Catch & Release (20 page)

 

When I come out with the food, Odd isn't where I saw him last. He's table-hopped so he's sitting near a girl with a black umbrella shading her from the sun. Not an umbrella, a parasol with ruffles and ribbons. Not a parasol, a gothasol. She's a goth. A real live and beautiful goth: hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as. . . .

“She eats raw fish. I'm not talkin' sushi, I'm talkin'— like Gollum,” says Odd when I walk over. He mimes a sharp-toothed monster gnawing the guts out of a trout.

The gothasol girl dabs the end of a fry in the pool of ketchup. She dabs it slowly, in and out, in and out. Then she drops it into the pool and pushes it away. She blots her fingertips on a paper napkin to remove any trace of oil or salt. Her manners are impeccable. It must be hell keeping that satin corset clean. It would be for me, anyway.

I dressed up like a goth for the Halloween dance freshman year.

That was the dance where Bridger noticed me—like,
really
noticed me and said my name and danced with me. When he put his hand on the low part of my back, my insides zinged and tingled and ached. Just being close to him was that good. And, even though wearing a T-shirt that says “This IS my costume” is sort of lame, I was grateful he wasn't dressed like a zombie or wearing a Scream mask because I could see his face. When he smiled his teeth looked purply white under the black lights.

I felt like Cinderella—scared that when the dance was over I'd be so ordinary he'd never notice me again. When I was at Chrissie's house getting ready for the dance we had howled about how hilarious we looked. We painted on super-gory red lipstick and big black wings of eyeliner. We tottered around on ridiculously high and pinchy shoes. Basically, we looked like breathing Bratz dolls. We were bendable and posable and hoochied up. So I was afraid that I would not be nearly so interesting when he saw me in daylight in jeans and sneaks.

But Monday came and Bridger cared enough to find out where my locker was and give me a ride home. In less than a week we skipped right past talking to loving each other forever. And we meant it—at the time.

Now I'm sitting across from this girl, a real live goth, and I have to face facts. She got up this morning and put plenty of effort into how she looks. Her hair is clean and arranged in perfect ringlets cascading down the side of her neck. Her fingernails are not just clean; they are lovely squared ovals of matte black with glossy red moons. She smells like perfume: lilacs with a hint of patchouli and a base note of rubber.

I've been wearing the same fishing shorts and ripped
South Park
T-shirt for six days. I don't smell—I reek. I probably distort the light waves with my BO.

One of us is a social misfit and a weirdo. It ain't her.

I put the drinks and bag of food on the table and take the chicken burrito I bought for Odd out of the bag and put it in front of him.

I pick up my paper bag full of tacos and one giant vat of soda, sweating cold on the outside.

“I'm going to the car,” I say, “I'll eat there.”

 

It's not posh, but it's a place with a bed and a shower. I told Odd that I'm tired of sleeping rough, but the truth is I just feel dirty. I am dirty. I am layers of dirty stuck together with sweat and wood smoke and sunscreen and DEET.

The mirrors in the hotel are screwed down tight against the wall. There's one over the dresser. There's another over the double sinks. There's a third full-length one on the back of the bathroom door. Can anybody want to see herself that often? I don't. I shut the curtains and turn off the lights and crank up the air conditioner.

Odd gets the shower first. He's got plans. The gothasol told him about places. He is going to those places.

Goodbye, Odd. Good luck with that. Don't let the door flatten your skinny ass on the way out.

I peel off my clothes, and after being in the same things 24-7 for so long, peeling is the truth. I passed a coin-op washer and dryer in an alcove down the hall near the ice machine, but I wouldn't have anything to wear while I washed my wardrobe unless I wrapped a sheet around me like a toga. I'm just not up for the costume party. I throw the clothes in bottom of the tub and turn on the shower.

The water is hot—so hot it's going to be bad for my skin, as I recall from the lessons of lady-TV. I should avoid harsh bar soap like the little munchkin cake stamped with the name of the hotel. I should use a gentle cleanser and gentle circular strokes with the tips of my fingers. I rub soap on a washcloth and scrub. After I rinse, I can feel the dead skin rolling up into little balls. So I attack my face again until it stings like a rug burn. Harsh soap and hot water will give me premature crow's feet. Well, crow's foot, actually, ladies. What is your advice regarding lumpy red scar tissue? A greenish tinted concealer to counteract the redness . . . and avoid . . . being seen?

Odd used all the shampoo in the little bottle. Not a surprise. I scrub everything with the soapy washcloth, even what's left of my Raggedy Ann hair, which feels all yarny and looks like it was knit onto my head and then styled by fat little preschool fingers using round-nosed safety scissors. Lather, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

A good thing about hotel showers in the middle of the afternoon is that the hot water is endless. I might just stay here until I mutate into a drowned half-mermaid zombie with pruney white fingers. My clothes are underfoot. Every time I step I'm stomping the sudsy runoff and squishing out the dirt. I will not smell bad. I will smell like soap. I pick up each piece and hold them over the showerhead until they are rinsed, rinsed, rinsed. I turn my back, wring out as much water as I can and then flip the wet things over the shower-curtain rod. When I'm done with the laundry, I just stand there and feel the water sluicing down my back.

It's going to take time for them to dry. I turn off the shower, but I promise to come back soon. Then I roll my shirt and panties in a towel and wring and squeeze. Still wet, of course. Just outside the bathroom door is an iron and ironing board. I plug in the iron and start pressing my T-shirt. It still looks a little grotty, but the rising steam smells clean. Pretty soon only the seams are damp. I pull the shirt over my head and take a couple swipes at my panties. Presto. Good enough. I hang my socks and shorts up on the coat hangers. They will be dry by morning. Then I slide into the bed. The sheets feel clean. The pillows are too big, too good. The air conditioner purrs on, and I have nothing to do but sleep.

I could have slept a lot longer if Odd hadn't showed up again.

Apparently the gothasol hadn't taken the meeting to be a hard-and-fast arrangement, because she never showed. I don't blame her. Odd clings to the notion that something must have come up.

I make a pillow sandwich around my head. This doesn't keep Odd from talking. He doesn't really need any response. I wish I really couldn't hear him.

“Hey. Wanna fuck?”

“Shit no!”

“Well I do. It would be the perfect end to a pretty good day.”

“Not good enough. You got two hands and I bet you know how to take care of your own. But I'd appreciate it if you were a little discreet.”

“It's my leg, isn't it? You can't get past that? Right?”

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

“You are one cold, mean bitch. I mean, have you looked at
yourself
?”

It's like the words flip a switch in the back of my brain.

“Look, Odd, I am not having sex with you. It isn't because of your leg. It is because I don't want to. That's it. Whole story. If you had your leg, I still wouldn't want to, because you are an asshole.”

He chews on that for thirty seconds. This is not the first time he's heard that he's an asshole, so he processes the info pretty fast. He picks up the clicker and turns on the TV. ESPN . . . CNN. . . some enthusiastic chirper selling jewelry. . . . “For videos to suit your adult desires, press menu now. There's always something new,” says the TV.

“So can we watch some porn?”

“Traveling with kids? Press guest services to block adult content,” says the TV.

“Forget it, Odd. I'm not paying for porn.”

After a few more clicks of the remote, he stops.

I can now chart Odd's hierarchy of desires, just like I learned to do in Psychology/Social Studies/Elective:

 

1) Sex with someone attractive.

2) Sex with anyone, even me.

3) Porn on TV.

4) Watching a guy fail to truck surf.

 

I just want coffee, but Odd wants breakfast. Drive-through won't do. He wants to sit in a booth. I do not. I give him a twenty and tell him bring me coffee. Then I drop the seat back and settle out of sight.

“Hey, open it. My hands'r full.”

Odd is standing there with a giant to-go cup of coffee and a pie. No. Not pie. It's in an aluminum pie pan, but it is covered with whipped topping and a dozen whole peanut butter cups. That is not pie. Odd hands it to me and slides into the driver's seat. He offers me the coffee. The lid isn't on tight. It's too damn hot to hold, but there's no good place to put it. I slide the pie-thing onto my lap. Now at least I can shift the coffee from hand to hand.

“I could lean over and eat that pie, Polly,” Odd says. “Mmmm. Pie.” He makes snorting, slobbery noises.

“Zip it, Odd. And keep your talking trout puppet in your pants.”

 

“So what happens in a brain that leads to three life-size fiberglass Holsteins sailing a red boat in a field?” I ask.

“What?” says Odd. He's steering with his left hand. His right hand is full of pale chocolate pudding and whipped topping.

“Right back there. Three cows in a boat. You would have seen it if you were paying attention instead of sucking down pie by the handful.”

“I'm paying attention to the
road
,” says Odd, “I can't be staring out the window.”

“The
road's
out the window.”

“No, the road's out the
windshield
. I know where it is because I'm looking at it,” says Odd, licking his palm and reaching for more glop.