window, hunched over a wedge of pizza. Sitting by the window ain’t a sharp idea for a diet fugitive, but you can see the place is overflowing with strangers. I stop and fumble in my pack, watching her through the corner of my eye. Strangely, I get a wave of sadness watching her. Fat ole Vaine, stuffing emptiness into her void. Her eating strategy is to take six big bites, until her mouth’s crammed to bursting, then top up the gaps with little bites. Panic eating. Here’s me yearning for Mexico, there’s Vaine hogging herself slim, just another fragile fucken booger-sac of a life. I stare down at my New Jacks. Then back at Vaine; detached, sad, and furtive. I mean, what kind of fucken life is this?
I can’t risk going to the ATM right now. I turn my face away, and just keep walking to the Greyhound yard. I can check the timetable, hang out until the coast is clear. Heat shimmers clean at the end of the street, a pair of Stetsons wriggle through it. Dirk’s Eatery passes on my right, with all the specials painted on the window, and a couple of die-hards bent over their grits inside. The dog out front doesn’t look at me when I pass. He just twitches an eyebrow, you know how they do.
I limp into the Greyhound waiting room, all casual. A few other folk are here, nobody beautiful though, no cowgirls or anything. Next bus to San Antonio is in twenty minutes. She might already be on the bus, the cowgirl. Trying to blend into the place, I line up behind two Mexican ladies at the ticket counter. They talk in Spanish. It gives me a buzz, I have to say, that and the spicy smell of their clothes. It makes me picture my new beach-house, with Taylor’s laundry hung out on palm trees to dry, her panties and all. She’s probably naked in the house because her panties are all out to dry. Bikinis in the sun. Or tangas. Probably bikinis.
I chase some spit with my tongue, and watch an ole man at the back of the room flick through the Martirio Clarion, our so-called paper. The skin of his face hangs down in pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain’t character, though; you know it’s feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One thing I learned from watching folk these last days is that waves are mostly one-way; you collect them over a lifetime, until finally the least fucken thing makes you bawl.
I get quite comfortable, standing in line with my musings. Then the man’s paper flops open to a picture of me. ‘Guilty?’ asks the headline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus’ casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus. I shut my eyes, and when I open them there’s no casket. But I expect it, back in my soul. That, or some fucken shit. You know Fate.
Inch by inch, I shuffle behind the Mexican ladies toward check-in. My bravery has ebbed away. I decide to try my New York accent on the man at the ticket counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he’ll say, ‘Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.’ The ladies finish and move away. The clerk stops tapping at his keyboard, and looks up. My mouth opens, but he doesn’t look at me, his eyes shoot over my shoulder.
‘Howdy Palmyra,’ he says.
Pam’s shadow falls over me. ‘Hell, Vernie, what’re you doing down here?’
‘Uh - looking for work.’
‘Lord, a boy can’t work on an empty belly - c’mon now, I’m on my way past the Barn to your place …’
Fuck. Everybody in the place looks up to watch Pam drag me out by the hand, like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him, and points. I feel the noose of this fucken town tighten around my throat.
nine
‘The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,’ says the sheriff on TV. ‘So if a weapon is found, it’ll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints.’
‘And if you get a match - case closed?’ asks the reporter.
‘You
I can’t risk going to the ATM right now. I turn my face away, and just keep walking to the Greyhound yard. I can check the timetable, hang out until the coast is clear. Heat shimmers clean at the end of the street, a pair of Stetsons wriggle through it. Dirk’s Eatery passes on my right, with all the specials painted on the window, and a couple of die-hards bent over their grits inside. The dog out front doesn’t look at me when I pass. He just twitches an eyebrow, you know how they do.
I limp into the Greyhound waiting room, all casual. A few other folk are here, nobody beautiful though, no cowgirls or anything. Next bus to San Antonio is in twenty minutes. She might already be on the bus, the cowgirl. Trying to blend into the place, I line up behind two Mexican ladies at the ticket counter. They talk in Spanish. It gives me a buzz, I have to say, that and the spicy smell of their clothes. It makes me picture my new beach-house, with Taylor’s laundry hung out on palm trees to dry, her panties and all. She’s probably naked in the house because her panties are all out to dry. Bikinis in the sun. Or tangas. Probably bikinis.
I chase some spit with my tongue, and watch an ole man at the back of the room flick through the Martirio Clarion, our so-called paper. The skin of his face hangs down in pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain’t character, though; you know it’s feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One thing I learned from watching folk these last days is that waves are mostly one-way; you collect them over a lifetime, until finally the least fucken thing makes you bawl.
I get quite comfortable, standing in line with my musings. Then the man’s paper flops open to a picture of me. ‘Guilty?’ asks the headline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus’ casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus. I shut my eyes, and when I open them there’s no casket. But I expect it, back in my soul. That, or some fucken shit. You know Fate.
Inch by inch, I shuffle behind the Mexican ladies toward check-in. My bravery has ebbed away. I decide to try my New York accent on the man at the ticket counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he’ll say, ‘Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.’ The ladies finish and move away. The clerk stops tapping at his keyboard, and looks up. My mouth opens, but he doesn’t look at me, his eyes shoot over my shoulder.
‘Howdy Palmyra,’ he says.
Pam’s shadow falls over me. ‘Hell, Vernie, what’re you doing down here?’
‘Uh - looking for work.’
‘Lord, a boy can’t work on an empty belly - c’mon now, I’m on my way past the Barn to your place …’
Fuck. Everybody in the place looks up to watch Pam drag me out by the hand, like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him, and points. I feel the noose of this fucken town tighten around my throat.
nine
‘The dogs will also uncover firearms, and other devices,’ says the sheriff on TV. ‘So if a weapon is found, it’ll just be a matter of matching the fingerprints.’
‘And if you get a match - case closed?’ asks the reporter.
‘You
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