Burst by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 4
The nuances of Mal were harder to ascertain; as they were precisely that; privatized nuances. They often seemed to be more of a reaction to something prompted by Rikki, rather than something inherent in him. In what many would find perverse or some kind of role reversal, Rikki seemed much more overt in her own way. In time I would come to think that he made a conscious effort not to tell yet another sad ass story, in fear that it would prove just to be another one eliciting platitudes; which no one really gave a fuck about. But, little by little patterns seemed to emerge; perhaps from the trees that he said were watching us.
He was about six feet and 165 pounds. But despite being no gym fanatic, he was strong enough to pull himself up onto a one story roof without the aid of a ladder. His upper torso looked like the covers of the many male-male romance, indie novels; which all seemed to display the same headless guy with an unbuttoned shirt. Damn things are freely downloadable on Amazon, if you want your own copy. He also, drunk and almost staggering, was able to easily beat off three would-be-gangstas with a 3AM
“Watchew got bro” approach. Whatever the threat, Mal didn’t waste any more words than; “Bring it.”
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Both he and Rikki were well trained to fight. She had won a few Muay Thai competitions, and he had experience in some other kind of martial arts discipline he named a few times, but I can no longer remember. In regard to fighting, he also had the advantage of having been a been-there-seen-that-bullshit game approach to things.
Somewhere past my mid-point with them, Mal told me that he and Rikki had one of their increasingly common, non-physical, yelling fights, the yelling her domain. This time it was at her parent’s house. He walked out rather than risk another “domestic abuse” bullshit charge initiated and called in by her father; the righteous fat man with a computer full of little boy porn.
So, picture this. He’s kind of seriously fucked up after a full day of harsh clear liquid straight slugged, tempered by socially acceptable dips into the mild red stuff. That being the norm he can cover it everywhere but in his head. So, with Rikki on the bull horn and her big, pedophilic, at least in his dreams, daddy in the hall, for an escape, he was “Walking After Midnight” in this little shit “park” bordering Rikki’s mom’s and dad’s development. Albuquerque builders customarily “build”
these things at the edges in return for lucrative variances in the center. You know, the place with the broken swings, transitory straggles of un-mown grass, empty booze bottles, and loads of dog shit. He’s tired, severely loaded, and his eyes are
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closing. He’s sitting on the non-bench, often called the ground, and he hears noises. It’s like 3AM or feels like it. Nobody else is there. They’re all tucked away, thinking the blankets make them safe in the dark. It usually works well for relatively short durations.
Hey, danger lurks in “The Land of Entrapment.” Sorry for the old joke, NM residents. On the prowl are three of Albuquerque’s finest; in full uniform. They got the baggiest assed of pants that Walmart got on sale, took four sizes too big, ending below the sneaker; tee with an out-of-proportion knife and a curvaceous fantasy slut hidden in the bottom line places; and that short, short crew-cutted head you didn’t want your cheap-ass father to inflict on you every summer. Styles sometimes change, I guess, if you stay in the shallows.
Mal is greeted by the one of the three who needs to show off how “bad” he is for his two companions doing their undergraduate form of bop. The “teacher” out front pumps some minimal iron and has a head which appears to be tended by the precision of a depilatory. Hence the “cool” grin accompanies the banality of the standard “Watchew got, bro” entrée. Mal is kind of pissed at the world in general for reasons previously or later discussed; particularly pissed at Rikki right now for whatever guys get pissed at girls for; and pissed that last time he was yelling at her in her father’s house, da-da called 911,
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necessitating him talking some what-you-want-to-hear bullshit to some flunky ass government psychologist who had some, fifty-five year old pathetic thing about numbers, every Friday morning.
For those more experienced in feeling out the suitability of their target; in a nutshell, at the moment, if you had any sense, Mal was somebody you didn’t want to fuck with unless the man was at the door.
But no, “badass” wannabee with entourage in tow must have thought he saw some less-than-average-sized honky on the skids.
The boy brought some words; and then Mal said; “Bring IT, mutha fucka,” cordially adding a few congenial words to his usual, anti-social repertoire just to be nice. In a few seconds the ring leader was on the ground, his legs kicked out and a steel-plated boot a dismaying uninvited guest to his head. Number two, did a half-ass, and made an effort to appear to be assisting his fallen buddy, but quickly joined him on the ground as a result of a whirling Mal chop to the throat. Number three was the most honest in the group of three, and was in the process of breaking Usain Bolt’s sprint record.
For all intents and purposes that was the end of the “take off.” In a few seconds, numbers one and two got up and followed number three, calling out; “Fuck you asshole,” and other similarities they must have pretended to think that Mal found insulting or had not previously heard.
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This seems over-weighted. It is a testimonial fact which has reason for credence, yet it is only one of Picasso’s many sides. Mal would much have preferred to be listening to or making sweet music; but the way things worked out; he had spent the majority of his life trying to deal with overly aggressive and imposing assholes. Half of them wanted to do him bodily harm; and most of the other half wanted no part of him whatsoever. The latter group benignly required less physical exertion and just here and there required a wave, which often was actually efficiently accomplished with one-fifth of one hand. Then there was logical Rikki looking for a guard dog; and before that the humongous tit, Latino chick Lydia, who wasn’t the least bit discriminating; and before that spacey-rational Hypatia, if-you-could-just-get-her-to-shut-up; and before that;
...........
Mal was the oldest child of Jenny. His brother, Matthew, to be born a year or two later, was Jenny’s favorite, likely because he looked like elusive Dad. Jenny still feels horribly guilty over this; and so does Mal, though his guilt comes from a different direction. The short version of the story is that Mal made the mistake of looking more like her.
I may be getting ahead of Mal here, as prior to knowing Matthew and he, I knew Jenny and her later life partner, Lonny.
More than a decade prior to meeting Mal I knew them, having
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employed them as handymen-gardeners. As a team, they were great for me, as Jenny liked to work, and Lonny spent most of his time thinking that he was supervising her, and telling everyone within earshot how he was the brains of the operation. Jenny seemed quietly a bit ahead of him on that one, though it would take some deciphering to see who came out ahead on his slow, slow truck rides to the supply store.
Over a couple of years, Lonny’s well documented back problems exacerbated, which enabled governmental disability payments. This, in conjunction with his indoor legal herb growing and its attendant clipped cash wad and led to the resultant consequence of his now essential sitting-at-home protection of the family jewels and homestead. With no criminal record on the web, Jenny got a plastic card which legalized steady employment working for Big Tom; a retired Army colonel in possession of what seems to be a personally un-recognized recognition of having an extremely dull pencil. It is almost safe to say that this now major legal grower lost money on every transaction he became party to. His endeavors were kept afloat by the nursing activities of his long suffering wife. I confess to having had unfortunate prior knowledge of this as a result of having ignorantly employed him during his disastrous first post-military try at a civilian career; plumbing. Most of the time he lucked out; through the pre-noticeable severe fuck up
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employment-bail out of Johnny on the low bid, losing commercial contracts. See, Johnny was an okay plumber; gyp-the-shit-out-of-ya, semi-crook-competent, which is actually a rare find in don’t-know-your-ass-from-your-elbow-and-proud-of-it New Mexico.
Problem was that Johnny was hampered by not being allowed to drive a car because of his ex-wife’s legal bitch about him allegedly not making the alimony and child support payments he had agreed to at the dissolution of the farce. So, the dull pencil was licensed to drive, and he’d give Johnny a ride to the job site. Tom would leave him there and Johnny would make the three eighths adapt to the five eighths and stuff like that.
Things have a way of working out sometimes.
Shit’s as logical as the 2016 US presidential race to a Western European libby. Man says he can’t pay, so the situation is legally rectified by an obstacle which makes him more unable to pay. Whatever. This book ain’t about the dull pencil or his effect on Johnny’s problems. Frankly, Johnny’s kind of useless and old now, and last I heard was angling for a SSI disability back thing, like Lonny.
It’s just that these were examples of the types of people who were a big part of Mal’s past and some were still part of his present. Lonny and Jenny were vocal in telling him that Rikki was no good for him. His drinking did rigorously increase after getting with her; but damn; Mal said that Lonny was the
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guy who pestered the shit out of him as a kid; prompting him to move in with the uncle-in-law-perv. I don’t know. Stories conflict and Lonny was always aces with me; but generally so was Mal while doing a longer gig. Perceptions? Phraseology? False memory? Dadaism? I just don’t know.
Point, if any, right here is that retired military, Major Tommy got out of losing-money-plumbing atrocities, and through ignoring some of Jenny and Lonny’s guidance, settled into losing-money-growing-medical marijuana atrocities. He had the land, the enclosures, all the yadda-yaddas required for weight carrying, government approval of what would have given you twenty years up until 2000, and of huge significance the militarily instilled government worship which pre-disposed him to complying with all the inspectors and employing their recommendations of contractors who would supposedly bring him up to code. .................. In perpetuity.
Well, forget Tommy. He’s mostly here as an example of the most “normal” adult Mal ever knew as a kid, and just was blessed with the usual degree of military intelligence. This book ain’t about him either. He’s just a “charm” on the charm bracelet of the Rikki-Mal-Jenny-Lonny-uncle chain. For what it’s worth, the other short-term adult in Mal’s current life is or was me. Some people are just cursed; as now I’m the guy trying to chronicle all this irrelevance and make a buck for it. Okay. If you want
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to go deeper, I’m currently a fiction writer with sales closer to zero than most are comfortable with, and don’t care about that except when having on-line “conversations” with other writers. I keep saying that I’m going to stop doing this useless, annoying stuff, but .......... If you want to go deeper than that your guess is as bad as mine.
Most important of all, Jenny knew how to make Slow Tommy’s thing almost work, as she had hooked up with Lonny at the tail end of his “growing” career-experience in the hills of Mendocino County; but that’s another story. Suffice it to say that Jenny told me that if Lonny had a college degree he would be in charge of the world. Dismissed at first, I became a convert. His brother was in it too; the business, the hills, and the schwartze jail in Oakland; that is; where they induced a riot.
By default, point now is, Jenny could make a weed stand tall, a tall stand weed. I mean this girl knew the answer to the universe; 42. When she asked me one time I said the question was; “What was Jackie Robinson’s number?” and she was blown away or entirely disinterested. How the fuck can I know? She was too polite to risk offense; no matter how inconsequential. Did I tell you that she got kicks riding a two-wheeler through restricted areas?
To hopefully at last depart from him; the thing was that Tommy the Major, Tommy the Plumber, and Tommy the medical man
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finally got his wife off his ass when he paid Jenny to take over. So, with easy, lucrative, legal work at her disposal, she and back hobbled Lonny referred me to Matthew and then Mal, for my inherited, suburban, bourgeois considerations. Initially it was a matter of the bushes and trees perverse penchant for un-controlled growth; and then it grew even more.
While I knew him, Mal sported a self or Rikki induced cut, dark military head, where any hair was evident. Sometimes centered on the top, it was sort of a reverse Friar Tuck. I once goofed on him about it and he said; “You know the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut? Three weeks.” The observation was indicative of the patience a volcano exhibits before it explodes. It was also 180 degrees away from the blond, in his case bleached, flowing locks he had worn just a bit earlier when with Lydia. Somewhere way back he had given up the Goth thing and the attendant long, long coats, like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. At the same time he couldn’t tolerate what he characterized as “the abuse experienced from his step-father-Lonny’s need to control and his Mom’s acquiescence to that.” So, he split home while still in high school, finding the accommodations provided by a pervert uncle preferable. Read what you will into that. I don’t and didn’t want to know the details. He would never supply any, and I must
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have seemed quite uncomfortable when he brought it up; though he did so rather frequently; or at least it seemed frequent to me.
It’s conceivable that he might have wanted to have been prodded a bit; but that’s not my thing with guys. So, I guess you’ve previously heard it; but here it was again; possibly the kernel of the fractalized representation of Mal.
Will the real Mal please stand up? He really got into “Slim Shady,” though it was always me who put on Eminem to begin with.
............ Could be wrong.
Guess not. No sweat. More important than my meta considerations, Rikki says he’s standing up all the time. In fact she measured how much and told me with him present in the good old days.
Mal never thought that I was paying enough attention to him. And I wasn’t. Not in the much more interesting face and body of Rikki. I mean like “Come on.” What the hell could he expect? I mean, we’re like almost the same on everything; so give me a surprise ending. But, on the other hand, through the mirror, and out the window; Rikki surprised and intrigued without any particular effort. Sorry, dude; if you ain’t figured out that one yet, I can’t tell ya. Besides, Mal was so close-to-the-chest when he spoke of himself; he rivalled me in the reticence to tell the long version of the story.
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Mal and Matthew were born in Arkansas. They stayed there sufficient time for Mal to have vivid memories of it. At that point it was for him basically life in the trailer that everyone lived in; a reasonable assumption for a non-jet set kid; and one worthy of debate for those on the A list in possession of a three digit IQ. Mal’s most lucent memory of the time was when he was swinging, and a black girl walked over and said; “Get off my Jungle Jim, cracker;” to which he responded; “It’s not your Jungle Jim, nigga.” Whatever, but the white teacher was within earshot and Mal got suspended for a week. Luckily, Jenny didn’t think that was much of a loss. I’m not sure, but this may have been the first time he heard Jenny say; “Boy, if you got a problem, you take care of it yourself. Ain’t no cops gonna help ya.”
Rikki and Mal continued to visit 2-3 days per week for a year or so; not sure and it might have been as much as two. I don’t remember many particular days that stood out from the others. They all sort of merged into pleasant afternoons of my continued education in conspiracy theories, contemporary music supplemented by my old follow ups which I thought had similarities, good food, and alcohol.
Rikki brought over a few of her surrealistic paintings and I genuinely liked them. That was truly unusual for me; as
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customarily I had liked the theory but almost none of its manifestations. She told me she had been painting since being recognized as a child prodigy. She said she had won two local Albuquerque contests, and both times her prize was not getting the painting back. Things which pass through five hands in the Duke City have a way of disappearing, leaving only fingers pointed in other directions.
She also did a few Muay Thai demonstrations in the kitchen, saying; “It’s really pretty easy. Just use elbows and knees.
They can break bones better than any other part of the body.” I suspect that these occasions coincided with times she and Mal were at odds. That probably sounds worse than it actually was, as both of them could almost puke at the sweet stuff. They believed that human nature consisted of conflict and fighting; even on an intimate level. The harshness of that was initially hideous, but all one has to do is take off the blinders and see what consistently goes on in the world to confirm its accuracy.
Rikki couldn’t stand any of the sweet stuff. I don’t remember exactly what it was, as it was minor. But, she had done or said something she wasn’t supposed to. I jokingly said something like; “You’ve been bad. And for your penance you will have to listen to Scott McKenzie sing “San Francisco” ten straight times. Feigning fear, she said; “No. ..... No. .....
Nooo!”
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On another day they had a serious physical fight right on my brick portal. It appeared as if she started it, but I couldn’t be sure as I didn’t know the antecedents. The three of us were sitting outside well protected from intrusions, smoking some reefer to add to the alcohol induced high. The day’s summer sun had just about gotten ready to retire below the horizon, and the cooler night air was first making its presence felt. Felt nice. 100 degree summer days can be wearing, even without humidity. Mal took off his boots and walked twenty feet away to look at something in the grass. Rikki and I sat near each other on the brick not speaking. Mal returned and sat with us. In about five seconds Rikki picked one of his steel-tipped boots, and without holding back, smashed it in his face.
Perhaps needless to say; it surprised the shit out of him; and me too. Apparently it also exacerbated the pain he had in a bad molar. At first he was just complaining about that, saying how the pain he was suffering was unbearable and all of that. I think that Rikki was silently smiling, but I’m not sure.
Eventually he sat back down, and appeared no worse for the boot in the face. When all seemed calm, he returned the surprise favor by grabbing her by the hair and pulling. She didn’t react to what must have been painful; and he punched her square in the
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face. She cupped her hands over her nose and sat there, head down.
After a few seconds she said; “I think it’s broken.” I knew something about broken noses from my sports days. I was hoping it wasn’t of course; and I was somewhat encouraged by the fact that blood wasn’t gushing all over the place. I said; “Let me see,” and she shook her head “No.” I really wanted to see, hoping it all right, picturing this female model very concerned with appearance, and feeling worried about her. This would later prove to be a slight bone of contention between me and Mal. He subsequently said that I was more concerned about her than him.
I didn’t say it, but I was. You know, guys get a whole bunch of stuff and if they got any balls, they handle it without turning on the waterfall. Women get other kinds of stuff we guys can’t fully understand, but back in my antiquity they usually didn’t get treated like a sparring partner. But some of these goddam millennial guys can’t deal with the corporeal aspects of feminism and equality. So they whack her and suck each other’s dicks. How exciting! Anyway, I’m getting off point as Mal wasn’t like that; though he had absorbed some of the attributes of twenty-first century fashion.
When I was able to pry her fingers away, I was glad to see that her nose appeared straight and that there was no blood.
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Within a half hour they drove off. The whole thing was so weird to me. I smoked a cigarette in the garage; went in and either passed out or went to sleep; thinking about and making no sense of these crazy youngsters; also realizing that they were already sufficiently aged for my teenage self to have considered them old and untrustworthy.
I woke when Diane slammed the front door. I was interested when she spoke of a particularly bad day with foster children running away. It’s her job to chase them down. She’s been a social worker for a few decades, but never previously had to deal with the stuff she does now.
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