Episode 5
Killing Me Softly
About a month after the attack.
Roland’s Shift Log
*Cheap blue ballpoint pen on about 70 Bar Isabell branded ivory cocktail napkins.
How often you shed, Roll?
I dunno, like about once a year. I get all itchy and shit, but I look good after, right?
You always look good, Roll. It’s funny you shed. I mean not Ha Ha funny, but kinda cool. I wish I could just shake all the shit of the past off and start anew. It’s like a skin-wardrobe change.
Human skin sheds, just on a slower, more cellular level. How have you been? I’ve missed you.
I’m ok. I’m always hot. Didja really need to burn it all? I mean you’re so dramatic, Roland.
I guess. I’m hot also. I think I’ll have scars from the burns on my hands. See?
…
How do you get 100 dead babies into a bucket?
Shit, Kim. I can’t hear dead baby jokes now. I have a kid coming myself.
No, just answer. It’s a funny one.
I can’t, not now. Plus it’s cold in here.
Why are we in the walk-in? I would love some chips, though. Funny I’m hungry, right?
…
Ok, how about this one. How do you know when a dead baby pot roast is done?
Really. I can’t do these jokes right now. Not after last month.
It gets so stoned it stops crying.
——————————
I’m not passing out all the time, and my head’s not pounding anymore. I even found myself smiling at a joke by Zeke, but when I thought Kim would’a liked that one, my throat got tight, I had to leave the room, and ended up crying in the walk-in, shivering with frozen wet cheeks.
—————————
“Hey Roll, wanna leave a message?” Mitzi and Nelson are sitting on the couch in the dressing room, holding a phone between their ears. “We’re all calling Kimi’s phone and tryin’ to fill up her voicemail. It’s nice, you get ta tell her how much you love her, how much we miss her. All that good stuff.”
Mitzi’s cheer wilts, her eyes go red, and fat tears spill to her leopard skin lap. She carries through the crying, mopping her eye makeup with a folded cocktail napkin, “Didja know Nel and Kimi were dating? I never woulda guessed!”
Nelson covers his face and red eyes.
“Hmm, naw, never guessed. Sorry Nel.”
I wrap my arm around his shoulder. We all sit for a minute and try not to cry more. “How’d ya get Kim from Zeke? Always thought that was a thing?”
“Fuck off dude.” He fakes a punch in my stomach and hugs me.
Mitzi’s buoyant nature bounces back, “And Chris went on a couple dates with her, I know.”
“Chris?”
“The Viking.”
Were silent ’til Mitzi seems to remember something. “Here, this’ll be her spot. So when she comes back, she’ll see we were all thinkin’ of her and that we love her so much.” She stands with a mini Polaroid picture of herself, Kim, and Zeke. “This is from that time we all went to Old Sac to celebrate Zeke getting his level three som. We got really loud at the Delta King, and Zeke fell off the boat, like from the top, into the river.” She laughs and uses her chewing gum to stick the small square photo next to Kim’s mirror in the far corner of the dressing room.
Mitzi steps back and snaps a pic. I see her screen, Kim’s contact circle, and pages of unanswered texts. She checks her hair, sniffs and straightens her posture. Her phone’s on speaker, ringing. Kim’s contact picture is full screen; a photo of the two of them laughing themselves to tears. Kim’s voicemail says in a terrible english accent, “At the tone, be a doll, leave a note, or betta’ yet, text me’a loin.” Kim says, “Beeeep. Love ya.”
I want to go back to that Kim, when she was recording that VM message. I’d tell her to run away. Go and do whatever the fuck you want because life’s too short. Don’t hold back, I wanna say. Go spread your love, your light, don’t waste time trying to pay bills, working a job you hate, doing things you don’t wanna do. Go run in the field of poppies and eat ice cream and potato chips all day. Shine your light, be as big as you can. But I don’t say anything. I’m not a time traveler, and she’ll never hear it.
“We talk all the time.” I wanna say. But instead, I raise my finger and pretend an important call’s coming through my phone. I have to get out of the dressing room, away from memories of violent hounds, smeared blood, broken dreams, tangled hair, and that cry.
———————
It’s about nine on Wednesday morning and Isabell shows to deliver the new Shepards Crook shopkeepers bell for the front door. Houseman Jimmie recently replaced the temporary plywood window and rebuilt the door frame. She’s meeting with the staff in a few hours, they’re going to put up more missing posters of Kim around town. Iz has been feeling better and wants to help, but most the crew is still asleep. We all stayed up til morning “looking” for Kim, but we mostly just worried, partied, and drank for our missing friend.
From the smell coming out the kitchen I know Line Cook Fernando’s chopping and sweating down mirepoix for something new, and straining off the stock that simmered all night. Isabell gives a curt smile, but doesn’t say hello. She hasn’t responded to the drunken poem I sent last night. She’s still not talking to me, aside from a few texts to make sure I was OK after the “robbery.”
Roland - The leaves are gone.
Now, just wind, rain, a bird, or a squirrel’s raceway.
There’s no rustle, shade, or shelter without you.
With the crickets, I wait for buds and blossoms.
Then wait longer.
Izzie, please call me back. I’m an ass. I’m sorry.
She’s shapelier and more beautiful every time I see her. Today she’s wearing a tight grey low-cut top and green apron over her growing tummy, breasts, and behind. Her flowing hair pulled into a low partial ponytail, skin pulsing with magic baby making cells.
Even though she hates the brothel, she still loves the restaurant. I paid her back her the ten K she put in to start up, but never changed the paper work, she’s still on as an owner. Izzie’s creative touch and positive energy is crucial to our business, so I take what I can get.
I can’t get any work done. I only slept a few hours and I’m trying not to drink yet. My hungover, sweating head slips into a sweeter time, a memory of Isabell and me building the restaurant before the brothel and all'a this shit.
We followed inspiration and trusted our instincts as we built it, we grew this bar into something special, unique. Our restaurant was going to be a functional artwork collaboration, fresh, welcoming, electric.
I Haven’t been to Europe yet, but through endless art books, Google searches, and cool articles in National Geographic, I’ve fallen in love with the mosaic floors of the houses of Pompeii. If you ever get the chance, go! I hear the park’s guards let you walk right into the places where people lived and died thousands of years ago. You can walk directly on tiny little pieces of different colored stone. The rocks are puzzled into and fit precisely where they should, making bad-ass designs with ducks, boars, plants or whatever those Pompeians were into.
I’ve read you can even go into the old brothels and see the tiny beds they used to sell. They have ancient sex paintings on the wall of all the different ways to get off. 2000 years ago you could walk right in and pick the position you wanted, like a picture menu in’a fast food restaurant. “Yes, thank you, I’ll take’a number two, a number six, and heck, I’ve been working hard, lets gett’a ol’ number twelve in there, also.” Ha!
They also had these huge stone cocks standing erect above the front doors. The more discreet places had carved out street stones with dick and balls pointing the direction of ecstasy for sale. We should’a mounted some stone units somewhere!
In our bathrooms, Isabell and I painted the floors together. We’d come to the space at night, after our shift, when we were working at the hotel, stay up late, drink wine, and paint right on the cement. It was cathartic, working on something together, using our creative powers as one, wind down, get a little drunk, and then usually hook up. We'd pull up images of plants and animals we liked on our phones and casually illustrate them with acrylic paint: field mice, Scrub Jays, fig leaves, poppies, sunflowers, and whatever shapes we liked.
“I like this one, babe.” Isabell painted a Yellow Billed Magpie about to take flight, nervously looking over its shoulder with a swiped silver watch in its mouth.
“Stealing Time.” Shy, she spoke into her wine glass, never good with compliments.
“You don’t haveta steal my time, baby. I’ll give it all to ya.” On my hands and knees, I climbed over the paints and brushes, knocking over an empty bottle of wine, kissing her deeply.
When we completed painting the images and design on the floor, we found a tile guy connected with some of the contractors. He barely spoke English but was a promised wiz with a stone saw and hammer. We showed him pictures of the floors we liked in Pompeii. When he entered the bathroom and saw our floor mural, he covered his tooth-short smile with Mason's thick hands and wrote a quote on a scrap of paper.
With his lifelong collection of boxes of colored rocks, saws, dust, and grout, he knocked out the mosaic floor in four days, and fuck, it looked fantastic! The pattern of the small stones flowed and created a natural rhythmic design. His sensitivity to color and tone shifts were beautiful. After the stone mosaic was polished and covered in a protective layer, Isabell and I had a picnic in the bathroom before the toilet was ever used.
I ran my fingers over the floor and the reflective pieces of silver quartz the craftsman used for the watch in the Magpie’s mouth. She stretched out her bare foot, rested it in my lap, and smiled wine-stained teeth.
“So if the back bar is a bar’s soul. And the bar is the body. Is the bathroom all its private parts, the fun parts?” Isabell sucked her finger with purple lips. “Glad we're doing this now and not later.” She prowled over the polished tiles towards me. “Soon, filthy hoards will taint this wonder we made.” She held the back of my neck, climbed on top and kissed me. “Let’s enjoy it once more, before this place gets all slopped up with piss ’n shit.”
“Oh, lil’ lady, talk dirty to me.”
We laughed a lot those days.
I snap out of my daydream and try, again, to get some work done. Set up with my laptop at one of the bar booths, I’m trying to be get the lunch menu ready, pay a lost invoice to our linen supplier, and get the liquor order in, but I can’t focus with her in the room. As the sun stretches across the bar, I gaze and get lost in her beauty again. I imagine a small lizard body swimming inside of her. Maybe our baby’s a tadpole or something like that at this point in gestation?
Mom never talked about it, my lizardness. She just ignored me when I asked anything about my scales and tale. How was I born? Will Iz birth an egg? Will she have to sit on it like a chicken? Will we take turns keeping the egg warm like penguins do? I’ll be a good egg warmer dude, I bet.
Isabell’s wiping the dust off the bar bottles in the slanted late morning light, getting ready for service. Each time she picks up a bottle, sunlight projects the liquid’s color across her apron, her stomach, and escaped strands of hair from her ponytail. Islay scotch shows an amber light; gin, a slight blue twinkle; amaro, a glowing umber; aperitivo, a slash of siren red. Even when she’s mad at me, I’m grateful for this silent contact. I’ll take what I can get.
She loved me for me, not just the lizard man novelty. Most treat me as a ride they don’t have to pay admission to or a movie they snuck in to see. They just see the freak and don’t think, or care, that someone’s inside the suit, trying to get through the day, same as everyone.
“So it was just you and your Mom in Ohio?”
“Yeah, mostly just me. Mom was always out doing other stuff. It was pretty quiet, we moved around a lot, but settled in a trailer, but the other trailers always seemed empty, no one around. I had to entertain myself.”
“Like what’d you do? Watch TV and stuff?”
“Nah, the TV was so old, you could barely make a picture out. I’d draw in spiral notebooks, listen to music, all shit I stole from rich kids at school. I’d make little houses and stuff outta mud ‘n sticks, divert streams and stuff.”
“Like little a house you could get in?”
“Nah, just little houses for whoever. Like a few inches tall. Like for action figures, but I never really had any toys.”
“No toys?”
“If I got any. Mom always took my stuff. I had to hide everything. She’d sell anything she could? I dunno, maybe I lost ‘em, or broke them, I can’t remember? I dunno. I’d make little creatures out of sticks and grass and stuff. Knights, horses, Dragons. Kid shit, ya know.”
“Sold your toys? That’s messed up.”
“I don’t know. She never said much, Mom was a strange one.”
It’s not like Isabell would pretend I wasn’t a lizard. She loved my scales, she loved the costume as much who’s wearing it. We’d be layin’ in bed and she’d stroke my tail. “So, when you sit on the toilet you just push it to the side or what?”
“Pretty much. Ideally it’d hang off the back, but really, I’ve taken a lot more shits with it then without.”
“See my ear, see the back? Yours don’t stick out as much.”
“Good thing they stick out though, I’d hate not being able to wear sunglasses.”
“I’d get you one of those sports bands or something. Or tape, we could tape them to your head. But what about ear buds, that’d suck if you couldn’t listen to music, right?”
When we’d walk down the street and she’d never pay any attention to the stares and snickers, she’d just look into my eyes, kiss me on the lips and say, “We’re going to do great things, Mr. Desmund. Me. You. Us. This bar. watch out world, the Desmund family’s taking over, shaken stuff up, doin’ it right!”
“I might hate Desmund as much as Green. We might need to come up with a new last name.”
“Oh, shoot. did you feed Walter?”
“Oh no. Poor lil’ Lasty. I’ll do it now.”
Even in separation. I’ll always love her.
A loud diesel engine growls from the street; it’s break’s squeak and hiss. It might be garbage pick up today? The new bell rings. He fills the open door, stopping the glowing light, tossing his shadow across the bar like a sheet over a corpse.
Isabell’s close to the front now, organizing the bar stools. She takes a drink from her water bottle, looks up, and meets the Captain, as I start calling him in my head. He’s dressed in a black long sleeve turtle neck and black jeans, not suited for battle like I last saw him, but just as lethal.
“Hello, Mrs. Desmund.”
His voice ignites flashback fragments of that night, of Kim, and getting smashed in the face.
“What an honor to meet the person with whom this establishment is named.” He smiles and looks over her figure. Then shakes her hand like he would an employee or co-worker, going out of his way to show she’s not just an object to him, working hard treating her as an equal, maybe too hard? It shows his cards, I can tell he likes her.
The rotten hound stench drifts into my head.
Rough fur.
Crushing coarse claws.
“Hello…” Isabell’s hand is out, charmed and happy to be respected. She has no idea who this guy is, what he can do, what he’s done. And I hate admitting this, but the Captain has a strange charismatic presence like he’s seen the world twice over and has lifetimes of stories to tell.
“We don’t open until five, sir, but I’m happy to set up a reservation for tonight?”
“Very nice of you. Oh, look here. What a blessing.” At the sight of her obvious pregnancy he smiles, places his hands together, and again does that obnoxious prayer/bow move. “But, you should not be working so hard in your state, Mrs. Desmund? Here let me help, and grab you a a seat.”
He theatrically stops his feigned attempt. “No,” stretching out the o’s, he smiles and lets her know he’s making a joke. “A strong lady like you can do it all. I am sure.”
Isabell takes a small step back and looks over her shoulder at me. Her nurturing eyes and glowing smile silently ask, “WTF, Roll?”
“I am here on some small business and would love to speak to your husband. Is he around?” His eyes connect with mine the same time as hers.
Stunned and still, I’m slightly hidden in the booth, we all stare. I wanna throw up and scream while seeing him talk to pregnant Isabell. Houseman Jimmie comes outta the bathroom from Goat and breaks our connected gaze.
“Jimmie.” My voice wobbles. I climb outta the booth. “Listen, Jimmie, you need to… go ’n get some…” The only thing I can think of. “Toilet paper. With Isabell. Right now. No matter what, make her come with you.” He looks to me, confused, then to the cupboard filled with rolls of bathroom tissue. He’s slow to process the urgency, “Quickly,” I hush. “Just get her. Do it! Just go.” I give him a handful of one hundred dollar bills to make clear I’m not fucking around. He blinks, doesn’t say anything, removes his latex cleaning gloves, and takes the money.
Houseman Jimmie wasn’t there last time and he has no idea what’s ‘bout to go down. He calls Isabell over as I acknowledge the Captain across the room. Jimmie gets her out the back door with a story about needing help with something or other. The Captain smiles as they leave, seemingly allowing their passage. Once they’re outta earshot he greets me like an old friend.
“Hello, Roland.” First names? Fuck you! “Good to see you again, my man.” Like it’s the fucking 1970’s, “My man?”
Honestly, I’m scared as shit and don’t wanna get my head smashed in again. I don’t want a shootout on this beautiful day. I don’t want him to burn our place down. Fuck. Where are his dogs?
“Hello, Sir,” I treat him like a VIP again. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”
“Nice of you to offer Mr. Roland, but my work here is short today. I have a business proposal. Is there a place we can talk?”
“Yes, always a pleasure…” Keep it brief, Roll. Don’t go off on some crazy tangent like you usually do.
“It has been a month or so since we have seen each other. Correct?”
The number seven shaped scar on my face is healing well, Doc Carson just took the exterior stitches out. I feel a cool breeze on the fresh skin. I smile outta habit, look out front, then to the back door.
The sopping wet throw pillow I used to hold my face together that night. Hot hot flames of the dumpster. The fryer oil smell of the fire.
“No need to worry. Just a business proposition. You and your precious family will not be hurt today.” I shift my eyes across the room and feel sick when he says, “family.”
“I have been watching your operation. Looks like you have a winner here!” He claps, motions around the room with his hands, then loosens a grin. “Here. Sit with me, hear my proposal.” I grab a couple of rocks glasses, a cold Aqua Panna from behind the bar, and walk us to a small two-top.
“I have water, but would you like a drink?”
He smiles and judgingly says, “It is a little early for me, Mr. Roland. But please do not let me hold you back.”
I pour us water with shaking hands, my breath is tight. Cold whiskey sweat gathers on my brow like hungover dew before a frost.
Ok, let’s hear this fucking asshole’s idea. Don’t start talking first.
“I will make a visit every four weeks or so, in the early part of each month.” He adjusts the place setting in front of him. Lining up the fork, knife, plate, and napkin. “If I cannot personally make it, some of my men will come. Please have our ‘cut’ ready. It will be a good business relationship.” He reaches over and lines up my fork and knife with his.
I keep my trembling hands under the table. My eyes keep darting out the front windows to see if his men are coming.
His cut? Fuck, he’s not going away? The ever-splitting scab on my cheek starts to leak a mix of puss and blood. I dab it with one of our nice linens.
I can’t spin this? Not now. Not this quick.
Hound drool on my arm. Hot breath. Rotten meat smell.
I inhale ’n wish I had a cigarette, then start, “Sir, it seems when you were here last, one of the ladies was injured and left and never came back.” He goes about organizing the flatware, then slowly blinks. “Incidents like that are bad for business. It creates a work environment that makes staffing difficult and eventually chases away customers. You see, if I cannot get premium Talent, we cannot get top dollar, and we will not be very busy.”
He’s calm and doesn’t speak while I wait for this to land. The room’s silent enough to hear a car accelerate a block away.
It’s true. If this fucking guy is going to show up every month to terrorize our staff, the jig is up. I can’t keep staff if everyone’s worried about War Dogs and this fucked up dude showin’ every month. No premium Talent, no great chefs, no great card dealers, no great sommeliers, no great pastry chefs, no great bartenders, no great parties, no business, no money.
“It’s a simple request,” I push. He uncrosses his legs and slowly leans forward on the table. I hold my ground, take a sip of water, and continue. “I cannot have you and your men talking to my staff. Please conduct our business off hours and with just me.”
Take a breath.
I manage to steady my hands and calm down. I might have smokes in my jacket. “Then we will pay your cut.’” This guy can ruin everything. So let’s find out now if it really is destroyed. Here I am, worrying about the business and not even my own fucking neck.
Oh, I get it! There’s money to be made. We’re the Golden Goose! Ha! Leverage!
He’s silent, re-adjusts the place settings, looks for a napkin to replace the one I’m holding, has some water, and licks his chapped lips. He slips black leather gloves over his thick-knotted hands that squeak as he opens and closes his fists.
A breath of memory: the smell of their weapons, the oil, the boots. The floor squeegee sloshing small tidal waves across Death’s pink ocean. All of it disappearing into the black infinite abyss of the loading dock's floor drain.
A few minutes pass, a diesel engine fires up out front, a plume of black smoke covers the bay windows and lurks through the front door. He doesn’t like getting terms, but it’s a hell of an offer.
His lip wiggles a tiny sneer and his voice shifts to recover the high ground. “Mr. Roland. My men are very professional, and only do exactly as I say.” He stacks his fork and knife on top of the napkin, looks to my silver, then to my puss-blotted linen. “I am sorry to hear that one of your ladies went missing after the last time we were here. I also understand. We will keep our relationship professional. I will not ‘dip the pen in the company ink,’ as they say.” With this shitty joke, he winks, and I notice another vertical cicatrix, that what Dr. Carson calls mine, running down his left cheek.
The Captain is a lion that’s earned all his scars. Whatever this guy’s seen, I’m sure it’s a thousand times scarier than my lizard-man-art-restaurant life. I think about Kim and wonder what she’s been up to last month. All the laughs she’d have given us. The cash she would’a made. The dirty oily charcoal smell of that burnt out dumpster.
The Captain has me, but he’s thinking he can just fuck around here, be one of our VIP’s, do whatever. My leverage play seems to work, it sucks, but makes us a little safer?
Oh, what a great fucking deal. We give you money, and you don’t kill or kick the shit out of us.
I push, “The amount of the ‘cut’ sir? Remember, we need to stay in business?” I lower my head and look around to make sure I wasn’t about to be hit, like an abused dog raised by a shitty owner.
“Very well. Last collection was $254,234. We will call that a security deposit. I know you need money to operate.” He takes a drink of water, licks his crumbly lips again, stands, and seems to do some lazy math in his head. “We will collect $50,000 a month. The last collection gets you current. At the start of every month, have our money ready. Then your business and family will be secure.”
When he says “family” my heart jumps again and I almost fall out of my chair, I doubt he notices, but I do. He stands and extends his gloved hand to seal the deal. I stand, straighten my pants, adjust my shirt. We shake, he squeezes my grip and pulls me into his dark, swallowing gaze.
Fill your lungs with air. Think of a cigarette. Stay calm. Isabell’s fragile naked body. Her porcelain smooth skin. The first time we met. I exhale, dry my palms on my pants.
I need to sit down.
Fuck!
I take a mouthful of water, wish it was whiskey, think of a cigarette again, then take another big breath.
With our projections, we’re set to make about $50,000 in profit a month. $50,000 is going to hurt, not as bad as not paying, but’ll still hurt. I need more time to figure this fucker out. I’ll figure something out soon, but for now, he won.
“Ok," I agree, or am forced to agree, to pay $50,000 a month for nothing in return. Other than they won’t burn us down, beat us up, or kill us all.
Seems like a fair trade?
The guttural drum roll of a hungry engine fills the front street and an enormous matte black vehicle, the size of a small garbage or dump truck pulls up. The Captain scans the top shelf of the bar and using the space between his thumb and forefinger clenches and squeezes his hand deeper into his gloves, “Whiskey is becoming a thing. I have to admit, I’m becoming a bit of a connoisseur.” He molds the french word like he’s fluent. “I’ve started my own collection. I see you have some of those purple tops, and Pappy. Impressive. I might have to have one next time.”
He climbs into the armored war truck that sits on thick, dusty rubber wheels. It’s got two doors up front and an enclosed cargo area over double rear axles. He slams the passenger door, which has streaks of tan paint over it, like this beast of a ride smushed a sedan off the road somewhere. The Big Brown Headed one and his mountainous body is crammed behind the steering wheel, tongue out and panting.
The Captain manually rolls down the greasy window and shouts over the farting sounds of the engine, “Your payments are current until early next month. We will see you then. Please, be ready, and thank you, Mr. Roland. It was nice to meet your family. Tell your wife she is very pretty, and good luck with that little baby.”
I stand in our doorway and outta service industry habit say, “Thank you,” then think, “Fuck, I hate this guy!”
The war truck roars away, shooting thick black soot over our red planter boxes and overgrown rosemary. Line Cook Fernando comes up behind me at the front door, his white apron red from beets or pomegranates, “Hey, Boss. I did not hear you come in. All good? Aye, look at that truck!”
An image of brain matter on the marble floor slips into my head. What part of personality was that ounce of gelatinous mush? Was that the compassionate part, was that a childhood memory of being pushed on a swing, a favorite meal? Or a long lost friend's name she couldn’t recall that time at the bar?
I push past Fernando, run inside, and throw up in the bar’s slim jim garbage can. I wash my face in the hand sink, and rinse the bile outta my mouth.
Fernando shuffles back inside, twisting his hands on his apron and talking slow, “Boss, you OK?” I’m dreaming of drowning my stress in the juniper-whiskey ocean bottled up on the back bar. I buss the place settings. My voice echos a hollow resolution, “Hey Fernando, let’s get ready. It’s going to be really fucking busy today.”
Business is funny. No matter what, it’s never enough. When it is enough, someone bigger, smarter, and meaner comes and takes away what’s made. Ya know those nature shows shot in Africa? I remember one with a cheetah who’d just expertly chased down an antelope or something. This poor cat runs 80 miles an hour and pulls a beast to the ground with only its claws and teeth. As the tired furry fella is resting on top of its prey, panting from the hot daytime chase and kill, a fucking lion. A bigass alpha lion, who watched the whole thing from the shade, calmly walks up to the tiredass cheetah and the hard-won prize. The thin cat has no choice but to walk away and wait for scraps. With just a look, the lion won, the lion knew it, the cheetah knew it, and the poor dead antelope knew it.
Get in line, Roll, get in line. Don’t die, do what you gotta do, and get in line…
