Chapter fifteen
Randy found his way to US-85 South and then to I-80. Between Cheyenne and Laramie, Wyoming, he heard a noise that sounded like someone banging a baseball bat on the hearse’s engine. The oil pressure dropped, and the car lost power. It died on the side of the road spewing oil, coolant, and pieces of the engine block onto the ground. Randy grabbed Jockey shorts and T-shirts from his suitcase and stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag he found stuck to some brush by the side of the road. He opened the hearse’s glove compartment and took out a Glock pistol. He pulled out his shirttail and stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants. Randy walked west on the shoulder of the interstate with his left arm extended and his thumb in the air.
After five miles, he changed thumbs and faced the oncoming traffic. A white cargo van veered off the highway and onto the shoulder. The passenger door opened, and the smell of incense wafted out.
Oh goody, thought Randy. A stoned-out hippie.
He envisioned using the Glock to force the doper onto a deserted road, stealing his stash, and then taking off with the van.
Randy approached the vehicle and opened the passenger door. A Tibetan lama dressed in the traditional saffron and maroon raiment of a Buddhist monk sat in the driver’s seat.
Holy crap, thought Randy.
He scanned the cargo area. Thankas, images of Buddha, and a photograph of the Dalai Lama decorated the walls. Brocades, oriental rugs, a zabuton, a zafu, and an altar filled up the interior. Prayer flags hung across the inside roof in front of the back door.
Nice digs, thought Randy.
The lama joined his palms to form the shape of a lotus bud and bowed to Randy.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the lama.
He reached across the passenger seat and gave Randy a map with a route from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Berkeley, California, highlighted in yellow.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the lama.
He turned off the engine and handed Randy the keys to the van.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the lama.
He got out of the cab and walked around the front of the vehicle. Then he put his palms together, bowed, and touched his forehead to Randy’s.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the lama.
He got into the passenger seat. Randy closed the door and walked around the back of the van.
Talk about taking candy from a baby.
Randy pulled the pistol out of his pants and held it under his shirttail. He glanced across the road and saw a gigantic bust of Abraham Lincoln atop a granite pedestal.
He blurted out, “What the fuck is that?”
A gravel truck sped by hurling dust and tiny pieces of clay into his eyes. A vision of Lincoln’s mournful face and sagging shoulders was imprinted on the inside of Randy’s eyelids.
He heard a voice inside his head.
Why are you doing this shit? This isn’t who you are.
Randy rubbed the dirt from his eyes with the back of his hand. He took the bullets out of the Glock and put them in his pants pocket. He threw the gun into the weeds beyond the brush by the side of the road.
“I’m tired of being an asshole.”
He got behind the wheel of the van. The lama offered him a section of Mandarin orange.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Randy.
He ate the piece of fruit. Then, he joined the palms of his hands to form a lotus bud and bowed to the lama.
Back in Minneapolis, Ray sat behind his desk at the Paradise Lounge. Jack paced back and forth in front of him.
“How do I know you got ripped off?” asked Ray.
Jack pressed down his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. His face was inches from Ray’s.
“Because I’m telling you I did.”
Ray laughed.
“And who are you? You’re the son of a bitch who told me the deal was a sure thing.”
Ray rolled back in his chair.
“Fuck me; I’m the dope who believed you.”
Ray opened a drawer and pulled out a little brown envelope. He tossed the packet to Jack. Jack grabbed it out of the air and ripped open the seal. He sniffed a pinch of coke and put the envelope into his shirt pocket.
“Not so fast, Jack,” said Ray. “You owe me fourteen grand.”
“Fourteen grand?”
“Yeah, that’s what I paid for the coke plus what I stood to make on it.”
Ray tilted his head back and rubbed his index finger across his chin.
“We’re gonna have to work out some kind of arrangement, and the way I see it, the only thing you’ve got that’s worth anything is that fart parlor of yours.”
Ray came out from behind the desk and pulled the envelope from Jack’s pocket.
“Tell me, Jack. Have you got any insurance on that place?”
“What kind of insurance?”
“The kind that pays you money if it burns down.”
Jack shook his head.
“I can’t do that.”
Ray put the envelope back in Jack’s pocket.
“Yes, you can.”
He sat down behind the desk.
“Anyway, you won’t have to do it. I’ve got just the guy for the job.”
Ray dialed a phone number; he waited.
“It’s Ray from the Paradise Lounge. Are you still in the restaurant supply business? I need a fryer.”
Ray listened.
“Well, be sure and call me when you get back.”
Ray hung up the phone.
“He’ll be back in town next week.”
That same day, Tania stopped by Mrs. Rosenblum’s apartment to pull down her storm windows and raise up her screens.
“I’m going out of town at the end of the month,” said the older woman.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s somewhere in Missouri. I think it’s called Branston.”
“Why are you going there?”
“A producer hired a bunch of us coffin dodgers to do a USO show.”
Mrs. Rosenblum pursed her lips; there was a soft popping noise when she opened her mouth to speak.
“One of the girls told me Mr. Rosenblum passed away.”
Tania put her hand on her neighbor’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mrs. Rosenblum laughed.
“Don’t be; he was a drunk. I’m surprised he lived this long. When Fleur died, we both started drinking. After a while, I figured it didn’t say much about my life if I had to be drunk to live it, so I stopped. He didn’t. I broke away; I divorced him.”
“I thought you loved him for who he was inside,” said Tania.
“I did; I just loved me more.”
Tania headed home and climbed the stairs to her apartment.
You know, Tania, it doesn’t say much about your life if you have to be stoned to live it, she thought.
“I’ve got to break away,” said Tania as she unlocked her front door.
Once inside, she picked up her dope box and carried it into the bathroom. She opened the lid and turned the box upside down over the toilet bowl. Tania lowered the handle on the tank. Marijuana leaves, stems, and seeds swirled around and were sucked away.
“Goodbye, Jack . . . goodbye, Mafia . . . goodbye, murderers in Mexico who kill people over this shit. I’m leaving you,” said Tania.
The toilet stopped flushing; the bowl was clean.
The next morning, Tania opened up the Star Tribune to the want ads.
She read aloud, “ ‘Administrative Assistant.’ ”
Tania relaxed her grip on the paper.
Remember when Daddy offered to pay you to go to business school, and you said you didn’t want to spend your life typing other people’s letters?
She dropped the newspaper onto her lap.
Shit, Tania, life would have been a helluva lot easier if you hadn’t been so . . . YOU.
She picked up the paper and continued searching the ads.
‘Lead Assembler’ . . . Does that mean you’re the head assembler or that you’re assembling things made out of lead? ‘Lube Technician.’ ‘Machine Operator—Join our team and change the world,’ ‘Telemarketing—Need exceptional diamond in the rough’ . . . ‘Waitress—Mom’s Restaurant.’
“That’s more like it,” said Tania.
She got dressed, walked over to Hennepin, and took the number 6 bus downtown. Tania got off at 9th and walked east. While she waited at Marquette for the light to turn green, she looked across the street and saw the words THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE MOM’S written inside a red neon heart on the window of a corner storefront. She crossed the street, opened her purse, and took out a mirror. Tania freshened her lipstick and poofed her hair. She closed her bag and went into the restaurant.
Mom’s was packed. A man sat at a two-top reading the Daily Racing Form; he stirred cream into a mug of coffee with the eraser end of a pencil. A couple flipped up the tops of their omelets, examined the contents, and traded plates. Another man raised a mug in the air.
He called out, “Hey, Junior, where’s my coffee?”
A heavyset Black man turned away from the grill; sweat poured down his face.
“Help yourself, Larry.”
Larry took his cup to the coffee machine behind the counter. Tania approached Junior; he loaded a burger on a bun.
“I’m here about the waitress job.”
Junior raised his eyes to heaven.
“Thank you, Jesus,” he said. “Can you start now?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
Junior handed her a stack of guest checks and pulled out a clean bib apron from a utility closet. Tania put on the apron and started pots of regular and decaf. While they were brewing, she picked up two carafes from their warming plates and carried them out onto the floor of the restaurant.
“MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION,” she said. “Could everyone who wants regular coffee, please raise their left hand, and everyone who wants decaf, raise their right.”
The customers complied, and Tania filled their cups. When everyone had coffee, Tania went to the line and picked up orders. She held a guest check in her right hand, a plate on her left forearm, and another in her left hand.
“MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION,” she said. “Who ordered a cheeseburger, medium rare, with coleslaw and pickles, and a grilled cheese with tomato and bacon?”
When all the orders were accounted for, Tania stepped out onto the floor.
“MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, AGAIN,” she said. “Does everyone have their food? Does anyone still need to order?”
The customers were silent. Then, everyone in the restaurant cheered.
Tania got home from her first day at Mom’s and plopped onto her sofa.
God, I’d love a joint.
Jimmy jumped on her lap and butted her hand with his head. Tania stroked him.
She ruminated aloud, “I could always call Jack and get some pot from him.”
Jimmy purred.
Tania yawn-talked, “He’ll tell me to come right over.”
She rubbed her neck.
“I’ll get there, and we’ll fuck. He’ll come really fast. I’ll say, ‘That’s okay; I love you for who you are inside.’ He’ll say, ‘Here’s your pot; that’ll be fifty bucks. Oh, yeah, I can’t see you for a while.’ ”
Tania leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling.
“I’ll feel really bad. I’ll go to a bar and drink a shitload of Southern Comfort. Some guy with an alcoholic mother’ll help me out the door at closing time. He’ll start punching me as soon as we hit the sidewalk. I’ll stumble off the curb and fall into a puddle of gutter water and cigarette butts. He’ll kick me in the face; I’ll taste blood and broken teeth. My leg’ll be really fucked up, and I’ll walk with a limp for the rest of my life.”
Jimmy licked the back of Tania’s hand and rested his chin on her wrist.
“Actually, Jimmy, I don’t think I want a joint.”
Tania got into bed around 9:30; she reached over to a clock on the windowsill next to her bed and set the alarm. She dozed off and was awakened by a ringing sound. She turned off the alarm, but the ringing continued. The answering machine clicked on. Tania opened her eyes. She heard her voice on the machine.
“Hello, this is Tania. Please leave a message.”
A beep sounded; Jack’s voice came on.
“Tania, are you there?”
There was silence.
“It’s Jack. Uh . . . I’ve got my own position on this whole thing but . . . uh . . . I’ll agree to anything you want cuz, uh . . . I’ve been thinking about you and . . . uh . . . I think about you all the time, Tania. I sure would like to see you. So, call me right back or . . . just come over. I’ll be waiting . . . I think I love you, Tania.”
The answering machine clicked off. It was dark outside; raindrops splattered Tania’s bedroom window. She checked the time. She lay back down and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she jumped out of bed.
Tania cut through Mueller Park and looked up at Jack’s apartment. He looked down and watched her cross the street below his building. Jack went to the control panel by his front door to buzz her in, but Tania continued on to Lyndale and waited at the bus stop for the number 4 to take her to work.
At 8:27 a.m., Jack’s phone rang.
“Jack, it’s Cora. Your mother fell in the downstairs bathroom. She hit her head. The ambulance is coming.”
