Tina Higgins

Stitches

         From the cab of his dad’s semi, Jesse watches rows of corn blend together. It’s dusk and the world feels blurry, unsure of itself. His dad has a cigarette tucked behind his ear and one smoldering between his fingers. Jesse reaches for the half empty pack and lights himself one.
         “Hey, grab us a beer.” His dad’s voice is thick with phlegm. He coughs once, rolls down his window and spits into the wind. The beer isn’t quite cold enough but it doesn’t matter. They are maybe five miles from their last stop, an arm-pit-bar off the highway called The Chalet. The front had a peaked roof that was near collapse trying to look like some fancy ski resort, an obvious after thought when someone thought up the name years ago. It was like any other bar they stopped at; dark, smoky, with a musty smell like wet towels left to dry in the corner of a stone-wall basement.
         The bar was lined with a dozen or so regulars who talked about the kinds of things all bar regulars talk about; weather, women, and the good-ol’-days. Right off, his dad made a few friends. He could do that when he wanted to, make a pal out of a stranger with just a few words. He got them laughing, a verbal tool Jesse was still trying to master.
         Mostly his dad would make shit up like, “Anyone want a mediocre woman? The wife’s on the rag again, poutin’ out in the rig.” There was never a real wife sitting outside, had been once a long time ago, but not anymore. It made the drunks laugh out loud and the sober ones at least grin a little and offer him a seat at the bar. And someone would always pipe up to talk some shit about their own wives. Wives who were probably sitting alone with a few kids at home. Before anyone knew it, it was like Jesse’s dad was a regular, too. It was like he was just some guy who worked at the plant up the road and lived in a trailer down by the river. This is how he got things. Free drinks, free games of pool, a basket of fries for his son. The fact that he was a trucker was always respected. Someone would say something like, “I don’t know, man, it takes a strong person to be away from home all that time, fighting city traffic, staying up all night, sleeping in a shit little bed.” By the time his dad came walking out of any one of these places, he’d made friends, got plenty for nothing and, nine times out of ten, conned some fool who’d just won on pull tabs out to the rig to do a line with him, for free. A generous offer and sometimes he’d even follow through, let the poor guy get a little buzz before he beat him senseless. But usually he’d walk him over to side of the rig, parked a decent ways away, under the shadow of the trailer and start by breaking the guy’s nose. He’d make sure the guy was silent by the time he emptied his pockets and crawled into the cab so no one would come out wondering what all the noise was. Just to cover up any yelling the guy might do, his dad would always put a quarter in the Juke Box and have the bartender turn it up before he left. Jesse watched it all from inside the truck, full on grease and beer. No one ever saved anyone from Jesse’s dad.
         Five miles back, that’s what happened. Now they are headed fifty miles west, to a motel. Jesse knows his dad won’t talk about what he just did, he never does. Like usual, he gets in the cab, starts it up, finds a radio station, country music, maybe a baseball game if he’s lucky, lights a cigarette and pulls out onto the highway.
         The beer tastes good. Jesse isn’t allowed to just take the beer, he’s got to wait until his dad offers or hands him one himself.
         “Should be there in less than an hour.”
         “Sounds good.”
         Tonight it’s country music while the sun fades and the corn turns from gold to the color of dust. Jesse can smell himself, his armpits are slick and the back of his t-shirt is damp. A shower will be good. A shower and a night in real bed, that’s what he needs right now.

         The motel is one story, the kind that’s L-shaped with an air conditioner crammed into each window. Jesse wonders why these places even have vacancy signs. Of course there’s room. Only truckers and whores from the bar across the street stay in places like this. The room has two double beds, a bathroom with pea-green tile and blackened grout, a big mirror on the wall that’s tipped forward at the top like it’s on the verge of falling and always will be.
         “Go get us a bucket of ice.” His dad sits on the end of the bed, slowly pulls off his black steal-toed boots. His knuckles are cracked open and bloody.
         The ice and vending machines are down the hall in the office. A girl is sitting at the desk. She doesn’t look up when Jesse enters the room. Her long brown hair is greasy at the roots and covering most of her face.
         “Hey,” Jesse says just so she’ll look up, just so he can see if she’s pretty or not. She’s not.
         “Hello.” She’s not pretty but there’s something about the shape of her mouth when she talks. Jesse wants her to keep talking. It reminds him of Josie.
         “Not too busy tonight is it?”
         “Was earlier. There’s some show across the street. More strippers than usual or something. And the derby was going on in town this weekened. So it was busy. Now it isn’t.”
         “You working all night?”
         “Till sun-up.”
         “Don’t you get tired?”
         “I like being up at night. It’s quiet, you know?”
         “Yeah, I like it too.” He presses the big black button on the ice machine, holds the plastic bucket underneath it, but nothing comes out.
         “It’s broken.”
         “Shit. My dad wants ice.” He steps away, holds up the bucket and smiles.
         “I can get some from the back. We got a fridge, there’s probably some ice in the freezer.”
         “I’d appreciate it. He can be a dick when he doesn’t get what he wants.”
         She laughs a little, shows a gap between her front teeth. “Yeah, my dad’s the same way.”
         While she’s gone Jesse wonders how old she is. Can’t be more than sixteen, if that. Wonders if she’s got a boyfriend but knows that doesn’t matter. When it comes down to it, if a girl wants you and you’re from out of town and her boyfriend isn’t with her, she’s yours. He thinks she might want him but isn’t sure if he wants her yet. It’s not just how her lips curl and part but there’s something in her eyes something that says “nothing much matters.” Jesse knows all about that. Except some things do matter. Some things matter a lot.
         “Here you go, filled it almost all the way but now we’re totally out of ice.” She has put her hair up, pulled it away from her face so it’s dirtiness isn’t so noticeable and so Jesse can see even more clearly that she isn’t all that ugly after all. Just a little sad looking and there’s nothing wrong with that.
         “Thanks. What can I do to repay you?”
         She blushes, looks down at a stapler on the desk. “Nothin’. It’s fine. Not a big deal.”
         “Maybe not but if you think of anything I can do for you, I’m in room 112. Or if you get bored later, I’ll probably be up late.”
         “Okay. Uh. I’m Michelle.”
         “Jesse.” He bows a little. Knows girls dig that. “How old are you Michelle?”
         “Fifteen.” Her eyes fall again but come back up quickly. “How old are you?”
         “Just turned sixteen last week,” he lies.
         “My birthday’s in a few weeks. Then I’ll be sixteen.”
         “Well maybe I can give you a birthday present before we take off tomorrow.” He winks at her the way his dad winks at women in the bar and knocks his knuckles on the desk twice the way bartenders do when you tip them. Her round, shiny cheeks are red when he walks away.

         “What the hell took you so long?” His dad’s standing in front of the mirror, his waist wrapped in a towel still dripping from the shower.
         “The machine was broke. Had to get the girl at the front desk to help me out.”
         “Make us a couple drinks.”
         When he’s not drinking beer, his dad drinks whiskey with a splash of coke and few ice cubes. Jesse drinks the same thing. As he pours the whiskey he thinks that this isn’t so bad. It wasn’t long ago that he and his dad couldn’t even be in the same room without shit flying. Now they’re hanging out, having drinks, going to the bars. Still, it’s been a long summer away from his friends, away from Josie, and he keeps thinking of the rats living in their empty trailer, come up from Devil’s Lake and crawling through the holes in the floorboards. When they’re living there, it’s easy to keep up with the rat families, kill the babies, poison or break the bodies of the parents. But they’ve been gone nearly three months now and he can’t stop thinking about the nasty fuckers crawling all over the couch, on the counters, digging through leftover boxes of cereal, drinking from the dripping faucet. Mostly he knows it’ll be his job to kill them when they get back, just like it was last year. At least they are going back home. Could be worse. Just a few more weeks.
         “I’m headin’ across the street. You comin’?”
         His dad’s sitting on the end of the bed again, putting on his boots over new white socks. That’s the weird thing about his dad, how clean-cut he can look. Clean shaven. Clean white t-shirts and socks. And then how ugly he can look when he’s beating down some trusting fuck. From where he’s standing, Jesse can see himself in the mirror from the corner of his eye. Taller than before they left town. Hair’s longer, curlier than he likes it. Both his mom and dad had dark hair but his mom was an Indian so that’s why his skin is so dark. He’s brown now, like he’s not even a white guy at all but his eyes are blue. His dad says that saves him from being a drunken Indian.
         “Should probably take a shower first.”
         “Head over whenever you want or not. I don’t care.” He empties the booze from the clear plastic cup into his mouth and stands up, slides his black wallet into his back pocket and pauses. Pulls it back out.
         “Keep this for yourself so you don’t have to bug me for cash later.” He hands Jesse a twenty dollar bill.
         “Thanks.” Jesse folds it and sticks it into his back pocket, thinks of where the cash came from and wonders if the guy is still lying in the dirt.
         “If you fall asleep, plan on being woke up,” he says on his way out the door.
         Jesse’s thinking about Michelle. Wondering if she’s worth his time or not. If he goes to the bar, has a few drinks, maybe he’ll meet someone better, older. No one questions that he’s old enough to drink and by the time he orders his dad is always buddy-buddy with the bartender anyhow.

         The shower is small, sort of a half bath if you felt like taking a bath at all. But the mirror is wide and still fogged from his dad’s shower. He wonders why he always thinks of Josie while he’s in the shower. It’s not a dirty thing. He’s not like that when he’s with her. But there’s something about the feeling of water falling over him that reminds him of her or that feeling that what’s been dirty, been wrong, is washed away. He feels that way with her even if he doesn’t always show it. She’s not like a Michelle because she’s not scared of him. It takes a lot more than a wink to get Josie to smile and he wouldn’t touch her like he’d touch a Michelle or one of the regular chicks sitting at some bar who think he’s cute. He’s getting it out of his system. That’s what he decided a year ago when it was someone else he was laying on top of. He’s just getting it out of his system so he can be ready for her. Funny thing is, she’s never even pretended to like him more than a friend. If that. Sometimes when he gives her shit, her glare nearly crushes him. It feels like his lungs are imploding. Just the thought that she might go away, for real this time, makes him feel hollow and on fire. He shuts the water off. Puts her away.

         There’s a Poison song playing, a metal ballad, the kind Jesse hates, when he walks in the bar. A girl dances on stage, blonde as usual, small tits and a big ass. He walks in at the good part though, her bikini is on the floor. The place is pretty busy but his dad has held a seat for him at the bar. There’s a woman sitting next to him, older, looks like she’s been drinking here for a long time.
         “Doris, this is my son, Jesse.” His dad’s smiling the way he only smiles when he’s around women.
         “Well, hello young man. Aren’t you handsome?” Her breath smells like corn nuts and gin.
         “Aren’t I.” Jesse smiles as he lays his twenty on the bar.
         “You and your daddy been traveling all this time? Must have a lot of sad girls waiting for you to come back home.”
         He can see her hard left nipple under her pink tank top and his dad is rolling it between his fingers. She’s smiling like a baby being tickled, making conversation like a woman who doesn’t want anyone to know she likes it.
         “Yeah, I got a couple,” Jesse says. The bartender is old, on his last leg, he’s glaring down at Jesse like he’s about to laugh or punch him. Jesse can’t tell which. “Whiskey coke.”
         “You got ID?”
         “The boy’s fine, Stan. He’s my son. I wouldn’t let him drink if he wasn’t old enough.”
         “Still need to see an ID, Ned. No disrespect. Just how things work around here. Can’t afford to get busted for underage.”
         “Come on. He’s got it out it the rig, you’re not going to make him go out and get are ya? Come on, Stan.”
         “It’s alright, Dad. I’d rather drink in the room anyhow.” Doris sticks out her bottom lip at him and because of her age she looks more sickly than cute when she does it.
         “Come on, Stan. Give the kid a break.”
         “No, really. It’s fine,” Jesse says. “Remember that girl at the front desk is sitting all by herself over there.” His dad drops his head, comes back up smiling.
         “That’s my boy. Hey, I’ll just see you later alright?”
         “Sure, no problem.”

         It’s a relief to get away from him and Doris. He won’t stick with her long, obviously just getting free drinks and flirting so he can save money for later. Jesse considers going straight to the office but thinks better of it. Figures he better have a few more drinks first and then invite her down, offer her a few drinks. That seems like a good plan. Or maybe he’ll just skip it. The room is still hot from the showers they both took so Jesse turns on the air conditioner. The hum of the fan relaxes him and the realization that he has a few hours alone, away from his father actually makes him smile. His dry top lip sticks on his teeth and he realizes it’s been a long time since he’s smiled.
         He pours whiskey over ice and skips the coke this time. The burn feels good. Sometimes he needs that, a little bit of pain just to bring himself back to reality. Life isn’t supposed to be like this and he misses life; swimming at the lake with his friends, building jumps for his dirt bike that’s always breaking down, knocking on Josie’s window when he knows her parents are out. This is like Oz, his Dad’s the little wizard trying to be bigger than he really is and Jesse, he’s just playing along and wishing he had a dog.
         Jesse lies on his back in middle of the bed. The ceiling is spotted with who knows what. Ketchup, blood, cum. The single light in the middle of the room is dim enough so that when he closes his eyes he sees amber fading into brown. Brown fading into black. He remembers a time that Josie got so mad at him she pushed him in the water. He cut his elbow on a rock pretty bad but she still walked away tall. Walked away stiff like she was made of ice cold iron. But she came back a few hours later and knocked on his door. Her lashes were down and darker than usual. She said, “I’m sorry. If you don’t need stitches, I got this,” and she held up a grocery bag full of white gauze, medical tape, and band-aids. “Think you need stitches?”

         He’s shaken out of sleep by blonde hair tickling his face, beer and cigarette sour breath. Soapy perfume.
         “Ned, I think he’s waking up!” Her voice is shrill, words slur.
         “Wake the fuck up, boy! We got company. Get up and make us all a drink.” Another blonde is strattling his dad, tonguing his ear. Jesse sees him slip his right hand between her legs.
         “Are you going to wake up now? Ned told me all about you. But you’re cuter than I thought you’d be.” She’s short, stout, like someone came along and chopped her off at the shins. Her hair is blonde but a fake shade, more like the yellow of an old smoker’s fingernails mixed with ripe corn. Jesse doesn’t like blondes, never has and he’s pissed now that his dad brought this one home, apparently for him. Pissed and surprised. This has never happened before.
         He has to push her out of the way a bit to get up from the bed. He doesn’t want to be mean but for fuck’s sake, he was sleeping and she’s not even cute. Not half as cute as Michelle down at the front desk just sitting by herself, maybe thinking about him right now.
         “You making us some drinks?” She’s obviously already drunk but now that Jesse looks at her again, there’s something sort of sad about her. Like she’s trying really hard to be pretty with her bleached hair and red lipstick, with her short black skirt and high healed shoes. She’s got nice tits. He’ll give her that. And an innocent smile.
         “Yeah, you want one?”
         “Sure would. How old are you?”
         “Nineteen.”
         “You look older.”
         “I know. You want beer? Whiskey? What?”
         “I want you.” Her lips hold the O shape like she’s sucking on a straw.
         They’re near the door, near the little fridge and a shelf that sits outside the bathroom. From where he stands, Jesse can hear his father with the blonde but he can’t see him.
         “Why don’t I just get you a drink?” Jesse turns around and starts digging through the icy water in the bucket, filtering out a handful of diminished cubes. He feels her fingers under his t-shirt; they’re cool, sweat sticky. She reaches around his waist to unbutton his pants. He grabs a single cube out of the glass and holds it in his palm thinking about Josie, thinking about her crazy curls and her big round brown eyes. The ice begins to melt and seep through his clenched fingers. He told her he’d be back and he will only he’ll be different and he’s afraid she won’t understand. He turns to face the blonde.
         She’s smiling at him and he can see the blackheads on her nose through her make up. He can see crud lodged in her left eye, white dead skin on the inside of her parted, red bottom lip. She’s trying to look sexy. He can see dandruff on her scalp, black roots. Her smile fades but she doesn’t pull her hand away. She looks at him like she knows what he’s thinking about her, like she’s suddenly sober and insecure again. She slips her other hand deeper into his underwear and cups his balls, rolling them between her fingers. He can’t leave, can’t make his dad think he isn’t grateful that he brought back two instead of the usual one. Can’t make his dad think he’s a pussy. Can’t go back to his bed or he’ll be lying next to his dad fucking some chick.
         He wants to be alone again. Alone with the hum of the air conditioner. Wants to be home sitting on a rock with Josie talking about nothing. He’s wondering what she’s doing, sleeping or maybe laying in bed drawing. He’s thinking about Josie when the blonde falls to her knees without any grace at all, he hears the thud of her bones hitting the floor. She loosens his zipper and pulls a little to get his jeans to fall to his ankles. And he stands there holding a plastic cup half full of ice while she takes him into her mouth. It doesn’t last long, a few minutes he figures, but he’s looking up at the pocked, sagging ceiling thinking about his mother. His mother of all fucked up things. Thinking about that time she held his head on her lap, and poured something warm into his aching ear and how he fell asleep to her warm hand pressing down his hair and her voice like Novocain telling him that he won’t miss a thing if he just falls asleep.

         He’s zipping up his pants when he hears a knock at the door. He looks through the peephole at Michelle. Her head is down and she’s combing her hair with her fingers. She looks up at the door like she’s thinking about knocking again. She looks afraid. The blonde comes out of the bathroom, her eyes are red. She has fresh lipstick on but she doesn’t smile. Instead of looking Jesse in the eyes, she stares into his chest and says, “I’m tired.” Jesse nods his head. Another knock at the door and his dad yells, “Who the fuck is it?”
         “No one.”
         “Well, tell ‘No one’ to get the fuck out of here,” the blond laying next to him giggles, says, “Ned, be nice!”
         Jesse looks through the peephole again, wants to go out there, make her not afraid anymore. But there’s nothing to see, just the white stucco wall across the hall. It’s too late to help her, she’s already gone.

Author Bio

Tina Higgins is a recent graduate of the MFA program at Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. She writes both poetry and prose.