four-letter words!] Shut the hell up, Bree.
“I didn’t know you and Brendan were friends,”
I say as Grade E slithers into the front seat
beside me. “I didn’t know he had any friends.”
I wouldn’t exactly call us friends.
More like business acquaintances.
Grady winks, hands over a bindle.
Even without opening it, I know
it’s short, and I can feel it’s mostly
powder. What kind is uncertain.
The look on my face must say
volumes. It isn’t the best
crank I’ve ever seen, but it works.
“You got this from”—I wag my head
backward—“him? Did he know it
was for me?” [You mean for Dad.]
The thought brings meager satisfaction,
especially after Grady says, Um, I might
have told him. What’s up, anyway?
I shrug. “We have a history.
And it wasn’t exactly romantic.”
[Nope, not with him. Never was.]
Grady gets down to business. Ahem.
So the eight ball is two hundred.
Are you going to share a little?
I open the bindle. Short, okay.
Bree handles the clod. “Looks to me
like you already took your cut. Yes?”
His face flares but he has to admit,
We did a couple of lines. Not much
of a finder’s fee, if you ask me.
“Not asking. Thanks for taking
care of this. Now I’ve got to run.
Mom’s on a regular rampage.”
Grady pauses a beat or two,
as if he’s got something to say.
But then he exits the car silently.
Good damn thing. Not sure
I have the cojones (or even
that I want them!) to tell the jerk
off, but Bree most definitely does.
Let her out of her box and no
telling what might happen.
I drive away without looking back.
No good-byes for either of them.
I’ll never deal with Grade E again.
As I drive home, it occurs to me
that this might just have been
for the best. Not seeing Brendan.
No, that will never be a good thing.
What I mean is, the pitiful state
of this meth. I’ll go out tonight
with Dad and Linda Sue.
We’ll blow through this awful
eight ball. Then I’ll move
on without the monster
breathing against my neck,
begging me to do one more
little whiff. That’s it, okay.
One more all-nighter, then
I’ll quit cold [lukewarm] turkey.
Dad Finally Calls
A little after four P.M. Guess
troll and fairy “rested up”
for tonight’s plotted
devilry.
I spent the day with Mom
and “the girls,” shopping
for Hunter’s baptism
outfit.
It’s adorable—a tiny white
tuxedo, with dancing Poohs
and Tiggers on the satin
cummerbund.
Afterward, we stopped by
Pastor Keith’s lair. He
pounced, a white-
collared
tiger, with God’s A to Z
of baptism. Who knew
it was so hard to
qualify?
On the way home I mentioned
Dad’s plans for the coming
evening, omitting
you-know-what.
The scowl in the rearview
mirror said a whole
lot more than Mom
needed to.
“Jeez, Mom. I’ve only seen
him twice in the last
nine years. Cut me
some slack.”
That’s double what I’ve
seen him, says Leigh,
and that’s way
too much.
Still, Leigh Agreed to Watch Hunter
Dad’s picking me up in an hour.
We’re supposed to have dinner,
but I’m betting food is the last
for that matter. After looking at
Grade E’s ten-watt crank, I want
a toke of my hundred-watt ice.
And I don’t want to share it. It’s
my birthday. I don’t have to share,
do I? Hey, it is my birthday. At
last, today, I’m the big one-
eight, so why don’t I feel any
different? Because I’m still
treading quicksand, that’s why.
Okay, I need to get high, totally
out-of-my-head wasted, so I
don’t keep thinking about
the same old shit, only
compounded by all that’s
going on around here, not
to mention hearing about
Adam and having Brendan forced
down my throat [not for real, only
figuratively], all in the space
of twelve hours. Talk about
mega déjà vu, of the not nice
type. Happy fucking birthday
to me. Come on. Let’s celebrate!
Lucky me, I’m [not even close]
almost alone in the house. Mom
ran to the store, Scott ran to
pick up Jake from his [girl-]
friend’s house, and Leigh took
Hunter for a stroller walk around
the block. Heather? Who knows?
Who cares? I’m birthday partying
with the monster, and we’re
starting right this minute.
OMG. The rush is beyond
what I expected—hot then
cool, and my head lights up
like casino neon. Startling.
Another whiff. Double or
nothing, two somehow more
than twice as good as one.
I open my window to
let the smoke escape,
notice Scott’s car come
puttering up the street.
Can I get away with one
more? [Go for it, quick!]
I turn on a fan, spray a
big dose of Ozium, dash
to the bathroom to do
the big three—you know,
shit, shave, and shower.
Crude? Yeah. And bound to
get cruder as the evening
progresses. It’s Bree’s
birthday too, and for
a change I’m going to
let her cut loose. After all,
you only turn eighteen once.
All Spiffy
I go downstairs, where
the whole crew has once
again gathered. Suddenly
everyone starts to sing,
Happy birthday to you…
Even Hunter seems to coo
along. It’s enough to almost
make me feel guilty. Almost.
Leigh gives me a huge hug.
You made it. Happy birthday.
She hands me a big package,
all done up in chartreuse.
[Heather must have chosen
the wrapping paper. It sucks.]
Go on. Open it, urges Leigh.
It’s a leather trench coat,
and not an inexpensive one.
“Way cool! Thanks a ton!”
I slide into it, cinch it up.
You look great, says Scott.
Mom comes over, puts one
hand on each shoulder,
looks me straight in the eyes.
[Dilated—will she notice?]
I w
ant you to know I’m proud of you.
Okay, that has to be a lie.
But it makes me tear up
anyway. “Thanks, Mom.”
[Even if I don’t believe you.]
Promise not to stay out too late.
“I’ll do my best.” Okay, so
I traded a lie for a lie. No
doubt everyone knows it.
“Oh, there’s Dad now.”
Don’t tell him I said hi, jokes Leigh.
At least she found her sense
of humor. I kiss Hunter on
the forehead. “Be a good boy.
Tomorrow’s your big day.”
He gurgles and smiles. He loves me.
I Love Him, Too
But I have to admit I don’t think
about him more than a couple
of times as Dad, Linda Sue, and I
dive into the half-ass crank.
Dad’s got a big glass tray, which
he sets on the cracked Formica table
in their dog-eared motel room.
Let’s see what you’ve got there, he says.
“It’s…” I think about apologizing,
but decide to wait until he comments.
He opens the bindle, says nothing
about the powder inside. It’s what?
“A little shy, I think. The guy
I got it from took his cut up front.”
Ah, well, a dealer is a dealer,
I guess. Dad draws huge lines.
He hands me the straw. The birthday
girl always goes first, right?
One long, deep inhale up the right
nostril, followed by another up the left.
Oh, it’s been a very long time. Probably
a good thing the purity is only maybe
60 percent. My nose complains,
anyway. [I’m complaining. I want ice.]
Oh, yeah, says Dad. That’s what I’m
talking about. Hey, L., how about you?
The fairy shakes her head. I don’t
know. I don’t like being high in public.
You’ll be fine. Everyone’s high in Reno
on Saturday night, right, little girl?
“I haven’t been out on Saturday night
in a long time, but I doubt it’s changed
much since the last time. It’s definitely
an up-all-night kind of town.”
See? He slides the tray under her
face. Anyway, tonight’s a special night.
A girl only turns eighteen once, you
know. Let’s give her a night on the town.
I’ll never forget the first night Dad
gave me a “night on the town.”
Only it was really Adam that gave
it to me. Dad just tagged along.
And we didn’t go anywhere except
the back room of a bowling alley.
Too many ghosts in that memory.
Oh, well. A few more lines [even
half-ass lines], I probably won’t care.
In fact, I’m almost there already.
In Reno
There are three kinds
of nights on the town:
good clean fun,
like skating or movies
or [God forbid] bowling,
boring and safe
and definitely not
what Dad’s got in mind;
totally nasty,
like swap clubs or strip
clubs or titty shows,
places that check ID,
and eighteen won’t get
you inside one of those;
and games of chance,
sports betting or black-
jack or slot machines,
guaranteed to suck you dry.
Eighteen isn’t old enough
for casino betting either,
but all it takes is
a game plan, and dear
old Dad has already figured
a strategy.
Dad Chooses the “Big Three”
The Silver Legacy, Eldorado,
and Circus Circus casinos
are all connected by skyways.
We can play at one for a while,
then move to another. That way
we won’t draw much attention
to ourselves. Sound good?
Table games are riskier,
so we’ll hang out in the big banks
of slots, nickels unless we get lucky.
I have to admit it’s kind of exciting,
and not the unlikely idea of winning
but of maybe getting away with playing.
If you win really big, they won’t
let you keep the money, but anything
that drops in the tray is yours, Dad says.
Let’s take a snort, then go give it a try.
He pulls out his little amber bottle,
the one with the tiny silver spoon
attached to the lid by a little chain.
The crank is definitely mediocre,
but it does the job if you do enough,
keep going back—and back—for more.
I’ll go get some rolls of nickels.
You two scout out a quiet corner.
If a cocktail waitress comes by, I’ll
take a Coors. Can’t fuck that up!
What he means is, they bring players free
drinks—notoriously awful free drinks,
mostly mixers, to keep on the cheap.
We find a nickel slot island, well
back in one corner, away from bars,
restaurants, and the main traffic pattern.
Found you guys. Can’t hide from
me, jokes Dad, handing Linda Sue
and me each two rolls of nickels. Go
ahead. Spend it all in one place.
We spend a good deal of time
doing exactly that. My machine
is a greedy prick, but oh, well.
I mean, I hit a few times. Tink-
tink-tink comes the meager payoff.
But Dad, now, is one lucky sucker.
Guess it’s my night, he says, as
the nickels keep plunking into his
tray. I’m thinking it’s time we move
on, with a quick pit stop, you know?
A pit stop, amber bottle in hand,
he means. And that’s just fine by
me. This is getting boring, you know?
Dad Really Is Lucky
Linda Sue and I follow him
from casino to casino, machines
to tables, just watching him win.
He even hits big on the Wheel
of Fortune, which has the worst
odds of anything. Oh, well, I’m
extremely buzzed and it’s fun
watching somebody win.
No one hassles us, no one
mentions ID or that I look too
young to be standing around
watching my dad walk off with
a fair amount of casino money.
Of course, it’s Saturday night—
actually Sunday morning now—
and the casinos are raking it in,
so losing a little to Dad doesn’t
mean much. Besides, if no one
won, no one would ever play.
Anyway, beyond watching
Dad, I’m watching people.
It’s amazing to see how eager
they are to exit Reno totally
broke. So many ATM machines,
so little time to drain them dry!
Dealers in black slacks and white
shirts. Cocktail waitresses
in tight, tiny skirts and super-
deep necklines. Janitors, in jump-
suits and spit-shined shoes.
Scowling pit bosses in perfect
tuxedoes. They’re all fun to watch—
covertly, of course—as they go
about their nightly business.
People-watching in casinos
is completely consuming.
And it’s only by accident
that it doesn’t consume a very
important moment in Hunter’s
little baby lifetime.
See, It’s Hard to Tell
If it’s nighttime or day
when you’re inside
a casino. The windows
are tinted almost black,
and the neon inside defies
the notion that it might be
getting light outside.
But one thing I do
finally notice is how
the restaurant lines
are growing longer.
People want breakfast.
Which means it must
be later than I thought.
“What time is it?”
I ask a passerby, and
his answer blows me
away. Six after nine.
Twenty-four minutes
until church starts.
We’re going to be late!
Just let me finish this
hand, Dad says, watching
the blackjack dealer flip
a card and bust. Oh, yeah!
Guess I’m cashing out.
Why am I cashing out?
I’m on a regular roll.
“Cash out, Dad. We’ve
got to go. Hunter’s getting
baptized in less than half
an hour. I probably ought
to be there, don’t you think?”
The church isn’t far as
the crow flies, but it’s all
surface streets to get there.