Que Sera Sera (2017-2018)

 

 

 

“I'm calm. Oh, I'm calm. I danced with the devil. He knows where I am at all times. He's got eyes everywhere, even behind bars.” Ginger rolled her eyes and stood, placing her favorite bubbler, “Miracle,” on the etched wooden table. 

It was a mild summer’s twilight before Independence Day. The grass was beginning to wither, and cicadas were chirping vehemently in the thicket. The walls of Poppy’s basement were peeling like bananas. I sat on a mattress that laid randomly on the floor, listening intently to Ginger's voice over the fan blowing into my left ear. Eddie and Ginger sat across from each other on dusty beach chairs that probably hadn’t seen the sand in ages.  

“He finally got out of the doghouse, and as soon as he walked in that door with a wad of cash, I knew somethin’ was up.” Hacking out smoke, Ginger continued. “I was livin’ for the two of us, not myself. I have two sets of keys, and I always make sure to hide ‘em. But that night, I left ‘em on the nightstand.” Once I heard that, I knew this wasn’t going to be good news. “He took my car while I was sleepin’. The cops followed him all the way to the bar, bombed off his ass, gettin’ into MY car. They didn't do nothin’. Three miles from the joint, the car crashed into a pole. He fucked that shit up so bad, the left tire is turnin’ sideways. Of course, he's fine. But who knows about the other passengers?” She was pissed. Her arms shot into the air like there was a gun on her, and her bandana and glasses practically fell off her head. 

“Jesus, Ging,” I spoke, looking down at my shoes and shaking my head. No prayer could have helped her in that situation. Nothing could mist this away. 

Fifteen years ago, Ginger was adopted by Poppy, a frail veteran with a soft voice. He welcomed anyone who came to visit like a member of his own family. All of his family was dead, but it was almost like that didn’t bother him at all. I came by often, always stopping to talk with him about his garden. His favorite food was Domino’s cheesy bread, he loved dogs, and was just diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Needless to say, nobody was happy. He’d say he wanted to paint the underside of his coffin with glow in the dark stars so he’d have something to look at. He wanted to be buried with his favorite pair of church shoes and his brown plaid ivy hat.  

Ginger was twenty-eight years old. She needed a walker, courtesy of her Multiple Sclerosis, and quite a bit of pot to help manage the pain. Still, there were intervals of agonizing shrieks that gave me goosebumps. It made me feel helpless. I’d ask to get things for her regularly, whether it was a pack of cigarettes from the gas station down the street or the TV remote right across the room. She’d mostly thank me and say no, she never wanted to be pitied. Some days, I still bought her some Newports on the way down to Poppy’s house, where she lived at the time. Every time she’d offer me the second cig out of the pack, I’d always say no, “I don’t smoke.” These people, who lived on beat-up suburban backroads littered with broken street lamps and drug dealers around every corner, only had each other to begin with. How the hell was I supposed to take even more away from them? 

“The police station calls at two that morning, I didn't pick up. I was tired from cleaning yesterday, so I let it ring. At eight the same morning, I get a Lyft and ride my ass down there to see my car, and it's damn near totaled. I forgot my registration at home. Every day my car’s there, I pay two hundred dollars. I go back home and I break down crying.” Her head was in her hands, trying to keep it together for her own sake. 

“I waited a little over two years for his sorry ass to be released from prison just for him to go right back two weeks later. I'm fuckin’ sick at this point, man. It's like it hurts to breathe, but I suck it up. I take a bus down to get my car the next day, pay the fees, get it towed to the shop, and get a ride back home." Her voice cracks, "Now this moron’s callin’ me every other motherfuckin’ minute, expectin’ me to answer and listen to his whiney-ass bullshit. I must've declined fifty calls by now from him alone." The phone rings again, she answers, then hangs up. 

"Fifty-one," Eddie and I looked at each other, then at Ging. 

“I think it’s about time we get some air,” Eddie stammers. “We been crammed up in this basement for a while.” 

“I’ll stay in here. I’ve got a lot of thinkin’ to do. Plus, I don’t feel like gettin’ up,” Ginger chuckles. I didn’t even know how she was able to anymore. 

“Roger that,” I saluted her. “If you need help up or anything, just call.” 

Eddie was the first one up the stairs. I looked back once, but said nothing, darting up the rickety steps like the floor was about to fall out from under me. We walked to the deck silently, when we got there Kev and Dom were sitting there slowly hitting a bowl back and forth. Tara sat in the corner, smiling when she spotted us. 

“Beat,” Sighing, Dom went to refill the bowl. 

“It’s never beat,” Eddie claimed, swiping it from Dom’s hands, attempting to smoke what was quite literally ash. He coughed like hell. 

“Dumbass,” Dom heartily laughed as he patted Eddie on the back, handing him his own glass of water. In the light by the door, Dom blew into the bowl, and little black particles started to fall like shooting stars in the night sky, hints of ash littering the surface of the clear deck table. He then combed his hand through his buzzcut, removing some ash that had fallen there. Kev was swaying on the deck swing, his long, blonde hippie hair blowing along with it. We were listening to “Free Bird” about ten minutes past midnight. Kev took a hit from the bowl, then another one, and another. 

"Can I have a hit of that?" Dom teased, reaching for the bowl. 

"Yeah, sure, sure. Pass it to her next." He looked to me, "You take as many hits as you want." 

"Thanks Kev. I think I'll stick to none," I chastely laughed. 

Kev pulled a rolled-up paper bag out of his left pocket, dumping out a white powdery substance on a folded piece of cardboard, brought it up to his nose, then inhaled it in a straight line. He jammed to the music then, the chorus to be exact, swinging his head and thumping his feet on the pavement to the drums’ beat. Kev stopped as the chorus ended. He shut his eyes tight and opened them again seconds later, looking down at the bowl that had made its way back into his hands. He looked at Dom. 

“How old are you?" 

"Barely sixteen," Dom reluctantly replied. 

"I was making thousands of dollars a week when I was your age," Kev proudly claimed. 

"Shit, dude." 

"Tara, how old are you?" 

"Nineteen, twenty in a little over a month." Tara took off her glasses and fixed her black hair into a bun. Her nasally voice rang in my ears.

"When I was your age I went to prison, round two." 

"That's awesome," Tara joked. 

"No. It's not awesome, alright?” he replied, a serious expression ghosting over his face. “I've seen things you ain't never seen. I've watched people turn purple and blue. In the recess yard, people'd be shooting up with dope,” Kev recalled, disturbed. “A man probably twice my age walked up to me, shaking, holding out his hand, asking me if I wanted any. The shit I've experienced. I've watched people die right in front of me. I've seen guards beat young men to death." Again, no one spoke. I looked down at the ashtray of a floor beneath me. "I had my life laid out for me, man. I was about to be on fuckin’ television, Hollywood!  I was set. Getting three hundred dollars a day for a couple head shots, about to sign a contract with a modeling company, but everything fell through. I was so close to having a wildly different future, but it was a bust." Kev was shaken, his eyes teared up. No one said anything, it stayed like that for a while.  

“Hey,” Eddie put an arm around Kev’s shoulder, “At least you’re still here.” 

“Did anyone else just get a chill?” Dom inquired, ruining the moment. 

“Man, shut up.” Getting off of Kev, Eddie gave Dom a noogie. 

I gulped, guilt dangling above my head like an anvil. That chill in the air, and the mentions of death. It must’ve been time. I spotted Poppy pacing up and down the driveway, probably wondering how the hell he got there in the first place. I got up from my seat on the deck, sauntering over to Poppy. Nobody noticed I had gone. 

“You ready to go, pal?” I attempted a cheerful tone, dread creeping up on me as I lead Poppy along. “Here. Follow me.” We left. 

Since that day, I’ve never felt the same about this job. I’ve come to hate taking from people who had nothing in the first place, but this isn’t the type of job I can quit. 

A few months have passed now. I felt bad for not attending Poppy’s funeral, but I was not permitted to stay any longer than needed. However, sometimes I would peek in to see how things were going for everyone on the flipside. 

Ginger had moved to Texas with her half-sister after selling Poppy’s house. She now spends time babysitting her niece and going to therapy. Kev and Dom got jobs, ironically, fixing Ginger’s car at an autobody shop. Eddie works at a café bussing tables with Tara at the cash register pissing off the occasional customer, and I’m back to my usual job, visiting the ill to take them where there is no darkness. 

Sometimes, I still visit Poppy, his feet always in the fuzziest of slippers, perched up on his cushioned recliner watching the Mets game, his wife feeding their dog Skipper. 

“Are they here?” he seldom asks.

“Not today Poppy,” I console him, putting a cigarette between my teeth. I look up into the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, flint sparking in my hands, “Not yet.”