Fuzzyland : Part 9

Dead Boys: Stories
by Richard Lange

(Page 9 of 9)

She cleans herself up in the cab, staring into a little round mirror, before we join the long line of people waiting to pass through customs. We stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and the fluorescent lights make everyone look guilty of something. There are no secrets in this room. Every word echoes, and I can smell the sweat of the guy in front of me. Four or five officers are checking IDs. They ask people how long they've been down and what they've brought back with them. When it's my turn, a fat blond woman glances down at my license, matches my face to the picture, and waves me through. We're all waved right through.

Tracy's mood brightens immediately. In fact, she laughs and laughs as we leave the building and board the trolley. Everything's funny to her, everything's great. The train is less crowded this time. We each get our own row of seats. Just some marines at the other end of the car, talking about whores. "Oh, this little bitch, she went to town," one of them groans.

Tracy reaches into her purse and takes out a bottle of pills, opens it and pops one into her mouth. She smiles when she catches me watching her.

The trolley clicks and clacks like it's made of bones. I stretch out, put my feet up. The reflection of my face is wrapped around a stainless steel pole dulled by a day's worth of fingerprints. Tracy dozes off, head lolling. Liz, too. I watch the sun set through rattling windows, and all the red that comes with it.

The trolley lurches, and Tracy's purse tips over. It's one of those big bags you carry over your shoulder. A half- dozen bottles of pills spill out and roll noisily across the floor. I chase them down, mortified. Tracy opens one eye. I spread the bag wide. It's full of pills, maybe twenty bottles, all with Spanish labels.

"You've got kids," I whisper. "Beautiful kids."

"That's right." She grabs the bag away from me and hugs it to her chest.

"Tracy."

"Look, I didn't ask you to show up; I just didn't say no."

"I wanted to help."

"I fully realize that."

I try to talk to her some more, but she pretends to be asleep. Nothing I say means anything anyway, because she thinks I've had it easy. Liz is suddenly beside me. She takes my hand in both of hers. The jarheads are rapping. Bitch. Skeez. Muthafucka. I could kill them. I could.

We can see the fire from the freeway. The entire hillside is ablaze. Tracy's condo is up there somewhere. Flames claw at the night sky, and smoke blots out the stars. I don't even know how you'd begin to fight a thing like that. Maybe that's what the helicopters are for. They circle and dip, lights flashing.

Tracy is still asleep. She could barely walk from the trolley to the car but wouldn't let us touch her. "Stop laughing," she yelled, so messed up she was imagining things. She's curled up on the backseat now, her arms protecting her head. We decide not to wake her until we're sure of something.

The police at the roadblock can't tell us much. The wind picked up, and everything went to shit. The gymnasium of a nearby high school has been pressed into ser vice as a shelter. We are to go there and wait for more information. A fire truck arrives, and they pull aside the barricades to let it through.

"How bad are we looking?" I ask a cop.

He ignores me.

I back the car up and turn around, and Liz guides me to the school. We pass a carnival on the way, in the parking lot of a church. A Ferris wheel, a merry- go- round, a few games. People wander from ride to ride, booth to booth, swiping at the ash that tickles their noses. A beer sign sputters in the window of a pizza parlor. A kid in a white shirt and black vest sweeps the sidewalk in front of the multiplex. His friend makes him laugh. A mile away everything is burning.

My stomach is cramped by the time we get to the school. I can see into the gym from where I park. Cots are lined up beneath posters shouting GO TIGERS!!! Two women sit at a table near the door, signing people in, and farther away, in the shadows by the drinking fountains, a group of men stand and smoke. That's about it. Most people have somewhere better to go. Tony must have told Kendra about angels. What a thing to put into a kid's mind.

A news crew is interviewing a girl who just arrived. She's carrying a knapsack and a cardboard box full of china. They shine a light in her face and ask about what she lost and where she'll go. She says something about her cat. She had to leave it behind.

I close my eyes and bring my fists to my temples. I have to be at work early for a meeting. I can see Big Mike sliding out of his Caddy, squeezing his gut past the steering wheel. He's my mentor, he likes to say. He's been married four times. He gets winded walking to the john. There's nothing lucky about him.

"I want a baby," I say. The words just get away from me.

"Jack," Liz says. I'm afraid to open my eyes to look at her. Tracy giggles in the backseat, and we both turn. She reaches up to scratch her face and grins in her sleep.

Copyright © 2007 by Richard Lange

About the Author

Richard Lange was born in Oakland, CA, in 1961 and spent his childhood in various small towns in California's Central Valley. He moved to Los Angeles at 17 to attend film school at the University of Southern California. While there, he took fiction writing courses taught by T.C. Boyle and was awarded the Ed Moses Fiction Writing Grant two years running. He also worked 32 hours a week at a supermarket in order to pay for costs his scholarship didn't cover and feels that he learned as much there as he did in school.