Tart. Jody Gehrman
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their current crisis. Jerry Manning, my favorite professor back at UT, used to scream at us, “Disaster defines you. Where’s the disaster? Come on, give me your disaster!” I feel a tiny trickle of blood as it forms a damp spot in my underwear. Medea scratches at the cardboard, her panic momentarily breaking free from the straightjacket of drugs I’ve kept her in. Her terrified mewling has gone from meek to murderous. “Here you go, Manning,” I whisper. “Here’s my disaster.”
Unfortunately, my only audience is the steady stream of traffic roaring past me at breakneck speed, making the bus shudder like a cowering animal. I stole it from my boyfriend, Jonathan, who is now officially my ex-boyfriend, but I haven’t managed to force him into the past tense just yet. If you must know, the bastard’s a Taurus and he’s got beautiful hands and he writes plays that make people swear he’s some freaky genetic hybrid: two parts Tennessee Williams, one part David Lynch. He moved to New York several months ago with Rain, this nineteen-year-old acting student with slick black hair that hangs below her ass and a five-thousand-watt smile.
The flames shooting from the engine are getting more insistent.
This is not good.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and begin fantasizing about a very stiff, incredibly cold vodka tonic: I can see the ice, smell the carbonation, taste the green of that freshly cut lime swarming with bubbles. I think again of the cat Valium and wonder if I have enough time to secure the stash before Jonathan’s beloved VW explodes in a pyrotechnic burst of orange, like something from a Clint Eastwood flick. Woman’s Charred Remains Found Clinging to Glove Box. I squeeze my thighs together in an effort to keep the blood from running down my leg.
A guy on an old dented BMW motorcycle pulls over and takes his helmet off. He’s got a crooked smirk and a twenty-year-old body that looks oddly mismatched with the lines around his eyes. His hair is damp and stands up in hectic disarray like a child who’s just waking from a nap. The leather jacket looks ancient enough to be a hand-me-down from James Dean himself. He looks at the bus, at me, and back at the bus again.
“Need help?” he yells over the whir and wind of the passing traffic.
“Naw. Thought I’d just hang out, watch the show,” I yell back.
He shrugs and starts to swing his leg back over his bike.
“I’m kidding!” I shriek.
He turns toward me again, and a grin appears from the five o’clock shadow: white teeth, substantial lips, a nose that saves him from too pretty with a slightly swerving bridge where I’m willing to guess he broke it years ago. He’s the perfect Hamlet; he could play moody and build to insanity with enough sex appeal to keep the audience hot and bothered as Ophelia. He’s a little dirty, but in a good way. I could tell if I took a couple steps closer I’d smell the powerful perfume of leather and sweat.
Hold it together, Bloom. You’re just rebounding and road-delirious. Your cat is thrashing about in a cardboard box and you’ve stolen a vehicle that is about to go the way of Chernobyl.
He comes closer and says into my ear, “I don’t think this one’s going any farther.”
“Thanks. Excellent diagnosis.”
“What’s in the box?”
“My cat.”
He just raises his eyebrows at that. Then a huge semi comes rolling around the corner and practically knocks us over. “This isn’t a good spot,” he says.
“No kidding.” It’s a bad habit of mine: the more I need help, the more I behave like a snotty twelve-year-old. A dry, hot wind washes over us and the flames are reaching outward, like the arms of needy children. “Are we supposed to pour water on it, or something?”
“I don’t know. You got any?”
“No,” I yell, shaking my head for emphasis. Is it my imagination, or is the traffic getting louder the longer we stand here? “I’ve got a six-pack of Vanilla Coke in the back seat—will that help?”
“Not likely. What are the chances one of these assholes has a cell phone?” He watches the passing traffic with a tired, cynical expression. Jeez, strong pecs under that T-shirt. Jonathan’s chest was practically concave. With his shirt off he looked six years old. Watching this guy’s profile, with his once broken nose, his dust-smudged, stubbled chin and his blue-green eyes staring down each car as it blurs past, he looks a touch dangerous. It occurs to me that this could be a bad situation turning worse. Woman and Cat Found in Dumpster.
He starts waving his arms at the truckers and soccer moms. Medea is now yowling pathetically from the cardboard box, which I’m afraid to put down because the Valium seems to be wearing off and every five minutes she does a little body slam that nearly knocks her from my arms.
“Where’s the damn CHP when you need them?” he grumbles. At this point it occurs to me that I have every reason to avoid cops right now—or anyone who might call cops. Psycho Woman Sets Stolen Car on Fire. I squeeze Medea’s box with one hand and grab Biker Guy’s waving arm with the other. “Whoa—hold on—do you think you could just give me a lift somewhere?”
He looks at me. “Well…shouldn’t we…?” He eyes the flames. “We can’t just leave it here.”
I’ve got to think fast. I lean closer and speak into his ear, so I won’t have to yell. “Look, there’s no room here for anyone else to pull over, anyway. It’s too dangerous. Plus, what are they going to do?”
He cradles his helmet between us and studies the hillside. “Lots of dry grass around here just itching to go up in flames. It could explode,” he says.
“All the more reason to get out of here.”
“True.” I can see him assessing the situation, working the possibilities out, like someone playing chess.
“Plus, I really need a drink,” I say, feeling slightly giddy at the thought of that cool vodka tonic fizzing in my throat. “Nobody’s going to stop, anyway.”
“Pretty grim view of humanity,” he says.
“I’ll brighten up soon as you get a little vodka in me.”
We’ve just managed to bungee Medea’s box onto the back of his bike when the bus and everything I own erupts in a loud, surreal orgy of light and heat. I start to laugh. I don’t know why; it’s just the sound my body emits, without any consent. The whole thing’s an omen of some sort, but right now I’m too hot and hysterical to guess at what it all means.
“Come on,” I yell. “Let’s go!” The air is alive with the smell of gasoline, and the waves of heat are so intense it’s like swimming in an ocean just this side of scalding. He looks at me, puts his helmet on my head and says something, but I can’t hear him now because my ears are engulfed in padding. I think I can read his lips, though; I think he’s saying, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
CHAPTER 2
We should have done away with marriage long ago; by now it should be a fuzzy historical footnote, like eight-track tapes.
Unfortunately, knowing this didn’t save me from getting engaged last spring. I’d been a die-hard Amazon since my parents’ divorce, arguing with anyone who’d listen that a girl should never trade her leather bustier for a Whirlpool dishwasher, but in my late twenties, I temporarily forgot. Having sex with the same person on a regular basis can really mess with your understanding of pertinent details, like who you are, for example. I should have known things were taking a turn for the worse when Jonathan, who always prided himself in being wildly original, popped the question on one knee in a nauseatingly sunny and not at all offbeat setting. It was April and we were picnicking at a quaint park; the trees were sparkling after a light rain and toddlers were toddling across the grass and tulips were waving in the breeze, for Christ’s sake. It was mortifying, how Sound of Music it all was—especially when you consider that both Jonathan and I insist musicals are the lowest form of entertainment, right below public lynching.