Forever People (pt 2)

Dixie holds a wrist to True’s forehead looking for fever; his nose is squashed and his ear is torn. Jackie fishes the joint out of the ashtray and brings it back to life, handing it to him; he takes it with split knuckles, the seams of his shirt straining as he blows rockets of smoke through his nose like a bull. I oughta knock you on your ass, he says to her.

Oh, stop, she says. And I already heard all that from Mom so you can call it message received. Jackie looks into her little mirror, adding make-up, adjusting bracelets; her hands are chapped, her skin as pale as candle wax. She curls one hand around the closest beer bottle because if he wants to go for it she’s not going down without a fight.

True says to stop, and a word from him is like one from God and they both power down, sitting back in their seats. You’re a bitch, Dixie tells her, handing her the joint.

But the best bitch, Frankenstein Jackie says back, and he smiles; he likes his scars and is made out of them from busting teeth. He bare-knuckle fights for the prize pot the mill guys scrape together on Friday, and if the guys who work for you are bitching about their pay or your husband’s a little too hard, for a few bucks Dixie will take care of that.

True says it’s time to go, balling up his hands inside his sleeves. Dixie makes a face and True hangs his head, bangs falling over his face; Jackie starts to lead him away but Dixie stops her, pressing money into her hand and kissing True on the cheek. Turn on the heater, he says. I don’t like getting into a cold bed.

The two walk out of the bar they call The State because of its street; Halloween is a week away and the world is dead in every direction, the gutters stuffed with leaves. They follow the side of the bar holding onto the brick in the dark, pieces of it breaking off under their fingers, and reach the dead tree that marks the beginning of the long hall of rooms behind the bar that once were for war veterans, and then for one failed business or another. Jackie leads the way inside, holding up a lighter so they can step over the garbage and bottles and passed-out or dead drunks. Their room is at the end behind a door with three padlocks – not that anyone would touch it. They know Dixie.

Jackie lights candles and turns on the space heater that is tethered to an outlet inside the bar by seven extension cords. True sinks down on the mattress, blowing on his hands while Jackie sets out his gear: the needle, the spoon, the cotton. It’s like you’re a mad scientist, True says as he watches the brown boil in the spoon with glassy eyes. She laughs and pulls a belt around his arm. Here comes the gold, baby, she says in his ear.

It only takes a second. Oh, True says, laying down. Pennies are melting in me.

Jackie straddles him, kissing him, reaching down his pants and jerking him off.

I’m dying, True says, gasping. Jackie, I’m dying.

She shushes him, and cleans him up. There are rhinestones everywhere.

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