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Better Man
by Alicia Gifford
If
Eddie Vedder were my
boyfriend I'd be on a
surfboard now and
he’d be paddling next to
me, talking to me,
teaching me to surf. I’d
catch a perfect wave and
he’d whoop to the sky
and raise his arms up in
a V. We’d be in some
far-off place—J-Bay
maybe—or the Pipe or
Pavones, Costa Rica.
We’d come back to our
elegant-but-earthy hotel
room and climb into a
hot shower to wash the
salt and sand off. We’d
glide our soapy bodies
up against each other
and we’d kiss while the
shower’s soft, warm
spray fell upon our
heads.
But Lenny Falco is my
boyfriend and we're not
surfing. We're on the
road to Las Vegas to win
enough money to buy a
Komfort RV Fifth Wheel
trailer he saw for a
good price in
Bakersfield last
weekend. Twenty–three
feet of RV Komfort.
Lenny says he’s born for
the RV life. “I’m a
travelin’ man,” he says.
Lenny and I live in
Mojave in a duplex off
of Highway 14. He
customizes motorcycles
and I manage the Taco
Bell.
If Eddie Vedder were my
boyfriend I’d get my
crossed eyes fixed and
he would tell me I was
beautiful. He'd write
dirgy love songs that he
would dedicate to me,
and say, “I couldn’t’ve
done it without you
babe.” He’d taste like
cigarettes and salt and
we’d make steamy,
slow-hand love.
Definitely, we would
sixty-nine.
But Lenny turns me on
like a radio. Smelling
his rich, sharp mix of
sweat and soap gets me
embarrassingly all
juiced up. It’s always
been like that with
Lenny. He’s tall and
lanky and carved with
muscle from working out
four days a week. He
wears black leather work
boots and his Levis fit
him tight and low. He’s
got nice teeth, a
partial plate from
getting his real front
teeth knocked out in a
car crash. A scar on his
upper lip gives him a
sexy sneer and a
tattooed dot under his
left eye gives him
something thrilling. He
combs his blue-black
hair straight back and
some of it falls across
his face in strands. He
ties bandanas around his
head and wears shirts
with the sleeves ripped
off of them. He leans
against his Harley,
looking bored as hell,
smoking his unfiltered
Lucky Strikes, and I
could die from loving
him.
At night I lie there,
bare-assed and hoping,
feeling the space
between us like an
electric field. I could
make love to Lenny a
thousand times a day and
still want more but
mostly he turns away and
starts to snore. If I
complain he says, “You
think you can do better
than me? Go on, then.
Get your things and go,”
which cracks me way up,
being that he
moved in with me.
Lenny says Eddie Vedder
bleats like a lamb. He
goes, “Bah-ah-ah-ah,”
when he hears him sing.
But for my big three-oh
he got tickets to see
Pearl Jam play at
Devonshire Downs. We got
into the mosh pit for
the greatest night of my
whole life. He bought me
a new VS CD when
mine was total trash.
I know that Lenny loves
me. He says, “I love you
Amanda, I don’t know why
I go off like that.”
“Maybe it’s the booze,”
I tell him. “Or the
blow.” I can say things
like that when he’s down
from a binge. When he’s
contrite and guilty
because my eye is black
and my ribs are bruised.
Last time I told him I
couldn’t take it
anymore. I told him next
time he loses his temper
he’d have to go.
“Think anyone else’d
look twice at a mousy
little cross-eyed thing
like you?” He said it
nicely, like a joke, but
it still hurt. But then
he said, “It won’t
happen again. We’ll get
that RV and we’ll have
ourselves a time, get
our lives going.” He
smiled that big smile of
his, all dimples and
dreamy eyes; he gathered
me up in his big, meaty
arms and pressed me to
his chest where I could
smell the strong scent
of his skin. We made
love, slow and romantic.
I’ve lived off that
night for months.
I’ve never seen so much
razzle-dazzle splendor
as Las Vegas. The
lights! We have a total
of seventeen-hundred
dollars to win
twenty-thousand RV
buckaroos. Blackjack.
Lenny’s been nailing how
to play, when to hit,
when to hold. He’s got a
system.
We find a cheap motel
downtown, the Desert
Jewel, and we check in.
August is the off-season
so prices are good. The
air conditioner buzzes
and shudders and keeps
the room icy cold. Lenny
bends me over the
queen-sized bed and
flips up my skirt. He
yanks my thong down and
then he bangs me good
for luck. “Let’s hit
the tables,” he says,
zipping up his pants.
He’s in a really good
mood.
We drive to Binion’s
downtown. It’s nearly
ten at night but the
wind is hot as a blow
dryer. We enter the
casino and the clank and
jangle and a million
flashing lights charge
me up like a toot of
crystal. Lenny gives me
fifty dollars and he
goes off to find a
blackjack table. I get
some silver dollars to
hit the dollar slots.
The first dollar rewards
me with a hundred and
fifty smackers and I
nearly crap my pants. I
put my winnings in my
bucket and think about
finding Lenny but I
don’t. I stop at another
machine and feed in some
more dollars and bam!
Out drops another
seventy-five bucks and I
do a happy dance. I want
to run and tell Lenny. I
look around and then I
spot him at a table and
I head over to where
he’s sitting.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I
ask him.
“Can’t talk right now,”
he says, slurring. He’s
drinking whiskey. We’ve
got a little
understanding that he
won’t get blotto. I
watch him lose a pile of
twenty-five dollar chips
and when the waitress
comes by he asks for
another whiskey. He
glares at me all
glassy-eyed and mean
looking. “Get lost,” he
says.
I walk around the
casino, stopping at a
roulette wheel. For the
hell of it I plunk down
a handful of bucks on my
lucky number, nine, and
watch the ball and wheel
spin like crazy.
Spin, spin. Spin a black
circle. I get the
song stuck in my brain
and I sing it in my head
until the ball settles
in the nine slot and
they heap a pile of
chips next to my bet. I
let out a whoop, I can’t
help it, and the
roulette guy smiles at
me. I scoop up my chips
and leave. I sit at a
blackjack table and tell
the dealer I don’t know
what I’m doing and he
helps me. He goes bust
like five times in a row
and the chips keep
piling up in front of
me.
I’m having a blast but
I’d gotten up at five
this morning to start
the beans cooking over
at the Bell, and then I
worked the early shift.
I’m starting to crash. I
cash in my chips and I
have nearly a thousand
dollars. I can hardly
breathe.
I go find Lenny and see
that he’s a mess. “Get
the fuck away from me,”
he says. He crosses his
eyes and makes fun of me
in front of everyone.
He’s drinking shots of
bourbon. I see him lose
another pile of chips
and he gets up, swaying
and staggering. “Some
lucky fuck you are,” he
says.
If Eddie Vedder were my
boyfriend there’d be no
sweat for money. We’d
live a simple life but
we’d have everything we
need. If the
refrigerator were to
break we’d get a new
one, just like that!—and
not go weeks without
because he’d bought a
brand new air
compressor. He’d never
borrow money and forget
to pay me back. We’d
stay at the Hard Rock
Hotel in Las Vegas, in a
high-class suite with a
bedroom and a living
room with sofas, and
Eddie’s buds would come
and hang with us,
jamming until morning.
Then we’d head to the
all-you-can-eat buffet
for breakfast and
mimosas—fresh-squeezed
OJ—then hit the sack
until time to start
again.
“Do you have any money
left?” Lenny asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Slots
took it.”
“Slots are for morons.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Don’t worry about it,”
he says.
I drive us back to the
motel and we go into our
room. “What was I
thinking giving you
fifty bucks? What a
waste,” he says. My
purse feels like a
nuclear bomb’s in it,
ready to explode.
“Look,” I say, “it’s
gambling. Remember?”
And then his fist slams
into the side of my head
and knocks me to the
floor. Fireworks explode
and I piss all over
myself.
He stands over me,
breathing hard. Foamy
spit flutters on his
lips. I cower against
the wall; my arms up in
self defense, too
cracked to cry.
He says, “I cleaned out
the checking account
with the ATM card and
maxed out the Visa.”
That’s my bank
account he’s talking
about. My Visa.
We have a joint account
so if he applied for a
loan it would look like
he had more money than
he’s got because he’s
got squat.
“That’s okay, baby,” I
say to him, even though
I’m really pissed.
“Let’s sleep on it.” The
words barely leave my
mouth and then he’s
passed out on the bed,
snoring. I stand up,
lean against the wall
and look at him, how
beautiful he is, even
stinking drunk.
I get a towel and dry
myself, take another one
for the car seat and
grab my keys and the bag
I never unpacked. I get
into the car, my
car, and drive away,
leaving Lenny to wake up
broke and stranded and
hung-over at the Desert
Jewel Motel. I drive
down the Strip to the
Bellagio and they give
me a room for sixty-nine
dollars, a two-a.m.
special. The desk clerk
avoids looking at my
swelling eye and purple
cheek.
The beautiful room gives
me hope. I fill the
marble tub with water
and strip off all my
clothes. I’ll drive home
tomorrow and get my
stuff and I’ll leave
Lenny. I’ll move to
Palmdale or maybe
Bishop, find a job and
start all over.
I sink into the bathtub,
close my eyes and
picture my new life, how
good it’s going to be. I
try to think good
thoughts but then I hear
him like he’s behind me,
breathing on my neck.
“Who else is going to
love a cross-eyed,
knock-kneed little mouse
like you?” My resolution
starts to trickle away
like the water that I’m
cupping in my hands. I
think about how sorry
Lenny would be, how he’d
cry to see my banged up
face. “Never again,”
he’d say. He’d promise
to make it up to me, to
be a better man, trying
hard to convince us both
that there’s something
that is new in him,
something that has
changed.
If Eddie Vedder were my
boyfriend, he’d chop his
arm off before he’d ever
hit me. He’d cup my chin
and look at me as mushy
as Cream of Wheat. He’d
tell me that he loved
me; that he lucked out
to get me as his girl.
We’d smoke a joint and
snuggle on a South
Pacific Beach. We’d
drink red wine from
plastic cups and feast
on cheese and crackers.
We’d watch the blazing
sun go down and trip on
the psychedelic
sky—grateful—for another
perfect day. |
