Everybody Pays (3 page)

LAST DATE

I
was on time for our Thursday-night date, but Bonnie never showed. I know things like that can happen, so I wasn’t worried, not at first. The thing is, I couldn’t find out
what
happened to her until the next Thursday, a whole week.

So I was a little early the next Thursday night. I figured I might stay a little later, too—I held on to the money I was going to spend on her from the week before, and I was really loaded.

She was late. That’s what I thought, at first. But I didn’t do anything with anybody else. I never do—not since I found Bonnie. That would be cheating, and George Steckle never cheats. Ask anyone. My boss, the guys in the shipping room, my landlady—anyone. I pay all my bills, right on time. In fact, I’m debt-free. That’s very important, to be debt-free. It means you don’t owe anybody anything.

When it got past midnight, I knew she wasn’t coming. I was really upset. Sad and upset. Bonnie would never break a date with me, I knew that.

I’m ashamed of myself for what I did next. I went back on a different night. Not on a Thursday, the way we always do. I went on a Friday. The very next night, I admit it. That’s a busy night, usually. I know that from before—before I met Bonnie, when I used to go a lot.

But she wasn’t there. I sat there for hours and I never saw her. And if she had been there, I would have seen her. I know the place like the back of my hand—I had been going there for years before Bonnie came.

The way I figured it, something was wrong. Maybe Bonnie was hurt, or in the hospital or something. I knew she wasn’t on vacation, or gone home to visit her family, or anything like that—she would have told me first. I mean, Bonnie isn’t the kind of girl who would just stand you up on a date. She has very good manners, and she’s very considerate as a person. You can tell she was raised right—her parents did a good job.

But I didn’t do anything. Not then. I just figured, okay, I’d come back when I was supposed to. On Thursday night, I mean. And then everything would be all right.

I could hardly wait for the next Thursday. I mean, I wasn’t jumping up and down or anything. And the guys at work didn’t say anything, so I know they didn’t notice. They really get on your case if they notice things; that’s the way they are. The way everybody is, I guess.

I always wear my good suit when I have a date with Bonnie. I only have the one, but I keep it real nice. And I have different ties, so it looks different when I wear it at different times, if you know what I mean. So I got dressed up, and I went for our date.

But Bonnie wasn’t there again.

I didn’t know what to do. This was the longest time I hadn’t seen Bonnie since we started dating. I decided I would go home and think about it.

Where I live is a good place to think. It’s small, just the one room. But there’s plenty of space for my magazines and my radio. I like to read the magazines while I listen to the radio. Sometimes, they talk about what’s in my magazines on the radio. They don’t even know they’re doing it, but I know. I never call the radio shows; I just listen. My landlady says I’m her favorite lodger. Because I’m clean and quiet, I guess. And I always pay the rent on time.

My landlady says she’ll be sorry when I get married and move out. I mean, this place wouldn’t be enough for two people. I never say anything when she says that, but I thought, she would really like Bonnie. And maybe I’d bring Bonnie around to meet her before I moved out.

I have money saved. I always saved money, but I didn’t know why, exactly. After I met Bonnie, I knew. It was to buy a house. I always wanted to live in a house. Bonnie said she did. Live in a house, I mean. When she was at home, before she went out to work, on her own. I told her about getting a house, and she said it sounded perfect.

The more I thought about Bonnie not showing up, the less sense it made. The magazines I have, they’re mostly detective magazines. About crime and stuff like that. I knew things could happen to a girl. Especially a young, pretty girl like Bonnie. She was the kind of girl they usually have on the covers of the magazines I read, so I knew she could be in danger.

I wanted to investigate. I never did it before, but I knew a lot about it from the magazines. The only thing was, I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know where she lived, or who her friends were, or anything. Just where she worked. And she wasn’t there anymore.

My head hurt from trying to think about it. I felt lousy all week. But I went to work every day. I never took a sick day, not in eleven years. It’s a company record. The boss even said so, once. I have a lot of vacation time all stored up, too. So I could have taken time off if I wanted. But I didn’t know how I could use the time, so I just went to work, the way I always do.

When Thursday came around again, I went back. I didn’t have my hopes up anymore, so I wasn’t even surprised when she wasn’t there. I decided I had to do something, so when one of the other girls finished up front, I waved her over to my table. She asked me if I wanted a dance. I told her I just wanted to talk. She gave me a funny look. Like Bonnie had, that first time. But I put money on the table and she smiled. Then she sat down and talked to me.

I asked her, did she know what was wrong with Bonnie? Because she hadn’t been there in weeks. The girl I asked, she said she didn’t know anybody named Bonnie. I knew the girl I asked, she had been there for a long time, even longer than Bonnie. So I knew she must have known her, but her face didn’t look like she was lying, so I didn’t know what to do.

Then I figured it out. Of course! Bonnie was her real name. She only told me about it because we were dating, because we had a relationship. She used another name for work. A stage name, that’s what she called it. Because she was a performer, and they all had stage names. I had a hard time remembering Bonnie’s stage name—it was so long ago. I put more money on the table, and I described Bonnie to this other girl. But she said it didn’t ring a bell. That it could have fit so many of the girls. I didn’t understand this. None of them looked anything like Bonnie.

I was getting nervous. I didn’t want the other girl to leave, but I couldn’t think of any name but Bonnie. And then it came to me. Tanya. Tanya Towers. That name was a joke, she told me. Bonnie told me, I mean. The other girls called her that because of her . . . chest. So she made it a stage name. Anyway, I asked this other girl, had she seen Tanya?

The other girl told me Tanya quit. She was working at another place. I asked her, but she didn’t know the name of the place. There are lots of places like this one in the city.

I told the other girl we had a date. Me and Bonnie, I mean. For Thursday nights. The other girl said I could have a date with her instead, wouldn’t that be okay? I felt bad. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I told her about me and Bonnie. About the plans we made.

The other girl, she said something very nasty to me and she got up and walked away.

In a minute, a big, mean-looking guy came over to my table. He told me it was time to leave. I asked him, why would he say that to me? I was sitting quietly; I wasn’t bothering anybody. I was just waiting for Bonnie.

The big guy told me Bonnie wasn’t coming back. Only he didn’t call her Bonnie, he called her Tanya. He said Tanya’s boyfriend took her back on the circuit because she was all played out in that place—I mean, the place where we were talking. Where I used to have my dates with her.

I didn’t understand a word of what he said. It didn’t make sense. Bonnie didn’t have a boyfriend. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been having dates with me. The big guy sat down next to me. His face got softer. He said that the girls could only work the same places for a little while. Then they needed fresh ones. That’s what he said, fresh ones. He told me Bonnie was never going to come back there. And I shouldn’t either.

That was almost six months ago.

I learned a lot since then. About the circuit. And the places, how they work. And the girls, too.

My boss at work says there’s something different about me, but he can’t say for sure what it is. He wasn’t complaining—my work is still perfect. He said he was . . . concerned. That’s the word he used.

I get different magazines now. I study different things too.

I need all that information. I go to work every day. Every night, I go to the places. I made a grid. Of the whole city. I check and cross-check, because I know none of the girls works every night. I spend a little money, but mostly I save it.

What I do now is, I look for Bonnie. As soon as I find her, we’ll go on our last date.

for Charles

TAG

“
H
ey! What the fuck is—?”

“This? It’s just a sprayer, punk. Like what you carry. Only this one sprays bullets instead of paint.”

“What d’you want?”

“Same as you.”

“I don’t get—”

“There’s three of us. One of you. You try and run, we just blast you and leave your body right where it sits. It’s nice and dark here. Nobody’ll be around for hours. Just like you planned, right?”

“I wasn’t gonna—”

“Sure you were. We’re the only ones wearing the masks here. You, you’re ‘MRR88.’ That’s your tag. Now we got a face to go with it.”

“You got the wrong—”

“Uh, don’t be stupid. This is the third place you’ve done tonight. We’ve been right there with you. Now just put up your hands.”

. . . .

“And here’s your little notebook. With all your punk plans to ruin people’s property with your mess. What’s ‘MRR88’ stand for, anyway?”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, you’re not talking. Too bad. ‘Master Race Rules!’ How’s that for a good guess? And would the ’88’ stand for ‘HH’ by any chance? ‘Heil Hitler’?”

“It’s just a—”

“Joke? This time it’s on you, punk. Get in the car.”

“Where’re we—?”

“Just a warehouse. Few miles from here. You’ll recognize it. . . . It’s where all the amateur taggers practice. Nice big walls, nobody around. Of course, nobody around means nobody gets to
see
it, so it’s not for the top guys. Not for you, huh?”

“I just—”

. . . .

“Get out.”

“Look, you guys. I wasn’t—”

“Keep walking.”

“What is all this? Look, I won’t—”

“You
won’t
do anything, Percy. That’s your real name, right? Percy?”

“I—”

“Look, punk, we know this isn’t about being a Nazi, all right?”

“Right! I mean, I just wanted to—”

“—leave a mark, right?”

“Yeah! That’s all it is. You leave your mark on a place, people know you’re . . .”

“You ever think about the people who bought those houses? How much it costs them to fix every time you fuck them up with your ‘art’? How bad it makes them feel that they try and keep their places so nice and you and your boys keep coming back? Over and over again?”

“We . . . I mean, I wasn’t—”

“You think it’s okay, don’t you? Leave your mark on other people’s property.”

“Not . . . really. I mean, it’s just—”

“That’s okay, punk. We understand. You just want to leave your mark.”

“I . . . Hey! What’s that he’s holding?”

“That? Ah, that’s a tattoo needle. It’s not gonna hurt much, but you gotta hold real still. You jerk your face and the needle slips, it won’t be your forehead, it’ll be your eyes. Then you wouldn’t be able to run around leaving your mark no more.”

for Alan and Sue

DRESS-UP DAY

I
am an only child. When I was real small, I thought I was the only child there ever was, because I didn’t know there were any others. When I finally started going to school, some kids from big families would tell me how lucky I was. To be the only child. They would have so many kids in their families that it was hard for them to get any attention, or have any privacy. I never told them the truth. I would just nod, like I understood what they were saying.

A lot of kids thought I was stupid at first, because I nodded a lot when they talked. But the teachers knew different, because I could read and write faster—I mean, I
learned
to read and write faster—before the other kids did. Math too, I was quicker.

I
did
understand what the other kids were saying. About being an only child. By then, I knew I wasn’t the only child. And I listened to other children, so I knew that we weren’t all alike. But even the ones who were wrong about me were half right. I
did
have a lot of privacy. Even when I was very, very small. I remember the privacy. I used to cry and cry for my mother, but she never came. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood she wouldn’t come. She wasn’t even in the house. When she
was
in the house, she usually had a man with her. They didn’t want to see me. If I kept them from seeing me, I would be okay. If they saw me, one of them would hurt me, usually her. One time, this man—all I remember about him was he had red hair—he told my mother not to slap me. He said I was just a baby and I wanted my mother. That was a natural thing, he said. My mother told him to mind his own business. She said I wasn’t
his
kid, so shut the fuck up. The red-haired man slapped her then. Real hard—she went flying. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back and slapped her again. He asked her, did that feel good? Did
she
like that? My mother licked her lips where they were bloody and said something to the man I didn’t understand. She was on her knees. The man turned around and went out the door. He never came back. I remember that night especially well. It was the first time my mother ever burned me with a cigarette.

It was always like that until I stopped being stupid. I had to live in the house with her. That was the law. But I stayed away from her. And she never came in my room in the basement as long as I didn’t make any noise. I got pretty good grades and I read a lot. I knew the only answer was to be very strong. I tried a lot of things to be strong, but none of them worked. I asked the school nurse once: How come I never got any bigger when I lifted weights and all? She looked very sad. She was very nice. I don’t remember what she said, not much of it. But I remembered one of the words, and I looked it up. Malnutrition. From when I was real small. Before I could get food for myself.

Everything changed when I got to be thirteen. I got bigger. Not as big as some of the kids, but not the smallest, not even close.

The next year, I’m not sure why, girls got very important. Different boys did different things to have girlfriends. I really couldn’t do anything. I wasn’t good at basketball, I couldn’t dance, and I didn’t really like to fight. And, of course, I never had money to get very nice clothes or buy girls presents.

That’s when I got the idea about stealing. I read everything I could about it. I studied it. Then I started. I only took money. Cash money. Never anything else. Sometimes, I would go in a house at night and there would be no money. That was okay. I knew that would happen. It would happen if someone were to break into my mother’s house, too, I guess.

I never spent the money. I mean, I never spent a lot. So nobody noticed. But I always had a little. I mean, enough. I bought some nicer clothes. But I still had plenty of money left. And I thought all the time about being stronger. My mother didn’t hit me or hurt me anymore, but, sometimes, one of the men she had would if she asked him to. So I spent most of the money I had on stuff to make me stronger.

I don’t know how it happened with Darla. She was in my class and all. I had known her for years. Not really
known
her, but . . . well, it’s a small school and I guess I knew just about everyone. I never went up to any of the girls. But Darla asked me a question once. In the library. And I talked to her. After a while, she said she was real thirsty, so I asked her could I buy her a soda and she said yes.

After that, it just . . . happened. I don’t know how. But it was the best thing in the world. Darla was my girlfriend. Not my secret girlfriend either. Everybody knew. I bought her a lot of nice stuff. Once she told me I shouldn’t do that. Her parents were worried, she said. She was just fourteen, and she shouldn’t be getting such expensive stuff. It was just a CD player, but I guess it made them nervous. So I stopped. I met them and everything. Once they met me, they liked me. I told them I got the money for the CD player by mowing lawns and washing cars and other stuff I knew kids did. I told them I had saved up. They said that was fine, but I shouldn’t spend so much money on a girl at my age. I said all right, and they smiled.

I bought Darla an ID bracelet. Sterling silver. She could only keep it at school, because her parents would get upset, but that was okay. She always wore it at school, and everyone knew it was mine.

A couple of times, her parents said I was maybe spending too much time with Darla. Calling her too much. I guess maybe they were right. But I wanted to be with her all the time. I said they were right, though, and they felt better. I could tell.

Darla and I were going to be married someday anyway, and then I’d be with her all the time.

I don’t know who did it. I don’t know who to blame. Maybe it was the guidance counselor. I saw my file, the one she kept. I wasn’t that curious, but I had already broken into the school. Lots of teachers leave money in their desks. In my file, it said: Attachment Disorder. And the words “unhealthy relationship” a lot. About me and Darla. So maybe it
was
the guidance counselor. Or it could have been Darla’s parents. But I know that it wasn’t what
she
said—that she just wanted to have dates and stuff with other boys and maybe we were too close and she was too young to make a commitment. I know Darla would never have said anything like that unless someone had told her to do it.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t go back to school the next day. I had to think things over.

It’s Friday now. The last Friday of the month. That’s Dress-Up Day at school. Girls can wear makeup and high heels and boys can wear suits and all. Some of the boys don’t do it, but all the girls do. I knew Darla would be all dressed up, but not with my bracelet. She gave that back. I have it with me. I always have it with me.

I’m getting dressed up, too. I have a full set of camouflage gear that I bought. And an M-15 rifle. It looks just like the ones they used in Vietnam, but it doesn’t fire on full-auto—you have to pull the trigger each time to make it shoot.

I have four full clips. I taped one to the magazine, like it showed me in this book I bought through the mail, and I put the other two in my belt.

I don’t know who did this to me and Darla. But, after today, it won’t matter. I’m going to fix everything, and then they’ll be sorry. They’ll never know why. I know what I have to do when I’m done.

And when they come here to tell my mother, they’ll see where I started.

for Chet Williamson