The Ice Age (4 page)

Eventually Gunther hauled her off to bed. Tucked her in, I imagine. Then he and I sat outside on the porch and smoked a joint. He wasn't himself. I stopped feeling like I was there, so I went inside to bed. I don't know what time he came in.

The next morning I got up and took a shower, fussed around for a while in my room. I didn't hear anyone else about, so I figured everyone must still be asleep. Gunther was taking the couch, even though he was much too tall for it. I ventured into the living room eventually, and he was nowhere to be seen. I looked around and then thought, ‘Jeez, he didn't give in and bone Stephanie, did he?' I sat around in a bored, unimpressed vigil, waiting for those two to sheepishly rear their heads.

After a while I heard Stephanie let out a moan upstairs. I wandered outside onto the porch, lest I be subjected to more of these moans. I was glaring into space, letting my eyes bore into the empty driveway, when it hit me. The car was gone! Fucking gone! No car, no…Where the fuck was Gunther?

It struck me all at once how joined at the hip we've become, what a unit. He doesn't just go someplace and not tell me where: he is never out of my sight. I tried to calm myself down. He's Mr. Considerate, I thought. There's no (edible) food in the house, and us ladies were both asleep; he's probably gone out to get us all some breakfast. And then my mind was full again, with warm meditations on Gunther's benevolence, and the possibility of a generously portioned meal.

I sat on the porch and waited awhile. I remember thinking, ‘Man, the service must be slow in this town.' Then I went inside and watched TV. Stephanie came downstairs and said, ‘Where's Gunther?' and I said I didn't know, probably getting breakfast. She said it was past noon. She had a note pinned to her chest. That was unmistakably Gunther's angular cursive. How hilarious, I thought, he must think this chick is a serious idiot. That's one step removed from taping the note to her forehead.

It read:

You are right. It is of questionable judgment for an old
thing like me to keep the company of so young a girl,
(although I have done no deliberate wrong). Perhaps you
can keep her with you until suitable accommodation can
be found.

He then added, in a different color ink:
Perhaps
a passage to San Francisco could be arranged for her.

I was pointing at the note, simultaneously alerting Stephanie to its presence, and reading it. I could feel my mouth dropping open. Being abandoned by Gunther…being without Gunther, that was a horrible prospect. But being stuck here with Stephanie, that was a close second.

‘What the…Wow.' Stephanie was a lot softer when she wasn't drinking or crying. Or both. From what I have seen, the two go hand in hand.

After a minute she said, ‘Well…I guess we better get some breakfast.'

We rode bikes. She rode her late husband Ward's, and I rode hers. It was downright wholesome. I hadn't seen she didn't have a car. I thought, ‘Sheesh, the old man didn't leave her a pot to poo in.' And she was an artist. Well, more of a craftsperson, really. She had homemade stuff hanging up all over the place. No wonder she was crying all the time.

But it turns out she wasn't crying all the time. Last night must have been a rough night. I chuckled to myself that seeing Gunther would stir any woman up. And then I promptly fell to sulking over his cruel departure.

We went to a neighborhood café that had a lot more character than I would have expected, judging from its surroundings for miles around. It was cozy. I ordered pancakes. Stephanie got scrambled eggs, and gobbled them up, pizza-style. I thought, someone with an appetite like hers should keep more food around the house. And then I wondered whether she is always so hungry because she never does have any damn food. It makes no sense for her to deprive herself like that.

When I asked her why her house was so empty she said, ‘Because no one lives there.'

That really bummed me out. And it kind of didn't make sense. It was one of those vague melancholy statements old people make, that are meant to sound deep. How old do you have to be before you start saying things like that? I sure as hell don't talk that way.

She asked me a lot of questions about Gunther; me and Gunther, that is. I wasn't giving much away. I've never had a friend like Gunther before. I don't know what's allowed. I haven't had many good friends, full stop. And when I do find one, I'm never choosy about the circumstances. I think that's pretty ungrateful, to be all picky. When I was nine, I had a friend who was only five. I know that's young, but I thought she was damn smart for her age. And when my family spent summers up in Maine, I used to hang out with an old fisherman. He would fix me up with a fishing line and I'd sit there next to him on the sunny docks, listening to him philosophize, old-man style, hour after hour. I didn't actually like catching fish. It was thrilling and satisfying, after all that sitting, but violent, too. It shattered the calm. And I went through a phase where I used to jerk the line sideways every time and inadvertently hook them in the eye. Les had to take them off the hook for me. If they were big enough, he cleaned and gutted them too.

I've never had many friends my own age. They switch around between friends a lot, and I never know when we're friends and when we aren't. I just don't understand all that, and end up drifting off and forgetting about them. I guess I'm the all or nothing type. I'm either all alone, or never alone. Because when I have someone close, I like to draw them in properly close, and bask in their company a lot. I don't know when the next lonely expanse of friendlessness will be. I like to think never. I think that every time.

So there was Stephanie, picking apart Gunther and me. And friendship is a sacred thing. There was a note of sympathy in her voice that was comforting, but unnerving. She was giving the impression she cared about me, which made me open up a little. But then, she was acting like our friendship, mine and Gunther's, was something she should feel sorry for me about. She'd made it pretty crystal clear she'd like to get a lot closer to him herself. You don't see me standing over him grinding my pelvis into the back of his armchair. I just leave him be.

So there's nothing wrong with her throwing her drunken self at him, but there is with me and him being roadtripping adventurers together. Man, I really didn't feel like accepting her pity on that point. And I was getting increasingly shitty on the whole subject. All this talk about me and Gunther seemed moot, now that he had just fucking left me there. My shock was giving way to a rising panic.

We rode back to her place, and she pottered around, tidying up for a while. Her place already was fairly tidy, but in a weird way. She had things scooped up into stacks, every few feet; magazines, balls of yarn, newspapers, books…All these little piles of stuff were orderly, but it did look like they might avalanche if anyone touched them. So she was going through them and staring at things, then dividing them into more piles. I assumed a lot of these new ones must have been trash piles. She even had an old Playboy. She didn't try to hide it from me. I figured she could tell I'm not that shockable. But it was more likely she was just zoning out, not even noticing me. Let's face it; this lady really does have a foot in the grave.

Then she sat down on the couch and started trying to nut out what to do with me. It was pretty clear she had no idea, but pawning me off seemed to be her first inclination. She had toyed with a ‘two girls on the town' theme over breakfast, but that seemed to have worn off. Now she was asking about my family, and even mentioned foster care—two words that will make any teenager break into a cold sweat. Which I did.

I cursed Gunther anew for leaving, for breaking the unspoken bond of Road Buddies. You don't just deposit someone somewhere, midway through a mission. I felt like the heavens should open; felt an act so unholy should at least warrant some kind of mini apocalypse. The sun beating down on all those quaint, well-kept lawns, the birds chirping, the dude washing his car, sending classic rock gently wafting over the block…This was all making me edgy. This environment is indifferent to my pain, indifferent to any pain at all.

I went for a walk and got us some doughnuts. And bagels. And a few other things I thought seemed enticing. (Gunther had left us some cash. Jerk.) I was hoping to spark some kind of feeding frenzy in the ever-ravenous Stephanie. My aim was to stall her; get her to chill the fuck out. At least then I could sort out a plan, instead of her trying to plan everything for me. Plus when someone is that flighty, it's only natural to try to get them to relax. They're bad company, otherwise. I couldn't leave straight away for various reasons. The most pressing of these was the belief that Gunther would turn around and come back for me. He needed to know where to find me, so I had to stay put.

It sort of worked. She was touched to see all that food. And we did have a big therapeutic pig-out (her words). Then we cleared most of it away and made some space on the table. We were going to make some of her artsy-craftsy stuff together. I had been asking her about it all. My father once told me women like it when you ask them to talk about themselves. I think he said it mainly to demonstrate his pulling power with the opposite sex. Tips on how to seduce women don't come in that handy if you already happen to be one. However, this one did because there she was, chattering away, showing me how to glue this and bend that, and finally calming the hell down.

I needed money. That was for damned sure. When we were done making all that frilly stuff and hanging it up around the house, she sent me out for milk, which was perfect. It gave me a chance to trawl for jobs. I went into every place between Steph's and the convenience mart, asking if they had any work going. I even asked at the shoe repair hut.

I ended up passing the convenience store and heading into downtown proper. I was feeling determined. Though after the sun went down there was almost no one around. People shouted in the distance. Cars drove past, and an empty bus.

I came across a lady, taking up the whole sidewalk in front of me, the way some people just have a lot of presence. She was damn pretty, and seemed to know it. She had on knee-high boots and a plain black dress. Her hair was all clean and flowy. It was clear she was somehow affiliated with the dark and nondescript building she was loitering in front of. The way she was strutting around the place was plain intimidating, but I'd made up my mind to ask everywhere. She was already starting to smirk at me, but when I opened my mouth to ask about jobs,
that
got her laughing good and proper. I had to stand there and wait until she'd stopped. I didn't know whether to be insulted because I was being laughed at, or what. When she stopped, she looked me square in the face, pretty seriously. She must have still thought I was a bit of an idiot, but was now grateful for the huge laugh I'd given her.

She said blandly, ‘See what gives.'

She went inside, and finally resurfaced when I was thinking of wandering off dejectedly. She had a girl with her.

She said, ‘This is no place for little girls. Maybe Loren here can sort you out.'

Loren wasn't much older than me, if at all. But she was all done up fancy, and so had an air of maturity. She also had a tiny plasticky dress, orangeyblonde hair pulled up in a high pony tail, bright pink lipstick that matched her dress, and every other kind of make-up you could think of. She started walking me down the block. She too looked a touch amused at my expense.

‘So you wanna be a dancer.'

This statement caught me off guard, and ‘Uh…' was my only reply.

‘You
can
dance?' she snapped.

‘Well, yeah,' I said, ‘can't everyone?'

She let out a snorty laugh. ‘You'd be surprised.'

We turned a corner in the direction of some thumping music. There were neon signs with silhouettes of busty women arching backwards. I should have had an inkling it was that kind of dancing. I sort of did, but was too hell-bent on getting a job to care about the particulars.

She nodded at the doorman, and we marched into the thick of it. It was everything you'd think it would be, just like any strip club I'd seen in the movies, or on TV cop shows. No more, no less. Maybe some of the girls were a little rougher around the edges, but that was kind of raw and sexy, I guess. I mean, isn't that what people come here for, to see someone up close? If Gunther were here, we'd be talking this over. But then if Gunther were here, I wouldn't be.

There were quite a few ladies in the audience. That was the only major difference I could spot between this and the fictitious strip clubs I'd seen. Hollering up a storm. They seemed to be enjoying it more than most of the guys, who were just sitting there struck dumb. Surely they'd seen a naked lady before. Christ! I wondered if the girls cared, if they got sick of all those stupid fucks staring up at them.

I asked Loren. She didn't bat an eye. ‘You care how much money they cram into your g-string.'

She walked me up to a greasy fat guy and said, ‘Hey, Carlo, you got any work for her?'

Like the rest of them, Carlo looked amused to see me. ‘I'm looking for
it
,' he said, ‘and I don't think I see it. What are you, twelve?'

‘No!' I snapped.

He held a chubby hand up to my neck. ‘Yeah, but from here down you're twelve.'

‘Carlo!' Loren gave a shocked laugh.

‘I'm seventeen.' Then I added, ‘and a half !'

‘If you're still talkin' in halves, you're too fuckin' young.' He had me there. We stood looking at each other for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Beat it, Babycakes.'

Loren came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. She pushed me ahead of her and guided me briskly through the dazed men and screaming broads, toward the exit, in her warm officious grip. I was stewing over Carlo's parting remarks. ‘Beat it Babycakes', I repeated to myself. Who talks like that? Did he get that line out of a movie? It's bad enough his club has to be a complete stereotype; he has to be one, too?