Grundish & Askew (24 page)

“There. Now, don’t you feel better?” says Stubbs. And he did feel better. Askew’s head felt like it shrank three sizes that day, right back to its original circumference. Askew’s shrunken head nods in the affirmative.

“Now,” says Stubbs, “pull another Gatorade from this cooler in here and pound it down. And when you finish with that one, drink another.”

Askew climbs back in the minibus and lights two cigarettes, handing one to Stubbs. He gets dressed and avoids eye contact with the dog who sits on the floor wagging his tail at Askew, making sure he drinks the Gatorade.

“We don’t have to tell anybody about this, do we?” asks Askew, still averting his eyes.

“I’m a dead dog. Who am I gonna tell? Besides, you think I want it going around that you pink-socked me? Mum’s the word, Mr. Askew. Now I advise that you chug down one more of those beverages and swim back to the world of the living.”

On the hood of Chancho’s station wagon are Dora and Askew. Dora sits cross-legged with her back erect. Her ass edges up to the bottom of the windshield. She holds Askew’s head in her lap and drains the last of the Gatorade bottles into his open mouth. Unconscious and pantsless, his sloppy bulk splays out on top of the hood like a dead and bloated baby manatee drifted ashore. The fluids constantly drizzle from his nozzle as they are replaced by the green elixir of sugar, carbohydrates and electrolytes. “Askew,” Dora says, “can you hear me? Can you feel me near you?”

With a grunt and a sputter like an old Buick trying to start, Askew stirs and stalls, vapor-locked, coughing and seizing. His eyelids roll up to see the clouds leisurely inching their way across the sky. One cloud looks like a duck with a sword jammed into its neck. One looks like a three-legged man playing soccer. And one looks like Dora’s face, close and smiling down at Askew. The Dora cloud leans in and kisses the bridge of his nose. “Oh Baby! Oh Baby!” it says. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” The face cloud bursts, she cries and the tears fall like warm summer rain on his face. “I thought I was gonna lose you. I finally find somebody special and then I think I’m gonna lose you.”

Askew sits and looks around. It really is Dora. He isn’t dreaming anymore. And she cries. But the tears are happy. Askew’s right hand grips the bearded bezoar. A warm breeze blows across his exposed genitals, his thick unruly pubes curling upward and swaying like coarse tufts of overgrown grass blowing in the wind. “I ain’t got no pants on,” he laughs, not really thinking it’s funny. “Where’d my pants go?”

“They’re right here,” says Dora, grabbing Askew’s shorts and handing them to him. “I didn’t want you to pee your pants so I pulled ’em off for you.”

Askew sets the bezoar on the hood of the car and pulls the shorts over his piss-marinated legs. “What about my sock garters? Did you take those off, too?”

“Right here, Baby.” She scoots up behind Askew and loops her arms around his shoulders. The socks and their garters dangle from her hands and rest on his chest. Leaning in closer, she kisses his cheek. “We should get you inside. You’ve been baking out in this sun for half a day. I was afraid to move you.”

“God,” he wrinkles up his face as he puts on his socks, garters and sandals. “I stink like an outhouse. I hope ol’ Jerry in there has a working shower.” He stands on unsteady legs. He is slightly stooped and resting his hands on the front of the car. His equilibrium takes leave, and the ground beneath his feet lurches like a giant, spastic see-saw. He sits back against the car and pulls the fresh pack of Sordes Pilosus from his shirt pocket. He pockets the bezoar and fishes around for a lighter. “I’ll be ready in a minute. Just let me get a grip on myself here.” He lights two cigarettes and hands one to Dora.

“Mmm,” she says, blowing out the thick bluish smoke. “Good smokes. Where’d you get these?”

“I don’t know, Baby. I think a dog gave ’em to me. Does that sound crazy?”

“Yeah, a little.” She smiles and blows streams of smoke from her nostrils. “But you been sick. And a little crazy. You was having some sort of weird dreams. You cried and you shouted. And you was saying something about dogs and donkeys. I don’t know. You may still be a little goofy. Whatever. I ain’t gonna hold it against you.”

“You truly are my angel, Baby. Can you help me get back inside? I don’t know if I’m steady enough to walk by myself.”

Dora stands and wraps Askew’s flabby arm over her shoulder. She helps him return to the building. The sloppy urine-soaked fool wraps his arm around her thin, elfin frame. The two of them stagger back inside. She struggles to help carry his weight. A vapor trail of piss, smoke, sweat and salvation wafts behind them. The more Askew leans on her shoulders, the more he stumbles, and the stronger she becomes. By the time they locate the shower in Jerry’s building, Dora is shouldering most of Askew’s load. She sets him down in the shower stall harder than she intends, losing her grip on him and letting him hit the ground with a muted thump. She turns on the water – cold water – and sits on the tile floor with him. Holding him. Shivering.

•  •  •

Jerry says, “You can’t leave me again. I’ve suffered without you for all this time.” He strokes her
Nice ‘N Easy #108
red hair. She moves away from him slightly. “And don’t walk out on me now. I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to.”

Turleen faces toward Jerry and turns her mouth up into something that looks like a smile, but is still more sad than happy. “Jer Bear. I’ve missed you all these years, I have. And in my heart, I know you’re the one. But I’ve got something left that I have to do. I’ve gotta do what I can for those boys. And I can’t just settle in here right now, I can’t. You know that.” She runs her hand over his bony ribcage and kisses him on the neck. “You said you’ll be here for me no matter how this turns out.”

“And I will, Miss Turleen.”

“Well, then let me get these boys to safety. And if I can do that, then you can join me with them.”

“And if not?”

“I don’t want to think about
if not
, I don’t. Let me do what I can for them. You already told me you were in on the plan if things work out for the boys, you did. Don’t you back out on me now.”

“Well, I don’t want to lose you again,” he says, pulling her closer, squeezing her tight. “I can’t do it again. Your long-time curse hurts, but what’s worse is this pain in here.” He pulls back and slaps an open palm on his chest. “I can’t stay in here. I need some fresh air. You want to come with me?”

They stand and hold each other close. Jerry hunches over her like a vulture, wrapping his wings around her.

•  •  •

Grundish smokes the last of Askew’s pack and throws the butt into the small fire burning beside the VW. He sits on a stack of worn tires, staring into the dancing orange and yellow tendrils, the flicking hypnotic flames. The heat tightens the skin on his face and dries his eyes. Alf rests next to the stack of tires. The ancient donkey sits on his haunches, like a dog, and leans over with his head resting against Grundish’s side. Grundish pulls his arm free and scratches the sacred burro’s head. Alf tilts in toward the scratching hand until a needy spot right behind an ear receives the treatment.

“Urrrrppp!” Alf looses a belch from down low that smells like pickled turds.

“Damn, Donkey. You ain’t gotta do that so close to my face,” says Grundish. Not harsh, though. Almost affectionate. He scritches at Alf’s ears again and lets the vision of the flames take his head elsewhere.

•  •  •

“There you are. We been looking for you.” Askew stands in front of the fire, a case of Blatz beer in his arms, a look of calm in his eyes. “You mind if I sit?”

Grundish nods to the stack of tires opposite him. “You better give me one of those brews if you’re planning on enjoying my fire.”

Askew tosses a can and Grundish snatches it out of the air. He chuckles. “Blatz. Where’d you get this? I didn’t even think they made this shit anymore.” He grips the ring on the pull tab and pops the can open. Warm foam runs down his arm. The beer is warm and skunky.

“I don’t know if they still make it. But I know that Jerry has a store room stocked to the ceiling with the shit.”

“Izzat right?”

“Yup. A whole fucking room.”

“All Blatz?”

“The whole room.”

“You know why they call it Blatz?” asks Grundish.

“Why?”

“Cuz’ that’s the sound it makes when it comes back up.
BLATZZZ
!” Grundish pretends to puke. Alf chimes in with his own Blatz-like noise, harmonizing his ructus
^[42]
with Grundish.

“God-damn, that is one foul old mule.” Askew waves the donkey fumes from his face. “I can smell that shit over here.”

They laugh, and when they stop, there’s nothing to say. Grundish chugs his beer and grunts for another. Askew tosses one to Grundish, and they silently stare at the fire and drink their beer.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” says Askew.

Grundish’s broad shoulders shrug despite his effort to remain still. He stares at the fire, sips his beer, and scritches Alf’s head.

“I mean, you got every right to be. I keep fucking things up. I keep killing people. And then again, maybe it’s your fault for egging me on to push things a little further. But I don’t want to blame nobody.” Askew fumbles in his pockets and pulls out his cigarettes. He shakes one part-way out of the pack and holds it out for Grundish to grab. They light their smokes and Askew continues. “It don’t matter whose fault it is. I know that what I done ain’t good. It ain’t right. There’s no excuse for the way I been. And I can’t explain it. But something happened to me earlier today. You might call it a near-death experience. You might call it
dramatic
brain injury. Whatever it was, I came out of it feeling different.”

Grundish shrugs again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like I’m better or something. Normal...normal for me, anyway. I don’t feel like hurting people. I don’t feel out of control. I don’t know where all that came from or what came over me. But I was mad, and crazy and
erotic
in my thoughts. Some of the shit going through my head didn’t make no sense to me, but I felt it as strong as I ever felt anything. And then,
whoosh
,” he slides his hand smoothly in front of him, “it’s like it just washed away with all that water I pissed out.” He stops, looks at Alf. In the dark it almost looks like the burro is smiling a rotten-toothed donkey smile at him. “Do you believe me?”

“Yeah,” says Grundish. He tosses his butt in the fire and stands to get more wood. “I do. I don’t know why. But I do.” He lifts a split log and tosses it on the fire, throwing sparks into the air, red hot flecks riding the waves of heat and smoke up toward the sky.

“God, that’s beautiful,” says Askew.

“Yeah, ain’t it? I love sitting around a fire, bullshitting, getting drunk. I fucking love it.” And silence blankets them again, leaving them to stare into the flames and contemplate their situation. “Hey, Beer Bitch, give me another beer and another cigarette.”

Askew lights a smoke, flicks it at Grundish then fires one up for himself. He tosses a Blatz over the flames.

“I believe you, you know? That you ain’t mad at me,” says Askew. “You’re my only friend, and you always stick with me, even if I am a fuck-up.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, nothing. I’m just saying. But, I’m afraid, Grundish. I’m afraid they’re gonna catch us.”

“They ain’t gonna catch us. How they gonna find us if we just lay low here and wait for the right time to sneak off? You’re done with your crazies, and we ain’t gonna go nowhere right now anyways. So we’ll figure it out.”

“But, if they are gonna catch us, I want you to remember...”

“I know...”

“Remember your promise to me. You gotta put me down like a sick dog. I can’t be taken alive.”

“I know.”

“And don’t let me pussy out. If I say that I take it back, don’t listen to me. That’s just me being a pussy. Follow through with it no matter what I say if it looks like we’s gonna get caught.”

“I know.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.” And then just the crackling of the fire fills the night.

Askew shifts his position as the smoke finds him and blows in his face. It burns his eyes. He moves and the smoke seeks him out, choking him again. He circles the fire and stands on Grundish’s side, Alf resting between them. He reaches down and rubs the donkey’s head. He says, “We still gonna get a ship?”

“Of course we are. What else have we got to do? Dora’s gonna help us. Jerry wants a piece of the action, so he’s gonna contribute. I got the brains. We’re set once we get out of the country. We just gotta figure that one out and we’re good.”

“You boys talking about me?” says Dora as she comes around the van and hugs onto Askew’s side.

“Nahhh,” says Askew. “You wasn’t
ease-dropping
on our conversation, was you?”

“No, Baby. I just heard my name as I was walking over here.” She grabs the cigarette out of Askew’s mouth and takes a long pull. Putting the cigarette back, her fingers linger briefly on his dry lips. “Is everything all right now?”

“Yeah,” says Grundish. “I think so.” And they sit, and drink, and smoke, and laugh. The three of them and the donkey drunkenly hunch around the fire, with the smoke and ashes climbing toward the stars and the skunked malt beverages flowing freely. Once again, Grundish thinks that everything is good when he has a friend like Askew.

With the sun barely winking over the horizon and Alf the Sacred Burro nestled up to him, Grundish stirs. His temples throb. His body aches from sleeping on the ground. In the VW van Askew and Dora are twisted in a drunken, naked, pretzel of limbs and body parts, stinking of each other’s fluids and dead to the dawning day. Grundish stands, stretches, and pisses on the burning remnants of the fire. The embers hiss at the offense and spit off steam. Inside the building, Turleen and Jerry lie awake in bed, holding each other close, sometimes speaking in soft tones, sometimes just taking comfort in the warm feel of time-worn skin on skin.