Behind Calvert Cliffs (2)
“Sure, just the same as anybody else, I guess. Difference between me an’ most folks is I’ve lived most of mine.” “Ya don’t say?” “Ah do.” “Instance?” “Well, I was in the circus for a couple of years.” “Say what now?” “You know, the circus.” “You mean like white tigers jumpin’ through flaming hoops, contortionists, siamese midgets, eight foot tall strong men…” “Etc., etc. Yeah, a circus. ‘Cept it wasn’t one of these corporate deals you got goin’ nowadays. It was one of the smaller circuses; the only place alternative performers such as myself could get work.” “Alternative performers?” “You might know us better as circus freaks.” “Really? Well, which one of ‘em freaks was you?” “I wasn’t no freak!” “I see.” “I was the bearded lady.” “I see.” “Yeah, I had a real good run of it for a few years until I got found out...” “On account uh you’re not a lady.” “Nah, on account of I got caught stenciling in the patchy parts of my beard.” “Of course.” “Those were some great days, though. I’ll tell ya what, I’ve never done so many drugs in my life. I mean coke, mescaline, LSD, PCP, you name it.” “You don’t say.” “Yeah, man—ain’t no party like a circus party. Me, the siamese midgets, and the guy with three arms used to do a minimum of five lines before each show. The trapeze swingers and the high wire acts generally wouldn’t touch the stuff, though.” “Why’s that?” “Would you want a fucking flashback when you’re walking across a six-inch thick wire a hundred feet off the ground.” “I suppose not.” Donnie stared off out the window. Snapping out of his trance, he continued, “Anyway, I digress. So what are you gonna do now?” “I don’t know. Richie says his buddy’s dad has an autobody shop. I guess I could go work for him. I worked in one of them shops back one summer when I was 15. Not much to it. But I don’t know; once you’ve owned your own business, though, it’s real tough to see yourself slaving for somebody else’s dollar.” “I hear you man. I couldn’t see myself doin’ that. More of a self-made man ma-self.” Both men nodded and looked out the window and the conversation dead ended. “Say, what if I told you I know of an opportunity that’ll allow you to buy your old boat back, with plenty of cash left over to boot,” Donnie said, breaking the quiet. “What, like a bank job?,” Albert chuckled. “No, much worse.” “You’re funny, kid.” “Ain’t tryin’ to be. I still got connections to my old troupe…” “Yeah?” “Anyway, it seems the lion tamer, this pillow-biter named Deiter, is sleepin’ around on his boyfriend, this cock-chugger named Gustav, with the ring leader…” “Ring leader of what? You’re tellin’ me you’re connected to the mob too?” “The circus; ring leader of the circus. Pay attention. So, anyway, this turd burgler, Gustav wants his ex-boyfriend whacked.” “And you know this how?” “We dated for about five years. He broke up with me about three years ago to be with Deiter. I tried to have him killed, but when the plan got botched, I realized we weren’t good together. Anyway, water under the bridge, yadda yadda yadda. Ever since, we’ve become best friends.” Albert considered the proposition momentarily. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, man.” “Alright, guy, if you’re gonna be a homo, that’s fine with me. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re that dude’s greasy servant boy.” Albert studied his blackened fingernail tips and his gnawed and callused palms. He thought to himself that his hands looked as worn and gnarled as his father’s had. He wondered why they had not also served him as well. “I’ll sleep on it.” * * * Sheba lay on the floor of her cage, thoroughly licking the backs of her giant orange paws, periodically rubbing them over her immense orange and white, striped face. From down the hall, she could hear the organized chaos of squealing motorcycle engines, cannon shots, and indoor fireworks; which, while strange and terrifying for the first few months after she was relocated from the Asian jungle, had become routine. She let out a rumbling purr-- like an idling formula one race car at the starting line-- that coursed along the cage’s floor and vibrated up its bars. Her huge green eyes gazed intently and soberly through squinting eyelids at the golden-haired, yet balding man facing her, slumped in a metal folding chair a few feet away, a cigarette drooping from his wiry lips. His rhinestone-encrusted white leather pants clung intently to his legs. A matching white leather vest hung loosely from pasty, hairless arms. Gaudy rhinestones spelled out “Deiter” on his back and sparkled in the fluorescent lights as he breathed shallowly. He lifted his black leather whip from the ground and flicked his wrist repeatedly so as to tap Sheba’s face with its tongue. She flinched each time, prompting a girlish giggle from the man each time. But she did not so much as growl. The man checked his watch, stood up from his chair and stood over the cage. “You stupid, mangy animal. I know you want a piece of me.” He leaned down and stared into the cat’s eyes. “But, no matter how big you may be, you are nothing but a big furry, drugged-up, pathetic pussy cat.” The man drew deeply from his cigarette. “Pussy!” He flicked the cigarette into the tiger’s eye, causing her to flinch. “Alright, you stupid bitch, show-time.” Sheba continued licking her paws, massaging her face, gazing intently. * * * Jason stood in front of the inner-half of the front door, directing an entranced, exhausted stare on the peephole before him. Several consecutive nights of staring at the ceiling in an insomniatic haze had left his mind numb and body limp. The portal returned an icy glare to the 17 year-old, examining him with its warped vision. The skinny, almost gaunt youth slouched in a humble stance, as though bearing a weight upon his neck. He wore a turquoise mohawk which splayed out like a stegosaurus fin, a metal barbell through his lower lip, a Black Flag tee-shirt, and black-and-red Nike Air Jordan sneakers, a Christmas gift from his mother. The adolescent slipped on thick brown leather gloves, pulled over a dense down coat, and drew heavy boots over double layers of socks. He smoothed back the springy fluorescent protuberances with a sweeping motion of his hand and tucked them beneath a wool skullcap. As Jason reached for the door knob, he heard the voice of his mother from the kitchen. “Jason, where are you going?” “Christ almighty,” he muttered under his breath. He shouted to her, “I told you, I’m going to that woman’s house today.” “I can’t hear you. Wait a sec, hon.” His mother walked to the entrance of the house, her auburn-dyed hair wrapped in pink curlers and her aging face still swollen from sleep. “I’m going to that woman’s house.” “Which woman?” Jason stared at his mother, eyebrows raised. “Community service.” “Oh, I completely forgot. Okay, well don’t forget, you, me, and your brother are taking your father out to dinner to celebrate his big promotion to CFO, so don’t be late,” she explained, patting her son on the shoulder. “I told you not to call those dot-heads my father and brother,” Jason replied, teeth clenched. Kim looked away, biting her cheek, then stared intently into her son’s face. “Jason, you know damn well that if you don’t like the situation here, you’re more than welcome to move out. You’ll be 18 in six months. After that, you’re free to go wherever you please. In fact, you’re free to go now if you want.” “Fine.” “Kavi cares about me. He works hard to take care of me and he has accepted you into his home. And Punji is half your blood. Is any of that worth anything to you?” “Kavi is a frigid workaholic who scooped you up because he needed a white trophy wife.” “Jason, shut your…” “He chose you because he figured white trash like you would be subservient and desperate to cling to him. And Punji…” “Jason, I’m warning you…” “And Punji is a mealy-mouthed little rag-head mulatto bastard I would rather stuff in the trash compactor than call my flesh and blood.” Kim pulled her hand back and swung it with her full force, striking Jason across the temple. The boy staggered back two steps. He glared at his mother defiantly, his face twitching with rage. Kim stared back, clenching a fist. Jason reached for the doorknob, twisted it, cradled his face in his left glove, jolted the door forward and slammed it shut. Immediately, his sinuses met with the acrid sting of bitter winter air, a sensation like walking into an icy pole in a dark basement. Stepping onto the porch, he saw that another two feet of snow had been dumped on the ground during the night and that the roads had been cleared and salted, leaving hulking gray banks along the sides. The door swung open. “I never asked for this, Jay!,” his mother shrieked to the boy’s back as he walked away. “I never fucking asked for this!,” she repeated, her voice quivering with anger. She slammed the door shut and the withered wreath that hung from it fell to the ground. Jason ambled to his ’89 maroon Toyota Camry. The house he exited was a stark contrast to the stained trailer in Charles County in which he had spent most of his existence; where the stench of stale cigarette smoke, duct-taped windows and a gutted Cammaro, which lay like rotting carrion on cinder blocks, spoke of his mother’s capitulation. The neighborhood in which it was situated was also nothing like the community of his childhood, where torn screen doors, weather-beaten sofas on porches, and abandoned ramshackle houses cried out like festering wounds. This house was like the others of its neighborhood, Hickory Hills, a community of well-maintained station wagons, well-groomed gardens, and pressure-treated pinewood decks, located in the heart of St. Mary’s county. Inhabitants and guests emptying their bladders and/or bowels in the first floor bathroom’s porcelain oval were whisked away to that state’s coast by wallpaper patterned with an infinite army of lobsters marching lock-step in neat diagonal rows, two miniature gold colored lobsters placed like idols of worship on opposite sides of a ceramic soap dish, and framed photographs of light houses and weathered and rowboats. Skylights opened above the kitchen and living room like huge portholes on a cruise ship. On particularly bright days, they flooded the house, drowning it in a deluge of light. At night, they allowed the house’s passengers to watch the universe lethargically float by, much as if gliding through space with centralized air conditioning and heating. When he arrived at the house that was his destination for the afternoon, two miles away, Jason sluggishly stepped out of his car and approached the front door, walking in short, choppy strides, like a prisoner in leg shackles approaching his jail cell for the first time. The house, a diminutive ranch house, was colored in a faint purple with faded puce shutters, but whispered of a once vibrant shade that stood proudly against the neighborhood’s beiges and off-whites. An open garage was attached to the right side of the house, sheltering a tarp-covered car. Taking notice of the shrouded vehicle, Jason altered his course toward it and lifted the tarp. Beneath, he found a black Cadillac with chipped paint all about its body, worn black leather upholstery, and a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. Jason left the garage, approaching the house’s front door, rapped lightly on it, and waited for a response. There was none. He waited several more seconds. “Goddamnit.” Another burst of wind came and Jason lost his patience. He turned the knob of the door and, noticing it was open, pushed it forward, leaning his head inward. “Hello?,” he half shouted, trying to locate the woman. Receiving no response, he walked down the house’s entrance hallway. His eyes’ attention was first hooked by a velvet Elvis painting—middle-aged, ballooning, white leather jacket and bell bottoms Elvis; not young, trim Jailhouse Rock Elvis. Reaching the end of the short hallway, his focus was caught by a huge swirling, bursting abstract mural standing flush across the entirety of the opposite wall of the modest-sized living room. Jason walked toward the painting and examined it. Within its focus was a bright flourish of color which, when reflected against the sunlight pouring through the window, almost made Jason wince. All about the center, the colors swam and blended together in a swirling, chaotic, fluorescent flurry. The painting drew Jason closer, beckoning him with its curious static frenzy. He walked toward it in measured paces and scrutinized the canvas from inches away, following the bubbling texture with his eyes across its tiny rivers and swirling sinkholes. Stepping away, he felt dizzy and swooned slightly as his eyes squinted and refocused. Below the painting lay a tarp caked in paint and a set of paint cans and dried brushes that appeared to have lay dormant for quite some time. Jason now walked back toward the hall, noticing a room to his left. He poked his head in. There was a woman laying seemingly unconscious on her back in a bed with IVs running out of her arm and tubes stuck in her nose. Next to her bed was a nightstand packed with photographs of young, smiling, vibrant people with their arms around over one another’s shoulders, making silly faces and posturing for the camera. One was of a blonde woman toasting with a Martini glass to the camera. Another was of the same woman standing on a beach in a revealing bikini, navel piereced, wearing a snorkel and flippers. Jason approached the bed, hovering over the figure’s face like a coroner over a corpse. He noted a vague resemblance between this woman and the blonde in the pictures. The person before him, however, more closely resembled a desiccated marionette lying in a box, limp and wooden. Her face had the complexion of a melon drained of its juices and stood out starkly against black sheets. A jagged pink scar peaked out from beneath a yellow tee-shirt that just barely revealed a part of her stomach and side. Against her almost translucent skin, blue veins stood out starkly, feebly pumping poisoned blood. Jason drew his face closer to the woman’s to examine their paths along her temple. “You know what they say,” came from the woman’s mouth, her eyes still shut. Jason jumped back and his jaw clenched. “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose…” The woman opened her eyes, which were revealed to be the color of Caribbean waters. She moved her hands backward and pulled herself into a seated position. “…but you can’t pick a cadaver’s nose.” “Uh...I was just...uh”, fumbled Jason. “It’s okay, kid. Everybody has at least a little fascination with death. It’s a natural thing.” “I’m real sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.” “Look, kid, I said it’s okay. Now, life’s too short for sorry’s so get over it, or I will unhook myself from these tubes and kick your scrawny ass. Now tell me, what’s your name?” “My name is Jason.” “Hi, Jason, I’m Jackie. Good to meet ya.” Jackie extended her hand. Jason received it carefully, as though it were a porcelain statuette. He was surprised that far from fragile, her grip was confident, almost forceful; though he could tell she had to exert significant energy to make it so. “Now, Jason, how does this work? You’re supposed to read me bedtime stories and give me sponge baths?” “Uh...I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” “Never done this before?! You mean you’re, what, seventeen years old and you’ve never taken care of a dying cancer patient? Have you ever met a person with cancer before?” “Well, yeah, my grandma died about two years ago… brain cancer.” “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry to hear it.” “It wasn’t that bad really. If anything, I think it improved her life.”
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