And Then. Donald Breckenridge
can from the bag, “counting Friday,” pulled off the top, “if I don’t make that deposit on Saturday morning,” and flicked it out the window, “we’re talking about ten grand.” John was thirty-one, “Probably a bit more,” with an unhappy wife, “if you count the petty cash,” two-year-old son and a faltering mortgage. Suzanne was twenty-one, “Wow,” and living with her grandparents again, “that’s a lot of money,” in the house she grew up in. “I was happy just to come back from Vietnam,” John was born and raised in Cleveland, “in one piece,” after dropping out of college he drifted down to Virginia Beach, “but if this is it,” and stalled there, “I’m positively screwed.” Suzanne relished his attention, “It can’t be that bad,” she had never met anyone like him. John flirted with all of the pretty cashiers, “I wish I knew you in my prime,” and most of the young women who shopped in the supermarket, “we would’ve raised some serious hell together,” but Suzanne was his favorite. John never reprimanded Suzanne for always being late or when her drawer was short—it was usually five dollars under—he never commented on her frequent arguments with customers or for calling in sick most Saturdays. Suzanne hated her job, “Where would you go with ten grand?” John was trying to convince her, “We wouldn’t need that much money in the Keys,” they were trapped in the same cage, “way down in Big Pine.” She noted the green pine tree air-freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, “There are way too many rednecks in Florida,” then took a sip of beer before adding, “my idiot uncle lives in Jacksonville.” John scored a lid of grass from a stock boy on Friday, “I still have some Army friends down in the Keys,” after Suzanne promised to hang out with him after work on Sunday, “running charter boats.” Moths had multiplied around the overhead lights. He suspected she wasn’t paying attention, “Where would you go with ten grand?” With a smirk, “Where am I gonna get ten grand?” “Okay,” John took a sip of beer, “half,” wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, “Where would you go with five grand?” Suzanne turned to him and said, “New York City.” A police car pulled into the parking lot. “Maybe we should just cross the gulf into Mexico,” John turned the key in the ignition while stepping on the gas, “and leave all this bullshit behind.” He drove toward the exit, “Want to go to the beach?” She nodded, “Okay.” When John looked back the 7/11 was framed in the rearview mirror, “Would you mind,” he reached over, “doing the honors,” opened the glove compartment, “should be some papers in here as well,” handed her the bag then shifted into third, “and close the window so it doesn’t blow away.” Suzanne placed her right hand on the knob and rolled up the window. The glove compartment contained a half-eaten roll of Tums, John’s insurance and registration, a bootleg cassette of Hendrix at Monterey Pop, an unpaid parking ticket, a bottle opener, two spark plugs, and a pack of rolling papers. John took the can from between his thighs, “We’d have to wait until the first week in August,” and sipped his beer. Subdivisions opened onto soybean fields that gave way to subdivisions—an endless looping backdrop in a warm blur of summer twilight. Suzanne crumpled a moist bud onto a paper. Three cars in the oncoming lane were followed by two more. She looked out the window as they drove by her old elementary school. The Beetle climbed Broad Bay Bridge. She sealed the joint before asking, “What about your wife?” The last thing he wanted to talk about was, “The wife,” his failed marriage, “the wife wants the house, the kid, the dog,” and kept his eyes on the road, “I’m just going to work one morning and never coming home.” Cumulus clouds above the bay dwarfed the oil tankers lying motionless on the hazy line that divided the water and darkening sky. “The first weekend in August is next week.” Faint yellow lights from fishing boats outlined stationary points in the blue distance. He took his foot off the gas, “That’s why I’m,” stepped on the clutch and downshifted into third, “telling you this,” before they turned onto Shore Drive and sped by a seafood restaurant, another 7/11, a gas station, and a bayside hotel with its NO VACANCY sign illuminated in red neon. Suzanne’s father had been killed in Vietnam when she was seven. A week after the funeral her mother left Suzanne with her parents and never came back. She received birthday cards from her mother every year postmarked from small towns in California, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. Suzanne traced her flight by thumbing through the index of the road atlas she kept in a drawer of what was once her mother’s desk, turning to the corresponding page, and pasting a silver star beside the town from where the card had been sent. Her lazy cursive on those eleven envelopes and signature scrawled beneath as many store-bought salutations were the only indications she had of a mother. The last card arrived three years ago, in the only envelope with a return address, from a small town on the Oregon coast. Her grandmother tried to convince Suzanne that the return address was a tangible invitation and encouraged her to travel west and reconnect with her mother. Suzanne assumed her grandparents wanted her out of their house and was eager to comply. She moved into a dilapidated beach house with her do-nothing boyfriend and five of his stoner friends. She spent three years waiting tables while partying with a rotating cast of surfers, dealers and aspiring rock musicians—until the house burned to the ground. The joint was smoking from both ends. “Why do you want me to help you with this?” He took another hit, “I don’t want help,” before handing it back, “I’m helping myself.” The red taillights on the silver Camaro disappeared beyond a bend in the road. “Why involve me … I mean, and don’t take it the wrong way, but if this is something you can do alone.” He took the joint from her, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” “I don’t know,” she sank back in the seat, “Why should you care?” He coughed into his clenched fist, “As a Food Lion casher?” She muttered, “It’s hot in here,” and rolled the window down. The smoke dissipated as the smell of briny air filled the car. “Necessity is blind until it becomes conscious,” John turned to Suzanne, “and freedom is the consciousness of necessity,” with an expectant look, “Do you know who said that?” Branches adorned with Spanish moss loomed over the road. Shaking her head, “Nope.” “Karl Marx said that,” he was grinning, “And do you know what it means?” She hoped he wasn’t trying to make her feel stupid, “Nope.” “It means you’re already living it,” John hit the joint again before adding, “You want to go to New York,” while holding the smoke in his lungs, “So that’s where you should go.” A black and white sign indicated the posted speed. Suzanne’s hair was blowing in her face, “Are you insane?” With a laugh, “Maybe I’m still a bit crazy, but maybe,” he offered her the roach, “it’s the world that’s all gone wrong.” “Thanks,” Suzanne waved it away, “I’m really high,” and then asked, “Are you a prophet?” John chuckled while placing the roach in the ashtray, “No, but I play one on TV,” then took his foot off the gas, “seriously though,” stepped on the clutch and downshifted into third, “What do you see yourself doing in five years?” as they made a left onto Atlantic Avenue. “I can’t believe that you, or anyone, would do something like this … I mean for me, you’re doing it for yourself … alright … because you are crazy … and in the best way.” Rows of wooden houses faced narrow sandy streets that ended before the dunes. “It isn’t my money in the first place,” John downshifted into second, “why shouldn’t I share it?” “Wouldn’t you want me to come with you?” “Hell yes,” John activated the blinker, “but I won’t kidnap you,” while turning off the avenue, “even if I know it’s for your own damn good.” They parked alongside a hurricane fence. “Where will you go?” With a nod to the air-freshener, “Big Pine,” hanging from the rearview mirror, “where I should have gone in ’72.” She got out of the car while he changed into a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt. Suzanne caught a glowing firefly, “You know my mother,” it slowly crawled around her wrist, “did that same thing to me,” before drifting away on a warm breeze. He closed the door then asked, “Did what to you?” They climbed a narrow trail through the knee-high grass. “Just left one day,” the beach was nearly deserted, “after my father died.” Waves pushed against the shore in sets of three. “That’s probably what she thought was best for you,” he turned to her and quietly added, “in my case it’s the right thing to do.” She looked closely at his face, “Why is that?” John noted her intent look before claiming, “He’ll be much better off without me.”
Sunlight reflected in the windows occasionally flashed off the chrome of the passing cars. It was June first on a fixed income. A few sparrows sang in the small puddle