At least he helps me pass the time while
I crawl toward layaway. Finally I’m
just about there, and digging for my
layaway slip, which of course I can’t
find. They’ll have to use my phone
number. Oops. Mom’s phone number.
Well, let me know if you can make it, Quade
says. Here’s my cell number. We fire up at nine.
“Thanks. I’ll definitely try. The only holdup
might be snow. They’re calling for a killer storm.”
Cool. Let me know either way. And either
way, stay in touch. He gives me a hug
and heads toward the monster checkout
lines. I watch him go as the lame layaway
girl says, Picking up a layaway? Unreal!
Layaway Picked Up
And a couple of leftover baubles
bought for Brad and the girls,
I drive back to Red Rock.
Somehow it still doesn’t feel like
home,
even if it is where my clothes reside;
where I go to sleep (sometimes)
at night; where I eat (sometimes);
where people (strangers) wait
for
me to come back to. No, “home”
is the other direction, in a protected
south valley, not here in a frigid
north valley Hades hole. [What
the
fuck is wrong with you? Remember
how much you wanted away from
home, only a few months ago?]
I do, but that was before the
holidays
intruded. I’ve never been away
from home on Christmas before.
Mom has transformed the house
into a Sugarplum Dreamland, only it
is
Hunter who she has transformed
it for. [You’re jealous of Hunter
now?] Yes. And of Mom [his
mommy] and Leigh, who is
where
I want to be—snug in front
of the fireplace, drinking hot
chocolate and munching popcorn
while trimming the tall fir tree.
I
want to hum along to carols, sneak
off to my room to wrap presents [and
do what else?]. Pipe down, Bree! Despite
your insistence otherwise, that is where I
really belong.
It’s Almost Eight
When I get to Brad’s. The wind
has blown up, and it’s north-pole
cold, but so far, not even a flurry.
Inside they’re watching A Charlie
Brown Christmas. I can’t see the TV,
but the music is unmistakable.
Brad looks my direction, smiles.
I wave him over and he follows
me into the kitchen, where I hand
him a crisp hundred. “This week
and next week,” I explain. “I lost
my job today, so I’ll have to find
another one. Didn’t want you to
get shorted in the meantime.”
[How adult of you, especially
considering you’re just about broke.]
Lost your job? What happened?
I already figured this part out.
Might not be the best idea
to tell him I didn’t want to work
Christmas. “The store manager
is a total letch. He won’t keep
his hands off me. So I quit.”
That sucks. You could probably
sue him, you know.
“Sure, if I could afford a lawyer.
Anyway, how would I prove it,
and would I really want his lawyer
to start digging up dirt on me?”
Good point. Well, thanks for the money.
You’re welcome to join the girls
and me for yet another encore
of A Christmas Story. They’ve seen
it three times already, but you know…
“Thanks, Brad. But I ran into an old
friend whose band is playing at some
new club in town. He invited me to drop
by. I thought I’d go check it out.”
Wow. He looks really disappointed.
Be careful. They’re calling for—
“Snow. I know. I’ll keep an eye out,
and if it starts to snow, I promise
I’ll come straight home, okay?”
Did I just call this place home?
And why would I promise to
come straight here? Why
would I promise Brad anything?
He’s not my dad. Not my boyfriend.
[But more than a landlord, no?]
One Shower
And three solid tokes later,
I’m off to Reno. The sky is dark,
no moon, stars, or planets in sight.
A storm is definitely brewing.
Trey is number one on my speed
dial. I give it a try but, as usual,
fall into his voice mail basket.
God, that is so annoying! Oh, well,
I feel pretty great, and I’m out
for the night, and isn’t this what
freedom is all about? I cruise
down Fourth, locate Dr. Nasty’s.
The name is perfect, the club
a dive. I dial Quade’s number, tell
him I’m here. He says to come
around back. He’ll let me in.
Glad you could make it. Quade
gives me another hug, and this
time it’s longer, warmer. Come
on. It’s just about showtime.
I follow him backstage. Three
guys, all dressed in personalized
leather and piercings, give Quade
a nod. You can hang here, okay?
“No problem.” I grab a stool
as the band takes the stage,
launches a hard metal song
guaranteed to blow eardrums.
Not my favorite music,
but they play it well, one
song crashing into the next,
Quade leading the charge
with his bass. By the time
they take a break, my ears
pound and my throat is parched.
Quade comes up, puts his arm
around my shoulder. Thirsty?
The best I can do is nod.
Me, too. I’ll get us drinks.
What’s your pleasure?
[Dangerous question.] “Um…” I’ve
never been much of a drinker,
and I’m not even sure if he’s offering
alcohol. “Whatever you’re having.”
He takes off in search of drinks.
Meanwhile, one of his bandmates
comes up. Hi. I’m Jeremy.
You’re Quade’s old friend, huh?
I’m not sure why, but I smile
a come-on smile. [Way to go!]
“Well, I’m not that old, but we’ve
known each other a long time.”
That was a lot to say with
cotton-mouth, and Jeremy
has a clue what that means.
Now it’s his turn to smile,
and now I know where
this evening could go.
Partying with the band? Isn’t
that every girl’s dream?
It Was a Definite Party
And one that went way too late,
especially considering I was
the one donating most of the ice.
Quade didn’t touch it, but his buds
all did. He watched, more than a tad
disapprovingly, but never said a word.
He drank. A little. Smoked pot. A little.
But no meth, and no tobacco. Bad
for the vocal cords, he claimed.
I did it all. Enjoyed doing it all,
surrounded by three decent-looking
dudes and one who resembled
a raccoon, with black circles
swallowing his eyes and pointy
(who knows why!) yellow teeth.
Anyway, it was fun. And I have to
admit, Trey or no Trey, my attraction
to Quade is stronger than ever.
Yeah, yeah, part of that’s being
buzzed and wanting to be kissed. More
is wanting that missed-chance kiss.
As I was leaving, Damian (Raccoon
Man) pulled me aside. Hey. Can you
score more of that crystal?
“Maybe,” I said. “But it isn’t cheap,”
added Bree, recognizing the chance
to make a little on the deal.
No problem. I’ll take a ball, if you
can get it. And I’d rather pay more
than get one that’s short.
A man [raccoon] after my own
heart. I don’t need to “borrow”
from his if I can come up with
some extra cash to apply to my own
account with Brad, who I’m
hoping will front me some.
Good thing I had plenty tonight,
to combat the alcohol. I had
half a dozen beers, something
I’ve never done before, and beyond
the high of the glass is a definite
three-point-eight low. That, plus
the pot, which I haven’t smoked
since my days with Chase, have
combined to perhaps affect my driving.
I’m Crawling Home
like an old woman, working hard
to stay centered in my lane.
The car wants to veer right, then left.
But whether that’s because
of my condition, or weather conditions,
I’m not exactly sure.
It started to flurry before I left for Red
Rock. And now it’s coming
down faster, starting to stick to the asphalt.
The LTD is heavy, its tires
fully treaded. But there’s a long, steep
off-ramp ahead.
A nerve attack rattles my teeth. The hands
gripping the steering wheel
begin to shake, and when I try to stop them,
they don’t respond to my
commands, as if they belong to someone else.
[Get it together. This isn’t rocket
science. Remember what Scott told you about
driving in snow.]
Okay, stop sign ahead. Pump the brakes.
Wait! Was that don’t
pump the brakes? Shit! I choose middle
ground, slide to a stop,
turn the corner gradually, head for Brad’s.
Wow. That wasn’t so bad.
Looks like it’s been snowing longer here, though.
An inch or more of slick
white stuff covers the road. My headlights glare
off it, and off the falling snow,
falling heavier now, splatting the windshield
like giant wet bugs,
and it just keeps coming straight at me.
Oh my God, it wants me.
Slow down, Kristina! But this time when I semi-
pump the brakes, the LTD
has a mind of its own and it just keeps going,
wherever it wants, and I can’t
slow it, can’t steer it, and all of a sudden, Wham!
It stops, nose down, slamming
me forward, against the steering wheel. And I
can’t move. Don’t dare move.
Okay, Not Good
I assess personal damage. Don’t
think I’m hurt, at least not badly.
Beyond a likely steering-wheel-
shaped bruise, and having
the wind totally stolen from
me, I’m all in one piece, and
everything seems to work.
The car, however, is a different story.
It landed facedown in a drainage
ditch, one rear wheel tilted off
the ground. No way can I get it
out on my own. I’ll have to walk,
and I’d better get going before a cop
happens along, not that many cops use
this road. Still, just my luck, tonight
will be the night one is visiting
his girlfriend out here or something.
I don’t mind getting a ticket, if that’s
the most that will happen. But any
cop trained as a DRE would definitely
know what’s up. In fact, it probably
wouldn’t take a drug recognition
expert to expertly recognize how fucked
up I am right now. I’ll be a lot less
likely to go to jail in the morning. Oops.
It is morning, somewhere close to five.
It isn’t too far, maybe a little over
a mile, but it’s dumping snow, and I
didn’t bring my coat. [Stupid.] My
feet slip and slide, and before very
long, my sweater and hair are frosted
white. The cold makes me shiver,
the meth makes me shake, and by the time
I jam my key into the lock,
my fingers barely work enough to turn it.
I tiptoe up to my room and into
a hot shower. By the time I dry
off, enveloped by warm scented
my window. Outside, the snow
keeps unfolding a canvas of white.
I Sit by the French Doors
Dazed and sore, sorer by the minute,
watching the relentless storm. It hasn’t
let up since I walked in the door. Trey
will never make it today. Guess
I’ll have to call a tow truck,
unless Brad can pull me
out with his big ol’
Dodge four by four.
But he and the girls
are still sleeping off
their Christmas flicks.
Wonder when they’ll
get up. Wonder if Trey
will call. Wonder if some
wayward cop discovered
the car, scraped snow
from the windows,
peeked inside,
hoping to find
something dead
past the frozen
glass. Wonder
just how close I
came to not ever
wondering about
anything again.
After a While
The house crackles alive.
Footsteps fall, weighted,
on the stairs. I get up
and trail them down
to the kitchen. Brad
is at the sink, back
toward me, wearing
nothing but skimpy
briefs. I thought Trey
was buff, but Brad’s
body is better. Whether
that has to do with working
construction or only
a matter of a few extra
years, I don’t know.
[Who cares? Yummy!]
Anyway, ogling the hew
of his shoulders and
back is not why I’m
here. “Brad, I, uh…”
He jumps and yanks
in my direction. Holy
shit, Kristina. You
scared the living
hell out of me! Your car
isn’t in the driveway,
so I figured you must
have stayed in town.
The quick move slightly
parts the opening in his
BVDs, offering a glimpse
of something rather private.
I can’t help but smile.
He glances down, but
doesn’t make a move
to rectify the situation.
All he does is shrug
and return my smile.
Then it strikes him.
So where’s your car?
My turn to shrug.
I left it facedown
in a ditch, a mile
or so from here.”
What? Hey, are you
okay? He moves
closer, gives me
a concerned once-over.
He cares? “I’m fine,
except for a giant
bruise. Not sure
about the car, though.”
Give me a minute to
get dressed, and I’ll
go check it out. Oh,
wait…the kids.
“I can watch them,
unless you need me
to come too.” I hope
he says no, in case
there happen to be cops
around. I’m still pretty
buzzed. Brad, on the
other hand, looks fine.
He thinks for a minute,