Coco’s was the corporate diner, and I was supposed to hate it, but it was twenty times better than the tater tots, corn dogs, hard stares, Styrofoam, mixed nuts, truculent clients, roaming staff, and cold calcified light of the cafeteria at Napa State.
The place began to thin out about one. I’d done all my early-bird work and was ready to leave. I’d hoped to talk with Renee, but she’d been too busy to notice, or maybe she didn’t recognize me. She stood across the room talking to an older man, fifty or so, with spiky gray hair, a flushed complexion from drink, and a skull full of squeaking birds. In a loud slur, he was saying something about Carol McCoy and Ali McGraw.
“Yes, you told me that,” Renee said.
“In The Getaway. We oughta get away.”
“I have to work, Mr. Fromm.”
“Call me Len.” He reached for her arm. Renee looked about for help. This was the corporate diner, though, where none of us had any stake, including the employees.
I closed my guide.
“She was a lot better off when she was Mrs. Sam Peckinpah,” he went on saying.
I wondered why such a superficial construct as Hollywood was so important to him.
Back in the Industrial Age when average life expectancy was forty-five years but restaurants were an extension of the community, three guys would’ve had Mr. Hollywood by the seat of his pants by now and on his way out to meet the sidewalk. In the Corporate Age, Renee sweated it out all alone in her nylon Coco’s suit.
“Why don’t you give me your number?” he said.
I rose and strode across the room. “Excuse me, jefe, but I don’t like the way you are talking to this woman.”
“Who are you?” he said.
“An escaped mental patient.”
The squeaking in his head increased. I divined that he was poorly raised and preserved emotionally at around age eight. These types were rampant at Napa. Appeals were pointless. The only language the Mr. Peckinpahs of the world understood was violence. So I explained to him some of the things I’d picked up in Mudville, such as never initiate a fight from the sitting position, first punch usually wins, and the best way to get out of a headlock is to not get yourself in one in the first place. I added that if he wanted to wager fifty dollars on the contest, last man standing, I’d give him eight to five.
He stared at me for a while. It was so quiet in there you could hear the cod frying in the back. The manager bumped out the doors but just stood there.
“I don’t fight anymore,” he said. The truth we both knew was closer to, I bluff and when called I fold.
“Then you should probably get running,” I replied.
Mr. Peckinpah cleared his throat, stood, harrumphed, thought to make a final remark but instead threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stalked scarlet-faced for the exits.
One diner actually clapped. The manager shrugged and returned to the kitchen. I went back to my table to get my things.
Renee followed. “Thanks,” she whispered. “What was your name again?”
“Eddie. Eddie Plum.”
“Thanks for getting me out of that, really. He comes in once a week, always drunk.”
“Least I could do.”
“Can I get you anything, another cup of coffee?”
Funny how I could still imagine, like Shelly, that day when the right girl would walk out of sunlight and change my life, as Sofia had. Probably all the sappy love songs I’d been listening to lately. I would have liked to have sat with her for a while, if only just to talk. There was something comforting about the familiarity of her face.
“If you could get me an order of pancakes with a side of bacon to go that would be great,” I said.
She scribbled on her pad. “No problem. Hey, it’s on me.” Her eye caught my record guide. “You a record collector?”
“A dabbler.”
She nodded as if I might have something to add.
“So many jerks out these days,” I offered.
She tossed her head, blew a stream of air. “All morning I told myself I’d quit.”
I imagined her kitchen, her television shows, the perfume on her dresser. “Well, you’re about done for the day at least,” I said. “Yes?”
“Just about, yes.” She glanced at her watch, then gave me a nervous smile. There was a commotion in the kitchen. “Better go hang this ticket,” she said.
As I walked back to my truck with the doggie bag full of pancakes and bacon it occurred to me where I’d seen Renee before. I drove back to Shelly’s and unhooked the door of Donny’s room. I stared at the photos for a long while. The girl in the cheerleader outfit, the girl with her hands on her knees, the girl in the tartan skirt, the girl in the smoky retouched photo framed inside the sequined heart on the television. A long time ago, Renee was Donny’s girl.
24.Zopilote Being an Indian Word for “Vulture”
NOW THAT I HAD MONEY AGAIN, I BEGAN GOING DOWN TO TIJUANA to flit among the puestos and gambling salons, the cantinas and liquor stores, the oyster bars and burdeles. My Spanish had deteriorated, so it was a real challenge to amuse the prostitutes, who did not like me. Feeling bad afterward, I’d go to a church, usually Our Lady of Guadalupe, to pray and leave an offering. I wanted to be a good person, not a frantic bananacake buzzing around hot flesh like a housefly.
On
