Theresa Monsour (24 page)

TRIP DROVE NORTH through downtown and instead of steering onto the freeway, took meandering side streets toward home. He needed time to empty his head of the word. “Fired!” If the Manowar CD didn't do it, maybe a couple of the right pills would. He pulled into a liquor store parking lot and put the truck in park but kept the engine running. He pulled a bottle of pills out of his jacket pocket. Another find from Keri's purse. He hadn't even checked the label yet. Prayed they were something potent and wonderful. Amphetamines would be good, but he knew that was asking too much. Keri had warned him they were getting harder to come by. She'd said she had one patient on them—a guy with narcolepsy—and he was wising up to her pilfering. Trip needed something to lift him up. Take him someplace. Any place was better than where he was now. Listening to that word rattling around inside his head. He read the label. “Fuck,” he muttered. They weren't even part of Keri's stolen stash. Her name was on the bottle. “Ingmar, Keri M.” Below that: “Take 1 capsule by mouth every day. Prilosec 20mg capsules.” He unscrewed the top
and dumped the contents of the bottle into his hand to make sure she hadn't filled the container with something else. He recognized the purple capsules. He'd watched her pop them into her mouth when her stomach was bothering her. She told him they neutralized the acid in her gut. He was poised to toss them on the floor of the car, but stopped. Poured the capsules back, screwed the cap back on, returned the bottle to his pocket. The way his life was going, he'd probably need the pills. He shut off the engine and shoved the keys in his pocket. Hopped out of the truck and slammed the door shut. Headed for the liquor store. If he couldn't get stoned before he got home, might as well get drunk. He walked inside, headed for the whiskey section of the store. Spotted his old man's favorite. Reached for the Jim Beam. Some liquor might soften the blow.
Got fired, Pa. Let's do shots
. Trip scanned the shelves for his own numbing agent. Vodka? Gin? Tequila? Tequila would work. He took it down. Wished he could twist off the cap and chug it right there in the middle of the aisle. He walked over to the counter and set both bottles down. Saw some beef sticks on a rack in front of the counter and threw a fistful on the counter.

“That it?” The clerk was an old woman with greasy gray hair and crooked teeth.

Trip scanned the rack for more snacks. Grabbed two bags of salted-in-the-shell peanuts. A can of cheese balls. Set them with the other stuff.

“Breakfast?” the clerk asked with a chuckle.

Trip didn't answer. Tossed some bills on the counter. He remembered the laundry. Pulled a few more bills out of his pocket. “Give me s . . . some quarters.”

 

HE pulled in front of the Laundromat. Turned off the truck and slipped the keys in his pocket. He sat behind the wheel. Stared through the storefront windows. Only a couple of folks inside. He grabbed the bag of munchies off the passenger's seat and eyed the other two bags—the liquor—
with longing. He looked in his rearview mirror and scanned the sidewalk. No one close. He pulled the tequila out of its sack and picked at the paper seal. He needed a knife. He reached over and popped open the glove compartment. Took out a jackknife. He stared at his one-hitter kit. A toke would be so good right now. Exactly what he needed. Still, he'd better save it for later. With Keri dead, his pills dwindling and his job gone, he'd have to conserve any and all mood-altering materials. He opened the jackknife and cut around the paper seal for the tequila bottle. Closed the knife and tossed it back in the glove compartment. Stared at the one-hitter kit again. Told himself to be strong. He shut the glove compartment. Screwed the cap off the tequila. Looked up and down the sidewalk again and then put the bottle to his lips. Took a long drink. So good going down. He took a longer drink. Put the cap back on. Slipped the bottle back in the bag and set it on the floor on the passenger's side. He opened the driver's-side door and slid out, taking the bag of snacks with him. He shut the door and went to the back of the truck. Opened the gate. His stomach churned. Behind the garbage bag of clothes were all the shirts. He knew exactly how many he had because, like the other salesmen, he'd paid for all his own samples. Five sealed boxes. Twenty-four shirts in each. Two opened boxes. Twenty shirts in each. Twenty-three loose shirts. Each boxed and loose shirt was individually polybagged and ready for sale. Plastic inside the collar. Cardboard on the back. Stickpins here and there. Then there was the one dirty shirt rolled up in a ball way back in the corner. He'd used that to dry the truck at the car wash. That made 184 shirts. What was he going to do with all those fucking shirts? He grabbed the garbage bag with the dirty laundry and pulled it out of the truck. Slammed the back gate shut and crossed the sidewalk to the Laundromat. Bag of clothes in his right hand and bag of snacks in his left.

 

TRIP sat on a chair in front of the dryers, stared through the round windows at the clothes rolling around and gnawed on a beef stick. The last of his snacks. In the chair to his right were his jacket and a pile of food wrappers and peanut shells. He rifled the last inch of beef stick into his mouth, chewed three times, swallowed. He leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. Folded his hands together and rested them on his stomach. His belly was full and his head was light. During the rinse cycle, he'd gone back out to the truck and chugged more tequila. He decided the Laundromat wasn't such a bad place to be drunk. Outside was gray and cloudy. Through the storefront windows, he could see crumpled paper and leaves being chased down the street by the wind. Inside, it was warm. It smelled clean from the dryer sheets and detergent and bleach. Not like the trailer, with its stink of his old man's cigarette smoke and urine and whiskey. The two other people doing laundry—an old guy in baggy khakis and a young woman in tight jeans—had finished their loads and were gone. He had the place to himself. Nice and quiet. The only sounds were the hum of the dryers and the muffled thump of the damp clothes inside them. Not like home, with his father barking orders and waving his cane around. Television cranked loud with the noise of gunplay from yet another western show. Didn't that channel ever run out of cowboys?

The first dryer stopped. Trip stood up. Swayed. Dug his hands into his pockets. Even if the clothes were dry he'd be willing to keep plugging the machine with quarters to listen to the drone. No change in his pants. He picked up his jacket and checked. No change there, either. Only his car keys and Keri's stomach pills. His gut was starting to ache from all the junk he'd eaten. He took the bottle out, removed the cap and fished out a capsule. Swallowed it dry. Put the cap back on and shoved the bottle back in his jacket.

The second dryer stopped. Fuck it, he thought. Time to go home. Where did he put that garbage bag? Had he
tossed it by mistake? No. Here it was, under his chair. He took it over to the first dryer, opened the window, bent over. Started filling the bag with warm, clean clothes. The room began spinning. He dropped the bag and ran to the bathroom in back of the Laundromat. Fell to his knees in front of the toilet and vomited. Tequila and beef sticks and peanuts and cheese balls. He figured the purple capsule was in there somewhere, too. He blew his nose on some toilet paper. Stood up. Hobbled back to the dryer and finished emptying it. Went to the second dryer next to it and started digging out clothes. He wished he could crawl inside with the warm fabric. He shut the dryer and stood up. Started for the door and stopped halfway there. He'd forgotten something. What? His jacket. He dropped the bag on the floor, went back to the chair, picked up his jacket, slipped it on. The room was spinning again. His right hand darted out and held on to the dryer. Shut his eyes for a moment and opened them again. The spinning had stopped. He picked up the bag and went out to the truck.

 

HE walked through the trailer door with the bags of liquor cradled in the crook of his right arm and the garbage bag of clothes in his left hand. He dropped the garbage bag on the floor. Saw his pa sitting on the couch, asleep. The TV tray in front of him. Loaded with chips, dip and other junk. Ashtray with a smoking cigarette. A spent insulin syringe and needle. The television was blaring. The theme from
Bonanza
. Was it that late? Almost dinnertime. Trip picked up the bag and walked to his bedroom. Threw the bag in a corner. Set the booze on his dresser. Took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. Wanted to collapse on top of the sheets and take a nap. His head was still spinning from the booze, but not as bad as before. He was sobering up. Maybe he should reverse the trend, he thought. Best to break the news to his old man while he was drunk. While they were both drunk. He went back to his dresser and took the Jim Beam out of the bag. He'd save that for his old
man. No good mixing tequila and whiskey. He took a knife off his dresser and cut around the whiskey bottle's seal. Set the knife and whiskey bottle down. Slipped the tequila out of its bag, screwed the cap off and took a long drink. Burped. His mouth tasted like tequila and cheese balls and vomit. He took another drink, swished it around in his mouth and swallowed. He set the bottle on the dresser and went to his bed. Sat on the edge and pulled off his dress shoes and socks.

His pa bellowed from the front room. “Where in the hell you been all day? Thought that meeting was just the morning. I'm hungry. Been eating crap all day.”

Trip got up from the bed, grabbed both bottles and walked into the front room. Sat down on the couch next to his pa. Took the cap off the Jim Beam. “Why d . . . d . . . didn't you make yourself something? You ain't helpless. You been making me b . . . breakfast.” He handed his old man the whiskey bottle.

“Nothing in the fridge.” His pa took a coffee cup off the TV tray, tipped it in his mouth to finish off the coffee and poured himself a drink. Set the bottle between his legs. “We need groceries.” He guzzled the whiskey like it was water. “You left me here to starve.”

“I'll g . . . get some groceries. Meantime, let's order a p . . . pizza.”

“You drunk?”

“Getting there.”

“When did you start?”

Trip didn't answer. He took a juice glass off his pa's tray. Looked inside it. A layer of something orange on the bottom. Probably orange juice from the morning. Trip filled the glass halfway with tequila. Set the bottle on the floor at his feet.

“Maybe you didn't hear me, boy.” He set the cup down, picked up his cigarette. Took a pull and set it down again. “When did you start drinking? Middle of the day?”

Trip threw his head back and bumped off the tequila without tasting it. Shuddered. “Hell n . . . n . . . no. I was
already good and d . . . drunk by the middle of the d . . . day. This here is my s . . . second wind.”

“Why you drinking like this? Did you make it in to work?”

Trip filled the juice glass. “I m . . . m . . . made it in all right. In and out.”

His old man picked up his cup, took another drink of whiskey. Set the cup down on the tray. Stared at his son. “You been fired.”

Trip nodded. Sipped from the juice glass. He'd filled it too high and spilled some of it on his shirt. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Shit is right,” said his pa. “We in a world of shit now.”

Trip set his glass on the TV tray. “What d . . . do you mean?”

“Expenses. Our lot rent for starters. How we gonna pay? That's three hundred a month right there. Electricity. Groceries. My cigs. My meds. Jesus. How we gonna pay for my shots and pills and such?”

Trip had stopped listening. He stood up. Swayed. Started to unbutton the shirt and stopped after the top button. “Who g . . . gives a shit? There's more where this c . . . c . . . came from.” He loosened his necktie, yanked it over his head and threw it on the floor. Ripped the shirt open with both hands, popping the buttons off.

“What the hell you doing? You nuts?”

Trip pulled off the shirt, held it up in front of him and ripped it down the middle as if he were tearing a sheet of paper in half. “Fucking shirts. I h . . . hate these shitty shirts.”

His pa frowned. Softened his tone while watching his son's erratic behavior. “Now don't be wasting stuff like that, son. We got to be frugal now that you're . . .”

“Now that I'm what? Fired? Fucking f . . . f . . . fired?”

“You ruined a good shirt is all.”

Trip threw the shredded shirt at his pa. “We g . . . g . . . got shirts up the ass.” Barefoot and dressed in his tee shirt and dress slacks, Trip stumbled out the door, went to the
back of his truck, opened the gate and pulled out both of the opened boxes of dress shirts. He went back inside. Dropped the boxes on the front room floor.

“What you got there, son?”

Trip didn't answer. Ran back outside and grabbed two of the sealed boxes and brought them inside the trailer. After three more runs to the truck, his entire supply of shirts was on the front room floor. He looked at the sealed boxes. He needed a knife to open them. He ran to his bedroom and grabbed the first knife he saw on his dresser—the straight-edge he'd used on Keri. Sitting folded in its box on his dresser, waiting to get sharpened. He took it out, shoved it in his pants pocket and ran back to the front room. Stood in the middle of the pile of boxes and shirts. Scanned the room. Saw what he needed. He headed for the couch. Fell over a box on his way there. Crawled to his feet. Picked up the tequila bottle. Put it to his lips and chugged. Wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. He carried the bottle over to the pile of boxes and shirts. He shifted the tequila to his left hand, bent over, and with his right took a packaged shirt out of one of the opened boxes. He stood up with a pink men's long-sleeve in his right hand and the booze in his left. “Wrinkle f . . . free. Athletic fit. Size s . . . seventeen.” He drew his arm back and whipped the package at his old man like a Frisbee.