The heat singes arm hairs and slumbers urgencies, cautions the elderly and youth against recreation, mutes the yellow Kids Playing signs—Dallas drivers know kids won’t play outside—instead, they play Mario Kart or watch Power Rangers until their parents drag them to my pool.
I call it my pool—during the chilled rains of early April and shivering mists of November, only I swim in it. So it’s mine. But today, fathers force their kids away from screens to invade Dallas Country Club with complaints and accidents. Their plastic mothers tag along to melt in the sun and gossip about Mrs. Holloway’s ridiculous new-age haircut and Mr. Caneel’s weekly special massage.
I watch them wipe sweat from their foreheads and look desperately toward the sun—the heat reminds them of their transgressions, reminds them of how hell would feel. They gossip to soothe their own sins. The hotter it gets, the raunchier their neighbor’s sex life, the worse their friend’s drug habit, the more outrageous their co-worker’s lawbreaking. If it’s ninety, Mr. Roark is popping Vicodin pills in the kitchen; if it’s over a hundred, he beats his wife while he does it.
Amber interrupts my thoughts. “Stephen, why’re you staring at them?” I turn to find her staring at me. Her sunglasses are off, revealing the raccoon tan around her eyes. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
I shake my head and she lies back down to talk to the sky. “I’m ready to get out of here.”
“Franklin’s not done swimming.”
She puts back on her sunglasses and turns over, exposing her back to the sun. I untie her bathing suit and tell her, “I don’t want you to get some gnarly tan.” She smiles half-heartedly and puts on her headphone as I look back towards the invaders.
I snicker when an eight-year-old attempts a dive, then belly flops, when pre-pubescent boys play water basketball, almost drowning each other in an attempt to impress the indifferent, flat-chested girls, when the male lifeguard gets down from his stand and comes back with eyes red and glazed. I laugh when a toddler plays in the baby pool, tossing a ball to her mother and the ball doesn’t quite get there. But the little girl manages to stumble backwards and bangs her head on the concrete. The mother screams and the red-eyed lifeguard blows his whistle—everyone has to get out while he makes sure that the little girl is all right.
Franklin emerges with a crowd of freshmen—they towel off seductively, vying for his attention. He walks aimlessly around them, shaking his head of water, searching for me. And when he finds me, the girls try following him but he waves them off, pinching their asses goodbye. He’s still wet when he reaches Amber and me. I tell him he’s dripping so he sits. We don’t talk for a couple of minutes. Then he turns to me, tilting his head. “You want a drink?”
I stare past him. “Sure thing, Mr. Pedophile. What would you like?”
He ignores my insult. “Can you use your fake?’
“Probably not.”
“Oh.” We sit silently for a second, “Then a Dr. Pepper.”
Amber doesn’t react to my tap on her leg but talks to the sky, “I’ll take a strawberry daiquiri.”
“I’m not using my fake.”
“Fine. Nothing.”
I catch the bartender’s eye as I walk toward her—she’s smiling playfully. We flirt as I order the drinks and her eyes follow me as I sit back down, sipping the rum and coke I’d charmed off her. I hand Franklin the Dr. Pepper and he says, “Thanks, Stephen,” gulping it in appreciation.
“No problem. You ready to go?”
He grabs a towel from the side-table and ruffles his hair. “Sure. I’m ready.” The towel drops loosely over his legs.
I tap Amber on the shoulder. “You ready?”
She asks me to retie her bathing suit so I double-knot it. She takes her iPod and phone from the table and puts them in her purse. Franklin and I dump our towels in the bin and cups in the trash as we walk toward the exit. Amber pretends not to notice when I smile at the bartender.
As we head toward my car, I offer a cigarette to Franklin and take one for myself. He hands me a lighter and I block the breeze with my hand until the tobacco crackles. I toss the lighter back but he misses. We were going to look so cool. He has to jog backwards, blocking the wind while he lights. I offer one to Amber even though I know she doesn’t smoke. She waves it off.
At my car, Franklin takes a drag, exhaling a misshapen smoke ring, and asks what we’re going to do. I shrug. “I dunno. It’s Dallas. What’s there ever to do?”
Amber says there’s a new movie playing at the mall. Franklin shuts her down—it got a shit review on RottenTomatoes. Amber turns to him with annoyance. “Well, Franklin. What would you like to do?”
“Definitely not a movie.”
She wipes the sweat from her back. “Well, then, what?”
“Not a movie”
She turns to me. “Stephen?”
I inhale smoke, exhaling toward Franklin, his head tilting. “I follow RottenTomatoes.” I turn to Amber. “But I think there’s a flea market at the fairgrounds that could be fun.” I drop my cigarette. It sizzles on the bottom of my wet shoe.
Amber says that it could be fun and Franklin shrugs. I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the key, immediately cranking the AC. Both of them climb in and I ask if anyone knows the way to the fairgrounds. Franklin does.
I wave over-enthusiastically at the minority security guard on the way out. He stops fanning himself to raise his palm in a weak acknowledgement of me. We turn left on Park, get on 75, head towards downtown, but exit before. I see the Texas Ferris Wheel. Franklin keeps directing me. I tell him to shut up. The music gets louder.
The parking lot has about thirty cars in it. I park in a spot near the sidewalk and ignore my door denting the worn-down minivan parked next to us—probably a Mexican’s. I open Amber’s door, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She looks down and she smiles.
I light a cigarette and we follow the purple signs toward a big warehouse. Amber and Franklin bicker behind me, continuing the movie argument. I glare at them and lengthen my strides. By the time we get to the front doors, my cigarette’s smoked to the filter. I throw it at the brown grass and open the door. A cool wind rushes over me.
Two older ladies in plastic chairs sit at a foldout table inside. There’s a sign that reads “Flee Market” in messy writing—“$5” scribbled beside a crossed-out “$10.” I pull out my heavy wallet and turn to the lady on the left. She has a dumb expression, clown-red lips and caked purple blush. I ask, “Is it worth the five?”
She seems not to realize I’m here. When I place my hand on the table, she suddenly looks up and coughs, “Sure.” I hand her a five.
Franklin and Amber open the door behind me—they’ve stopped talking. They both hand the lady the money and we proceed to the first table where a man in black Tevas and a leather vest sits. An assortment of floral placemats is sprawled out before him. He asks if we see anything interesting. I pretend not to hear him and move on without speaking.
The next table has simple, hand-carved airplanes and cars in a variety of colors. We whisper about how shitty the cars are made, how the wheels wobble when they roll, how the car leans awkwardly to one direction until a dad and kid come up beside us, silencing out our laughs.
The dad picks up a car to show his son. “Conner, look at how cool this is.” I smell cigars on his breath.
Conner doesn’t take the car. “Daddy, can we go now?” His voice is high and whiny.
I notice the dad has leather skin as he lifts the car, explaining that it can even jump. The kid looks shyly around then wanders off, the dad sighing as the boy heads toward a table of Hot Wheels.
I turn to Franklin. “Did you see that kid?
His head tilts. “No. Why?”
“He was a fucking brat.”
Amber sees a table with jewelry and walks towards it. There are metal earrings with engraved trees and birds. She tries them on, sticking them in the holes behind her black studs. I turn to her with sarcasm. “Those’re awesome.” She gives me the finger as she hands the woman three dollars. A stand of necklaces grabs her attention. She’s already trying it on when Franklin and I walk away.
As we walk, there are stands with jigsaw puzzles of bears and butterflies, miracle creams ranging from anti-wrinkle to headache ointment, clay coffee mugs complete with imperfections, wine bottles stuffed with Christmas lights, tie-dye kitchen aprons, beaded bracelets, leather dream catchers, wind chimes made of stones that chink, yarn galore.
We don’t stop until we reach a table of assorted crucifixes. The woman at the stand has gray skin, worn blue jeans, and a shirt that reads, “God gave you his only son, you only have to give him your heart.” I point out the comma use to Franklin and he laughs. We pick up matching crucifixes—a golden Jesus pinned to a wooden cross, Latin letters written above His head—and fight them. I win with a roundhouse kick to his Jesus’s head. Franklin leaves his Jesus lying face down on the floor and jokingly hangs his head in shame as he walks away.
I turn the crucifix over and find a little sticker with “15” written on the back of it. I tell the lady that I’ll give her ten.
Her voice is hoarse. “I’ll sell it for twelve.” I hand her the money and pocket the crucifix.
When I find Franklin, he’s practicing his Spanish with a pregnant Mexican at a table of copper picture frames. She notices me and says, “Estos marcos son en venta.”
Franklin turns to me. “She says that she is selling picture frames.”
I say, “No shit” and start looking through them. The little Mexicans children sitting behind her distract me. They’re in a circle, watching each other play GameBoy Color, passing it to the left as they die—the boy playing licks his lips and doesn’t break eye contact with the tiny screen; he dies but doesn’t pass it—a fight breaks out—the mother doesn’t notice. Savages. Franklin taps my shoulder. “You want a frame?”
I nod without thinking and Franklin walks off. I grab a frame from the side table and look at the woman. “How much is this?”
“Diez.”
I hold up six fingers and say, “I’ll take it for seis,” then take out my wallet.
She looks at me with uneasiness in her eyes. I notice there’s a photo in the frame of a young couple, holding each other and gleaming. They look genuinely happy. I peer back up at the Mexican woman and she smiles weakly, revealing the same crooked teeth as the girl in the picture. “Alright” I say, “here’s ten.”
She picks up the picture frame and tries to take out the photo. I grab it from her and the corner rips off. I say, “I… pagar for la fotografía too” then walk away, frame in hand.
I find Franklin holding a sculpture made of a Vodka bottle spiraled with thick copper wire. I lie to him, telling him it’s pretty sweet.
“Ya. Only six bucks.” He tilts his head.
I think about how he paid too much and say, “That’s good deal.”
He laughs. “Ya. It was. The lady that sold it to me was a Russian. She knew how to negotiate. But I was persistent and got it down from ten.” He starts towards a table filled with Zippo lighters; I go the opposite direction.
I look through different tables filled with glass necklaces, pickled vegetables, glass hummingbird sculptures, plastic storage boxes, wood-carved mushrooms, and plants drowning in florescent light until an older Asian women yells at me. She has prayer beads supposedly from Tibet. I try one on and she seems excited. I don’t buy it.
I find a table with political mementos, ranging from Eisenhower to Obama. I hang around for a bit, searching for anything worth buying. An old geezer buys the “Down with the USSR” poster I was eyeing, paying full price. I settle for a small Jimmy Carter poster for seven buck. As I pay, I discretely grab a Nixon ’68 pin with my left hand, pocketing it without the merchant noticing.
I proudly smile when I sit on the worn bench at the next stand over and start inspecting the old military merchandise. I try to read the tattoo on the black guy who’s selling them but it has grown illegible with age. I watch him try to wrangle in customers. They’re either uninterested or claim the medals to be fake. Eventually I take pity on him and buy a World War Two medal, managing to negotiate it down to eleven from thirty. When I walk away, he seems defeated.
I see Amber through the crowd, her neck dangling in new necklaces. I get up and start toward her but lose her. I start shopping again.
I run into Franklin at a table filled with pipes. Most of them are wood but there are a couple glass ones on the side. Franklin picks up a bong swirled orange and yellow. “You like this?”
“We don’t really need it. We already have a bong.”
He’s getting it anyways. And when he starts haggling with the merchant, I walk toward the table with the exotic plants. I find a small cactus and get the attention of the old women struggling to place pots into her wagon.
“How much is the cactus?” I point.
“That’s forty?”
I glare at her. “It’s a cactus.”
“It’s from South America.”
“Bullshit.”
She seems startled. “I’m about to close down anyways. Come back next time”
I step toward her. “I’ll give you the forty.”
“No. I’m done selling for the day.”
I take out my wallet and slam two twenties on the table then reach for the cactus. She grabs it first. “It’s not for sale.”
I call her a fucking bitch and knock a pot of soil to the ground as I stomp away. When I calm down and start looking around again, I see an old-fashioned TV—it even has channel-turning knobs and antennas. I offer the guy that’s selling it eleven bucks. We settle on thirteen. I pick it up and the heaviness forces me back toward the entrance to set it down.
When I get there, I find Amber sitting on a chair, her body covered in jewelry. I can’t see her neck through the necklaces or wrists through the bracelets; she has four new earrings in her left ear and three in her right. She jingles when she turns and glares at the TV. “Why’d you get that?”
“Because it’s cool.”
She nods, “Whatever. It’s a waste of money.” We don’t talk for a minute as she rearranges her earrings. She asks, “Where’s Franklin?”
I pause to think. “The last time that I saw him he was at the pipe stand.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Is he getting a new bong?”
“I dunno.”
She gets up to look for him, abandoning me in the front with my heavy TV. I lean against the wall while I wait but it only takes about three minutes for them to get back. Franklin is carrying the new bong and is laughing with Amber. When he gets to me I say, “We already have a bong, dumbass.”
Amber smiles. “But this one’s pretty.”
“You can’t ever have too many pieces.” Franklin adds.
I say, “Alright. Whatever. It’s your fucking money” and lean down to pick up the TV. I hold the door for Franklin and Amber then take a step into the heat.
My back sweats immediately. And when I see how far my car is, I start complaining about the TV. Amber offers to help me carry it but I decline, saying it’s too heavy for a girl. Franklin takes the hint and hands Amber the bong and Vodka bottle. He grabs the left side of the TV and I nod in thanks, the load dramatically lessened. By the time I reach the car, my forearms ache.
Amber grabs the keys out of my pocket and pushes the unlock button. Franklin and I allow the TV to fall the last couple of inches into my trunk and he says you’re welcome. I don’t respond. Amber calls shotgun and Franklin climbs into the backseat. I turn the key and crank the AC.
Once we get back onto 75, I scream over the music, asking if anyone’s hungry. Franklin and Amber both have dinner waiting at home; I hadn’t realized how late it is—I’d skipped lunch.
I drop off Franklin first, giving Amber and me time to hook up in her back alley. Her necklaces jingle as I unhook her bra and her bathing suit is still wet when I start unbuttoning her pants. Then she says she has to go. I try to persuade her, telling her it’ll be real quick, already knowing she doesn’t have time. She yells at me that we’ll continue after dinner as I drive off.
When I get back home, I manage to lug the TV up to my room. It bounces on my bed when I drop it. I unload my pockets—the crucifix, the World War Two medal, the Nixon pin, the Carter poster, and the picture frame sit on my bed next to the TV.
I take a quick shower and go downstairs to eat dinner. When I get back up, my phone is mute on my bedside table so I decide to mess with the shit I bought. I try to plug in the TV and am not surprised when nothing happens. I yank at the cord from the outlet and it sparks a little bit as it flies out.
I decide to decorate an empty bookshelf in my room with the stuff. I take out the kids books and place the TV in the back first, leaning the Carter poster against it; I grab the World War Two medal and put it on top of the TV, then use the crucifix to stop the Carter poster from sliding; I put the picture frame in the front, leaning the Nixon pin against it. I take a step back to see if the arrangement works.
The Carter poster isn’t readable because it slid too far down; the crucifix doesn’t show—I switch it and the World War Two medal. The picture frame sits awkwardly in the front, the Mexican’s smile glares at me—I put it and the Nixon pin in the back next to the Carter poster. The old TV glares in my florescent lights. I turn them off.
The crucifix isn’t really showing so I lean it against the wall on top of the TV—now Jesus’s face is easily distinguished in the weak light; the shelf seems balanced out but when I take a step back, I can’t see the Nixon pin. I balance it on top of the picture frame—it falls at first but I try again and it stays.
I sit studying the shelf then my phone vibrates in my pocket. Amber is calling me to unbutton her pants and kiss her neck but the Carter poster is blocking the TV and the World War Two medal doesn’t catch the light right. My phone rings but I can’t see Jesus’s agonized face. Amber’s smiling face pops up on my phone’s tiny screen but the Nixon pin has fallen from the picture frame and now covers the Mexican’s face. My phone stops. I study the crucifix and the World War Two medal, the picture frame and the Nixon pin, the old TV and the Carter poster. I reach into my pocket and take out my phone. The screen flashes with a new voicemail. I don’t listen to it and look up at the shelf again. It’s empty.
