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| (visual by Stinkie Pinkie via this license) |
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dispatch five
Low Tide Gurgling
Against The Breeze by Jackie Corley
debuted 1 June 2009 | kept 461 times | click to keep
Jack hasn’t told me what he’s called me here for yet. For three weeks, he kept away from my emails and messages. He thinks he’s doing me a favor now. Maybe he is. When my cell phone rang, I was dry heaving in my bedroom, stomach clenched, nails digging into the dark rose carpet. I couldn’t figure out what I was ruined for, but hearing his sloppy vowels on the line pulled the blood back into my limbs. Stuffing a few requested bills in my pocket, I headed out to Holmdel Motor Lodge’s Room 114.
He’s peeling out coarse threads from the edge of the chair cushion and rolling his head back to stare at the open edge of curtain.
"How long you been staying here?" I ask, throwing the twenties into a dusty ashtray on the side of the round table between us.
"About a week now, I think. She kicked me out." He stands up and digs his jeans out from under the bed. He slides both feet into his pants, falling back on the bunched up tangle of sheets in the center of the bed and flailing his legs in the air to get them on.
"You make everything more complicated than it needs to be," I say, huffing out a weak laugh. "What did Dani kick you out for?"
"She got pregnant."
"Thought you said you don’t have sex anymore. I thought she just beats you up."
"We don’t. It’s not mine."
I click my head to my shoulder and stare up at him, curious.
"I told her maybe she should keep it. We could get married for real and take care of it and be a family and stuff." He’s propped up on the ball of sheets and drumming his smooth fingertips on his pink chest. "She didn’t think I was funny," he says, grinning.
"Were you trying to be?"
"Maybe." His mouth widens and he keeps his eyes trained on me, unblinking. From the angle I’m watching him, the empty smile seems to eat up his fleshy cheeks and cut through to his ears. He’s trying to challenge his audience. He forgets I know him. There’s no mystery anymore. Just a sad, clever boy.
"You think you’ll be getting back together?"
"Not this time."
My heart’s edged up to my ribs my chest feels like it’s melting into my guts. "So what are we now?" I’ve been meaning to ask him something like this for a time. I’ve been so lousy and desperate lately I didn’t think I could broach the subject without betraying myself.
He breaks my gaze and hops off the bed. "Huh?" he says, smoothing back a few greasy chunks of hair. He walks over to the limp edge of curtain and hides his top half behind it.
"You bloodless boy," I say. I think I’m sure of it this time. I am.
"That doesn’t even mean anything," Jack says. He leaves his face behind the curtain, scanning the motel parking lot through the window. He pokes his hand out to wag a scabby finger in my general direction.
"It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s special to you, Jackie boy, ’cause you’re such a pretty cancer."
The curtain shifts back, falls flush against the window frame as Jack’s head emerges. "What is this? I don’t need this right now." His eyes dart from me to the curtain a few times. He stops fidgeting and sighs theatrically before slumping down on the table between us. His arms stretch across the wooden circle, reaching, penitent. His heavy eyelids drop and he flaps his fingers against the heels of his palms several times like a greedy kid. I slip my forearm into one grasping claw and he covers the back of my hand with the other. He pulls my hand to his chest, pressing it to his shirt before bringing my fingertips to his mouth.
A car horn blasts outside and I jerk my hand back.
"Money," Jack blurts out, jumping out of the chair. "Give me the money."
I take the twenties sitting in the ash tray and throw them at his feet.
"You have more," he says, "I know you do. Come on, just give me a little more."
"That’s all I have for you." It’s not a lie. I left the rest of my cash at home just so it wouldn’t be.
"Fuck, Anne," he says, rushing to the door. He starts to close it behind him but leaves it slightly open. The opening sucks in a cold draft from outside that laps across the back of my thin shirt. I tuck my hands into my armpits and bend over, hugging my chest to my thighs.
I turn my head and shout through the opening. "What kinda drug dealer honks in a motel parking lot across from a cop bar?" Jack’s hand pops into view long enough to tug the aluminum knob and slam the door shut.
The conversation outside is muffled in the idling engine of a Camaro. Jack’s voice has lost its slow, heavy slurp. He’s talking fast, laughing at a higher pitch. The dealer isn’t amused. His words are low and clipped, like he rationed out exactly how many of them Jack was going to get before putting the car in park.