CHATTERBOX CHATTERBOX

ATD

I never liked him, the bastard. Always cocky, always smiling, always making like being handsome was easy—had the gift of an easy manner, did Handsome Jack. I never liked him. I’ve always known he was a bastard.

But he does tell a good joke, and he’ll usually pick up the tab whenever there’s a tab to be picked up. He’s good like that, real loose with his money. Comes and goes, he says, just like the flu and rare women. Just like happiness. Just like opportunities, he’s saying, just like all the opportunities you’ve missed in your life little Edward and that’s why you never have sex and that’s why you’re lonely.

He may have a point. He says I never see anything, that I haven’t the eyes for opportunities. I want him to tell me how he sees but I don’t think he knows how to verbalize it. He tries and tries but it never computes. Imagination, he says. Find out what you want and then fill in the gaps going backwards. Audacity is key. This is what he says to me. This is why I don’t like him.

Don’t like the way he jiggles his umbrella as we step out of a coffee shop that is the same coffee shop as everywhere else and on to the sidewalk. It’s raining and he’s taller then me and I don’t have an umbrella so what can I do but stand under his? We’re in a shopping center--or plaza--or square and right in front of us some young guy is trying to park his parent’s monstrous SUV into a little space between a beat-to-shit Buick and someone’s shiny midlife crisis. The little fool drives right into the side of the sports car. Big, ugly dent. And you know what Jack does? He does a quick look around, then down at me, and grins. Opportunity , he says, Audacity is key.

Oh, what the fuck! Jack’s checking for damage, petting his baby, and the kid’s all apologies. Sorry, man! Really! He’s holding his head in his hands because he knows when his parents find out they will take it from him. Jack starts to calm down, he’s not mad anymore, it’s cool, man, it’s cool. We can work this out. Say, kid, my friend here works as a body mechanic, and I’m sure he can help me out with deal where I can get this fixed for pretty cheap, so don’t even worry about it. We were young once, too. Shit, Mac, what’ll this cost me? Four hunnerd. Five?

And Jack expects me to answer so I grunt an affirmative. Like he knew I would. He sighs. Well, fuck. That’s a handful of money.

Won’t insurance cover it? The kid asks.

Yeah, sure, but then our premiums will go up and your parents and I will end up paying much more in the long run. I’m better off paying out of pocket to old ugly Mac here. Shit, kid. You’ve really put me in the pinch. Good news is that your parent’s truck isn’t hurt so it looks like you get off scott-free. It’s your lucky day.

Which leaves the kid feeling like he should do something. I just got paid, he says, please, it’s Friday, take some money, I have about a hundred here, it’s the least I can do seeing how kind you’re being.

And Jack awkwardly accepts. The kid asks if they should exchange contact information, just in case. Jack says no. It happened quickly and it’s quickly finished. Thanks but we have errands to be running. Have a good life. Let’s take your car, Mac, come on.

And we leave. I wonder what that kid is thinking, if he has any inkling at all to how easily he was duped. I wonder if he’ll leave before the real owner of the sports car shows up. I wonder what would have happened if the real owner had shown up sooner. Run, says Jack. Lie some more, play stupid, skedaddle. He didn’t show up, though. That’s the point. You want fifty bucks?

No.

Twenty five? I agree your role was minor.

No. You stole from a kid.

Of course I stole from a kid. They’re the easiest to steal from. You think that would have worked with a grown man? No! And, he adds, they’re young enough to really learn a lesson. They’re stupid.

They’re naïve I say.



Exactly. Now maybe less so. Plus I can buy a new coat. Everybody wins.

What about the owner of that sports car?

Well, everyone wins except the losers. Don’t look so glum, Ed. You always look so glum.

What you did was wrong.

Wrong! Wrong and right, good and bad, Jesus, you actually believe that stuff? There is no good or bad, Ed, just cause and effect. It’s the nature of the universe; you’d do well to wise up.

He irks me. Purposely he irks me. Don’t say the Lord’s name—



Ah! Yes, always I forget of your penchant for divinity. Your poor soul. You lost sheep. You ignorant dope. You should study evolution. It’s a far more interesting version of events than the one you cling to.

This smug bastard looks down on me, he who just pilfered some toddler’s piggy bank. This scoundrel. This rogue. He thinks he’s a better person then me.

Seriously Eddie, he says, how can you be taken in by all that? I don’t get it. Some All-Father in the sky? Adam and the evil woman? Heaven and hell? Do good deeds, say your prayers, we’ll all meet at the gates for an eternity of perfect paradise? How does that work?

I don’t know, Jack. I don’t go into heavy details about that stuff. God is in heaven. That’s good enough for me.

But he’s not satisfied. He asks whether or not I believe that the bible is the true word of god. I wish he’d just shut up. He says to me how can it be if it’s written by the hands of man? He asks me why I don’t read Hebrew. He says if he thought there was a book from on high then he’d want to read the original. He says he feels sorry for how dumb I am.

What an arrogant prick. How lamely he tries to justify himself. The narcissist. I tell him so.

He pauses just before opening the driver’s side door of his own car, a gaudy black Cadillac. A narcissist? He asks, and he sounds hurt but you can never tell with a guy like him. It makes me madder. He says, Ed, man, is that what you really think of me? How dull your perception! Do you not realize that I care deeply for every living thing on the planet? Even for the repugnant creatures like slugs and yourself. I don’t make a habit of ripping off kids, you know. I was just trying to show you what an opportunity looked like. A great service, I thought.

You made me an accessory to fraud.

Potato Potaddo, little Edward. Get a grip. I hurt the kid far less then your preacher would.

Religion! He won’t drop it, and the audacity to say something like that. Something so downright stupid. Look, I say, very few men of the cloth molest—

Bah! Molest. As if being diddled were a traumatic a thing as everyone makes it out to be. I was diddled as a boy, Ed, by some neighbor guy. I thought it was kind of weird and a bit gross so I distanced myself from it. I wouldn’t wish it on another but I hardly found it devastating. I meant your preacher will hurt the kid more by peddling his institution. By promoting his in-crowd. By dividing his mind. It’s so goddamn superfluous. You’re familiar with the Neanderthal?

The what?

Neanderthal. He shakes his head.



You mean like, the caveman?



Yeah. Sure, the caveman. Show some respect you ignorant upstart. Gah, look at you sneer. The Neanderthal isn’t a mere caveman but an elegant puzzle piece to The Epic Saga Still Unfolding, the big one, our story, little Edward. The real one. Not the one you found in your head but the one other’s have found in the dirt, in the bones, in the evidence of our past. He looks as though he suddenly developed a migraine. Lordy, Ed, but you just shouldn’t open your mouth. It’s too embarrassing.

He stops talking and so do I. Respite, finally. The only sound I hear comes from other cars rushing past my window as we head down the highway toward Jack’s apartment, where—as he had promised me over our coffee—he would ‘blow my mind.’ I still have my doubts. Suddenly he’s fumbling in the pocket of his coat and he pulls out the wad of cash he took from the kid.

You sure you don’t want a cut? He asks.

I don’t answer.

Okay, he says, and tosses it out the open window. I watch in the rearview mirror as the bills take flight past the traffic, little green pieces of trash, and I can’t help smiling. Too much guilt, I say.

Nah, he says, but if anyone finds it I hope they buy a drink. That’s what I need. A strong motivator. Ed, boy, I must say that I’m suddenly doubtful you’ll be receptive to the gift I want to give you.

You can keep your gifts, I say. You’re perception is all twisted, anyway. Any gift you give is probably more of your bullshit propaganda. More of your arrogant asshole shit.

I wish I said that. I just grunted. Dumb little pig I am. Grunt grunt grunt.

Seriously, little Eddie, I’m going to need you to open up your head a little bit. You ever smoke weed?

Drugs! Great! No, I say, and I won’t. I don’t do drugs.

Weed? Ain’t a drug, man, it’s a leaf. I forget who said that, but fine. You’ll take a drink, though? Please tell me you will. I’ll beg.

Ha. I wouldn’t mind a drink, I say.

And he sighs contented and turns off the highway.

Now we’re in his apartment, and I’m starting to feel surrounded. It’s not messy, not quite, but it’s not clean either. Cigarette smoke clings to the fabric of everything. On the table sits a charred pipe flanked by a score of empty bottles, some Irish brew called Killian’s.

Now about that drink, He says, and I say yeah well what about it? Strong or soft he says and I’m feeling like something strong might help this whole thing operate, so I watch him pull a big jug of Old Crow from atop his cupboards. He blows the dust off and asks how I want it and next thing I know four empty shot-glasses are staining the countertop. Old, dead crow is right. Now enough fucking around, Jack. Show me what you need to show me.

Come here, he says, and he leads me to a corner of his cornered apartment. He shows me to a dusty pile of records and an old ugly record player. I can see him waiting for it to take effect. I can feel his anticipation, his need, just as clearly as if he asked me to. I’m not impressed, and I tell him so, even though I know it must have taken a long time to gather this many albums; he has them lying everywhere. Stacked as they are like pancakes or bills: his little reverent shrine.

Sit down, he says, and would you listen? Please?

He pulls an album out of the pile, all white, and when he puts it on the player it sounds like a campfire, all crackles and hisses. This is music, he says. You’ve never heard its like.

And I’ll admit it sounds nice. He’s playing me the white album and all the boys are doing their best. All harmony and jangles. That old crow is sitting in my chest like my own warm bullet, all pretty for my gullet, all pretty like a sonnet and I’m thinking maybe that Jack, he ain’t so bad. Then he starts to talking, then he starts mentioning my sister, and I tell him this is so nice why do you feel the need to tear it down?

Because this is your sister, man. This is what she saw.

And what do you know of my sister, you simple shark? You ugly tramp? You blip upon her radar? You were with her, what, a year? I was hers for a lifetime! Don’t you dare talk about her, don’t you fucking dare. And I swear to you that I’ve never looked before so fierce, never before made such an impression on a person. He’s looking like he shouldn’t say a thing and the music keeps playing, keeps pouring out the speakers, and I’m fuming so bad I find myself in front of the bottle again, and I’m pouring us shots but he’s filling up his pipe, and he’s saying to me man, won’t you just shut your mouth and listen?

So we do. Me with the bottle and him with the blues. Me forcing down that Old Crow and him filling the room with his incense, his little fragrant clouds, and he’s saying you know man? Once upon a time people had to stop for their music, had to sit down and hear it, you know? There you go with your Ipods and your internets and everything you ever wanted is right there at your fingertips, instant gratification and instant karma. You don’t appreciate shit.

I’d appreciate a little quiet, I tell him. There’s a blackbird singing in the dead of night. A beautiful sound, and everything he says is taking away from it. Keeping me here when I want to be there. Floating with that perfect pleasant plucking—but no. Jack’s keeping me here and he’s staring at me like he’s got something to say.

He says: I didn’t kill your sister. He says she killed herself.

I got nothing to say to that and you wouldn’t either, you wouldn’t.

He says he gave everything to her. And he would say that, he’d lie. He’d make another excuse to stack neatly with the others, as per his modus operandi, (which is Latin for being a fucker.*) He never gave anything to her, I know, only took, always taking. Just like he’s trying to take now, trying to steal a bit of comfort from me so he can sleep a little easier in the night.

Too much guilt, I know it. It rides on your shoulders.

I don’t want to talk about this, I tell him. And I won’t. You don’t know how stubborn I am, Jack. You’ve no idea. But of course he does, he must. He knew my sister, after all, and lord knew she was the biggest stubborn bitch of them all. And I can see what she was talking about now, how she always complained that you could be as stubborn as you wanted with old Jack, it didn’t faze him. He just sat there looking at you like you were an idiot and sooner or later you started to agree with him. Made you want to smash his face in. Makes you want to vomit. Makes you wish you never agreed to coffee in the first place.

But then he just gave up, plum quit. I don’t want to talk about it either, he says. It was a bad idea. Hey, no one’s perfect, right? As you well know, oh imperfect punk, oh faulty fucker. Are you sure you don’t want a hit?

What I want is a cab, I say. And soon I have one.

I don’t want to go home, not with the buzz I picked up at Jack’s place. Abby’d slit my throat, and I wouldn’t be able to talk to baby Julie for more then half a minute without wanting to bawl my eyes out at her, but what can I do? Where could I go? The park? It’s freezing out, forget it. The movies? That’d be another cab ride later, more money after more money. No. Home is where I’m headed, and damn the consequences.

And you’re drunk, Abby says, immediately. Ten years will do that. Ten years and the only one you’re able to lie to is yourself. She twists her face up in that special way and is able to cram ten minutes debasement into a single caustic scowl. By reflex I cringe and that pisses me off. This whole day pisses me off, but I’m going to need this woman to drive me to my car later, so I say nothing, tread lightly.

Where’s Jules? I say.



She crosses her arms in a very irritating and bitchy way, and by this she means: Fuck you But she tilts her head towards the staircase and in her eyes I spot the conditional mercy, blessed reprieve. Never argue with a drunk.

My baby girl is sleeping. Light from the cracked door splits her face in half, bothers her, and she rolls over to her other side. Her teddy, Luke, falls to the floor with hardly a sound. I know I shouldn’t, I know, but I do anyway. I slip off my shoes and tread lightly to her bed, heavy feet thwarted by years of practice. My back cracks loudly as I bend for Luke, but it doesn’t wake her. I never wake her. Not often, anyway, not lately.

Look at her, please, just look. She’s so beautiful. So small and perfect, the only innocent thing I’ve ever known, and she’s dying. Not dying dying, not really, but every day after every day a little more of the outside world slips in under the door and through the cracks, is brought in by bad attitudes and office squabbles, traffic and rainy weather. It’s infecting her, and I’m powerless to stop it. Luke looks at me with those sad old bear eyes. He sees it. He knows. He can’t do shit about it either.

Now,

time is a funny thing, apparently it’s measured, always there, tick tick tick. But sometimes you get away from it, or vice versa, or whatever and when I look at my watch it’s somehow ten after midnight . I’ve been sitting here awhile, but I don’t want to move yet. I want another drink but this isn’t the sort of thing you should stop for refreshments.

Daddy, she says, why are you crying?

Her little eyes are open. I don’t know when she woke, perhaps from some subtle readjustment on my part, maybe just because, but there she is and I hadn’t realized I was crying. I think about lying to her but I don’t want to. It’s because you’re very beautiful, sweetheart. It’s because sometimes when you’re very happy about something you cry, that’s all. I don’t know why. It doesn’t really make sense, huh?

She shakes her head sleepily, side to side.

Go back to sleep, sweetheart, okay? I was just leaving.

Daddy?

Yes?

I don’t believe in god.

Shit.

Daddy.

Sorry.

The church man says god made everything, so does Dennis Hanratty.

Who’s Dennis Hanratty?

He’s stupid.

Oh. I say.

Did he?

Did who what?

God, Dad. She says.

I tuck Luke under her arm, and stand from the bed. Yeah, I say, he created everything in the whole universe, sweetheart.

Well I don’t believe that.



Why?

You know the new house at the end of the street, by Mr. Smart’s?

Yeah?

I saw men building it.

Infected, I told you. I bend down and kiss her cheek. In the morning, I say. Good night, sweetheart. I love you more then anything.

Gudnight, Daddy. I love you too.

When the door closes I lean my back against it, sag to my knees. Behind me, behind closed doors, behind that ticking clock,

lies the sleeping child: My sister's daughter.

the end.