Falling

UNABLE to help herself, nursing wounds, Angel at her feet, day spent reading Jason Cox’ novel, six pack, bucket of ice, bought from Mava, things seem fine.

Lots a weeping and lots a awe, feeling balanced of course with Sues help.

Curiosity grinding up her gears, Jason, Arvan, her Caddy, Billy, Bobby Ugo and Dim Dim.

When are they coming?

A gal needed her fingers, eye balls, important stuff that shit and even she knows that. Bizarre feelings, well, nothing new about that.

She’s actually feeling pretty good considering she may need a Braille menu soon to order A Texas Fried Steak from Mavas Cafe.

She’s a woman, has never loved anything, anyone, loves Angel now, of course that’s a start. She’s still confused, rider of the horses, his words stun her and she needs more. She is getting crazier by the moment. Even a good beating won’t make those feeling vanish.

Understanding quite well just how brainy she is does nothing to quell her knowledge that perhaps she is not an artist, but just a gorgeous total fuck up. Jason Cox’s work depicts an artist and she is coming to grips that she, planted into a decentralized and desensitized world may have been just a trick of her life; thus finding herself in a world she never belonged in to begin with.

She remembers, from some obscure part of her brain what the Greek Poet Heraclitus, said.

“Because it is so unbelievable, the truth often escapes being known.”

Sitting naked, on the side of the bed, nothing in her mind could be truer.

She moves, winces, war wounds raving to reality, aching more, cool wind from the swamp cooler, making the last remnants of the day bearable.

Shadows fill the room as the Sun pushes past the rim of the Earth.

Manuscript on her knees, chin lifts, she stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeover, allows her brain a respite, on, off, on, off, there are no memories of the men hunting her. Onettas death, her lying mouth, nothing distracts her from the work she has been reading through the day.

A magnificent pure predator, this part of her brain feels no fear, is roving in Jasons world, The Riders world, one of war, love and death.

She knows, that through time, there are women that love men for no other reason then the rare talent they hold within their hearts. One might be a painter, work in marble, clay, gold, mathematics; genius has no face, much like her.

IT is the very reason she stuck her thumb to the road over a decade earlier. But, what is her talent, besides bringing Armageddon to every person that has ever moved close to her?

The emotions she’s feels are as foreign to her as if she were telling the truth. She is not talentless, has been told more than once that her writing is something remarkable.

But, compared to what?

Wheel of some type of odd fate satiated machine is in the process, whirling finality as she thinks in her mind.

Eyes glaze over, she blinks hearing a motorcycle roar into the compound. Placing the manuscript down, she stands naked, moves to the door, cracks it and sees Billy throwing his kick stand down at the mechanics garages.

To her dismay, Arvan, bent over his pick-up, not working on HER car. She allows a groan to escape from her lips. Billy, steps to Arvan, hands him a plastic sack, as usual they begin to argue, Arvan pointing at her car, her room, the De Ville. Billy finishes it off, the usual deal, a smack across Arvans head, Billy turns and strides to the bar, enters it.

Arvan leers, after his brother, pure hatred in his eyes and, then his face softens, as she sees him staring in her direction. She knows what that means. She sees homicide whistling around Arvans eyes.

Time, she thinks, to get back to the grift.

Valise open, bends, moans from pain, she slips on a pair of white men’s BVD’s, white socks, black hip huggers, black men’s T, on her small feet go the heavy work boots. 38 off the table, along with her knife, in the boots they go. Looking at her pillow, she sees her 44 sneaking its black mouth out from under the pillow. She groans, warns herself to be more careful, then, knock, knock, knock.

Eyes sweep the room, everything tucked away, eyes tick at the heat vents, she exhales, moves to the door, shakes her head violently, once, become Miss Betty as she opens the door.

Arvan, conspiracy everywhere, body posture, face and, then in his words he whispers. “Can I come in Betty? Need ta talk, real quick like, with ya.”

“Of course darlin’, come in.”

Did she really just call him darlin’? Yes she did.

Arvan, like a spy, looks off at the bar, sneaks into her room and, then looks around, kinda manic, whispers. “Gotta make it quick Betty. Billy he done pissed off again.”

Betty nods sweetly, for him to continue, not liking already where the conversation is heading.

“No water pump in Solar Ville. Arvan remembers what we was talkin’ bout, real good.”

She groans, remembers the show she put on for him. She bets her ass he remembers it too.

“Then, were off ta Corpus Christie tomarraw, where I can get yer pump. Problem is, won’t be back fer a day or so, and I gotta knowed, Betty, cause I got plans. Big plans fer the both of us. Big plans.”

What she wants to say is: “Well’ that’s great fucking news. I’ll hang here honey bunny while I’m waiting for two guys to arrive, plus some other Super Size slabs of meat lurkers you won’t believe, which will make your violent brother Billy look like Gandhi in comparison.”

What she does say as somehow her eyes light up like Christmas bulbs, is. “Oh Arvan, that’s all I could think about, darlin’. Me bein’ safe and protected and all. Us bein’ tagether fer ev...”

Checking her Texas Slang Dictionary cover to cover she probes for the right words, though she could have been a deaf mute after Arvan had witnessed her crawl on the bed earlier.

“Are ya sure, Arvan. Ya can get her fixed real quickly when you return, so we...we...we”

She lowers her eyelids, even the busted one, goes all quite and such “WE” being the optimum word in her last lying breath.

Kick my fucking dog, will ya. Burns through her brain

“Ya jest wait, Betty. Arvan I’ll fix everythin’. Ya trust me done ya?”

Sure baby, no problema. Trust you, right, as about as far I would expecting you to win a first grade spelling bee.

Words left unsaid, sometimes are better words.

“My life Arvan, my darlin’, it’s in your hands.”

He grins, peeks at the hole in the wall.

Mandal smiles, wondering if more peep hole action will be needed to get her fucking car repaired.

He gulps as her grind on the bed replays in his mind. A door slams. He jerks his head around, moves to the door.

“Okay Betty.” See ya real soon. Be ready. We might have ta’ go real quick like.”

“Okay Arvan. I’ll be ready, darling, for you.”

Grins, peeks at the hole, cracks the door, sluices out of the room, blink, blink, groans, she shakes her head violently, winces from the clearing pain, whispers. “Great. Just fucking great.”

Second part of part two, she is secretly pleased.

The masochist in her kicks in, for glances at the manuscript makes her smile. Swell, she can spend more time with her new pal in the barn. Oh goody goody goody.

Manic, OCD, Bi Polar, she feels happy, time for a smokey.

She grabs a Marlboro, her Zippo, stares at the Red Dragon insignia, memories flashing back to her from the chrome. She decides to bag those, lights her cigarettes, inhales, swan dives on the bed, bad idea.

“Crack.”

Her rib seems to snap. She winds into a fetal position, buries her head in the pillow, white knuckles the sheets, shrieks in pain into the white cotton.

After a few moments the pain subsides. Thank fucking God for that. She rolls on her back, pats at a spot in the sheet burning from her dropped smoke. With hands trembling from the subsiding pain she inhales, exhales, calms, afraid to move.

More time passes, her mind clears, decides to do some sleuthing, maybe over at the disappearing act in the center of the junk yard, more Jason too, that’s a no brainer. She likes night time, shadow time, perfect for snakes to slither around, hunt, gather up the odd odds and ends, information is power.

She looks at a staring Angel, pats the bed. “Come on Angel, its safe now.”

Like a golden bullet of fur, Angel takes two steps and leaps. She crushes into Mandals face, lick, lick, lick, Mandal giggles.

Hey, I,ove you too. Right here girl.”

She pats the bed, Angel curls into a ball, her eyes never leaving Mandal.

She smiles, picks up Jason’s novel and begins to re read it, a happy gal.

How sweet, two beat to hell blonds sharing a book on a Sunday after noon.