TWILIGHT BREAKOUT
A Novel
By
Robert Bonomo
May 2000
Cartagena
For Natasha
Copyright 2009 Robert Bonomo
Cover Image 'Self-portrait with Manao tu papau', oil on canvas, by Paul Gauguin, 1893
‘Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spendthrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.’
Dylan Thomas
SUMMER
CHAPTER 1
The whining hum of a vespino called up to him from the street, drawing him to the window and orient-ing the end of the day. A well-dressed mother arrogantly pushed a baby stroller, her dyed blonde hair pulled back behind dark glasses that angrily crossed her face. The clothes fell with the authority of money.
Towards her bounced a teenager, jeans hung low, the young body exposing the mother. With great effort the heavy shoes rose and returned to the pavement straining the young muscles. A cane broke through the metal frame of the window as the nymph left it.
The tight skin pulled at his face as if the air had been sucked out of him. The only life left came from the small red feather rising out of the black band wrapped around his gray hat. His feet didn’t leave the ground. He stopped to take the last drag of a cigarette, a deep drag that burnt through to the butt. A whiff of him reached the fifth floor window.
The scream changed notes, announcing the im-pending arrival of the big bike. It took the street hostage, the red mask covering the face of the hunched figure atop the machine as it sped through the neigh-borhood.
Big hair and bodies accumulated under an unlit sign that was difficult to read in the diminishing day-light. ‘George IV’ flickered through the neon. They looked like athletes in street clothes. The Indian fea-tures distinguished them from other pedestrians while the lone Iberian face lifted a shutter and unlocked the door. A few of the faces were familiar. Into the win-dow frame moved a policeman, raising the tension without consequence. His weapon moved sloppily on the hip, greasy hair escaped from under a dirty cap, the girls not raising their heads. The law’s head made a slight turn. Four thin legs in very tight black jeans moved toward him, slightly hunched over, pathetically thin arms hanging out of the dirty shirts. The dark stains under both their eyes were visible from the window. The de-sexed pair, still under the spell of pleasure passed, defiant and distant, by the glance of the law.
He moved closer to the window, the bakery, fruit shop and old men in the bar playing cards coming into view. The bright green light of the pharmacy now il-luminating the near darkness, from under the ground came an anxious stampede. They broke the spell. The frustration infiltrating the street, their hunger and thirst evident. The money earned giving them no hope. He began to pull back from the window when something caught him, gripped him like a giant hand and dragged him back.
The big belt held the jeans around the thin hips, his head moving out of the window as he looked, his focus intense yet unintentional. A bolt of energy as she looked up, a quick glance that brought him a smile, a big smile, the first smile in a while, he was finally somewhere else. Her expression opening as she stood and stared, two faces meeting for a moment. Then she was gone, out of his view and into the great void.
The respite was short, making the return all the worse. The musty room, almost dark, swimming in sentimentality and desperation. The three-quarters-full bottle called from the shelf. It should do the trick for one more day. He didn’t want to move, or think or lis-ten or watch. No, he was only in a mood to remember.
CHAPTER 2
I turned over, not wanting to wake up, the cheap sheets warm and rough. The poorly made bed coming apart. I was far enough along and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. It was too early, but I didn’t want to look at the red numbers, which I would see if I turned my head. The thirst returned. I had been dream-ing of drinking water. The three was clear, the minutes where hidden behind the brown water in the plastic cup. Sleep would be patient in returning.
With the pants from my suit on I walked down the hallway barefoot and bought two grape sodas. More ice in another plastic cup, the purple liquid squeaked between my teeth, quenching the thirst on my tongue while increasing it in my chest. The heat came from inside; it was too soon after the act to have a hangover, but I did, and until the internal oven was turned off I wouldn’t get back to sleep.
The same double plays, the difference in state mak-ing them seem from a week ago, not three hours ago. Keys jangled with sloppy footsteps, very close, stabbing at my door. I would let him figure it out. The batting averages became stock prices. They talked about money as if it were the Super Bowl, which only made it worse. The sheets were stiff and moist. I was still hot and the thoughts of money made me nervous. With a pen and pad stamped with the hotel chain logo I began to write a list of numbers. I had been living on more than I earned for as long as I could remember and it was starting to interfere with my sleep.
Planning for me has always consisted of making up reasonable excuses for what I had already done. The numbers on a hotel pad were no different, but as Mass can sometimes soothe the soul of the unbeliever; I hoped the calculations would let me sleep. I forced the column to add up to my monthly net and felt the heat leaving. The sheets were softer and I found a movie on HBO that seemed like an advertisement for Sony. I didn’t have a house like that and I never ate breakfast with anyone, it was Steven Spielberg world. The sleep gently rolled over me. I would cancel my appointment tomorrow, and with that thought I finally fell off.
CHAPTER 3
I looked down at the two plastic cups, one a faint yellow, the remnants of Bourbon with ice water, the other stained purple on the bottom.
“Yes, I’m sorry Tim, I’ve got a real problem at the hot dog plant in Palatka. I’ll mail that sample to you.” It was only a courtesy call anyway. “I’ll take you to lunch my next time through.” Thursday and a free slate through the weekend. Freedom. She was in the office at her desk, as usual. She would love dinner.
Five to twelve, my Ford Taurus the only company car still in the parking lot, no line at the checkout. A mysterious face from the subcontinent looked at me clad in the hotel uniform, only adding to the allure. The dark skin blended into a yellow in the white of her eyes. She seemed pliable and soft and I stared at her longer and harder than I should have. Liz.
“Mr. Lynch, that will be $89.64 please.” She looked up at me then down in a girlish way. I couldn’t help but smile. She showed me her white teeth behind big rare lips.
*
The saw-grass filled the horizon like the sea, the fenced-in highway guarding against the fierce nature hidden in the swamp. Five alligators sunned themselves together above a drainage canal on their side of the fence, dark clouds looming miles away above the coast of South Florida. I approached home out of the miles of nothingness enjoying the thought of the long weekend I had carved out. Monday seemed as far off as the budget I had written the night before and that I was going to part from that very evening.
The near edge of the dark cloud moved through a bright white sky. I looked forward to the downpour and the premature darkness it would surround me with, washing away the bad night and its worries. I lost my-self in a Marlins game on the radio, the studied pitch of the voices reassuring, the baseball banter hypnotizing me in the pouring rain.
*
I passed empty offices in the ha
llway, glancing at her as she read. The tired eyes behind the wire rimmed glasses, a few blonde hairs by her cheeks rebelling from the mass that was pulled back and hung in a short pony-tail. She seemed much more controlled and at peace than I could ever be. I was glad I had called her. “Ker-ry, almost done.”
“Close the door.” She tossed a pen on the desk, a fragile approach behind the glasses, a sad walk. “I’m all done. I was waiting for you.” She probably looked better now than she ever had. The first signs of deca-dence in her face maximized her morbidity while announcing the eminent physical demise. “Todd’s go-ing to stay with my mother tonight.”
*
The room was dark with a slanted ceiling and walls lined with semi-full bookshelves. Serious, well-paid, smocked waiters navigated through the artificial room, steaks in hand. The tension of the miles was fading through the Merlot. My prime rib arrived bloody while I listened to Kerry talk about Todd’s school. I was glad she had gotten the reproduction bug out of her system so she could play for something other than a future hus-band.
Kerry was the first woman I ever dated who didn’t have any serious vices and could hold a job, the novelty of which fascinated me. Most serious women smelled something within seconds and would run for cover. When Kerry called back I followed through, knowing I would find something. But I never did and finally re-signed myself to the fact that she was the exception.
I stared at the crow’s feet moving around her eyes looking for signs of irony, but she really believed and cared about what she was talking about and my search-ing expression left her thinking I was too. I was simply amazed that a person could be so interested in what a third grade teacher said. A merciful pause let me change the subject. “So, Kerry, what do you think about this stock market, it looks like it will never stop.” She was a CPA, lingering worries.
“It doesn’t seem like it’s going to change anytime soon, people keep putting money in mutual funds, and the funds have to buy stocks, it’s supply and demand.”
“But what I don’t understand is how company like IBM or GM can be worth twenty-five percent more this year than last year.” I didn’t know what I was talking about, and I was more interested in the Marlin’s than the stock market, but I knew that Kerry felt good eating a steak and talking about money so I played along.
“You have to think of their value as investments over a certain period of time, not strictly their book val-ues.” Why was this woman with me? A Republican accountant six years my senior, with an eight year old son.
“I was thinking maybe the markets are anticipating Bill losing to the Republicans, and all the tax cuts they’re going to give when they get in.” We never real-ly argued about politics and she could never have suspected what I really thought, but I liked nudging up real close to the enemy, drinking his booze and screw-ing his women.
“Bill Clinton has probably been one of the most fiscally responsible presidents we have had in a long time, it’s easier for him since he is a Democrat.” The Republicans are like the Cowboys, they never lose and even if they do, they’re still America’s team. The prime rib had come apart as if it were held together with Velcro, cold and red in the center, and washed back with a good wine. I was feeling too good to get upset about politics, apple pie and a Courvesier. It was my treat even though I couldn’t afford it.
*
She had bought a new bottle of Maker’s since I had polished off the last one. It made me a little nervous but I resolved to enjoy the content of the bottle and not the intentions behind its purchase. She talked about the house; I could probably be doing better.
“I’m thinking about having the bathroom redone, and putting tile down in the living room.” The drinks were starting to catch up to me and I had the sudden urge to make a break for it, call some friends and maybe make a night of it. She wouldn’t say anything now but she would later, especially after putting the kid up with her mother. I thought about the sex, chances were if I left it would be a dry night, ‘console yourself with the sex.’.
“My mother said she knows a good plumber who could do the bathroom, but she told me the South American’s were the best at putting tile down.”
“The Julio’s are great at that stuff.” I got a, we think that don’t say that stare, it was bound to happen. The right woman talking about caulking a toilet bowl could set a forest fire, but I had one of those clear mo-ments when you know, in the end, they all wind up being like Kerry.
CHAPTER 4
The rain was torrential. I held the rail on the bus looking at the exotic faces and bracing for sharp turns. The rain fell through an emerging sun. The city was strange, somewhere in Southeast Asia, I didn’t know where, but I felt good. I got off the bus and found the car I had been using, the rain began again, a light driz-zle. I drove fast on the deserted double highway, suddenly realizing I was lost. I turned around and be-gan driving back to the city, seeing a golf course off to the right.
The fairways were completely covered in water. I took a small rowboat and rowed up the first fairway, spotting an alligator to my right. I confidently swerved the boat close to him to give him a scare; he backed up than began to slowly follow me, ten feet behind the boat, and getting closer. Terrified, I punched him on the snout with the paddle. The enormous creature retreat-ed, only to return with his mouth open, teeth raised like a footballer coming in for a nasty tackle. I hit him again, he retreated less. I hit him again and he barely moved back.
*
I knew he was looking at me. He had one leg tucked under the other and his little shoe was resting on the bench seat of the company car. The orange trees flew by as we sped across central Florida. He felt at home with the Pizza Huts and the Burger Kings, this was his country, Midwest monotony conquering an en-tire nation. Ft. Wayne, Indiana, and the way he said it, made me think of 300 pound women with pies in their hands. “So, John, don’t you ever get tired of all the heat down here?”
“No, I’m used to it.” He was definitely getting at something, no loose talk for Harry.
“It must be hard to put a suit on every day in this heat, with the beach so close.” I felt like saying I a spent the whole day on the beach drinking Margaritas when he wasn’t traveling with me. What he lacked in subtleness he made up for in persistence.
“I put up with it.” I turned and looked him in the eye, he gave me a forced smile. I felt like crushing him.
“Back in Ft. Wayne I saw a bag of chick peas that was sold with a spice pack in it. It was in a little plastic bag, the company name I can’t remember, but the city was Claremont, which is…” He fingered the map, his beady eyes glistening through glasses, lips tucked deep in concentration, “about thirty miles from here up I-4, let’s take a look in a grocery store to get the name again. I wish I had brought the bag down with me.” He was all business and he was making a lot of money. I was still on salary; my commissions didn’t add up to my draw and probably never would. I was getting by, badly, but getting by on what I made and wasn’t going to kill myself to make more. Harry lived for his com-mission reports, savoring them as if they were they were porno magazines. “John, you’re young, you have a great territory, a territory with an enormous potential, if you work hard, follow up, find reasons to see the big accounts, you can make a lot of money. If you could get just one of the big chains in your area, Burger King, Arby’s, Miami Subs, Kenny Roger’s Roasters, their seasoning business would put you way into commis-sions. It could mean a lot of money. The small accounts like the one we’re after now add up and with just one big one you are made.” I couldn’t get excited about the new Burger King cream cheese dip for their chicken fingers. One day they would figure that out.
“It’s so true. I’m really behind those big accounts. I think one will fall in the next year. I told you about the Bourbon rib sauce we’ve been working on in the lab for Kenny Rogers Roasters, it’s really exciting.” I was making myself nauseous, but better to keep
the boss lubricated. The smile was almost bursting from his face.
“You know John, even what were doing now, I mean think about it, investigating a lead I picked up in Ft. Wayne, it’s really exciting. I can’t believe they are paying us to do this.” At night, with the wife snoring at his side, awake and looking at the ceiling, did he really believe it? I looked at him but could see nothing be-hind those little eyes and bleached lips.
“It really is.” We pulled into a McDonald’s drive-in to by him another coffee. At the window an enor-mous ass stared at me, then slowly maneuvered its way around until I saw a face. This man drank coffee all day, the capitalist drug; they want you to drink it and work like hell.
We arrived to the warehouse after having bought a bag of the chickpeas with seasoning. Harry gave me one of his smiles as he got out of the car; he came up to my shoulders. A slight tick snapped his head back as he looked at the secretary. “Hi, I’m Harry Irvin from the Maryland Spice Company. I saw your spice packets in the chick peas, and I was curious as to who made the packets for you.”
“You’d have to talk to Skip.” The jeans rose tall and wide around her thick body. She was used to salesman.
“Is Skip the manager?”
“Skip’s the owner, he’ll be back on Friday.” She was done but Harry wasn’t.
“Do you do other types of spice packets, say for lentils or pinto beans?” His head bounced as he spoke, no shame in the face of money.
“Sure, we do a couple.”
“Could I see them?” The phone rang and she start-ed talking to a trucking company while looking for something on her desk. Harry stared at her and waited. The tension grew as she looked up, but Harry didn’t turn to leave. He wanted his lentils. I stood in the mar-gin, curious as to how far he would go, either he didn’t feel it or he didn’t care. She finally put her hand over the phone.
“Like I said, Skip will be back on Friday.” She handed him a card off the desk. He smiled and turned away. Persistence and a thick skin are what make salesman money and Harry had all three.