Unhappy Woman

Me and my little brother, Isaac, sat in our living room on a Tuesday. By “little brother,” I don’t mean “little,” but more like “younger.” And by “younger,” I don’t mean much younger. Unfortunately for us, I’m talking thirty-six and forty.

You can imagine the pain. You can imagine what a person might’ve gone through in that amount of time. But you know what I like to say. Come on, you know what I like to say. I like to say, “Bring it on.” I like to say, “Put ‘em up, motherfucker, who’s your daddy?” You can imagine what trouble I’ve got into, talking to the world like that.

Isaac didn’t drink for four days to clean out his pipes. You can’t believe everything you read. What are you, a robot? You can’t believe what everybody tells you. You can’t buy what they’re selling. All this shit about toxins. Who came up with that? This shit about cirrhosis. What, you went to Harvard and now you run the world? You went to Johnny Hopkins, so you make the rules? Four days, gone. Four days of his life, writhing around like a pregnant spider, gone, just like that. Down the drain.

“Why don’t you have a tea with me?” he asked.

“Like a faggot?” I asked.

I was looking at a photograph on the fridge from when we were boys. It was me and Isaac, both on scooters, and an uncle from our dad’s side in the middle, bent at the knees, with a hand on each our shoulders. He grinned so hard it didn’t look real. His jeans were light and dirty. Looked honest. Looked giving, hung there by a billiards magnet.

“Didn’t he die bad?” I asked.

“Die bad?”

“Yeah, violent?”

“Did he die violently?” asked Isaac. “Not sure.”

“Went down hard,” I said. “Wasn’t there a lot of blood?”

“I don’t know, Mason,” he said.

“There was a lot of blood,” I said.

“Okay,” he said.

“A lot,” I said.

“All right.”

“Died bad,” I said.

“Well, I think that—”

“Died violent.”

“Right,” he said.

“Died a Christian,” I said.

“A good one.”

“A damn good one,” I said. “Give that guy a nickel and he’d give you a dime.”

“Right.”

“That’s just the kind of guy he was,” I said. “Shame what happened to him.”

“So, do you want a tea?”

“Like a faggot?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

“I’ll take a chamomile,” I said. “Then we’re going to Hoop’s.”

“I’m on my cleanse.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“I’m on my fourth day.”

“And your last day,” I said. “We’re going to Hoop’s.”

The pub’s name was Hoop’s because there was a plastic basketball hoop behind the bar. It had twine across it by then because people tried to get baskets, tried to throw shit through it, and knocked over some bottles, something top shelf, black label. We walked in and took two stools in the middle, so we could scam on chicks on either side if they came through. The bartender, Mike, gave us both Bud Lights without asking. His sister, Megan, was grisly but, of course, that hadn’t stopped me before. It also hadn’t stopped Isaac, on more than one occasion.

I saw her over at a high-top by the bathrooms and thought maybe I’d settle for her again. The thing was that last time she wanted to stay over, something about not wanting to drive hammered, and I don’t know where she got that sense of entitlement. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. She snored straight through eleven-thirty, missed her shift at Shady Street Market and got a warning. She brought it up every time she saw me. She also brought it up every time she saw Isaac because, for the life of her, she couldn’t keep straight who it had been that night.

In all seriousness, there was probably something wrong with her. Her face was a little Downsy, if you know what I mean—eyes were small and droopy, and smile was lippy. But what her mom did when she was pregnant is nobody’s business. What she did when she was pregnant is none of my business and those people need to get laid, too, I mean, it’s not like she’s got nothing downstairs. Isaac hated Megan since she called him an alcoholic because he drinks when he gets anxiety.

“Gah,” said Isaac, “here comes this fucking bitch.”

Megan slid off her stool and started toward us in a ripped tank top and some kind of high-heeled sneakers. I could make out the outline of a pack of menthols in her shorts pocket. Her hair was a different color than last time. I couldn’t remember what color it had been, but now it was copper and either longer or shorter.

“Look who it is,” she said. “The guy who almost got me fired.”

“Wasn’t me,” said Isaac.

“Oh, right,” she said, putting a grubby hand on my shoulder, “it was Mason.”

“I don’t run your life,” I said.

“My manager bitched me out,” she said. “He switched me to the nightshift for a week.”

“Right,” I said, “the week you didn’t come to Hoop’s. Those were the days.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she said.

Here’s the thing, is that I used to be engaged to Cassie Schneider and she used to call me “asshole” when she got angry, so that word makes me a little sensitive. It doesn’t turn me into a pussy or anything but when I get called “asshole” I think of that chain-smoking, freeloading bitch on her hands and knees in Gary Sutton’s trailer and her picture phone all full of videos of her taking it up the ass, which she never let me do, probably because mine was too big.

“You’re the asshole,” I said, and slammed down my empty glass. “Hey, Mikey!”

“Coming right up, Mason,” he said.

Megan didn’t let up. She slid five bucks over the bar and said, “Least I can do.”

“Not tonight, Megan,” I said. “It’s not gonna happen for you tonight.”

“What’s not gonna happen?” she asked, smiling. When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “How do you know?”

The door opened and a ten came in. No, an eleven. A fucking twelve. She didn’t look local. She was wearing a white leather jacket—way too classy for these chumps—and I didn’t waste any time. I walked right up to the girl and heard Megan call behind me, “Aren’t you gonna drink that?”

“I’ve got a seat for you,” I said to the twelve. “I’ve got a seat for you right over here.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said, glancing at the mostly empty bar.

I shooed Megan away, and the twelve sat on my left and Isaac on my right. She took off the white leather jacket and had on a pink tee shirt. She didn’t slump over like the rest of the town. She sat up nice and straight and ordered a Dark ‘n’ Stormy. That’s something with ginger beer, which Mike didn’t have on hand, so he asked her if ginger ale was fine, and she said she’d just have a Wild Turkey, and by now I’m rock hard.

“What’s your handle, girl?” I asked.

“What?” she asked.

“What do you go by?” I asked. “What’s your name?”

“Abigail.”

“Abigail what?” she stared back at me. “Like, I’m Mason Newey. Abigail what?”

“Borecki.”

“Check-y out that Borecki,” I said, scanning down her side. “I don’t think we have any Boreckis in town. Are you from around here?”

“What’s his name?” she asked, nodding toward Isaac.

“Him?” I asked. “That’s my brother.”

“What’s his name?” she asked again.

“Isaac,” I said. “That’s my brother. You don’t want my brother.”

“Didn’t say I did,” she said.

“That would be yeck-y, Borecki.”

“You’ve got the accent,” she said.

“What? West Virginia—”

“West Virginia,” she said.

“Do you like it?” I asked. “You like accents?”

“Some of them,” she said.

“You like my accent?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Keep talking.”

By now I’m thinking I’m in but something’s gotta be wrong with this girl because I’m not a bad-looking guy or anything, but she looked to be in her mid-twenties, and I didn’t have the dimples like Gary Sutton. I didn’t have Cassie like Gary Sutton. But Abigail was looking at me up and down, and she kept touching her earlobe which seemed like it meant something. Every time she did something with her hand, a bunch of orange bangles went crazy, like pennies in a can to train a dog, and she didn’t seem to notice. She slipped something into her pocket and spread all her fingers under the roots of her hair and zhuzhed it. She was blonde like Cassie but with a slimmer face.

“I’d like to peck-y you, Borecki,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Would peck-y the shit out of you,” I said. “Peck-y Borecki.”

“You live far?”

At this point, I couldn’t believe this was happening, and Megan was off by the pool table trying to hear what was going on. Any time I looked over, she looked away, and Isaac leaned over and said, “God, I wish we could just zap her.”

“He’s coming, too, right?” asked Abigail.

“We came in the same car,” I said. “We live in the same house.”

“That’s cool,” she said. “I’ll follow you.”

When me and Isaac got in the car, I watched her headlights flash on. I hit his shoulder with the back of my hand and said, “Can you believe this?”

“Yeah,” said Isaac. “This chick wants to get spit-roasted.”

“Not the case,” I said.

“Yeah, it is,” he said. “She wants one in front and one in back. I’m calling it right now.”

“She’s not like that,” I said. “She’s not easy. You saw her.”

“She asked if I was coming, too.”

“She likes me,” I said. “Wingman me.”

“Sure,” he said. “Fine.”

“And I get the master,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hope she’s not late for her shift at Shady Street tomorrow.”

“I swear to God,” I said, “if you compare her to Megan—”

 “She’s not like Megan,” said Isaac. “Megan never got spit-roasted.”

“Not by us,” I said.

“Not by us.”

“Well,” I said, “if that’s what she wants—”

“No.”

 “You saw that chick.”

 “I’m not drunk enough to even be having this conversation,” he said.

 “I will do anything,” I said, “even if you’re in the room. Hey, if that’s what it takes.”

 “You’ve got a low self-esteem,” said Isaac.

 “She’s a twelve,” I said. “Anyone would.”

Back at the house, Abigail sat in the middle of the couch and said she was “cold,” so I brought her one of my sweatshirts, which she said “smelled good.” She held a beer between her thighs and braided her hair to the side and told us about the “business” she runs.

“All from home,” she said. “I do everything from home.”

“You sell cleaning products?” asked Isaac.

“And smoothie mix,” she said.

“Smoothie mix?” he asked. “You mean fruit?”

She touched my leg with her forearm, and it could’ve been an accident, but then she started begging Isaac to sit on the other side of her, like, kept saying “please.” And then when he gave in and sat down, she touched his leg, too, and he looked over at me like, “I told you so.” And I was like, wow, he called that. So be it. Better than Megan. Better than nothing.

“Do you guys have a lot of girls over?” asked Abigail.

“Not really,” I said. “Does anyone call you Abby?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but I don’t like it.”

“Are you trying to get double-teamed?” asked Isaac.

“What?”

“’Cause it feels like you are,” he said, “and that’s not my thing.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” she said, laughing.

But she said it in a way where you could tell she did know what it means, and she went to the fridge to get herself another beer and asked, “Does anyone need anything?” like some kind of hot Betty Crocker. I liked that. Cassie used to be like that when people came over, getting up and getting them beers and heating up a frozen pizza or wings or something.

“I’m all set,” said Isaac.

“We’ll both take another,” I said. “Thanks.”

Isaac rolled his eyes at me, and I looked at him as if to say, “We’re fucking doing this.”

Our mom, when she was still kicking around, watched 7^th Heaven through her fingers on that same couch, always saying, “That’s retarded!” after every punchline, but never turning it off. That was before she kicked the cooler out from under herself. She and Cassie got along great, always smoking together and yelling at me. Cassie didn’t make it to the services and if you ask me that’s probably what did it for me. That’s when I should’ve left that ungrateful bitch. Don’t get me wrong, I could get her back. Even after she said she was moving to Gary’s, she gave me a look like she wanted me to fight for us, like she didn’t want me to let her walk out alive. If you saw her face, you’d know what I’m talking about.

“How about jaeger?” asked Abigail. “You’ve got jaeger.”

I looked at Isaac and he shook his head. Abigail took off the sweatshirt, bunched it up, and put it on the table next to her white leather jacket. She came back, walking between her hips, pinching three shooters by their centers and a half-gone bottle.

“Perfect,” I said.

And I forgot how sweet it was. A drop got on Abigail’s pink shirt, and she said “oops” and chicks only say “oops” when they’re putting on a show. Am I wrong? It’s a slutty thing to say. Am I wrong? Anyway, it was looking more and more like it was gonna happen and Isaac was leaning into the armrest of the couch like he was trying to get away from her.

“Why are you so far away?” she asked him.

“Yup,” I said, “check-y out that Borecki.”

I smacked her right below the ass since nothing seemed over the line at this point. She took a big sip right out of the bottle and asked for music. Isaac looked at me and I looked back at him, and he said, “Fine,” and went over to the stereo and put on some Travis Tritt. Abigail, dancing in front of us, kept pulling her top up to the underwire of her bra then pulling it back down.

“I fucking told you,” said Isaac.

“Lean into it,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Twelve,” I said low. “She’s a twelve.”

“I can hear you,” she said.

“Sorry,” me and Isaac both said.

The dance kept going, and when it got to the Bobby played his hometown part, she unbuttoned her jeans. Her underwear was blue, and I went to elbow Isaac like “check her out,” but he was too far away on the couch. She put her thumbs in the front of her jeans and pulled so more of her underwear came out. She paused to take her socks off by lifting each leg like a flamingo.

  “Hey,” I said, “you look like a flamingo.”

She dropped her socks on the rug and kept dancing on top of them. She clasped her hands together and was swinging them over her head, then pulled out her braid and shook her hair loose. Little waves stayed behind.

“You’re really rocking out,” I said.

She turned around and inched back toward me, turning to check how close she was, then put a leg on either side of my knees and stuck her ass out. Thumbs in her jeans, she pulled them down a little more, and the blue underwear went with them so I could see a little of her ass crack and her tailbone poking out above it.

“Check-y out that Borecki!”

She went back to her socks on the floor, like they were her mark, and the song ended and the next one came on. At the part where it said just wanna grab you, baby, she pulled her jeans down six inches and had this big, green bruise on her upper thigh.

“Look, guys,” said Isaac, “bedroom is right there. I’ll get out of here for a bit and—”

“Bedroom?”

Abigail picked up the bottle of jaeger and poured it on Isaac’s cargo shorts, which seemed aggressive, but as he stood up, she got on her knees and started licking the stains. It was a strange move, but he stopped and let her keep going, and I was like, Jesus, that worked. I reached for the hem of her shirt, and she slapped me away and didn’t look at me.

“What the fuck is going on?” I asked. “What do you think this is?”

Then she looked like she might go off the deep end. She looked at the wall like it’d save her life, wrestled her jeans six inches back up over the bruise, then stood to zip and button them. She looked less beautiful now. Somehow, all her lipstick was gone. I was hoping we could lighten up the situation and get on with things. Isaac had hit some ugly nerve and now the song seemed kinda sad, looking at her.

She said, “I don’t wanna—” then started crying loud, and me and Isaac looked at each other then back at the shitshow.

Isaac said, “We didn’t ask you to—”

“I don’t wanna get married tomorrow,” she said.

She left her socks and shoes but took the jaeger and headed for the door. It slammed so hard behind her that it shook the fridge, making the picture of our uncle move. Me and Isaac went to the front door and looked through it to see if she’d come back but her car sped off in a permanent way. We looked at each other then back through the door.

“I brought her home and you hooked up with her,” I said.

“She licked jaeger off my shorts,” said Isaac.

“You let her,” I said.

“That’s not hooking up,” he said. “That’s not sex.”

“You’re only four years younger,” I said. “It’s not like I’m an old man.”

“I don’t think that—”

“It’s not like I’m an old man.”

“You’re not an old man,” he said.

“Okay, so, I’m not an old man,” I said. “Was it my personality you think?”

“She just licked jaeger—”

“Was it because I kept rhyming her last name you think?”

“I don’t know, man,” Isaac said.

“I said ‘check-y out that Borecki’ a lot,” I said.

“Yeah, that might’ve been it,” he said. “Definitely didn’t help.”

“Damn it,” I said. “Seemed like she was into it at the bar.”

“Also,” he said, “sounds like she might be getting married tomorrow.”

“Is that what you got from that?”

I looked down at the fixed split down the middle of the kitchen table where our dad had thrown our mom when we were boys. It wasn’t like he was a woman-beater or anything. She was just as hefty and could give it right back to him. She could pretty much hold him still if she got him underneath her. She broke his hand somehow after he got drunk at a buddy’s funeral. I think she slammed it in the door. He cried.

“Did Cassie ever come onto you like that?”

“What?”

“She did,” I said, “didn’t she?”

“That’s not even what we’re talking about.”

“I knew it,” I said. “That bitch.” Isaac didn’t say anything. “I just don’t get what you’ve got that I don’t.”

“It’s because I ignore them,” he said.

“That’s not it,” I said. “Women like attention.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“All right,” he said. “Maybe less rhyming with the next one.”

I hit the sheetrock and it caved in, leaving a crater that looked something like a glacier. Isaac went to the freezer and threw a bag of crushed ice on the table, which I opened and put my hand into.

“You want a tea?” he asked.

“Yeah, please,” I said, and didn’t cry.

I looked over at the couch where me and Cassie used to watch Tracey McBean with my feet on her lap. Now it was covered in jaeger. Abigail’s white leather jacket hung off the back of a kitchen chair like an Elvis bride. It was just us two again and, through the speaker, Travis asked, can I trust you with my heart? Isaac slid me a cup of tea, which I picked up with my good hand, and felt all the toxins running for their lives.