Lady

Lady

by Sam Ford

Kale Shaw was drinking a Sam Cougar Black on the rocks at this shitty bar on North Highland and Hollywood. When the bartender removed the bottle from the back of the shelf it was covered in dust. Kale Shaw was impressed they had his bourbon. He hadn’t had one poured for him since Amarillo.

He’d come up from Bullhead City that morning, making stops in Needles, Barstow, and Bakersfield. He’d been hauling power tools for a national company, and was finally relieved of his load in downtown L.A. The chicken coops had been tough on him through 40 West as well as the border patrol in Arizona, something Kale chalked up to the “post 9/11 era”. Whole thing made him wanna’ scratch his balls and spit in the wind. He considered himself a cockroach. Figured if the Taliban or whoever the shit decided to drop a bomb, he’d still be eighteen wheels and a frown through the whole cotton-pickin’ ordeal.

This particular stretch had started in Knoxville, and once West Texas showed itself, the road really started to work on him. Nothing but blinding white sky and crushed Maverick 100’s. Black coffee and a lot lizard or two, one of whom turned out to be a man. (When Kale saw the bulge, he pulled out his blackjack and started screaming like an infant.) The dry western air always tied his throat in knots and made him tired. He missed Tennessee. He figured he’d settle in for a spell once he got back. Maybe find a good gal to lay him down and cook him brisket. He’d take care of her too. Kale was confident he knew how to take care of a woman in all the right ways.

He’d rented a room at The Vagabond on Sunset, and the bar had come recommended by the dude at the desk. A part of him just wanted to get a bottle and hole-up in the room watching videos, but he liked drinking it down in strange places, watching the locals bark at each other, occasionally find himself using his fists.

The place was pretty sparse. A few men sat alone up at the hardwood, each of them wearing soggy eyes and wet, pursed lips. Real pros. The kind that never wanna’ go home and haven’t formed a complete sentence since they were in grammar school. There were a couple of tables that were occupied by groups of hip-looking kids. The kind that wanna’ drink amongst the open sores and scraps of society in an attempt to earn some sort of life credentials. They sat in silence for the most part. One of them might say something from underneath his neatly cocked hat and the others would either nod or grin or ignore it.

Kale Shaw took down his glass of brown in one tilt and knocked on the shitwood to indicate his desire for another. The bartender, an oversize man with a shaved head and a handlebar walked over, a bar rag slung over his shoulder, a toothpick jammed between his teeth.

“The dirty bourbon, right?”

“Make it neat this time,” Kale said.

The bartender grunted and moved off.

Kale pulled out his black Zippo. It read: Road King / 100,000 Mile Club / Keep On Truckin’. He lit himself a Maverick, tossed the soft pack on the bar, and placed the lighter on top of it.

The bartender slipped the liquid into Kale’s empty glass. Kale stared at him while he did so, wondering what sort of creatures lived inside that mustache.

“Five,” the bartender said.

“Run me up a tab,” Kale offered. “I ain’t goin’ no where just yet.”

“Five,” the bartender repeated.

Kale wondered at exactly when they got off to the wrong damn foot. He pulled out a roll from the frayed pocket of his blue Dickies and peeled off a five and a single. The bartender wiped his nose, picked up the money, and lumbered away. Kale elected to nurse this round as he didn’t feel like seeing the bartender again for a while.

The front door swung open and decent looking, well-built blond walked in. She had big strong legs and thighs that men like Kale Shaw would consider throwing on the grill and serving with mashed potatoes. Her face was twice with make-up, but it didn’t matter. She was sexy and full. Her lips were so damn big you could sleep in them. They were painted fire-engine red, and as Kale drank his Cougar, he wondered how his joint would look dressed in that color.

A few of the other patrons turned to look at her. They stared and mused in that long lost chickenshit way that lonely men do, their sad eyes slipping off their faces like icicles as they took in her chest and lower half. She sorta' grinned to herself and flipped her hair back. Her high-heels were like gunshots as she stepped across the floor and saddled-up next to Kale Shaw at the goodwood. Kale took a tug on his long Maverick. He tried to Steve McQueen it a bit, but it came off a bit more Robert Vaughn than he would’ve liked.

The bartender moved in across from the woman. His tongue came out and he ran it across his lips like a gila monster.

“Whaddaya’ need, miss?”

“Jack straight with a cherry,” she said. Her voice had seen a million cigarettes.

The bartender bit hard on his lower lip, chuckled, and moved off.

The blond turned to face Kale Shaw. She had big eager breasts and big floppy blue eyes. And those bright red lips curled like two huge snails in the sun.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” Kale said, knocking off his spirit and lifting the glass for another as the bartender returned with the lady’s drink.

“My name’s Lady,” she said to Kale.

“Okay,” Kale said. He could feel his heartbeat in his neck. As much as this goddamn dance annoyed him, a part of him loved it. Half lion, half gazelle. And all foreplay it usually ended up being.

“What do you do?” Lady asked.

“Whatever’s payin’,” Kale said, finding the McQueen he was looking for. “Mostly drive a rig outta’ Tennessee.”

“Trucker?”

“Sure.”

Lady made her decision right there. Then she said: “I like truckers.”

“I’ve met a few.” Kale was working it good now. He thought of a puppy he’d adopted when he was ten.

“Can I borrow that?” Lady asked, her finger pointed at Kale’s Zippo. She unsheathed a clove from her purse and put it to those lips. Brown on red. Kale got tingly. He lit the cigarette, let his eyes rest on hers for the first time. She dropped a little wink on him and eased her body back in the barstool.

“You on the road?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Kale said, wondering if he had any Trojans left in the glove-box.

“Is it hard?” she asked with zero subtlety.

Kale picked it up and ran with it: “Depends on how rough or gentle the country gets. I like it both ways depending on my mood.”

“Where did you come from today?” she asked, dragging from the sweet sweet square and letting the exhale soak the bar with its damn candy scent.

“Bullhead City,” Kale said. “Arizona border.”

“That’s not so far is it?” Lady said.

“Not so far,” Kale said. He found her eyes again. They were fixed on him. A falcon across the interstate. Kale appreciated that.

“I like Hollywood,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, picking the cherry out of her glass and crushing it between her semi-yellowed teeth.

“Everybody’s lonely and in pain and the only way they know how to deal with it is to find themselves stuck in evenings like this.”

“I like Hollywood too,” Lady said. “You never know when your long lost darlin’ daddy’s gonna’ be sitting at your favorite bar waiting for you to show up. Why else do you like Hollywood?”

“I like it ‘cause I don’t belong here. And I like bein’ where I don’t belong.”

“So do I,” Lady said.

Kale raised his glass to toast Lady and drank the lowdown dirty brown down with one tilt. He looked at the bartender.

“Make it rain again, friend,” Kale growled. The bartender farted gently and moved off.

“Where are you staying?” Lady asked Kale.

“Don’t ask that yet!” Kale barked. The bourbon was starting to prod at him now. Muddy up his mind with history and bad times. He thought of his father and mother. Daddy with the scowl and the 3 A.M. entrance, his heart sick with futility, his 80 proof breath enough to kill a small animal or child. Mommy with the concern lumped in her throat like a pile of horse manure, her never-ending apron, her acceptance like a tired politician.

“I don’t want to hear you ask about conclusions yet,” Kale mumbled. “I’m sorry I’m just...I wanna’ stretch out the good thing here with you now.”

“It’s okay, darlin’,” Lady said. “You’re pretty sensitive aren’t you?”

Another sloppy rocket came bursting out of Kale: “You a man?!”

It was loud enough to catch an ear or two. The bartender glanced over, slipping his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. Lady shifted in her seat. She rolled Kale’s state over in her mind. Then she grinned.

“Pardon me?” she asked.

“I said: ya’ gotta’ fuckin’ cock?”

Lady laughed. She wanted accolades for her good sportsmanship. And she couldn’t wait to get this drunk ol’ bloodhound home and make him youthful.

The bartender approached them. He ran his thumb and index through his mustache. Kale looked up at him and decided all that was missing was an eye-patch.

“We don’t use that kinda’ language in here, friend,” the bartender said to Kale.

Kale sucked his teeth and slammed his rocks glass down on the bar.

The bartender’s fingers rolled into his palms.

Kale lit a cigarette and cracked his neck west.

The bartender pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it away.

“Hey,” Lady spoke up. “It’s okay. I’m taking him home.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the ‘tender said. “Stay here and have a drink on the house. This piece a’ shit’ll find his way.”

“You don’t understand,” Lady said. She looked at the bartender with a stroke of seriousness. “He’s my brother.”

She helped gather Kale Shaw to his feet and the two made their way, stumbling fumbling, out of the bar together.

Outside, Hollywood Blvd was awash with lights, some of which were pink and neon green and flashing and flashing. Stereo systems ripped through the air, the bass turned up so high it made the palm trees sway.

Traffic was at a dead stop and in the sea of cars there was a cream-colored stretched limousine with the sun-roof open. A gaggle of young teenage girls stood screaming and teasing the surrounding vehicles. One girl pulled her top down. Cars honked. Men hollered. Someone took a picture.

Kale and Lady looked at each other.

“I live in the motel over there,” Kale said, pointing in the direction of The Vagabond.

“Okay,” Lady said.

“Okay,” Kale said.

“Don’t worry,” Lady said, “I’m a movie star.”

“Okay,” Kale said, and they walked off into the night.

for Ballsy, Mama, and Wee

Brooklyn, NY (12/22/06)

Stray Dog Shift

Stray Dog Shift

by Sam Ford

It was Thanksgiving in Batesville, Arkansas and the rest of the United States. Jimmy Greeves stood outside the Tiger Mart smoking a Marlboro red. The air was frosty enough to make his breath visible and the savage fluorescence of the truckstop’s overhead lights saturated Jimmy’s thin frame and made it look like he was about to be beamed up by a UFO. His hair was a mess of curls and knots, creeping out from underneath a worn-in mesh baseball cap with a faded “D” embroidered in it. His teeth were dark and jagged and there were multiple gaps in between them. His hands were dirty across the knuckles and under the nails. His eyes were sunken-in and bloodshot, his brows sliding away as if surrendering. He was wearing an old dark blue hooded sweatshirt with a zipper. He’d had it since he was seventeen. Eight years later and it still fit him. He took a long last tug off his cigarette, let it fall to the ground, and stomped on it as if it were a cockroach. Jimmy made an ogre face, gnashed his teeth and growled, as he flung open the door and walked inside the travel store.

Irva Dortsch was there drinking a Mountain Dew and reading People. She carried about 240 pounds, but carried it as little as she had to. She pretty much sat at her stool behind the counter all night punching the cash register buttons with her right index finger like a kindergarten bully poking at a classmate for his lunch leftovers. She wore a yellow t-shirt that read: “I’m the Boss.” She shook her head at something in the magazine.

“What a dummy,” she muttered to herself.

She looked up and saw Jimmy enter.

“Jimmy…Baby, get me another Mountain Dew.”

Jimmy walked over to one of the coolers. There were twelve of them lined up against the wall, all of them fully stocked with sodas, bottled iced teas and coffees, energy drinks, milk, burritos, microwavable cheeseburgers, cold cuts, pre-packaged sandwiches, and water. He selected two Mountain Dews.

“How much plastic surgery is too much plastic surgery?” Irva announced.

“I’m not sure,” Jimmy said, handing her the soda.

She looked up at him as if brokenhearted. “I mean, y’know?”

Jimmy put pulled at his lower lip with his fingers. He opened his Mountain Dew and took a swig. He thought of the ad with the two guys at the gas station who buy Mountain Dews. One of them uses his car alarm remote control to unlock the doors, but every time he pushes it, his piece-of-shit sedan turns into a tricked-out muscle car or a monster truck or a Ferrari or a low rider. Then he turns the remote on his buddy, and before he knows it there’s this vixen in half a shirt and torn-up jean shorts standing in front of him. Jimmy had never been to Los Angeles before, but for some reason that commercial always made him think of L.A.

There was a tired looking trucker trying on cowboy hats toward the back of the store. His skin was a pinkish brown, a smooth golden mustache hung above his lips. He wore big metal glasses and black lizard skin Tony Lama’s. He glanced over at Jimmy.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said with an easy smile.

Jimmy ignored him and walked into the men’s room. He stepped up to one of the urinals, pulled out his pecker, and started pissing his name onto the porcelain wall as he sang quietly:

“I can feel it on my mouth, I can taste you on my fingers, I can hear you like the holy ghost, and kill you if you get too close…” *

He zipped up and flushed. Big John Borsane stepped inside, almost smacking Jimmy on the other side of the door.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Big John bellowed. He stood six feet, four inches and 315 pounds. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I didn’t see ya’.”

“It’s okay,” Jimmy said.

“You wash yer hands?” Big John asked, his floppy neck craned down, his blue eyes wide with skepticism.

Jimmy quietly moved to one of the sinks and turned the faucet on.

“I’ve gotta’ take a dump,” Big John said, “but I’ll wait till you leave. Don’t wanna’ shorten yer lifespan.”

He let out a chuckle and an angry, rumbling fart emerged with it. “Oops,” he said. “There’s a preview.”

Jimmy dried his hands.

“Jimmy…”

Jimmy turned.

“Stock them Doritos. We’re outta’ the Cool Ranch.”

Jimmy walked back out into the store. A heavyset little girl whizzed past him with a Snickers bar and Cherry Coke in her hand. Her denim overalls were too big for her and the cuffs were drag-frayed and dirty.

“Daddy ummm…”

She approached a man in dress slacks and a bolo tie. He looked down at her as she tugged on his pant leg.

“What is it, pineapple?”

“Daddy ummm…and Snickuhz…”

Irva was ringing up two cases of Bud and a carton of Lucky Strikes.

“Baby, we got cake and pie and whatnot back home.” He turned to Irva with the side of his mouth cocked at a grin. “Thanksgiving and all she can think of is Snickers bars.”

Irva smelled the distillery in his breath and mustered a smile.

“Alright,” he said to the girl, “Snickers it is.” He took the candy and the soda from her and placed them next to the beer and smokes. Irva rang them in and gave him his total.

Jimmy grabbed a Snickers bar from one of the metal racks. He tore it open and took a bite.

The man grabbed the two cases of beer with the cigarettes on top, and he and his daughter walked out. They jumped in his ’85 Camaro and sped off, the tires screaming like a widow. Irva shook her head.

Jimmy finished the Snickers bar and walked toward the stock room. He passed an elderly gentleman sitting at one of the bolted-down tables, drinking coffee and reading the Arkansas Weekly. The tops of his hands were streaked with veins and liver spots. His grey eyes were practically hidden by his eyelids and his ears glowed with little tufts of white hair. Jimmy thought of his grandfather in the nursing home outside Little Rock. He wondered if they were serving their inmates turkey and stuffing and cranberry and shit. The last time Jimmy saw his granddad, all the old man could say was, “I’m the only goddamn human sombitch in here.”

In the stock room, Jimmy found an oversize cardboard box labeled Frito-Lay / Doritos / Cool Ranch. He pulled it from the shelf and marched it back out to where the rest of the snack were on display. He pulled out his lockback, flicked it open, and ran it along the seam of the box. He pulled out a bag of chips and placed them on the rack. He couldn’t help but wonder what was so “cool” about the Cool Ranch. He hated that word. It’d meant so much only a few years ago when kids were dressing up their cars and trying their best not to be separate.

***

...And beef jerky and turkey jerky and Slim Jims and them meat and cheese air-sealed packets and Fritos and Cheetos and Doritos and Tostitos and Lay’s and Ruffles and Pringles and Herr’s Potato Chips (including the Heinz Ketchup flavor) and Cape Cod Potato Chips and Utz Potato Chips and Cracker Jacks and pretzels and peanuts and cashews and sunflower seeds and Trail Mix and Corn Nuts and and and…

Jimmy stepped outside for a cigarette. The stars were in full bloom and Jimmy tried not to look at them. He could hear Irva inside singing “Run, Angel, Run” to herself. Jimmy thought about calling his friend Carl and seeing if he wanted to come by for a while and just hang out. But he knew Carl was busy doing Thanksgiving things. And Carl never really had much to say anyway. He worked over at the Dollar General and spent a lot of time on the computer.

An ’87 Bronco pulled up to one of the pumps. The car had Kentucky plates. A tall woman stepped out of the driver’s side. Jimmy’s eyes froze on her. He guessed she was in her 30’s. She was wearing jeans and a sweater and a big wool coat. She stretched her arms to the sky and let out an exhale. Her breath rolled through the dark air and disappeared. She ran a hand through her dirty blond hair, pulling it away from her face. She had a small but visible scar running across her chin. Her eyes were the color of a lion’s mane. She scratched at her stomach and moved toward the store. She caught Jimmy staring at her and she smiled at him. Jimmy turned away quickly and took a pull at his cigarette to cover it.

She stepped inside and Jimmy’s eyes followed her all the way. She had a great ass; the kind that makes little circles when its owner walks on by. Jimmy glanced down at her feet and noticed her wearing an old pair of low-top Chuck Taylor’s in light blue. He walked inside the store.

She was over by the drinks, leaning against one of the refrigerator doors with her left forearm.

“What should I get?” she asked.

Jimmy wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or what. He ducked away and moved over toward the coffee machines. The special flavors of the day were French Vanilla, Chocolate Hazelnut, and Raspberry Roast. They were situated on top of a large wooden table, the underneath of which Jimmy opened and pulled out a spare box of stirrers. He began stocking them alongside the lids.

“Hey you,” he heard her say. He turned and looked up. There she was.

“What should I get to drink?” she asked him. “I’m indecisive, y’know?”

“I don’t…erh-mm…” Jimmy cleared his throat.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she said. “Fucks you all up.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Did you need some help you said with a drink or somethin’?”

“What should I get to drink. There’s this water over there with strawberry in it. That any good?”

“I’ve never had it,” Jimmy said.

“What do you drink?” she asked. She extended a hand down to him. Jimmy took it and she heaved him up off of the floor. When he reached his feet he practically landed in her arms. Jimmy’s heart almost beat clear through his chest. He thought about the scene in Alien.

“I mostly…I mean it’s…it’s…I mean me…It’s mostly Mountain Dew I like.”

“I haven’t had Mountain Dew in a long time.”

“They got really stupid commercials but I like the drink though.”

“Mountain Dew it is.”

She walked back to the coolers and Jimmy wanted to know every last thing about her. The butterflies in his stomach were at war.

“You’re from Kentucky?” Jimmy asked her.

She had a bottle of Mountain Dew in her hand. “Spying on me?”

“Nah I mean…Just saw yer truck and all.”

“Louisville.”

“That’s cool. I got family in Central City.”

“That right?” She looked at him. “Why ain’t you with them on Thanksgiving?”

“Gotta’ work.”

“I hear that,” she said.

Irva looked up from Us Weekly as the woman approached.

“How you doin’, honey?” Irva said.

“Just fine. And you?”

“Oh I’m doin’ alright. I’m gonna’ need fifty dollars on pump number six.”

“Fifty it is.”

“Used to smile and say twenty-five.”

“Let’s just hope you’re not back this way in a few months sayin’ seventy-five.”

The two women laughed.

“You have a happy Thanksgiving and be safe out there on that road,” Irva said.

“Much obliged,” the woman said. “I hope you have an okay rest a’ the night.”

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout me. I got George Clooney and Brad Pitt and a whole busload a’ fancy gentleman to see me through.”

“Don’t break their hearts,” the woman said.

And she walked out of the Tiger Mart and Jimmy watched her and he watched her pump her gas and he watched her get into her ’87 Bronco and drive off.

Big John Borsane came barreling out of a room that had an “employees only” sign affixed to it. He had on his big ¾ length leather trenchcoat and his black Stetson.

“Well…I’m outta’ here, ya’ll. Gotta’ get home and carve that turkey before my drunken brother does. Ya’ll call me if you need anything. Should be quiet tonight, but you never know. Jimmy, make sure everything’s stocked up good for tomorrow. Gonna’ be crazy on the roads. Okay? Happy Thanksgiving and I sure do appreciate ya’ll workin’ tonight.”

Big John strode out of the Tiger Mart. He got into his Navigator and drove off.

Jimmy reached for a pad and pen from his back pocket and started checking the shelves for missing items and low counts. He started thumbing at his lower lip, pulling it and pushing it. Jimmy drove a Chevy Cavalier. He decided he was gonna’ save his money and get something else. Something bigger or faster. He would have to save and save and save since he didn’t really have anything put away. But he decided he was willing to do it. He wanted to make a change.





* Slipknot – “Left Behind”


Brooklyn, NY (12/21/06)