ARCHIPELAGO
by Jonathan Danielson
This story references Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers 1983 hit, "Islands in the Stream."
By then only God knew how long Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers serenaded each other that night, after some joker fed a hundo to the jukebox and spent every nickel on "Islands in the Stream." It could've been hours or could've been days. Could've been years so far as Guppy could tell. His whole damn life spent on repeat. Judging the passage of time was difficult when The Dirty Drummer Bar & Eatery didn't offer any windows from which to jump. Like once you got to walking a line long enough, Guppy reckoned, it was damn near impossible to turn the other cheek and see all them mistakes you made along the way. "I was soft inside," Kenny and Dolly sang, and sang, and sang, while Guppy tried watching the Monday Night game playing above the bar and Lunch smacked his porky lips with every last ounce of chicken wing he sucked off the bone. "There was something goooooing ooooon..."
"Shit, Kerry Collins could throw another three TDs then hold his breath until the cows turn blue, but I think this charade's about over," Guppy said when he looked down from the TV, Lunch's Broncos up eleven with two minutes left. Dolly and Kenny mercifully faded out only for the synthesizers to fire up again. It took everything Guppy had not to go smash the jukebox and end their suffering once and for all. At worst, he figured he could nudge the damn thing a few inches and yank the cord from the wall. Like pushing the old football sled back in high school, he remembered, then started down that familiar line of thinking until he motioned for another beer.
"Hell of a way for the Giants to start the season too, what with them blowing last year's Super Bowl like they did," Lunch said after he drained his glass. He wiped his mouth and adjusted his gut, as if to make room for the beer. "And did you know the reason they refer to Super Bowls by Roman numerals is because technically the game is to determine the champion from the year prior? And did you also know the year 2001 is technically the start of our new millennium and last year was just some big illegitimate event? Saw it on a 60 Minutes. And speaking of events, I'm surprised Carol let you out tonight of all nights, I really am."
Guppy finished his pull and set his empty on the bar. Once he stopped stewing over the music and that tackle he missed versus Coronado High twenty-five years earlier, he wondered if his boy was watching the Monday Night game, too? If at that moment they was watching the same thing at the same time? Then Guppy remembered the time difference between Arizona and New York and figured his boy was in bed already, what with Josh having to get up early for his big important job at the World Trade Center come morning.
"Let me out?" Guppy said as Dolly sang how that won't happen to us, how she got no doubt. "I didn't even tell her I was coming. My wife don't own me."
Behind the bar, Pete brought Guppy's next round and Lunch's third basket of wings, fresh from the fryer. Guppy noticed Lunch didn't dive headfirst into his food like normal. Instead, he adjusted and readjusted his girth, his barstool disappearing between his two huge 400 pound cheeks. Guppy knew Lunch had something to say. Out of everything Lunch was--a nuisance, a whiner, the fattest ass the world had ever seen--Guppy's best friend was a know-at-all above all else, Lunch wasting his life acquiring such nonsense by watching game shows and playing CD-Rom Trivial Pursuits alone in that trailer of his in Apache Junction. For as long as Guppy knew him, Lunch always chopped at the bit whenever he knew a factoid no one else did. Couldn't keep a damn secret for the life of him.
Like he was about to burst if he didn't say his peace, Lunch pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it across his tongue. He gave his scalp a good once, twice, thrice times over before he nervously glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure the can was where it always was.
"What?" Guppy snapped, after he couldn't take any more stalling. "You obviously got something on your mind, squirming there on tender hooks like you is. So spit it out already. What, damnit? What is it you got to say? Don't keep me in suspense, Lunch, I'm dying here. Spit it out for once in your Goddamned life."
"Well, Gup," Lunch said as he maneuvered off his barstool, "tonight's your wedding anniversary, good buddy."
***
Of course nobody enjoyed admitting such things, but Lunch knew he had put on a little weight over the years. More than was healthy, he could easily concede. He wasn't one to skirt the truth. Fact was, since high school he had been carrying around so much extra burden that it had actually been a while since he stood at a toilet and saw it last. Since he was able to openly acknowledge that part of himself.
After finishing his business at the Dirty Drummer's trough, Lunch tucked it behind his elastic waistband by feel and said a quiet prayer of thanks that on that night his guesswork at aiming proved true and his prostate hadn't itched for one of its normals fights. Because if it had, Lunch figured as he emerged from the loo, if his body had decided against releasing forth that reservoir of beer damned up inside him, then he would've most likely been still standing there waiting when Guppy started yelling at Petey to give him back his keys--"I got to get home, damnit!" And knowing Gup like he did--almost three decades of steadfast fellowship since high school--Guppy would've most likely jumped over the bar to fight Petey for said keys right then and there. Then Guppy would've spent the night in jail, that night of September 10th, Guppy's wedding anniversary--Lunch never forgot--to the love of his life and mother of their only child. And good luck explaining that one to Carol. No sir, Lunch was certain after an unusually easy flow, he was lucky to have put off that fight another day.
As it was, Guppy was only halfway over the bar when Lunch exited the little girl's room, so he was able to rush over and yank his friend back to Earth by his belt, Lunch's fingers slipping inside Guppy's plumber's crack as the opening synthesizers for "Islands in the Stream" fired up again.
"No one gets their keys back till they've been cutoff an hour," Petey said, Lunch's keys dangling from his finger. "This ain't nothing new. Why're you acting like this, Gup?" Petey folded his arms, Lunch's keys vanishing between his biceps and pectorals. Petey was all of twenty-five, a Dobson High grad, good football program back in the day Guppy always reminded Lunch whenever the topic was broached. Remember that one linebacker they had? Had a full-ride to Glendale CC? But Lunch always drew a blank. He never could remember the important details.
"That's a mute point tonight, Pete, a mute point," Guppy said. He again lurched for his keys, but Lunch held him down. "I wait around here any longer and every store in the Valley's going to be closed by the time I leave. What part of that don't you get, you little shit?"
"Tonight is his anniversary," Lunch said. "And that means something in a man's life. Married exactly 12:02 in the afternoon. A Tuesday, I remember. I was his best man." Once he decided Guppy wasn't going anywhere, Lunch released his grip and wiped his palm across his belly. He reached for a wing.
"Then what're you idiots doing here for?" Petey asked. "Call a cab if it's so urgent."
"And with the prices your gouging, pay for it how?" Guppy said. Then, while Guppy tore Petey a new one, Lunch chewed his food and calculated their tab plus a taxi to a store--whatever was even open at eleven--plus the meter ticking away while Guppy went inside and shopped, plus the ride to south Scottsdale where Guppy and Carol lived in that old house Carol inherited after her folks died. A good chunk of change, Lunch tallied, especially since Guppy was between jobs and Lunch only carried enough cash for whatever they planned on drinking that night. That way things never got out of hand. He could always cover the bill whenever it came due. "And whatever happened to reverse Happy Hour around here?" Guppy continued. "No, this shithole has taken advantage of me for too long, Pete. Too damn long."
For a second, Lunch wondered if Guppy had forgotten Petey's family were the proprietors of the establishment, but he knew he hadn't.
"You keep running your mouth and you can get cutoff for good," Petey said.
"Oh, Guppy didn't mean nothing by it," Lunch said as he sucked sauce off his fingers.
"I did too mean it," Guppy yelled. And with that, Guppy leaned over the bar and pointed a finger right in the middle of Petey's muscles. And thus Guppy started on the same tangent Lunch heard told and retold time and time again. Told to all the misbegotten kids who worked the drive-thrus and handed Guppy and Lunch grease stained bags of hamburgers and not cheeseburgers as ordered. Thus began the gospel of Guppy's only child, the boy Joshua, whom, in Guppy's telling, singlehandedly made the world turn up there in the World Trade Center, the 97th floor, Guppy loved to mention, as if such heights were akin to prestige.
Lunch sucked cartilage off a wing as Guppy began listing all of Petey's misgivings compared to his beloved progeny's. Of course Josh was a great kid, Lunch agreed whenever Guppy went into this spiel, no question there. Lunch remembered fondly those days he had babysat while Carol was working or Guppy was out looking for work because his manager had his head up his ass and fired him. Or Guppy quit because his manager had his head up his ass and was going to fire him soon anyways. Back then, Josh had read and reread Lunch's Britannicas while Lunch balanced the books for his RV dealership. Then Josh grew old enough to learn about payables and receivables, titles and taxes, and Lunch hired him to do the work part-time. That boy always had a head for numbers. And sweet too, like when Josh would come home from pre-k with those family portraits he had colored, Josh and his folks and good ole Uncle Lunch in Crayola. Good ole Uncle Lunch...
So yes, Guppy's boy no doubt was an exceptional young man. No doubt. However, Lunch also wished Guppy would once in a while at least acknowledge how Josh's education in computers--which Lunch had paid the tuition on and which Gup just loved to brag about, and was doing so right then, comparing its value to pouring beers and washing glasses--was just from Arizona State. And sure, Josh worked in the North Tower, no taking that away from him, but he had only been there three weeks, and at the Xerox Center doing IT.
"...and while my boy's seeing the whole world from his window, you're still pouring beers on my beckon call, Mr. 1994 Honorable Mention for Arizona Defensive Player of the Year," Guppy yelled at Petey for all the bar to hear. With that, Guppy leaned back and thumped Lunch across the chest for support, his fingers snapping Elway's number 7 on Lunch's jersey and making his nipples jiggle raw against the vinyl. "So what makes you think you're so Goddamn special you can hold me hostage here like you is? What say you to that, asshole?"
Above them, Kenny and Dolly sang "no one in between, how can we be wrong?"
Petey twirled the keys. He twirled them again then lifted the pyrex pusher from the slot behind him, dropped the keys inside, and shoved them into the safe below.
"I say I'm not the asshole who forgot he was married," he said. Then, before Guppy could protest or Lunch swallow his food, Petey took the Polaroid from under the bar and snapped Lunch and Guppy's picture for the NO TRESPASSERS wall. "Oh, and one more thing," Petey said as he flapped the photo into focus and Lunch and Guppy's vision returned to discover Earl, the bouncer, standing behind them, Earl's fists buried in his pockets as he whistled along with the music. "Tell the missus I say congratulations."
***
Even when they was more than a block away and passing the cemetery, Guppy could still hear Dolly and Kenny's Goddamn voices bouncing off the The Dirty Drummer's Goddamn wood paneling, Lunch wheezing along with every Goddamn word as he waddled his fat ass behind Guppy and waved his flip-phone back-and-forth in search of a Goddamn signal.
"My god, stop that," Guppy said after they made it a hundred yards more, Guppy's face lacquered in sweat, the Valley temps in the 90's even at that hour. "You nip that in the butt right now. My god, I am so sick of that song already. Fact, I never want to hear that song again so long as we live, you hear? Islands in the Stream, what's that even mean?"
"Ah Gup, I didn't even realize I was singing it," Lunch said between labored breathes. Lunch held his phone an inch from the drop of sweat dangling off his nose before he waved it back-and-forth in search of a bar, any bar, just one bar so he could call a cab, that asshole Pete not letting them use the landline before Earl tossed them to the curb. "I mean, how many times did we have to hear it tonight? You know they call that an ear worm, or öhrwurm in the original German? A song that gets stuck in your head like that? Only cure is to listen to something different, break up the whole cycle. Read that in one of my CD-Roms. Also, did you know the title actually comes from an old Hemingway novel? Islands in the Stream, I mean?"
Guppy knew what was coming, so he turned and kept going so as not to encourage it.
"Published it in '69 after Hemingway died," Lunch continued anyway. "Maybe it was '70, it wasn't any good though. And it was The Bee Gees who wrote the song actually. One of them, Barry, I think it was, produced Kenny Rogers album that year, we're talking '83 here, and he was the one who thought up asking Dolly to sing on it and making it a duet. And there you go, one of the greatest hits in the annals of music history. Saw it on a Pop Up Video."
Behind him, Lunch had fallen two steps behind Guppy's every one.
"It's my anniversary, Lunch," Guppy said. He wiped sweat from his eyes, but the back of his hand was also sweaty, so all he did was rub in the sting. "It's my anniversary and I'm out here standing next to a Goddamn cemetery with you. Quite frankly I could care less about bad country songs I don't like and books I didn't read. Also, you could have mentioned the date a bit earlier, you know that? That information might've been useful before we made plans." Lunch nodded apologetically but, Guppy thought, not apologetic enough. Guppy turned to continue. "Now stop humming it, damn you."
"Ah, Gup, I can't help it," Lunch said. He peered at his phone. "And you were the one who suggested we meet up tonight. How's that my fault? Wait, it's dialing."
Once the cab was ordered, Guppy insisted they keep walking--"The cabbie'll find us"--so they could cover more ground without paying for it. So they did. They marched up Country Club Boulevard, Guppy keeping a pace he knew was hard for Lunch to follow, Lunch huffing and puffing, huffing and puffing, huffing--Guppy realized--and puffing that Goddamn melody. "I said stop!"
"Ah, Gup, I can't help it," Lunch said. "It's like the song's just eating me. Just eating me up."
Lunch opened his mouth like he was waiting for a deep breath or maybe a dozen filet-o-fishes to wander down his throat. He grabbed his side and leaned back to stretch, and when he did his jersey crept out his sweatpants and slid past his belly button, his milky skin puckered and stretched a violent red in places. My God, Guppy thought, watching in horror as Lunch's gut fell out over his waistband. It was always obvious how enormous Lunch was, no question there. There was no hiding nearly a quarter ton person under a little fabric. But it was something else entirely, Guppy realized seeing it out in the open, seeing it exposed for what it really was, that you could never go back and unlearn once you knew it.
"Well, you could do with a little less eating for once," Guppy said.
Lunch slumped forward and the orange jersey lowered like a curtain over a show. "Well, that wasn't nice," he mumbled.
Wordlessly, Guppy stomped away.
A quarter-mile later, he was still stomping. He would've been past McKellips if he was on his own, he figured. He would have made to the Rez by now. Hell, he'd probably already be home if he was on his lonesome. For a moment, that was all Guppy wanted, every man an island like that old saying went. There was simply no excuse for this pace, Lunch trudging one elephant foot after the other and huffing and puffing and just as sweaty as if he had run a whole set of gut busters in full-pads like back when they was kids, when they was still in school and before Lunch took it upon himself to eat like a pig and gain enough mass to make starter at center, his efforts ultimately for naught when he never made it past JV.
Guppy used his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. He remembered that day as if it was yesterday. When the roster was taped to the gym. When Guppy was named captain of the team, leader of men. During lunch, Charlie had stood at the end of the cafeteria table where the team ate and played grab-ass, Charlie--and not Lunch yet, not for a few seconds more--with his tray in hand and waiting for an invite since the table was strictly reserved for members of the roster in good standing. And being captain and all, Guppy--who was actually given his nickname during spring ball, and by Charlie no less, after the team finished two-a-days and drove out to the desert to shoot quail and down the liquor they stole from their father's cabinets, and Jack, then still Jack, only Jack, had pounded his Millers so fast Charlie had the nerve to say, "you drink like a fish, Guppy!" and the name stuck--invited Charlie to take off a load.
Guppy always liked Charlie even though the other guys hadn't. Charlie was always good for a laugh. So Guppy made space for Charlie in the middle of the table, middle of everybody, Guppy getting the guys to chant "Lunch! Lunch! Lunch!" while Charlie gobbled up whatever Guppy took from somebody's tray and shoved in front of him, Guppy slapping Charlie on the back and high five-ing the guys until the bell rang. Lunch, Lunch, Lunch. The team won that Friday too, first time since they was sophomores, and Guppy made Lunch do it again until he puked the following week, then the next, a sort of pregame tradition, a mascot's show, Lunch eating everything all the way up to graduation even though the season ended months earlier in that blowout loss to Saguaro.
Lunch, Lunch, Lunch.
A lone car sailed up the empty streets, and Guppy's smile vanished with its taillights. He didn't know how he was going to explain this to Carol--if only Lunch had told him earlier, damnit. He started drawing up excuses he hadn't used yet, for Josh too when Guppy would explain why he wasn't home when their boy called earlier to congratulate them. He was a god kid, their Joshy. A whiz with numbers and bright as a whip. A chip off the old block like his dear old dad. Granted, his boy hadn't inherited the build for football despite Guppy's best efforts putting up a squat rack in the garage. Fact was, Josh was downright portly. Guppy didn't get it. He was in primo shape, always a thick vein running down his bicep, and Carol too with that skinny little waist. Truth be told, Guppy had no idea where those pent up genes originated. Behind him, Lunch waddled his fat ass under a street light and fell to one knee, gasping.
"Why're you stopping?" Guppy yelled.
"Gup--" Lunch wheezed. He tried to sit up, but his belly again drooped out from under his jersey. "Guppy, look--"
Guppy's fists clenched, Lunch's belly dangling between his legs like the world's healthiest set of nuts. They had only walked a mile so far. A mile. Guppy turned away, disgusted. There was no excuse for this. Simply no excuse.
"You know this wouldn't be a problem if you didn't eat all them wings," Guppy said, Lunch taking up the whole sidewalk like a cow. Like a Goddamn bull. "How many beers too? You ever hear of a little restraint? Some self-control? Breath, fat-ass, breath. Every store in the Valley's gonna close waiting on you. Have your heart attack already or let's go."
"But Gup--" Lunch said. "Guppy--"
"What, Goddamnit?" Guppy yelled. Sweat flew off of him as he marched toward Lunch. "What? You can't walk and talk at the same time, dummy. Too many damn oars in the fire for the likes of you. So what's so Goddamn important you have to stop and say it now? What piece of trivia? What useless tidbit? This is my marriage you're ruining, Lunch, so what Goddamn confession is it you got to make? Tell me, damn you, what?"
Lunch swallowed. "The cab just passed us."
***
With his belly boiling, the wings and beer churning into a terrible stew inside him, Lunch pressed his forehead to the window of the Yellow Cab and tried not to puke. In the passenger seat, Guppy laid into the cabbie for being late, for leaving them stranded, for not being clear where he was even taking them when the only directions Guppy offered was for the cabbie to drive them straight to a store that was still open at that hour.
While they went back and forth, Guppy with the insults, the barbs, the flat out abuse, the cabbie barely speaking a lick of English and rambling in whatever language he spoke, Lunch kept his eyes on the world passing outside his window, the old homes surrounded by farmland, the new apartment complexes sprouting up around the fields. Minus The Dirty Dummer, which Guppy designated years back for their landing spot as an excuse, Lunch knew, for Guppy to get as far away from home as reasonable, this part of town just wasn't Lunch's neck of the woods.
Lunch had actually grown up next door to where Guppy now lived, back when only Carol lived there, Carol and her folks and their little Dachshund, Mr. Jinx, that dog dead now some forty years. Back then Scottsdale was a whole hell of a lot different than what it had become, Lunch considered as the bile brewed and he let his mind wander in distraction. The whole town ended north of Camelback, north of Lunch and Carol's homes, nothing but desert and cowboys until one day it was pallets of bricks waiting to be stacked and then homes to be sold, whole streets of empty homes which Lunch and Carol would ride their bikes down after school let out at Navajo Elementary.
Guppy continued goating the cabbie who couldn't understand a word of it. Lunch's belly cramped and he let himself remember how he and Carol would test the doors on those empty homes growing up. How if they ever found one unlocked, which happened more often then they could believe, they'd sneak inside and listen to their echoes bounce off the fresh drywall. They'd play house, Carol making imaginary pies in the new lime green ovens, Lunch rocking their pretend baby to sleep in the nursery. It was all very Leave It To Beaver, their favorite show, which they watched together on Saturday afternoons.
The cabbie hit the breaks for a red light and everything inside Lunch sloshed forward. They even celebrated their seventh birthdays in one of those houses, Lunch worked hard at remembering so everything didn't come up on him. A Christmas too, Lunch and Carol stringing imaginary lights around an imaginary tree. Carol had given him a huge pretend present after the house was pretend decorated, a package so big she had to hold her arms out wide to pick up the empty space. After he had gone through the motions of unwrapping it, she told him it was a bike, the model Lunch desperately wanted but never got.
Lunch's stomach gurgled. The heat settled over his heart. He rolled his head across the window, back-and-forth, his forehead leaving moisture on the glass. The pretend gift he gave Carol was tiny, and she had delicately gone through the motions of opening it, pulling back the pretend wrapping by its pretend tape so as not to rip the pretend paper. When she was done, Lunch told her it was a necklace, gold with a red stone, and wordlessly he had taken it from her and clasped it around her neck the way he had watched his father do for his mother before heading out to dinner.
"Do you have any fucking idea what's even open right now?" Guppy asked the cabbie. "I mean, I get it's just a gift for my wife and all, but we gotta do something better than a 7-Eleven mug, you hear me? Do you have one single clue what I'm even saying right now? Or am I just taking it for granite that all your nodding and jabbering means you understand some proper fucking English?"
The cabbie kept smiling. "Yes, yes, open," he said as they burnt through a yellow.
Outside Lunch's window, they passed a boat shop with dinghies for sale. The mere thought of water made Lunch sicker. They passed more apartments, a McDonald's, the RV dealership which Lunch would not name as it was in direct competition with the dealership he owned and operated in Apache Junction, where he lived in that old '73 GMC Motorhome he had taken in trade years back for a Coleman pop-up that was a real piece of shit, the canvas torn to hell after the owner didn't provide it with the proper TLC. Granted, the GMC's engine was also rotted out, but the living quarters were nice. Not nice enough to court a lady, which was his excuse every time Guppy teased him about still being a bachelor, but nice enough.
"Do you have a single clue where we're headed?" Guppy asked.
The cabbie took a hand off the wheel and waved at the road. "Yes, yes, open, yes," he said, then spilt forth a torrent of words in a language Lunch had never heard before, and he had a pretty good ear for such things. Had earned in A in Spanish junior year, and even taught himself a little Italian and Mandarin with his CD Roms.
Guppy shook his head. He stared out the widow and shook his head. He had shook his head the whole ride so far, ever since they had to flag down the cab after it passed them a mile away from where they told dispatch they'd be waiting. When he pulled up, Lunch opened the passenger door to get in, his tired legs about to give, but Guppy pushed him aside and asked if this was the cabbie's first fucking day on the job? How come he passed them so many times? Was he blind or just retarded? They was in a hurry, damnit, and was the cabbie capable of removing his head from his ass long enough to do his job? It had taken the cabbie a moment, but he smiled huge, his teeth white as ghosts, and said, Yes, yes," and waved them in. "In, open, yes."
"Just my luck we get a cabbie who can't speak nothing but Ethiopian of all nights," Guppy said as they burnt through another yellow.
"Amharic," Lunch corrected. "Ethiopian's the nationality, Amharic's the language. Saw it on a Jeopardy. But I don't think that's Amharic he's speaking. I don't know what that is."
"Yes, yes, no problem," the driver said, then said more words and laughed.
Guppy peered at the cabbie. He peered over his shoulder at Lunch. "Well, who the hell asked either of you?"
In agony, Lunch closed his eyes. "I can't live without you if the love was gone," he caught himself whispering as his insides turned. The next light also turned yellow and the cabbie hit the gas and all the wings and beer sloshed to back of Lunch's gut. "Everything is nothing if you got nooooo ooooone..."
"You talking back there?" Guppy snapped.
Lunch shook his head. He kept shaking it. He swallowed and kept swallowing to keep it down, keep it all from coming up. He wished he was back home. He wished they had gone straight to Guppy's and just dealt with Carol and the consequences of their actions. And then, and he couldn't explain why, but his mind turned to Josh. He wondered how he was doing? He hadn't wanted to move, Josh hand't. Not until Lunch convinced him anyway.
Lunch closed his eyes and played the whole thing in his head, their whole conversation from a few months prior. How he told Josh if he didn't go now then he'd be stuck in the same circles, same loops forever. It'd be high school the rest of his life. Josh was a good kid, he had said, and his friends would still be there when he came back. What Lunch omitted was how Josh would mostly likely learn those friends probably weren't friends to begin with. That most friends growing up were only because your parents decided to live in the same neighborhoods, same school districts. That you'd never choose most of those people otherwise.
Carol hadn't wanted Josh to leave. Get a job here, she begged. And what about Peggy, that girl with whom Josh had been on again, off again since about as long as anybody could remember, Lunch only persuading Josh to go during one of their off again spells. Guppy had also been against Josh's leaving. At first, anyway. He wanted his son to get a job and help with the bills. Then he started seeing the response he got when he told people where his son was moving. Damn, Gup, New York City? The World Trade Center? You sired a winner there, Guppy, no doubt. No doubt at all about your boy.
Carol never came around though. She had lost her parents too young, she said one night when Lunch was over drinking. By then Guppy was convinced about Josh's moving and thought Carol better get on board. But she didn't get her folks long, she told them as she pulled a meatloaf from the oven and Guppy tossed a one-eyed king on top of Lunch's Jack. So what if she wanted her baby to stay close a little longer? Could you blame her? Was sticking around and making the best of it really so terrible?
They were right out of high school when that happened, Carol's parents dying. Couple months. Lunch had moved to AJ to start his dealership on a plot of dirt he had gotten cheap at auction, his parents furious he spent his life savings because what the hell did he know about starting a business? Who was he trying to impress? He was actually visiting his folks because he made his first sale, a gutted '53 Airstream he sold for scrap, when his mom told him about Carol's mother passing, and how the police found her father in the canal the day after. Cancer and heartbreak was how she put it, which was unbelievable, Lunch remembered thinking. Not because they had died--Carol's mother had been sick a few years by then, and her father always was rather melancholy--but because Lunch had been at The Dirty Drummer with Guppy every night that week. Every single night, and he had not said one word about it. Not a single syllable.
When his mother moved on to the topic of her aches and pains, Lunch checked his watch. He figured Guppy was probably just getting off whatever job he held at the time--was he a postal carrier then? Had he finished mechanic school yet? Had he been fired from the pizza parlor already?--and was probably setting up shop at The Dirty Drummer that very minute. Probably plopping down for the long haul and wondering where Lunch was. So once his mother finished her litany of upcoming appointments, Lunch said his goodbyes and walked next door.
They hadn't talked much since the wedding, he and Carol, but that didn't mean nothing. They were practically siblings growing up. Best friends. And you couldn't break a bond like that. Hell, they were each other's first kiss, back in first grade, Carol pecking Lunch on the lips right out of the blue once he put their imaginary baby to sleep in one of those newly built homes. But she was married now, so that wasn't something they talked about. Acknowledged. That also meant instead of spending time with her anymore, Lunch hung out with her new husband, the two of them suddenly thick as thieves what with everybody from the team off playing college ball or working graveyards.
Lunch still had a hard time believing Carol and Guppy were married like they were, the two of them throwing this huge ceremony while Carol's mom was still strong enough to attend. They had only dated a couple weeks. And Lunch hadn't thought it would be all that serious. He knew Guppy's reputation from the locker room, but he went ahead and introduced them anyway once Gup found out Lunch and Carol were neighbors, that he knew her good, and despite not wanting to, Lunch set up their date after Guppy insisted, after he waited for Lunch to agree to it before he told the guys to move over and make room at the table, Lunch's tray getting heavier and heavier standing there waiting.
Lunch remembered Carol's face when he first brought up the idea. He didn't know why she had gotten so mad. She had never been mad at him. Yet she agreed to it. In the end, she did it. And anyway, Lunch hadn't thought it was going to last more than a week, not after Guppy found out Carol wasn't going to give him what he wanted. But Carol's mom took a turn for the worse. Then the nuptials were promptly planned.
When Carol answered the door, Lunch could tell she had been crying. Wordlessly, she stepped back to let him in. Together they sat on that old couch they had sat on all those years earier watching Leave It To Beaver. Their silence only lingered so long until Lunch put his arm around her and Carol buried her face in his chest, his shirt soaking up her tears.
A terrible cacophony screamed as the cab's brakes squealed away on their last legs. Lunch belched acid. He pinched his temples, pushed his eyeballs into his sockets, a blossoming phosphenes spreading across his vision, swirls and orbs, zigs and zags of reds and greens, blacks and pinks, pink like the carnations on that old black couch of Carol's, pink flowers over black fabric over which Carol's hair had shimmered golden when she laid upon it--she always did use the best conditioners, always the best smells--her hair in which Lunch buried his face after she undid his belt and hiked up her skirt so their bodies could move in a corresponding rhythm, a pace slow and steady like a heartbeat, their cheeks shining with tears and lips pressed together so tight there was no space for air. My God, Lunch remembered thinking, suffocate me. Then Carol started sobbing, not crying but anguished and uncontrollable sobbing, and Lunch was suddenly threading rope.
"I made a mistake," Carol uttered as Lunch gently rolled off of her. "No, not that," she said when he pulled up his pants, buttoned his fly. "No, I didn't mean that," she said as Lunch smoothed out the wrinkles in the couch. "You're not listening," she pleaded as Lunch left her house without a word. What could he have said?
Carol tossed the couch a few weeks later. Made Guppy drag it to the alley the day she found out she was pregnant. "Said she wanted it gone right then and there," Guppy told Lunch the next time he was over drinking, Guppy and Lunch reclining in vinyl lawn chairs in the living room. "Wouldn't even let me call you for help, said it was my responsibility, you believe that? Said it was something to do with the smell or something, I don't know. Women." Guppy drained his Miller and put it next to all the empties while Lunch nursed his beer and tried hard not to stare at Carol pulling dinner from the oven.
"Yes, yes, open, you'll see, yes," the cabbie said as he hit the gas and crossed the bridge for the dry Salt River. They were on the Rez only a second when Guppy started berating the cabbie again. They needed to go to a store, not butt-fucking Egypt. Where the fuck are you taking us? Why are we on the Rez? Why in God's name would I want to go to the Rez? Jesus H. Christ, this isn't rocket surgery, you idiot. The driver said, "Yes, yes, open," his smile strained.
When they pulled into the casino, Guppy yelled for the driver to pull over, pull over Goddamnit, call somebody who can speak English. English, he emphasized. American Goddamn English. "Call somebody who won't drive us up a tree without a paddle," he yelled. As the car meandered through the lot, Guppy even opened the door and tried stepping out until Lunch spoke. "What?" Guppy said as they coasted a few more feet and stopped at the entrance, the slots and tables behind the glass doors lit up something beautiful.
"I said he brought us for the gift shop," Lunch said. Then he opened his door and puked, the valet stopping mid-step from running over to help him out of the vehicle. "The gift shop's open twenty-four hours," Lunch said, then wiped his mouth clean.
***
Inside the casino, Guppy watched some dumbass in a Stetson split with the dealer showing a face card--the king of hearts! The suicide king!--and after the guy busted twice, Guppy scoffed, "You got to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em," before he took a free drink from a passing waitress and continued on through the blinking lights.
The vodka cran was more cran than anything, so he dropped it in the trash without finishing it. At the next table, a little blue hair tossed chips with a kid wearing a Suns jersey. Guppy knew the meter outside was ticking away but also figured the price was still manageable so long as Lunch ponied up his half once they got home. After that, Lunch could crash on the couch and Carol could drive him back to the Dirty Drummer for his truck before heading to work. All would be well, Guppy was certain as he checked the time. It was almost midnight. Carol was most certainly in bed, so no more rush getting home. He just couldn't show up empty handed when she woke up. It was probably best she slept it off anyhow. Otherwise, she'd just use this one fight as fair game to bring up a slew of past resentments. Shit, she'd probably do that anyway. Sometimes Guppy wondered why he married her.
Guppy watched the blue hair and kid play through a couple hands to see if they knew enough so as not to kill the shoe. "No, no, play out the deck," he said as he pulled a twenty from the secret stash he kept tucked behind his license and the blue hair tossed him a look. "I ain't here to ruin nobody's good time."
During the next hand, the kid hesitated and hit on twelve with the dealer showing six. Guppy was thankful he didn't have to make that decision. While the book said he probably should've stood pat, that gut feeling of whether or not you could make better was a nagging one. While the hand played out, a good pair of butts wiggled past Guppy, and his eyes followed them across the floor and out the glass doors to where Lunch stood laughing his head off with the cabbie. It must have been pretty funny too, whatever it was, the cabbie hunched over and wheezing. What could they even talk about to punch such a gut?
"Sir?" the dealer said.
The shoe was getting reshuffled. Guppy never found out if the kid pushed, lost, or won. He placed his chip on the empty square and turned back around. What could they have in common? Guppy wondered as Lunch and the cabbie was carrying on and having more fun than a barrel of laughs. Lunch said something--Guppy watched his lips move--and the cabbie burst into fits. What in hell could Lunch possibly offer anyone to bring such joy?
"Sir?" the dealer said. The kid and blue hair glared at Guppy, his hand dealt and waiting. Without looking at what he held, or what the dealer showed, Guppy hit, causing the kid to throw down his chips. The blue hair swore. Guppy turned back around without looking at how much he had gone over. Outside, the more Lunch and the cabbie laughed, the more it pissed Guppy off. Just who was this cabbie to give Lunch such a good time? And when did Lunch develop a personality?
The cabbie practically doubled over in tears and Guppy caught himself mumbling "Get a room." He snorted at that. After all, Lunch was still unsullied by the time they graduated high high school a lifetime earlier--literally a lifetime, Josh not even conceived yet--and he never had no girlfriends since, Lunch always insisting "the best ones was already taken" or some shit before winking at Guppy like a queer. So unless he was paying for girls out in that trailer of his, which Guppy didn't think so, Lunch wasn't the type, ole fat-ass still hadn't popped that cherry. Guppy laughed watching Lunch and the cabbie carry on like a regular batch of love birds. Did they do weddings here? he wondered, then he too was laughing just as hard as those assholes outside.
A heavy gong echoed though the casino, and a voice came over the PA system announcing last call. That meant the clock had struck midnight. September 11th, the day after Guppy's twenty-fourth anniversary.
Waiting his turn, Guppy couldn't help but remember his wedding. If anyone asked he would've lied, but Carol was actually the one who proposed, which was unheard of back then. This was the seventies. But she had asked, and she looked good, skinny little waist and a right set of cans, and everybody in school liked her good. And, most importantly, nobody on the team had bagged her yet, not even Guppy after a couple dates, which annoyed him to no end, let me tell you, dressing up and taking her to movies and dinners and one of Lunch's piano recitals. But graduation was fast approaching and Guppy sure as shit wasn't going to college to look for a better piece. So he said sure. Why not?
Guppy stood straight as if he was at the alter again, Carol's walking dead parents eyeing him from the pews with heaps of distrust, which wasn't fair, Guppy remembered thinking. They hadn't known him long enough yet. But watch him like that they did, and he had wanted to make a good impression so he said "I do" without a hint of the hesitation festering inside him. Carol also said "I do" just as fast, which seemed like a good sign. Then they leaned in to kiss when Lunch barged in and bear-hugged Carol, Carol's mother staring down Guppy like he was the intruder. Guppy never felt so uninvited to anything in his life.
Guppy remembered he was actually about say something about Lunch's hugging--"Can't eat her too, fat ass"--when Carol started crying and Lunch grabbed Guppy and pulled him in tight, pulled all three of them together, Guppy and Carol and Lunch, Lunch also crying. Why was Lunch crying? But there they was, Guppy and his bride and this big ole slobbering ape who Carol made Guppy be nice to, which the guys on the team could not understand. Lunch? We gotta be nice to Lunch? Guppy wondered if that was why the guys stopped hanging out with him like they had. Because there was Lunch. Always and forever Lunch. Lunch tagging along to the movies, Lunch bringing down their bowling league average, Lunch preventing them from going to Randy's by the Safeway for fish fry Saturdays because the booths couldn't fit his belly. Lunch, Lunch, Lunch. Lunch until death do us part. Just Guppy and Lunch, Lunch and Guppy, Lunch and Guppy and his tight little bride, the best girl he could get, the best one taken, the best--
Behind him, the guy in the Stetson hit pay dirt and screamed.
Holy shit, Guppy thought as he spun around to the glass doors. Outside, Lunch and the driver was still carrying on. Still yucking it up. Guppy burst out laughing too. Holy hell, no joke had ever been so funny. My god, Guppy realized right then, Lunch crushing on Carol like that. Crushing on her for years. Sweet Jesus, the fan had finally hit the seat. My good gracious God.
Fact, Guppy was laughing so hard he was certain everyone must've thought he was drunk. Just as slap happy as a clam while he thought back over every little memory during the years he was married, all the years Lunch had intruded in their lives, Lunch outside laughing like he had nothing to hide, no shame for nothing, and then, and Guppy couldn't say why, but he wondered how Josh was doing out in New York? If he had moved on from that little tart, what was her name, Penny? Penelope? That girl he had given goo goo eyes all his life just for her to break his heart. Hell, maybe Josh broke her heart for all he knew. But standing there, wiping away tears of laughter, Guppy wondered if his boy had found love yet. A true love like his mom and dad's. And wondering that, exactly twenty-four years-and-one-day after their union became complete, Guppy wondered when he too would be wearing a suit for his child? When Carol would be dressed in her Sunday best for their one and only son?
"You in or not?" the blue hair snapped.
Guppy turned back to the table. Everybody waited for him to make his bet. He placed his chip on the square then didn't raise his hand. Finally, he rolled all his chips across the felt and cashed out. "Where's this gift shop you're hiding?" he asked.
***
Lunch shuffled back-and-forth to take the pressure off his legs, his varicose veins on fire from after all that night's walking. "I can't live without you if the love was gone," he mindlessly recited as he swayed, the acid at his throat simmering like it might burst again. "Everything is nothing if you got no one." Silently, the valet watched from his cart.
Lunch knew Guppy was going to be pissed when he finally came out of the casino. Unfortunately, he looked pissed before he even came out. He looked pissed the moment he turned the corner for the tables with a turquoise lamp in his arms and saw the cab was gone.
"Where's the car?" Guppy said as the glass doors automatically opened and he was blown out with the AC.
"Ah, a kokopelli," Lunch said, after he noticed the lamp's shape. "Carol will like that. You know, depending on the tribe, the kokopelli signifies a variety of things. The Hopi, for instance, view him as the representation for the sanctity of marriage, while other tribes consider him a deity of fertility, the god of music, a tricksters who--"
"Where's the cab, Lunch?" Guppy said.
Lunch made eye contact with the valet, but the kid put up his hands like he wasn't getting involved. "He left," Lunch said. "After he saw you at the tables. Said I needed to pay what we owed if I wanted him to stay. Said he wasn't gonna sit around while you blew your load and left him high and dry. Made a big scene about it too." Again, he made eye contact with the valet.
Guppy looked across the parking lot as if the cab must have simply been misplaced out there somewhere. He set the lamp on the ground and arched his back as he stood, as if stretching away some great weight. "So why didn't you pay him?"
Lunch snorted. "I only carry enough cash for what we plan on drinking, Gup. You know that. Besides, I already gave him every penny I had left and even that came in under what we owed. What was I supposed to do?" He had also given the cabbie a business card and told him to come by his RV dealership so he could pay him the rest, and because of the inconvenience he'd cut him a great deal on a travel trailer or motorhome, depending on his budget.
The glass doors opened and the AC blew out more folks headed for the parking lot. The valet stood as they approached but sat back down when they waltzed past him.
Guppy picked up the lamp but set it down again. "A cabbie who can't speak a word of English told you all that?" he said. "A cabbie who speaks nothing but Arabic said all that to you, that what you're saying?"
"Amharic," Lunch corrected. "And I told you I didn't think that's what he was speaking."
"Irregardless," Guppy said, "a cabbie who can't speak a proper word of fucking English said all that to you, that's what you're expecting me to believe? Laid it all out for you, did he?"
The valet looked away but kept his ear bent toward them.
"The cabbie spoke English just fine after you went inside," Lunch said. He wished the valet had something else to do. "He was just speaking gibberish before. He's from Los Angeles, he told me, before calling you a mean sonofabitch. Now I told him you were stressed tonight, that you missed your anniversary and all, but you didn't need to lay into him like you did. There was no reason for that. What were you trying to prove?"
Guppy picked up the lamp and set it right back down again.
"You sent him away didn't you?" he said.
"What?"
"This was your plan, wasn't it?" Guppy said. "Keep me out all night and make me miss my anniversary. Make me look bad. Make it like I'm the asshole and get yourself in good with Carol. That was your plan, wasn't it? Earn yourself a little steam for my wife's gravy train, ain't that right?"
The valet didn't bother pretending like he wasn't listening.
"I'm not the one who said let's go out tonight," Lunch said as calm as he could. "I'm not the one who said let's go watch the Bronco's play. You said that. You called me up and specifically said, and I quote, 'Whatcha doing? Let's go watch the Broncos.' How's this my fault?"
Guppy picked up the lamp and tucked it under his arm. "You know, I am so sick of hearing about the Broncos from you," he said. "Broncos Broncos, Broncos, that's all you ever say. You've lived here since you was what, two? Three? Growing up right next door to Carol, right? Arms throw away from my wife's window. When was the last time you even went to Colorado, Lunch? When was the last time you hauled your fat ass up to the Rockies and watched them Broncos play?"
"It's been a while," Lunch admitted. He had watch Guppy lay into people like this before, plenty of people over the years, but not him. Not since he and Carol got married. "But I haven't said nothing about the Broncos tonight. You're not making sense, Gup, what's gotten into you?"
"Well I was just in Colorado last year, remember? For that wedding with Carol? And let me tell you something, Lunch, it sucks there. Colorado fucking sucks. It's nothing but school shootings and bums still jacking off about Ruby Ridge. My god, I am so sick of hearing about Colorado from you. Fuck the Broncos, Lunch. Fuck John Elway and fuck you too."
"Now you're just being mean," Lunch said.
"I am mean, Goddamnit," Guppy yelled. "If you don't know me from a stick in the mud, you should know that. I'm a mean sonofabitch, remember? But let's try this on for size. Let's see if this was made extra double wide for the likes of you. So are you. That's right, asshole, I know all about you. I know all your secrets. You try to act smarter than everybody, all innocent and dopey eyed, but deep down I know all about you and Carol, you sorry sack of shit."
Lunch quit swaying. He involuntarily belched. The glass doors automatically opened and a laughing couple whisked out for the valet, the woman dangling off the man's arm. Quickly, the kid snatched their ticket and began a slow search for their keys.
"Now, Guppy--" Lunch said. "Now, that was a long time ago and--"
"You've been dreaming about her every day since, haven't you?" Guppy said. "All alone in that shitty little trailer, dreaming about my wife and waiting to make your move..."
"Do you hear yourself?" Lunch laughed. He was sweating despite the sharp breeze blowing through the crack between the casino's glass doors. "If all that were true, don't you think I would have said something earlier? Don't you think I would've told you about it befo--"
"...your moist, pathetic, gross little dreams in that shitty little trailer with that tiny baby dick under all that lard," Guppy continued. "That useless little baby dick that's never done nothing for nobody. You didn't think this wouldn't get out? I wouldn't know? No, the truth sets you free, Lunch. Like Jesus Christ himself said, free at last, free at last"--Guppy held his arms wide and spun in a circle, his toes bumping the lamp so it rocked back and forth--"thank God Almighty, fast ass, you are free at last."
At the cart, the couple complained about the wait, and the valet found their keys and ran into the parking lot, the kid looking over his shoulder until he was out of earshot.
"That was Martin Luther King who said that, you idiot," Lunch said. "But fine, I got dreams. That what you want to hear? I got moist, hot, wet dreams about our Carol, that better? Fact is I've dreamt those dreams since before I knew what those dreams meant. I dreamt those dreams every time I came over and put on a song and dance pretending to be your friend just so I could see her. See her and my boy Josh. So there you go, Gup, you found me out. It only took you twenty-five years, you fucking moron. And guess what else? I'm gonna keep dreaming those dreams. That's right. I'm going to keep dreaming those dreams because I got dreams you can never take away, because you can't take away a dream when it's already become a flesh and fucking bloo--"
"I told you enough with the Kenny and Dolly bullshit," Guppy interrupted. "I told you I've had it up to hear with the Kenny and Dolly bullshit for one evening, thank you very much."
Lunch stood there. "What?"
"I got dreams you can never take away?" Guppy said. "That's 9-to-5 and you know it. But I'm gonna stop you right there, fat ass. I'm going to correct you on a few things. The roads to Rome wasn't built in no day and you've had this a long time coming. My boy Josh, not yours. My Carol, not ours. Mine, your hear me? Mine. Now go make your own family to annoy."
The valet pulled up in the couple's car, a pumpkin orange Corvette, and his almost seemed disappointed Lunch and Guppy weren't fist fighting each other.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Lunch said.
"And you're a four hundred pound virgin and I was the only friend you ever had," Guppy said. With that, he picked up the lamp and turned for the parking lot. However, he tripped over the curb and the lamp shattered into a million pieces on the concrete.
***
Guppy landed on his doorstep a few hours later. He had walked six miles from the casino. The sun was up, paper delivered. No news to speak of, he saw, as he plopped on the curb and skimmed its pages before he used it to soak the sweat from his face and armpits. No news at all.
Inside, Carol was asleep in the recliner, the TV playing the infomercials that aired before the news. Gingerly, she woke when Guppy moved her hair from her face. At first all he saw was her comfy clothes, the old ASU shirt that belonged to Josh, until he saw her make-up. Her mascara and lipstick from the night before.
"Hey," she said, and rolled over.
Guppy clicked on the kokopelli lamp he plugged in at the end table before waking her. After he dropped the teal one, he had stormed back into the casino, Lunch standing there on the curb, his mouth a'droop like he was catching flies, and put another on Carol's credit card. "Now, they have different colors, so if you're not keen on turquoise then let me know and I can get you a different one," he said. "Truth be told, I should've just waited and let you pick one out yourself, but I wanted to make it a surprise."
Carol stretched. She pressed the button on the controller and turned off the TV. "Did you and Lunch have a good time?" she said, and dropped the footrest.
Guppy adjusted the angle of lamp.
"You know I didn't do this on purpose."
"Josh called. Wanted to wish us a happy anniversary."
"What'd you tell him?"
"The truth." Carol wiped her eyes. "That you were out picking up dinner."
Guppy adjusted the lamp to where he first had it. "I'll call him in the morning," he said, then remembered it was morning. "I'll call him later. What time is it in New York anyway? He's probably in the elevator heading up to work right now as we speak."
Carol stood. Guppy tried to give her a kiss, but she clicked off the lamp and headed down the hall. When the bathroom door closed, Guppy plopped in the recliner. The fabric was still warm.
Guppy waited until the shower was running before he turned the lamp back on. He pulled the little chain and clicked it off. He clicked it back on. He didn't think the lamp was all that much, but one man's trash was a half dozen or so of the other. At least Carol seemed happy. Guppy clicked the lamp off. Sitting in darkness, all the pipes in the house rushed through the walls on its way to the shower, and he clicked the light back on.
He'd fix things in the afternoon, he decided. Carol could cool off at work before she came home. He'd call Josh and explain things while she was gone. His fingers hesitated on the chain. Lunch too, he admitted, and turned the lamp off. He'd call Lunch, too. On. He couldn't believe the things Lunch had said. Off. Those two had their toss-ups before, but this was one for the books. The stuff that came out of Lunch was downright hateful. It was uncalled for. On. And Guppy sure as shit wasn't apologizing. Off. Besides, it wasn't that big of a deal. As if Carol would ever give him the time of day. On. And, if he was being honest, it wasn't like Guppy didn't exactly know the whole time. He wasn't stupid. He didn't get things wrong. Off. Although, he shouldn't have turned a mountain into a Muhammad. Off. No, they'd figure it out. On. Islands in the stream and all that bullshit.
Guppy turned the lamp off for good and let the chain dangle. He'd have dinner ready by the time Carol got home. Pot roast. Candles. Korbel. Well, those two lamps had set them back pretty good, so maybe just Coors and burgers. He'd have to see what money Carol had tucked away in the junk drawer. He'd give Josh a call after dinner. That'd brighten Carol's mood. That boy always did have a way of fixing things.
No, today would get better, Guppy decided. He'd start planning next year, too. Maybe a trip. Mexico. Laughlin. Laughlin was nice. Guppy stared into the dark bulb, the filament radiating energy. He'd make things right with Carol. Josh. Lunch, too. By this time next year they'd all be laughing about this. Hell, by this afternoon they'd laugh. He wouldn't let this be the iceberg that broke the camel's back.
The morning light crept in through the curtains, the window shaking from the plane flying overhead. Guppy wondered what time it was in New York. He leaned back in the recliner and figured he'd catch a few winks before getting to work on fixing things. He had quite the day ahead of him. No, in a couple hours, Guppy knew, everything would be totally different.
Jonathan Danielson's work has previously appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, as well as Gulf Coast, Juked, Superstition Review, and elsewhere. In 2021, he was named a Faculty Research Fellow for the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing at Arizona State University. His story collection, The Lowest Basin: Arizona Stories, is forthcoming from Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2025. He holds a PhD in English Literature from ASU and an MFA from the University of San Francisco. His scholarly work focuses on the intersections between Creative Writing, the Western genre, and Arizona literary regionalism.
by Jonathan Danielson
This story references Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers 1983 hit, "Islands in the Stream."
By then only God knew how long Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers serenaded each other that night, after some joker fed a hundo to the jukebox and spent every nickel on "Islands in the Stream." It could've been hours or could've been days. Could've been years so far as Guppy could tell. His whole damn life spent on repeat. Judging the passage of time was difficult when The Dirty Drummer Bar & Eatery didn't offer any windows from which to jump. Like once you got to walking a line long enough, Guppy reckoned, it was damn near impossible to turn the other cheek and see all them mistakes you made along the way. "I was soft inside," Kenny and Dolly sang, and sang, and sang, while Guppy tried watching the Monday Night game playing above the bar and Lunch smacked his porky lips with every last ounce of chicken wing he sucked off the bone. "There was something goooooing ooooon..."
"Shit, Kerry Collins could throw another three TDs then hold his breath until the cows turn blue, but I think this charade's about over," Guppy said when he looked down from the TV, Lunch's Broncos up eleven with two minutes left. Dolly and Kenny mercifully faded out only for the synthesizers to fire up again. It took everything Guppy had not to go smash the jukebox and end their suffering once and for all. At worst, he figured he could nudge the damn thing a few inches and yank the cord from the wall. Like pushing the old football sled back in high school, he remembered, then started down that familiar line of thinking until he motioned for another beer.
"Hell of a way for the Giants to start the season too, what with them blowing last year's Super Bowl like they did," Lunch said after he drained his glass. He wiped his mouth and adjusted his gut, as if to make room for the beer. "And did you know the reason they refer to Super Bowls by Roman numerals is because technically the game is to determine the champion from the year prior? And did you also know the year 2001 is technically the start of our new millennium and last year was just some big illegitimate event? Saw it on a 60 Minutes. And speaking of events, I'm surprised Carol let you out tonight of all nights, I really am."
Guppy finished his pull and set his empty on the bar. Once he stopped stewing over the music and that tackle he missed versus Coronado High twenty-five years earlier, he wondered if his boy was watching the Monday Night game, too? If at that moment they was watching the same thing at the same time? Then Guppy remembered the time difference between Arizona and New York and figured his boy was in bed already, what with Josh having to get up early for his big important job at the World Trade Center come morning.
"Let me out?" Guppy said as Dolly sang how that won't happen to us, how she got no doubt. "I didn't even tell her I was coming. My wife don't own me."
Behind the bar, Pete brought Guppy's next round and Lunch's third basket of wings, fresh from the fryer. Guppy noticed Lunch didn't dive headfirst into his food like normal. Instead, he adjusted and readjusted his girth, his barstool disappearing between his two huge 400 pound cheeks. Guppy knew Lunch had something to say. Out of everything Lunch was--a nuisance, a whiner, the fattest ass the world had ever seen--Guppy's best friend was a know-at-all above all else, Lunch wasting his life acquiring such nonsense by watching game shows and playing CD-Rom Trivial Pursuits alone in that trailer of his in Apache Junction. For as long as Guppy knew him, Lunch always chopped at the bit whenever he knew a factoid no one else did. Couldn't keep a damn secret for the life of him.
Like he was about to burst if he didn't say his peace, Lunch pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it across his tongue. He gave his scalp a good once, twice, thrice times over before he nervously glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure the can was where it always was.
"What?" Guppy snapped, after he couldn't take any more stalling. "You obviously got something on your mind, squirming there on tender hooks like you is. So spit it out already. What, damnit? What is it you got to say? Don't keep me in suspense, Lunch, I'm dying here. Spit it out for once in your Goddamned life."
"Well, Gup," Lunch said as he maneuvered off his barstool, "tonight's your wedding anniversary, good buddy."
***
Of course nobody enjoyed admitting such things, but Lunch knew he had put on a little weight over the years. More than was healthy, he could easily concede. He wasn't one to skirt the truth. Fact was, since high school he had been carrying around so much extra burden that it had actually been a while since he stood at a toilet and saw it last. Since he was able to openly acknowledge that part of himself.
After finishing his business at the Dirty Drummer's trough, Lunch tucked it behind his elastic waistband by feel and said a quiet prayer of thanks that on that night his guesswork at aiming proved true and his prostate hadn't itched for one of its normals fights. Because if it had, Lunch figured as he emerged from the loo, if his body had decided against releasing forth that reservoir of beer damned up inside him, then he would've most likely been still standing there waiting when Guppy started yelling at Petey to give him back his keys--"I got to get home, damnit!" And knowing Gup like he did--almost three decades of steadfast fellowship since high school--Guppy would've most likely jumped over the bar to fight Petey for said keys right then and there. Then Guppy would've spent the night in jail, that night of September 10th, Guppy's wedding anniversary--Lunch never forgot--to the love of his life and mother of their only child. And good luck explaining that one to Carol. No sir, Lunch was certain after an unusually easy flow, he was lucky to have put off that fight another day.
As it was, Guppy was only halfway over the bar when Lunch exited the little girl's room, so he was able to rush over and yank his friend back to Earth by his belt, Lunch's fingers slipping inside Guppy's plumber's crack as the opening synthesizers for "Islands in the Stream" fired up again.
"No one gets their keys back till they've been cutoff an hour," Petey said, Lunch's keys dangling from his finger. "This ain't nothing new. Why're you acting like this, Gup?" Petey folded his arms, Lunch's keys vanishing between his biceps and pectorals. Petey was all of twenty-five, a Dobson High grad, good football program back in the day Guppy always reminded Lunch whenever the topic was broached. Remember that one linebacker they had? Had a full-ride to Glendale CC? But Lunch always drew a blank. He never could remember the important details.
"That's a mute point tonight, Pete, a mute point," Guppy said. He again lurched for his keys, but Lunch held him down. "I wait around here any longer and every store in the Valley's going to be closed by the time I leave. What part of that don't you get, you little shit?"
"Tonight is his anniversary," Lunch said. "And that means something in a man's life. Married exactly 12:02 in the afternoon. A Tuesday, I remember. I was his best man." Once he decided Guppy wasn't going anywhere, Lunch released his grip and wiped his palm across his belly. He reached for a wing.
"Then what're you idiots doing here for?" Petey asked. "Call a cab if it's so urgent."
"And with the prices your gouging, pay for it how?" Guppy said. Then, while Guppy tore Petey a new one, Lunch chewed his food and calculated their tab plus a taxi to a store--whatever was even open at eleven--plus the meter ticking away while Guppy went inside and shopped, plus the ride to south Scottsdale where Guppy and Carol lived in that old house Carol inherited after her folks died. A good chunk of change, Lunch tallied, especially since Guppy was between jobs and Lunch only carried enough cash for whatever they planned on drinking that night. That way things never got out of hand. He could always cover the bill whenever it came due. "And whatever happened to reverse Happy Hour around here?" Guppy continued. "No, this shithole has taken advantage of me for too long, Pete. Too damn long."
For a second, Lunch wondered if Guppy had forgotten Petey's family were the proprietors of the establishment, but he knew he hadn't.
"You keep running your mouth and you can get cutoff for good," Petey said.
"Oh, Guppy didn't mean nothing by it," Lunch said as he sucked sauce off his fingers.
"I did too mean it," Guppy yelled. And with that, Guppy leaned over the bar and pointed a finger right in the middle of Petey's muscles. And thus Guppy started on the same tangent Lunch heard told and retold time and time again. Told to all the misbegotten kids who worked the drive-thrus and handed Guppy and Lunch grease stained bags of hamburgers and not cheeseburgers as ordered. Thus began the gospel of Guppy's only child, the boy Joshua, whom, in Guppy's telling, singlehandedly made the world turn up there in the World Trade Center, the 97th floor, Guppy loved to mention, as if such heights were akin to prestige.
Lunch sucked cartilage off a wing as Guppy began listing all of Petey's misgivings compared to his beloved progeny's. Of course Josh was a great kid, Lunch agreed whenever Guppy went into this spiel, no question there. Lunch remembered fondly those days he had babysat while Carol was working or Guppy was out looking for work because his manager had his head up his ass and fired him. Or Guppy quit because his manager had his head up his ass and was going to fire him soon anyways. Back then, Josh had read and reread Lunch's Britannicas while Lunch balanced the books for his RV dealership. Then Josh grew old enough to learn about payables and receivables, titles and taxes, and Lunch hired him to do the work part-time. That boy always had a head for numbers. And sweet too, like when Josh would come home from pre-k with those family portraits he had colored, Josh and his folks and good ole Uncle Lunch in Crayola. Good ole Uncle Lunch...
So yes, Guppy's boy no doubt was an exceptional young man. No doubt. However, Lunch also wished Guppy would once in a while at least acknowledge how Josh's education in computers--which Lunch had paid the tuition on and which Gup just loved to brag about, and was doing so right then, comparing its value to pouring beers and washing glasses--was just from Arizona State. And sure, Josh worked in the North Tower, no taking that away from him, but he had only been there three weeks, and at the Xerox Center doing IT.
"...and while my boy's seeing the whole world from his window, you're still pouring beers on my beckon call, Mr. 1994 Honorable Mention for Arizona Defensive Player of the Year," Guppy yelled at Petey for all the bar to hear. With that, Guppy leaned back and thumped Lunch across the chest for support, his fingers snapping Elway's number 7 on Lunch's jersey and making his nipples jiggle raw against the vinyl. "So what makes you think you're so Goddamn special you can hold me hostage here like you is? What say you to that, asshole?"
Above them, Kenny and Dolly sang "no one in between, how can we be wrong?"
Petey twirled the keys. He twirled them again then lifted the pyrex pusher from the slot behind him, dropped the keys inside, and shoved them into the safe below.
"I say I'm not the asshole who forgot he was married," he said. Then, before Guppy could protest or Lunch swallow his food, Petey took the Polaroid from under the bar and snapped Lunch and Guppy's picture for the NO TRESPASSERS wall. "Oh, and one more thing," Petey said as he flapped the photo into focus and Lunch and Guppy's vision returned to discover Earl, the bouncer, standing behind them, Earl's fists buried in his pockets as he whistled along with the music. "Tell the missus I say congratulations."
***
Even when they was more than a block away and passing the cemetery, Guppy could still hear Dolly and Kenny's Goddamn voices bouncing off the The Dirty Drummer's Goddamn wood paneling, Lunch wheezing along with every Goddamn word as he waddled his fat ass behind Guppy and waved his flip-phone back-and-forth in search of a Goddamn signal.
"My god, stop that," Guppy said after they made it a hundred yards more, Guppy's face lacquered in sweat, the Valley temps in the 90's even at that hour. "You nip that in the butt right now. My god, I am so sick of that song already. Fact, I never want to hear that song again so long as we live, you hear? Islands in the Stream, what's that even mean?"
"Ah Gup, I didn't even realize I was singing it," Lunch said between labored breathes. Lunch held his phone an inch from the drop of sweat dangling off his nose before he waved it back-and-forth in search of a bar, any bar, just one bar so he could call a cab, that asshole Pete not letting them use the landline before Earl tossed them to the curb. "I mean, how many times did we have to hear it tonight? You know they call that an ear worm, or öhrwurm in the original German? A song that gets stuck in your head like that? Only cure is to listen to something different, break up the whole cycle. Read that in one of my CD-Roms. Also, did you know the title actually comes from an old Hemingway novel? Islands in the Stream, I mean?"
Guppy knew what was coming, so he turned and kept going so as not to encourage it.
"Published it in '69 after Hemingway died," Lunch continued anyway. "Maybe it was '70, it wasn't any good though. And it was The Bee Gees who wrote the song actually. One of them, Barry, I think it was, produced Kenny Rogers album that year, we're talking '83 here, and he was the one who thought up asking Dolly to sing on it and making it a duet. And there you go, one of the greatest hits in the annals of music history. Saw it on a Pop Up Video."
Behind him, Lunch had fallen two steps behind Guppy's every one.
"It's my anniversary, Lunch," Guppy said. He wiped sweat from his eyes, but the back of his hand was also sweaty, so all he did was rub in the sting. "It's my anniversary and I'm out here standing next to a Goddamn cemetery with you. Quite frankly I could care less about bad country songs I don't like and books I didn't read. Also, you could have mentioned the date a bit earlier, you know that? That information might've been useful before we made plans." Lunch nodded apologetically but, Guppy thought, not apologetic enough. Guppy turned to continue. "Now stop humming it, damn you."
"Ah, Gup, I can't help it," Lunch said. He peered at his phone. "And you were the one who suggested we meet up tonight. How's that my fault? Wait, it's dialing."
Once the cab was ordered, Guppy insisted they keep walking--"The cabbie'll find us"--so they could cover more ground without paying for it. So they did. They marched up Country Club Boulevard, Guppy keeping a pace he knew was hard for Lunch to follow, Lunch huffing and puffing, huffing and puffing, huffing--Guppy realized--and puffing that Goddamn melody. "I said stop!"
"Ah, Gup, I can't help it," Lunch said. "It's like the song's just eating me. Just eating me up."
Lunch opened his mouth like he was waiting for a deep breath or maybe a dozen filet-o-fishes to wander down his throat. He grabbed his side and leaned back to stretch, and when he did his jersey crept out his sweatpants and slid past his belly button, his milky skin puckered and stretched a violent red in places. My God, Guppy thought, watching in horror as Lunch's gut fell out over his waistband. It was always obvious how enormous Lunch was, no question there. There was no hiding nearly a quarter ton person under a little fabric. But it was something else entirely, Guppy realized seeing it out in the open, seeing it exposed for what it really was, that you could never go back and unlearn once you knew it.
"Well, you could do with a little less eating for once," Guppy said.
Lunch slumped forward and the orange jersey lowered like a curtain over a show. "Well, that wasn't nice," he mumbled.
Wordlessly, Guppy stomped away.
A quarter-mile later, he was still stomping. He would've been past McKellips if he was on his own, he figured. He would have made to the Rez by now. Hell, he'd probably already be home if he was on his lonesome. For a moment, that was all Guppy wanted, every man an island like that old saying went. There was simply no excuse for this pace, Lunch trudging one elephant foot after the other and huffing and puffing and just as sweaty as if he had run a whole set of gut busters in full-pads like back when they was kids, when they was still in school and before Lunch took it upon himself to eat like a pig and gain enough mass to make starter at center, his efforts ultimately for naught when he never made it past JV.
Guppy used his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. He remembered that day as if it was yesterday. When the roster was taped to the gym. When Guppy was named captain of the team, leader of men. During lunch, Charlie had stood at the end of the cafeteria table where the team ate and played grab-ass, Charlie--and not Lunch yet, not for a few seconds more--with his tray in hand and waiting for an invite since the table was strictly reserved for members of the roster in good standing. And being captain and all, Guppy--who was actually given his nickname during spring ball, and by Charlie no less, after the team finished two-a-days and drove out to the desert to shoot quail and down the liquor they stole from their father's cabinets, and Jack, then still Jack, only Jack, had pounded his Millers so fast Charlie had the nerve to say, "you drink like a fish, Guppy!" and the name stuck--invited Charlie to take off a load.
Guppy always liked Charlie even though the other guys hadn't. Charlie was always good for a laugh. So Guppy made space for Charlie in the middle of the table, middle of everybody, Guppy getting the guys to chant "Lunch! Lunch! Lunch!" while Charlie gobbled up whatever Guppy took from somebody's tray and shoved in front of him, Guppy slapping Charlie on the back and high five-ing the guys until the bell rang. Lunch, Lunch, Lunch. The team won that Friday too, first time since they was sophomores, and Guppy made Lunch do it again until he puked the following week, then the next, a sort of pregame tradition, a mascot's show, Lunch eating everything all the way up to graduation even though the season ended months earlier in that blowout loss to Saguaro.
Lunch, Lunch, Lunch.
A lone car sailed up the empty streets, and Guppy's smile vanished with its taillights. He didn't know how he was going to explain this to Carol--if only Lunch had told him earlier, damnit. He started drawing up excuses he hadn't used yet, for Josh too when Guppy would explain why he wasn't home when their boy called earlier to congratulate them. He was a god kid, their Joshy. A whiz with numbers and bright as a whip. A chip off the old block like his dear old dad. Granted, his boy hadn't inherited the build for football despite Guppy's best efforts putting up a squat rack in the garage. Fact was, Josh was downright portly. Guppy didn't get it. He was in primo shape, always a thick vein running down his bicep, and Carol too with that skinny little waist. Truth be told, Guppy had no idea where those pent up genes originated. Behind him, Lunch waddled his fat ass under a street light and fell to one knee, gasping.
"Why're you stopping?" Guppy yelled.
"Gup--" Lunch wheezed. He tried to sit up, but his belly again drooped out from under his jersey. "Guppy, look--"
Guppy's fists clenched, Lunch's belly dangling between his legs like the world's healthiest set of nuts. They had only walked a mile so far. A mile. Guppy turned away, disgusted. There was no excuse for this. Simply no excuse.
"You know this wouldn't be a problem if you didn't eat all them wings," Guppy said, Lunch taking up the whole sidewalk like a cow. Like a Goddamn bull. "How many beers too? You ever hear of a little restraint? Some self-control? Breath, fat-ass, breath. Every store in the Valley's gonna close waiting on you. Have your heart attack already or let's go."
"But Gup--" Lunch said. "Guppy--"
"What, Goddamnit?" Guppy yelled. Sweat flew off of him as he marched toward Lunch. "What? You can't walk and talk at the same time, dummy. Too many damn oars in the fire for the likes of you. So what's so Goddamn important you have to stop and say it now? What piece of trivia? What useless tidbit? This is my marriage you're ruining, Lunch, so what Goddamn confession is it you got to make? Tell me, damn you, what?"
Lunch swallowed. "The cab just passed us."
***
With his belly boiling, the wings and beer churning into a terrible stew inside him, Lunch pressed his forehead to the window of the Yellow Cab and tried not to puke. In the passenger seat, Guppy laid into the cabbie for being late, for leaving them stranded, for not being clear where he was even taking them when the only directions Guppy offered was for the cabbie to drive them straight to a store that was still open at that hour.
While they went back and forth, Guppy with the insults, the barbs, the flat out abuse, the cabbie barely speaking a lick of English and rambling in whatever language he spoke, Lunch kept his eyes on the world passing outside his window, the old homes surrounded by farmland, the new apartment complexes sprouting up around the fields. Minus The Dirty Dummer, which Guppy designated years back for their landing spot as an excuse, Lunch knew, for Guppy to get as far away from home as reasonable, this part of town just wasn't Lunch's neck of the woods.
Lunch had actually grown up next door to where Guppy now lived, back when only Carol lived there, Carol and her folks and their little Dachshund, Mr. Jinx, that dog dead now some forty years. Back then Scottsdale was a whole hell of a lot different than what it had become, Lunch considered as the bile brewed and he let his mind wander in distraction. The whole town ended north of Camelback, north of Lunch and Carol's homes, nothing but desert and cowboys until one day it was pallets of bricks waiting to be stacked and then homes to be sold, whole streets of empty homes which Lunch and Carol would ride their bikes down after school let out at Navajo Elementary.
Guppy continued goating the cabbie who couldn't understand a word of it. Lunch's belly cramped and he let himself remember how he and Carol would test the doors on those empty homes growing up. How if they ever found one unlocked, which happened more often then they could believe, they'd sneak inside and listen to their echoes bounce off the fresh drywall. They'd play house, Carol making imaginary pies in the new lime green ovens, Lunch rocking their pretend baby to sleep in the nursery. It was all very Leave It To Beaver, their favorite show, which they watched together on Saturday afternoons.
The cabbie hit the breaks for a red light and everything inside Lunch sloshed forward. They even celebrated their seventh birthdays in one of those houses, Lunch worked hard at remembering so everything didn't come up on him. A Christmas too, Lunch and Carol stringing imaginary lights around an imaginary tree. Carol had given him a huge pretend present after the house was pretend decorated, a package so big she had to hold her arms out wide to pick up the empty space. After he had gone through the motions of unwrapping it, she told him it was a bike, the model Lunch desperately wanted but never got.
Lunch's stomach gurgled. The heat settled over his heart. He rolled his head across the window, back-and-forth, his forehead leaving moisture on the glass. The pretend gift he gave Carol was tiny, and she had delicately gone through the motions of opening it, pulling back the pretend wrapping by its pretend tape so as not to rip the pretend paper. When she was done, Lunch told her it was a necklace, gold with a red stone, and wordlessly he had taken it from her and clasped it around her neck the way he had watched his father do for his mother before heading out to dinner.
"Do you have any fucking idea what's even open right now?" Guppy asked the cabbie. "I mean, I get it's just a gift for my wife and all, but we gotta do something better than a 7-Eleven mug, you hear me? Do you have one single clue what I'm even saying right now? Or am I just taking it for granite that all your nodding and jabbering means you understand some proper fucking English?"
The cabbie kept smiling. "Yes, yes, open," he said as they burnt through a yellow.
Outside Lunch's window, they passed a boat shop with dinghies for sale. The mere thought of water made Lunch sicker. They passed more apartments, a McDonald's, the RV dealership which Lunch would not name as it was in direct competition with the dealership he owned and operated in Apache Junction, where he lived in that old '73 GMC Motorhome he had taken in trade years back for a Coleman pop-up that was a real piece of shit, the canvas torn to hell after the owner didn't provide it with the proper TLC. Granted, the GMC's engine was also rotted out, but the living quarters were nice. Not nice enough to court a lady, which was his excuse every time Guppy teased him about still being a bachelor, but nice enough.
"Do you have a single clue where we're headed?" Guppy asked.
The cabbie took a hand off the wheel and waved at the road. "Yes, yes, open, yes," he said, then spilt forth a torrent of words in a language Lunch had never heard before, and he had a pretty good ear for such things. Had earned in A in Spanish junior year, and even taught himself a little Italian and Mandarin with his CD Roms.
Guppy shook his head. He stared out the widow and shook his head. He had shook his head the whole ride so far, ever since they had to flag down the cab after it passed them a mile away from where they told dispatch they'd be waiting. When he pulled up, Lunch opened the passenger door to get in, his tired legs about to give, but Guppy pushed him aside and asked if this was the cabbie's first fucking day on the job? How come he passed them so many times? Was he blind or just retarded? They was in a hurry, damnit, and was the cabbie capable of removing his head from his ass long enough to do his job? It had taken the cabbie a moment, but he smiled huge, his teeth white as ghosts, and said, Yes, yes," and waved them in. "In, open, yes."
"Just my luck we get a cabbie who can't speak nothing but Ethiopian of all nights," Guppy said as they burnt through another yellow.
"Amharic," Lunch corrected. "Ethiopian's the nationality, Amharic's the language. Saw it on a Jeopardy. But I don't think that's Amharic he's speaking. I don't know what that is."
"Yes, yes, no problem," the driver said, then said more words and laughed.
Guppy peered at the cabbie. He peered over his shoulder at Lunch. "Well, who the hell asked either of you?"
In agony, Lunch closed his eyes. "I can't live without you if the love was gone," he caught himself whispering as his insides turned. The next light also turned yellow and the cabbie hit the gas and all the wings and beer sloshed to back of Lunch's gut. "Everything is nothing if you got nooooo ooooone..."
"You talking back there?" Guppy snapped.
Lunch shook his head. He kept shaking it. He swallowed and kept swallowing to keep it down, keep it all from coming up. He wished he was back home. He wished they had gone straight to Guppy's and just dealt with Carol and the consequences of their actions. And then, and he couldn't explain why, but his mind turned to Josh. He wondered how he was doing? He hadn't wanted to move, Josh hand't. Not until Lunch convinced him anyway.
Lunch closed his eyes and played the whole thing in his head, their whole conversation from a few months prior. How he told Josh if he didn't go now then he'd be stuck in the same circles, same loops forever. It'd be high school the rest of his life. Josh was a good kid, he had said, and his friends would still be there when he came back. What Lunch omitted was how Josh would mostly likely learn those friends probably weren't friends to begin with. That most friends growing up were only because your parents decided to live in the same neighborhoods, same school districts. That you'd never choose most of those people otherwise.
Carol hadn't wanted Josh to leave. Get a job here, she begged. And what about Peggy, that girl with whom Josh had been on again, off again since about as long as anybody could remember, Lunch only persuading Josh to go during one of their off again spells. Guppy had also been against Josh's leaving. At first, anyway. He wanted his son to get a job and help with the bills. Then he started seeing the response he got when he told people where his son was moving. Damn, Gup, New York City? The World Trade Center? You sired a winner there, Guppy, no doubt. No doubt at all about your boy.
Carol never came around though. She had lost her parents too young, she said one night when Lunch was over drinking. By then Guppy was convinced about Josh's moving and thought Carol better get on board. But she didn't get her folks long, she told them as she pulled a meatloaf from the oven and Guppy tossed a one-eyed king on top of Lunch's Jack. So what if she wanted her baby to stay close a little longer? Could you blame her? Was sticking around and making the best of it really so terrible?
They were right out of high school when that happened, Carol's parents dying. Couple months. Lunch had moved to AJ to start his dealership on a plot of dirt he had gotten cheap at auction, his parents furious he spent his life savings because what the hell did he know about starting a business? Who was he trying to impress? He was actually visiting his folks because he made his first sale, a gutted '53 Airstream he sold for scrap, when his mom told him about Carol's mother passing, and how the police found her father in the canal the day after. Cancer and heartbreak was how she put it, which was unbelievable, Lunch remembered thinking. Not because they had died--Carol's mother had been sick a few years by then, and her father always was rather melancholy--but because Lunch had been at The Dirty Drummer with Guppy every night that week. Every single night, and he had not said one word about it. Not a single syllable.
When his mother moved on to the topic of her aches and pains, Lunch checked his watch. He figured Guppy was probably just getting off whatever job he held at the time--was he a postal carrier then? Had he finished mechanic school yet? Had he been fired from the pizza parlor already?--and was probably setting up shop at The Dirty Drummer that very minute. Probably plopping down for the long haul and wondering where Lunch was. So once his mother finished her litany of upcoming appointments, Lunch said his goodbyes and walked next door.
They hadn't talked much since the wedding, he and Carol, but that didn't mean nothing. They were practically siblings growing up. Best friends. And you couldn't break a bond like that. Hell, they were each other's first kiss, back in first grade, Carol pecking Lunch on the lips right out of the blue once he put their imaginary baby to sleep in one of those newly built homes. But she was married now, so that wasn't something they talked about. Acknowledged. That also meant instead of spending time with her anymore, Lunch hung out with her new husband, the two of them suddenly thick as thieves what with everybody from the team off playing college ball or working graveyards.
Lunch still had a hard time believing Carol and Guppy were married like they were, the two of them throwing this huge ceremony while Carol's mom was still strong enough to attend. They had only dated a couple weeks. And Lunch hadn't thought it would be all that serious. He knew Guppy's reputation from the locker room, but he went ahead and introduced them anyway once Gup found out Lunch and Carol were neighbors, that he knew her good, and despite not wanting to, Lunch set up their date after Guppy insisted, after he waited for Lunch to agree to it before he told the guys to move over and make room at the table, Lunch's tray getting heavier and heavier standing there waiting.
Lunch remembered Carol's face when he first brought up the idea. He didn't know why she had gotten so mad. She had never been mad at him. Yet she agreed to it. In the end, she did it. And anyway, Lunch hadn't thought it was going to last more than a week, not after Guppy found out Carol wasn't going to give him what he wanted. But Carol's mom took a turn for the worse. Then the nuptials were promptly planned.
When Carol answered the door, Lunch could tell she had been crying. Wordlessly, she stepped back to let him in. Together they sat on that old couch they had sat on all those years earier watching Leave It To Beaver. Their silence only lingered so long until Lunch put his arm around her and Carol buried her face in his chest, his shirt soaking up her tears.
A terrible cacophony screamed as the cab's brakes squealed away on their last legs. Lunch belched acid. He pinched his temples, pushed his eyeballs into his sockets, a blossoming phosphenes spreading across his vision, swirls and orbs, zigs and zags of reds and greens, blacks and pinks, pink like the carnations on that old black couch of Carol's, pink flowers over black fabric over which Carol's hair had shimmered golden when she laid upon it--she always did use the best conditioners, always the best smells--her hair in which Lunch buried his face after she undid his belt and hiked up her skirt so their bodies could move in a corresponding rhythm, a pace slow and steady like a heartbeat, their cheeks shining with tears and lips pressed together so tight there was no space for air. My God, Lunch remembered thinking, suffocate me. Then Carol started sobbing, not crying but anguished and uncontrollable sobbing, and Lunch was suddenly threading rope.
"I made a mistake," Carol uttered as Lunch gently rolled off of her. "No, not that," she said when he pulled up his pants, buttoned his fly. "No, I didn't mean that," she said as Lunch smoothed out the wrinkles in the couch. "You're not listening," she pleaded as Lunch left her house without a word. What could he have said?
Carol tossed the couch a few weeks later. Made Guppy drag it to the alley the day she found out she was pregnant. "Said she wanted it gone right then and there," Guppy told Lunch the next time he was over drinking, Guppy and Lunch reclining in vinyl lawn chairs in the living room. "Wouldn't even let me call you for help, said it was my responsibility, you believe that? Said it was something to do with the smell or something, I don't know. Women." Guppy drained his Miller and put it next to all the empties while Lunch nursed his beer and tried hard not to stare at Carol pulling dinner from the oven.
"Yes, yes, open, you'll see, yes," the cabbie said as he hit the gas and crossed the bridge for the dry Salt River. They were on the Rez only a second when Guppy started berating the cabbie again. They needed to go to a store, not butt-fucking Egypt. Where the fuck are you taking us? Why are we on the Rez? Why in God's name would I want to go to the Rez? Jesus H. Christ, this isn't rocket surgery, you idiot. The driver said, "Yes, yes, open," his smile strained.
When they pulled into the casino, Guppy yelled for the driver to pull over, pull over Goddamnit, call somebody who can speak English. English, he emphasized. American Goddamn English. "Call somebody who won't drive us up a tree without a paddle," he yelled. As the car meandered through the lot, Guppy even opened the door and tried stepping out until Lunch spoke. "What?" Guppy said as they coasted a few more feet and stopped at the entrance, the slots and tables behind the glass doors lit up something beautiful.
"I said he brought us for the gift shop," Lunch said. Then he opened his door and puked, the valet stopping mid-step from running over to help him out of the vehicle. "The gift shop's open twenty-four hours," Lunch said, then wiped his mouth clean.
***
Inside the casino, Guppy watched some dumbass in a Stetson split with the dealer showing a face card--the king of hearts! The suicide king!--and after the guy busted twice, Guppy scoffed, "You got to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em," before he took a free drink from a passing waitress and continued on through the blinking lights.
The vodka cran was more cran than anything, so he dropped it in the trash without finishing it. At the next table, a little blue hair tossed chips with a kid wearing a Suns jersey. Guppy knew the meter outside was ticking away but also figured the price was still manageable so long as Lunch ponied up his half once they got home. After that, Lunch could crash on the couch and Carol could drive him back to the Dirty Drummer for his truck before heading to work. All would be well, Guppy was certain as he checked the time. It was almost midnight. Carol was most certainly in bed, so no more rush getting home. He just couldn't show up empty handed when she woke up. It was probably best she slept it off anyhow. Otherwise, she'd just use this one fight as fair game to bring up a slew of past resentments. Shit, she'd probably do that anyway. Sometimes Guppy wondered why he married her.
Guppy watched the blue hair and kid play through a couple hands to see if they knew enough so as not to kill the shoe. "No, no, play out the deck," he said as he pulled a twenty from the secret stash he kept tucked behind his license and the blue hair tossed him a look. "I ain't here to ruin nobody's good time."
During the next hand, the kid hesitated and hit on twelve with the dealer showing six. Guppy was thankful he didn't have to make that decision. While the book said he probably should've stood pat, that gut feeling of whether or not you could make better was a nagging one. While the hand played out, a good pair of butts wiggled past Guppy, and his eyes followed them across the floor and out the glass doors to where Lunch stood laughing his head off with the cabbie. It must have been pretty funny too, whatever it was, the cabbie hunched over and wheezing. What could they even talk about to punch such a gut?
"Sir?" the dealer said.
The shoe was getting reshuffled. Guppy never found out if the kid pushed, lost, or won. He placed his chip on the empty square and turned back around. What could they have in common? Guppy wondered as Lunch and the cabbie was carrying on and having more fun than a barrel of laughs. Lunch said something--Guppy watched his lips move--and the cabbie burst into fits. What in hell could Lunch possibly offer anyone to bring such joy?
"Sir?" the dealer said. The kid and blue hair glared at Guppy, his hand dealt and waiting. Without looking at what he held, or what the dealer showed, Guppy hit, causing the kid to throw down his chips. The blue hair swore. Guppy turned back around without looking at how much he had gone over. Outside, the more Lunch and the cabbie laughed, the more it pissed Guppy off. Just who was this cabbie to give Lunch such a good time? And when did Lunch develop a personality?
The cabbie practically doubled over in tears and Guppy caught himself mumbling "Get a room." He snorted at that. After all, Lunch was still unsullied by the time they graduated high high school a lifetime earlier--literally a lifetime, Josh not even conceived yet--and he never had no girlfriends since, Lunch always insisting "the best ones was already taken" or some shit before winking at Guppy like a queer. So unless he was paying for girls out in that trailer of his, which Guppy didn't think so, Lunch wasn't the type, ole fat-ass still hadn't popped that cherry. Guppy laughed watching Lunch and the cabbie carry on like a regular batch of love birds. Did they do weddings here? he wondered, then he too was laughing just as hard as those assholes outside.
A heavy gong echoed though the casino, and a voice came over the PA system announcing last call. That meant the clock had struck midnight. September 11th, the day after Guppy's twenty-fourth anniversary.
Waiting his turn, Guppy couldn't help but remember his wedding. If anyone asked he would've lied, but Carol was actually the one who proposed, which was unheard of back then. This was the seventies. But she had asked, and she looked good, skinny little waist and a right set of cans, and everybody in school liked her good. And, most importantly, nobody on the team had bagged her yet, not even Guppy after a couple dates, which annoyed him to no end, let me tell you, dressing up and taking her to movies and dinners and one of Lunch's piano recitals. But graduation was fast approaching and Guppy sure as shit wasn't going to college to look for a better piece. So he said sure. Why not?
Guppy stood straight as if he was at the alter again, Carol's walking dead parents eyeing him from the pews with heaps of distrust, which wasn't fair, Guppy remembered thinking. They hadn't known him long enough yet. But watch him like that they did, and he had wanted to make a good impression so he said "I do" without a hint of the hesitation festering inside him. Carol also said "I do" just as fast, which seemed like a good sign. Then they leaned in to kiss when Lunch barged in and bear-hugged Carol, Carol's mother staring down Guppy like he was the intruder. Guppy never felt so uninvited to anything in his life.
Guppy remembered he was actually about say something about Lunch's hugging--"Can't eat her too, fat ass"--when Carol started crying and Lunch grabbed Guppy and pulled him in tight, pulled all three of them together, Guppy and Carol and Lunch, Lunch also crying. Why was Lunch crying? But there they was, Guppy and his bride and this big ole slobbering ape who Carol made Guppy be nice to, which the guys on the team could not understand. Lunch? We gotta be nice to Lunch? Guppy wondered if that was why the guys stopped hanging out with him like they had. Because there was Lunch. Always and forever Lunch. Lunch tagging along to the movies, Lunch bringing down their bowling league average, Lunch preventing them from going to Randy's by the Safeway for fish fry Saturdays because the booths couldn't fit his belly. Lunch, Lunch, Lunch. Lunch until death do us part. Just Guppy and Lunch, Lunch and Guppy, Lunch and Guppy and his tight little bride, the best girl he could get, the best one taken, the best--
Behind him, the guy in the Stetson hit pay dirt and screamed.
Holy shit, Guppy thought as he spun around to the glass doors. Outside, Lunch and the driver was still carrying on. Still yucking it up. Guppy burst out laughing too. Holy hell, no joke had ever been so funny. My god, Guppy realized right then, Lunch crushing on Carol like that. Crushing on her for years. Sweet Jesus, the fan had finally hit the seat. My good gracious God.
Fact, Guppy was laughing so hard he was certain everyone must've thought he was drunk. Just as slap happy as a clam while he thought back over every little memory during the years he was married, all the years Lunch had intruded in their lives, Lunch outside laughing like he had nothing to hide, no shame for nothing, and then, and Guppy couldn't say why, but he wondered how Josh was doing out in New York? If he had moved on from that little tart, what was her name, Penny? Penelope? That girl he had given goo goo eyes all his life just for her to break his heart. Hell, maybe Josh broke her heart for all he knew. But standing there, wiping away tears of laughter, Guppy wondered if his boy had found love yet. A true love like his mom and dad's. And wondering that, exactly twenty-four years-and-one-day after their union became complete, Guppy wondered when he too would be wearing a suit for his child? When Carol would be dressed in her Sunday best for their one and only son?
"You in or not?" the blue hair snapped.
Guppy turned back to the table. Everybody waited for him to make his bet. He placed his chip on the square then didn't raise his hand. Finally, he rolled all his chips across the felt and cashed out. "Where's this gift shop you're hiding?" he asked.
***
Lunch shuffled back-and-forth to take the pressure off his legs, his varicose veins on fire from after all that night's walking. "I can't live without you if the love was gone," he mindlessly recited as he swayed, the acid at his throat simmering like it might burst again. "Everything is nothing if you got no one." Silently, the valet watched from his cart.
Lunch knew Guppy was going to be pissed when he finally came out of the casino. Unfortunately, he looked pissed before he even came out. He looked pissed the moment he turned the corner for the tables with a turquoise lamp in his arms and saw the cab was gone.
"Where's the car?" Guppy said as the glass doors automatically opened and he was blown out with the AC.
"Ah, a kokopelli," Lunch said, after he noticed the lamp's shape. "Carol will like that. You know, depending on the tribe, the kokopelli signifies a variety of things. The Hopi, for instance, view him as the representation for the sanctity of marriage, while other tribes consider him a deity of fertility, the god of music, a tricksters who--"
"Where's the cab, Lunch?" Guppy said.
Lunch made eye contact with the valet, but the kid put up his hands like he wasn't getting involved. "He left," Lunch said. "After he saw you at the tables. Said I needed to pay what we owed if I wanted him to stay. Said he wasn't gonna sit around while you blew your load and left him high and dry. Made a big scene about it too." Again, he made eye contact with the valet.
Guppy looked across the parking lot as if the cab must have simply been misplaced out there somewhere. He set the lamp on the ground and arched his back as he stood, as if stretching away some great weight. "So why didn't you pay him?"
Lunch snorted. "I only carry enough cash for what we plan on drinking, Gup. You know that. Besides, I already gave him every penny I had left and even that came in under what we owed. What was I supposed to do?" He had also given the cabbie a business card and told him to come by his RV dealership so he could pay him the rest, and because of the inconvenience he'd cut him a great deal on a travel trailer or motorhome, depending on his budget.
The glass doors opened and the AC blew out more folks headed for the parking lot. The valet stood as they approached but sat back down when they waltzed past him.
Guppy picked up the lamp but set it down again. "A cabbie who can't speak a word of English told you all that?" he said. "A cabbie who speaks nothing but Arabic said all that to you, that what you're saying?"
"Amharic," Lunch corrected. "And I told you I didn't think that's what he was speaking."
"Irregardless," Guppy said, "a cabbie who can't speak a proper word of fucking English said all that to you, that's what you're expecting me to believe? Laid it all out for you, did he?"
The valet looked away but kept his ear bent toward them.
"The cabbie spoke English just fine after you went inside," Lunch said. He wished the valet had something else to do. "He was just speaking gibberish before. He's from Los Angeles, he told me, before calling you a mean sonofabitch. Now I told him you were stressed tonight, that you missed your anniversary and all, but you didn't need to lay into him like you did. There was no reason for that. What were you trying to prove?"
Guppy picked up the lamp and set it right back down again.
"You sent him away didn't you?" he said.
"What?"
"This was your plan, wasn't it?" Guppy said. "Keep me out all night and make me miss my anniversary. Make me look bad. Make it like I'm the asshole and get yourself in good with Carol. That was your plan, wasn't it? Earn yourself a little steam for my wife's gravy train, ain't that right?"
The valet didn't bother pretending like he wasn't listening.
"I'm not the one who said let's go out tonight," Lunch said as calm as he could. "I'm not the one who said let's go watch the Bronco's play. You said that. You called me up and specifically said, and I quote, 'Whatcha doing? Let's go watch the Broncos.' How's this my fault?"
Guppy picked up the lamp and tucked it under his arm. "You know, I am so sick of hearing about the Broncos from you," he said. "Broncos Broncos, Broncos, that's all you ever say. You've lived here since you was what, two? Three? Growing up right next door to Carol, right? Arms throw away from my wife's window. When was the last time you even went to Colorado, Lunch? When was the last time you hauled your fat ass up to the Rockies and watched them Broncos play?"
"It's been a while," Lunch admitted. He had watch Guppy lay into people like this before, plenty of people over the years, but not him. Not since he and Carol got married. "But I haven't said nothing about the Broncos tonight. You're not making sense, Gup, what's gotten into you?"
"Well I was just in Colorado last year, remember? For that wedding with Carol? And let me tell you something, Lunch, it sucks there. Colorado fucking sucks. It's nothing but school shootings and bums still jacking off about Ruby Ridge. My god, I am so sick of hearing about Colorado from you. Fuck the Broncos, Lunch. Fuck John Elway and fuck you too."
"Now you're just being mean," Lunch said.
"I am mean, Goddamnit," Guppy yelled. "If you don't know me from a stick in the mud, you should know that. I'm a mean sonofabitch, remember? But let's try this on for size. Let's see if this was made extra double wide for the likes of you. So are you. That's right, asshole, I know all about you. I know all your secrets. You try to act smarter than everybody, all innocent and dopey eyed, but deep down I know all about you and Carol, you sorry sack of shit."
Lunch quit swaying. He involuntarily belched. The glass doors automatically opened and a laughing couple whisked out for the valet, the woman dangling off the man's arm. Quickly, the kid snatched their ticket and began a slow search for their keys.
"Now, Guppy--" Lunch said. "Now, that was a long time ago and--"
"You've been dreaming about her every day since, haven't you?" Guppy said. "All alone in that shitty little trailer, dreaming about my wife and waiting to make your move..."
"Do you hear yourself?" Lunch laughed. He was sweating despite the sharp breeze blowing through the crack between the casino's glass doors. "If all that were true, don't you think I would have said something earlier? Don't you think I would've told you about it befo--"
"...your moist, pathetic, gross little dreams in that shitty little trailer with that tiny baby dick under all that lard," Guppy continued. "That useless little baby dick that's never done nothing for nobody. You didn't think this wouldn't get out? I wouldn't know? No, the truth sets you free, Lunch. Like Jesus Christ himself said, free at last, free at last"--Guppy held his arms wide and spun in a circle, his toes bumping the lamp so it rocked back and forth--"thank God Almighty, fast ass, you are free at last."
At the cart, the couple complained about the wait, and the valet found their keys and ran into the parking lot, the kid looking over his shoulder until he was out of earshot.
"That was Martin Luther King who said that, you idiot," Lunch said. "But fine, I got dreams. That what you want to hear? I got moist, hot, wet dreams about our Carol, that better? Fact is I've dreamt those dreams since before I knew what those dreams meant. I dreamt those dreams every time I came over and put on a song and dance pretending to be your friend just so I could see her. See her and my boy Josh. So there you go, Gup, you found me out. It only took you twenty-five years, you fucking moron. And guess what else? I'm gonna keep dreaming those dreams. That's right. I'm going to keep dreaming those dreams because I got dreams you can never take away, because you can't take away a dream when it's already become a flesh and fucking bloo--"
"I told you enough with the Kenny and Dolly bullshit," Guppy interrupted. "I told you I've had it up to hear with the Kenny and Dolly bullshit for one evening, thank you very much."
Lunch stood there. "What?"
"I got dreams you can never take away?" Guppy said. "That's 9-to-5 and you know it. But I'm gonna stop you right there, fat ass. I'm going to correct you on a few things. The roads to Rome wasn't built in no day and you've had this a long time coming. My boy Josh, not yours. My Carol, not ours. Mine, your hear me? Mine. Now go make your own family to annoy."
The valet pulled up in the couple's car, a pumpkin orange Corvette, and his almost seemed disappointed Lunch and Guppy weren't fist fighting each other.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Lunch said.
"And you're a four hundred pound virgin and I was the only friend you ever had," Guppy said. With that, he picked up the lamp and turned for the parking lot. However, he tripped over the curb and the lamp shattered into a million pieces on the concrete.
***
Guppy landed on his doorstep a few hours later. He had walked six miles from the casino. The sun was up, paper delivered. No news to speak of, he saw, as he plopped on the curb and skimmed its pages before he used it to soak the sweat from his face and armpits. No news at all.
Inside, Carol was asleep in the recliner, the TV playing the infomercials that aired before the news. Gingerly, she woke when Guppy moved her hair from her face. At first all he saw was her comfy clothes, the old ASU shirt that belonged to Josh, until he saw her make-up. Her mascara and lipstick from the night before.
"Hey," she said, and rolled over.
Guppy clicked on the kokopelli lamp he plugged in at the end table before waking her. After he dropped the teal one, he had stormed back into the casino, Lunch standing there on the curb, his mouth a'droop like he was catching flies, and put another on Carol's credit card. "Now, they have different colors, so if you're not keen on turquoise then let me know and I can get you a different one," he said. "Truth be told, I should've just waited and let you pick one out yourself, but I wanted to make it a surprise."
Carol stretched. She pressed the button on the controller and turned off the TV. "Did you and Lunch have a good time?" she said, and dropped the footrest.
Guppy adjusted the angle of lamp.
"You know I didn't do this on purpose."
"Josh called. Wanted to wish us a happy anniversary."
"What'd you tell him?"
"The truth." Carol wiped her eyes. "That you were out picking up dinner."
Guppy adjusted the lamp to where he first had it. "I'll call him in the morning," he said, then remembered it was morning. "I'll call him later. What time is it in New York anyway? He's probably in the elevator heading up to work right now as we speak."
Carol stood. Guppy tried to give her a kiss, but she clicked off the lamp and headed down the hall. When the bathroom door closed, Guppy plopped in the recliner. The fabric was still warm.
Guppy waited until the shower was running before he turned the lamp back on. He pulled the little chain and clicked it off. He clicked it back on. He didn't think the lamp was all that much, but one man's trash was a half dozen or so of the other. At least Carol seemed happy. Guppy clicked the lamp off. Sitting in darkness, all the pipes in the house rushed through the walls on its way to the shower, and he clicked the light back on.
He'd fix things in the afternoon, he decided. Carol could cool off at work before she came home. He'd call Josh and explain things while she was gone. His fingers hesitated on the chain. Lunch too, he admitted, and turned the lamp off. He'd call Lunch, too. On. He couldn't believe the things Lunch had said. Off. Those two had their toss-ups before, but this was one for the books. The stuff that came out of Lunch was downright hateful. It was uncalled for. On. And Guppy sure as shit wasn't apologizing. Off. Besides, it wasn't that big of a deal. As if Carol would ever give him the time of day. On. And, if he was being honest, it wasn't like Guppy didn't exactly know the whole time. He wasn't stupid. He didn't get things wrong. Off. Although, he shouldn't have turned a mountain into a Muhammad. Off. No, they'd figure it out. On. Islands in the stream and all that bullshit.
Guppy turned the lamp off for good and let the chain dangle. He'd have dinner ready by the time Carol got home. Pot roast. Candles. Korbel. Well, those two lamps had set them back pretty good, so maybe just Coors and burgers. He'd have to see what money Carol had tucked away in the junk drawer. He'd give Josh a call after dinner. That'd brighten Carol's mood. That boy always did have a way of fixing things.
No, today would get better, Guppy decided. He'd start planning next year, too. Maybe a trip. Mexico. Laughlin. Laughlin was nice. Guppy stared into the dark bulb, the filament radiating energy. He'd make things right with Carol. Josh. Lunch, too. By this time next year they'd all be laughing about this. Hell, by this afternoon they'd laugh. He wouldn't let this be the iceberg that broke the camel's back.
The morning light crept in through the curtains, the window shaking from the plane flying overhead. Guppy wondered what time it was in New York. He leaned back in the recliner and figured he'd catch a few winks before getting to work on fixing things. He had quite the day ahead of him. No, in a couple hours, Guppy knew, everything would be totally different.
Jonathan Danielson's work has previously appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, as well as Gulf Coast, Juked, Superstition Review, and elsewhere. In 2021, he was named a Faculty Research Fellow for the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing at Arizona State University. His story collection, The Lowest Basin: Arizona Stories, is forthcoming from Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2025. He holds a PhD in English Literature from ASU and an MFA from the University of San Francisco. His scholarly work focuses on the intersections between Creative Writing, the Western genre, and Arizona literary regionalism.