Tell Me What I'm Waiting For
by Steve Chang
Second Runner-Up, 2024 Fiction Contest
I.
On my last day in, our laundry shift stacks a hundred bedrolls over quota so CO lets us take an early lunch. The radio’s blasting ranchero music and the whole crew’s leaning against orange plastic bins, baloney sandwiches in hand, telling jokes and laughing into their fists.
“So,” says He-Man. He squirts some mustard on a bun, throws the packet into his rattling lunch sack. “You know what I think?”
I hand him my carton of punch.
“Don’t think,” I say. “Here, have my juice.”
He goes, “But what’re you gonna do out there?”
This is Wayside, a County lock-up in Castaic, and he’s talking like it’s Shawshank Redemption. Ever since he started short-timing, he’s been stressing it. Hard. Forty-something days to go, and he’s got hives busting out all splotchy on his arms and neck. It’s hard to take him seriously.
Plus, he has girl-hands. Real clean and slender.
Sometimes, if things got heavy and we needed a laugh, I’d go, “Ay He-Man! Gimme a hand with this!”
And then I’d point to my dick.
It was funniest in the showers.
Now I’m saying, “He-Man you’re stressing me out.” And he’s like, “Shouldn’t you be stressed?”
My God.
If I were him, maybe. In here he’s got us. He’s He-Man. But out there, he’s some itchy kid named Hiro stealing, like, steaks from Pavilions and stashing them under his bed until that shit looked like hunks of butchered werewolf, furry and gray. Who doesn’t even know why he does it.
“Hey, He-Man,” I say.
I shove my hand down my pants.
He says, “I know, I know.”
I shake my dick around.
“OK I GET IT.”
Boss Man’s voice comes booming from the doorway. “Count-time, count-time. We’re taking you boys home.”
We toss our garbage, tuck in our shirts, line up. He ticks us off his clipboard one by one until he says to me, “Trusty, you’re going home home. You in a rush?”
He means all the bedrolls.
I say, “Yup.”
“Well don’t jizz all over your fuckin pants about it.” He pokes my chest. He knows my kind. I’ll be back in a month etc. Looking all pleased, like his insights have stunned me.
It’s alright though. I get it. If nobody comes back, what would these people even do all day—work?
He finishes the count and yells, “Start walkin! Nuts to butts! Let’s go, fellas!”
We put our hands in our pockets and shuffle along.
“So,” says He-Man. He squirts some mustard on a bun, throws the packet into his rattling lunch sack. “You know what I think?”
I hand him my carton of punch.
“Don’t think,” I say. “Here, have my juice.”
He goes, “But what’re you gonna do out there?”
This is Wayside, a County lock-up in Castaic, and he’s talking like it’s Shawshank Redemption. Ever since he started short-timing, he’s been stressing it. Hard. Forty-something days to go, and he’s got hives busting out all splotchy on his arms and neck. It’s hard to take him seriously.
Plus, he has girl-hands. Real clean and slender.
Sometimes, if things got heavy and we needed a laugh, I’d go, “Ay He-Man! Gimme a hand with this!”
And then I’d point to my dick.
It was funniest in the showers.
Now I’m saying, “He-Man you’re stressing me out.” And he’s like, “Shouldn’t you be stressed?”
My God.
If I were him, maybe. In here he’s got us. He’s He-Man. But out there, he’s some itchy kid named Hiro stealing, like, steaks from Pavilions and stashing them under his bed until that shit looked like hunks of butchered werewolf, furry and gray. Who doesn’t even know why he does it.
“Hey, He-Man,” I say.
I shove my hand down my pants.
He says, “I know, I know.”
I shake my dick around.
“OK I GET IT.”
Boss Man’s voice comes booming from the doorway. “Count-time, count-time. We’re taking you boys home.”
We toss our garbage, tuck in our shirts, line up. He ticks us off his clipboard one by one until he says to me, “Trusty, you’re going home home. You in a rush?”
He means all the bedrolls.
I say, “Yup.”
“Well don’t jizz all over your fuckin pants about it.” He pokes my chest. He knows my kind. I’ll be back in a month etc. Looking all pleased, like his insights have stunned me.
It’s alright though. I get it. If nobody comes back, what would these people even do all day—work?
He finishes the count and yells, “Start walkin! Nuts to butts! Let’s go, fellas!”
We put our hands in our pockets and shuffle along.
*
Back in the dorm, I pack up my personals. I take my photos down. Mostly clippings from the LA Times Food section. Those photographers work magic. The plates look so good, shining and luscious. The kiss you never catch.
I would dab a little toothpaste on the green posts of my rack and stick on those clippings, so many that they’d formed a flaky bark all over. I slept in a forest of dreams.
I thought about taking Kathy all sorts of different places.
It wasn’t like before. When I’d go away and she’d find another man and write me hate mail about him. That was her way of saying I miss you. Then I’d come home and she’d stop missing me. But we’d be together again.
We had our little routines. Since high school.
But now? She’d gotten into UCLA for her master’s and we’d been living together out in Palms so this time I got a four-page letter talking about opportunities and options.
That shit tripped me out.
Cuz why did it sound like a threat?
So I’m shaving away old toothpaste crusts and plotting on how to trick her into thinking that I’m the opportunity, that I’m the #1 option, when He-Man peeks from top bunk. “Do you even have a ride?”
I go, “My girl’s picking me up.”
He says, “Kathy? I thought that’s your ex.”
And Spider yells from his corner, “She was his ex, alright? Things happen.”
I point my razor at him. Spider gets it. He’s not even from LA. He’s from Laotian Gangster Crip out in Fresno. But you know what they say—come on vacation, leave on probation!
They should put that on some postcards, to be honest.
As for me, the PO had come knocking with the goof troop for dope but only turned up a triple beam and empty baggies. Pretty good, right? But then they keep looking and--well well well—find a black .357.
I’m like, Oh my! How did that get there?
Unfortunately, I was only half kidding.
I’d forgotten I even had it. The thing had rusty patches like barnacles, an ocean floor orange. A sunken treasure chest gun for ghost pirates. Some fiend had probably traded me for a teener. That’s all. I’m no killer.
But there we go.
I catch a case—I’m a felon with a firearm.
Our whole module had some kind of story like that. A bunch of addicts and drunk drivers and wife beaters.
Things happen.
It was all a matter of luck.
I show He-Man a photo of me and Kathy on the Santa Monica Pier. “Look at this. You wouldn’t want to go home to this?”
In the photo, I’m looking at her and she’s looking at me. The carnival lights blurring into madness around us. That’s what it was like back then.
But now? I don’t know.
That photo had come with her second letter—not four pages, no no—only a sentence.
I can wait if you can tell me what I’m waiting for.
He-Man swats the photo away and says, a little defensive, “I have people.”
I drop it into my personals. “Alright then. See?”
It’s important to try. I believe that.
The door to the yard pops open and the whole dorm charges it, stripping off their red tops and hooting as they run, and He-Man says, “You ever notice how nobody runs when they go home?”
I think, Holy shit give it a rest and look at Spider who yells, “Ay He-Man!” He reaches into his red bottoms and shakes his dick around. “Shut up and gimme a hand with this.”
I’m laughing. Spider’s laughing. I slap He-Man on the neck and, like a switch got hit, he finally starts laughing too. The way he’s supposed to.
I would dab a little toothpaste on the green posts of my rack and stick on those clippings, so many that they’d formed a flaky bark all over. I slept in a forest of dreams.
I thought about taking Kathy all sorts of different places.
It wasn’t like before. When I’d go away and she’d find another man and write me hate mail about him. That was her way of saying I miss you. Then I’d come home and she’d stop missing me. But we’d be together again.
We had our little routines. Since high school.
But now? She’d gotten into UCLA for her master’s and we’d been living together out in Palms so this time I got a four-page letter talking about opportunities and options.
That shit tripped me out.
Cuz why did it sound like a threat?
So I’m shaving away old toothpaste crusts and plotting on how to trick her into thinking that I’m the opportunity, that I’m the #1 option, when He-Man peeks from top bunk. “Do you even have a ride?”
I go, “My girl’s picking me up.”
He says, “Kathy? I thought that’s your ex.”
And Spider yells from his corner, “She was his ex, alright? Things happen.”
I point my razor at him. Spider gets it. He’s not even from LA. He’s from Laotian Gangster Crip out in Fresno. But you know what they say—come on vacation, leave on probation!
They should put that on some postcards, to be honest.
As for me, the PO had come knocking with the goof troop for dope but only turned up a triple beam and empty baggies. Pretty good, right? But then they keep looking and--well well well—find a black .357.
I’m like, Oh my! How did that get there?
Unfortunately, I was only half kidding.
I’d forgotten I even had it. The thing had rusty patches like barnacles, an ocean floor orange. A sunken treasure chest gun for ghost pirates. Some fiend had probably traded me for a teener. That’s all. I’m no killer.
But there we go.
I catch a case—I’m a felon with a firearm.
Our whole module had some kind of story like that. A bunch of addicts and drunk drivers and wife beaters.
Things happen.
It was all a matter of luck.
I show He-Man a photo of me and Kathy on the Santa Monica Pier. “Look at this. You wouldn’t want to go home to this?”
In the photo, I’m looking at her and she’s looking at me. The carnival lights blurring into madness around us. That’s what it was like back then.
But now? I don’t know.
That photo had come with her second letter—not four pages, no no—only a sentence.
I can wait if you can tell me what I’m waiting for.
He-Man swats the photo away and says, a little defensive, “I have people.”
I drop it into my personals. “Alright then. See?”
It’s important to try. I believe that.
The door to the yard pops open and the whole dorm charges it, stripping off their red tops and hooting as they run, and He-Man says, “You ever notice how nobody runs when they go home?”
I think, Holy shit give it a rest and look at Spider who yells, “Ay He-Man!” He reaches into his red bottoms and shakes his dick around. “Shut up and gimme a hand with this.”
I’m laughing. Spider’s laughing. I slap He-Man on the neck and, like a switch got hit, he finally starts laughing too. The way he’s supposed to.
*
For dinner, it’s Salisbury steak and those glazed carrot chips I like. The whole Asian car’s chatty, gassing me up.
I could play Scratchers. I could smell girls. I’m so lucky.
Old Ray the dope fiend says, “You know what I miss?” He tells us about firing up the gas torch for an all night session. The way he adjusts the flame into a perfect little blue dome. He does a chef’s kiss with rosebud fingers.
I’m like, “Damn, brother. Don’t you have kids?”
He goes, “And?”
It’s like we’re playing Dinner Party in the dungeons downtown, when the 24-7 lockdown and No Program got to be a little much. Posting up by the bars to shout the game down the block like Ay Denver 7, what’re YOU bringing?
And they’d talk about Slurpees and In-n-Out burgers and sometimes mom’s noodle soups.
Man… listen!
Spider says, “When I get out, I’ma rent a motel, cop an eight-ball, and smoke that shit to the head.”
Old Ray points at Spider like, Right there. Yes, sir! Right there!
“See?” I tell He-Man, “You’ve got to want things.”
He only stirs his mashed potato, all gloomy, and now even Old Ray is rolling his eyes like, This shit again? Come on.
“Oh I want things.” Spider licks the gravy from his spoon. “Trust me. I’m not ready to die for a while. Call some girls over—” He whistles like lovesick Looney Tunes. “Do some dirt with the homeboys—”
He-Man mumbles, “Yeah. Sounds great.”
I tell him I’ll start with Japanese food. Sashimi. I’d eat fish the way that fucking sharks eat fish. I’d eat ten pounds of fucking fish. I would take pictures and mail them in and he could remember how good life was on the streets.
Spider nods along, thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds OK too.”
He-Man knocks on the table and leaves.
I could play Scratchers. I could smell girls. I’m so lucky.
Old Ray the dope fiend says, “You know what I miss?” He tells us about firing up the gas torch for an all night session. The way he adjusts the flame into a perfect little blue dome. He does a chef’s kiss with rosebud fingers.
I’m like, “Damn, brother. Don’t you have kids?”
He goes, “And?”
It’s like we’re playing Dinner Party in the dungeons downtown, when the 24-7 lockdown and No Program got to be a little much. Posting up by the bars to shout the game down the block like Ay Denver 7, what’re YOU bringing?
And they’d talk about Slurpees and In-n-Out burgers and sometimes mom’s noodle soups.
Man… listen!
Spider says, “When I get out, I’ma rent a motel, cop an eight-ball, and smoke that shit to the head.”
Old Ray points at Spider like, Right there. Yes, sir! Right there!
“See?” I tell He-Man, “You’ve got to want things.”
He only stirs his mashed potato, all gloomy, and now even Old Ray is rolling his eyes like, This shit again? Come on.
“Oh I want things.” Spider licks the gravy from his spoon. “Trust me. I’m not ready to die for a while. Call some girls over—” He whistles like lovesick Looney Tunes. “Do some dirt with the homeboys—”
He-Man mumbles, “Yeah. Sounds great.”
I tell him I’ll start with Japanese food. Sashimi. I’d eat fish the way that fucking sharks eat fish. I’d eat ten pounds of fucking fish. I would take pictures and mail them in and he could remember how good life was on the streets.
Spider nods along, thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds OK too.”
He-Man knocks on the table and leaves.
*
I mop the dayroom with the other trustees then call my old crimey Ken. He’s up in the Bay now, working at some tourist shop, slanging Bruce Lee posters, jade, souvenirs. Our last convo, I said, “Selling Bruce Lee shit? I don’t know if that’s me.”
He was like, “You think that’s me?”
But, you know, things happen.
I tell Ken about He-Man—how he’s my bunky and not doing too well—and Ken goes, “Fool. I’m paying a dollar a minute. What do you want?”
I look over at the racks. He-Man’s got his towel looped into a neck brace and he’s slapping at it all randomly in a private battle to not scratch the skin.
I gotta say it. He looked a little cracked-out.
I tell Ken that my bunky could maybe use somewhere to go. You know, a little support. He’s trying to do good.
Ken laughs.
“What are you lonely? Huh? You bringing the whole cell block? Fool, nobody knows you up here. This is freedom. A new life.”
I turn back to the wall. “Yeah,” I say. “True, true.”
“Do good? Shit. What do you think we’re doing up here?”
That’s when it clicks differently—our last convo.
He goes, “I said ‘start over’ right?”
Our calls are monitored, so I laugh. “Aww you’re fuckin with my freedom!”
And Ken’s like, “No way! Ha ha! I would never!”
“Anyways,” I say.
And he sighs. He actually sighs.
“Gimme one idea,” he says. “One good idea.”
He was like, “You think that’s me?”
But, you know, things happen.
I tell Ken about He-Man—how he’s my bunky and not doing too well—and Ken goes, “Fool. I’m paying a dollar a minute. What do you want?”
I look over at the racks. He-Man’s got his towel looped into a neck brace and he’s slapping at it all randomly in a private battle to not scratch the skin.
I gotta say it. He looked a little cracked-out.
I tell Ken that my bunky could maybe use somewhere to go. You know, a little support. He’s trying to do good.
Ken laughs.
“What are you lonely? Huh? You bringing the whole cell block? Fool, nobody knows you up here. This is freedom. A new life.”
I turn back to the wall. “Yeah,” I say. “True, true.”
“Do good? Shit. What do you think we’re doing up here?”
That’s when it clicks differently—our last convo.
He goes, “I said ‘start over’ right?”
Our calls are monitored, so I laugh. “Aww you’re fuckin with my freedom!”
And Ken’s like, “No way! Ha ha! I would never!”
“Anyways,” I say.
And he sighs. He actually sighs.
“Gimme one idea,” he says. “One good idea.”
*
After mail call, all the Asians and Others come by my rack. I’m handing out the last of my store. Pork rinds, soups, Snickers. It’s a party. I’m giving away my toothpaste, a fresh bar of soap. I pass the white trustee top to Spider and the whole car daps him up. He’ll be calling the shots now. We all knew it would be him.
I yell into the dayroom, “He-Man!” The paisas are watching a Dodgers game and he’s doing a Where’s Waldo? Looking all lost among them. I go, “What’re you doing? Get in here!”
And you know what he does?
He waves me away.
On my last day in.
I’m trying to feel like Oprah doing a giveaway but after that it’s like I’m handing out cursed items. Like I’m passing on the curse.
I give a roll of TP and my shower shoes to Old Ray and he pounds me on the back and almost cries.
Then the Man in the Booth is calling my number. Roll it up!
The airlock door pops open.
It’s like I won the lottery. The whole car’s parading me through the dayroom and the Brothers and the Woods are yelling, “Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya!” and “Y’all come back now! Ya hear?”
On my way out, I give He-Man one last chance. I clap him on the back. I tell him to stay strong and keep his head up. And he goes, “I don’t wanna hear that stuff anymore.” OK. Get in touch then when he hits the streets. And he goes, “You’re just saying that.”
Man. Try all you can but what do you do with people who don’t want to be helped? With that pity party bullshit.
I go, “Yeah? You need some dreams? Here.” I pull a handful of clippings from my personals and confetti his head. “Get your shit together. You sad bitch.”
It’s like, what does he wanna do? Drown in here?
In fucking Wayside?
He-Man brushes the bits of paper away.
“I know what you’re going to do out there. Don’t act like you’re better than me.”
“This shit is nothing,” I say. “Just do your time and go home.”
And he goes, “If you really think this is nothing? That means they got to you.”
I step into the airlock with the whole car waving behind me. But when I look back they’re already walking away.
The door closes on my last sight of the dorm—He-Man moving to my old bunk and unrolling his mat, Old Ray and Spider caveman crouched around him. They’re slapping my shower shoes on the floor, the sound flashing like sparks, to test how much life they had left in them.
I yell into the dayroom, “He-Man!” The paisas are watching a Dodgers game and he’s doing a Where’s Waldo? Looking all lost among them. I go, “What’re you doing? Get in here!”
And you know what he does?
He waves me away.
On my last day in.
I’m trying to feel like Oprah doing a giveaway but after that it’s like I’m handing out cursed items. Like I’m passing on the curse.
I give a roll of TP and my shower shoes to Old Ray and he pounds me on the back and almost cries.
Then the Man in the Booth is calling my number. Roll it up!
The airlock door pops open.
It’s like I won the lottery. The whole car’s parading me through the dayroom and the Brothers and the Woods are yelling, “Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya!” and “Y’all come back now! Ya hear?”
On my way out, I give He-Man one last chance. I clap him on the back. I tell him to stay strong and keep his head up. And he goes, “I don’t wanna hear that stuff anymore.” OK. Get in touch then when he hits the streets. And he goes, “You’re just saying that.”
Man. Try all you can but what do you do with people who don’t want to be helped? With that pity party bullshit.
I go, “Yeah? You need some dreams? Here.” I pull a handful of clippings from my personals and confetti his head. “Get your shit together. You sad bitch.”
It’s like, what does he wanna do? Drown in here?
In fucking Wayside?
He-Man brushes the bits of paper away.
“I know what you’re going to do out there. Don’t act like you’re better than me.”
“This shit is nothing,” I say. “Just do your time and go home.”
And he goes, “If you really think this is nothing? That means they got to you.”
I step into the airlock with the whole car waving behind me. But when I look back they’re already walking away.
The door closes on my last sight of the dorm—He-Man moving to my old bunk and unrolling his mat, Old Ray and Spider caveman crouched around him. They’re slapping my shower shoes on the floor, the sound flashing like sparks, to test how much life they had left in them.
II.
The County bus takes the I-5 south to LA, the highway rushing smoothly under its tires. I’m looking out the window at the armor blinders, the strips of black motion in the cracks. I’m thinking, They got to me?
How?
They didn’t get to shit.
The bus takes us to a concrete bay downtown, to be processed out, our linked chains rattling, the sounds of them icy and greased.
I sit on the loop all night while they run my papers and, in holding tank after holding tank, I’m moving on. I’m switching modes. I’m preparing a little statement.
It’s not so bad up there—nobody trying to cut you or slip you some dick.
Last tank of the night, this big Wood steps over the floor sleepers for a drink from the sink. But only a rusty dribble comes out. He smears the brown droplets from his mustache. “Fuck this shit,” he mumbles.
Take me home is what he’s trying to say, I think. What he means is, Take me home.
Finally, I sign for my street clothes. I rip that bag and unroll a deflated man.
How?
They didn’t get to shit.
The bus takes us to a concrete bay downtown, to be processed out, our linked chains rattling, the sounds of them icy and greased.
I sit on the loop all night while they run my papers and, in holding tank after holding tank, I’m moving on. I’m switching modes. I’m preparing a little statement.
It’s not so bad up there—nobody trying to cut you or slip you some dick.
Last tank of the night, this big Wood steps over the floor sleepers for a drink from the sink. But only a rusty dribble comes out. He smears the brown droplets from his mustache. “Fuck this shit,” he mumbles.
Take me home is what he’s trying to say, I think. What he means is, Take me home.
Finally, I sign for my street clothes. I rip that bag and unroll a deflated man.
*
Out on the sidewalk, I buy a cigarette for a dollar from an old Indian dude with skin like clay. He lights me up and asks where I’m going. I say, “San Gabriel.” He says, “Sixty dollars.”
I laugh in his face.
I walk the blocks looking at the occasional cars, the stoplights. I think of the word “advanced.” I’m still processing the different colors and shapes—it’s all slightly alarming—when I spot, in a strip mall, Kathy’s black Civic.
I freeze like I’ve been spotted.
I wait for the lights to flip on, the tires to chirp out. Only when none of that happens do I jog over.
In the car, Kathy looks for an angle to the mirror she likes while I tug away on the seatbelt. It keeps stopping short. “So I’m here,” she says. It sounds a little bratty.
There. You happy?
“Thanks.” The buckle clicks. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“And you didn’t call a cab?”
I’m thinking, OK I deserve some of this. Then she adds, “I wasn’t going to but Bobby said I should.”
I think, Bobby.
Then she throws the car into gear.
I’d forgotten how speed looks. On the 10, traffic comes at us so fast I flinch, the lights shooting by like bullets.
“So how was it?” she says.
I tell her, “Easier every time.”
I don’t know why I’m talking like that. It’s automatic or something.
By then we’re on the old familiar streets. The towering signs of the strip malls. The neon Chinese. It feels oddly intimate to be in her car. To be sitting close together. Like we’re the ghosts of teenaged us. In sweatpants and hoodies, sleepless at 3 a.m. Thai iced tea at Garden Cafe. How we’d duck in our booth, laughing, when my PO knocked on the window, looking for another runaway.
It didn’t matter how big the world was then—we were the only ones in it.
“So here we are,” says Kathy, pulling up to my parents’ old place.
I listen to the engine idling.
“You wanna talk?”
“OK.” She yanks the brake. “Let’s talk.”
I should’ve started from high school. Sorry about this and sorry about that. But sorry doesn’t patch things up. It only keeps the dirty shit behind us. I pull the last clippings from my personals and go, “You ever heard of a place called—”
I squint to read it.
“Mi Piace?”
“Oh my God.” Kathy chops her forehead, her hand a visor. “We don’t even have anything to talk about.”
“Nooo,” I say. “No no no.” I have so many things to show her. About me. That’s what I was trying to say. I had plans. “You don’t though,” she says. “Listen to yourself. You don’t.” I tell her about Ken and the shop, how I could be a different person up there. I like how I’m sounding, all slick and shit, but I know the silence will be strong when I stop. Finally all I’m saying is Hey. That’s all I’ve got. I take her hand. Hey hey hey. Like that. I touch her cheek. Then I’m kissing her. Hard. I reach up her sweater and grab like I’m starving until she bites and peels away, gasping.
“This,” she says, “was a mistake.”
I touch my lip. It’s burning.
It’s wrong. I know. I always want the wrong things.
I say, “I can’t stay with you?”
“Seven years.” She looks out the window like they’re marching on by. “I’m still so young.”
“Would you visit?” I say. “If I called, would you come?”
She says no.
I know she’s lying.
We’re both so sick in the head.
Well, I almost say sorry for the millionth time but what a joke that would’ve been. So I hop out and slam the door like, Fuck off. The car lurches then stops, the brake lights a harsh red. Cooking up some last shit to say. So I spit at the trunk and do a running kick toward the license plate as it goes.
I chase the car down the block until the lights disappear.
I think I chased her off for good.
I laugh in his face.
I walk the blocks looking at the occasional cars, the stoplights. I think of the word “advanced.” I’m still processing the different colors and shapes—it’s all slightly alarming—when I spot, in a strip mall, Kathy’s black Civic.
I freeze like I’ve been spotted.
I wait for the lights to flip on, the tires to chirp out. Only when none of that happens do I jog over.
In the car, Kathy looks for an angle to the mirror she likes while I tug away on the seatbelt. It keeps stopping short. “So I’m here,” she says. It sounds a little bratty.
There. You happy?
“Thanks.” The buckle clicks. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“And you didn’t call a cab?”
I’m thinking, OK I deserve some of this. Then she adds, “I wasn’t going to but Bobby said I should.”
I think, Bobby.
Then she throws the car into gear.
I’d forgotten how speed looks. On the 10, traffic comes at us so fast I flinch, the lights shooting by like bullets.
“So how was it?” she says.
I tell her, “Easier every time.”
I don’t know why I’m talking like that. It’s automatic or something.
By then we’re on the old familiar streets. The towering signs of the strip malls. The neon Chinese. It feels oddly intimate to be in her car. To be sitting close together. Like we’re the ghosts of teenaged us. In sweatpants and hoodies, sleepless at 3 a.m. Thai iced tea at Garden Cafe. How we’d duck in our booth, laughing, when my PO knocked on the window, looking for another runaway.
It didn’t matter how big the world was then—we were the only ones in it.
“So here we are,” says Kathy, pulling up to my parents’ old place.
I listen to the engine idling.
“You wanna talk?”
“OK.” She yanks the brake. “Let’s talk.”
I should’ve started from high school. Sorry about this and sorry about that. But sorry doesn’t patch things up. It only keeps the dirty shit behind us. I pull the last clippings from my personals and go, “You ever heard of a place called—”
I squint to read it.
“Mi Piace?”
“Oh my God.” Kathy chops her forehead, her hand a visor. “We don’t even have anything to talk about.”
“Nooo,” I say. “No no no.” I have so many things to show her. About me. That’s what I was trying to say. I had plans. “You don’t though,” she says. “Listen to yourself. You don’t.” I tell her about Ken and the shop, how I could be a different person up there. I like how I’m sounding, all slick and shit, but I know the silence will be strong when I stop. Finally all I’m saying is Hey. That’s all I’ve got. I take her hand. Hey hey hey. Like that. I touch her cheek. Then I’m kissing her. Hard. I reach up her sweater and grab like I’m starving until she bites and peels away, gasping.
“This,” she says, “was a mistake.”
I touch my lip. It’s burning.
It’s wrong. I know. I always want the wrong things.
I say, “I can’t stay with you?”
“Seven years.” She looks out the window like they’re marching on by. “I’m still so young.”
“Would you visit?” I say. “If I called, would you come?”
She says no.
I know she’s lying.
We’re both so sick in the head.
Well, I almost say sorry for the millionth time but what a joke that would’ve been. So I hop out and slam the door like, Fuck off. The car lurches then stops, the brake lights a harsh red. Cooking up some last shit to say. So I spit at the trunk and do a running kick toward the license plate as it goes.
I chase the car down the block until the lights disappear.
I think I chased her off for good.
*
Somehow it’s worse coming home now than when I was a kid, in my big boy Dickies and white torpedo Cortez, my eyes as red as a demon. I’d open the door, stinking of the shit I’d been selling, and—like a horror movie—my mom would pop up, screaming.
What’re you doing in the streets all night?! Huh? What’s happening to you?
And I could only laugh.
Did I have to say it?
What’s any of us doing in this country?
I’m trying to get paid!
But now I’m stepping out of my shoes and thinking maybe all that means is, I need a way out of this mess.
Nobody’s blocking any doorways tonight though.
I come right in.
It’s musty in my old bedroom. The red digits on the alarm clock are flashing 12:00, the buttons dusty, probably since forever.
I toss my personals into a corner—more pictures and papers.
I sit at my old childhood desk.
I think, I’m free.
I’ll celebrate in the morning. Do something when the sun comes up. I know the looks of that light, dry and powdery, cool blue against the blinds. Only birds and school kids are up at that hour.
I’m something else entirely.
What’re you doing in the streets all night?! Huh? What’s happening to you?
And I could only laugh.
Did I have to say it?
What’s any of us doing in this country?
I’m trying to get paid!
But now I’m stepping out of my shoes and thinking maybe all that means is, I need a way out of this mess.
Nobody’s blocking any doorways tonight though.
I come right in.
It’s musty in my old bedroom. The red digits on the alarm clock are flashing 12:00, the buttons dusty, probably since forever.
I toss my personals into a corner—more pictures and papers.
I sit at my old childhood desk.
I think, I’m free.
I’ll celebrate in the morning. Do something when the sun comes up. I know the looks of that light, dry and powdery, cool blue against the blinds. Only birds and school kids are up at that hour.
I’m something else entirely.
*
On the front steps, I curl a duffel bag onto my shoulder and follow the sound of water blasting away in the yard.
“The pressure’s too high! You’re splattering dirt on the walls!”
That’s my dad. He snatches the hose from my mom. She’s holding a little dog with teen pop star bangs. That’s new, I think. Her wounded baby.
“See?” my dad says. “Gentle.” He swishes a mist onto the strawberry patches that she must’ve recently planted. The berries are blood red and tiny.
She mutters to the dog, “If he’s so good at watering the plants, why doesn’t he do it himself then? Hm? Why doesn’t he, Lucky?”
“Hi guys,” I say.
They stare. The hose dribbles.
My dad says, “When’d you come back?”
“Last night.”
“I didn’t even hear you come in!” my mom says, scolding.
“How was it?” says my dad.
“Not bad.”
I check the tires and oil on my car. It starts OK. I know they drove it sometimes. Part of me wanted them to keep it. To take all that I had.
I roll onto the driveway and my mom shouts, “Wait!” I lower the window, and she goes, “I forgot to give you something!” and runs away, the dog barking over her shoulder, its eyes bugging out.
My dad stoops closer and says, “Where you headed this time?” I tell him probably the Bay. “I was there once,” he says. “A long time ago. I even saw the Golden Gate Bridge!”
“I remember. It was red though.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. He’s disappointed all over again. I tell him, “Maybe they painted it gold now.”
“Hm.”
We both look for my mom.
While we’re staring at the door, he says, “You’re older now. I don’t know what to tell you anymore.”
“Me neither.”
He looked older now too, all that white taking over his hair, his undershirt so thin. The company logo would fully vanish soon. No more Astro Boy bucked back on a giant light bulb like it’s a rocket to the stars. It had looked so fresh on his worst nights, while he was raging out, a bobbing target over his heart.
I could resent that other person—but this old man? He deserved a fresh bedroll. Snapping on some crisp whites, feeling proud. Somebody should be taking care of him.
But why did it have to be me?
“If my friend Hiro calls,” I say, “can you talk to him?”
“OK.” He nods. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know!” I say. “Just talk to him!”
Then my mom’s running over to drop a bundle of letters in my lap. They’re thick. I clock the silver ink on the envelopes. “You didn’t give Kathy your address?”
Why would she do this?
I feel a flash of anger. Then it fades.
I shuffle through the letters like I’m in a long hallway. It keeps getting longer, the back of it further away
“I really have to go now,” I say.
“I wish you good luck,” my dad says. “I really hope this time your luck is better.”
He shoots me a big thumbs up, and my mom’s waving—she’s got the dog waving a little paw too—and I’m struck by the feeling that I’ve done this before, that I’ll keep arriving at this moment until nobody’s waving.
Wait, I think. Hold on. Don’t leave me.
Like I’m not the one with his foot on the pedal.
“The pressure’s too high! You’re splattering dirt on the walls!”
That’s my dad. He snatches the hose from my mom. She’s holding a little dog with teen pop star bangs. That’s new, I think. Her wounded baby.
“See?” my dad says. “Gentle.” He swishes a mist onto the strawberry patches that she must’ve recently planted. The berries are blood red and tiny.
She mutters to the dog, “If he’s so good at watering the plants, why doesn’t he do it himself then? Hm? Why doesn’t he, Lucky?”
“Hi guys,” I say.
They stare. The hose dribbles.
My dad says, “When’d you come back?”
“Last night.”
“I didn’t even hear you come in!” my mom says, scolding.
“How was it?” says my dad.
“Not bad.”
I check the tires and oil on my car. It starts OK. I know they drove it sometimes. Part of me wanted them to keep it. To take all that I had.
I roll onto the driveway and my mom shouts, “Wait!” I lower the window, and she goes, “I forgot to give you something!” and runs away, the dog barking over her shoulder, its eyes bugging out.
My dad stoops closer and says, “Where you headed this time?” I tell him probably the Bay. “I was there once,” he says. “A long time ago. I even saw the Golden Gate Bridge!”
“I remember. It was red though.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. He’s disappointed all over again. I tell him, “Maybe they painted it gold now.”
“Hm.”
We both look for my mom.
While we’re staring at the door, he says, “You’re older now. I don’t know what to tell you anymore.”
“Me neither.”
He looked older now too, all that white taking over his hair, his undershirt so thin. The company logo would fully vanish soon. No more Astro Boy bucked back on a giant light bulb like it’s a rocket to the stars. It had looked so fresh on his worst nights, while he was raging out, a bobbing target over his heart.
I could resent that other person—but this old man? He deserved a fresh bedroll. Snapping on some crisp whites, feeling proud. Somebody should be taking care of him.
But why did it have to be me?
“If my friend Hiro calls,” I say, “can you talk to him?”
“OK.” He nods. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know!” I say. “Just talk to him!”
Then my mom’s running over to drop a bundle of letters in my lap. They’re thick. I clock the silver ink on the envelopes. “You didn’t give Kathy your address?”
Why would she do this?
I feel a flash of anger. Then it fades.
I shuffle through the letters like I’m in a long hallway. It keeps getting longer, the back of it further away
“I really have to go now,” I say.
“I wish you good luck,” my dad says. “I really hope this time your luck is better.”
He shoots me a big thumbs up, and my mom’s waving—she’s got the dog waving a little paw too—and I’m struck by the feeling that I’ve done this before, that I’ll keep arriving at this moment until nobody’s waving.
Wait, I think. Hold on. Don’t leave me.
Like I’m not the one with his foot on the pedal.
III.
I head north on the 5, the highway signs slipping by like the names of forgotten friends. I barely blink while driving through Castaic. O are they locking the problem away in desert compounds? I relate. Or maybe it works. In any case, good for them.
That’s none of my business.
I look at that landscape like I’m a civilian.
It’s dry barren dust.
“You’re right.” I talk to Kathy’s letters. “I get it.”
They’re on the passenger seat. I’d torn open a few.
When I write to you, I finally talk like myself. This is who I really am. This is how I sound. But when I’m with you, that’s not true.
It must’ve mattered though, to somebody—all this no man’s land. Back when you could tell a story about a place and that story would be legend.
Those mountains are giants who fell asleep and turned to stone.
And that’s what the story would be.
Closer to Fresno, I look out over the dirt and the rocks, toward a golden city I imagined could be out there in the sun.
I look—but all I think about is Spider on some Looney Tunes shit, chasing a shadow around a silvery grain silo, waving his guns and shooting the sky.
That’s none of my business.
I look at that landscape like I’m a civilian.
It’s dry barren dust.
“You’re right.” I talk to Kathy’s letters. “I get it.”
They’re on the passenger seat. I’d torn open a few.
When I write to you, I finally talk like myself. This is who I really am. This is how I sound. But when I’m with you, that’s not true.
It must’ve mattered though, to somebody—all this no man’s land. Back when you could tell a story about a place and that story would be legend.
Those mountains are giants who fell asleep and turned to stone.
And that’s what the story would be.
Closer to Fresno, I look out over the dirt and the rocks, toward a golden city I imagined could be out there in the sun.
I look—but all I think about is Spider on some Looney Tunes shit, chasing a shadow around a silvery grain silo, waving his guns and shooting the sky.
*
For a highway oasis, Santa Nella is busy—big rigs huffing in the parking lots, the air sneezed blue with oily fumes and exhaust—home to gas stations, Pea Soup Anderson’s, and, according to some postcards on the ARCO carousel, a Korean War Memorial. I pay for a tank and ask the cashier why it’s here of all places.
“It’s the Forgotten War,” she says, looking through my skull at the other customers.
I nod and grab a disposable camera. Only when the door chimes are ringing behind me do I think, What?
How does that answer the question?
I follow signs for it out of town, where the roadside grasses grow taller and wilder, and I’m surprised, though I shouldn’t be, to pass wooden shacks and propane tanks like great white pills nested in the green, to find that even out here somebody has managed a life.
The sun is setting as I pull up to the cemetery. It’s closed, the way barred by a black iron gate, its looped chain glowing red in the fading light. Beyond it the road curves on.
I step from the car.
I’m on the other side now, I think, before I even know what that means.
It’s a different world out here. The green mountains. The last pinks of the sky. The wind feels stranger too, from somewhere still further away.
I think of an old word from childhood library books. Dusk. It comes back to me all at once, unforgotten, the way I know then the dead are still with us. Not in the cemetery. In old photos. The wind. The dust. In the thoughts of prisoners, moonblind after lights out, trying to recall how their lives got away from them.
It hurts, I think.
But still they wouldn’t have me.
I walk into a thickness of wild grasses that won’t live past the dry months. It parts for me, unendingly.
I think, Soon.
They say, We promise.
I lift my hands to the sky.
“It’s the Forgotten War,” she says, looking through my skull at the other customers.
I nod and grab a disposable camera. Only when the door chimes are ringing behind me do I think, What?
How does that answer the question?
I follow signs for it out of town, where the roadside grasses grow taller and wilder, and I’m surprised, though I shouldn’t be, to pass wooden shacks and propane tanks like great white pills nested in the green, to find that even out here somebody has managed a life.
The sun is setting as I pull up to the cemetery. It’s closed, the way barred by a black iron gate, its looped chain glowing red in the fading light. Beyond it the road curves on.
I step from the car.
I’m on the other side now, I think, before I even know what that means.
It’s a different world out here. The green mountains. The last pinks of the sky. The wind feels stranger too, from somewhere still further away.
I think of an old word from childhood library books. Dusk. It comes back to me all at once, unforgotten, the way I know then the dead are still with us. Not in the cemetery. In old photos. The wind. The dust. In the thoughts of prisoners, moonblind after lights out, trying to recall how their lives got away from them.
It hurts, I think.
But still they wouldn’t have me.
I walk into a thickness of wild grasses that won’t live past the dry months. It parts for me, unendingly.
I think, Soon.
They say, We promise.
I lift my hands to the sky.