I pulled up to the house. My ’74
Ford Ranchero sparkled in one place still – the hood.
I found myself staring at that
shiny place a little too long.
“What you want?” a little black
kid yelled into my window. I hadn’t noticed him standing on the sidewalk
seconds before. I’m slipping, I think to myself.
“Looking for Lovey,” I replied.
Hoping that actually telling the truth instead of lying to the little shit –
and I could tell he was a little shit because of the way he wore his
sunglasses, upside down and without lenses – would get me somewhere.
“That bitch moved out yesterday,”
he said before walking over to the Circle K across the way.
I pondered that response. It
made little to no sense to me. How could anyone call Lovey a bitch? She was the
most awesome woman I’d ever met. She had Pam Grier’s body and Maya Rudolph’s
looks. And anyone who knows me will tell you that the only thing better than
that is a redhead.
Anyway. I stop pondering that
when I see Jeff Knight.
He played fullback for Arkansas
for three years before blowing out his knee – not playing football, but tossing
cornhole in my backyard three days before the Cotton Bowl his senior year. If
there was one person who I did not want to see today, it was Jeff Knight.
But there was no way I wasn’t
going to see him, as my car kind of stuck out in this neighborhood. Well, it
sticks out in any hood. Fucking great car it is.
“Son of a muther fucka!” Jeff
Knight yelled when he saw me. “You got a lot of nerve showing your stupid face
in my block.”
“What are you talking ‘bout
Jeffrey,” I replied. “I come here every damn day.”
“Yeah, but usually I ain’t ‘round,
muther fucka.”
“Agreed,” I said with a flick of
sarcasm and fear.
I think he sensed that. The
fear.
“Lovey ain’t coming out for you,
man,” he said. “The bitch told me the other day what you did.”
“What I did?”
“Yeah, what you did,” he barked.
“Told me you fucked that redhead that works at Food Lion.”
“In 2006, yeah, I fucked her.
What can I say, I was drunk. She was drunk. And I just happened to need a box
of Frankenberry. It was destiny.”
“Fuck that shit.”
“Well, it’s true. All of it.”
“So you fucked the bitch almost
10 years ago? Damn, that’s fucked up. What Lovey said ‘bout you.”
“Damn skippy.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Peanut butter, jelly time,
Jeffrey. Peanut butter, jelly time.”
“You a dumb ass, man. A real
dumb ass.”
“Yes, but I’m in love. So here I’m
going to sit until Lovey comes out. Just like fucking John Cusack in ‘Say
Anything.’”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. Kickboxing
wasn’t the sport of the future.”
“Fuck you.”
“See you Saturday?”
“Of course. You know I don’t
miss cornhole over at the Three Leg, man.”
Fucking Jeff Knight. Still plays
cornhole. I fucking hate cornhole. Throwing a beanbag into a hole. What fucking
fun. Beats horseshoes, I guess. But I fucking hate horseshoes too.
I look at my flip phone. It says
it’s 4:22. I look outside, the sun is almost gone.
“Fucking winter,” I mumble.
“Why you so depressin’?” I hear
a familiar voice say from behind me. I look in the rearview mirror and there
she is … Lovey.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says,
throwing her left hand in the air, making a motion that says both fuck you and
keep going at the same time.
“Why’d you tell Jeff Knight that
shit, I think he was going to fucking punch me.”
“Oh, bullshit. That guy loves
you, baby. He didn’t punch you when you caused his blown knee did he?”
“No, but it wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re the one who kept feeding
him Abita’s, hun. He never woulda slipped and fell playing Marcus in that damn
hole game if you’d been feeding him Coke Zeroes instead.”
I stared at her in the mirror. I
didn’t dare turnaround. She had a knife at my throat.
“Lovey, why you doing this?” I
asked, knowing she would probably tell me.
“Because I love you, baby. But
this, this us? It ain’t neva gonna work. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know that. You’re
the one that knows it.”
“What’s the rule, baby?”
“Never lie. Ever.”
“Yep. And you lied.”
I looked at her in the mirror.
It would be the last time I saw her.
She stuck the knife into my
chest. The blade was cool as it sliced its way through my skin, then my lung. I
felt woosy. I felt alone. Lovey kissed my neck before she got out of the car. I
slumped down in the seat, blood filled my mouth. It tasted sweet. It was very
red. It had been that way ever since I started taking aspirin every day. Doctor’s
orders after I had a stroke at work. Hadn’t been able to interview someone
since. I lose my train of thought and start stammering for what was just there seconds
before.
But my writing improved.
Strange.
I passed out, expecting to die.
But I didn’t.
The next thing I remember was
Jeff Knight, standing over me. Fucking naked. His balls touched my chest when
he lifted me out of my car – a blood red Ranchero that Lovey gave me for my 40th
birthday. Now the interior matched the hood.
“Hang on, buddy,” Jeff Knight
screamed. “I’ve got you.”
“And I’ve got your balls on my
chest,” I spit out, laughing just enough to send pain to every pore.
“Chest nuts!” Jeff Knight said
with a cackle.
Three days later, I was in
Florida. Trying to find out what exactly went wrong.
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