Fiction by Robert Denby: "OK", Part Two
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| Photo by Beyzaa Yurtkuran |
really ought to get up and showered and out to Safeway like I had planned, but instead I'm still
here, drifting in and out of sleep. It's a lot like how I used to feel when I smoked pot back in the
day. Sure, it was mildly pleasant, and, no, I didn't end up in an alley strung out on smack, but come on. It's pot. Why do people treat it like such a be-all and end-all? They'd probably be anarchy in the streets if ever banned Mountain Dew or Ding-Dongs or anything like that.
The phone on the nightstand rings. Everyone I work with is either sleeping or passed out right now. Must be a telemarketer.
"Hello?" I ask.
"JD?"
Shit. It better not be who it sounds like.
"Bobby?"
He coughs, hacks, actually. "Rob. Yeah, this is Rob, your brother."
"Yes, I know you're my brother, Bobby."
"Robert. I'm not a little kid anymore. Call me Rob."
"Fine, Rob. What's up?"
He clears his throat. "Yeah, um, well, um, JD. You know I wouldn't call you unless I needed something, right?"
That's the truth. "Where are you?"
"Um, that. Well...I was just, um, arrested just now."
"What for?"
"Those fuckers pulled me over for no reason. I'm telling you, man."
"Never mind, Bobby. Look…"
"Don't call me..."
"Look, I'm not in the mood for this. You want my help, I'm calling you Bobby, OK?" I pull back the covers and sit up. "Bobby, am I your phone call?"
"Yeah, and I'm really sorry. I didn't know who else to call."
"Are you going to want me to bail you out?"
"As soon as you could get down here, that'd be great."
"Jesus, Bobby, this shit. I'm telling you. Where are you?"
"You're still in L.A.?"
"Anaheim, actually. Just tell me which station house you're at."
"Well, yeah, well, I'm in Salt Lake, man?"
"Salt Lake City?"
"Yeah."
"In Utah?"
"Yeah, that one."
"What the fuck are you doing in Utah?"
"I live here. I moved here last year. Didn't I tell you?"
"Um, no, Bobby, that's the thing. You don't tell me anything unless you're broke or you've just gotten your ass kicked."
"Well, yeah. Um...yeah. Listen, this is my only phone call, and I don't know what else to do."
"You don't know anyone there you could have called?"
"No, man. No one I know has $500."
"That your bail?"
"$500. I'll pay you back, I promise, man."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, you're going to have to hang tight for another couple of days. I can't leave here until tomorrow night, and I'll have to drive."
"Tomorrow night? Come on!"
"I have to work tonight and get some sleep after that. I'm not crashing my car in the desert on account of you."
"Can't you call in sick or something? Tell your boss there's an emergency?"
"No, Bobby. Just sit tight. Today's Saturday, so...I'll be there Monday morning sometime. What's the address?"
He gives me an address.
"Just go to the front desk," he says. "Thank you, JD. Really. Thank you."
"OK, then, so, yeah," I respond. "Just hang out for a while, I don't know. Become a Mormon or something. Maybe it'll do you good. I'll be there soon."
He says something I can't make out. Click.
I lie back down. I should be able to get tomorrow night off alright, but Monday and
Tuesday is my weekend. I wasn't planning on anything in particular, and I can certainly spare the money, but...
Goddammit, Bobby.
***
As far as Saturday nights go, this is a pretty good one. Big crowd, but well behaved. I'm standing at my usual station, right inside by the front door with my arms crossed. Divinity (real name Loraine) is on stage whooping it up to "Cat Scratch Fever." There's a group of guys who are laying out a row of bills at the edge of the stage, but I wonder how they'd feel if they knew Loraine's really a lesbian. Not a Showtime-at-three-in-the-morning type, either. She and her lover are raising a daughter and have just bought a house together. It makes you wonder; some wackos out there would say that Loraine is sending America to hell, but she's the one who'll be coming home to a warm body tonight. She's the one who'll be playing with her little girl while I'm on my way to Utah with $500 cash in my wallet.