Red Cooley

Red Cooley lived near an unpopular mall. It was never crowded when a mall should be crowded. It was never crowded. The stores were substandard. Half the parking lot lights were broken, and in 1996 the eastern quadrant burnt down. It was never rebuilt.

"You ever fuck a girl with scoliosis?"

"What?"

"Scoliosis. It's a curvature of the spine."

"I know what scoliosis is."

We ate grocery store pumpkin pies and sat in lawn chairs on his back porch. Red licked the tines of his fork and set the empty pie tin on a fractured section of concrete.

"Well?"

"No, I've never done that," I said.

"You should." Red stood up. He stepped on a dandelion and walked toward the sun-faded fence. He put one hand on the grey wood pickets and kicked a broken lawn chair. He faced me and spoke loudly. "Nobody knows how bad they want it."

He walked back over to the porch. "Most guys see a girl who walks crooked, and they get all freaked out. They don't want nothing to do with her. They all want to fuck a cheerleader. Everybody wants to fuck a cheerleader. Well, guess what. Fucking a cheerleader is boring. Have you ever fucked a cheerleader?"

"No."

"Well, if you ever do, here's how it'll go. Missionary for twenty minutes, and she won't cum. Motherfucker. Did I lose another button?" He wedged his fingers into a larger-than-normal opening between buttons on the front of his worn, plaid shirt. "I lost another button."

A car pulled out of the garage at the house next to Red's. A few dogs barked, and someone took out the trash.

I'd only known one girl with scoliosis. She played the bassoon and did well in Physics. She wore glasses and dresses to her mid-shins. Once, I overheard her explain to her friend that the leg braces weren't working so she was probably going to have to get surgery. That was the only time I ever heard her say more than a sentence or two.

"Girls with scoliosis never get any attention from guys. All you have to do is tell them you've got your own place. I'm serious. No dates. No getting to know each other. They just want to get on some dick. They want to get on your dick." He pointed at me, and left his finger in the air far too long.

"How many girls with scoliosis have you had sex with?"

"Aw shit, man. At least thirty."

"Thirty."

"Yeah, man."

"Where are you finding all these girls with scoliosis?"

"Physical therapy centers." He pulled a pair of boxy sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. "They've usually got lopsided tits. I'm not making that up. Ask a doctor." He took the sunglasses off and put them back in his pocket.

We walked past rusted muscle cars. We walked past empty lots gated by chain link and overgrown with ragweed. Night came, and we approached a small painted cinder block building with a low roof. A tethered German Shepherd, its plastic water dish, and two poles hoisting a board marked the entrance.

Inside, a heavy Mexican with a shaved head sat behind the bar. He was sweating and listening to a soccer game on a book-sized, portable radio. He'd telescoped the antenna all the way out, but the sound was still fuzzed.

The only other man in the place had skin like burnt orange peels, and he wore a black felt cowboy hat. He sat alone and drank beer from a mug.

We walked toward the corner, toward a table underneath the only window, a two-foot square notch cut out of the wall. Red waved at the bartender and nodded at the man in the hat.

"I used to date a rich girl."

"Yeah?"

"Her parents were rich. And she took me out to nice restaurants and bars all the time. I'm not impressed. All their slick, shined up bullshit. It's a show. Rich people want to think they're getting the best, and their perceptions and shit are all based on appearance."

"Is that why you stopped seeing her?"

"No. What are you, fucking stupid? Being around rich people is great. She'd just had enough of me at some point. I was like a... I was like a novelty, you know? She hadn't been around anyone like me so it was new and exciting." The bartender clicked his radio off, and suddenly it was uncomfortably quiet. Red continued. "Once, when we first got together, we had tea with her mom. And I sat there and ate finger sandwiches for the first time in my life. Her mom was talking to me, asking me about my future like I give a fuck about my future, and I just kept cramming little sandwiches in my mouth." The bartender approached us. Red held up two fingers. "That girl was fun though. For a while. Once, I sneezed in her pussy."

"What? I don't even know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say shit." He looked over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening. "That girl, that rich girl..." He paused, and looked as if he was reliving a moment in his mind. "One night I was eating her out. I could hear her breathing heavily, and she had both hands on my head. I felt my nose twitch, and before I could move away I sneezed. Her fingers gripped my hair and she smashed my face deep in there, and she just shook and mumbled nonsense for probably twenty or thirty seconds. It was like she was stuck, like she couldn't stop. It was like she was getting electrocuted. When it finally ended she pulled my hair and threw my head away from her. She said, 'Fuck you. That's fucking disgusting,' and headed for her bathroom."

The bartender returned with two mismatched glasses. He set them down. Red tipped his head back and emptied his glass. He raised a finger and said, "Uno mas, por favor." The Mexican took the glass and walked back to the bar.

"She didn't like germs. You ever meet someone like that? Nothing could be dirty. That's some psychological problem or some shit. She had some mental thing. A fucking mental problem. I fucked up her world when I sneezed in her pussy. She was mad because she liked it."

The expressionless Mexican kept delivering drinks. In the time it took me to finish one, Red had put down two or three.

"You know what? My dad's a racist."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He used to tell me things, and even as a little kid I thought he was crazy. I remember he sat me down one time and said, 'Red, do you know about Coca-Cola's plans? I support their plans.' I asked him what he was talking about, and he said, 'Red, they're doing the right thing. In 1960, they purchased Minute Maid, and they're slowly introducing chemicals into Minute Maid that will brainwash the blacks. Those niggers won't know what hit 'em. You never drink Minute Maid. You hear me? Don't ever drink it.'"

"I've never had Minute Maid." I said.

"Yeah, me either. Maybe it's true then."

He held out his left hand and said, "There is nothing..." He paused and lifted his right hand. "And there's everything. I am somewhere in between."

Red was drunk, and he stumbled as we walked back to his house. He wanted to go a freeway underpass, but I told him I was too tired for that.

His porch creaked as we clomped up the steps. Red walked into the screen door. He laughed and stood there looking at the handle. I opened it for him.

He dropped a hand on his cordless phone base. The phone fell out of the cradle, and an electronic voice said, "One unheard message. Thursday, October fifth at three twenty-two pm." It beeped, and the message played. "Red, this is Sam Pickerill at Babbitt Concrete Supply. I don't want to get into this in a voice message, but I expect a call back. You and I have a big problem." Red was bent over the counter with his head buried in his arms. "And if we don't get this straightened out, I got some guys who are gonna pay you a visit." Red didn't move. I saw his ribs expand and contract. The answering machine clicked and beeped again.

"Fuck."

"Red." I held a hand out to him.

"What?"

"Come on. You should get some sleep." I slung his arm over my shoulder and helped him upstairs.

"There's something wrong with me." He pulled a white, woven cotton blanket over his legs.

"What are you talking about?"

"I want to tell you something."

"Tell me tomorrow. You're drunk."

"No. I'm going to tell you now. Sit down. Sit down in that chair."  He pointed at a pile of clothes next to a chair. I humored him and sat. "Last year, I was at the airport." He put his finger to his lips. "Shhhhh." I nodded. "Last year, I was at the airport. My flight was delayed. Two hours. My flight was delayed by two hours." He held up two fingers. "So I went to get a sandwich."

I looked at the poster taped to the wall next to Red's window. It was yellowed and ripped at the top. A brunette girl in a high-cut one-piece bathing suit lowered a pair of neon orange sunglasses. She smiled and held a beer in her other hand.

"The sandwich girl at the counter. Fuck me.” He covered his face with both hands. “She was cute. She had a ponytail sticking out of the back of her hat. Sorry. Shut up. Sorry." I folded my arms. "Shut up. OK. She looked really good. I ordered my sandwich, and then she said it back to me to make sure she got it right, and you know what? She was talking like a deaf person. You know? Like do 'ou wan' nor 'anwich noasted?" Red rolled around in his bed. He held his hand in front of his face. "I couldn't take it. She was so hot. And her voice. All retarded like that. I wanted her so bad. I imagined her sayin' nasty shit to me in that messed up, stupid voice. I couldn't fucking take it. I went into the airport bathroom and jerked off. I imagined her saying, 'Ohn, Redh, fuhk mge hanhduh.'"

"You had to tell me that now."

"Yeah."

I shook my head and stood to leave. "Hey. I'm serious. What's wrong with me?"

"I don't know. Nothing."

"You are mistaken. There's something wrong with me." I looked at his drunk, reddened eyes. I had nothing to say, no guidance to offer. "I'll wake up tomorrow and pretend I don't remember any of this. That way you won't feel so bad." He rolled over and faced the wall.

I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of water. I sat at Red's computer. I moved the mouse. The screen saver went away and revealed an open Internet browser. I saw before me nearly eighty thumbnailed photos of a girl putting a live rattlesnake in her pussy, tail end first. I clicked on a few of them to make them larger, and I examined them closely. They did not shock me.

The girl, identified by the site as Cara, looked really messed up and nervous. She must have been on some drugs, probably crystal meth or some other amphetamine. But something about her small, vacant face said crystal meth. Her teeth were gray and pointy, and her skin was pale and hung on her like wet clothes. I counted four visible bruises. She looked terrible, like she needed money.

In my head, I imagined the photo shoot.

"Cara. Cara. Come on, girl. Pay attention to me." She's wired on meth and holds a defanged rattlesnake. She blinks a lot and tries to smile as the snake hisses and periodically whips its head forward to bite at her. Two males in their late twenties wear cheap wraparound sunglasses. One aims a ten-megapixel camera while the other snaps his fingers at Cara and tries to get her to insert the rattlesnake deeper into her vagina. The photographer complains about her sweat, and the other responds by telling him they'll Photoshop it out and that they only have twenty more minutes before his mom comes home. An unopened bag of Cheetos Puffs sits in the deep pocket of a corduroy chair.

I opened a new tab and checked my email.

From: BBlackwood <bblackwood@ehrrenmann.com>
To: Turner Breker <turner.breker@wnl.tt.com>
Sent: Mon, 14 Jan 2008 6:42 am
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Where are you??

What kind of person are you?

On Jan 8, 2007 9:36 PM, Turner Breker <turner.breker@wnl.tt.com> wrote:
>I don't know if I'm coming back. I might not.
>
>On Dec 4, 2007 11:07 AM, BBlackwood <bblackwood@ehrrenmann.com> wrote:
>>Oh. Well, when are you coming back?
>>B.
>>
>>On Dec 3, 2007 2:18 PM, Turner Breker <turner.breker@wnl.tt.com> wrote:
>>>I'm sorry. I left. I had to leave the city.
>>>
>>>On Nov 25, 2007 10:44 PM, BBlackwood <bblackwood@ehrrenmann.com> wrote:
>>>>I've tried calling, but I keep getting your voicemail. Is your phone off? Did you get my text?
>>>>B.
>>>>
>>
>

I left the computer as I'd found it and moved to the couch by the television. A green light on the VCR blinked forever. I picked up the bottom half of a white, empty donut box and set it on the floor. The glaze remnants slid across the thin, grease-stained cardboard. I put my hands in my pockets and stared at a battery on the carpet.

Half a mile away, there was the mall, forlorn and fucking shitty.