Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO SILAS’S SKIN
The annoying buzz of your cell phone’s alarm slaps you out of an excellent dream. There you were, Silas, lying on a thick bed of jungle leaves, with a redhead on either side. Grace kissed you sweetly while Ashlyn went down on you, and there was nothing sweet about that. It was downright nasty. The kind of nasty that would keep any guy going back for more.
The girl is that kind of nasty for real, and you’ll definitely go back for more. Today, in fact. After work. Work. Putrid. Why does it always have to get in the way of fun?
You dig through your laundry basket in search of the requisite khaki pants they make you wear. The pair you find is wrinkled, but not too dirty. No one will be the wiser. Your mom insists you wash your own clothes, “to teach you responsibility.” Imagine how she’d feel if she knew irresponsible you has avoided it for two weeks.
Speaking of your mom, you haven’t actually seen her in a couple of days. A stranger looking through the windows probably couldn’t tell both of you live in a single house, considering your comings and goings. If her car hadn’t been parked in the driveway when you got home last night, you wouldn’t have known she was here because she was already in bed. But you’ll have a few minutes to say hi before work. She’s always up ahead of you.
When you open your bedroom door, you can hear her crashing around in the kitchen, and as you start down the hall, it becomes crystal clear she’s not alone in there.
“Thank God you’ve got a mixer. These things aren’t impossible to do with a whisk, but they don’t turn out near as well.” The voice belongs to Len.
Which means when you passed your mom’s closed bedroom door last night, he was on the other side. In her bed. And you know what that means. Picturing it makes your gut churn.
If your mom wasn’t here,
you’d grab him by the throat,
slowly, slowly tighten the vise.
But she is here.
“Oh,” she says, when you reach the kitchen. “You’re home. I thought you were spending the night at your dad’s.”
“I was going to, but I had a friend along. She had to get home.”
Len turns away from whatever he’s doing on the counter. “She, huh? You have a new girl?” When he smiles, his perfectly straight teeth actually gleam.
You’d really like to punch him
right in his smarmy face.
“Guess I do.” Not that it’s any of his fucking business.
“That’s great, son. Want to tell us about her?”
“No. And I’m not your son.” That was a dare, if a small one. You don’t want to make your mom unhappy, even if she couldn’t care less about your happiness.
The wuss performs as expected. “Sorry. Well, how about some blintzes? They’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
“Blintzes? What’s that? Jew food?”
“Silas!” counters your mom.
“It’s okay,” says Len. “Actually, they are. At least, this recipe. It’s my grandmother’s. Have you ever tried blintzes? They’re like thin, sweet pancakes.”
Sounds kind of good, not that you’ll say so. “What’s wrong with regular pancakes?”
What you really want to ask is what the hell he’s doing here, sleeping with your mother.
“Regular pancakes are too fat to fold. See, I’m making a cream-cheese filling, which will get rolled inside, along with . . .”
You quit listening. It’s no big deal if your mom wants to stuff herself with old-fashioned Jew recipes in your house, in your kitchen. But you’re sure as hell not going along for the ride. Screw that. It’s still your table, and he does not have your permission to share it.
“Thanks, but I’m running late. I’ll get something later.”
“You have lunch money?” asks your mom.
No, but I still have a little weed is probably not what she wants to hear. So you stick with, “Actually, no. I’m broke.”
“Here,” says Len, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Reimburse me when you can.” He offers you a twenty.
If you were truly proud, you’d say no thanks. But pride is for losers. Ask any billionaire. You accept the bill. “Thanks.”
There’s no need to reimburse him.
You owe him nothing.
You’re out the door before it hits you that most of the words you and your mom exchanged were heated. Not what you wanted.
It’s all Len’s fault.
The aura of anger intensifies, and when you notice Lolita, it flares. You left her parked on the street, and between last night and this morning, someone keyed her fender. The scratch is long and thick and deep.
You pivot your head, right-left-right-left, looking for the perp. Down the block there’s a kid on a bike, and he’s laughing. You sprint down the sidewalk after him, bellowing, “Stop, you little fuck! Stop!”
He looks back and, seeing you in pursuit, whips into a driveway, brakes to a halt. As you get closer, you see he’s maybe twelve or thirteen, and brown-skinned.
He is going to pay.
“What you want?” he calls as you near.
You don’t stop until you’re hovering over him, fists knotting. “I want to know what you did to my truck.”
“What you talking about? What truck?”
“That one right there.” You point down the street. “You scarred her, you punk.”
“Nah, man. I didn’t touch it.”
“Who the hell did, then?” Your voice cracks as it hits its peak.
The kid smiles at that. “How should I know? You oughta take better care of your things, dude. You are a dude, yeah?”
You know how to answer that.
But it occurs to you that you might’ve painted yourself into a corner. You can’t prove he did it, and what are you supposed to do, anyway? Go off on a middle schooler?
The door to the house the driveway belongs to slams, and out come a couple of older guys. Mexicans, too. One who’s built like a bulldozer says, “What’s up, hermano? This vato bothering you?”
“He said I messed with his truck.” Now, bolstered by his bodyguards, he grows bolder. “Stupid shit should take better care of it, no?”
Three on one, you’ll get your ass kicked. If only you’d come to this party armed, you’d have Stand Your Ground on your side. At the moment, however, you are not carrying. Something nibbles at you, an emotion you’re only vaguely acquainted with. Fear.
Screw that.
You can take these guys.
No one says you have to fight fair.
But you backpedal. “Look. I parked my truck right there sometime after midnight. Between then and now, someone ruined a twelve-hundred-dollar paint job. He was the only person I saw, so I figured it had to be him. If not, no harm, no foul.” You take a step backward.
“You gonna tell my brother you’re sorry?”
Lie. Find him when he’s alone.
“Sorry.” That hurt. But with luck you’ll escape intact.
You turn on one heel and go, keeping an eye over your shoulder. This is why whites need to remain vigilant, not to mention armed. You don’t remember when Mexicans moved into the neighborhood.
“Did you screw up his truck?” you hear Bulldozer ask.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Who’s to say?”
Now the kid’s just punking you. Well, two can play that game. You happen to know a TradYouth cop. Cadet, anyway, but he’s got friends in the PD. You really should file a police report.
When there’s plenty of distance between you and them, you yell, “Hope your papers are in order. Y’all are legal, right?” That was like throwing pebbles at scorpions, but it makes you feel marginally better.
Before you start Lolita, you take pics of the damage and where she’s parked, and then you put in a call to your friend, ask for a reference. This doesn’t need to be an official report. More like a backdoor inquiry, and a possible off-the-books investigation.
Here in Arizona, there is little to stop cops from random ID checks and other harassment, especially now that Immigration and Customs Enforcement has so substantially come on board. ICE raids have become common. Easy enough for a local cop to manufacture a reason for a stop-and-frisk, and if a suspect gets roughed up a little? Not a problem.
You start Lolita and as she warms up, Len exits the house, carrying a bag of trash to the can outside the garage. Simpering bitch. That small nugget of domesticity reminds you of what’s soon to be and makes you want to heave.
Len glances at you quizzically, waves for you to open the window. “Everything okay?”
“Not really. Someone put a huge scratch in my fender.”
He comes over for a look, shakes his head. “That’s terrible. Who would do such a thing?”
All you can do is shrug. “No clue.”
He actually winks. “You sure it wasn’t you?”
“Dude, I baby this truck.” Mostly true. You do stop to think for a minute, though. You’ve had her out in the desert a lot lately. Could you have scraped her against something? No, you’d remember, and surely you’d have noticed it before this morning. Unless . . . last night?
“Okay, sorry. Well, how about insurance?”
“I’m eighteen and work part-time at a convenience store. I can barely afford liability. So, none that will cover this.”
He considers. “You know, I’ve got a friend who owns a body shop. I’m sure he’d give you a good deal.”
One of the most vexing things in the entire universe is when someone you can’t stand tries to be nice to you. If only you could just explode! But if he can help you work out a deal for the repair, you’ll let him. Maybe he’ll even loan you the money. “Thanks. Would you see when I could drop by for an estimate?”
“He’ll be closed until Tuesday, I’m sure. But I’ll give him a call then. And I’m truly sorry about Lolita. Great name, by the way.”
No response necessary, you head toward work, stewing. Between yesterday’s disappointing outcome and your run-ins with Len today, you’re building up pressure like Old Faithful. Figure in Lolita and your new neighbors, the need to jet like that geyser is becoming unbearable.
You stuff it inside, where it stays bottled up until you arrive at QuikTrip, ten minutes late for your shift. The guy you’re relieving is pissed, you can tell, but he takes one look at your body language and silently goes to clock out. You slip the requisite red company shirt over your tee and grit your teeth at the necessity of playing nice with customers.
Early on, there are plenty, with people loading coolers and filling gas tanks for Sunday outings. While such distraction might normally quell your ire, every small annoyance only serves to heighten it.
That’s okay, Silas. Stay pissed.
As morning segues to early afternoon, things quiet down, but now it’s your coworkers exacerbating your irritation. “Oh, no,” complains Myra, a not-adorable pixie type. “I broke a nail.”
Yeah, because polished claws are perfect for working the register. They’re attractive enough on models and such, but do nothing special for Myra except make her gripe. To shut her up, you offer, “Look. It’s slow. I’ll watch your register. Take a break. Use a nail file or something.”
A guy comes in, asks for a pack of Marlboros, pays for them with a fifty. When you open the register to make change, you notice it’s stuffed with cash from the morning’s abundant haul. Some of that should go in the safe. Tad, the weekend assistant manager, has been remiss. It’s not uncommon.
You call his office. Well, it’s actually the storeroom in back where he hides out, playing video games. “Dude. You need to come empty the drawers.”
It takes a couple of minutes for him to climb off his ass, grab a money bag, and make his way up front. Just as he opens the first register, two guys bust through the door, wearing hoodies and surgical masks.
The one holding the gun says, “I’ll take what’s inside it. And open the other one, too. And you . . .” He points to you. “Don’t even think about moving.”
You freeze. These must be the jerk-offs who’ve been terrorizing Tucson. The ones you saw on the news at your dad’s last night. They actually shot a couple of people in a Denny’s. That knowledge keeps you frozen. Your gut clenches and unclenches, the earlier nibble of fear nothing compared to this snarl of terror.
Tad hands a wad of cash to the unarmed man, but you can tell he does it reluctantly. His eyes dart back and forth between the two robbers, like he’s making mental notes.
“Hurry up,” commands the gunslinger.
They’ve probably been here only a couple of minutes, but it feels like a whole lot longer. When Tad seems to delay, for whatever reason, you urge, “Do what he says. He means it.”
“Goddamn straight!”
As soon as the other register pops open, Sidekick reaches across the counter and scoops out the money. He stuffs it in his pocket and both men head toward the door. Before they reach it, Tad dashes around behind them, grasping for something hidden under his manager’s smock. He’s armed!
“Stop right there!” he yells, whipping out his pistol, which looks like a toy. “Silas, call 911!”
When the men keep moving, Tad decides to play good guy with a gun, firing a shot in their direction. The bullet goes wild, hitting a Coke display near the door. The bad guy with the gun rotates, just as Myra comes running out of the bathroom, screaming, “What’s going on?”
Bad guy and good guy decide to duel. Each takes two shots. Somehow, they miss each other, but Myra is caught in the crossfire. You witness all this in the thirty seconds it takes to duck behind the counter, reaching for the phone. By the time you manage to dial 911, the shooting has stopped. You really don’t want to see the results.
When at last you work up the courage, the robbers have made good their escape. Tad is sitting on the floor, unscathed but in shock. And Myra? Jesus.
It takes several protracted minutes for the cavalry to arrive. By then you’re pretty sure she’s gone, and you have learned two valuable lessons.
One: If you’re ever in a convenience store bathroom and hear shots, stay where you are.
Two: If you want to play good guy with a gun, your aim had better be excellent.
Which means you’d better practice.
Fade Out