The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (7 page)

—But you should, you know, ride the bus. Might be good for you.

I stared up at the giant red sign for the Ambassador Dog & Cat Hospital.
A beacon for wounded animals everywhere. Or something. I mean, there has to be a reason why the sign is so fucking tall, right? I always picture some old lady out walking her Maltese when a sharp pain starts radiating down its left front leg. She crouches next to the stricken dog, screaming for help, cars passing by, no other pedestrians in sight. Desperate, she looks to heaven, and there it is, visible from a mile away, the Ambassador. Thank Jesus for that fucking sign!

—You listening?

I looked at him.

—Yeah. I'm just failing to hear anything that has anything to do with anything I give a shit about.

Traffic moved. Po Sin drove.

—You give a shit alright.

—Says you.

He adjusted the rearview.

—Xing's back on the bus.

—How proud you must be of her.

He grunted, a phlegmy and no doubt Slim Jim flavored sound that was meant, I suppose, to indicate his disgust.

We passed Jollibee. I stared at the red and yellow fiberglass Jolly Bee out front.

—What's with the paint on the van?

Po Sin flicked on the headlights.

—Nothing. Just business.

—Just business? Paint bombs?

—There's some competition out there. Trauma scene and waste cleaning is a growth industry.

—Competition for cleaning shit. I'm trying to make that work in my head. What kind of people are drawn to that kind of work and fight for the honor?

He reached over and punched me lightly in the shoulder. Lightly for Po Sin being sufficient to slam me into the door and leave me rubbing both shoulders.

He jabbed me with his forefinger, each jab deepening the shade of purple that would no doubt be spreading across my shoulder in the next hour, if it survived his onslaught.

—Kind of people who are fighting over cleaning shit and blood and assorted bodily fluids are people who need a job. People who need money.
Now I don't know about you, but I know a few people who fit that profile. You know anyone like that? Ring any bells?

I pulled out of his range.

—Yeah, yeah, I get it. Sure, I'm no better than anyone else. I'm just saying, seems weird to be fighting over who gets to pick up the shit.

He took a right on Highland.

—There's money to be made, people will fight. And seeing as this is a nasty area of commerce to be involved in, it sometimes attracts a pile of assholes.

—Like your nephew.

He took advantage of another halt in the traffic to stare at me.

—Web, you know the one about the pot and the kettle and what one called the other and what that story is supposed to mean?

—It's not a story, it's more of a saying. And yeah, I know that one. And what it means. Need an explanation?

—No. My point is, shut the fuck up.

In front of my building he counted twenties from his wallet.

—Eighty bucks sound right?

I looked at the driveway, Chev's ’58 Apache parked in front of my parts receptacle/car in our stacked parking slots under the building's overhanging upper story.

—Sure, sounds fine.

He held out the money and I took it and put it in my pocket.

He folded his wallet.

—Not gonna count it?

I pulled open the door.

—No.

—What if I'm ripping you off?

—You're not.

—How do you know?

I stepped out of the van.

—Well, if you are, it's only money, man. How upset am I supposed to get?

He stuffed the wallet deep in one of his front pockets.

—I
spent the day hauling crap, I'd be pretty pissed if someone tried to rip me off.

I closed the door and leaned my forearms in the open window.

—Yeah, but you're a money-grubbing pig.

—You want to do some more work for the money-grubbing pig sometime?

Tomorrow maybe?

I looked at the rack of silver mailboxes riveted to the beige stucco wall at the base of the stairs.

—Well, not really. But I got to buy Chev a new phone.

He put the van in gear.

—One of us will pick you up at seven.

He started to pull out. I walked alongside as he backed into the street.

—Yeah, but I was kind of thinking I might get a check today. And if I do. You know.

He stopped the car.

—Web, your mom sent you some money and you don't feel like working, that's fine. She didn't, and you want to work, call me in the next couple hours. I haven't found anyone else by then, you can work. Good night.

And he drove away.

I watched the van to the corner. Pulled the money from my pocket and counted it. Eighty bucks even, folded around a Clean Team business card. I let down the tailgate of the Apache and sat on it and dangled my legs, riffling the edge of the card along my knuckles, thinking about things.

A truck drove slow down the middle of the narrow street, a windowless Dodge Ram van, freshly sanded and primered across the hood and down one side. It paused while some kids rode by on their bikes in the opposite direction, and then eased down the street while I watched the kids pedal to the corner and whip into the alley. I could hear the homeless couple screaming at each other down there, calling each other names.

—Whore.

—Asshole.

—Bitch.

—Fuckface.

—Cocktease.

—Cocksucker.

—Cunt.

—Shithead.

The glorious spoken-word street poetry of Hollywood.

I listened to them and looked at the Clean Team card and tried to remember the first time I met Po Sin. I could remember the first time I'd
seen
him. Dropping off his youngest, Xing, walking across the chain-link-enclosed playground, the kids stopping in their tracks to watch a leviathan amongst them, holding the hand of his round-faced daughter, her Sponge Bob backpack dangling from his free hand. He'd made an impression.

But the first time I'd met him? School play maybe. Po Sin leaning against the back of the auditorium because the little folding chairs were too small. Me standing back there keeping an eye on the rowdy kids who like to sit as far from the front of a room as possible.

I'd been one of those kids at the back. Spitballs. Whispering. Elbow digs. Giggles. Passed notes about boogers. But mostly sneaking a book out of my back pocket to hide in my lap and read, tuning out whatever was happening up on the stage at the front of the hall.

Pretty much the same shit going on with the kids I was eyeballing. Except there was a greater chance that the notes being passed around would include the word
fuck
, and that anyone looking at something in their lap was going to be playing a Gameboy or PSP, not reading a book.

Po Sin had smiled when Xing, an infamous back-stabbing two-faced queen-bee, universally hated by all the second-grade girls and the entire female faculty, came on stage as a fairy or a tree or a rainbow or something, and applauded after she got out her line.

I'd leaned close and told him how cute she was, and he'd looked at me and shook his head.

—She's a terror, an absolute bitch. But yeah, she's cute as hell.

We talked a little during the cookies and punch segment of the evening. He'd told me his business. I'd mentioned that my roommate needed someone to dispose of his biowaste.

He and Chev hit it off, and Chev would come home and give reports about what Po Sin was cleaning while I corrected papers. Tales of hand-scrubbing each piece of ballast along two hundred yards of rail bed after a train strike on a junkie, delivered as I put small red marks in the margins of phonics tests and
What I Did for Kwanzaa
essays.

He looked me up after I quit. To say what, I don't know. I didn't answer the phone or listen to the message he left. Something about Xing, I imagine.

Later, when he'd come by the shop to pick up Chev's waste, and see me hanging, he'd say some nice things. At first. Then he started making some suggestions about how I might want to, I don't know, get some help or
some other kind of daytime talk show bullshit. When that weed didn't take root in me, he stopped talking about it. For a long time. Then he got used to the idea of me being a dick and started treating me like normal and telling me I was acting like an asshole fuckup, which was a whole hell of a lot easier on both of us.

And now I was working for him. Acquiring new job skills. The mystic arts of erasing all signs of death. These things, these things you do to get by when need arises, they sometimes equip you for the rest of your life. However long that turns out to be.

There was a rattle overhead. I looked up and watched a small flock of sparrows as they hopped and scratched across the fronds of a palm tree growing from the neighbor's dense yard, pecking at some kind of tidbit that had come to rest up there. A crow flapped down from the power line, scattering most of them, cawing, its action drawing the attention of several members of the murder that made the street home. I leaned over and picked up a rock and pitched it into the tree and watched the crows wing off to look for easier fodder in the alley dumpsters down the street. The sparrows came back.

I got up and closed the tailgate and went upstairs, dragging my hand over the stucco wall of the complex as I walked down the second-floor exterior walkway, listening to stereos and TV shows and arguments and yip-ping dogs behind the doors of our neighbors. I unlocked the front door and walked in and looked at the girl whose nipple I'd stretched the day before at the shop, sitting on the couch in her panties and Chev's favorite Misfits T, with one of my books open in her lap.

She looked up.

—Oh, it's the dick.

Chev walked in, pulling on his boxers, tattoos scattered over his body, thickest at the ends of his limbs, thinning as they approached his torso.

He hoisted a tallboy of Miller at me.

—Hey it's the breadwinner.

He dropped on the couch next to the girl.

—This is Dot.

Dot made room for him next to her.

—Yeah, I already said hi.

She held up the big purple and gold book she'd been flipping through.

—So did you really teach over at Hollywoodland Elementary? These kids are so cute.

I walked over and took the book from her and closed it and went to the shelf and found its space with the other yearbooks and slipped it in where it belonged and turned and stared at Chev.

He rubbed his shoulder.

—Sorry, man, I didn't know she was looking at that.

Dot looked at him, at me.

—What? I like kids. What?

Chev got up and walked toward the kitchen.

—Hey good news, working man, you got a FedEx package from Oregon. And it's not berries.

He grabbed a FedEx envelope from the table and scaled it to me. I caught it and headed for my room.

Dot smiled.

—Sorry about looking at your book. I just finished my first year at UCLA in the education department. I was curious. I didn't know you were a teacher.

Chev opened the fridge.

—Told you she was eighteen.

She made a face as I walked past her.

—Oh. My. God. What the fuck is that smell?

I took a long shower. A very long shower. And then I took another one. Longer this time. And then I splashed myself with some of Chev's Old Spice. And a little more. Then I went in my room and turned on my fan and opened my window and tried not to breathe through my nose and prayed that the stink wouldn't get into my bedding and the carpet. And after about a half hour I finally grew something resembling a brain and gathered my dirty clothes and bagged them and took them down to the laundry room, ignoring the various squeals and grunts coming from Chev's room as I passed his door.

Back in my room I opened the FedEx envelope and shook out the bills and an assortment of change.

$567.89. And, true to form, no note. Not that I'd asked for one.

Under certain circumstances, the odd amount would mean Mom had sent whatever was lying around, but that wasn't the case here.

Five hundred.

Sixty.

And seven dollars.

Eighty.

And nine cents.

Five six seven eight nine, an ascending numerical sequence. Sent specifically to bring me luck, to raise my spirits, to lift my fortunes.

I'm lucky there wasn't a crystal pyramid in the envelope.

Five hundred sixty-seven and eighty-nine cents. Enough to cover the new phone, buy some groceries and pay off some of the IOUs on the fridge.

I thought about what I'd do the next day. Sleep in. Have some coffee. Pick up around the place, clean the tub. Go do some grocery shopping. Maybe hit the bookstore for a few novels. Get the latest issue of
Femmes Fatale.
Stop by the shop. Have lunch. Buy a couple DVDs. Come home and have some dinner. Watch a movie. And in bed by seven. Just like pretty much every day this last year. Any day when I had money, that is.

I thought about it. How nice and mellow it would be. A day to myself after having to be around people and be at Po Sin's beck and call and hear all his shit.

Yeah, a
me
day as a reward for all that hard work.

I picked up the handset from the phone I'd brought into the bedroom.

—Clean Team.

—Hey it's Web.

—Yeah?

—You find anyone for tomorrow?

—Why?

—Nothing.

—Didn't get any money from mommy today?

—No.

—Well, you want to work, all you got to do is say so.

—I want to work.