of urine, with greasy hair and clothes thick with grime, approached me on the Drag and said it was her birthday. I gave her two dollars, wished her happy birthday, and crossed the street to campus.

  A girl dressed in black with a fat pretty face sat at the entrance of the Cowboy Café.

  “It’s a three-dollar cover,” she said.

  I looked inside the club. There were twelve or fifteen tables, a bar with a mirror on the wall behind it, and the stage at the far end. Two couples sat at one table. The others were empty.

  “You should go in,” the girl said. “Roger Allen’s playing tonight.”

  “Oh yeah? Is he any good?”

  “He’s all right, but he knows Brian Montgomery. Sometimes Brian will show up and jam with him.”

  “Say, did you see two very pretty, animated women come in here? One has light-brown hair up in a ponytail.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you want to go in?”

  “Uh, when’s Roger coming on?”

  “About ten-thirty.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Loud music began to play in a large open room next to the café.

  “There’s a pretty good band in the Union tonight.”

  “Yeah?” I pulled three crumpled dollars out of my pocket and handed them to the girl.

  “Are you going inside?’

  “Not just yet.”

  “I have to stamp your hand.”

  I gave her my hand, and she stamped a small green cactus on my wrist.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll look out for those animated women.”

  “You can’t miss ’em,” I said and walked to the men’s room. When I came out, a slightly drunk young man with long blond hair stopped me at the door.

  “Hey,” the man said.

  “Hey.”

  “Eakin’s sophomore Philosophy.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Excellent class, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Ol’ Eakin’s pretty sharp.”

  “Did you hear what happened?”

  “No.”

  “He died.”

  “No shit?’

  “Yeah, he died of cancer last year.”

  “That sucks. I really liked him.”

  “You’re Jake Stewart, right?”

  “Right. You’re Josh.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “I’m in med school up at Baylor.”

  “That’s tough to get into, isn’t it?”

  “What, med school or Baylor?”

  “Baylor or both, I guess.”

  “Two of my uncles went there.”

  “Okay. What are you going to specialize in?”

  “I’m leaning toward neurosurgery. I’ve got two more years to make up my mind, no pun intended.”

  “I always thought you wanted to be a writer. I never thought you’d go the doctor route.”

  “Me neither. So how’s your painting going?”

  “Pretty good. I just had a show at the Patrick Gallery and actually sold a few paintings. I’m moving to New York. If that no-talent weasel Julian Schnabel can do it, I can. I got a little teaching position at Columbia to fall back on, though.”

  “Great—well, good luck, Josh.”

  “Take it easy, man.”

  I walked back up to the girl in black.

  “They went inside,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Betty Sue smiled gently from her chair.

  “There you are,” Karen said loudly. “We thought you’d gotten lost.”

  “I took the long way,” I said, and sat down beside her.

  “Roger should start shortly,” Betty Sue said.

  “How is he?’ I asked.

  Betty Sue shrugged. “I like him. Melissa’s a brilliant manager. He’ll probably go far.”

  “Do y’all want anything to drink?”

  Betty Sue contemplated the bar. “I’m thinking of having some wine but . . . I started with margaritas . . . what do you think?”

  “I’m going to stick with my first choice.”

  “Me too. On the rocks.”

  “I wonder if I should have one,” Karen said.

  “It’s your decision,” Betty Sue said.

  “Maybe I can have some of you guys’.”

  “I don’t like to share, but maybe Jake will.”

  Melissa entered the room, her straw hat in hand, and sat down next to Betty Sue.

  “Well, I’m here, goddammit,” she said, smiling.

  I stood up. “Are you going to have a drink?”

  “It’s a bar, isn’t it? Of course I’m having a drink.”

  “Margarita?”

  “Yes, a margarita. Sorry, thank you, Jake. Here’s some money.”

  “That’s okay.”


  “Here.”

  I pretended not to hear, went to the bar, and bought three drinks. I carried them in a triangle back to the table, and the conversation faded quickly as I sat down.

  “When are you leaving for Chicago?” Betty Sue asked.

  “My plane leaves at eleven.”

  Melissa took a drink of her margarita. “What’s in Chicago?”

  I hesitated, and Betty Sue explained that I was going to go work on a movie.

  “Really?” Melissa said and smiled. “In what capacity?”

  “In the set-painter capacity.”

  “Oh well. What movie is it?”

  “There isn’t a definite title yet. It’s a TriStar picture, a comedy-action-romance-adventure with a lot of car crashes and guns.”

  Melissa took a drink. “Sounds like a hit.”

  “Jake worked on The Cry of the Plain,” Betty Sue said.

  Melissa nodded. “I heard that was a lot of fun.”

  “It was.”

  Melissa took another drink and ice clicked on her teeth. “Does Susan still—oh yeah, that’s right. Susan works for Ian Watt now.”

  “Where’s Roger?” Betty Sue asked.

  “He’s in the back learning how to play the guitar.”

  We sipped our drinks quietly and watched the Cowboy Café fill up with everything but cowboys. As soon as Roger came out and took the stage, Betty Sue and Melissa began to talk loudly about the Cattlemen’s Ball and some columnist who’d made a fool out of himself there. Roger was singing an earnest, honest song and the now-full house was enraptured. Melissa and Betty Sue talked at top volume and laughed. Karen leaned over the table listening to their every word.

  A woman sitting at the table in front of them turned in her chair and asked Melissa and Betty Sue to be quiet. They didn’t hear her and kept talking. The woman gave them a second and repeated her request, adding, “Some of us are here to listen to the music.”

  “Shut up and listen, then,” Melissa said.

  The woman quickly turned back around and did so. Melissa began a story about a community-service television spot that went awry. I finished my drink. Karen and I smiled wearily at each other. I started to say something to her, but she looked over my shoulder and yelled: “Frank!”

  A tall muscular man with a mustache stopped at the table and said hello.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” Melissa said. “Did Walter go to sleep?”

  “I just put him to bed. Zelina’s still up, though. Your mom’s with them.” He sat down next to Melissa.

  “Betty Sue, you know Frank, our caretaker-slash-foreman-slash-babysitter.”

  Betty Sue smiled. “We’ve met once before. Hello, Frank.”

  “Hi, Betty Sue, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, how are you?”

  “Real good.” He leaned across the table, and we shook hands amiably, exchanging names.

  “You know, Melissa,” Frank said. “You forgot to add tennis instructor to the list. Hey, Karen.”

  Karen smiled at him sweetly, and I felt a surprising twinge of pain. “Hi, Frank.”

  “When are you going to play tennis with me?”

  “Tomorrow, I promise.”

  “What’s with all the tennis talk?” Betty Sue asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Melissa said. “We put in two courts.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Betty Sue said. “But why two?”

  “It’s an even number. Problem is, I hate tennis.”

  “Now,” Frank gently reproached. “Don’t say that. Tennis is a wonderful sport. Right Jake? Come on, back me up on this.”

  I nodded seriously. “Great sport.”

  Frank smiled. “We can learn a lot from tennis.”

  “I love tennis, too,” Karen said, “but I’m so horrible it’s embarrassing. I was never good at sports, except for Hermosa Beach volleyball.”

  “Another good sport,” Frank said, “if you’re into sports.”

  “I’ve got to tell you something Zelina said last night,” Karen said. She went around next to Frank and started to whisper close to his ear, placing both of her hands on his shoulders. Melissa and Betty Sue polished off two more drinks. I joined the rest of the crowd and listened to Roger sing a couple of mediocre songs. When the set was through, the noise level in the room rose up to the volume of our table. Several people stopped Roger as he made his way over to Melissa. He smiled and laughed at their remarks. I looked over at Karen, and she left Frank suddenly and announced to anyone and no one that she wanted to sit by her new friend, Jake Stewart, again. She came over, sipped from my glass, which was full of melted ice, and told me how wonderful things were at the Montgomery Ranch and that I had to come out there sometime and that maybe I could come out before I left town and play tennis with her and Frank and the kids and if not then, maybe when I got back from Chicago. I said I’d try to and thanks, and we gave our attention to Roger, who stood behind Melissa, his guitar in hand.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You were fabulous,” Betty Sue said.

  “Wonderful, darling,” Melissa said.

  Roger put his hand behind Frank’s neck and said, “I won’t ask you.”

  Frank leaned his head back and looked up. “Please don’t.”

  Betty Sue and I looked at each other, and she yawned and I nodded in agreement.

  “Well, y’all, I had a wonderful time,” Betty Sue said, and stood up.

  “Are we leaving?” Karen asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Betty Sue said and slumped dramatically, “I’m exhausted. You can stay if you like. Your car’s here.”

  “No, I’m tired too.”

  I rose from my chair, stretched, and said good-bye to the table in general. Betty Sue and Melissa pressed cheeks.

  “Where are you staying tonight?” Melissa asked.

  Betty Sue examined the open zipper on her purse. “I’m staying at Martin’s.”

  “Is he out of town?”

  “Yes.” She zipped the purse. “He’s down in San Miguel de Allende with Ian Watt, but I have a bed over there. I almost have my own room.”

  “God, what are they doing down there?”

  “Learning Spanish. Bye now.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  Karen said she’d see them in the morning and waved. She and Betty Sue and I left the cafe. Walking down the hallway, Betty Sue and Karen spoke to each other in low tones, sharing secrets. I trailed a few feet behind them. I stared at the walls covered with advertisements of upcoming films at the Student Union theater, three-by-five cards asking for roommates, rides back home for summer, bikes for sale.

  Outside the building, we stopped on the corner of Guadalupe and Twenty-Fourth Street.

  “I had a wonderful time, Jake,” Betty Sue said. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Thanks for inviting me. It was fun.” I stared at Betty Sue and felt my face turning red and hot in the darkness. Karen was saying something.

  “. . . tomorrow?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you let me make you a pie before you leave for Chicago?”

  “Huh?”

  Karen laughed. “I’m making pies early tomorrow morning. Pear and apple. I can give you one before you leave.”

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m leaving pretty early.”

  “You don’t have to leave that early.”

  “I really do, but thanks.”

  “I thought your plane left at eleven?”

  The Walk sign came on.

  “Let’s go, it’s our turn,” Betty Sue said. “Bye Jake, have a good trip.”

  “It does, but I have to run some errands.”

  Karen frowned. “Come on, Jake. Let me give you a pie.” She started to follow Betty Sue into the middle of Guadalupe.

  “No, really—”

  “I can bring it to your house in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Karen, but I have a lot of errands in the morning and then packing and all—”


  A car made a left turn and Betty Sue screamed, crossing the street hurriedly before it, her hands up in submission.

  “Okay, suit yourself. Bye-bye.” She waved and ran across the street. Betty Sue was holding her hand over her chest and breathing heavily under a flashing red Don’t Walk sign. I watched them go, their shoulders touching, until they rounded the corner.

  * * *

  I opened the front door to the house, and the cat slipped between my feet. I sat down on the couch. The cat rubbed its back along the legs of the coffee table, purring loudly. I turned and saw Susan sitting beside me, a new magazine in her hands, turning the pages quickly with a snap, stopping at a perfume ad, rubbing the sample on her wrist and neck, seemingly oblivious to me watching her, then suddenly tilting her head, her neck exposed, asking me if I liked the scent. I stood up, walked quickly into the bedroom, and rifled through the contents of a top dresser drawer. I found an open letter atop a pile of socks with a Santa Fe return address and read it.

  Dear Jake,

  Bills, bills, bills. They came to $1895.00. I took the check you sent me and deposited it in my account. I know you’re worried about spending all of your savings but I think we’re paid off, so: rest easy. I’m going to Mexico for two weeks to stay with Tina. She’s going to teach me (she’s promised) how to paint. Then, it’s back to the states, where I’m going to work, work, work, wherever it takes me. Soon I’ll be Queen of the Movie World and hardly recognizable. I’ve decided to fly out from Albuquerque instead of Austin. Please don’t work too hard in Chicago and don’t be so hard on yourself. Enjoy your life.

  Love,

  Susan

  P.S. I tried to get your Pulse card to work, but it was futile. Maybe the ATM machine was broken.

  I read it out loud: “Enjoy your life.” I went to a desk and began to go through the drawers. They were full of old unfinished letters, empty postcards, safety pins, purple stationery, and dried-up fluorescent markers. I searched under the bed and found her journal. I scanned the pages, reading accounts of gin games, backgammon, playing spades with friends, dull jobs, and time on the couch, stoned on weed in front of the TV.

  “Enjoy your life.”

  My legs started to shake. I sat down on the bed, rubbed my eyes, and watched the clock. Finally I reached for the phone and dialed a number. A woman’s breathy, lazy voice answered: