Tin & Spit

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Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Shaver/Avery











Shaver/Avery

by Sam Ford

photo courtesy of Anthony Darrouzet-Nardi



    "True love doesn't come to you...It has to be inside you."

    - Julia Roberts, actress



    Avery was a panther in a cage. Pacing. Waiting, waiting. Silent, snarling, waiting. She circled across the trailer’s thin floors, occasionally stopping to throw her eyes out the windows. They were tough to see through, covered with grime and splattered bugs. But she saw through them good enough. And she listened. She listened for his tires crunching across the gravel and pulling to a stop. She listened for his call, his cackle, his “papa’s home, little sparrow…” She paced, gnashed her teeth together, scratched at her collarbone. She pulled at her lower lip. She reached for a dirty mason jar off a shelf, shook the marbles and loose change out of it, filled it with water. She took six large spoonfuls of Metamucil and dumped them in the jar. She drank it down like a track star, wiped her mouth like an invalid.

    …The fuck are you, Shaver…Where where where…the fuck’re you…Where are you where are you where are…

    Her five feet and nine inches came with ninety-seven pounds of leathered, blotchy skin and jagged bone. Her flaming, scarlet hair came from a box. It hadn’t been applied well to begin with, but now it was a red rat’s nest, tangled and greasy, hanging over her blue-grey eyes which had sunken into their sockets like ass-cheeks in a toilet bowl. She wore cut-off denim shorts and a cream colored halter-top with a hole or two in it. She rubbed at her thighs. She scratched and clawed at her arms, her wrists, her navel. She paced and paced.

    …C’MON!!!...

    She put her body on the floor and searched for cigarettes. First under the bed. She found three packs, all empty. A gnarled, mustard colored loveseat stolen from Shaver’s grandma was the only other piece of furniture and it too was fruitless. Avery tore through the drawers of the kitchenette. She went to her purse and emptied it on the loveseat. Midnight blue lipstick, black eyeliner, condoms, Bic lighter, Trident wrappers, band-aids, four dollars, eighty-two cents. No smokes. She screamed.

    There was a clock hanging on one of the fake wooden walls and it stared 7:13 at her. And it must’ve been A.M., Avery decided, 'cause it wasn’t dark outside. There was light out there and the light was probably from the sun. She peaked through the blinds out the shitty windows again and confirmed it. And she also looked for Shaver.

    Avery hated this part. A lot of things she hated, but it was the waiting she hated most. And it wasn’t so much the waiting itself, the idea of sitting around and pacing and waiting and waiting, but more the things that she did when she found herself in this situation. She constantly checked the windows. Like every forty-five seconds.

    This sort of behavior reminded her of something her mother once told her while she was cooking her father pork chops, peas, and potatoes. “A watched pot never boils.” Avery could see her mom there, standing in front of the stove, wearing the paisley blue Salvation Army dress with the apron over it that read: “Mama’s Bitchin’ Kitchen! She could see her with the big spoon, back slightly hunched, auburn hair to the middle of her neck, 10 karat Christ hanging against her chestplate, looking over her shoulder at Avery with that sad goddamn smile. “A watched pot never boils, baby…” What cocksuckin’ fuckin’ bullshit, Avery thought. Even then she thought it. Everything boils. Everyfuckin’thing boils.

    And she did other things while she waited. Picked at things – her skin, the loveseat upholstery, the fake wood everywhere. She tried to shit but that was rare. She’d end up sitting on the can staring at the photo of her and Shaver at their wedding in Sparks. They were smiling. Shaver still had his mullet and handlebar. His tuxedo pants were too tight and he had a slight hard-on (something common to him). And Avery was beaming. “You’re a rainbow,” she remembered Shaver telling her. “My rainbow.” She wore a dress which she’d sorta’ made. Well shit, she’d bought a cheap slip and then trimmed it out with lace and ruffles, but she loved that dress and it was still hanging in the closet. It’d used to hang next to Shaver’s tuxedo but he’d pawned that months ago. Her wedding dress was one of the last things she owned.

    She sat there staring at the photo. Always like this. She’d push and push till her guts were bursting, till her sphincter was numb, but nothing would come out. And she’d just end up gazing at January 2nd, 2005, in front of the Mint Casino. When she’d tacked the picture up, Shaver’d gotten upset:

    “Why would I wanna’ look at a picture of you while I’m on the captain’s chair?”

    “It’s both of us, Shaver, on our wedding day.”

    “A shitter’s a shitter. When I’m takin’ a shit I don’t wanna’ feel tender. I don’t wanna’ feel like love, y’know?”

    “I know, baby…”

    She’d left it up there anyway. She’d guessed he just forgot to keep taking about it.

    She didn’t even bother to wipe anymore. She wiped her nose instead, tossed the tissue in the bowl, hocked a wad of flem, launched it in the bowl, flushed.

    Cigarettes, Shaver…And get fuckin’ cigarettes…Shaver…ShaverShaverShaverShaver…

    What day was it? Avery paced and then stopped and then sat on the loveseat. She started scratching at her wrist. She worked and worked at it, admiring the purple-blue-black of her veins. She wanted to crack the veins open till those colors came out and splattered across the room like a geyser, make art out of it. Instead she got up and checked through the windows again.

    Avery wanted music. She moved to the little boombox in the corner of the trailer. The machine had no CD player, only a tape deck and a radio which selected stations with the turn of a knob. They had sold off their nice Sony five CD-changer system months ago.

    A pile of cassettes sat off to the side. Avery began rifling through them. Guns N’ Roses. Elvis. Garth Brooks. N.W.A. Metallica. The Doors. Avery wanted something more personal, something she believed nobody else liked, at least not at that moment. She found an Everly Brothers tape and put it in. Pretty soon, Don and Phil were singing “Let It Be Me.” This caused Avery to have an emotional breakdown. She began wailing, moaning like a dog locked in a basement. She writhed on the floor of the trailer, felt the rug burn her skin raw. The song echoed through her heart and tears exploded from her face. She felt her brain quake inside her head, and she nearly passed out.

    A knock on the door got her to her feet fast.

    ShaverShaverShaver…

    “Shaver?”

    She opened the screen door and Pablo Lomatos was sitting there on his run-down old Huffy, staring up at her. His floppy crow colored hair was dusty and unkempt. He wore old gym shorts with a Chicago Bulls emblem stitched into one of the legs. Both his knees were scraped-up pretty bad, the blood still fresh and glowing in some places, some places starting to crust and scab over.

    “Buenos dias, Aayburry,” he offered.

    “What’s up?” Avery said, trying to gather herself.

    “I hear eh-screaming,” Pablo said, his bright eyes blinding her.

    “I’m waitin’ for Shaver. You seen ‘im?”

    “Not eh-seence yestuhrdey. I saw hees car drybing. Are ju okay?”

    “I’m fine I’m fine,” she said, coughing. “Can you steal a cigarette from your mother and bring it to me, honey?”

    “Chee’s not here. Chee’s at work.”

    “Can you find me a cigarette? Build me a fuckin’ cigarette, I don’t care. I’m itchy and where’s Shaver?”

    Pablo thought for a moment.

    “I cang breeng ju sohn lehmonayde,” he said.

    “Okay,” Avery said, freeing herself in his kindness.

    “I made eet myself…” Pablo beamed. “I squees the lemohns myself.”

    “Okay,” Avery said.

    “Okay, I go get eet…”

    Pablo’s bike kicked up earth and he was off. Avery watched all nine years of him disappear across the train tracks.

    She remembered when her father taught her to drive his new ’95 Mustang GT. First he’d showed her the rhythm between the clutch and gas pedal:

    “It’s real gentle, girl,” he said, his blue eyes puffy, his breath soggy with Kentucky Crown. “You gotta’ ease off the clutch, ease into the gas. It’s like a dance.”

    He’d sit in the shotgun seat and put his hand over hers as she worked the stick:

    “There’s a feel to it, Avery, see? The car’ll tell you when it’s time to shift.”

    And eventually she got the hang of it. And then he put his hand on hers and placed it on his joint. And she’d known that’s what the whole thing was about anyway. But she figured maybe one day she’d be able to drive far the fuck away from him. She heard him whispering:

    “Be good…it’s good…”

    She saw his sweaty hair, the guilt wrinkling his brow, the lust locking his jaw like a crocodile.

    SHAVER!!...Shaver…Get here…

    She sat on the step of the trailer. Waiting still waiting still waiting. Roasting in the Nevada sun. She spread herself open. It felt good to catch fire. She scratched at her ankle.

    Then she heard it. She heard it and she had to tighten every little muscle in her body to keep from convulsing with sheer joy. But she felt her throat thicken. She felt her heart get nimble. Had she a tail, it would’ve been whipping around like a flag.

    Shaver’s piece-of-shit ’66 Cape Ivory colored Cadillac Deville convertible rumbled across the flat. It coughed and spit black monoxide out its ass, the engine snarling like a tired drunk. Avery could just make Shaver out through the sun and sand. He was wearing his oversized gold-framed aviator shades which dominated the upper half of his face, made him look like a bug. She could hear the faint sound of Bo Diddley belting from the speakers. Avery was a kid on Christmas.

    The Deville rolled over the train tracks with an ugly bounce. Shaver had the top down and he waved at Avery, grinned his dark-toothed grin, let out a “yee-haw!” for the happy hell of it. Avery couldn’t contain herself. She got to her feet and started bouncing. Shaver pulled the car up close to the trailer. He got out and opened his arms wide.

    “Papa’s home, little sparrow!...”

    Avery went dashing towards him, jumped in his arms, clamped her legs around his waist. Her kisses were ferocious.

    “Okay, baby, okay…” Shaver said, smiling. “Jesus Christ, gimme a second to be here…”

    She continued to hold him as he gathered his backpack from the car and walked with her into the trailer.

    Avery removed herself from him, tucked her hair back behind her ears and bent over, staring at him. Shaver paused for a moment at the door, took off his sunglasses, and winked at her.

    “The kid comes bearin’ gifts.”

    Shaver reached in his backpack, pulled out a ziplock bag with five deflated balloons in it. Avery’s eyes got huge.

    “Holy shit,” she said. “How many…like…”

    She picked up the ziplock and stared at its contents.

    “There’s like five here, Shaver. There’s like five.”

    “Fuckin’-A there’s five. Five, five, five.”

    Avery took her halter-top off and went to Shaver. Her little breasts were sagging slightly, the nipples puffy and soft. She put Shaver’s hand on her chest, tongue-kissed him deep.

    “We’re gonna’ get high as hell and fuck each other’s brains loose,” Shaver proclaimed. He put her hand on his crotch. His trademark half a hard-on was present.

    “Did you get cigarettes too?” Avery asked.

    “The motherfuckers gave me a carton for free.”

    “Free?”

    “Yeah…I guess ‘cause a’ my customership and shit.”

    “Who were they? Were they clean-lookin’ guys?”

    “Clean-lookin’? One of ‘em sorta’ looked like my asshole, but other than that they seemed cool. George wouldn’t send us to no scumbags.”

    Shaver cracked open the carton of Market Menthol 100’s. Avery hated menthols but she ripped a pack open anyway, flicked her Bic and lit one. She smoked it like it was running away from her.

    Shaver was already busying himself with the prep work. Out of his bag he’d pulled his kit, zipped it open, removed the syringe, and was sliding the plunger into it.

    “We got anymore swabs, baby?” he asked.

    “Ummm…”

    Avery got panicky. She quickly crossed to the bathroom. Shaver heard her rummaging around in there. Things were falling.

    “Fuck it, baby, if we don’t…”

    “No!” she called out. “No…”

    Shaver shook his head, grinned to himself. Avery’s microscopic obsession with hygiene amused him. He knew, in the end, she really didn’t give a good shit. It was all for show. She wanted to be a good wife.

    Avery emerged from the bathroom empty handed, practically in tears.

    “It’s okay, darlin’,” Shaver said gently. “It’s a fresh stick.”

    “But we gotta’ wipe it down, Shaver, we gotta’ wipe it down. And the spoon too.”

    Shaver pulled the spoon from his kit. The metal was slightly bent and burnt black on the underside. He spit in it, worked the saliva in with his thumb, wiped it on his shirt.

    “My spit’s like holy water, baby. Like that Indiana Jones Crusade shit where they just poured it on and all the blood went away.”

    Avery just looked at him, nodding. She was suddenly very tired.

    “Okay?” Shaver said, grinning his grin at her .

    “Yeah.”

    “The holiest water.” Shaver spit on the needle.

    Avery lit another cigarette and sat leaning against one of the kitchenette cabinets. She watched him. Shaver was all business. He peeled open one of the balloons. A small piece of black tar heroin was covered in plastic-wrap. Shaver removed it carefully, and placed it on the spoon. He scratched at four days of stubble and winced as a drop of sweat slid down across his eye.

    “Fuckin’ hot, baby. Turn on the A/C, wouldya’?”

    “What?” Avery said.

    “Turn on the air conditioning before I melt like Glinda.”

    “Glinda didn’t melt,” Avery said as she crawled to the air conditioner in a slight daze. “It was Miss Gulch.” She flipped the A/C on and crawled back to her original spot.

    Shaver rested the spoon on the loveseat. He got up, went to the sink, poured a glass of water. It was brownish and not cold enough and Avery stroked his leg as he drank it. Shaver wiped his face with his dingy hula-dancer patterned Hawaiian shirt. He splashed water in his face, shook it off. Then he topped the glass off again and returned to the spoon.

    Avery scratched the back of her neck as Shaver dipped the syringe in the glass and filled it with water. He reached for the spoon, aimed the syringe at it, and gently eased the plunger down. His curly hair was starting to frizz way out because of the heat. He tried to run his hand through it and his fingers got stuck.

    “Gimme yer lighter, lovergirl,” he said, looking up at Avery.

    Avery handed it over. Shaver ran the flame of the Bic under the spoon. It started to bubble. He pulled the plunger from out of the syringe and used it to stir the mixture.

    “I used to climb garages when I was a kid,” Avery said. “We had this neighbor named Jesse Barzin and me and him would climb all the garages in the neighborhood and then make-out on top of them. He was the first boy I ever made-out with. He had really bad acne scars and these dumb old floppy lips. He was real smart though. He used to study astronomy.”

    Shaver continued heating the spoon. “Why garages?” he asked.

    “I dunno. I guess we thought it was cool to do somethin’ adventurous.”

    Shaver grinned, his eyebrows arching. “And then do something adventurous…”

    “Yeah,” Avery said. She had a good feeling in her body all of a sudden and that made her smile.

    “You told me about that kid once before,” Shaver said.

    “I did?” Avery looked confused. “I must be losin’ my mind.”

    Shaver shrugged. Avery began singing an impromptu country song:

    “Every time I think of you, and all the purdy things you do, I must be losin’ my mind. Oh, I must be losin’ my mind, I must be losin’ my mind…I love you more than life itself, I must be losin’ my mind.”

    Shaver shook his head, smiling. “Look out, American Idol.”

    Avery’s face sobered instantly. “I could be on that show in a heartbeat.”

    “I know, baby.”

    “In a heart-fuckin’-beat.”

    “We’ll drive out to L.A. the next time they hold the try-outs.”

    “Does it bother you that I talked about Jesse Barzin, Shaver?”

    “You tryin’ ta’ bother me with it?”

    Shaver glanced up. He suddenly looked all grown-up and wise to Avery. She moved to him, kissed him on the chin, put her arms around his ribcage. Then she laid her head on his leg.

    “Hand me some cotton from the kit, baby,” Shaver said.

    Avery reached for Shaver’s kit. There were a few cotton balls in there and Avery passed one to Shaver. He took it and rolled it into a tiny ball. Avery watched him from below, her view angled up beneath his face. She could see the dried crust and small hairs up his nose as he dropped the balled-up cotton onto the spoon. The cotton puffed up like a jelly fish, absorbing the solution. Shaver took the syringe, placed the needle in the cotton, and drew back on the plunger.

    “This shit’s ready,” Shaver said. “Belt-up that sweet arm a’ yers.”

    Avery got up and went to the closet. She found her snakeskin belt (the one she’d bought with Shaver from the Shoshoni Reservation), and began wrapping it around her scrawny bicep. Shaver lit up a cigarette. He pulled on it hard, let an exhale of smoke soar across the room like a tidal wave. His brown eyes were so bloodshot he swore he could hear them cracking every time he blinked. He beckoned Avery over.

    “Tell me a story, Shaver,” Avery said, holding out her arm.

    Shaver had the syringe in his teeth. He paddled at her arm with his fingers till a turquoise tunnel swelled through the skin.

    “I used to know this fella named Zeke. War veteran of some shit. He used to catch prairie dogs and cook ‘em. One time he had me over at his place…this is back when I lived in Tucson…he had me over and he was roastin’ fuckin’ prairie dogs. We sit down and get talkin’ a bit. He tells me how hard it is to catch these little shits. Says it takes some sorta’ psychic ability. Like you gotta’ will ‘em outta’ their holes and once they’re out you gotta’ be ready.”

    “What’d he, shoot ‘em? Avery asked.

    Shaver pressed the needle flat against Avery’s arm and slipped it in through the length of the vein.

    “Nah. That’s the shit of it. He had this blowgun. He’d fuckin’ blowgun ‘em with these tiny blowgun fuckin’…darts or whatever. Right in the face he’d hit ‘em. Said he was deadly accurate with this thing. Said he used to study with ninjas and shit in Korea.”

    Shaver held the needle steady. He let the plunger out slightly and a gust of blood blew into the syringe.

    “I’m king shit,” Shaver said, gloating. “Never miss. Just like Zeke.”

    Shaver slowly eased the plunger down with his thumb. He stroked Avery’s hair with his other hand.

    The knock on the door was an atom bomb.

    Shaver jumped. His hand jerked and the needle ripped through Avery’s vein. She yelped, gripped her arm. In a panic, Shaver went for his bag, found his uncle’s Smith & Wesson .44 DA, checked the cylinder, and turned to Avery.

    “Who the shit is it?” Shaver demanded, the dread seeping from his pores.

    “My arm, Shaver.”

    The syringe was sticking out of Avery’s arm like a reed in the wind.

    “Don’t pull it out. Who’s at the fuckin’ door?”

    Avery had tears in her eyes. Her breathing picked up. She stared at the syringe, moved her hand to it.

    “Don’t pull that shit out!” Shaver barked. “It probably tore the vein. Leave it for now.”

    “It’s gonna blister.”

    “Better that than bleed all over fuck-all! I’ll get it out in a minute…”

    Shaver turned his attention to the door. Avery stayed with her arm.

    “Who is it?!” Shaver barked at the door.

    There was a beat of silence and then: “Eet’s Pablo Lomatos…”

    “What the fuck?...” Shaver asked, turning to Avery.

    “He came by earlier. He came by…This fuckin’ shit hurts, Shaver…”

    Avery whimpered and winced. She bit her lip.

    Shaver tucked the pistol in his waistband. When he opened the door, Pablo was there with a thermos in his hand.

    “Hey, Shaybur…”

    “What’s up?” Shaver said, licking his chapped lips, collecting himself.

    Pablo held out the thermos. Shaver took it, opened it, smelled it.

    “Lemonade,” he said.

    “I tole Aayburry I breeng suhn ober.”

    “Yeah right, okay,” Shaver said. “I gotta’ go now. Adios, conejito.”

    “Okay.”

    Shaver shut the door on the kid and turned to Avery. She was lying on the floor, motionless. He rushed to her.

    “Shit! Sonofabitch...Goddammit!”

    He smacked at her face, tried to revive her.

    “Fuck fuck,” he panted.

    He checked her pulse in a panic. It was there. He wiped underneath his eyes with a hula dancer. Avery’s chest was moving up and down. The syringe was still dangling from her arm. A large blister had begun to form. The flesh was puffy and purple. Shaver gazed at Avery’s many track-marks. He ran his thumb across them. Then he slowly pulled the needle out. A small trail of blood followed, running down her skin like a teardrop. Shaver set the syringe on the floor, found Avery’s halter-top and wrapped her arm in it.

    He got to his feet, grabbed the glass of water he’d used before, and splashed it on Avery’s face. She stirred, slowly coming to. When the curtains finally opened, Shaver was leaning over her, touching her cheeks with an ice-cube. She tried to speak but her voice was blocked sore. Shaver leaned in closer.

    “What, baby?” he said.

    She cleared the weeds out, tried again.

    “Are you okay?” she asked him.

    “Yeah,” he said.

    “I’m hungry,” she said.

    “We’ll go to IHOP,” he said.

    “Okay,” she said.

    “Just let me fix and we’ll go. You can get your roast beef oh juice sandwich, baby.”

    “Yeah…That sounds good.”

    Avery laid there on the floor, staring at the ceiling of their trailer.

    Shaver yanked his belt from off his waist. He tied it tight around his upper arm till the bicep swelled around it like bubble gum. He picked the syringe up off the floor.

    “Was I singin’ before?” Avery whispered.

    “Yeah you were. You were singin’ like my little sparrow.”

    He had the syringe in his teeth. He swatted at his arm with two fingers.

    “I can really sing, y’know.”

    “I know you can, darlin’. Vocal chords from heaven.”

    Avery smiled and shut her eyes. She imagined herself with wings, soaring from town to town, singing to all of the people on the street, none of them knowing where it was coming from, but all of them stopping to admire its grace.

    Shaver found a vein.




    LI, NY (2/22/06)