THE GOLD FISH: Darkness (2.11)

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Barbie was coming to the sad realization that her hip hugger tailoring and embroidery business was finished before it even began.

Although Karen and Shay had each, as promised, paid her $1.50 to lower and embellish their Landlubber jeans (Karen had chosen a rainbow of cross hatches and Shay, a winding line of flowers), as sales people, they had proven to be woefully inept. Pathetic, really. Barbie couldn’t help but think that if they really tried, really put their backs into it, her business would have thrived. But no, the two had brought in only one potential customer, a vacant faced girl named Grace, who had shown up at the Ward door, jeans in hand, ready for her “fitting.” Which could have been a fine start, but for one complication. Grace had already outgrown said pair of jeans and even after a lengthy explanation, still couldn’t quite grasp why Barbie was unable to make a cool new pair of hip huggers out of pants that no longer fit.

This simple communication gap -- a gap that could have easily been filled if Karen and Shay had simply explained to potential customers that pants needed to start out bigger for them to be made tighter and lower -- was enough for Karen and Shay to give up, claiming the job was beat and annoying. It was so complicated, they had cried. And no matter how much Barbie pleaded and begged, they couldn’t be convinced to try harder.

You want to talk about beat and annoying, Barbie had thought, how about the fact that she’d re-invested the $3 earned from Karen and Shay into more embroidery thread, and now all she had to show for her efforts were sore fingers and the same $6.27 she’d started with! It was all she could do not the throw her beautiful new stash of embroidery thread on the floor and stomp on it.

So when Bridge showed up at the door suggesting a walk to 7-11, Barbie was all too eager to agree. A walk and a secret smoke was just the ticket to take her mind off her revenue generation problems.

A half hour later, the two girls lounged on the side of the Tunnel’s litter-filled slope, passing one of Bridge’s dad’s Tiparillo cigarettes between them.

Bridge pinched the butt of the cigarette between her index finger and thumb, took one last drag, then flicked it away. She squinted at Barbie through the smoke. “I like what you did to Shay’s pants. S’cool.”

At this moment, Barbie couldn’t bear to talk about her failed business venture. It was too soon, the pain too fresh. But she managed to mutter, “thanks Bridge. Creativity wants out, I guess.”

Bridge snorted in reply, then fished a pair of purple clackers out of her pocket. Holding the metal circle at the center of the string connecting the balls, she started bouncing gently, before increasing her speed. Soon, to her delight, the hard plastic balls were meeting at the top and the bottom of their orbit with a satisfying clack. But when she looked up to make sure Barbie was watching, her concentration wavered, and the balls flew every which way.

“Crap!”

“You had it. Just go easy next time,” encouraged Barbie.

“Nah. My arm’s tired. You try.” She tossed the balls at Barbie, but the string connecting them wrapped around her arm and sent one of the balls banging painfully into her wrist.

“Ow! Bridge!”

Bridge laid back on the slope and studied the clouds. “Yeah. You gotta watch it. Those things are dangerous. I heard a kid over in Dundalk knocked himself in the head and died.”

Barbie froze in her own attempt to get the balls going. “Really?!”

“It’s what I heard. But who knows?”

Barbie nodded, then started the clackers going again, this time with her arm stretched as far away from her body as possible.

“I can’t believe school starts tomorrow.”

“So beat,” agreed Bridge. Apparently, beat was the word of the day.

Barbie sighed. “Wish we were still going to be in the same school.”

“Me too. It’s just for a year. And then we’ll be back together again.”

 “I’m not going to know anybody.”

“You’ll know a few kids.” Bridge flashed her fangs, “like Donna Pickles.”

“Oh jeez.” Barbie dropped the clackers to her side.

“Wish someone would knock her in the head with a pair of clackers,” said Bridge, before getting to her feet, grabbing the clackers out of Barbie’s hand, and stuffing them into her pocket. “C’mon. Let’s hit Woolworth’s one last time.” She waggled her five-finger-discount fingers devilishly, then ducked into the Tunnel.

“Oh jeez,” said Barbie, following her friend into the darkness. Given her mood and the absence of other opportunities, what else was there to do?

:::

Mr. Charles snapped off the television. He’d been watching a rerun of Hawaii Five-O, but it was failing to hold his interest. Not only had he seen the episode before and knew exactly how McGarrett and Danno were going to get their guy, there was a disturbing image he couldn’t quite shake from his head.

He’d been out taking Trixie for her last walk of the day, and was coming up the sidewalk in the growing darkness when he’d spied Don and a bushy haired man on the Ward’s front porch. No big whoop, as the kids would say, but you didn’t need to be Steve McGarrett to know their furtive exchange of a thick envelope was a whoop. A very big whoop indeed.

Oh for Pete’s sake, Mr. Charles berated himself. Stop your housewife-y meddling! You’re acting like Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched! Can’t you mind your own beeswax and leave well enough alone?

But he couldn’t leave well enough alone. Because this wasn’t the first time he’d seen that bushy haired man with Don. He’d seen them together a few times these past couple of weeks, and even though he had no idea what was in those envelopes, he didn’t need to have ESP to know it wasn’t bundt cake recipes. Besides, did furtive exchanges of envelopes ever bode well? Especially for those who were unaware of them. Like surely, Don’s wife and girls. It made him sick just to think about it.

Mr. Charles had always had a special affection for Red and worried about her constantly, but ever since the day Joan had let him help her with the lawn mowing, a new feeling had been growing inside him. For Joan. He had seen a different side to her. A strangely compelling combination of resigned toughness and hopeless fragility that made him want to protect her. Sooth her. Care for her.

It was ridiculous! Stupid! Insane! Just where, exactly, did he think these feelings, these impulses, were going to lead? No where good, that’s where. If he were a smart man -- and right now, that was debatable -- he should face the music. And realize his best course of action might be to move on from Pitney Road. Before he -- like Mrs. Kravitz -- really put his foot in it.

:::

Don sat at one of the black Naugahyde bar chairs next to the matching bar in the basement, blinking in disbelief. Monday Night Football had just ended, and a growing darkness was starting to fill the edges of his vision, threatening to consume him.

What the heck had just happened? The Houston Oilers, who had been on fire against the St. Louis Cardinals last week and the Green Bay Packers the week before, had just lost to the Vikings 26 to 14. Because of four field goals?! And a last minute 93-yard drive by Fran Tarkenton, who’d spent the first 3 quarters on the bench?! No, no, no. This was not what Don was counting on. Not what he’d bet on. Goddamnit to hell. He’d been so sure the Oilers would take it, even without the 3 point spread. But inconceivably, they had lost.

And with that loss, his recent winning streak had come to a record-scratching halt. He had been up $500 on pre-season games. $500!! And now it was all gone. Poof. Gonzo. If it wasn’t for the extra $80 he got from Wolfman for this weekend’s pools -- thank the heavens for Wolfman’s football pools! -- he would be majorly in the hole. Goddamnit to hell!

With a curse, he drained the last dregs of his “Seven and Seven,” a favored cocktail made from Seagram’s Seven Crown whiskey and 7-Up. This was probably his sixth or seventh of the evening, but who’s counting? Not him, that’s for sure. Especially after this crushing defeat. And boy-oh-boy did he need another. To dull the pain. Both from the unbearable tension that had grown in his neck and back as the last quarter of the game had gone to hell AND the resulting emotional pain of losing his previous winnings.

So yes, he would have another. Deserved to have another. But the thought of hauling himself up the stairs to the kitchen for more ice made him want to weep. It was just too much.

Then, as luck would have it, Don remembered that stashed behind the bar was a sequestered bottle of Cutty Sark scotch, which he reserved for dramatic late night “ta-da” moments. Like when he played poker with his best buddies, Russ, Mel, and Tom, and fueled by copious amounts of alcohol and laughter, started ignoring their previously agreed upon betting limits and with careless daredevilry started making last ditch, all-or-nothing bets to build epic pots worth winning. The kind of pots that, in ONE HAND, could erase an entire night of losses OR conversely (but also curiously thrilling) demolish an entire night of wins. That was when Don brought out the Cutty. And honestly, he thought, wasn’t this one of those moments?

He wrenched himself off the barstool and headed around to the back of the bar to retrieve the bottle and a fresh rocks glass. He poured himself two fingers, neat, and downed it. Then poured two more. And two more. And so on.

It was the last thing he remembered.

Next → Worse Things (2.12)