by Matt Minor
But I’m human and I need love. I miss the touch of a woman’s fingers on my skin. I went so long without it before Ann. I’m worried that I might never know it again. Keith will have to deal with it. Time’s running out.
We’re both eating dinner in the den, burgers from a local choke and puke.
“So, dude, about this weekend? X! I can’t wait!” he says with a mouthful of beef and bread.
“Well…, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What’s wrong?” He swallows hard. Mustard is in a broken ring around his mouth.
“Keith, I’m going to have to cancel on you, man. And not just cancel but kick you off the itinerary altogether. You see, I’ve got a date that night and I’m going with her to the show...not you.” I know this delivery is harsh, but it’s the truth. Isn’t a sharp ax to the skull always better than a dull knife to the gut? “Her name is Brenna.”
“Oh,” he acknowledges, wiping his mouth. The yellow stained napkin falls from his fist to the floor. “And who is Brenna?”
“Brenna is a girl…or woman…that I’ve met through work. She works for the Fort Bryan County Judge. She’s beautiful and she likes me…I think. I’m sorry. Maybe this is a bad move on my end—across the board. I just wanted to get a firm date while I had the chance, and she wasn’t available this Friday night. Maybe she’ll hate the band, but Saturday was it…man.”
“Saturday was it…man?” he repeats. He reaches down and picks up the napkin. He’s folding it into a paper airplane, not saying anything. His foot starts tapping. “Alright,” he finally says. “That’s cool,” he adds, launching the napkin in the air with a flick of his wrist. His head sinks low as the yellow-spotted craft collapses to the carpet, having failed to take flight.
I feel a drop of sweat trickle into my eyebrow.
“I understand,” he finally states, looking up at me.
“Are you sure?” I ask, almost begging for approval.
“Yes, I am sure. You deserve it, Mason. Hell, I’ve seen X on several occasions, and in their heyday. Take this…what’s her name again?”
“Brenna.”
“Brenna, take this Brenna to the show. It might enlighten her.” He wheels over to the stereo and puts on the headphones. He pauses before placing the cones over his ears. “So you really like her?”
“Yes, I do. Very much.”
“Is she like Ann?”
“No, she’s nothing like Ann at all really. She’s classy but a little silly. I like it.”
“Ann was very classy, Mason.”
“Yes she was, but she was also very serious. We rarely laughed.”
“She was very bright—brilliant really. That’s why she was so serious.”
“Brenna is just a different woman, that’s all. I like her.”
“Like I said, take her to the show.”
So there ya go, I’m taking Brenna to the show. Now I’m feeling guilty about two things instead of just one.
I’m not sure how much cologne to put on as I stand before the foggy mirror, staring at my freshly shaven face. I’ve cut my Adam’s apple and had to apply a styptic pencil. A large pink clump is visible through my blue collared shirt, but how much cologne? This collar is too much.
Keith is over at our next door neighbor’s apartment playing computer games. The guy is a real gamer (a stoner too?) and he and Keith get along really well, as Keith is an electronics freak. I’m glad he has made some new friends, and I’m glad in particular that he’s not here while I’m trying to leave.
The settling day is clear and muggy as I dart out of the complex parking lot. I turn the A/C up all the way. I’m listening to The Replacements, another favorite of Keith’s. It’s a pleasant drive to her place. I park along the curb outside Brenna’s house.
I forgot my Listerine strips, so as an emergency measure I place my palm before my mouth and blow, smelling it. Nothing hits me as stinky and although I’d feel better if I had the breath strips, I’m here and need to get out of the car and to her door.
I ring the doorbell. The two small squares of grass that define the yard are high after the recent rains. I notice a rotting fascia board along one of the eves that comprises the front of this single-story, suburban Houston home.
I run my hands through my hair. Try to check my reflection in the door’s ornamental glass, but I look like I’m made of Silly Putty. I hear the short patter of furious footsteps.
“Hello, can I help you?” a small boy with curly brown hair and glasses asks, pulling open the door like a castle gate.
“Well, hello. You must be Will?” I respond, nervously.
“Yes! Who are you?” he shoots back like a laser into my self-confidence.
“He’s Mason!” Brenna declares before I can muster the verbal mechanics. Her tone is so definitive that it acts as a shield, for me.
“Will…how many times have I told you? You always practice politeness with our guests,” she calmly instructs. “Now, ask him how he is doing this evening.”
She’s looking up at me and smiles. Her teeth are as white as her gown.
“How are you doing this evening, Mr. Mason?” he asks enthusiastically, but measured.
“I’m doing great, Will.”
“Well, Will, welcome him in,” Brenna instructs.
“Please come in, Mr. Mason.”
The house is your standard 1990s, modest, suburban Houston home—the kind of house most people in the world would kill for. Will returns to whatever he’s engaged in.
When Brenna and I get to the kitchen, she is looking me up and down. “Oh God, am I overdressed?” she asks, self-consciously.
I look down over my blue-jeaned bottom half and can’t help but laugh. “Maybe I’m under-dressed,” I answer, smiling. Besides my jeans and boots, my upper half is decked out in an Army green T-shirt shrouded by my Camel Western coat. “I think we’ll both stand out,” I conclude.
“Really? I mean, am I going to feel awkward? I hate going someplace not dressed right. I bought this online, and since you can’t try it on before you buy it I always worry…”
“That’s the story of my life, both inside and out.” I have no idea what this means, it’s just what comes out.
Brenna starts laughing, which should be a good thing.
“What?” I ask, insecurely, “Do you think I’m kidding? And, if not, do I always look so bad?” I’m only joking, but there must be something about my tone, because she gets defensive.
“Gosh, no Mason. I think you look cute,” she apologizes with a blush.
If there’s anything that has a chance of fucking up, I will fuck it up! I’ve got to get ahead of this…and now… “Look, to hell with it; you look great, unreal actually. That gown is gorgeous. And as far as me…so what if we don’t match? We’ll still be the best-looking couple there!” Have I saved it?
“Okay!” she blurts out with soothing affirmation.
We are interrupted by a woman and a dog entering the kitchen.
“Mason, this is my mother, Joyce. Mom, this is Mason.”
“Nice to meet you, Mason.”
Will runs in, opens the pantry, and drags out a bag of dog food.
“Will, that dog eats so much,” Joyce says.
Will ignores the comment, spilling food over the bowl and onto the floor, which the dog sucks up like a vacuum cleaner.
“I guess Sargent is the only one you haven’t met yet,” Brenna says to me. Then she turns to her son. “Will, we’ll be leaving now. Don’t give Nana any trouble. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” he answers and scurries over to the kitchen table and starts setting up a game board. Sargent goes and lays at his feet. He is ignoring the adults in the room.
“Oh, he’ll be alright, sweetie,” Joyce says.
I want to be congenial to the boy. “Is that a checkerboard, Will?” Will doesn’t answer.
“Hey!” Brenna interjects. “Will, answer Mr. Mason.”
He rolls his eyes. “No sir, Mr. Mason,
it’s a chessboard.”
“I’m impressed,” I declare. This obviously flatters both Brenna and her mom because they both look at each other with mutually self-satisfied smiles.
“I’m sure by the time he’s ten I won’t be able to follow him in a conversation about much of anything,” Joyce says, shaking her head in a self-deprecating fashion.
Brenna turns to me. “You ready?”
“Yeah, let’s roll.”
“Mom, call with any issues.”
“What, like if he starts reading Einstein or something?” Joyce jests.
She leads me from the kitchen to the hallway. Before we leave, Brenna flips on the outside light. The front door shuts behind us.
She turns towards me and places her white leather purse down on the mildewed pebbles that comprise her walkway. Her skin is glistening in the high summer’s weight. Crickets and frogs serenade the plump air.
She’s smiling as she glides closer…
I place my arm around her soft waist and pull her in. The dampness of our kiss is synonymous with the tropical night.
We’re off.
The old Expedition is doing its damnedest to keep the cab temperate.
Not much has been spoken between us as we hit the highway towards the big town.
That old friend Doubt is tapping on my shoulder, whispering worries in my ear.
“Do you have any of this band’s music that we can listen to?” Brenna asks, interrupting my imaginary detractor. Again, she’s sitting at a perfect right angle, like she’s in church or something. I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes on the road.
“Yeah, I do. Umm, here,” I instruct with my arm, trying to get it together. “Look behind the console, on the floor in the back you should find my CD case.”
“I guess your car is too old to play music off of your cell?”
“Oh, I never play music from my cell; in fact, I don’t really have any music on my cell.”
“Why not? It’s so much easier.”
“MP3s sound… (I want to say ‘like shit,’ but I don’t want to cuss in front her—not yet) they sound…like hell. They just don’t have the sound quality that CDs have…vinyl’s even better.”
“Oh, I guess I never notice things like that.”
“It’s actually interesting, really. For decades, science in tandem with artists, tried to perfect the sound of recorded music. Great advancements are made. Then, the CD is invented. It revolutionizes things. But, it also kills the music business—which, okay, maybe needed to go as it was rotten to the core. But, it also killed the art of sound: what so many had labored for so long to perfect.”
“Hmm, I never thought about it like that before, I just thought it made things more convenient.”
“It is. They are. Digitalization put sound in the cloud and made it like a thief in the night. Art, like everything else, was robbed for convenience.”
“Wow, that’s really…really insightful. You’re smart, Mason.”
She grabs the CD case and starts flipping through. “Is this it, Wild Gift?” she asks, discovering an orange CD with a big red X on it.
I give the affirmative and she pops it in. As the tunes jaggedly boogie out of the speakers, though sitting silent, she seems to enjoy it.
Downtown Houston has changed through the years. Like New York, it went through its rundown phase. But gradual gentrification has changed all of that. Two of the counties my boss represents were the products of white flight; at some point taking on a life of their own. Now, only the rich and well-to-do can afford to live in Downtown Houston. It, as well as its satellite neighbors, is as multicultural as any place on the planet. This is modern America at its most advanced. This is global Texas.
Parking is amazingly easy compared to Austin, where I was earlier in the week. The walk to the venue is no sweat: no pun intended. Standing in line to get admission, it’s obvious we are both overdressed. I don’t care. I place my arm around Brenna’s waist and we smile at one another.
The club has a few giant blowing fans placed strategically to keep the clammy night at bay. I nudge my nose against hers and smell the fresh, fruity, shower scent that surrounds her like a mist. I pucker my lips and lightly smooch her. She looks up at me with a mischievous grin.
What does this woman see in me? I’m contemplating as the bouncer tears our tickets.
We go inside to discover we definitely stand out. The shadowy room bereft of chairs is filling with freaks: Liberty spikes, leather jackets, butch women. But everybody is cool. They’re just here to see the show. I quickly discover that we’re a part of a strange family. Or at least I am.
The show is killer. I’ve never heard X live but they sound as good as any of their recordings. The band is no more than thirty feet away—and we’re in the back. Guitarist Billy Zoom breaks into one of his fiery, rockabilly solos. Brenna is stoked.
“They’re awesome!” She continuously chants into my ear.
Amazingly, I’m keeping the Jack intake to a minimum. Brenna is sipping a glass of chardonnay.
The last set concludes, I go and buy her a t-shirt. We file out of the hot club into the hotter night. A mosquito lands on Brenna’s back and I swat it off, as we’re walking back to the car. Her flesh is covered in a film. When she’s not looking, I dry my hand against my cheek. We walk hand-in-hand to where the Expedition is parked.
“Are you sure you can’t get your mom to stay a little later?” I ask her as I turn the ignition key. I’m half buzzed and amped from the show. I’d like to stay out.
“No. Midnight is as late as she’ll stay. I’m sorry, Mason, I want to stay out too. It’s called, ‘being a single mom.’”
“I understand.” Suddenly, I feel like an asshole.
We’re talking about tonight’s band and music in general, the whole way back to the burbs. She really knows nothing, but this is good because I can play the authority on the subject, which she seems to like.
“I’ve never heard of any of those bands. But judging by tonight, I’d like to hear them,” she says, sincerely. When we pull up to a stoplight, she takes my right hand into hers. The light turns green and we drive on.
I’m parked outside her house and it’s time to say goodnight. I’ve always hated trying to kiss in a car—at least as the driver. I like using my right arm as a fulcrum, placing it on the gal’s face and moving her towards me. I’m simply not a southpaw. And I really haven’t had enough women to get good at it.
Awkwardly, we kiss. Our lips part.
“Well,” she says, plaintively, “I’ve got to relieve my mom. I’d invite you in, but she and Will are probably asleep and…”
“I understand,” I reply, awkwardly. “I really had a good time tonight. I’d like to see you again.”
Brenna has her hand on the door handle. She turns to get out, but then turns halfway back around and leans over the console. She grabs the back of my head and pulls my lips to hers. It’s only a peck.
“I would too,” she says, opening the door. “Night, Mason,” she innocently mutters as she waves goodbye, like a girl. I watch her white form flash from shadow to broken blue under the tree-inhibited moonlight as she makes her way up the walk. She turns and waves one last girly goodbye before vanishing inside.
Driving off, it strikes me that I really screwed up here. I should have walked her to the door!
CHAPTER NINE
THE OLD ADOBE
It was time to quit fucking around and get down to business. I’d let my emotions detour me long enough. I still hadn’t reviewed the file I’d purloined from Jules. Even though the boss had told me to cease and desist, I just couldn’t let it go…
It’s getting late here at the D.O. and I’m getting increasingly restless, as I want to get out of Dodge. The old bank where our office is located gets creepy at night. Now that the oil and gas company that shared the building with us has closed its doors, the creepiness seems to creep in earlier and earlier. But I’ve really nowhere to go as Keith has invited his re
probate new pals over to play cards and quarters.
It dawns on me that the boss knows nothing of Keith. I think I should keep it that way.
The sun hasn’t quite set when I step out to go get a taco around the block. The pink horizon is fuzzy from the humidity.
It’s still so hot out that I’m not even across the street before wishing I’d driven the Expedition. Bob’s, the taco place, is only about fifty yards from our office.
Instead of scarfing down the food at the establishment, I decide to order it to go. This place ain’t no fast food joint—they make all their meals from scratch. So it takes a little longer.
The night is new as I vacate. Tejano music fades as the door closes behind me. I’m glad I decided not to eat there because there is nothing worse than a full stomach under summer heat. No matter how short the distance.
Back at my desk, I methodically remove the taco and the condiments. I place a napkin in my lap. As I chew the flour and meat, I stare off into oblivion, thinking about Jules’ file. All day I’ve avoided it. I purposefully went on numerous, unnecessary errands, deliberately not to be in the file’s proximity. But it’s time.
I finish the taco, and after throwing the brown paper bag into the wastebasket, I wash my hands in the bathroom. I’m drying them with a wad of paper towels when I stare down the short, dark hallway. The place is really still. I rush back in our office. I close the door behind me.
I’ve found that sound, any sound, helps with the creepiness of silence when you’re alone. It can be a fan, the A/C, music, anything. I pull up some X that I have on my computer. I grab the file from our filing cabinet, which is concealed in the solitary closet. With the music playing low, I start to examine the stolen property.
