Breakfast with Neruda Page 3

  There is no way I can close the windows and lock the car in this heat, so I haul my whole pack into the men’s room. I take another sink bath, shampoo my hair, put on deodorant, and rummage through my bag for one of the cologne samples I ripped out of GQ magazines at the public library. I have Guess and Montblanc. I choose Guess, deciding to save the other in case I ever get a date again. I also change my shirt. My cargo pants are filthy. All I have left is a pair of jeans, and the theater has a dress code: khaki or olive green pants only. No shorts. Hell. I text my brother Jeff.

  -Got any long pants I can borrow?

  -Yeah

  -Can I come by?

  -Meet me at TH in 30

  -Need to b khaki or green

  -K

  I hand-wash my cargo pants in the sink. The hand soap will make them stiff, but at least I won’t smell like a Rottweiler that rolled in cow shit next time I wear them.

  I put on the jeans, stash my shampoo and other crap in the bag, wring out the pants, and go back out to my car. Nothing’s missing. It’s too hot to commit crimes.

  I clip the wet pants to a line I rigged up in the back seat. The 4-70 air will help dry them.

  At Tim Hortons, I sit at a booth and wait for my brother. They know me in here so I know they won’t throw me out for loitering. In fact, Lexie, who’s working the counter, brings me a cup of water. I thank her and read while I wait for Jeff.

  A few minutes later, Jeff slides into my booth. “Hey, bro,” he says. “What do you know?” He is freshly showered, wearing his brown Tim Hortons uniform. His short blond hair is still damp from a shower. He hands me a pair of khaki pants.

  “Thanks.”

  “Want something to eat?”

  “Sure. I can always eat.” Jeff chuckles and gets me a box of Timbits and cup of chicken noodle soup.

  • • •

  One bad thing about working in the only movie theater in town is I know too many people who come here. I am standing behind the concession counter when I spot Rick and Ashley in line at the ticket booth. I feign a stomach cramp and tell Mitch I need to take a quick break. “It must be the tacos I had at lunch,” I say. I’m not ready to face either of them. I spend about ten minutes in the employee restroom, plenty of time to avoid a confrontation.

  I work until midnight. My pants are not stolen (thank you!) but not completely dry, either. The humidity clings to everything like spider webs.

  The good thing about living on a relatively safe side of town is I can sleep with the car windows open without getting murdered. But tonight it storms again, a mega–special effects show of rock concert lightning and thunder, and I am trapped in a mobile greenhouse. Sleep will be rough, if it comes at all.

  I try to listen to music to drown out the storm. I had remembered to charge up the iPod at work, but the music on it sucks. Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber-ish boy band shit. Once I get paid I’ll buy an iTunes card and download something decent like some jazz or blues.

  The rain pounds as if a herd of buffalo is stampeding on my roof, and the wind rocks the Blue Whale back and forth like a boat. If it weren’t a hurricane out there, the rocking motion would be relaxing.

  The storm dies down after an hour or so, and I manage to get a fistful of sleep. I wake up all clammy and my clothes are stuck to my skin.

  Chapter Three

  I feel like road kill, but I squirm up and extricate my weary body from the Blue Whale to piss in the bushes. I stumble back to my car and Shelly is sitting on the open tailgate, inhaling a Marlboro.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I see you survived the latest tornado,” she says.

  “Really? So that was a tornado.”

  “Yeah. A small one hit the north end of town,” she says. “The power’s out at our house again.”

  “Same here,” I say.

  “Ha ha.”

  We drive around, trying to find a place to eat that has power. Rocket Road looks like a missile hit it. Trees lie on their sides, roots exposed like tangled wires. The Burger King sign and Speedway signs have blown down. Neither place has electricity. “This looks like a war zone,” Shelly says.

  “Creepy.”

  We drive further. “Look! Tim Hortons has power!” she says.

  We pull into the lot. It’s crowded, and Jeff is working. When we finally get to the front of the line, I say, “You’re here early.”

  “Yeah. Nobody has power but us, so we’ve been real busy,” Jeff says.

  “Hey Nolan,” Shelly says. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “Yeah. Been here since December,” Jeff says.

  “Cool.” She looks at me. “We’ll have to get this to go.” She orders a glazed donut, a breakfast panini, a mocha latte, and a bottle of water.

  “So much for my anorexia theory,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I’m naturally thin.”

  “Large oatmeal, an apple, and a coffee,” I tell my brother. Jeff gives me a cross-eyed grin. “I need the fiber,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Actually we’re out of oatmeal, but I can give you a couple bran muffins.”

  Shelly pays for breakfast again with another fresh twenty. When Jeff goes to retrieve our order, I ask Shelly, “Do you guys have a tree full of twenties in your yard?”

  “Something like that,” she says.

  Jeff hands us our order. He asks Shelly, “How do you know my mangy brother?”

  She laughs. “We’re serving the community together at school all summer.”

  Jeff raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Have fun.”

  I should feel guilty letting her pay, I guess, but it’s not like she’s my girlfriend. Hell, until two days ago I didn’t even know her name. Besides, she has a money tree in her yard.

  Back in the car, she says, “I can’t believe you wanted oatmeal. That’s baby food.”

  “I love oatmeal. It’s a superfood. I may turn into a hulking pile of muscle any second now.” I flex for effect. She laughs, and her face morphs into a thing of beauty, and I kind of regret not buying her at least a cup of coffee. But then again, I can’t afford a cup of coffee.

  “So you know my story,” I say. “Your turn now, buddy.”

  She snorts and chomps on her sandwich. She wipes her mouth and says, “I told you; I have a nicotine addiction. Seriously. My mom smoked like a chimney when she was pregnant with me, and I came out smoking. I’ve been smoking since I was ten.”

  “That’s probably not good for your health.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “So have you tried to quit?”

  “Only about four thousand times. I can smoke with a patch on each arm.” She sips her coffee. “Nicotine loves me.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, it’s a wowie.” She picks her donut apart and offers me half. I don’t refuse, so she stuffs it in my mouth as I drive. “It helps keep me skinny, though.”

  “I wouldn't call you skinny,” I say. “Thin, but you’ve got curves where a girl needs them.”

  She looks down at herself. “Yeah, I am smokin’ hot.”

  I laugh. “Okay,” I say. “I get the smoking thing, but there’s part of the story you’re not telling me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not telling me everything either,” she says. “So we’re kind of even, aren’t we?”

  I park the car under some partial shade in the front lot at school. “If a time comes when I trust you,” she says, “I’ll fill in the details of my debacle, and you’ll tell me the real reason you live in your car.”

  “Agreed.” I nod, and open my car door. We start to walk into the building together. “So how do you know my brother?”

  “We were lab partners in biology last year,” she says.

  “He’s good people,” I say.

  The building is clammy and dark when we get inside. “The generator’s not working right,” Earl says, “so it’s going to be a hot one.”

  “Where’s Hess?” Shelly asks.

  “He’s gonna be late.
He’s got trees blocking his driveway.”

  “Our electricity is out as well,” Shelly says. “And Michael . . . he doesn’t have any power, either.” She winks at me.

  Earl tells us it’s too damn hot to clean upstairs, so he has us wiping counters in first-floor rooms. By lunchtime it’s possibly hotter inside than out. Earl sweats so much his shirt is soaked.

  “Maybe we ought to call it a day,” Earl says. “We have all summer.” He smiles, and says, “And this time I have two full-time slaves.”

  Shelly and I walk outside together. She is texting. I notice my car and Earl’s pickup are the only ones left in the lot. The school administrators only work in the mornings during summer, and none of them bothered to come in today. “Don’t you drive?” I ask.

  “Used to.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “My dad drops me off every day. My mom picks me up.” Her phone emits a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Nice ringtone,” I say.

  “It’s my mom’s.” She glances at her text. “Shit. My mom is just starting her Pilates class. I have to wait here for another hour and a half.”

  “I can take you home,” I say.

  “Okay. Thanks.” She texts her mom, and stashes the phone in her bag.

  In the car she says, “I’m in no hurry to get home. Wanna just drive around? Look at storm damage?”

  I check my gas gauge. “This thing only gets about eight miles to a gallon,” I say. “And I’ve got just enough gas to last me ’til next payday.”

  “I’m not allowed to drive, but you are,” she says. “We can take one of my parents’ cars.”

  There are neighborhoods in Rooster where average families live, and then there are trailer parks, apartments, and townhouses, like where my mom and sister live. A select group in this town lives in houses like Shelly’s: a three-story brick mansion with a three-car garage. I park my ride on the street. “You can pull it into the driveway,” she says.

  “No way. This thing leaks fluids.”

  We get out and walk up the long driveway to her front door. “I’m going to stay outside,” I say. “I smell like a cat box.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Nobody else is home.”

  I look down at my wrinkled, sweaty self. I have never felt more like white trash than I do now.

  “Besides, we won’t actually be going in the house,” she says. “We’ll go through the kitchen.” She grabs my shirtsleeve and tugs me inside with her. Her house is also without power, but I can hear a generator running in the backyard. The ceiling fans run slowly, just enough to make the inside slightly less hot than the outside. The kitchen is all white and stainless steel, like something out of a magazine.

  “So are you guys rich or something?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “My dad’s a lawyer. I guess he does okay.”

  “What does your mom do?”

  “Teaches yoga and Pilates.”

  “I thought you said . . .” I realize I have caught her in a lie. Her mother didn’t smoke. What yoga teacher smokes? “Never mind.”

  Shelly dumps her purse on the counter and tries to flip on the TV. The screen does not respond. “Cable must still be out.”

  “Or the power,” I say.

  “Shit. I forgot.” She places the remote back on the counter and picks up her bag. We step out into the garage. It’s the size of a football field. A black Mercedes SL and a blue Miata rest on the sparkling clean concrete. No motor oil stains or power steering fluids here. “Which one do you want to drive?” she asks.

  The Miata is a stick shift, and it’s been awhile since I’ve driven a stick, but I calculate the sports car will cost me less jail time if I total it. “Miata.”

  “Good choice,” she says. She grabs a set of keys from a hook and tosses them to me. “Top down of course.”

  Much of Rooster looks like Rocket Road with trees and power lines lying in or along the road. “It looks like news footage from Kabul,” I say, “not Southeastern Ohio.”

  “It’s like a preview of the end of the world,” Shelly says.

  My phone rings. It’s Mitch. “What?” I say.

  “Is that any way to talk to your boss?” he says. He’s like a year or two older than me, and not at all a bossy type. “Hey, I need you this afternoon if you can make it in,” he says. “I had two people call off because they’re stuck on streets with trees in the road.”

  Hell yes. Air conditioning! “Yeah, okay. Give me an hour or so.” I jam my phone back in my pocket and tell Shelly, “I got called into work, so I need to take you home.”

  I pull the Miata back into its parking space, put it in gear, and shut off the motor. I hand her the keys. “That was fun,” I say. “I like driving a stick.”

  “Listen, if you want to take a shower, you’re welcome to,” Shelly says. “We have hot water. And I can give you some of my brother’s clothes.”

  A shower and fresh clothes sound like heaven. “Won’t he notice a few things missing?”

  “Josh has enough clothes to clothe a small African nation,” she says. “He’s got stuff he’s never worn. And he’s in Europe all summer. He’ll forget what clothes he owns by the time he comes home.”

  “Aren’t you afraid a criminal like me will steal all the silverware?”

  She laughs. “You have nowhere to put it. Besides, we’re partners in crime.”

  I slide off my shoes and leave them in the garage. I had noticed the white carpet in the living room. Those shoes have crawled inside dumpsters. She leads me inside the palatial living room with its whole wall of windows. They overlook a tree-lined lake. “Wow, this place is like something out of a reality show,” I say.

  “It’s just stuff,” she says. “Come on.” She pushes me toward the mosaic-tiled staircase and walks me to a large bedroom with a queen-sized bed. “This is Josh’s room.” The bed is unmade, and tennis balls, golf clubs, and shoes are strewn everywhere. His closet door hangs open, and a mountain of clothes forms a peak on the floor. She pulls a couple brand-new Izod shirts off hangers and hands them to me. “He got these a year ago and has never worn them.”

  “What if he asks about them?”

  “He won’t. Besides, my parents can buy him new ones.”

  Shelly pulls out an armful of clothes from the back of the closet. “He’s got some Dockers and shorts too.” She dumps them all on the bed. “Take what you want. And there are socks and boxers in the drawers.”

  “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  “I’ll make you earn it somehow.” She winks at me, and closes the bedroom door behind her on the way out.

  I grin as I take off my clothes. I mean yeah, she’s not my type, but I’d do her.

  After I shower and dress, I feel like a new person wearing clothes not bought at Goodwill. They fit as if made for me. I look at my reflection in the mirror. The rabid dog who entered this house is replaced by a clean, lean, heartbreaking machine.

  I don’t want to be greedy, so I only take two each of the shirts, pants, shorts, boxers, and pairs of socks. Besides, I don’t have room for much.

  Shelly is standing at the kitchen sink texting when I walk in. She whistles. “Wow, you clean up pretty good for a homeless guy.”

  I snort, and set the clothes on the counter. “Are you sure it’s okay if I take this stuff?

  “Yeah. Let me get you a bag.” She rustles through a cabinet and pulls out a plastic Kroger bag and hands it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “This matches the rest of my luggage.”

  “Here,” she hands me another. “Don’t put the skanky ones in with the clean ones.”

  “Yeah, good thinking.”

  “Do you want something to eat before you go?”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you want? I can nuke up some leftover steak, or chicken. Any of the carnivore’s delights.”

  “I’d really like a salad,” I say. “I hardly ever get fresh food. It won’t keep in my massive refrigerator.”r />
  She goes to the fridge and pulls out an armful of vegetables. “What kind of dressing?”

  “Ranch.” She pulls a bunch of bottles and plastic containers out of the fridge. She slices open a bag of salad and dumps half the bag on my plate, and the rest on hers. We assemble our salads. I choose tomatoes, carrots, celery, and cucumber slices. The first bite is the second most heavenly thing that’s happened to me today.

  “Will your parents adopt me?” I say.

  Shelly stabs at her plate, and I feel something in her shift. “Doubt it,” she says.

  • • •

  I end up working a double. The theater is packed since the mall has fully functioning air conditioning. I get off work at two, and drive around to cool off, then head for my spot behind the football field. As soon as I get comfortable, the thunder starts again. Shit. Just what we need. More storms.

  I roll up the windows and close the tailgate, and get almost no sleep while Hurricane Motherfucker swirls around me. I figure it’s about four when I finally doze off. The next thing I know, I hear tapping on my tailgate window. Shelly presses a $20 bill against the window and says, “Breakfast is served!”

  By ten o’clock or so the lack of sleep catches up with me. I move a bunch of desks back into Mrs. Fine’s room and sit down at one. I don’t remember setting my head down, and I don’t know how long I slept. A half-hour maybe.

  “Hey kid, get your ass up!” Earl bangs on the desk.

  I wipe my face. “Sorry. It’s been rough sleeping weather.”

  “Yeah, I hear you on that. You folks don’t have a generator?”

  “No.”

  He pauses. Thinks. “Go wash your face in cold water, and move on to Mr. Cox’s room.”

  It’s another day of intense heat, possibly worse than yesterday. Even though the temperature only reaches 95, the humidity is also about 95. “God, it’s so sticky out here,” Shelly says, as she and I walk out to my car to drive to lunch. “It’s like wearing gum.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking forward to my shift again tonight,” I say. “I’m exhausted, but the air conditioning makes me feel less like an amoeba.”