He was tall, lanky, kinda weather-worn and had the bluest eyes I’d seen that week.
We’d gotten in the habit of hitting this redneck bar after service, split a joint walking, me in my vest and him still in his whites, laughing our asses off at the head server that would just make an absolute idiot of himself at every available opportunity. We called him Enos no Penis. He would always ring his goddamn drinks wrong. He called our dishie a retard.
That night the guy on sauté, Josh, tagged along with us. I didn’t think anything of it.
It was pouring after we closed the bar. We were running from awning to awning, soaked and stepping hard in the puddles trying to splash each other, reveling in that giddy flush of a crush and camaraderie. Just a Tuesday night, like dozens before.
We got to the parking garage and I hugged him, smelling the rain and the starch on his chef’s jacket, and as I started towards my car the sauté guy had caught up to us.
“Hey can you drop me home?”
Well, fuck yeah I can. Might get me somewhere if my service bartender keeps forgetting to ring her mods in.
Randy shot me a look, and I shrugged it off. Got in the car and started up this podcast on Biggie because I thought we could talk about it.
Shit got weird immediately and I started doing that thing women do when they aren’t interested but want to be polite. Change the subject. Mention my kid. Ask who he thought shot Biggie. He’s all over the place, clearly hammered, leaning into the driver’s seat and trying to rub my leg. I’m volleying his attempts back with humor. Mentioning my thing for Randy. Asking how long he’s known him. Does he work tomorrow?
We pull into his driveway and stupidly, I throw the Camry into park, and relieved this is over, fumble for my cigarettes. I’m bringing a lighter up to my cigarette and this crazy fuck reaches over, turns the ignition off and, with my keys in hand, bolts from my car and into his trailer.
I sit there for a minute, mutely, smoking. The windows are down and rain is streaming in the passenger side. It’s late, I’m tired, and my kid is at the house asleep. I flick my cigarette into the rain and get out of the car.
Josh, my sauté, lives in an older single wide in a scrubby trailer park. The neighbors are close. I knock on the door and it swings open and he’s standing there shirtless. He holds my keys up in the yellow light of the bug lamp by the door and shakes them. Then he takes a step back into the gloom of the trailer. Behind him clothes are strewn everywhere, cans of Natty lined up like sentries to my execution. I can only smell cat piss.
I step back, pitch my voice higher, start in on a mewling, begging speech about my son and how late it is and how I have to get home. If he wakes up and I’m not there he will assume something terrible has happened. I open tomorrow! Can I just go?
Josh’s eyes are glassy and bright as he insists I should just come in for a beer. He’ll roll a joint! He’s got coke! Just a quick smoke or a line and I’ll be on my way! HE JUST WANTS TO TALK WHY AM I SUCH A FUCKING BITCH?
The rain has destroyed my hair. It is bleeding the spray down my neck and face in sticky rivers. I smear my bangs back from my forehead. Wipe what is left of my foundation onto my work pants.
I decline his invitation.
He slams the door shut and it makes that spongy noise like all trailer doors. I pick my way down the steps, my clogs are black leather buckets of rain. My socks are pooling around my ankles. The rain is coming down in glossy black sheets.
The driver’s seat is drenched when I get back in. Phone at 15%. I pick it up, scroll through my options, shove my embarrassment into the back seat and tap out a plea to our sous, Randy. He should be home by now.
For thirty minutes I sit there. Attempt another knock. Josh calls me a cunt from the other side of the door.
When Randy shows up he is silent. Jaw clenched, still in his jacket. He sticks his head through my passenger window and rain pours off the black brim of his baseball cap. Then he turns and bounds toward the door. He bangs on it. No answer. I can see his fists flexing the cheap frame. The siding is rattling. Josh cracks the door and Randy throws his shoulder into it. For a second it looks hopeful but then his sneakers slide on the plywood stairs and the trailer door pushes him back. I’m watching through the rain in my dead car, my cigarette soaked and sputtering out. He stomps down the stairs and then the window next to the door explodes. He is yelling something through the pieces of glass that still hang from the frame of it.
He walks to his truck and grabs a bar towel and as he walks back to the Camry I can see his blood through the terry. He opens the door, he sits down next to me and he snarls “CALL THE LAW. “
I hesitate. I gauge what I’ll blow when the cops get here. He lights a Newport and fishes my phone out of the center console.
The cops are there in minutes. The trailers reflect the lights back at us, the headlights make the rain seem to sparkle and we stay there, smoking, until the cop walks up.
For an hour Randy and I sit there. He re-wraps his hand and I attempt a joke about him stealing my towels. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look at me. We watch as the cops knock twice, three times.
Around four the cop lends me his phone and I call my kid’s dad. He has to bring my spare key to this squalid trailer park and he hands it to me wordlessly and then gets back in his car and leaves.
I’m shaking as I get on the highway. I pass two exits and then get off. Hit circle K, slam a quart of bud fast and leave the bottle on top of the dumpster.
My kid is leaning against the counter when I walk in. Arms crossed, a reflection of his father’s disappointment. I set my purse down, and turn the burner on. I overcook his eggs as I try to explain.
The Dappy Bint 