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Excerpt Two: From
Chapter One
By Brian Pera
From Troublemaker
I was playing pinball at a hot dog joint, satisfied there weren’t nobody else around to play; got my quarters lined up ready to get the most out of each and every one. Done played five games, getting better every time, played long enough to figure how to jerk the machine — just when and how much from what angle. Getting bored, even, at how easy it got.
This was in a cubbyhole away from the rest of the place, which give me more privacy and made it easier to concentrate. That way I didn’t have to watch nobody eating and think how hungry I was. I could smell french fries and hamburger, relish and mustard and catsup melting on top, but long as I couldn’t see it it was just an idea like most anything else. I just stared hard into the game and sucked on one of them fifths of firewater I got in my pocket, bought and paid for with the Madam’s money on the train — that or stolen, I can’t remember which. Then this man, this maybe in-his-thirties guy come into the doorway of the cubbyhole, stands there blocking the light, watches me play from the behind. Maybe he thought I couldn’t see him, but even if I didn’t miss the light he rubbed out I seen his reflection on the upright part of the pinball machine, between the picture of Pimp Flashjack skinny and fur-coated and the harem of bathing-suit beauties he got at his side.
First I thought he worked there, thought maybe he come to tell me get lost, so I ignored him — really got into the game nonstop like I got no mind to notice nothing else. But then he come over and stood at the side of the game drinking a beer, where I seen he weren’t wearing no kind of uniform at all but a snug three-piecer, which’s a whole nother story.
Didn’t take me nothing to guess what he was looking at. Even when he lifted his beer to take a sip he kept his eyes steady on me there, looked through the bottle below his eyes which I guess cut the rest of me off except my hips, or made them small like things is through the rear-end of a bring ‘em close glass. I figure the only reason he looked at my face once in a while was to make sure I didn’t know where he was really looking, or didn’t care too hard.
I put one more quarter in and played it, but his standing there got my focus worked down and I couldn’t rightly pull out my bottle in front of him neither. Now that I’s more keen on my hips moving than watching the ball, it was like that was the game — like putting the quarter in made me myself move this way or that. The ball was just something else gone on, decoration or somebody else playing. Turned out I scored lower with him breathing down my neck that on my first coin, so when GAME OVER rolled across the screen I turned to him and switched gears. He held out his beer and I took it from him — took a sip. Later on he bought me one for myself: "Drink it back here," he said. "We could both be in trouble if anyone out there sees you with it."
I almost told him I’s old enough, so’s he might relax, but I knowed right off that’s the kind of thing would wreck his fun.
Like I say, drink’s the only thing aside from enough cigarettes to smoke out a firesquad can make me forget being hungry, and make them shakes seem like they’s sitting still. After getting through half a bottle of beer myself I’s fine. He already finished his but kept standing next to the game with the empty rested on the deck, watching me nurse mine. Every time I lifted for a sip, them eyes gone down around my waist, and I watched him through the thick glass bottom of the bottle. When I swallowed the last of it I held the thing up to one eye, closed the other, and waved to the little man like he’s standing outside a peephole. He laughed nervouslike, and I thought maybe he didn’t take well to it, so I brung the bottle down and set it next to his like things was puppy love.
Ends up we’s talking at a table inside the joint, and if the guy wanted more he never let on. Seemed he was more curious about what brung me here to Colorado, where I been before, and how everything else I talked about figured in. We talked about me the whole time, to the point felt like nothing much happened to the man before I come along. It was, "But you lived in Memphis" and "So what’s this about Nebraska?" like if he was to figure it all out he might write his self the book on it. I’s on my third hot dog — compliments his — and figured the more I talked the more grub I’d see.
"Well I started out in Nebraska with my folks, then got shipped off to my nana’s, then by and by I’s back in Nebraska, after a few stops between. And now I’s here with you. Hello."
He seemed confused, so I decided it weren’t a good plan to tell him about New York and all the rest, on account of maybe he’d be less interested now it weren’t a tight like cakewalk no more.
Then I made the mistake of asking him for a cigarette, motioned my fingers to my lips to make the sign for one after he looked at me funny when I first asked. When I realized maybe I shouldn’t of said it there I was, stuck with my fingers midair. He shook the stunned mug off his face, drew up his eyes, said, "A rather deplorable habit for a boy like you," which left me wondering just what he could mean.
"Look at your fingers stained yellow, and you’ll have your teeth ruined before your first kiss."
I decided I better act like I never said it, keep the conversation going so he might forget; figured he’s the kind got off on helping so I brung up a problem needed solving.
"Maybe there’s something you can do for me."
Which point the man scooted up his chair, set his elbows on the table, propped his chin on his fists so serious you’d think he was fixin to operate on the salt and pepper shakes. All of the sudden he’s Florence Nightingale.
"I need to find somebody," I said. ": Been looking for a while. He’s maybe a little older than me — "
"In his twenties?" The man seemed to think.
"Older. Late twenties; maybe even thirties but I doubt it."
"But you don’t look a day over fifteen. You can’t tell me otherwise."
"Not much older but listen. This guy I need to find’s got a red hair, little taller than me, wears a red denim jacket, freckled as a turkey egg. Almost never smiles. Eyes seem dark but they’s blue. And this you’d remember: he smokes."
Now the man leaned in even closer, whispered like he didn’t want nobody else should hear and I didn’t neither.
"And this boy, he’s your…a brother? Relative, or…"
Even after he licked his lips I couldn’t figure how he wanted me to answer. I tried to think of the best thing to say, and when I didn’t say nothing right off it seemed that said plenty. He gone on without me.
"And do your parents know you’re here, looking for this boy — this friend of yours?"
"They don’t know where I’s at, no, but my ma knowed I’s leaving and that was okay by her. I got to find him so’s I’ll have a place to crash."
The man smiled, relaxed his arms enough to ease away from the table and lean back on his chair.
"I can certainly help you with that, and since that seems to be your main preoccupation with the boy, you can stop worrying about him."
And here it was; how peoples sometimes worked me around a certain ways, made me think to say one thing only to end up caught meaning something else. Then there weren’t nothing to say at all — just me stuck sitting mouth open speechless, trying to think back over everything I could figure I said, until any word I might remember meant too many different things in all directions. The man acted all smug, like the salt and pepper shakers was all fixed up now.
But they looked the same to me.
Now that I’s shut up, he wouldn’t stop talking. In the car driving to his house it was almost the story of his life, which maybe would of held my attention, if I weren’t busy thinking how good the cushy seat felt after all the standing and walking I done. Which got me looking out the window, watching all that space opened up what seemed forever until just a crease at the sky; thinking how so much headway was got for a car, held up to the distance I covered the past few days — really only right around the courtyard which I figured was where most everybody in Colorado Springs was at, shows you what I know. Then I got to thinking how long was it going to be I wouldn’t be able to smoke, how this here was just too typical; once I find somebody can give me enough money I can afford cigs they says there ain’t no smoking allowed. Cursing myself to no end, on account of I's heading right back into something I said I’s done with.
The man’s apartment’s small enough we’s always in the same room. Whenever I go out I feel him watching from the second-story window, holding fast to the glass maybe even after I leave the block. When I come back in he checks me over, smells my fingers, looks in my pocket for smokes. But it’s a relief I got my own bathroom, without it’s in a public space I got to finagle myself into, let me tell you — what with all’s been going on with my body lately, stomach hassles and everything else. Feels like somebody’s stomping on my gut and slamming my head into a wall for good measure. I been in the bathroom a lot, which don’t make this guy happy when he’s around. He ends up standing outside the door the whole time, asking What on earth are you doing in there? But I don’t even know what’s going on myself. All I know’s everything was stopped up forever, and now — ever since I left New York and the dope — all of the sudden I ain’t been able to keep a lid on it.
You’d think an asshole could understand something like that.
Two days I been here, lying in a double bed just next to him at night: When he first goes to sleep he grabs me hard like I’s a teddy bear what might wrestle its way out of his hold, then he’s out lightlike and pushes me to the other side of the mattress without he knows he done it. I got the chills and his breathing keeps me awake. Whenever I shift in bed, or anywheres else really, he starts. Asks me in the morning how come I pulled away in the middle of the night.
Only chance I got to myself’s when he goes to work, which point I raid the wet bar for everything it’s worth — keep myself booze blind enough I ain’t feeling nothing. Sometimes he looks at the bottles like he knows I been in them, but if he knows he don’t say nothing, maybe on account of he likes me sweet and dumb, the way the firewater makes me. I seen his kind before, but for now it’s a place to stay, red carpet I can’t hardly step off. Things outside seems like always; like they’ll be there forever, plenty of time. Lately I ain’t asked nobody about Red.
But a body’s got to eat.
Copyright © 2000
Brian Pera.
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