Chapter 4Stiles
CHAPTER
FOUR
STILES
“Fuck, that’s hot.” Grabbing a hot pocket from the toaster, I juggle it in my hands until it’s cool enough to touch. Crumbs fall all over the beat-to-shit Formica counter. On the first bite, I burn my tongue, and then have to do some weird Lamaze breathing to cool my mouth down. I finish it one-handed as I throw stuff into a cardboard box. My meds, all six bottles. My favorite mug that says, “I’ve got a profile for that, Sarge,” and my to-go packets of hot sauce I pilfered from the drive-through chicken place.
I can’t eat shit without hot sauce on it. It's probably from my time in the Army, when I used to put hot sauce on everything to disguise the terrible taste, especially the MREs. How West eats those things willingly is beyond me.
That’s about all that’s worth taking from the kitchen. I move on to the bathroom, chucking my razor and shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush, my comb, beard oil, and my trimmers into the box. I debate whether I should take the last roll of toilet paper with me when my phone rings.
“Yeah?” I answer.
”What are you doing?”
Fucking McCormick. I swear to Christ he can’t go a full hour without checking in.
“Packing.”
Dead silence, and then… “Packing?” I have his attention now. “Where the fuck you think you’re going?”
“To the motel down the street.”
“Hot date?”
“Fucking fleas. I told you, this place is infested. My landlord is kicking me out so she can fumigate.”
“Exterminate,” he corrects me.
“Pretty sure it’s fumigate.”
“Whatever, I gotta go.”
So fucking weird. Why the fuck did he call me if he was just going to hang up on me?
Fifteen minutes later, I figure out why. I’ll bet ten bucks that whoever’s knocking on my door is most likely him.
As soon as I open it, I wish I hadn’t.
”The fuck is wrong with you?” he barks.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Why would you go to a motel-no-tell when you could just come stay with me?”
“Because all you have is the couch, and I didn’t wanna put you out. You spend a lot of time on it.”
“Whatever, you’re just making excuses.”
He pushes his way past me. “What the fuck are you wearing?” I ask, taking in his appearance. McCormick had taken two black garbage bags, wrapped them around his head and body, and duct-taped everything in place. He also wore his riding goggles.
“If you think I’m taking a chance with these fleas, you’re out of your mind. They’re not gonna bite my ass, my balls, or anything else while I’m here. Grab your shit and let’s go.”
I point to the cardboard box on the table. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“What about your clothes?”
“I can’t risk it. They probably have fleas.”
“So you gonna wear that every day?” He motions to my jeans and T-shirt.
I shrug, not having a good answer for him. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
McCormick chuffs. “Why do I gotta do all the thinking around here? Grab some clothes and stuff them in a garbage bag. We’ll stop by the laundromat and wash them before we get to my place.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m full of good ideas,” he boasts.
Doubtful. I've heard his ideas. “How many pairs of underwear do you think I need?”
“How long do you gotta be out of here?”
“I don’t know, a week, maybe? Could be more.”
“Just grab a bunch of shit and let’s go,” he huffs. “If you run out, you can wear mine.”
“I draw the line at wearing your underwear, Mac. Nobody is that good of friends.”
He laughs. “Then we’ll buy more. Walmart’s got a BOGO on boxers.” Opening my top drawer, I grab a handful of what I hope is mostly clean underwear. McCormick grabs a hot pink pair from my hand, his face scrunching in confusion as he tries to decipher what he’s looking at. They‘re covered in hearts, lips, and say, ‘hot stuff’. “Where’d you get these?”
“They were on clearance for a buck. I didn’t think anyone would see them.” I grab them from his hand and throw them in the bag.
“A buck? You should’ve got me a pair.”
I try to imagine him wearing the ridiculous boxers and fight not to crack up. Despite his apocalyptic wasteland outfit and mild attitude, I’m glad he showed up. We always figure shit out together. With McCormick, everything is just easier. Everything makes sense.
Even though he often doesn’t.
“Maybe next time. Open that drawer and grab some shirts.”
Gingerly, he opens the drawer like something’s going to bite him, looking inside before he sticks his hand in. McCormick pulls out four shirts, and, despite them being folded, he shakes each one like it’s on fire and he’s putting it out. “Can’t be too careful,” he reminds me, shoving them in the bag.
“Jesus, this is embarrassing.”
“Nah, this is typical. You gotta screen these chicks better. Ain’t no telling what they have besides fleas.”
“It wasn’t the girl, it was her dog.”
McCormick shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit. “Same difference. You ready?”
“Yeah, I think that’s everything.” With one last look around before I leave, I grab my truck keys, my bike keys, my wallet, and my helmet, and lock the door behind me.
“Throw that shit in the back. Don’t bring those fleas in my cab.”
“Should I take my truck? I guess I can come back for my bike.”
“Fuck it, we can come back for your truck, too. I’ll drop you at work in the morning. Get in.”
I toss the garbage bag of clothes and my cardboard box in the back of his truck, brush off my pants and shirt as best I can, stomp my boots, and climb in. McCormick’s busy going through an entire decontamination process of removing the duct tape and plastic bags. He wads everything into a bundle and chucks it in the dumpster.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring a gas mask,” I tease when he slides his ass in the cab.
“It’s in the back.”
I stare, maybe a beat too long. He’s really too much.
“What?” he asks defensively. “That shit is invasive. They multiply by the thousands. Once you’ve got them, you can’t get rid of them.”
Great. I’m never getting rid of the fleas. I’ll be on McCormick’s couch for life.
“What’s your problem?” he asks after five minutes of silence. I guess that’s too much for him. He’s a talker, always filling the space between my lack of words.
“Nothing.” My gaze falls on the scenery passing by the window.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. Something’s wrong. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”
Blowing out a big breath, I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t really know how to put it into words.”
“Well, try.”
“It shouldn’t be that easy to move my entire life to a new location. Everything I have fits in one box. At least, everything worth taking. What kind of life is that? Have I truly built something worthwhile if I don’t care about leaving it all behind?”
“First of all, your stuff didn’t disappear into the ether. It’s just being exterminated.”
“Fumigated.”
“Whatever. My point is, you didn’t lose everything you own. As far as your shit fitting in one box, thank God. Less I have to move,” he chuckles. When I remain silent, he does a double take. “Christ, seriously? This really bothers you?”
“Yeah, it does.”
He reaches to turn the radio down. “Look, it comes down to the fire rule.”
“What’s the fire rule?”
“If your house caught fire, and you had to leave at a moment's notice and could only take what you could carry, what would you take?”
“I don’t know, shit, my helmet and my truck and bike keys. I have a photo album from when I was enlisted. That T-shirt you got me that says ‘bitch on wheels’ that I wear when we ride. I really like that shirt.” He smiles when I smile.
“That it?”
“I think so.”
“All of that fits in one box.” He makes an explosion sound, like he just obliterated the argument with his logic.
“All that shit people work so hard and bust their asses for? Worthless in a fire. They throw their paycheck away on luxury shit like big screen TVs, DVDs and electronics, and nice furniture, but all that can be replaced. It holds no meaning. The shit in your box in the back of my truck? That’s the core of you, that’s who you are. It’s your sourdough starter.”
“My what?” Every conversation with him goes like this. Round and round the nonsense wheel. How did we go from my box and the meaning of life to the fire rule to sourdough starters, whatever that is.
“Your sourdough starter,” he explains, as if he can’t understand why I’m not catching on. “You know, when you bake sourdough bread, you have to begin with your starter. A little piece of dough that’s been fermenting since your last batch. It’s the core, everything grows from there. That’s what’s in your box. You can build a whole new life or bake a whole new loaf with what’s in that box.”
“Who the fuck are you? Like you’ve ever baked fucking sourdough bread. Where did you get that shit from?”
“Betty Beasley.”
I roll my eyes. Of course. Everything she says is gospel to him. “What’s in your box?”
“Also my truck and bike keys and helmet, like in yours. The flag from my buddy’s funeral. My mama’s sewing box, and my hot dog blanket.” I grin when he mentions the damn blanket. “Do you think I can fit the blanket in the box with the sewing kit? Maybe I need a bigger box.”
“You can wrap the blanket around your shoulders if it doesn’t fit in the box.”
“Good thinking.”
“What’s with the sewing kit?”
“It belonged to my mom. I don’t know,” he shrugs, glancing at me. “It brings back good memories of her. She used to keep it next to her chair, and she would fix the holes in my pants, the holes in the couch, the holes in our towels?—”
“How about the holes in your head?”
He laughs. “Yeah, whatever. My point is, it all fits in one box. That’s all you need,” he insists, slapping my arm. But as the miles pass, I stay quiet, and McCormick can’t let it go. “It’s still bothering you?”
“I don’t know, I just feel like… I’m thirty-four?—”
“Thirty-six,” he corrects.
“Bite me. I feel like I have nothing to show for it. Like my lack of possessions are a measure of my success.”
“That’s fucking bullshit. First of all, it’s how we were taught. We’re soldiers. We’ve moved God knows how many times, and we had to pack light and live light. Everything we had fit in a box, and that box traveled with us overseas and to who knows how many bases. That's just how it was. It’s what we’re used to. And second of all, we’re super successful!”
I choke on my snort. “How do you figure?”
“Are you kidding me? Dude, we have no real responsibilities, money in the bank from our disabilities, sweet rides, and great friends. You like your job well enough, and I don’t really have one. We live a charmed life.”
“You think so? Is that really how you see it?” How does he reduce every problem to its lowest common denominator?
“You don’t?” His bushy red brows meet his bushy red hairline.
“I don’t know, I guess so.”
“What are you, lonely or some shit? Is that what this is about?”
Is it? Where does he get these Yoda- like insights from? “Maybe.”
“Please,” he chuffs, slapping me again. “You’ve got me . You don’t have time to be lonely.“
Isn’t that the truth!
We pull up and park in front of the laundromat and climb out of the cab. It’s one of the nicer ones in town, located in a strip mall next to a yoga studio, a nail salon, a Starbucks, and a dentist's office. I don’t much care either way, it’s just the closest one to my house. The plus is that the machines are usually in working order, whereas the more affordable one near McCormick’s place can’t guarantee that. Their shit is always broken.
I grab my sack from the bed of the truck and follow McCormick inside. He slips a couple of quarters in the machine closest to the sitting area. It’s just some plastic chairs, Formica-topped tables, and a vending machine. I dump my clothes in and toss the bag in the trash can.
“What are we gonna take them home in?” I ask.
“Shit, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
He rarely does. “I guess we’ll just fold them and stuff them in the box.”
“That’ll work.” I didn’t bring soap or anything with me, so I dig some change out of my wallet and buy some single-use packets from the dispenser on the wall. When my infested clothes are sudsy and spinning round and round, I grab a seat next to McCormick, mimicking his pose—Arms crossed, legs spread. Resting bitch face activated.
My gaze touches on everyone and everything, taking in my surroundings. After eight years in the Army, it’s instinct. A woman two machines down from mine stuffs an unusual amount of panties in the washer. Strangely, they all look alike.
“You know every single one of her panties looks just like those.”
Laughter bubbles up from McCormick’s wide chest. “Hell yeah. She got a BOGO at the fire sale. Twenty pairs of the same kind for nine ninety-nine.
In the back, a halfway decent-looking chick is sitting on top of a dryer, swinging her legs while her man stands between them and grips her thighs. She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying.
“You know he’s got a family at home,” McCormick swears.
“Definitely. That’s not his wife.”
Down at the end of the row, a girl sitting at one of the tables looks totally out of place. She has those cushiony UGG boots that always remind me of a walking boot someone wears when their foot is in a cast, leggings, and an oversized sweatshirt with her hair in a ponytail. She looks way too put-together for this place as she leans over her e-reader, sipping from her Starbucks to-go cup.
“How can she afford those boots and that coffee, but she can’t afford a washer and dryer?”
“Uh huh. Because she spent all her money next-door at the salon and the coffee shop. She ain’t got a dime left. Fancy broke.”
“Is that us,” I laugh, “fancy broke?”
“Hell yeah,” he wheezes, dissolving into laughter. “We’re real fucking fancy. With your flea-bitten ass and no bag to put your clothes in.” He points to an older woman stuffing clothes in the washer. “You know she’s gonna fuck her shit up.” The woman reaches for a gallon of bleach, attempting to pour it into a load of colors. “Go save her.”
“Damn,” I sigh, pushing to my feet. I approach her carefully, not wanting to scare her because of my size. She’s just a tiny thing. “Ma’am, you’re about to pour bleach into your clothes. I don’t think you wanna do that, do you?”
“Oh.” She turns, startled. “Are you sure?” She squints at me, and I guess she has a problem with her sight.
“Yes ma’am, this here is bleach.”
“I could have sworn it was fabric softener,” she laughs.
“No ma’am.” I reach for the bottle she’s looking for and place it in her hand. “Here you go. This is fabric softener.”
“Well, aren’t you kind?” she gushes. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Thank you, young man.”
“You’re very welcome, young lady.” McCormick's silent laughter makes his shoulder shake as I make my way back to him. I plop my ass down in the plastic chair, making it creak. “I’m lucky she didn’t pepper spray me.”
“She’s blind as a bat. She would have missed, most likely.”
“I’m serious.” Knowing him, he’d probably leave my ass pepper-sprayed and blind on the floor, writhing with burning tears and blinding pain, or tell me to stop making a scene.
“Captain America. Saving laundry one load at a time.”
The guy most likely cheating on his wife passes us on his way out the door. He eyes McCormick suspiciously, checking out his prosthetic.
McCormick rolls his eyes. “All the staring in the world ain’t gonna make it grow back, Scout.”
His smart-ass comment reminds me of one of the many reasons I love him. McCormick doesn’t feel self-conscious about his disability, and he doesn’t let others get hung up on theirs either. He’s like that with everything. He accepts it and rolls with the punches in record speed. He’s all laid-back and go-with-the-flow. A rolling stone that gathers no moss.
“Do you wanna get a pizza on the way home?”
Jesus Christ, anything but hotdogs again. “Sounds good.”