Sorta Like a Rock Star (15 page)

Here is the saddest haiku I have ever read:

C
UNNINGHAM PRAYS WHILE

B
AGGING OUR CASUALTIES AND

I
AM SO ALONE

Private Jackson wrote that one back in ’Nam. He doesn’t know that I read it, because I flipped through the back section of one of his haiku notebooks when he was making tea.

He had said I could read any poem in the sections segmented by the blue and red and black plastic dividers, but he didn’t want me to look at the pages between the green dividers. Of course, I turned to the green section just as soon as PJ was out of the room, and he seemed to stay in the kitchen for a very long time—way longer than it takes to make tea—so maybe he wanted me to read the Vietnam haikus, I don’t know. But from what I have gathered from reading his haikus—because he doesn’t tell me squat about his life—it seems like Private Jackson started writing haikus in the jungle, maybe as a means of staying sane, and he just never stopped writing haikus when he came home.

CHAPTER 11

“So what is bothering you today?” PJ says as he hands me a steaming hot cup of green tea.

“What? Can’t I just visit you for no reason at all?”

“You only come when you’re sad.”

“Joan of Old hit me with a whole bunch of new depressing Nietzsche quotes, but I eventually made her smile,” I say, and then sip my tea, which tastes like mown grass. Green tea is an acquired taste that I have not yet acquired, but I drink it like a woman for Private Jackson, mostly because it’s all he keeps in his house other than water. He mostly eats rice and roots, so no snacking here either.

“How’d you get her to smile this week?” he asks, which makes me pause, because he usually never asks me any questions about anything. This is as lively as PJ gets when it comes to conversation. This is Private Jackson on speed.

“I kissed her. And I said a bunch of funny stuff too. Hey, do you think I have a dinosaur face? You can be honest with me. If you were seventeen would you want to get all hot and heavy with me, or no? And if no, is it because I have a dinosaur face? You can be totally honest with me.”

“I think you are exactly as you should be. You are perfect for this moment.”

“More Zen hooey.”

“Do you have any poems for me?”

I reach into my pocket and hand him a sheet of paper housing eight doggie haikus written by yours truly.

Private Jackson reads my poetry very slowly as he slurps his tea with this very determined look on his face—almost like he is taking a dump or something.

“Which is your favorite,” I say after—like five minutes. He’s still reading, contemplating each set of seventeen syllables as if they were new constellations that suddenly appeared in the sky one night. He’s a crazy serious cat sometimes.

“They are all perfect,” he says without looking up.

“No Zen bullcrap. Which one is your favorite?”

“I cherish them all equally and will hang them on the wall just as soon as you leave, finding the perfect spot for your words.”

“Which do you think is the funniest then?”

Private Jackson reads them all over again and then a little smile blooms on his face. He reads number four very dramatically, saying, “Dogs go into the—bedroom and get funky wild—humans drink green tea.”

“Tried to capture the present moment,” I say.

“You certainly have.”

“You want to meet Donna?” I say, because I’ve been telling Private Jackson that I could hook him up with the sexiest woman he has ever seen in his life—and she’s rich ta boot!

“No.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing out on, and—”

“How do you like your tea?” he asks politely.

“Tastes like grass.”

“Grass is natural. Grass is good.”

And then we sip tea in silence until Ms. Jenny and BBB come out of the bedroom, walking like they are a little drunk or something, with this crazy look in their eyes.

“Only dogs can truly love,” Private Jackson says.

“You could know love, my friend,” I say. “Donna is a catch. She is—like—very hot.”

“I will wash your teacup now,” Private Jackson says.

I hand him the teacup and say, “Can I give you a hug before I leave?”

“I would be honored to shake the hand of such an accomplished poet,” he says like always, so when he extends his hand, I hold it with both of mine for as long as Jackson will let me.

“You’re a good man, Jackson,” I say, looking him in the eyes, “and a great poet.”

“I will wash the teacups now,” he says, and then he drops my hand, turns his back, and walks into the kitchen.

And so BBB and I hop on Donna’s bike again and ride it back to her house.

When we arrive, I don’t really want to go inside for some reason, but B Thrice needs to eat, so I go in for the sake of my doggie’s health.

Donna all but sprints into the kitchen when she hears the back door open and says, “Did something happen to you, Amber?”

“No. Why?” I say without making eye contact, even though I realize she was worried because I didn’t make dinner, and then I make my way over to the cabinet where BBB’s cans are kept.

I pop one open and feed B Thrice.

He starts pigging out, because he’s always hungry after making love to Ms. Jenny.

“Did Joan of Old finally make you cry?” Donna asks, looking genuinely concerned.

“Almost, but I got her to smile with a big, sloppy sneak-attack kiss. She’s protesting the battle, because she says kissing is illegal, but it’s pretty much a bullcrap claim, and Old Man Thompson is never going to side with Joan of Old, because of that time when she called the cops and tried to get him thrown out of the home by placing a restraining order on him, because he was looking at her funny.”

“Isn’t she blind?” Donna asks.

“She is. Word.”

“Then how did she know he was looking at her?”

“She didn’t. He wasn’t. Joan just made that hooey up.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s Joan of Old, evil incarnate.”

“I have to meet this Joan of Old someday.”

“Come to the battles. Any Wednesday afternoon. Better come before she dies though, because that could be—like—any day.”

“Ricky told me that Lex Pinkston apologized to you, and then came to The Franks Lair for lunch.”

“Can you believe that bullcrap?”

I realize that I am being sorta flip toward Donna, but I need to keep being flip or else I might start crying again. I don’t want to be around Donna right now, maybe because she’s too perfect, and I know I’ll never live up. And that’s a hard reality to swallow. True? True.

“Ricky was very excited about socializing with the football team. He said they were very nice to him for once.”

“Yeah, because you threatened Mr. Pinkston with a lawsuit.”

“Remember what I told you about teenage boys and men, how they need to be herded like sheep?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Are sheep evil?”

“No, they’re sheep.”

“So maybe you should give Lex Pinkston and his boys a try. I hear the rest of The Five enjoyed playing Halo 3 with the football team. It’s good to make new friends.”

“That’s so messed up,” I say, shaking my head, feeling the tears coming.

“You know who boys like Lex tease and call names? Girls they are secretly in love with. The kid probably has a crush on you. And if he’s willing to play nice, why not let bygones be—Amber, where are you going?”

I’m frickin’ out of there, BBB following behind, and then we’re walking through the night, down the street.

My stomach is growling because I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, but I don’t give a crap.

“You’re going to have to take a rain check tonight, JC,” I pray, “because I got nothing left over for you. I just can’t pray tonight. Sorry.”

I walk pretty quickly back to the school bus compound, BBB and I hop the fence, and I am surprised to find that Mom is home and awake.

“I made dinner,” Mom says when I enter Hello Yellow, and then she proudly holds up a McDonald’s bag.

“I could kiss you, Mom.”

“Why?”

I hug Mom for a long time, until I start crying like a baby once again. Her body feels so skeletal, and I can actually feel her ribs through the back of her jacket, which makes me sob even harder.

“It’s okay, Amber,” Mom says, alcohol on her breath. “We won’t be on this bus forever. I’m working on it.”

I want to tell Mom that I really don’t give a crap about living on a school bus, but that the world is beating me down and I feel like I’m battling everyone and no one is putting any fuel back into my tank and I’m not sure I’m going to make it to adulthood unscathed and still believing in hope because JC isn’t doing me any favors as of late and everything is so frickin’ messed up—but I can’t stop crying, so I just let my mom hold me and pat my back for a half hour or so of pathetic sobbing.

When I finish crying, I open the McDonald’s bag and find an ice-cold child-size Happy Meal: small Coke, a handful of fries, four chicken McNuggets, and some stupid toy promoting some stupid kid’s movie.

“Did you eat?” I ask Mom.

“Oh, sure,” she says, and then takes a sip from a Coke can, which I know is filled with vodka, because I can smell it.

“Mom, if you love me,” I say, my stomach growling with hunger, “will you please, please, please eat this meal while I watch?”

“I bought it for you, Amber. You’re a growing girl and—”

“Please, Mom,” I say, tears suddenly streaming down my face again. I hold a chicken McNugget up to her face and say, “Please eat this. Please. For me, Mom. Please. I want to see you eat.”

Bobby Big Boy is watching me from an adjacent seat, wanting to eat the chicken nugget himself, but he’s too good of a dog to go for it, so I don’t worry.

Finally, my mother takes the piece of chicken from me, bites off a tiny bit, and then chews.

Mom swallows, and then says, “There. Are you happy? Now you should really eat—”

“Eat the rest. The whole meal, Mom. For me. Please.”

“Amber, you have to eat something yourself and we only have—”

“I ate like—ten pounds of hamburgers at Donna’s. Please let me watch you eat the rest. I’ve had a bad day, Mom. Please eat. Try. For me.”

Slowly, my mom nibbles at the food, sorta like a suspicious mouse might nibble on rat poison, as I watch.

Mom really does try to eat, which makes me proud of her.

After ten minutes or so, she gets down two and a half chicken McNuggets—and then she starts to throw up.

By the time I get her off Hello Yellow, she has puked three times. After another bout of puking in the bus yard—which scares me a lot—finally Mom stops vomiting.

When she asks for her cigarettes, I get them for her and let her smoke. I even bring her the Coke can of vodka, because I’m terrified now, thinking my mom might die right here and now, and I know that vodka is what she most needs.

There are paper towels and some sorta blue spray cleaning stuff under the driver’s seat, so I clean up Mom’s throw-up, which is full of blood and tiny shredded pieces of chicken.

I gag all the way through.

I try to think of something nice to take my mind off the present reality, so I think about all-time Amber-and-her-mom moment number two:

I’m tiny.

I cannot talk.

My arms and legs are wrapped up in a sheet—like a mummy.

I’m in a baby stroller and it’s late summer.

I’m shaded by one of those baby awnings above me—that rounded half dome that covers half of the baby stroller.

Bob is pushing the stroller and Mom has her elbow linked to my father’s and I hear the cry of a seagull, so maybe we are near the beach.

Suddenly—we stop moving.

Bob leans down and kisses Mom.

Baby me watches Bob and Mom kiss—baby me smiles.

Now, I know that there is no way I could remember this moment because I was only a few months old when my dad took off, and he probably wasn’t so in love with Mom before he took off, because why would he take off if they were actually in love?

So maybe I made the memory up?

It’s still my number two—regardless.

Back in the present moment, while I was trying to remember, while I was cleaning up puke, BBB has been hiding on one of the back seats, because I have been sobbing the whole time, and that scares him.

By the time I am finished, I reek of throw-up, and since there is no sink or anything around, I’m going to smell like puke for the night unless I wash with the dirty black slushy snow in the bus parking lot, which would make me smell like gas and bus emissions. I don’t even have a water bottle tonight. Nothing.

When I go back outside to throw the puke towels into the woods, BBB follows and starts his jumping routine—and I just can’t take it right now, so I scream, “Stop jumping!”

He stops.

He looks up at me with his little ears pointing straight up—like I hit him or something.

And then he starts whining, as if he is crying too.

So I throw the puke towels over the fence, into the woods—erasing Mom’s mess—and then I pick up BBB and give him a kiss on the lips.

“I’m scared, Bobby Big Boy. I’m scared. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Rew!” he says in agreement before we walk back to my mom.

“I have to go out,” Mom says, exhaling mentholated smoke.

“Where?”

“I’m going to get medicine for my stomach.”

“Where?”

“At the drugstore.”

“The Childress Rite Aid?”

“Yes.”

“Let me come with you,” I say. “It’s late.”

“You have school tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”

“Mom. Are you going to get more vodka? You can tell me the truth. I won’t try to stop you. I just want to know the truth.”