Me and my buddy Brandon, who has disappeared inside the house to use the shitter for the umpteenth time, have spent the afternoon adding some fat black racing stripes down the center of my white Mustang. In my head, it had turned out better. In my head, the stripes weren\u2019t as wide and had a crisp edge. I shut one eye to see if it makes the stripes match my vision, but it just adds to the blur. I finish off the beer, contemplating if this can be touched up, or if this is one of those projects the more you mess with it the worse it gets. I crush the can and throw it at the pile on the porch. It rattles against the others. I\u2019m about to get another when Brandon emerges, his body as wide as the door frame, holding replacements. He\u2019s wearing a tank top and is sweating worse than he had before, the dark hair matted on his forearms. I lean against the porch beam.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat Mexican tore me up,\u201d Brandon holds out my beer.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you wash your hands?\u201d<\/p>\n
Instead of giving me a straight answer, he makes a disparaging remark about my mother.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t take offense because I don\u2019t remember my mother, but it wouldn\u2019t matter anyway because Brandon weighs about two of me, and I\u2019m not much of a scrapper. I pop the tab and take a long pull. I drag my forearm across my top lip.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust because Taco Bell has a breakfast menu doesn\u2019t mean you should take advantage of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll that food for six bucks. It\u2019s a hard deal to turn down,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now it\u2019s a soft deal, ain\u2019t it?\u201d I look at my car and wince. A twelve-year-old Mustang with a hundred and forty thousand miles, the door creased in the middle from a hit and run with some dipshit teenager on an electric bike. All four tires are bald.<\/p>\n
Brandon takes a drink and nods at my car. \u201cIt\u2019s not too bad,\u201d but he follows this with a burst of laughter.<\/p>\n
\u201cI should\u2019ve gotten the supplies from an auto body shop instead of Home Depot. Rent one of those professional spray guns instead of two cans of matte Rust-Oleum.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brandon taps the bottom of his can against the porch railing, jarring loose a flake of gray paint that shows white underbelly as it flutters to the grass. \u201cWould\u2019ve cost you five times as much. You got that kind of money?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what kind of money I\u2019ve got.\u201d I take a sip. I watch the old Black guy push the shopping cart full of junk across Queen Street, something he does on the hour. It takes him longer than necessary because the prosthetic attached to his right knee looks homemade.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou going to Paula\u2019s tonight to surprise Arlo?\u201d Brandon asks. Brandon thinks me and Paula\u2019s relationship is a real one. I\u2019m too embarrassed to tell him that we\u2019ve never done it. That she just uses me to watch her kid.<\/p>\n
\u201cNah, tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brandon finishes off the beer and spikes it against the pile, sending them scattering like billiards.<\/p>\n
I stare at the mess he has made. I think about the bathroom and how I\u2019ll have to clean the bowl good. I am always cleaning up after Brandon. I question the one-way nature of our friendship but quickly remind myself that he came over to help me stripe my car. But I don\u2019t recall him doing any work, just finishing off my beer, crapping up my shitter, and making inappropriate jokes about my mother.<\/p>\n
\u201cPaula know you\u2019re doing this?\u201d he asks, removing his keys from his jeans pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a surprise for her, too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Brandon descends the porch steps toward his tan pickup. It has rusted fenders and a crooked bumper. The driver\u2019s side door creaks as he opens it.<\/p>\n
\u201cAdios,\u201d he says, then cranks the ignition.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The racing stripes are for Arlo, but, really, they\u2019re for me. I\u2019m reinforcing my bond with Arlo, so Paula will think twice about kicking me to the curb. I know Paula is sizing up better suitors. Mainly Wayne, this Realtor she texts all the time that goes to her wackadoo church. She says he\u2019s just helping her look for houses, but I\u2019ve seen the way he looks at her when he picks her up in his new truck that costs more than a luxury car. Paula puts on a nice sundress for Wayne whenever he comes over. And she sprays the good perfume on her neck and wrists, the one I bought her after I had cashed in my spare change at the Coinstar.<\/p>\n
Paula entered my life seven months ago, at the hospital. She was my X-ray tech. She is twelve years older than me but doesn\u2019t look a day over thirty-four. She has a nice, round ass and bears an uncanny resemblance to my second cousin. The way her blue scrubs fit her, you\u2019d think she had them altered at the hips. Or that she bought them from a cosplay website or one of those Halloween superstores that pop up for a few months every fall in an abandoned building around town. But, no, she buys them at Scrub Depot, no different than any other healthcare worker.<\/p>\n
When Paula had asked how I\u2019d broken my arm, I told her about my roofing job and how it was the second time I\u2019d fallen and broken something in the past year. She suggested I find a new line of work, and I\u2019d later take her advice, applying to Home Depot before my workers\u2019 comp ran out. I assumed that day would be the last I\u2019d see of her. I couldn\u2019t stop thinking about her so that evening I went on some adult sites and typed in \u201csexy X-ray tech\u201d in the search bar. X-ray tech didn\u2019t yield much, so I changed it to nurse and got better results. Being on the sites made me realize life would be hard for the next six weeks without the use of my dominant hand. The sites also made me think about that picture of my cousin in my locked photo collection. I didn\u2019t need to be thinking about that. But that\u2019s what being alone will do. It makes you think about shit you shouldn\u2019t. And to stop thinking about shit I shouldn\u2019t, I started doing some math, as in how long had it been since I\u2019d been out with a woman? Over two years, closer to three. I decided I ought to change that before I got any weirder. I downloaded one of those swipey dating apps. I took a profile photo of myself wearing a hat, but not pulled down so low that you couldn\u2019t see my hair swooped across my forehead. And I made my cast prominently visible to get a little sympathy.<\/p>\n
When I stumbled upon her picture, I saw it as a sign that Josh Wesley Allen was about to enter a season of favor. Unlike at the hospital, she didn\u2019t have her hair pulled back. Her hair was slightly wet, almost black, and with a natural curl. With her hair down, she looked even more like my cousin! She wore a cropped shirt that hugged her smallish breasts, and the sliver of stomach that shown above her knit shorts was tan and almost flat. There was a trace of muscle in her legs, suggesting she had once been an athlete. She was out of my league, for sure, but I didn\u2019t know about Arlo at the time. I swiped right and minutes later she reciprocated. Our courtship began.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
It’s eleven o\u2019clock when I pull into the parking lot of her apartment complex. I could\u2019ve left sooner, but I was consumed with fear of catching Wayne exiting her apartment while simultaneously cinching his belt. I have no proof that Wayne has ever slept over, and I\u2019m trying to keep it that way.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t see Paula\u2019s Civic in its typical spot, but that doesn\u2019t mean anything. Sometimes she parks farther away to throw Zach off the scent. Zach\u2019s the guy who used to watch Arlo before I came along. Zach had developed some stalking tendencies, always showing up at random times with big packages of napkins that he stole from Arby\u2019s. I pull into the closest spot available near her end unit. What\u2019s nice about Paula\u2019s place is the siding all matches and weeds are kept out of the mulched areas. And, the part of town she lives in, you don\u2019t hear gunshots at one a.m.<\/p>\n
Her unit is on the second floor. I take the stairs. I knock on the door and wait. No one comes, but I hear Arlo\u2019s low chatter on the other side. Arlo knows my pattern of two knocks and a pause, followed by two more knocks, but he\u2019s been taught not to answer the door. When no one comes, I knock again. I smile at the peephole. Maybe Paula\u2019s in the bathroom. I look down, noticing a grease stain on my shirt. It\u2019s bigger than I would like. Then I realize what day it is\u2014why was I thinking it was Saturday? Paula\u2019s at that church she goes to that doesn\u2019t mention a thing about Jesus. Then who is watching Arlo if it ain\u2019t me? My knuckles are parallel to the door, ready to go again, when Zach opens. We bare the mutual unsavory expression of having just caught whiff of a fart.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d I stand with my back straight, trying to look taller. I hate that this turd\u2019s got me by an inch or two.<\/p>\n
\u201cPaula invited me to watch Arlo.\u201d He says this with a privileged swagger, like he\u2019s gained access to a private club.<\/p>\n
Zach\u2019s thin like me but has a red moustache and red hair that he parts in an unflattering way that shows some thinning. He manages the Arby\u2019s where Paula and I had our first date. I remember Paula not giving it to me straight when I had asked about him. Said he was a friend of her sister, but I could smell the horseshit in that answer quicker than I could smell the Horsey Sauce on my roast beef. The way he kept checking on our table every five minutes to see if we needed more napkins and refills, I could tell he was infatuated with her. \u00a0And when he kept stopping by Paula\u2019s apartment, bringing more napkins and packets of Horsey Sauce, I made Paula come clean. She confessed to Zach having babysat Arlo. That\u2019s why she met me at Arby\u2019s on our first date\u2014so he could see he had been replaced.<\/p>\n
I try to look around Zach, but he steps to the side, obstructing my view.<\/p>\n
\u201cArlo, come here. I want to show you something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStay seated,\u201d Zach commands. I hear wheels of tiny Matchbox cars slide across the dining room table. I know Arlos\u2019s shuffling and organizing them by color until they line up in perfect gradation.<\/p>\n
I can punch Zach in the face\u2014he\u2019s the one person I\u2019m sure I can take\u2014but then Arlo will start making those noises in the back of his throat, and I don\u2019t want that. Zach hates me because I took his spot in Paula\u2019s queue. Well, I had taken his spot. I don\u2019t know what the hell is going on. I look down at my stain. That\u2019s what I feel like. He should feel like it, too, but for some reason he thinks he\u2019s better than me. There should be a mutual bond with people like us. Instead, we step on each other, competing for the attention of someone who sees us as exactly what we are\u2014beneath her. I take some of the venom out of my voice before reasoning with him this time.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook, I\u2019m not here to see Paula anyway. I\u2019m here to see Arlo. You know how much he loves cars. I painted some stripes on the Mustang to make it look like a race car. I just want him to see it real quick.\u201d When Zach doesn\u2019t say anything, I add, \u201cJust think how happy it\u2019ll make him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Zach\u2019s smile makes me nauseous. His teeth aren\u2019t great, and neither is his breath, but that\u2019s not it. It\u2019s the smugness of knowing he has the upper hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think I\u2019m stupid? Like I can\u2019t see what you\u2019re doing? Paula\u2019s pulling away, and you\u2019re trying to pull her back through her son. You\u2019re a sick fucker.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m a sick fucker?\u201d I\u2019m about to stick my finger in his face when I do something uncharacteristic. I take a deep breath and step back. \u201cWe\u2019re being used. You can see that, right? Please tell me you see that.\u201d<\/p>\n
His thin lips purse together, his moustache uneven, shorter on the right side. He doesn\u2019t want to agree with me but, as a manager, he prides himself on practicing active listening and demonstrating emotional intelligence. His lips unclench.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d He sighs, then scratches an ingrown hair on his neck. \u201cBut it\u2019s what we want. Look at us, tripping over ourselves to serve her. Why would we do that if we didn\u2019t want it?\u201d<\/p>\n
I would say something to the effect that sex does strange things to a man if it weren\u2019t for the fact that neither of us was getting any. Who knows why we were so desperate? Truth is, I\u2019d grown fond of my time with Arlo. I enjoyed buying him a new Matchbox on paydays and exchanging facts about space and combustion engines.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe led us on. Who finds their manny through a dating app? She preys upon\u2014\u201d but I cut myself short, careful not to use the term weak and set Zach off. \u201cJust let Arlo come look at my car.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not supposed to let him out of the apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think that\u2019s good for him? Keeping him penned up like a goddamn house cat? What\u2019s he going to do? Run off? Dude, I ran like a 4.5 in high school.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ran a 4.5?\u201d His forehead creases and his eyes fill with doubt.<\/p>\n
I keep my mouth shut, feeling the pressure of the lie. Was I a member of the football team? Kinda. Brandon had talked me into being the equipment manager my senior year, but I never took part in any drills or games. Zach\u2019s taking too long to say yes, so I pull out my phone. \u00a0I promised I\u2019d stop looking at the nude of my cousin, but desperate times call for desperate measures.<\/p>\n
I unlock my private collection and show him the picture. Saliva gathers at the corner of his mouth and his eyes pulse with a new energy.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYep,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2019d you get that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe needed me to watch Arlo two weekends ago, so she could go look at houses with Wayne. I told her I had work. She pleaded. Then she sent this to persuade me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe sent you that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re looking at it, ain\u2019tcha?\u201d<\/p>\n
Zach leans in, but I close the window and slide the phone back inside my pocket, knowing if he looks closely he\u2019d see the picture hadn\u2019t been taken in Paula\u2019s room. The comforter in the background is striped instead of floral patterned, and the carpet is gray instead of beige. What he had seen was a photo of a Polaroid I had found in my cousin\u2019s nightstand more than a decade ago. Alexa is her name, and I\u2019d met her just once before. Me and my Uncle Kenny were staying at her house since we were going fishing with her father the next morning. She was away at college, making it easy to snoop around her room after I\u2019d gotten up to use the bathroom late at night. Once I\u2019d taken the photo of the Polaroid, I\u2019d cropped her head out of it so I wouldn\u2019t feel as bad when looking at it. This cousin of mine could pass as Paula\u2019s body double. Same perky breasts. Same thick hips and ass. And she\u2019s got the tan, too, because her mom is Puerto Rican or something.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want this photo?\u201d I ask him.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t say anything, but the saliva pooled in the corners of his mouth has gained a milkish hue and viscosity.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll text it to you.\u201d I pull my phone back out. \u201cGive me your number.\u201d<\/p>\n
Zach gives me his number. \u201cYou\u2019re not going to tell Paula about this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHell to the no. I told her I deleted it. Tell you what, I\u2019m going to text you this photo. Why don\u2019t you take five minutes to yourself with it while I show Arlo the car. I\u2019ll bring him right back inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFive minutes?\u201d Zach says. \u201cYou\u2019ll bring him right back in five minutes?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYep, right back,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
The pits of Zach\u2019s shirt darken with sweat. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his knuckle. \u201cAlright,\u201d he says. He calls for Arlo.<\/p>\n
The boy comes over, stands next to Zach. He\u2019s wearing an overpriced tee shirt, the same brand I used to beg my uncle to buy me that he said we couldn\u2019t afford.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want to go see Mr. Josh\u2019s race car?\u201d Zach asks.<\/p>\n
Arlo\u2019s eyes brighten. He nods.<\/p>\n
I place my hands on my knees, lowering myself to Arlo\u2019s height. \u201cI put some stripes on the Mustang. It\u2019s in the parking lot.\u201d I place my hand on Arlo\u2019s shoulder and steer him toward the stairs. Zach clears his throat. I pause.<\/p>\n
\u201cRight,\u201d I say. I remove my phone from my pocket, careful not to let Arlo see what I\u2019m texting Zach. Zach recedes into the apartment, closing the door behind him. I know I only have about thirty seconds, maybe less.<\/p>\n
\u201cWalk swiftly,\u201d I say, sliding my hand to the center of Arlo\u2019s back to quicken his pace. Once at the stairs, I tell him, \u201cLet\u2019s take them two at a time. We\u2019ll have a race.\u201d<\/p>\n
We clomp down the stairwell, Arlo jumping, clearing the last four steps. We are in the parking lot when I hear the apartment door bang open. Arlo mumbles something as he touches the stripes\u2014cool, maybe something to that effect\u2014but his words are drowned out by Zach\u2019s feet pounding down the hall. I\u2019m thinking it\u2019s the four-leaf clover on my cousin\u2019s arm that had given her away.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo the stripes make a difference?\u201d Arlo asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou better believe it. Hop in, let\u2019s see how fast this baby will fly.\u201d<\/p>\n
I throw the Mustang in reverse, then peel out of the parking lot. I check the rearview and see Zach panting and getting smaller. I hang a left out of the neighborhood.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s take it onto the highway and open her up,\u201d Arlo says.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, but let\u2019s swing by the church first, check on your mom. Did Wayne come by and pick her up?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Arlo says. \u201cHe didn\u2019t have to swing by. He slept over.\u201d<\/p>\n
I try swallowing this information, but my throat is parched. I grab the three-day-old Coke from the center console, unscrew the cap, and take a swig of flat soda. \u201cHow come you mom doesn\u2019t take you to church with her?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I don\u2019t want to go,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cShit, no one gave me the choice when I was a kid. My uncle used to drag me there every Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe one my mom goes to?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNah. Your mom\u2019s church is soft. They pray for reform and equality and Mother Earth. My church was all about repentance, pestilence, and plague. You talked to Jesus, and God was your correctional officer.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat sounds terrible,\u201d Arlo says.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt wasn\u2019t great.\u201d I check the rearview for Zach\u2019s gold Camry.<\/p>\n
Arlo starts drawing a stick figure in the dust on my dashboard. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you go to church with your mom?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy uncle raised me. My mom passed away when I was two.\u201d My phone rings. It\u2019s Zach. I silence it.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2019d she die?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not sure. My uncle never shared the details.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow come?\u201d Arlo asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe he thought I was too young.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut what about now?\u201d he asks. \u201cYou\u2019re not too young now. You should ask him. It\u2019s your mom. You should know about these things.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re right. I should know about these things,\u201d I say, because it\u2019s easier than telling him I\u2019ll never know. My uncle died of a heart attack last year. In many ways, we were a lot alike, loving women we could never have. The only reason we went to that church was the preacher\u2019s wife, this young brunette built like a brick shithouse. Dimples, voice like honey, green eyes. She might be the prettiest woman I ever laid eyes on. My uncle couldn\u2019t fathom what she was doing with that old preacher when she could have any man in or out of that church. We would get there plenty early so we could sit in the pew behind her, smell her shampoo when she flipped her hair, be close enough we could touch her hand when we got to the peace be with you part. I look back at the dashboard and catch Arlo finishing his stick figure with a frown instead of a smiley face. My goddamn phone rings again, and when I look down, that\u2019s when I plow into the car in front of me. Jesus Christ, who slams their brakes like that for a yellow?<\/p>\n
I touch Arlo\u2019s hair. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m okay. Your racing stripes,\u201d he says, his voice plaintive.<\/p>\n
I look at my buckled hood, my shitty paint job, and it\u2019s his voice that gets me. He cares. What I do, how I feel, matters. To him, I\u2019m someone. It makes me want to turn on the waterworks, lose control, swim in my emotions. And I would if it weren\u2019t for the prick with the slicked back hair getting out of his fancy SUV. I say prick because he looks like one. One of them faces all swollen with rage and entitlement. Type of person who gets equally pissed whether you rearend him or screw up his latte. And fate has chosen me this day to be the sand in the crack of his ass. It pisses me off to see him boiling. Like, pal, your car costs three years of my salary. You\u2019ll get a luxury loaner while the body shop replaces your bumper. You won\u2019t miss a beat. Meanwhile, my insurance will spike until I can no longer afford to drive. So, fuck you. Fuck. You. And Arlo must agree because he\u2019s yelling.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo, go, go!\u201d<\/p>\n
I crank the wheel hard to the left and peel out, leaving the prick in a cloud of smoke and rubber as he screams obscenities. We\u2019re going fifty in a thirty-five, now sixty, Arlo laughing and slapping the dash, obliterating the frown and the rest of the stick figure.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I don\u2019t take offense because I don\u2019t remember my mother, but it wouldn\u2019t matter anyway because Brandon weighs about two of me, and I\u2019m not much of a scrapper. I pop the tab and take a long pull. I drag my forearm across my top lip. \u201cJust because Taco Bell has a breakfast menu,” I tell him, “doesn\u2019t mean you should take advantage of it.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":22440,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-21874","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-don-foster"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21874","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21874"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21874\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":22439,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21874\/revisions\/22439"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/22440"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21874"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21874"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21874"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}