Jane Two (22 page)

Jonathan picked up his ridiculous Dean Martin hat and flipped it around like he'd practiced it in the mirror a thousand times prior, and then dropped it again right next to my plate on the table. I had not even taken a bite of my hot dogs yet, so my attitude was teetering on the edge as I fought it to a close-decision victory against jamming a fork straight into his fucking eye socket. I had to take a minute to collect myself, then I simply pointed to the coatrack at the end of each booth.

“Yup, that fedora cost me over a hundred and fifty dollars. It can reside right here where no locals can steal it off the rack.” He then lit up a Dunhill Red and exhaled at me. I wanted to want to be a gentleman, but that hat was something my Grandaddy would never allow on a supper table, and I really just wanted to shove it straight up that pussy's ass. Some guys feared Jonathan, thought he was powerful. I thought he was derivative, an unoriginal piece of shit, always impersonating a prepackaged trend, like Lilyth with her perfumes but with a newly loaded bank account.

“Sad about your neighbor, Mrs. Milan, Mickey,” Kate tried to redirect gracefully.

“Cancer for how many years?” Jonathan's girlfriend asked pertly like,
Would you like a mint?
As if she gave a shit.

“I can't imagine suffering like that. I'm so sorry, Mickey.” Kate squeezed my thigh under the table, and I wondered, as her hand crept slowly up the inside of my thigh, if my body would react to her even though she was not Jane.

“Really nice, the Milans,” I said, emotionless.

“Probably somethin' in the water in that part of town,” sneered Jonathan. Kate shot him fierce eyes. “What? I'm just sayin', really. At least at the golf course we know which reservoir our home's connected to.”

Three chili cheese dogs gave me an excuse to do most of the listening, so I was silent the majority of the time, but I was slowly losing control. In two hot dogs' time, Jonathan had already asked me if I wanted to join them at Marisk, where he had reserved a bottle of aged Dom that we could split four ways at $250 each, and that Kate absolutely loved that place, and that it would be no locals and only
good stock
, and that maybe we could take my car because his 450SL was on order and he didn't like driving that “bus of a BMW,” and that he desperately needed to find a new tailor for a new Armani suit he'd just bought while in New York at fucking Fashion Week, and did I “know anyone good?” and wasn't I glad that I no longer had to work at Church's Fried Chicken anymore? I knew he knew that I still worked there most days, and that I was still in high school. I knew he knew because that piece of shit would come through the drive-through window at least once a week and order something stupid with a car full of my classmates and mock me without having the balls to
actually
mock me. And he'd ask what year The Toaster was, every single time, feigning interest.

But right now I had a mouthful so I did not respond. I couldn't. I could tell by Kate's face and the way she was squeezing my thigh that I was not alone in feeling like his remarks were deliberate, but his girlfriend did not seem to have a clue. I wanted to know if he was like that guy driving down the road that flips off another driver and motions for him to pull over, and then acts shocked when he gets slugged in the jaw. I wanted to know if I was misreading things. It was possible. I knew I had a financial insecurity. I genuinely wanted to know if he was trying to insult me, or if he was just stupid. My insecurities were horribly inflamed. He had embarrassed me enough already, but I had to know. So, I asked.

“Um,” I said. But that was it. Silence. I had to think. I had to be very specific with my question to him in order to get the right answer, or I knew that I would crack that douchey fuck right there at the table. And
please
don't do that, because good stock would
never
do that. I wished that I could have controlled my emotions and just thrown some witty comment back at him, but I was far too literal even then as a senior in high school. And in that moment of insecurity, I was only capable of asking him a very honest question, even if it made me look pathetic. I knew that I could destroy this kid in any arena. Any arena, that is, except the pocketbook. And that's where he was choosing to retaliate for that fucking John Deere hat. I hated feeling helpless, but what he was doing to me at that moment was a lot like shooting the finger at a man without arms. I wanted cool, but I did not have access to any. There was never any cool in me during those moments. Grandaddy's cool could have helped me, but I could not muster it.

“Usually something follows an ‘Um,' unless you're stuttering. Spit it out boy-o,” said Jonathan, and right then my blood started to curdle like cream. I could feel my bottom lip start to tremble, my cheek twitch and my fingers twitch just a little bit, the same way they always did when all of my faculties were called on and rallied together at once to keep me from erupting. But, God, please don't cry. The last thing I wanted in that moment was to fight away tears like a fucking pussy, but I guess it's just my design.

“Can you stop talking for just a minute, please?” I said. “I just need to know if you're trying to hurt my feelings on purpose, or if you've done it on accident?” I took Kate's hand off my thigh and brought my shaking hand with a napkin in it up to my mouth, less to wipe chili off my face and more to have it close and ready to make a fist to slam into that glider's face depending on how he answered. But he said nothing. That's just what gliders do. “You know, if you were trying to hurt my feelings I'd rather you just say you wanna go outside and fight than beat around the bush. But if you're not, that's okay. Just apologize and we'll be done 'cause I'm getting the feeling that you're not actually being nice to me. But if I'm wrong, just tell me.”

“You can't be serious. Good hell, look at you. You look like you're about to cry. If you don't want to go, just say so. But, in the meantime, when you fetch your car from valet, get mine, too, will ya? I'm gonna hit the closet.” He spun his valet ticket onto the table and I watched him wind his way around the corner and straight into the men's room.

The closet? Yep, the fucking
closet
.

I heard Kate spout something about not really wanting to go to Marisk, and that we could just stay here, and blah, blah, blah. But I just stared at that restroom door until I finally looked down at my plate and cut off a bite of my last hot dog. Anything to not look up. I didn't want anyone to see my eyes, because they would tell more about me than I wanted anyone to know…anyone except Jane. I could feel Kate's sympathetic eyes on me, but I just wanted them to go away.

Finally, Jonathan's girlfriend drew Kate into a much more important conversation about utter nonsense. She was carrying on about reservations, and who was to be there, and then giggling, and then pointing out the window at someone cool that just arrived, and then more giggling. I wanted to vanish, but my pugilistic hatred rooted me to the spot. Also, Kate had me wedged into the inside of the booth against the wall. I sneaked in an “Excuse me, could I slide out real quick? I'm just gonna run to the restroom—be right back” in between cheerleading gossip and Jonathan this and Jonathan that.

I saw his feet when I walked in, flung open the door to his stall, and found Jonathan sitting down peeing like a girl. He looked up at me as I waited for him to zip up and stand. My first punch grazed his eye, and the middle-finger knuckle on my right fist actually impacted the sharp Formica corner of one of the walls of his stall. It opened up, just like his face. I don't remember how many times I jackhammered Jonathan's jaw, nose, and eyes, but I certainly felt better, contrary to what my watering eyes were indicating. I left him and that stupid fedora in a puddle of pee just like I had found his hat years earlier, and stared into the mirror as I pressed a wet paper towel on my knuckle to stop the bleeding. He was a glider then, and he is probably still a glider today. I knew puppy love was bullshit, but he made me realize that so is puppy hatred. So, Jonathan…thank you.

His girlfriend did not even stop her mouth for a tiny beat when I arrived back at the table. I had not been gone long, but it could have been an hour and I do not think Mint Girl would have noticed a thing if it was outside of her immediate sphere. Kate started to get up to let me slide in, but I dragged my plate with half of a chili cheese dog on it to the outer side of the booth and quietly told her to just scoot in. I finished my food with my left hand, but I could tell that Kate knew something was wrong. Her eyes went from what's-her-name to me repeatedly, until, “Kate, are you listening?” would drag Kate's focus right back to that irrelevance.

Finally, I felt Kate's eyes go down to my lap and rest on the knuckle that I was trying to hide. It had to be the last cubic centimeter of air from her lungs that spit out that “Hoh,” because it sounded like a mixture of desperation and revile. I didn't look up. I couldn't. I didn't want her knowledge of my actions to put me in the “bad stock” category. Still, I could feel that she never took her eyes off me as she pulled a paper napkin out of the dispenser and gently wrapped that torn knuckle while that Tourist continued to spew their glorious night's itinerary. I finished my plate, and I swear I tried to wait for a pause in that girl's diatribe, but it just wasn't there. So, I let “I think I'm prolly just gonna head home, Kate, but it was really good seeing you tonight” roll right over her friend's sustained prattle.

“Stay, please,” Kate blurted out as I started to slide out of that booth. I told her that I really just wanted to go home, and I rose and finally turned to face her. Only then did her eyes tell me that I was right about the “desperation,” but categorically wrong about the “revile.” Kate's face that night was the first to show me that those violent primal instincts, publicly denounced but still hidden at the core of just about every boy I've ever known who was worth a shit, were actually privately adored. I turned and walked out as I heard Kate telling her friend, “Will you please just shut up…and go get your boyfriend outta the bathroom? He's an Asshole, and I want to go home!”

Yeah, fuck
good stock
.

From early on, my Grandaddy had taught me to have compassion for all, but to always be ready to
not
have any as soon as a situation required it. The situation with Jonathan required none. I am ashamed of nothing I did that night, except not holding that car door open for Jane. My Grandaddy never once told me how to live my life, he just lived his correctly…and he let me watch. And I remember the exact day that he showed me what both having and not having compassion was—the lesson that Jonathan probably wished I had never learned. It was at my favorite cafeteria in the world, which might not have meant much since I had only ever eaten at one. But in my Grandaddy's opinion, there was only one cafeteria worth going to, and we went just about every week. Next to my Grandaddy's porch, that cafeteria came in a close second place as far as wisdom delivery locations with him were concerned. It's why just a little part of me, despite their heavenly chocolate, resents Baskin-Robbins—because that is what replaced my Grandaddy's Piccadilly Cafeteria when it got knocked down.

I was eight. It was early summer, just before I discovered Jane, and my Grandaddy had given me a bloody pocketknife as a little gift resulting from an altercation he had had on the job. While we were sitting there, me examining the dried blood on the blade, Grandaddy looked up, sensing something in the air. Now, only once was I ever allowed to have two helpings of macaroni and cheese, and when I was, it was not the extra dish that stayed with me—it was my Grandaddy's message. It always was. On the odd Sunday every now and then, after church, the men and women went in different directions, so it was just Grandaddy and me. This was necessary, he said. He spoke differently. He painted different pictures. And he always closed with, “Now don't tell your Mamau.” I never did. Nor did I tell my parents about the double helping of mac and cheese.

My Grandaddy was a creator. He told me at a very young age that most of the people who could not find what they wanted in this life just had not had the system explained to them properly. He was the deputy sheriff of Lake Charles, Louisiana, and then again in Galveston, Texas, back when that meant a lot more than handing out speeding tickets. He was a father to everyone not lucky enough to keep one around long enough. He was a real man, long before they were outlawed.

The Piccadilly Cafeteria was always a treat for me, and I loved sliding my tray in front of all that food. It smelled like everyone's best home-cooked meals I'd ever been to on a Sunday all rolled into one. The first station after silverware was always the assorted colors of Jell-O, and I loved the look of the “lucky” green. I would only get the green Jell-O if they were out of chocolate pudding, and that Sunday they were. I was always more intrigued with the motion than the flavor, but I had to be very economical in selecting my dishes. I could get any single dish from each food group on a “men's Sunday,” but I had to eat every single crumb. I always found myself forcing down that last cube of green wonder. Grandaddy said green Jell-O was a fashion model. It always looked great just sitting there. “Whereas compared to your Mamau,” he said, “…well, tha' unicorn th'very best woman in all the world, y'Mamau like the entire dessert section and the hot meals all throwed in a mixin' bowl.”

We sat in the round corner table right by the window as we always did, and I think I grew more during those hours with Grandaddy than I did the entire rest of the week. My macaroni and cheese bowl was almost completely clean as I used my honey-butter dinner roll to mop up any evidence of it ever having been there when I heard the first scream. It was Miss Shelby, the cashier, hollering for help as a man sprinted toward the exit door with a handful of cash. I had seen the man eating not five tables down from us and apparently, after his meal, he had gone to the cashier to pay and just grabbed a handful of cash from Miss Shelby's open drawer and run.