Payton Hidden Away (3 page)

There is no bell as I enter the hotel,
but the door squeaks as though it’s straight out of a horror movie where the
bellhop is some dead guy with birds eating his face. The girl at the front desk
looks up and snaps her gum. She’s just a kid. “Help you?” she asks as she sets
down the Vogue magazine she’s reading.

“I wasn’t sure
you were open,” I answer with a half smile.

She just snaps
her gum. “We’re always open.”

It was clearly a
joke that she clearly didn’t understand.

“I need a room.”

She frowns and
starts typing on her computer. “Just you?”

“Me, myself and
I.”

She looks up,
chews with boredom, and looks back down. “Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non.”

“One night?”

I frown. “I’m
not really sure. Does it matter?” I look around. “I mean…does it matter?”

“For my
computer.”

I shrug. “It’ll
probably be a few days. How about through Sunday?”

She stops
chewing and looks up. “On purpose?”

I frown.

She snaps her
gum again, rolls her eyes, and starts typing.

The silence is
awful, and I feel compelled to fill it. “I used to live here.”

“I’m sorry.”

I chuckle. “You
love your job, don’t you?”

“More than life
itself.” She types some things into the computer that looks straight out of the
90s, clicks her mouse, and chews on her lip. “Cash or credit?”

I hand over the
plastic followed by more typing. Finally she sends something to a dot matrix
printer. I haven’t seen a dot matrix printer since high school, yet there it
is, sliding back and forth, chirping and hissing as it tediously prints one
line after another. She tears the page off, circles the ‘X’ next to ‘Customer
Signature’ and slides it across the worn countertop.

I sign.

She hands me a
key. Not a keycard. An actual brass key. “Room 16,” she says. “All the way at
the end. Past the ice machine.” She sniffs, wiping her nose on her wrist. “The
maid comes at ten, so if you don’t want her in your room, hang the sign on the
knob.”

I take the key
and I’m about to turn when I wonder aloud, “am I the only customer here?”

She’d already
picked up her magazine again. She doesn’t even look at me. “No.”

“No?”

“There’s
another.”

I look around at
the dilapidated interior before bending down and picking up my bag. “Love what
you’ve done with the place.”

This time she
does smile, but it’s an ironic smile ebbed with little humor. “Enjoy your
stay.”

I nod with a
smirk and walk out. I park the rental outside 16 and unload. The room smells like
carpet shampoo, so I open the drapes and prop the door open to let fresh air
in. Then I switch on the AC, which grunts and groans before finally leveling
off and spewing cool air into the tiny room. I flop down on the bed, kick off
my shoes and wiggle my toes inside my sweaty socks. The cool air feels good,
and as I lay sprawled across the bed, I figure things could be worse. I haven’t
been back home in so long that maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. I’m actually
somewhat curious about seeing Kristine again. After all, she was my first.
Suddenly curious, I scrounge around until I find a phonebook tucked in the
bedside drawer. Sure enough, she’s listed under ‘Lambert,’ which means she’s
not married. The number is local, indicating she moved from Lawton to this side
of the crick. I recognize the street name she’s listed on, but I don’t remember
where it is.

The open door
seems to be inviting me outside, and as I stare beyond the interior of this
tired room into the world out there, I begin to wonder what lies beyond, what’s
changed, and what’s still the same. I put my shoes back on, pocket the key,
lock the door and hesitate.

Home.

I could drive,
but I’d rather walk. Besides, my legs need stretching, and it feels good to
walk the same sidewalks I walked as a kid. After awhile I even start to feel
better despite the clouds rolling in overhead. The air is saturated with
moisture. It was always humid here in the summertime, but that was part of the
charm. Freeze in the winter, sweat in the summer. It’s all so familiar, and
it’s all good. Small-town good. The people, the smells, the lawns, the shops,
the houses. I remember all of it. The cracks in the sidewalk, the cracks in the
roads—my town. It’s not beautiful or even quaint. It’s a dump that should be
bulldozed, but it’s still my home.

And me? I am the
epitome of Payton County. They say no one leaves; no one gets out. But I did,
and now I’m back, reaffirming all those hand-painted signs that hang in the
spotless windows of eccentric tourist shops proclaiming ‘
Home Is Where The
Heart Is
.’ If Atlanta isn’t ‘me,’ then maybe Payton is. I’ve got savings. I
could sell all my stuff I left back there and start over here. I could blend in
quite easily, perching myself on that bell-curve, getting wrinkled and going gray
until everything I forgot either comes back or I ultimately disappear.

“Tony? You comin’?” He has to
holler to get his voice to carry. I look up, squinting against the glare of the
noonday sun before waving him off and returning my attention to the clear brook
beside me. Sunlight reflects off the water as though from a mirror. Ritchie is
about a hundred paces up the path from the other side of the stream, hands on
hips, his pale face snow white against the bright sunlight. He’s my best
friend, but this is one of those moments that I’d rather he’d do me the
courtesy of using his indoor voice so I can enjoy the simple solitude of the
gurgling stream.

“Tony?”

I ignore him,
running my fingers through the chilly water, the sun warming my shoulders. When
I look closer at the liquid glass rolling lazily past, I can see the minnows
hovering in space. They’re still—as if waiting, appearing almost hypnotized,
moving only slightly now and then to dodge a twig or something flowing
downstream. They’re frozen in time without much on their little zombie-like
minds, and in many ways I envy them. Nothing is simpler than black on white.

“Yo, Triple A,”
Ritchie calls, clumsily retracing his steps.

I really don’t
feel like talking much. Four beers under the hot sun will do just about anyone
in, and now that I’ve had an hour to revel in the artificial buzz that’s
beginning to morph into a headache, I’m feeling somewhat introspective and not
terribly social. But Ritchie is trying to drag me back to reality by poking at
my mounting headache with nagging persistence, and I can’t help but wonder if
my melancholy has something to do with Kristie Lambert.

“What’s goin’
on?” Ritchie asks from the other side of the stream. “You comin’ or what?”

“I don’t feel
like it anymore,” I answer, just wanting to sit.

Ritchie stops
and frowns. “Why?”

“You go on
ahead,” I say. “I’ll catch up.”

“When?”

“When I feel
like it.”

Ritchie looks at
me like I’m nuts. “Come on, you know better than to make me cross that log
more’n once, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

“What’s the big
deal? Just go on without me.”

“If you don’t
get on your feet pronto, I can assure you I will
not
be a happy camper.”

“Go,” I insist,
shooing him away.

“I can’t go by
myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” When
I don’t say anything else, Ritchie frowns, puts his hands on his hips and
spits. “I wasn’t invited.”

“My point
exactly.”

“Don’t make me
beg, man. And what’s the matter with you? There’s gonna be girls there.”

“You’ll be
fine.”

“The hell I
will. You know that’s not my forty.”

“Forte,” I
correct.

“Number one,” he
continues, undeterred. “Kristie’ll be there, and if she’s there, her sister’ll
be there, which means you gotta be there to take my back. Number two, both the
towns of Lawton and Payton is gonna be there except for you if you chicken out,
and number three, I’m your best friend, and best friends help their buddies
out.”

I just sit
there.

“I need your
help.”

“I got a
headache from those beers you made me drink,” I grumble.

“It was two
beers.”

“Four.”

“Four beers. Big
deal.”

I clamp my mouth
closed, glaring.

“Come on, bro,”
Ritchie begs. “I can’t go without you.” 

Sighing audibly,
I shake my head, groan and stand. Carefully wiping the grass from the backside
of my jeans, I make my way toward the rotted log that serves as a makeshift
bridge over the water. “I’m not your bro.”

“I’m the closest
thing you’re ever gonna have to one.”

“That’s still
not all that close,” I mumble.

I stare at the
log stretched across the stream. Unless you’re willing to take off your shoes
and roll up your jeans, the only way to cross the Old Beaver is a three-million
year old tree that fell across it forever ago. There’s a town-wide bet on when
the termites will win the war and collapse Beaver Crossing as we’ve come to
know it.

“Come on,”
Ritchie coaxes.

The Old Beaver
serves as the dividing line between the towns of Payton and Lawton, and since
neither Ritchie nor I come from money, it’s our only way to cross without
walking the ten blistering miles around.

I hesitantly
test the log with my foot. Ritchie made it across, and he’s a lot heavier than
me, so the odds are in my favor that it’ll hold. Using my arms to balance, I
take a timid step forward, one foot in front of the other.

“You’re such a pussy,”
Ritchie complains. “Grow a pair.”

“You are more than
welcome to go on by yourself if you’re in such a hurry,” I answer. “My balance
sucks.” Ritchie throws a small pebble at me, and I waver—nearly falling in.
“Cut it out!” I shout. “You do that again, and I’ll kick your butt.”

Ritchie smiles.
“In your dreams.”

Another step
forward. The water running underfoot is deep. Four feet or more. A slip here,
and I might as well call it a night and go home rather than show up at a party
smelling like the Beaver. Another pebble hits me, this time in the face.
Ritchie is laughing as I waver and nearly take a cold plunge.

“I swear…”

Ritchie giggles
as he hurls another pebble my way. It zings past my face, making me incensed,
but before I can get too mad, he turns around, drops his pants to shows me the
dark side of his moon.

Sometimes I
wonder why I hang out with him at all. Then again, Ritchie is Ritchie. For
better or worse. I can’t stand hypocrisy, and neither can he. He’s about as
genuine as a person can get. What you see is what you get, and while I was
right when I said he wasn’t my brother, he was just as right when he said he
was the closest thing to one I’d ever have.

I step off the
other side of Beaver Crossing and shove him with the underside of my shoe even while
he’s still hunched over and giggling with his pants down and his hairy butt
waving in the sunlight. He stumbles forward and falls face first into the
weeds. Pulling his pants up, he’s less than amused as he gets to his feet. “Now
I got dirt all over me.”

“You really
think a little dirt will make much of a difference?”

“I can’t let
Joanne see me like this.”

“Good,” I
mutter, looking back across the stream toward Payton. “Can we go home now?”

He frantically
wipes at the dirt on his knees. “What’s it gonna take to get her to like me?”
He continues swatting at his pant leg. “It’s like she sees me and goes the
other way.”

“Maybe if you
sneak up on her, put a bag over her head and suffocate her,” I suggest, turning
toward Lawton which is visible in the distance, though the heat of the
afternoon makes it look like it’s wavering under water. I begin trudging along
the game trail toward town.

“It’s ‘cause I’m
ugly, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, Rich,
you’re not ugly, and it’s not my decision. Joanne likes you as a friend. Just
be happy she’s okay with you hanging around. Who knows what might happen down
the road.”

“Why you always
gotta be so vulgar?” he snaps.

“What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“You know how I
feel about you taking His name in vain.”

I shake my head.
“I don’t get you. You have the filthiest mouth in town, yet you get your
panties in a wad anytime anyone says anything.”

“It’s just that
there’s a difference. There are good bad words and bad bad words. My dad taught
me.”

“You hate your
dad.”

“That don’t make
him wrong.”

This is the hard
part of being friends with a guy like Ritchie. Most people think he’s the life
of the party, and a lot of the time he is, but all they see is a big teddy
bear. And while I love him like a brother, taking care of myself is hard enough
without having to drag him around as my sidekick. It’s like he can’t have fun
unless I’m there, yet one tiny little slip—a bit a blasphemy—and he goes
ballistic.

“Sorry,” I
mutter. “Won’t happen again.”

Ritchie looks at
me as though he might kill me before shrugging, turning his back and slumbering
toward Lawton. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”

I follow but
from a distance. I’ve upset him. “Sorry, man.”

“I said forget
it.”

I catch up.
“Seriously, are we cool?”

He hesitates
before turning. The sun is behind him, the shadows hiding his face. He stands
there for a second, his face hard. Then he lurches out and socks me in the arm.
Which hurts. I’m rubbing the pain out when he breaks into a grin and slaps me
on the shoulder. And that’s how friends are, I guess. Argue, fight, whatever.
All it takes is a moment to pull everything together, and we’re suddenly best
buds again, sharing secrets and talking shit. Except we’re not talking. We’re
walking side by side with him lost in thought, and for Ritchie Hudson, that is
no small feat. He’s not a big fan of thinking. He’d rather react. Like the time
he stole a car because it seemed like ‘fun,’ or the time he lit a tree on fire
because he was mad at the neighbors for blowing all the fall leaves back into
the Hudson’s front yard. Ritchie exudes drama, but he doesn’t fully understand
it. It’s just the way he operates.

“What are you
thinking?” I ask.

“Nothin’.”

“You’re thinking
something.”

“I ain’t.”

“Come on. What
is it?”

“Stop it. You’re
antagonisticking me.”

I shake my head.
“Antagonizing, stupid.”

He shoves me,
and I go sprawling, nearly doing a face plant. I bust up laughing, but he just
frowns. He was right, though. I was antagonizing him. I know darn well he’s
thinking about Joanne—Kristie’s twin sister. Both are blond bombshells with
blue-eyes, a perfect rack and legs that go all the way up. They epitomize the
all-American girl, and I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be dating Kristie.
She could have had anyone, and for some reason she picked me. Richie hasn’t
been as lucky. He thinks the world of Jo, but she feels indifferent toward him.

Joanne is
unique. She’s as pretty as her sister, but different in a million and a half
ways. Legally, she’s deaf which has made her the butt of everyone’s joke since
grade school. Now that she’s ‘sprouted,’ guys want to think she’s just like her
sister even though all they see is the clumsy little girl with no depth
perception who used to run into trees and flagpoles on the playground. She was
finally fitted with a headband a few years ago called a ‘bone conducting
hearing aid,’ and while her hearing is far from perfect, she can at least
participate in conversations now. She never learned to read lips very well, she
still slurs her words when she talks, and sometimes you need to repeat
yourself, but I think she’s awesome. She’s a total dork that doesn’t take crap
from anyone. And she’s smart too. The problem is, Ritchie doesn’t like her
because she’s pretty or smart. Ritchie seems to like her because she’s the only
girl in two towns who doesn’t give a shit about baseball.

And that’s the
other thing. Ritchie’s the starting pitcher for the Payton Pirates, and he’s
good. As in amazingly good. His ERA this year is .63, which is insane at any
level, but what makes it even more impressive is that his outfield is terrible.
He’s practically doing it all by himself. It’s either strike them out at the
plate or keep the ball on the infield. He’s already smashed every record in the
entire state. Every girl knows him, and most of them like him, but because
Joanne doesn’t, she’s become the only girl he’ll ‘settle’ for.

“Just try being
a little less you,” I suggest.

“What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“You know
exactly what it means.”

He frowns. “I
don’t get it. What’s so wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong
with you. Just relax.”

I guess that’s
why we’re best friends. I’m the brains. Ritchie’s the brawn. Ritchie relies
upon me to make sense of the world, women and everything else the way I rely
upon him to sort out the more obvious decisions such as how to not get my ass
kicked when I say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

“You’re around
her more’n me,” Ritchie says as we make our way through the tall grass of the
field. “Does she ever say anything?”

“I don’t want to
talk about it anymore. Beside, I think she’s seeing someone.”

Ritchie stops
and turns—a sour expression on his face. It’s an expression I know well, and
secretly fear. When he looks at you like that, he means business. “Who?”

I shrug. “I have
no idea. It’s not like I hang out with him. I’m just saying.”

“I knew it.” He
shakes his head. “I mean, I didn’t know it, but I
knew
it.”

“It’s not like
she’s engaged or anything,” I say in a casual attempt to undo what my stupid
mouth has already done.

Now he’s upset.
Lawton is less than a half-mile away. We’ll be there in under ten minutes just
as the sun is setting, and Ritchie, the big lug, is lumbering ahead, head down,
his slouch emphasizing his disappointment.

“Relax, Rich.
It’ll all work out.”

“Doubtful.”

Ritchie has his
share of problems, but when it comes to girls, he’s as innocent as a spring rain.
I love him for who he is—his excitement over the dumb stuff, his seriousness
over baseball, his disregard for authority, his color blindness as it pertains
to race, his ability to shrug off pressure, his adoration for women, his
misperception for how things really work, and his sometimes impish, sometimes
simple take on life. And I guess that’s why I sometimes also fear him. For the
same reasons. Ritchie is Ritchie. For better or worse.