Landslide (28 page)
Authors: Jenn Cooksey
Dottie takes my grandma’s hand and guides her by the elbow to her bed, helping her slide in and get settled with an afghan over her lap.
“There you go, sweetheart. You just lean back and relax your bones a bit.”
My grandma sighs and closes her eyes, her head sinking deeper into the pillows propped behind her. A runaway tear drips down my cheek and I wait for her breath to even out to inform me she’s sleeping before I lean in to kiss her cheek and tell her I love her. I know she’s already forgotten that I’m standing here and won’t remember or miss me when I’m not here tomorrow and the days that follow it, but I never rob her or myself of a see you later before I go. Since she doesn’t know who I am, hugging her, kissing her, or any other kind of familiar physical contact like that upsets her though, so I always wait.
“Don’t you be lookin’ at me with those teary eyes,” Dottie tells me when she realizes I’m about to hug her and say goodbye, “You go on and take your little behind home, finish packin’ up that old car o’ yours and then you get to gettin’. You hear me?”
I ignore her and give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek anyway. “Oh, you…go on now. And don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’. Your grand-mammy is in good hands and you’ll be back plenty to visit…not like you’re movin’ to the moon for cryin’ out loud. Shoot…you and that blue eyes cryin’ in the rain look you got, makin’ me get all emotional.
Girl
…mm-mm.”
“Thank you for everything. I don’t know how to ever repay—”
“I said mm-mm, child. Don’t wanna hear it, now get on with yourself,” she commands and before she starts really and truly crying, she turns around and waves a hand over her shoulder, leaving me alone to make the long walk down the spic and span hallway to the parking lot…the one that has a view of my new life in the horizon.
26
—Erica—
What should’ve been an hour and a half drive
at most
, turned out to be five, thanks to the Black Friday traffic, the rain, and the not one, but two car accidents on the highway, and that was even before I started up the mountain. My grandma’s poor Ford Grenada… It needs so much work and more TLC than I think I can afford to give it for much longer.
The heater quit working before I made it past an elevation of 3000 feet, leaving me with roughly 2100 to go, a rock slingshot from a semi’s mud-flaps and cracked the windshield, and then, I got lost in the dark trying to find the street the two bedroom/one bath furnished house I rented sight unseen is supposedly on. So of course I got a flat tire pulling back out onto the main road intending to drive into town and get better or more specific directions. Or, an Indian guide to just take me to my remote cabin in the woods where I’m sure to be murdered in my sleep by a chainsaw wielding, fifteen-times dead psycho wearing a hockey mask. Oh, and I almost forgot, the rain had turned into sleet by the time I pulled into the two pump gas station, which was closed.
Getting out of the Grenada, I’m blasted with a gust of freezing cold wind and ice water stings the crap out of my face. Squinting against the wind and burning rain, I peer into the night and decide to walk a few hundred feet to the source of what looks like the word Budweiser scrawled in neon hanging in a window. It takes me something like ten minutes and my feet are sopping wet and probably frostbitten by the time I get to the door of a bar; a door that uses some unfortunate animal’s antlers as door handles. By this point, I’m seriously reconsidering my fresh start and running back to Hemet and facing Dottie with my tale between my legs. Only thing is, I really have to pee first…
Jesus, I feel like I’m living in a Bob Seger song…
I muse, sloshing into the dank bar. I wipe the icy rain from my cheeks and shoulders and rub my frigid hands together, taking a moment to look around while most everyone’s attention is centered on the local talent performing on the stage. The band is almost but not quite butchering Joe Cocker’s “When A Man Loves A Woman” and has the occasional patron swaying from side to side on their barstool. The less than mediocre rendition of the usually moving and inspirational piece of music is almost depressing to me, though.
Having checked out as many faces as I can and determining that flannel and/or plaid must be some kind of pre-req. for living in Crestline, but that none of the people wearing either look completely homicidal, I head over to the bar itself, lean across it, and ask for two things: The bathroom and a number I can call for either a tow-truck or a mechanic who can fix my flat for me. The big, burly and bearded bartender reminds me of a black bear; however I don’t cringe away in fear when his paw slides a napkin with a phone number on it towards me before pointing to the other end of the bar. My eyes follow the bear’s paw and I spy an honest to goodness cigarette machine that from the looks of it, is probably older than God himself. It’s cowering there, shamefully, yet conveniently hiding out in a corner by the hallway leading to the bathroom, so inwardly giggling, I make my way over to it humming “Turn the Page” to myself.
Winning the fight with the slot that takes bills, the machine grudgingly takes my money finally and I select my chosen flavor of vice—not that I actually smoke all that often anymore, or rather, hardly at all; although I feel like it’s something that needs to happen if I want to ensure the full experience of this place tonight.
“How the hell am I supposed to smoke the day’s last cigarette and remember what she said,” I grumble aloud to no one while I pull and struggle with the knob, “when this knob thingy…won’t…freaking…
budge
! Ugh…” I fling my arms out and then drop them to my sides in semi-frustrated defeat. “You, my antiquated friend, are a relic for a reason…”
Blowing out a disappointed breath and
completely
ignoring the sensation of I don’t even want to know how many pairs of eyes checking out my ass, my bladder calls my attention back to the entire six-pack of diet cherry soda I drank on my journey up the hill, and I turn down the dimly lit hallway to do the pee-pee dance into the bathroom. The bathroom has got to be at minimum, thirty-seven degrees colder than the sea of plaid flannel surrounding the bar, although I’m hugely relieved to discover the single stall in this section of Antarctica is empty and I scoot myself right inside. I fumble with my button and zipper because my fingers still feel like they’re going to snap off, and then finally, I wiggle my wet jeans and panties down and sit. The seat is so cold though that I actually, audibly let out a gasp, which I’m not even sure how I manage to do because I also suck in a lung-full of chilled air through my gritted teeth at the same time. Seriously, I can see my damned breath and I really wouldn’t be shocked in the least to see steam come from where my body temperature urine is combining with the glacier water in the toilet bowl.
Feeling better and surprisingly, a little warmer now, I reach for the toilet paper and guess what? There isn’t any.
Hmm… Okay, let’s do inventory.
I have two wet socks, a scarf that I’m not terribly attached to, my useless single-knit gloves, I can tear some cardboard from the empty box of seat liners on the wall behind me, a quick look in my purse lets me add twenty bucks, a tampon wrapper, and a receipt from a 7-Eleven to the list of in lieu of toilet paper… I lift the lid of the trashcan on the stall wall and take a tentative peek… Yeah, no.
I guess I can always risk shimmying myself out of the stall to grab a paper towel real quick, though.
Huh, I wonder…
I lift up and push the door open a smidge just out of curiosity…there are no paper towels either. Figures. So, it’s either use one of the items I have at my disposal or I sit here and drip dry, hoping and praying of course that I don’t end up with a pee-sicle hanging from my girly parts. Then I remember the napkin shoved into my jacket pocket. It’s a small cocktail napkin though and I
need
the information on it. It’s a matter of survival that I con, sweet talk, beg, pay out the nose, or do whatever I have to do to get this guy to leave his safe and warm abode to come save me at almost ten o’clock at night on the most frozen Black Friday in Southern California history.
Suddenly, an epiphany strikes; I can input the number into my phone and then wipe!
I create a new contact named “Candidate: Knight in Shining Tow Truck” and begin punching in the number only to growl in exasperation when I come to what is either a one or a very short-armed seven.
“Aw, goddamn it.”
Back to the list it is then.
Decisions, decisions…
27
—Cole—
“Hey, good, you’re back. Jennifer Aniston or Sandra Bullock?”
I’m not even on my stool again or back from the bathroom thirty seconds before I’m taking part in a poll. With some of these guys, I don’t think I even want to know how it came up, but it’s a no contest scenario for me. “Jennifer Aniston.”
“See?”
“Well, wait.
Friends
Jen or—never mind, doesn’t matter. Jennifer Aniston, hands down,” I reaffirm and take my seat after dropping my phone back on the table amongst the other phones, the quarter-full pitcher of beer, beer mugs, an almost empty pack of cigarettes, an overflowing ashtray, and two glasses that about an hour ago were filled with Sailor Jerry and Dr. Pepper.
“Yeah, like I told you. You gotta go with Jen,” Sean agrees with a nod.
“It’s true, you do. I mean
I’d
even do Jennifer Aniston.” I give Payton towering over me a look of, “Would you just shut up,” and then reach for my phone again when it starts vibrating. “Everything okay?” he asks, leaning over and trying to read my text. At six-foot five, even sitting down he’s a beast and casts a shadow over me. He looks like Thor without the long blonde hair. That is, if Thor would ever be caught dead sipping a pineapple and blue umbrella embellished piña colada through a pink straw.
“Yep…just landed safely,” I tell him and toss my phone back on the table, simultaneously waving away the smoke that of course wafts directly to me when Ryan lights up one of his last two
cigarettes, “So, how’d we start talking about Gorgeous George’s girl crush?”
“A doppelgänger for her came in while you were in the can,” Ryan explains, the cigarette exhaust carried to me with his answer makes me cough a little, “I wonder if she’s single…”
“Back off, buddy. I saw her first,” Jerry pipes up after draining his beer and wiping his sudsy mouth with his sleeve.
“Yeah, because your married with four kids beer belly is exactly the kind of guy single women are hoping to hook up with,” Sean laughs at our friend.
“Hey, like I said before, Marcy laminated my list for me herself and Jen is on it so…”
“Dude, keep dreaming. You couldn’t get real
or
doppelgänger Jen, married or not. Now, this guy on the other hand…” Ryan indicates me with two fingers, his cigarette casually resting between them.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, Jesus Christ…not this again.”
Jerry lifts his hands to his side, the bright gold of his wedding band glinting faintly in the light. “What? You’re a free man now for what? Three weeks? Have some fun, goddamnit. And let us live vicariously through you for once. I mean, shit, what good is havin’ a friend still in his wild and crazy twenties when he’s more responsible than us old fogies?”
Ryan, thirty-six, shaved head with a long goatee, looks like an ex-biker but is actually a cake decorator in the local grocery store, divorced twice already, and the only other currently unmarried guy besides Payton and me sitting at the table, nods and raises his hand palm up in a “that’s all I’m saying” kind of gesture.
“Hastings, man, we love you, but he has a point,” Sean tells me and points to my ice water.
My rebuttal comes in a single, mock-affronted scoff.
“Hey, he had his two,” Payton, coming to the rescue as usual, lifts up the evidence and clinks the ice cubes to indicate that’s all that’s left in both glasses, “Nothing wrong with driving home sober you know.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but it was purely out of selfishness…you have the car keys.”
I glare at him in somewhat feigned annoyance and shake my head. “Just, twirl your umbrella and shut up, Nancy.”
“What? I don’t wanna end up being squished like a squirrel or driving off a cliff on the way home.”
“Yeah, yeah. Speaking of…you ready?”
“But, I ordered another drink.”
“You can make one at home. I’m tired.”
“Fine. Can I at least hit the little boy’s room first?”
“Do what you gotta do,” I tell him and pull my arms over my head with a yawn, stretching out my stomach and rib cage.
Payton heads to the john and the rest of the guys continue going back and forth about what they wish they could still do if not for their wives and/or perceived old age. None of them are actually old; however, the banality of their lives sometimes makes them feel like they should be using canes and walkers to get around. It doesn’t help that having a twenty-seven-year-old buddy with more ability than they have to still do pretty much whatever he wants only reminds them that the prime of their almost middle-aged lives is long past.
I think that’s the main reason that although they accept me for who I am and how I live my life, they’d like to see me cut loose every now and then. It would give them an excuse to brag about when they did similar things, because without the excuse, it’s just depressing reminiscing. And it’s not that they haven’t heard fantastical stories from me and some more from Payton since he’s been here visiting this last week, but on the whole, he and I don’t talk a lot about what we’ve done and been through together. Besides, none of these guys have ever served in any branch of the military so it’s not the same for them…they don’t share any of those experiences. General exploits are different. That’s something they can all participate in and take a trip down the lane of their misspent youth and smell the roses along the way without getting pricked by thorns.
