Austin Nights

by Herocious

distance. Somewhat frustrated with the state of things, I manage to fish another option out of the Austin aquarium.

  “We can go to HEB,” I say, “they’re open around the clock.”

  At least there’s a 24-hour grocery store, I think, at least there’s that.

  We buy two Central Market pizzas. I’m happy they’re reasonably priced and free of dreadful hydrogenated oils. In fact, the ingredient list is sparsely populated and wholesome. I understand each one. Nothing is on there that seems like poisonous chemicals, not even high fructose corn syrup, which I also refuse to eat. Give me real sugar, give me real oil, give me real butter.

  Q: How can food companies feel good about feeding children and adults edible food substances that’ll hurt their hearts and give them diabetes and cancer?

  Q: How is it ethical to knowingly peddle products any moderately informed person knows are health hazards?

  A: I don’t fucking know.

  We have no idea what we’re doing. The bottom line makes us gaga. Gaga people hurt everyone around them. Give me real sugar, give me real oil, give me real butter. Stop cutting so many corners. Stop raking in a profit from peddling the same shit contaminated with trans fats and syrupy corn.

  And, while you’re at it, learn how to stop a leak in your pipelines when they explode in the middle of the beautiful ocean. Fuckers. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? The only thing you know how to do is convince other people you aren’t as gaga as them. But the truth is that the whole wide world would be better off if you didn’t take your bigwig job so seriously. The truth is that the whole wide world would be better off if you stayed inside and kept to yourself and created your legacy of love and honesty. But to do this, first you’d have to acknowledge your ignorance. It’s pretty easy if you try. Stop thinking you know more than everyone else. Admit you don’t know anything at all.

  And then go inside and stay there.

  On the way out of HEB, we say goodbye to the security guard with a lazy eye. On his heart, I see he has been a HEB employee for seven years. I don’t read his name.

  “This pizza’s going to be good,” I say, relishing the near future.

  Bridget finds my hand with hers. We walk across the parking lot. The moon is on its descent. Everything would be picturesque if it weren’t for the yellowish man standing by the soda machine. None other than the leprechaun elf. He has a bottle of Dr. Pepper filled with wine. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is combed differently.

  What’s this, I think, is he drunk?

  I wouldn’t have recognized him had I not seen his massive backpack where he stores his worldly possessions. I see this backpack, and I know it’s the leprechaun elf. He is drunk indeed. He stands by the soda machine and stares at the starlit sky. His hair is tousled in the warm wind as he smiles wryly at no one in particular. I get the feeling he’s elsewhere in his thoughts, completely bedazzled.

  He side-talks a mantra:

  “I am not a fish. I am not a fish. I am not a fish.”

  He repeats this sentence no less than three more times before we’re too far away to hear. I think he doesn’t see us even though we pass within a yard or two.

  “Did you see who that was?” I ask Bridget, still holding her hand.

  “No,” she says.

  “Standing by the soda machine, you didn’t see him?”

  “Obviously not, Viejo! Tell me.”

  “The leprechaun elf. He was drunk and smiling and talking with himself in the same voice he used at the library. He looked scary, as if he were plotting some evil. I wonder if he saw us and didn’t let on? You think he knows where we live?”

  We become hyper paranoid when we get home. We lock all the doors and windows and use the iPhone to make sure there’s absolutely nothing on the internet that may supply the leprechaun elf with clues as to where we live or who we are. I’m convinced we’re too late. Our identities have been compromised. That’s why he was standing outside our HEB. He’s messing with our minds now. But Bridget still thinks we’re anonymous. To make sure it stays that way, she deletes her Facebook account.

  Then we eat our pizzas.

  2

  I’m listening to the shrill of grasshoppers. I’ve written through twilight and into the night. I hear a moth running into the light bulb above my head. It makes staccato music.

  Back in Miami, one of Bridget’s close girlfriends with a condo overlooking Biscayne Bay used to call me grasshopper. I don’t think I deserve such a reverent title, but I’m not about to tell her that.

  The last thing she wrote to me came in the form of postscripts on a letter addressed to Bridget. I’m going to ruthlessly share what she wrote because it’s the only piece of advice I’ve gotten in recent months:

  PS: Grasshopper, life without Mary has been more fulfilling for me. Since we divorced, I have not only gotten back in tune with things I had neglected, or simply forgotten, but I have also discovered how much more productive I can be, and what a high that gives me! Hope you find your way to divorce as well…. You won’t regret it (and I hope you find your way back into school, too)!

  PSS: Always remember the epiphanies you had on my balcony.

  8

  In their 87th year on earth, my dad, Michael, gives a cat to his parents, whom I’ve always known as Mamma and Granddad. My dad’s their eldest son. He drives all the way from Houston with a cat named Stoli, after the Russian vodka.

  Mamma and Granddad don’t know about the cat my dad’s bringing in tow. Being a robust woods cat built for life in Siberia’s thick snow, Stoli’s merrily received even though Mamma and Granddad are dog people.

  “A dog would be here sitting with us,” says Mamma.

  “A dog would come when it hears its name,” says Granddad.

  “It’s a nice cat,” admits Mamma.

  “Where’s my four-legged friend?” calls Granddad, sitting on his velvety green chair.

  “Where’s your cat, Michael? I’ve been looking all over and it doesn’t come out.”

  “When it hears your voice he comes,” seconds Granddad, “but not when it’s just us.”

  “Come here, kitty cat,” cajoles Mamma. “Come here little guy.”

  Stoli proudly saunters across the kitchen floor and rubs against Mamma’s ankle. He sidles closer to her and arches his back. Mamma reaches over the sofa and pets Stoli with arthritic hands. Happiness beams from her watery blue eyes. This makes Granddad happy. He folds his hands elegantly on his lap.

  “Oh Mare,” he says. Mare is short for Marian, which is Mamma’s real name. “It seems to like you.”

  “You see, Bus,” says Mamma, laughing with her husband until her eyes well up. “And you didn’t want to believe me when I told you it’s a nice cat.”

  She sniffles. The blue vein underneath her forehead’s skin glows.

  0

  The woman with purple boots walks up the stairs of our building. I’m washing a cup at the sink. Iridescent soap bubbles entertain Honeyed Cat on the windowsill. The woman with purple boots doesn’t see me even though she walks right by. I’m not sure if she sees me at the sink and chooses not to let me in on her awareness, or if the opaque screens at The Oaks really conceal my presence. Regardless, I turn off the water and open the window some more when I hear her knocking on the crazy girl’s door.

  “Hi, Sara,” says the woman with purple boots.

  So, I think, her name’s Sara.

  My ears perk up and listen intently for the juice to tell Bridget when she comes back from work. We don’t know what happened that night after The Call. All anyone knows is that Sara wasn’t prepared for the law’s entrance into her apartment. Someone dialed 911, most probably the mindless Mohawk on the first floor.

  Not too long ago, he stops us on our way for a walk through the local neighborhood. I have our new bridge camera dangling on my shoulder, lens cap in place.

  “Excuse me,” he says, “can I ask for y’all’s opinion on something?”

  I quickly oblige, �
�Sure.”

  “Do you know your new neighbor?” he asks.

  “No,” I say.

  In fact, at this point, the only interaction I’ve had with my neighbor was when she saw me reading on the carpet and said, “Hi! I’m your new neighbor!” Back then, before I knew the first thing about her, she seemed like a bubbly 22-year-old girl who may invite us over to share a cup of jasmine tea.

  “Well,” he says, having a little trouble finding the right words, “I don’t like her. She’s a nutty bitch.”

  “Really?” I ask, uncertain as to his degree of histrionics.

  “Yeah, bud,” says the mindless Mohawk. I never correct strangers when they call me bud, but I don’t particularly like it. “Just now, me and my girl were enjoying the day. It’s Sunday, you know?

  “It is Sunday,” I confirm, “you’re right.”

  “Me and my girl were sitting on the porch listening to the radio, and your neighbor walks by our patio and says, ‘Turn down your music. I don’t like your fucking music.’ That’s what she said, and then she threw her drink at my screen! Now I don’t mean to be assuming things here, but it’s the middle of a Sunday. I can listen to my music however loud I want. She doesn’t have to like my music for me to listen to it. We live in a community here. As long as it’s not late at night and people are trying to sleep, I can sit on my porch and listen to my own damn music, right? I mean, could you guys hear my music from your place?”

  I look at Bridget, and Bridget looks at me. “Not really,” I say. I say, “When we were on the