Squid Pulp Blues (3 page)

Grant looked at the television which was now showing footage of an army of spider crabs overrunning a battalion of troops. He turned away from it and faced the wall behind him. The wall shuddered and Grant’s eyes widened. He put his ear against it and listened. Something was going on in the next room; he could feel it. There were sounds, yes, but he could also smell something.

Fuck
it,
I
gotta
see what’s happening.

Grant turned off the television. He grabbed the Gideon’s Bible, stuck it in the door way so he wouldn’t need to bring his key, and walked out of the room. Looking into the window of Room 11, Grant felt his head turn into a balloon, floating up, up, up and away while he watched a woman drag herself across the motel room floor. For a few seconds he wondered why she was dragging herself. Did she break her legs? Is her wheelchair broken? No, he told himself. She had no feet.

Chapter Five

Dix and Henry left the bar after having a few more beers and playing a game of pool. Henry sunk the eight-ball and lost, cursing his luck though he was used to it when playing any sort of game. He told Dix, “I just got a lot on my mind.” His friend responded with a friendly nod.

While driving back to the motel, Dix said, “I ever tell you about my brothers?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Henry said.

“My brother Louis was in the army, Sam was in the Marines. Both younger than me, serious guys, you know the type who won’t loosen up unless they’re really, really drunk. Guess it’s from growing up in my house with my father never opening his mouth unless it was to criticize something, but anyway. Not many people outside of my family know this but Louis…..”

Dix gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. Henry saw this and said, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable with, you know.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Maybe it’s the beer, I don’t know. Makes me just want to talk about this shit, get it off my chest. My mother would kill me for sure if she knew I was talking about it but anyway whatever, when Louis came back he was, you know, different. I think he saw some shit there, something to do with those fucking freaks.” Dix pointed out the window toward a group of men with elongated heads who were stumbling about in front of a bicycle shop.

Henry said, “I wouldn’t fucking blame him, seeing that shit, guys coming back from the war all fucked up and disfigured like that and no one knows what happened to them. That’s got to fuck up anyone who sees that shit.”

“Yeah but he’s more than just stressed out or anything like that. I mean, he’s a fucking wreck, lives in our mother’s basement reading comics. Refuses to let anyone come in except Sam. Every week Sam brings him food, comics, and the newspaper.”

Henry said, “You should get him some help.”

“Yeah, I know but I don’t want to push the issue, have him go nuts and shot our mother and himself like those guys you hear about on the news.”

Henry was looking out the window, thinking about the situation from the perspective of someone who’s never had any desire to enlist in the army or become involved in any politics whatsoever. If suckers wanted to wave the flag and get killed, let them; Henry was concerned only with his day-to-day life which consisted mostly of surviving and looking out for the ever elusive “big score”. But now that he thought about it, he felt bad for those bastards who came back looking like
that
. No one should have to live out their days looking like those longheads out there.

Henry wasn’t really sure what the appropriate response would be, what words would soothe his friend’s anxiety.

He said, “Yeah, that’s fucked up, Dix, but what isn’t?”

*
                     
*
                     
*

Grant knew that what he was seeing wasn’t a product of the pills. Though he felt like his brain was frying, he was convinced the woman in the room was real. She had no feet which wasn’t so strange. Grant heard about amputees and had even seen some amputee porn; though, after viewing it he decided that it wasn’t his thing. The woman crawling on the floor didn’t have stumps. Her feet were cut cleanly at the ankles. And there was no blood.

Whenever Grant was put into this sort of position he usually went back to his own business and said, “Fuck it.” Whether it was the drugs or a blossoming conscience (he didn’t know which and didn’t feel like thinking about it), Grant decided to go over to the manager’s office of the motel and report what he saw. Then he got worried. What if the cops came? He was high as a kite. Still, he didn’t feel comfortable just ignoring it.

He ran to the other side of the parking lot to the office. Grant thought it was a depressing room. Pale yellow walls with decades old magazine clippings thumb tacked to them. A calendar that was months behind. Crumpled cans littered the floor. Grant looked at the guy reading a book behind the desk. He figured him to be no more than twenty-two or twenty-three.
 
No, he’s twenty-three, yeah, I think he looks about twenty-three. That sounds right.

Grant said, “Excuse me?”

The guy didn’t look up from his book. “Yeah?”

“Um, I think there’s a problem.”

“Who’re you?”

“Grant
Minissi
, room twelve,” he said and then added, “You the manager?”

The guy looked up from his book. Grant saw it was a thick comic book. He looked at the cover: a shadowy figure in a fedora hat; behind him stood a guy who looked like a punch drunk boxer.

Grant was never one for comics. He always said it was a waste of time but secretly knew the reason why he had an aversion to it. His parents never let him buy any comics or read the funny pages when he was growing up. When he became an adult, instead of reclaiming his youth and indulging in those childish pleasures, he went in the other direction and looked down on anything to do with them.

The guy behind the desk said, “Yeah, I’m Clark, the night manager. What’s the problem?” He still held the book open and though he was looking at it upside down, Grant could make out drawings of something that looked like a donkey. There was a girl, too, and some snow, blood, and black gloves.
What kind of comic was this? Where were the guys in tights flying around and shit?

Clark
said, “Hey. I said, what’s the problem?”

“Oh, uh, I think there’s something wrong with the woman in the room next to mine.”

Clark
’s eyes were back on his comic. With his fingers he traced the donkey. “Ah, Little Bing Bong.”

“What?”

Clark
looked up from the book. “Listen, I don’t ask a lot of questions when people check in here and I don’t really give a shit about what you saw because I can tell you’re fucked up right now. So unless you want trouble I suggest you just go back to your room and turn up the volume on the television and pretend the woman next door is just peachy. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He went back to reading his comic.

Grant said, “What the fuck is this? I’m telling you someone’s hurt.”

“You know how many junkies run to me telling me someone’s hurt or dying or screwing an alien or some shit? I’ll tell you. Too fucking many. Get the hell out of here, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re on, but go sleep it off.”

Giving up, Grant walked out of the office. He heard
Clark
say, “Oh, Little Bing Bong, you sweet son of a bitch,” and laugh maniacally, slapping the pages of the book. He shook his head.
Fucking comic books.

Then he saw a guy standing in front of the door to his room.

“Shit,” Grant said, wishing he had made friends with
Clark
.

Chapter Six

Three miles away from the Solar Lodge Motel, Robert
Hapertas
was drinking a Red Bull and smoking a cigarillo. It wasn’t anything fancy, he knew that, but he enjoyed it. To him there was nothing better than a case of Red Bull and a box of
Laura
Chavin
La Vision hell
cigarillos.

Robert sat on his white leather couch, the 52-inch television in front of him showing Barbara
Stanwyck
opposite Humphrey Bogart in
The
Two Mrs.
Carrolls
.
This particular film always made Robert laugh. He thought Bogie playing a deranged son of a bitch was a real trip.
Damn, I wish that guy was still alive.
 
And that
Stanwyck
, shit, she’s a real actress. Hot as hell, too. What’s that one she did with Errol Flynn? That was pretty good.

From the kitchen, Robert’s cat lazily walked over to the couch and jumped up on his owner’s lap.
           
Robert said, “Hey Burt,
whatcha
up to, huh?” He rubbed the cat’s back and let it come up to his lap to lie down.

The phone rang. “Shit, Burt, hold on,” he said, holding the cat gently while he reached over to the coffee table to answer the phone. Burt stayed where he was, oblivious to Robert’s movement.

“Hello?”

“Rob, hey, it’s Billy.”

“Yeah, Billy, what’s the matter now? You run out of pills?”

Billy said, “No, nothing like that. Just wanted to ask if I could maybe take the night off. Got some shit to take care of.”

“I can only imagine it’s got something to do with that waitress, what’s her name, Stella something. Am I right? You want to get laid tonight, that it?”

Billy laughed. “Well, yeah, sort of. Her husband’s
gonna
be out all night and she has to stay home in case he calls so I wanted to go to her house.”

“And you want to take a night off selling so you could get some pussy?”

Billy was silent and Robert had a difficult time holding in his laughter. Honestly he didn’t mind if the guy took a night off. This week’s take was above average; he could afford to let Billy get some ass. But it was fun to let Billy squirm a bit.

Robert said, “You want me to lose money so you can get your dick wet?”

“Rob, come on, it’s not like that. Forget it, I’ll do my rounds, just forget I called.”

It was impossible to hold it in any longer. Robert laughed. “You dumb ass, I’m fucking with you. Go ahead and see your girlfriend.”

Billy said, “Thanks, I’ll do some extra shit this weekend.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Just call Ben or Dallas, have one of them make your stops for tonight.” Robert stopped in mid-thought. “Oh, but Billy, I’m going to have to make the Sun Lodge stop myself. Don’t want them going over there.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

Robert said, “They fucked up the place last time they went there. Don’t need that shit right now. Just don’t tell them I said anything.”

“Okay, sure, thanks.”

Robert said, “And Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“You keep fucking that
waitress,
you’re
gonna
to get yourself shot in the head by her husband. Can’t keep doing shit like that and not expect to get caught.”

Billy said, “Thanks for the advice but I’m cool. Guy’s got no idea about it. Too busy running the diner and all that shit.”

Robert told Billy to watch out nonetheless and then got off the phone. Burt was still curled up on his lap, purring. The television showed “The End” and so Robert gently moved the cat to the couch and stood up.

Getting dressed was always a huge production for him but it was something else he enjoyed. His family had been in the clothing business and so he was used to dressing well. He especially loved hats. Robert felt like he was born out of his time. He longed for the days where most men wore hats, when the city sidewalks were oceans of fedoras of all colors and materials. His collection of hats was one of his prized possessions and he often pretended he was giving a tour.

This here is a genuine dark grey pork pie fedora hat by
Adams
circa 1952, skinny brim,
no
blemishes whatsoever. And here, oh, I have another one, a high crowned fedora, light grey felt, satin lining,
flexible
three inch brim. Wonderful workmanship you just can’t find nowadays, ladies and gentlemen.
 

Robert stood in the mirror, modeling one of his hats. His walk-in closet was filled with vintage suits and hats as well as a collection of rare cufflinks. At the far corner of the closet was his collection of women’s shoes. Robert walked over to them and bent down to pick up a pair of alligator heels.
Dark green. Buckles on front. Made by the Lewis Company in the early 1950s.
Robert had made one of his girlfriends wear the shoes for two weeks straight. He had told her, “No showers, don’t wash your feet at all, understand?”

The girl, Deborah, had nodded her head and said, “Yeah, yeah, I got it but what’s that mean? I
gotta
smell like shit for two weeks?”

“Wash up in the sink or something, your armpits, your pussy, whatever but just not your feet. Keep the shoes on.”

Much to Robert’s pleasure, she had complied and at the end of the two weeks, he spent a whole day worshiping the shoes as well as her feet while he played a record on his vintage 1966 suitcase turntable. He spent hours sniffing to the sounds of Robert
Mitchum’s
LP
Calypso is Like So
.

Deborah sat there reading a magazine while the whole thing was going on. Occasionally she’d say, “Yeah, smell those stinky shoes,” but mostly she read the latest
Hollywood
gossip. When he was done, Robert kissed her on the knee and left the room saying he had to see to some business. Deborah knew what that meant.

Now as he stood in his closet reminiscing about Deborah and the shoes, Robert felt good, felt alive. Though he didn’t live extravagantly, he was close to being a millionaire. People who drove past his home would never know it because Robert lived in a two-story house on a side-street of Thompson which was not a town known for its wealth. The house itself was close to eighty years old and was in dire need of new aluminum siding. Robert didn’t care much about how his house looked from the outside. He wanted only to live comfortably, taking care of his business and indulging himself in his quiet, innocent obsessions.