Deleting later

Phil, Horn Dog, Candy Man Extraordinaire

BOOK ONE

Good Samaritans

1.

I drive Stu home in his father’s beat up Chevy Caprice, taking the scenic route between the factories and the river, while Karen follows closely behind us in her Chevette. The play in the steering wheel is wicked, the brake pedal almost goes completely to the floor.

“Where are we going?” His voice is a bat skittering up from the depths of the back seat, attempting to escape through the window. “Take me to Karen’s.”

“I’m afraid we’re taking you home.”

“No!”

“It’s probably for the best.”

“Let’s get some beer.”

“It’s past two.”

“So?”

“Stores can’t sell past two.”

“Since when?”

“Like, since always.”

“Well, fuck me.”

We drive in silence until we thunder over the train tracks. The white orbs of Karen’s headlights violently bob behind us.

“Phil.”

“Yes?”

“If the blacks live on the North and South End. And the Mexicans live on the East Side. And the whites live wherever the hell they want, East Side, West Side, doesn’t matter—”

I pop a cassette into the tape deck. The effort required for him to initiate this conversation is proof of just how wasted he is.

“Don’t be a dick. Don’ cut me off.”

He repeats his assertions about the blacks, the Mexicans and the whites. “Then where do the Ojibwe live? Answer me that. Where do the Anishinaabe live? The Anishinaabeg.”

I turn onto his street and slowly cruise up the block beneath the halos and young silver maples before pulling into his driveway. There is an older although nicer car already parked there. Karen pulls up to the curb in front of the house and gets out to help while I get out and open the back door of the Caprice to assist m’ lord.

The interior dome light makes Stuart cringe.

“I can’t open my eyes.” He is bitching. “I’ll get sick.”

Stuart’s little sister meets the three of us.

“Hi.” I am grinning broadly. I am trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible in the sad yellow hue of the light coming from the bulb above the side door. “We’ll just throw him on his bed, if that’s okay.”

Despite this late-night interruption, the crickets are fierce.

“Why don’t you just throw him in the back yard?” She laughs at her gift for repartee.

“I will cut you,” Stuart mumbles.

We are ushered to his bedroom.

“Karen,” Stuart mumbles, tripping up the stairs. “Karen!” he hisses. Don’t sleep with him. For the love of God, show some fuckin’ restraint.”

Stuart’s sister points into one of the three upstairs bedrooms. She is barefoot and wearing an over-sized John Stamos t-shirt. In the dim light, John Stamos’ face looks insane.

“There!” She is not concerned with waking anybody, not even the dead. The door opposite Stuart’s bedroom suddenly swings opens. A man in bright white underpants and a glowing t-shirt lumbers into the hallway until he bumps into me.

“Uh, hello, Mr. Page?” I am calling upon reserves of tact I did not know until now that I possess.

He pauses to scratch his belly. A vaguely recognizable disembodied woman’s voice calls from behind in the darkness of the bedroom. “Glenn, what is it? What’s going on?” She is clearly calling from the realms of the dead.

Stuart’s sister admonishes their father in the dark: “Dad, go back to bed! Get back in your room!”

I am smiling to beat all hell. I am actually very well acquainted with Stuart’s mother. We are coworkers. When I am not going to my creative writing class, or selling drugs at El Oasis, or at a hall show, I am usually managing a pizza shop. But now is not exactly the best time for exchanging pleasantries. Imagine me calling out to Stuart’s mother as she lies in bed in a sheer negligee more than thirty years old.

“Yoo hoo, hello, Margot. It’s me, Phil. Do you work tomorrow, er, I mean today?”

“What? Who?”

“Um, never mind. It’s late. You should be resting. This is really all a very strange dream—“

But it’s not.

Glenn comes to life: “Goddammit! What the hell’s going on?”

The hallway is only so wide. I am trapped. Fuck Karen. It is every man for himself.

“Stu’s drunk!”

“What?”

“Drunk, Dad. Drunk. The sonofabitch is trashed. He can’t even open his goddamn eyes.”

“Hey, young lady! Watch that mouth. Goddammit, I need my glasses.”

“Go back to bed, Dad.”

The door slams.

I can hear dresser drawers being ransacked, the mechanisms of plastic wheels on the metal runners of accordion-style closest doors in need of lubrication, and now I am thinking, “Oh, fuck. Guns.”

Stuart’s little sister says, “Throw him on the fucking bed. Jesus, what are you waiting for?”

“Are we about to get shot?”

Once in bed, Stuart gathers his blankets and tucks them between his legs. He giggles but does not recoil when Karen tries to pull off his shoes.

“Karen,” I whisper. “I think this is good. I think we’re done here.”

I notice in the darkness that Stuart’s bedroom is tidy and fairly empty. The walls, however, are plastered with posters of alternative bands, including Joy Division, New Order and the Cure. There are also posters of Black Flag, Suzanne Vega, Apollonia and Prince. I turn back to the two of them. Karen is sitting on the edge of the bed. Stuart’s voice is an invisible wave in the post punk gloom and doom of his bedroom. “You didn’t answer my question, Phil.” My knowledge of American Indian populations within the city limits, or the state, or the country, for that matter, is weak. They used to live on reservations? I mean after the colonists arrived and the government tried to exterminate them. I suddenly long to be in my own bed, with my own posters, stroking the sleek fur of Joe’s cat, Sid. Sid, who is the newest addition to the house on Stone Street, has taken a shine to me lately, which is more than I can say for Karen.