So Special in Dayville Read online

  The week before he’d even made the trek down to the still pools beneath the massive concrete dam feeding the falls. There, he’d spent hours, mesmerized by the lunar glitter path, tempted—always tempted—to test the water’s skin, hoping one day to walk its road, lifting his arms at the end to be . . .

  “Ruiz, you got tonight’s shift, don’tcha?”

  The tall man drops his eyes, hiding them from Jones. “Yes, I work tonight.”

  “Then what the hell you doing out here—daydreaming?”

  “I wait for the delivery of . . . meat from the slaughterhouse.”

  “Oh,” Jones looks taken aback, “well that’s okay then.” He nods at the dirt-streaked glass door. “But if they’re not here in five minutes, you can wait for ’em inside at the register.” He adds for emphasis, “Sí?”

  Ruiz stiffens but tries not to show it. “Sí.”

  Banging back into the diner, Jones casts a critical eye over both customers and staff. The waitress, the young one who’s addicted to chewing gum, is blowing a bubble instead of scratching down an order on her pad. Ajeno, the fat cook, has a huge jar of pickles propped over his head as he drinks the juice. And the customers at the corner table, beneath a framed movie poster of John Wayne, are busy stuffing sugar packets in their pockets.

  “Jeez,” whines Jones, “give me a break, why don’tcha?”

  A dark-skinned stranger sidles up to him. Jones is vaguely aware of having seen him entering through the back service door, from the alley. “I wonder if you help me,” says the stranger, deliberately using poor English. “I look for my cousin. You would have hired him a month ago now?”

  Irritable, Jones looks him up and down. “You want a family reunion, then do it on your own time, mister!” He brushes past the other as he moves back toward his office. “And don’t,” he whips around, “be using the alley entrance. That’s for staff only!”

  “Yes, I understand,” says the stranger. He tries to ingratiate himself. “You are a very busy man. Too busy to speak to nobodies like myself. But if you could be so kind . . .”

  Ignoring him, Jones stomps back to his office. He stops only for three short tasks—frisking the sugar thieves and retrieving his packets of sweetener, plucking the piece of gum from the air as another bubble inflates in front of the waitress’s nose, and finally bellowing at a gulping Ajeno, “Stop that!”

  The dark-skinned stranger deflates. John Doe won’t be happy about his lack of progress. Making a beeline for the door, he passes through, almost colliding with Ruiz, who’s entering.

  “Hola,” says Ruiz automatically.

  “Yeah, right!” growls the other. His brain in overdrive, he decides to check the clothing factory next door. A rogue worker could hide in there for years and never be noticed. The diner had been a long shot anyway. A new worker would stick out there like a sore thumb!

  ***

  The next morning, Crystal drops her purse on the kitchen table. “Wake up, sleepyhead!” she calls loudly to Ajeno, who’s still lying asleep on the mattress. It’s just after church, and she’s unusually thoughtful. She starts talking it out, as much as for herself as for Ajeno. The constant stream of her voice will, she knows, act like an alarm bell for the naked, fat man.

  “Well.” She takes a package of bacon, along with a carton of eggs, from the fridge. A skillet bangs atop the stove. Retrieving a spatula, she picks her words carefully. “We danced again. Not that it was easy with this cast on! And it was nice ’cept this time it . . .” Her cheeks begin to flush. “Well, it got a little unchurchified with people grinding up ’gainst one another.” She shakes her head like a terrier killing a rat. “Oh, it was nothing.” A brilliant smile lights up her face. “Next week everything will be back to normal.”

  “Huh?” Ajeno, rolling himself to a sitting position, blinks sleep out his eyes. He puts off getting out of bed each morning for as long as possible. The daily contortion to dress himself just about wears him out. Naked, he now arranges himself splay-legged on the mattress, weaving first one leg and then the other into the holes of his underwear.

  The young woman continues to talk as a huge undergarment of white cotton, tailor-made for him by Crystal, begins to wrap around his ankles.

  Underwear is very important to Crystal. She insisted on it when they first got engaged. “You gotta wear undies, Ajeno.” The young woman was, at that moment, carefully measuring his bare buttocks with several tape measures that she’d taped together as one. “It’s like I tell my second-graders—underwear is our first defense against,” her voice dropped, “accidents.”

  He’s now maneuvered the undergarment up around his knees. Lying on his back, he sucks a breath for the Herculean task of throwing his knees up into the air. Gravity inches his underwear still closer to its target. Grunting, he waves his legs right and left until the cloth is just close enough for his hands to grasp. “Whuff!” he spits. Hands pull white cotton. “Whuff!” Spine arching, he sucks a final breath before bringing the underwear home, genitals safely tucked inside. “YES!!”

  “You want toast or Danish with your eggs, Ajeno?” Crystal’s cap of brown hair has popped around the half-wall partially blocking the kitchen from view.

  Ajeno purses his lips, cogitating. “Toast, please.”

  The call comes after they finish eating. Jones, the manager at Mom’s Diner, wants Ajeno back to work. “You gotta clean the place top to bottom! What the hell happened last night? The place was filthy when I came in this morning!”

  “But it’s always that way,” says Ajeno reasonably.

  “That don’t matter! Not anymore. The damn health inspector’s been complaining ’bout mice in the bathrooms. Hell, like the little critters weren’t nesting there before we even leased this place! Course, what he’s really pissed about is Mr. Wilson cutting back on his payola this week.” Jones is yelling so loud that Ajeno flinches from imagined spit flying in his eye. “Ruiz is coming in to help. He’ll be in charge. You take orders from him, ’kay?”

  Ajeno begins dabbing his face with his sleeve. “That’s good. I like working with Ricky.”

  “Good, you two just get it done. Got it?”

  Ajeno repeats definitively, “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  With a bag of snacks packed by Crystal, the fat man takes off for the diner. He walks heavily down the sidewalk, his chin jutted forward and his arms swinging with purpose by his sides. He’s a man on a mission. Crystal’s told him so.

  “You’re a man on a mission,” she’d said, smiling. She added a dozen Meeper Cheeper Chocolate Peeper cookies to his snack bag. “You and your coworker will whip that diner into shape in no time!” Her finger then wagged in his direction. “But don’t forget, we’ve got a tenant’s meeting tonight.”

  Carrying the bulging bag, Ajeno marches beneath a digital bank sign that hangs high above the pavement, over the corner of Wabash and Third. Words flash across the screen; it’s a notice, broadcasted on every other digital marquee in town, that reminds voters of a special election whereby the mayor is running uncontested for a lifetime term.

  “You’re late!” Ruiz is moving slowly around the diner. Still sore from his beating, he arranges cleaning supplies. Bottles of disinfectant, rat poison, and degreasers top several tables, with mops and brooms leaning against chairbacks.

  “Sorry, Ricky.” Ajeno belches while setting down his bag of snacks. “But Crystal had to pack my snacks.” As the other man casts an envious look at the bag, he asks hopefully, “You want me to clean out the refrigerator?”

  “Yeah, sure,” answers the Mexican absentmindedly. He’s worried about the Dawdleman baby. The crack whore, with a flare for hacking, is still caring for it, but this is, perhaps, unwise on his part.

  After fifteen minutes, Ajeno emerges from the cooled depths of the icebox, his massive tongue busy scouring his chin. “All clean,” he calls to Ruiz, who’s busy washing down walls at the front of the diner.

  The phone rings on the counter. “Mom
’s Diner,” says Ajeno automatically.

  “Hello,” says a smooth voice on the other end of the line. “We are a market research group, and if we could have three minutes of your time, it would be very helpful.”

  The fat man nods. “Okeydokey.”

  Several perfunctory questions later, the smooth voice asks simply, “And of your staff members, how many would you say have been hired within the last, oh, let’s say, three weeks?”

  “Huh.” Ajeno looks around for Ruiz, but he’s gone out to the alley to make a call. “Well, there’s me.”

  “Oh, is that right? Well, that’s all for now. You’ve been very helpful. Now just for purposes of call verification, can you please give me your full name?”

  “Sure can,” says Ajeno, “that’s Jenofonte Manuel Garcia. You need me to spell that?”

  “Not at all. It’s really just for the paperwork. So it’s not very important.”

  Ajeno hangs up the phone just as Enrique reenters the diner. “Whatcha want me to do now, Ricky?”

  “Bathrooms,” says Ruiz shortly. “Who were you talking to?” When Ajeno tells him of the market research group, the tall man glares. “We are not being paid to answer surveys.”

  “Sorry, Ricky.” Ajeno shrugs good-naturedly before reaching for a bucket. “I’ll get those bathrooms done double-quick.”

  Around late afternoon, they stop for a break. Or rather, Ajeno stops for a break. Eating expired mayonnaise, he looks up as Ruiz stands on a ladder, a spare light bulb in his hand. “Who were those guys the other night, Ricky? The ones who hurt you?”

  The Mexican shakes his head. “Of no concern. I will deal with them. Especially the flannel one.” His expression turns cold. “Permanently.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t want no trouble. Do ya?”

  “Does a man not have the right to defend himself in this country?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  Ruiz, having removed a burned-out bulb, hands it down to the fat man. “I mean, it is legal, is it not, to use deadly force when you feel in danger?”

  “It is?” Wonder fills Ajeno’s expression as the other man nods. “So it ain’t wrong to . . . mmmm . . . ‘remove’ folks if you’re scared of dying. Is that right, Ricky?”

  “That is my understanding.” Climbing down the ladder, the dark man is struck by a thought. As Ajeno rips open a bag of stale cookies, Ruiz asks again about the police car in the alley. “But I mean I did not just see it, I heard it.”

  “Don’t know what to tell ya, Ricky.” Ajeno shakes his head vigorously, “Wasn’t there when I got there. Nope. Nothing like that!” He holds out a cookie. “Want one?”

  Ruiz shrugs, taking the cookie. “Maybe the light, it plays tricks on my eyes.”

  “Yep, that’s real likely, ain’t it? The light.”

  “I mean, the police car I see, but you,” Ruiz chews while inclining his head toward Ajeno, “but you,” he repeats, “I do not see until you help me to stand.”

  Ajeno giggles. “Ah, heck, Ricky, that’s nothing! People just don’t look at fat people. Fat like me, I mean,” he clarifies, grabbing a massive roll from his stomach. “All they see is. . . .” He jiggles the blubber. “So, sometimes I play with ’em. Maybe I stand a certain way. Maybe, like this,” he kicks a mammoth leg to the side like he’s straddling a gap in the road, his fists balled up and propped on his hips, “and they see what they expect. You know . . . like maybe a tunnel through a mountain.” His grin deepens. “Here, look at this, this is my favorite.” Puffing out his cheeks, he holds his arms and legs in a strict vertical line with his torso. “Now I’m a rocket or the space shuttle.”

  In spite of himself, Ruiz grins. “Yes, that is good. When very small, I too dreamed—” he stops, self-conscious.

  “I dream of cats!” volunteers Ajeno.

  Ruiz is doubtful. “Cats? But what do cats do in your dream?”

  “Hmmm?” The fat man’s cheeks bulge with cookie. “Do? Nothin’, I guess. They’re just there. Lots and lots of cats. Sometimes they smell. Really stinko. You got cats in your dream, Ricky?”

  “Cats? No, no cats. I dream,” he shrugs uncomfortably, “of las estrellas.”

  Ajeno’s mouth drops open, allowing Ruiz a repulsive view of masticated cookie. “Get out with your bad self!”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You like watching stars too?”

  Ruiz shrugs. “It is a hobby.” Embarrassment elicits a bitter laugh. “It is not like I dream of going,” he lifts his head to the fly-stained ceiling, “up there some day.” He eyes Ajeno slyly. “But . . . perhaps this is your wish?”

  Ajeno’s eyes vibrate in his cogitation. “Mmmm....not exactly.” He rolls the paper sack into a big wad. “But at least you got no cats in your dream, eh, Ricky?”

  The tall man concedes this before stating it is time for them to resume cleaning.

  By early evening, they have finished. But Mom’s Diner does not look clean so much as denuded of filth. Mismatched linoleum, no longer united by dirt, stretches across the floor like an ancient patchwork quilt. And the tables, stripped of genetically modified grease, stand awkwardly like strangers at a dance.

  The two men separate at the corner of Viking and Ivy. “Bye, Ricky!” Ajeno waves his fat palm as the Mexican nods in parting.

  His big shoes smacking the concrete sidewalk, Ajeno goes first one block and then another. He slows. Back at the diner, he told Ruiz he had two errands to run before going home. This is the first. Glancing about, he detours down the back alley that cuts over to Seventh Street. Seventh is the street with a big-box discount store.

  Ajeno likes this store. Especially when he’s tired, like now. He has his own little ritual that energizes him. He plods around inside the store, looking for it: a big enough display of tennis balls, or sneakers, or Easter baskets—any display that has lots and lots of things. Preferably stacked foolishly one on top of another.

  Ah! There it is! A ten-foot-tall pile of Halloween candy.

  He casts a quick glance right, then left. All clear. Holding his arms straight out from his sides, his knees shoot up into the air as he rapidly tiptoes to the display table. Again, he glances about. An especially big smirk is sent directly to the security camera. It’s hidden behind a sales sign advertising cheap toilet paper.

  Inhaling, then exhaling, then inhaling, he tenses. His enormous body readies itself like that of an athlete. Then, just before the approaching security guard can stop him, he grabs three key bags of candy. In slow motion, the entire mountain of Halloween candy begins to teeter. Then waver. Then, with increasing momentum, it shivers over in a complete collapse! Bags of candy corn skid under a condom rack. Chocolate bars rain over the adjacent boxes of bladder-control pads. Meanwhile, overhead, fluorescent lighting begins blinking in tandem with a red strobe light. The latter starts whirling about in time with a modified siren. Ajeno, open-mouthed at such glory, stands very still.

  “Hey,” shouts a harsh voice, “you there! Freeze!”

  “Okay.” The fat man licks his lips in anticipation. Sharp heels are approaching his position. His heart sings! Today, he’s very lucky. The guard on duty is his favorite: a tall black woman, bristling with rage, who wears a nose ring and a glare of annoyance as her daily uniform. He grins as she stops in front of him.

  “You again?!” The security guard unbuttons the holster on her billy club. “Thought I told you,” she steps closer to him, stabbing her chiseled fingernail into his chest, “never . . . ever . . . to come back here!”

  “But I need candy,” he says. “And I was just wondering, you know, what would happen if I took out a bag or two . . .”

  “You did, did you? Thought that would be funny, did you?”

  Licking his lips, he nearly swoons in eagerness. “Yeah, I guess I did. I mean, it is funny, ain’t it?” When the guard whips the billy club from her belt, Ajeno sticks out his fat, closing his eyes in anticipated ecstasy. This is just what he needs to give him energy for his second
errand.

  ***

  Two hours later, back at the Elite Sleep, Ruiz throws water on his face. He must be alert for tonight’s transaction. Behind him, the woman (he still doesn’t know her name) is applying cosmetics to her drug-ravaged features. She does not use a mirror, but instead randomly dabs her skin with color like a blind portraitist. The Mexican drops his gaze to the baby lying next to her on the bed, waving its arms and legs in the air. It is a cute child, he admits to himself. Its parents must miss it very much.

  “Bada boom, bada boom, bada boom, boom, boom!” rings Ruiz’s phone from his pocket. He fishes out his cell phone, surprised by the name on the caller ID. “Hello,” he says quietly, dangerously.

  “Okay, you win!” Sanderson’s hysterical voice blares out of the plastic. Even the crack whore has glanced up, startled, from ten feet away. “I’ll get it to you tonight.”

  Ruiz, his brow furrowing, plays it cool by repeating, without inflection, “Tonight.”

  “What? You want it sooner? Fine, fine, fine, I don’t care. Just name your terms!”

  “The corner of Squint and Largess,” snaps Ruiz. “Midnight exactly. But as for payment. . . .”

  “What, I gotta give you money as well?!”

  “I . . .” Ruiz pauses, deeply puzzled. Is this a trap for Flannel Shirt to finish what he started two nights before? “Tonight we meet,” says Ruiz finally, “with payment to be . . . suspended.”

  “Good, then it’s over, right?”

  “If the merchandise is valid, then yes.”

  Sanderson emits a muffled “Thank God” as the call terminates.

  Ruiz slips the phone back in his pocket. This is very strange, he thinks. Other than a trap, why would Sanderson lure him out to meet? The tall man shakes his head. No, he knows people. The terror in Sanderson’s voice had been real. But why? It’s not as if Ruiz had come out on top in his previous fight with Flannel Shirt.