Page 79 of Demon Copperhead

Afterwards I lay looking up at the tobacco hanging above us like somebody’s laundry left on the line.

Well cured now, for sure. I thought of taking some to roll in Zig-Zag papers and pass around to my friends for a change, instead of being the broke-ass that bums. Random, peaceful thoughts.

I only ever felt like this after Dori and I banged our brains out.

She liked to stay on me, balanced on my slippery chest and stomach and sloppy wet dick.

Sometimes she’d take a nap. At first I’d worried every time about doing things right, but she said I did.

How she knew, what other guys had or hadn’t touched her the right way, I had no wish to know.

We were perfect together. She said before we were us, we weren’t anything.

That’s why she could fall asleep on me, the perfectness of our fit.

Or if not to sleep, she’d go all drifty, asking random things.

That day in the stripping house she asked if I ever noticed how those thousand-legger bugs, if you squash them, smell like cherry soda.

Moving nothing but her mouth, this was her question.

It shrank me up some. I mean, we’re naked.

I asked why, did she see one? And she said no, just wondering.

She also asked if animals knew they were going to die someday.

She had to be thinking of Jip, she was senseless over that creature, so I said no.

“Maybe sometimes, right beforehand, if it’s a situation,” I said.

“But for the most part I’d say your normal animal day is a happy little bubble, like being always stoned. ”

I felt her smile against my chest. She took my word on anything.

She asked what did I think our baby chicken would be whenever he grew up.

I said a rooster, if I had to guess. He was making sounds in that direction.

Angus had started calling it Lovechild to aggravate me, and I took up the name to spite her.

Even though he was living in the tool shed now and getting no love to speak of, unless Mattie Kate remembered to go out there and throw grain at him.

Finally Dori slid off me. Her teeth were chattering, so I gave her my flannel shirt.

She scooted against the wall, drew her legs up to her chest, and buttoned my shirt around her whole body, knees and all.

She looked like a plaid pillow with her head on top and the little pink peas of her toes poking out the bottom.

I wanted to take her in my arms and hide her someplace.

Her shiny black eyes watched while I lit Mr. Peg’s funeral candles and opened the bottle and poured the Thunderbird into paper cups.

It felt like church, the part where they say, Remember who died for your sins.

For Dori and me, all our best people died on us early, before we had any good shot at sin.

So we had catching up to do. Maybe that’s why nothing we ever did felt wrong.

We needed no more than the wine to get ourselves rosy.

She’d already given me the smallest hit of something before we went out, so I’d be happy and not fiending.

My stomach was always my downfall, running ragged these days on the daily ride of oxy-not-oxy, and I’m just going to tell you, nothing kills the buzz like bringing up Chick Fil-A all over the girlfriend’s bralette.

That only happened once, and she was so sweet about mopping me up, using her shirt to wipe scum off my chin.

But all I could think of was her feeding Vester his babyfied meals, his gnarly hands gripping the bedrails as he strained towards the spoon, and I got in a mood.

Walking like an old man with a bum knee already, I refused to be another mess for Dori to clean up.

So after that, she always had something to tide me over.

This or that, Xanax, Klonopin, a dab from one of her Dad’s morphine patches if nothing else was on hand. But usually something was.

I thought I knew it all in those days. I’d seen people at school, in the locker room, even at Mr. Peg’s funeral, with stains on their shirttails.

Greenish grass stains, or pinkish brown like dirt.

How could those people be so prideless, I thought, showing up in dirty shirts.

I didn’t know that was the coating of a pill that keeps this safer-than-safe drug from dissolving in your stomach all at one time.

Coppery pink on the 80 milligrams, green on the 40s.

Melts in your mouth like an M&M. Hold it there a minute, then take it out and rub it on your shirttail, and you’re looking at a shiny white pearl of pure oxy.

More opioid than any pill ever before invented.

One buck gets you a whole bottle of these on Medicaid, to be crushed and snorted one by one, or dissolved and injected with sheep-vax syringes from Farm Supply, in the crook of an arm or the webbing of your toes.

People find more ways to shut up their monsters than a Bible has verses.

You have to understand the rhyme and reasons of Dori.

Why she was radical and fun like a little girl, even after all her friends left her flat.

How she stayed patient with a wheezing, crying man gone old before his time.

Why her foot kept bouncing. Her sparkly eyes were not really black, but blue.

Bending down to kiss her, I’d see the thinnest crescent of sky blue around the huge black center.

Living a life like hers, most people would have lost it a thousand times over.

Coach probably thought I was off the pills by now, headed for the gym to dead-lift my ass back onto the gravy train.

Angus was getting pesky over Christmas, let’s go steal a tree.

I tried to steer clear of them both. I would make a hit-and-run for one of Mattie Kate’s meals or a night’s sleep, both badly needed, but mostly made excuses.

Angus rolled her eyes at me. Which pissed me off.

A guy does not need a reason to go screw his girlfriend, it’s just a given.

Dori was sweet to them, bringing over presents to the house from her dad’s farm store like socks, chicken mash for Lovechild of course, Carhartt overalls, which Angus really liked, XL-size thermal shirts for Coach.

Once, this little stool with a tractor seat.

Somewhat random, but more sensible anyway than a chicken in a Tampax box.

And none of it earned me a pass on blowing off family life and Christmas, even though I’d invented the whole concept for all Angus knew.

Too bad. My sole concern over Christmas was what to give Dori.

I kept thinking of that first amazing Christmas with Angus, how I’d scoured the pawns high and low for exactly her kind of thing, and felt like a million bucks for finding it.

I wanted that feeling again of really seeing a person and being seen.

And wouldn’t get it with Dori, she was too easy.

If I wrapped a box of Trojans in Christmas paper, she’d say it was the best present anybody ever gave her.

Which is kind of a letdown. You don’t get points for hitting the side of the barn.

But thinking of old times and the fun I’d had with Angus wasn’t fair. I loved Dori with all my heart.

The femmy direction seemed like a safe bet, nail polish or makeup, which I knew zero about except that you won’t find them at the flea market.

Angus would be no help. I did know what CDs Dori liked, Christina, Avril Lavigne.

Pink, that was Dori’s hair idol. These were the things rattling around my skullbox the week before Christmas while I ran errands in town for Dori.

Christmas shopping on the sly. She was particular about being the one to get Vester’s meds, but I needed the car for my mission, so talked her into letting me pick up their mail and checks at the PO, then Walgreens to get the prescriptions.

Last stop, groceries. They only ever ate frozen things: Vester lived on Bob Evans mashed potatoes and Dori on Mrs. Smith meringue pies.

I argued for chicken nuggets and such, to level out the food groups.

But either way, you don’t let this shit sit in your car on a sunny day, even if it’s December.

So that’s where I was, waiting in a long line at the pharmacy pickup while gum-chewing counter girl with troll-doll hair had a discussion with a customer about her husband’s anus surgery aftercare.

The old lady had on those clear rubber rain boots that button over your shoes.

Mr. Peg called them galoshes, a word Maggot and I used as a stand-in cussword.

You galosher, I will so galosh you. I owed Mrs. Peggot a visit.

The pharmacy consult dragged on. The girl tore a coupon off a booklet on her counter and started drawing a rendition of an anus on the back with a ballpoint pen.

Behind her was an entire wall of cubbies exactly like the PO I’d just come from.

Those PO boxes were all stuffed with disability checks, and these with the white paper bags of drugs that the checks paid for.

What if you combined the two and cut out the hassle, I thought.

One-stop shopping. Across the top of the Walgreens wall of cubbies, they’d stashed the boxes of every cold medicine ever known to man that has Sudafed in it: Maxiflu CD, Drixoral, Sinutab, Flu Maximum Strength, etc.

There must have been five hundred boxes up there.

Not on the shelves anymore. Thanks to Maggot and his smurfer pals.

While I was staring at the Sudafed motherlode, somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Heavyset guy, small goat-type beard, glasses, too much hair for his head.

“Tommy,” I said. “What are you in for, man?”

Not drugs, he said, just a Dew and Doritos for his lunch.

He caught me up on the months since we met at the drive-in.

Still in his newspaper job, promoted from trash cans to doing stuff on the actual newspaper.

Layout is what he said, setting out ads on the page to catch the reader’s eye.

Making enough to move out from the disaster roommates into his own place.

I had to hand it to Tommy, coming out of the foster factory as a decent human.

I said the new beard suited him, even though actually it added to the whole effect of what was standing up on his head, but you know.

Old friends. I brought him up to speed on Dori, and asked if he still had the girlfriend.

Surprise answer: yes. Sophie was her name, sweet girl, still in Pennsylvania so they hadn’t met yet. Maybe next year.

The line started moving and Tommy had his ads to get back to, but told me to come visit.

He wrote down his address and apologized that it wasn’t the house per se, it was the garage.

No bath or kitchen yet, but they were planning to put those in.

He rented from a really nice couple that let him use their bathroom.

With four kids, that he kept an eye on sometimes.

I could see this meant the world to Tommy, being part of a family.

He said he read them Magic Treehouse. The little girl liked books, not so much the little boy that was into Grand Theft Auto, and the other two just small.

Twins. The girl was named Haillie. Not believable. It was the McCobbs.

The first thing I asked him was: Is your room really a garage, or is it a dog room with a washer-dryer combo?

I had quite a few more questions after that.

Yes, a garage. Yes, they worried all the time about money but Mr. McCobb had started a business selling weight-loss products called Wate-O-Way, mainly signing up other people for a three-hundred-dollar fee so they could also be part of the Wate-O-Way sales team.

Tommy believed with his whole heart that Mr. McCobb would soon be a rich man.

He hadn’t seen any products yet, but they were supposed to be a whole new game in weight loss. Oh, Tommy.

He couldn’t get over me knowing these people.

My long-lost fosters. I wanted to say, Tommy, go pack your shit, walk out of that garage and never look back.

But he was all over this family. I couldn’t burst his bubble.

I said I would come over sometime with Dori and we’d take him and the McCobbs out to Applebee’s or something, my treat.

Which is insane. No idea why I said that.

I wouldn’t have minded to see those kids, Haillie especially, to see how she was holding up in that FUBAR family.

But the main reason probably was me wanting to eat as much as I could in front of them.

I’d stuff my face, two burgers. Some form of weird revenge.

I had to warn him, though, before he went on his way. About Mr. McCobb’s enterprises. All fine and good on the Wate-O-Way, I said, but don’t even think about putting your own money into that. Oh, Tommy. It turned out he already had.