So Far, So Good       kip williams

"Listen, kid." Mona said, "I got to borrow cigarettes or Tampax. I only have a quarter."

Mona, a large woman with curly dark hair, occupied Virginia's wobbly metal trailer steps. Her breath hung In the chilly night air. She was white trash, in her cheap satin nightgown, covered with a ratty terrycloth robe. Virginia gripped the door handle fiercely, holding her front door open a few inches. Her eyes darted between her neighbor and the wall clock above the TV.

Mona shocked her by yanking the door handle,  pulling her out on the porch. The larger woman pushed through the doorway, leaving Virginia standing alone outside her own house.

"Colder than a well digger's ass," Mona said. "Tom Dick always says that. I don't believe he's ever dug one. How you suppose he'd know?"

Virginia stepped inside, eyes on the clock, keeping the door open behind her as an invitation to leave.

"What did you say?"

"About Tom Dick"s ass?" Mona  asked.

"Not that."

"Oh,  You have to help me out, kid. Cigarettes or Tampax. It's one or the other."

Virginia pulled the door closed and slid past the larger woman, making her way into the kitchen. She opened the freezer section, reaching for a pack of smokes when Mona surprised her, standing inches behind her.

"Is that all you've got?  Pall Malls? I don't like unfiltered."

"Know what? Jim's are it. I'm down to my last pack of Kents."

Virginia retrieved her single pack from the freezer shelf, holding them up as proof. Mona grabbed the pack, ripped it open, and dumped half on the kitchen counter. Several rolled off the edge, onto the linoleum.

"Just right. Payday is tomorrow. You'll get them before you even run out."

"Oh," Virginia said, bending by reflex to retrieve the cigarettes Mona had spilled. "Okay. Yeah, we can do that."

She rose, cradling the cigarettes in her open palm, to find Mona standing so close she was breathing on her cheek. She stumbled back awkwardly, her hip hitting the corner of the Formica counter. She glanced at the clock in the panel of the oven.

"Now," Mona said, "about them tampons."

"Right," Virginia said, "right. Tampax. Be right back."

She scurried down the hall. Opening the cabinet below the bathroom sink, she snatched an unopened box, and rushed back. She found Mona sitting on her sofa, lighting one of her cigarettes. Virginia thrust the box of tampons towards her uninvited guest, hoping to end the visit.

It took a moment to register the pistol pointed at her. It looked particularly small in Mona's beefy hand. A toy? One of those cigarette lighters she'd seen on TV ? One look into Mona's eyes answered that. Waving the gun up and down, she was telling Virginia to put the box on the coffee table.

"Thanks,"  Mona said. "Now, you just be a little lamb and sit your butt down in that armchair."

Virginia backed up until her thighs contacted the chair, and lowered herself slowly.

"There, kid. I can see the door and you can still see your clock. We'll both be tickled pink."

"What are you doing?"

"I guess we don't know, yet. Either I'm making an ass of myself and owe you cigarettes and pads. Or, I'm about to find out why Tom Dick has been coming home late, smelling like pussy."

Virginia stared at the clock. Mona stared at her.

The cowboys on the Hat Six are a good bunch. Most of them have ridden together for a while and know how to get things done, Not a tinhorn among them. Each is able to sit a horse, quick with a loop, and ready to use a sixgun if it came down to it. A solid crew. The owner, Frenchy Pinoicit, has so much faith in them he is able to entrust the day-to-day business of the spread to their care while his own mind is occupied with more exciting and interesting business prospects. He's ridden the San Juan Mountains alone for the past couple weeks searching for something he didn't talk about much . This one is a little weird even by Frenchy's standards. He said he was prospecting bentonite but in fact he is searching for an eleven inch man.

"A little feller, about yay high," Frenchy said to his crew boss, Sheldon, leveling his palm off at the top of his Coca-Cola. Then he proceeded to tell of two miners who blasted a hole and found him sitting crosslegged in the back of a carved out cavern, eyeing them carefully. It had frightened the two so badly they'd run right back out into the open, then been unwilling to bed down where the little rascal might come out and find them sleeping.

If Frenchy had followed the miners just a few more steps, he'd see them pulled into the Casper Wyoming branch of the Theosophical Society,to be placed in comfortable settees, warmed with English teas and filled with sweet scones. The Casper group had taken on an entirely new air of excitement, with the recent arrival of an  odd collection of physicians, physicists, and metaphysicians racing to find a place to continue their research beyond the prying eyes and long arms of the recently formed FDA. 

Within hours, these Borderland Scientists, as they term themselves, are loading cabinets of complex electronic gadgets designed by their flights of scientific fancy and constructed of wire, rheostats, lights, gauges, paddles and switches. Leaving their hidden compound, the Borderland Research Center, nestled in a small valley two miles west of the Hat Six Ranch, they turn southwest, guided by their machines.

The race for the Little Man is on.

A bright maroon '64 Impala by the curb near Julio's 99 Cent Everything store. Romeo is sitting tall and proud, hands on the wheel. He's staring at Juliet, a beautiful small Latina wearing a red halter top, hiding behind a pair of wraparound shades.

"Scared the shit out of me," Juliet said, arms crossed over her breasts, sinking low in the leather seat. "My papa is there. He's working, you know? "

"I don't care, baby," Romeo says, leaning in to steal a kiss. "I got to see you."

Hands on his shoulders, she pushes him away without looking in his eyes.

"I'd put him on his punk ass,"

"Oh yeah. Right. Don't you know my boyfriend's back?"

"God damn!"

Romeo slams his palms and his forehead into the vinyl-padded steering wheel. Juliet adjusts the outside mirror, checking her makeup.

"Look like a spoiled baby when you do that."

"Jesus, you make me crazy."

"When did you get this car, anyway?"

"Makes you want to cruise?"

"No," Juliet said, "just looks too nice for you."

Romeo takes his right hand off the wheel and lays it across the top of the seats, his fingers landing in Juliet's hair.

"I'm changing, baby. No more fighting. I don't even have a blade."

He sees her laughing. 

"Naw. I'm  working at my uncle's tire shop. I'm doing everything."

Flicking his hand from her hair, she scoots up tightly against the passenger door, turning to face Romeo.

"You're such a liar."

"Why do you say that to me?"

"Okay genius. Why's the screwdriver crammed in the ignition? Tell me that."

"All right," Romeo says, "You think I'd buy this piece of shit? Doesn't even idle." 

"Why do you say you did?"

"I'm protecting you. The less you know, the better... if the cops."

Her father steps out of the 99 cent store, glaring in their direction and waving his arms.

“Jullietta! Now!"

Juliet throws the car door open, leaping to the sidewalk.  As she does, two black-and-white cruisers roll in from opposite directions, pinning the Impala where it's parked against the curb.

"You don't know what I'll do."

"I am so done with you, Romeo. Just go kill yourself. "Juliet says, walking away like he already isn't breathing in her world.

Casey was so mad at her he didn't care if she snuck out. She thought he was asleep before leaving for the Alibi. She also thought he couldn't hear her. She'd been wrong about a lot, lately. And he had been mad at her, a lot.

He stayed tucked under the covers pretending to be asleep when she came home. The thing that gave him away was the plug in his ear and the gray wire running to his SilverTone 8 Transistor portable AM radio, hidden beneath the blanket. It was a good one. Dad had given it to him. One of the guys teased him about the black sticker on the back that said, "Made in Japan", but he knew it was a good one. He played with it every night and was always getting stations from far away. He had one from Oklahoma City on, right now and he knew that was a long way. He didn't like country music but it was loud and there was no static. The commercials were funny, too. What he liked most was not being able to hear the stuff going on in the living room. She'd brought somebody home again. That really ticked him off.

They were making so much noise it was hard not to listen. Like moving furniture, with the davenport screeching across the linoleum. He didn't know exactly what his mother was saying, but it wasn't right. Usually she'd be making silly jokes and laughing too loud until they moved to her bedroom. Something else that sounded like Billy Murphy's German Shepherd playing tug-of-war.

Casey had gotten into dutch by peeking, before.

"How rude," his mom said in a slurred voice, "spying on me and my guest."

She tried swatting him that time, but was too drunk and barely touched his bottom as he ran back to bed, He was trying  hard to stay in bed, minding his own beeswax, this time. They were making so much racket his curiosity finally got the better of him. He slipped out of bed and down the ladder carefully, opening his bedroom door just a crack. It was hard for him to see what was going on but man, they were making a lot of noise. A man's voice muffled under the music in his ear. His mom sprawled on the sofa but it was weird. He could see tattered scraps of her shirt and dress dangling over the cushions, a skinny cowboy-looking guy leaning over her, his left arm across her shoulders pinning her down. The open palm of his right hand pressed against her mouth. Casey wondered how she could breathe.

He was kneeling, his left foot on the floor and his right knee up on the couch, with his Levis pulled down around his boots. He had skinny little white chicken legs and a shiny BB butt, rocking back and forth. Casey pulled the earplug out, letting it dangle down around his calves so he could listen.

"Oh yeah, little slut. You like that, don't you? Sloppy wet whore," he was saying, his head held high, not even looking at her. Like he wasn't talking to her. "Lucky bitch, I'm gonna leave some stew in there for you to clean up."

Mom's panicked eyes caught Casey's, tears spilling out. He knew  she'd be screaming. without that guy's hand. He, paralyzed in the open bedroom doorway, began shouting as loud as he could. He didn't even know what he was saying. It startled the cowboy, but he didn't stop. Just looked over his shoulder at the boy, without missing a beat. Finally, he shoved extra hard and stopped rocking, saying, "There you go, baby."

Casey stopped screaming when the cowboy stood and reached to pull up his pants. As calm as could be, he threaded his leather belt through the large silver buckle and cinched it tight, while mom and Casey were motionless, both crying softly. The only other sound in the room was the pinpoint of music, dangling by Casey's leg.

With a grin on his face, he strolled to the little boy in his Batman pajamas, leaning over to snatch the earplug and stuff it back in his ear. He squeezed Casey's shoulder so hard he wanted to collapse. Then turned, walking out the front door without looking back.

 It was still on, but Casey couldn't hear the radio anymore.

               "Uh huh. You recognize me, don't you?" asks the old lady, shaking an extended finger towards me, causing me to slide a little to the left on the bus stop bench, trying to put distance between us.

                 "I'm sorry?" 
  
               "Oh, now. I do not want you to worry about it," she said, waving her hand to clear the trepidation I didn't have.

               ""I get this all the time, hon. Does not bother me at all."

               "No?"

               "No, hon," she said, laying a spindly hand on my forearm. "Not in the least. I mean it. Used to it."

               I leaned out, staring down the street trying to bring the bus more quickly.

               "Silly little TV show so many years ago but everybody remembers. Still! My goodness, 28 years. Oh, they never forget. The fans, I mean. Some people insist on hearing me say it."

               She casts a sidelong glance, waiting politely for me to insist.

               "Well, I can see where you'd be tired of all that. People."

               "My dear," she says, "ten little words were my bread-and-butter. They put food on the table for me and my husband. Oh, I kept him alive after the show was canceled and he couldn't write. Now, I'm not saying we made the kind of money they do now. Oh, no. $5 million an episode. Whoever heard of such a thing?"

               Since I had heard of such a thing, no comment required.

               "Get your cotton picking hands out of that cookie jar."

               Her chin jutting out like a defiant prune, her voice shifting down a full octave, slipping into a syrupy sweet Southern drawl, followed by dramatic limbo. What might be called a pregnant pause though nobody, and sure as hell not me, was expecting anything. In fact, the more this lady talked the more I wanted nothing. At all. But she wasn't willing to give it to me.

               "Were you right?"

               "Ma'am?"

               She straightened, sitting taller on the bench, stiffening her neck and throwing her shoulders back.

               "Cece!"

               She reached out to tap my wrist.

               "From Shreveport's Finest. I am Cece," she said, awaiting a sign of recognition I couldn't give. "The rough around the edges waitress with a heart of gold. Cece? Well, I mean I played Cece -- 2 1/2 seasons. I am Rita Richmond! My husband produced it? We got canceled to make room for Comfortable Grace. Horrible show. Barely finished the season."

               "I'm not really... I mean we didn't watch a lot. Oh, wait a minute. Now that you mention it I may have seen that one."

               "In syndication," she said. "Where the network lawyers really robbed us. Not a cent. Even in foreign distribution. We lost a fortune in royalties."

               Followed by an awkward silence, sitting as still as a statue, staring at something I couldn't see. My chance to go back to what I had been doing quite well before she showed up; waiting for a bus.

               She sprang to life, clutching my wrist, animated like a gypsy fortune telling machine just fed a nickel.

               "But I do not want you to think I am bitter. I am not bitter, hon. Oh no. It was always about the work."

               Another pose, nodding her head and staring off into the distance.

               "The work... and," she turned toward me, smiling warmly, "being recognized and appreciated by wonderful, beautiful young fans. Like you."

               I heard the deep rumble of the bus engine as it rounded the corner, gliding to a stop and opening its doors. I leapt up the stairs, my metro pass extended. Pausing just long enough to see the short, egg-shaped driver nod, before racing down the aisle to a single open seat in the back. From there, I was able to watch Cece, or Mrs. Richmond, whichever she was, slowly climbing aboard.

               "Good morning, Karl."

               "Miss Siegelman," he said.

               Another nod. The doors closed, and we pulled away.

To say it was 'close quarters' is an understatement. A small staging area directly below the hatch and everybody had to be ready to go up as fast as they could. It was the only way the gag worked. Time it just right and it looks to the shills like everyone is pouring out of the tiny little car. If anybody is off even by second, you risk exposing the opening. About the only thing that could go wrong with the Tiny Clown Car gag, short of the dog or one of the clowns dying, stuck in the opening. It had happened. He had stories to tell.

No hitch here, except for her. She was part of the gag. He was a professional. They both were. He knew this kind of thing could happen before getting involved with Minnie. The circus is a small world. If something doesn't go right, you might have to live with it for a while. Again, they were pros. Breaking up did not mean they stopped being clowns. No longer a clown's clown, maybe. He had done that, all right. Hadn't been as much fun as he expected. Clowns aren't a faithful bunch, by and large.

Fourteen clowns had already gone through the trap door. He heard the audience laughing louder as each did their "Free at Last" posture, bursting through the tiny car door. He paused, closer to the ladder, hands grabbing the rung just above shoulder height, and looked up to get his timing right.

He was staring straight up Minnie's skirt, peering right at her red and white striped pantaloons. His pantaloons. She insisted on wearing polka dots until they hooked up and he convinced her how much better stripes were on her. Especially in the over-inflated tire roll. Loved that gag. After they shopped in the clowns store in Sarasota, where he bought these as a gift, she looked great doing that one. Never better, when she rode it over the top, legs spread wide and did her butt drop in the dirt. Like a million bucks. Even she admitted he was right about that one.

They started the climb, as each of the remaining clowns went for a bigger laugh than the one coming out before. He was on the verge of tears, waiting his turn. Wait. He was a clown, for Christ's sake

"Act like a professional, Paulee."

Minnie looked down at him over her shoulder when he said that, trying to figure out what was happening.

"What did you say?"

A little more defensive than she intended but there were still some bad feelings after she caught him skulking around Mr. Wiggles trailer, that night. It was weird, you know? How was she supposed to feel?

The clown  ahead of Minnie was out, sending her scrambling up the final rungs before Paulee could answer.  He heard the pennywhistle blasting on the P.A. and imagined her tumbling and rolling as she made her reveal.

Which is where he broke every rule in the book, remaining stationary on the ladder when he should have been directly behind her, near enough to press his cheeks against her red tights and imagine her massive shoes at the end of his cot. He couldn't do it. Watching her perform was breaking his heart. Couldn't make himself continue with this exit and let them get on with the routine.

He stood, head upturned, his grease-painted face awash in the arena lights streaming through the open hatch. Then Minnie's face appeared, staring down. He knew her well enough to guess she was doing the bewildered "how many of us are stuffed in this car, after all?" act for the shills up top. At the same time, she was trying to figure out what the holdup was. Why was he botching the skit?

He folded the fingers of his gigantic right glove with his left, sculpting a most expressive bird of the white fabric and raised it above his head to be sure she couldn't miss it. Then, stepped down from the ladder and walked away.

        He hated everything about being here. Being sick? Hell! Of course, he didn't like that. And that chick, what did they call her? Oh yeah, the aide. That's what she is. He hated how scared she was whenever she came into the room, which was not very often.

        "Are you okay, Sir?"

        That 'Sir' at the end of every one of her sentences was driving him nuts. She reminded him of a pretty girl, pretending she didn't hear you ask her out. Like you’d said something wrong.

        She wasn't that much younger than him, either. Watching her tiny little butt dancing around the room as she did whatever it was she had to do, he was guessing 23, maybe a year or two older. Put him ahead seven years. Christ! Here she was talking to him like her old man, or something.

        "Yeah. You could close that door and take these off me," he said rattling the metal buckles of the restraints against the chrome side rails. "Just for like a minute, you know?"

        "Oh, sir," she said in her high, phony voice, and then laughed. They both knew she wasn’t impressed. "I don't think the deputies would like that. If I did that, I mean, Sir."

        All of that without her looking at anything except the rails. Not a glance at his face. Not now. Maybe, never.

        One of the two Sheriff’s deputies sitting out in the hall like trash cans, planted on either side of the door, must've taken issue with their conversation. The big fat one with the gun, stood up and stepped into the doorway, his hand on the pepper spray hanging from his belt. His sudden appearance sent the aide scurrying out of the room like a bunny crossing the highway. He laughed, imagining that big cop as a car, bumping into her as she squeezed by

        "Excuse me," she said, throwing it over her shoulder without slowing down.

        "Hey," the prisoner yelled after her, "ain't you going to call the fine officer Sir?"

        He couldn't leave it at that, though.

        "Show little respect," he said. "You bitch."

"Tell me what you see," Marcus said, hoisting Kenneth up to the lip of the window ledge.

Kenneth's stubby little fingers were wrapped around the edge, barely able to grasp and certainly not strong enough to pull his weight higher, giving the vantage his brother was pushing him to strive for. If anything, he was just leveraging himself against the crumbling white exterior wall as a rock climber does going up the cliff.

He could feel his older brother's shoulders shaking beneath his feet, making the perch he was trusting shudder like a ladder ready to collapse.

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Whatever you're able," Marcus said, before tossing in a personal aside. "Stupid."

"Put me down, cause I can't," Kenneth said. 

He heard a deep sigh in response. He didn't need to see the disgusted snarl contorting his brother's face. It was one of those two or three expressions saved for him alone, shared lavishly when they were out of sight from parents, judges, and any authority whom might appreciate their ruthless contempt.

"Then, why am I going to all this trouble? Huh? You tell me."

"You just want to find out if she's going to the bathroom."

"Oh! You ugly little queer." Marcus said. "You really don't understand anything about competition, do you? Things I have to do to win. Fuck you!"

And Kenneth felt all support beneath his feet disappear, instantly. His finger holds on the board, tenuous at best, served no more purpose than supporting him just long enough for his brother to step safely back. Then, he fell, light through the bathroom window shifting quickly to the black background of the evening sky with streaks replacing the points of starlight. Having his body pressed tightly against the house caused him to collapse in a perfect arc, anchored to the wall on the point of his toes, slamming to the ground like a board, head, shoulders, back, and hips making contact simultaneously. The breath was driven from his lungs and he was unable to draw more.

Three events, in rapid succession.

First, the back gate slamming behind Marcus as he made his escape.

Next, four floodlights on tall metal poles, suddenly bathing the entire backyard like a high school football field in the glare of game night lights.

Finally, creaking of the redwood slats beneath the weight of somebody stepping out of the back door and onto the deck.

It didn't matter. Kenneth knew his brother really did just want to see Deborah McAfee with her panties down, peeing. 

Marcus could say whatever he wanted.