SIDETRIPS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Child of scorn

Jennifer Warden, shades perched on blond hair, surveyed the I/Thou Coffee House from the table furthest back, profiled the customers as they entered: fuckinghippie, tourist, speed freak, undercover cop, hustler, tourist, spade looking for a white chick, got-any-spare-change-hopeless-case, rockband groupie, tourist, enlisted shithead from the base, suicide trip, hooker, sidewalk biker, tourist, real biker (Gypsy Joker). She logged them in contempt, especially the men, especially the girls, especially the teenagers, especially the pigs, especially the military haircuts in their white shirts and chinos and hick excitement.

Coffee cold; time to go.

A speedfreak and a fuckinghippie took the table next. They’re going to fucking come on. She angled her body away, dropped her shades over her eyes, picked up a copy of the Midnight Special, opened at random, read:

 

APPEAL TO A SISTER

YOU WERE AT STOP THE DRAFT WEEK LAST OCTOBER

YOU WERE GRABBED BY THE COPS

AND SAVED BY JIMMY O’SHEA

MY NAME IS CATHY COHEN

I NEED YOU TO HELP SAVE JIMMY blah blah

blah blah blah blah

blah blah blah

blah

 

So your name is Cathy Cohen. Makes you a Jew I guess and your boyfriend some commie Mick.

The fuckinghippie started toward her. Time to go.

“Back off, drooler,” she said. Once in his life, her dad might have taught her something useful like how to kill a drooler with a coffee spoon. Next stop, Tracy’s Donuts, where the bikers hang by their dicks. She turned toward the door; her blond hair flicked like a whip.

Back off back off back off back off back off back off back off everybody.

 

Da-dee

The princess telephone tinkled. She swept aside the stuffed bear.

Yeah?

May I speak to Jennifer Warden, please.

Not a familiar voice

Yeah, this is her.

Miss Warden, my name is Cathy Cohen. I’m

I know who you are.

Then you know what I want to talk to you about.

I don’t have anything to talk to you about.

All I want to do is talk for a sec about.

I don’t have anything to tell you, lady.

I was hoping you would help someone who helped you.

Jennifer! from downstairs, o god, he’s home.

You got the wrong girl, lady.

Jennifer, I think you’re the person that Jimmy

Jennifer! Who is it Jennifer? Parade ground bullhorn.

I’ll be off in a sec, Dad.

Jennifer, let me give you a number to call.

You don’t understand, lady, you don’t understand anything about me or anything.

He saved you, Jennifer.

Back off, ok?

She lowered the phone. The Major invaded. He festered with suppurating ribbons, military rectangles, he was spat upon and polished, he seized command of the door.

I asked you who that was. He saw the stuffed bear on the floor. I asked you who that was, princess, I haven’t heard an answer, I’m waiting for an answer.

The grin that’s supposed to be infectious. An infected grin.

Tania.

That’s an unviable answer, princess. That makes me think you think I’m stupid, wouldn’t you say? Wouldn’t you say?

It was a wrong number, somebody selling something, I told her no, ok?

Not ok. I know what goes on. In fact, I know everything that goes on. You act as if you don’t remember I know everything that goes on.

She knew he wanted to smash the phone but that would break it and he didn’t like to break what he paid for. He pulled a Navy Seals knife from his pocket, opened the blade, cut the phone wire. From now on no private line. You receive and make all calls from the phone downstairs, your own line is a privilege and not a right, you have forfeited that right, pick that teddybear off the floor.

Go away, go away please.

He held the princess phone and its severed tail.

I’ll leave when you call me Daddy.

Just leave me alone.

He cradled the phone in his arms like a baby.

Da-dee, he said, Da-dee. Then I’ll go downstairs.

You weren’t going to do that anymore.

There are rules and rules, princess, rules and rules. That was for someone with adult privileges.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won’t.

Da-dee.

The knife still open, blade unclasped.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. But an open knife is its own argument.

Get out of my room, please. Get out of my fucking room. Daddy.

He was gone, a siren wailing-down.