St. Nacho's (22 page)
In the end, everything I owned still fit into four file boxes. I sent the boxes to Nacho’s Bar from the same UPS Store where Jordie had worked. I saw Shawn off from Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport the following weekend. He chose to fly instead of riding on the back of my motorcycle and even though he gave me all kinds of shit about not going on a road trip with him in a car, I still loved him.
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I saw Jordie settled at Hazelden. He was subdued. He felt stupid because he wasn’t using, and who the hell goes to rehab clean? Still, he told me privately that he was always only two breaths away from a total meltdown and that he thought he’d like to see if he could stretch that out. I admired him for his courage. He probably wouldn’t have believed me, so I didn’t tell him.
At any rate, I didn’t get the chance because he had me thrown out. He was smiling when he did it, but it didn’t make it any easier. He said he had to start thinking in terms that didn’t include me. I said good fucking luck with that, and that Shawn and I would be coming to see him, probably at Christmas.
“Oh, yeah,” Jordie said tiredly around a thin stream of cigarette smoke. “’Cause Christmas in Minnesota is every couple’s dream vacation. Stay and build your life there,” he told me. “I’ll stop by and visit when I’m ready.” I hugged him to me hard, and he held me just as hard right back.
“You give me hope, Coop,” he told me, as he walked away from me.
“For you?” I asked. “I have all the hope in the world.” I wanted to stay. I wanted to be there and let him lean on me. I wanted to give him my strength, such as it was, and my last drop of blood if that’s what it took. He did that little squeezy-fisted wave thing that people do when they want to piss you off and then he left me standing outside.
Oh, fuck, I kept repeating in my head until I got to my bike. Everything I needed for the next few days was there, just a small duffel and my violin, strapped on it. It was ready to go and so was I.
But it hurt.
I said “I’ll be back” more than Arnold Schwarzenegger before I hit I-90, the interstate that cuts across the northern plains states. I knew I’d never feel right until I could see Jordan would be okay. We were connected like that. As the days passed, though, and I rode across the country through the endless miles of whispering grasses under the wide-open sky, I began to look forward to getting home. And nowhere would ever be home to me again but St. Nacho’s.
I took the interstate all the way to Seattle, and then came down the I-5 and then California State Route 1, Pacific Coast Highway. I made remarkable time. I knew that no way would Shawn be expecting me when I arrived, dirty and tired, and parked my bike in the Nacho’s parking lot. The air was crisp with a briny tang and blew at my matted hair when I took off my helmet. A thousand smells emanated from the bar, but the ones I’d missed most, that mixture of cumin and onions and the oily smell of chips frying, hit my nose like Christmas morning.
“Well, hot holy fucking hell,” said Jim, coming to the end of the bar to give me a bear hug. “How the hell are you?”
“Fine,” I said, even as he tried to sever my spine.
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Z. A. Maxfield
“I’ve got to call Alfred; he and I had a private wager, and I just won it. Well” -- he hesitated -- “are you planning to stay?”
“Yes. If I can. Can I stay upstairs again, or do you have a new hard-luck case you’re working on?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “The only hard case I see” -- he flicked my instrument -- “is this one. Welcome back, son.”
“Glad to be back.” I couldn’t help myself. My eyes traveled to the edges of the bar in search of Shawn.
“He’s not here right now, but he’ll be back soon,” Jim told me. “I sent him to get some things at the office supply store. You have time to shower, if you’re quick.” I didn’t hesitate. I went out and grabbed my duffel before coming back in and running up the stairs. I showered fast and shaved faster, and then put on clothes and went in search of Shawn. On the way I was stopped by a number of people, and I stopped in to see Oscar and Tomas, whose good-natured teasing turned exuberant when they found out I was home to stay.
“Hey, m’hijo,” said Oscar, giving me an affectionate hug. “It hasn’t been the same, man.”
Tomas jumped me from behind, teasing. “Yeah, bro, where’d you put the knives?
We’ve been buying our veg precut. Too bad you don’t got a job around here no more.”
“That’s not how you say it,” Oscar chided. “Don’t you know English? It’s too bad you don’t got a job around here no more, asshole.”
“When you are right, you are right, papi. What a difference a word makes. So much more muy espléndido.”
Oscar followed me out onto the beach when I went out to smoke. “Good to have you back, m’hijo,” he told me, all teasing put aside for a moment while we stood with our cigarettes on the boardwalk. “You know they’re trying to ban smoking here on the beach, and the boardwalk? Lung-police fuckers.”
“It’s time we quit anyway, Oscar. We’re not getting younger,” I said. I didn’t like the idea of quitting, but I liked the idea of exposing Shawn to my secondhand smoke even less.
Oscar sighed. “I suppose so,” he said. “I just hate to do what I’m told.”
“I’m figuring on quitting before someone tells me to,” I said. “Should I get you some of those nicotine patches too?” I’ll admit I was teasing, but it seemed like he might be liking the idea. What the fuck? I crumpled up my pack and tossed it in the garbage. “More money for me, man. Think of how much we’ll save. After we’re done with the patches anyway. What are you going to spend it on?”
Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Condoms and lube. Tomas wants me to quit so bad he’s made all kinds of promises. I think I’ll let him think it’s his idea for a while.”
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I laughed. “Good thinking,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Shawn’s white Toyota Camry pull up, the one that belonged to his sister but that he sometimes drove. He got out and began pulling boxes out of the trunk. I could tell the exact moment when he realized that my motorcycle was parked in the parking lot. It wasn’t very difficult. He dropped everything onto the pavement and came running straight at me. He didn’t stop until he’d picked me up and flung me around a little, and I had to hide my face in his shoulder because everyone was staring at me for all the wrong reasons.
I wrapped my arms and legs around him and let him drag me inside and up the stairs.
In the background I could hear laughter and good-natured ribbing. I heard Jim complaining about having to pick his office supplies up off the pavement in the parking lot, and threatening to call Alfred over to explain the importance of yellow pads and Post-It flags.
“St. Nacho’s, man,” I heard Oscar say. “What’re you gonna do? Everybody who sets foot in this town changes.”
“Yeah,” said Tomas. “But the smart ones like you, papi, they just keep on changing the same.”
“I got news for you, pendejo; I quit smoking. Prepare to be my newest crutch.” I snorted.
Shawn closed the door and locked it. We stayed that way, locked together in a coming-home hug, for a while.
He pulled back just enough so he could see my lips. “Are you glad you came back?” I sighed and licked a path up his neck. He tasted hot and salty and delicious. I took a deep breath and then met his wonderful golden brown eyes. I took my hands off his shoulders, prepared, at last, to put into practice all the things I’d learned from the books Mary Lynn had given me. I began to sign, starting with, “I’m glad to be home,” but he grabbed my hands and picked me up and dropped me on the bed.
He paused above me for the barest minute to smile warmly down at me. “You talk too much.”
Z. A. Maxfield
Z. A. Maxfield is a fifth generation native of Los Angeles, although she now lives in the O.C. She started writing in 2006 on a dare from her children and never looked back.
Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends. If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career, she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can do if you completely give up housework.” Check out her website at http://www.zamaxfield.com.
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