I rang the bell. Inside, a dog barked, and there was a honking noise, like a chair being pushed out from a table. I heard heavy footsteps, then a raspy, man’s voice, “Who is it?”
“Charlie Allison,” I said. “I’m looking for Lonnie Cartwright.” The dog barked some more, but I received no other response. “Hello?” I waited a few moments and was about to knock again when a piece of paper was slid under the door.
“Come back bearing gifts,” the man said. “Then we’ll talk.”
A grocery list was written on the paper in nightmarish handwriting: hot dogs, peanut butter, chili, rum, daiquiri-mix, mac n cheese, chips . . . . “Is this part of the training?” I said, being a smartass. When he didn’t respond, I walked back to the truck, shaking my head.
This type of guy felt familiar to me, like a flashback of my childhood. My mom was a magnet for flakes and assholes. Or maybe I was just being sensitive. After all, I didn’t know the details of my mom’s arrangement with him. Maybe this was part of his payment.
I drove back through town to the small country store where everything was marked up at least ten percent. I bought all the items on the list, came back, and rang the bell again, cradling a grocery bag in each arm.
Over the barking dog, Lonnie shouted, “Shut up Shirley.” Then, to me, “Come in.”
Using a knee to help balance one of the bags, I turned the knob, then pushed the door open with my shoulder. An off-white Cocker spaniel greeted me with a wagging backside, and Lonnie beckoned me to the kitchen with a wave of his hand. I set the grocery bags on an olive-green countertop as he fed ice into a blender.
He was tall and lanky, in his sixties, with white, slicked-back hair, a white mustache and goatee, square glasses over gray-blue eyes, and a few missing teeth. Sharp cheekbones stretched the otherwise loose skin on his gaunt face, and faded tattoos covered his arms. He wore a white T-shirt and leather vest, jeans, an eagle belt buckle, and a chain attached to his wallet.
A Harley, partially dismembered, took the place of a table in the dining room. Parts lay on faded, yellow newspaper on the floor next to a ratchet and sockets. The walls were beige and the carpet was orange and spotted with stains. Sickly yellow nicotine stains were on the ceiling above the lazy boy recliner in the living room. The house smelled of cigarettes, unwashed dog, and something sweet and putrid I couldn’t place until I saw the dog rubbing its head, in a fluid and practiced motion, along a black, uninterrupted stain lining the bottom of the couch.
“Your dog has an ear infection,” I said.
“I know,” Lonnie said. “There’s only one vet out here, and she’s an idiot.” He spread his arms out. “I’m in the middle of nowhere. Purgatory. I’m used to civilization. I’m from Sacramento. And my shanika put me out here in purgatory, next to this damn golf course. I hate golf. Bunch of idiots yelling four all day. Golf balls hitting my roof. Can’t wait to get my Harley running. Can’t wait to see their faces when they hear my straight pipes cracking like thunder. What? What’d you say? Brahhp! Brahhp!”
I got the feeling Lonnie didn’t entertain many guests.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing out the window. “That tree on the right. It’s blocking the satellite. I don’t get any of the nudie channels, man, all because my neighbor won’t cut that damn tree down. Says he needs the shade for the summer. But look at all those trees. He’s got plenty of shade. He’s lucky I got two strikes, that’s all I can say.”
Lonnie poured some rum and daiquiri-mix into the blender and slammed down the puree button, filling the room with the sound of crushing ice. After a minute, he poured himself a thick, blue daiquiri, said, “Follow me,” and led me down a hall to a dark room, where a small lamp illuminated a typewriter and two stacks of paper on a desk in the corner.
“You know how to type?” Lonnie said, the bottom third of his mustache now blue.
“Yes,” I said.
When I was a kid, my mom worked from home transcribing audio from businesses, private law firms, universities. She taught me the skill so I could help her out when she was too busy or too high. I transcribed depositions, conference calls, lectures. I became good at spelling words I didn’t know the meaning of. I impressed a teacher once by telling her to stop being facetious. She put me in a gifted class, where I parroted a lot more big words and was quickly exposed as a fraud and kicked out.
“I’ve got the last user agreement that came with the iTunes update there,” Lonnie said, pointing to the papers on the desk. “I want you to make a copy of it.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No.”
“I was told you could train me to heal cackle diseases with my rekulak. Is that true?”
“What do you know about Rekulaks?” he said.
“Nothing really. That’s why I’m here.”
He sighed. “If you want something from a Rekulak, you have to learn how to speak its language—one of its languages anyway.”
“Rekulaks speak in iTunes user agreements?”
Lonnie rolled his eyes, leaned against the threshold, and took a long sip of his daiquiri before answering: “No, man. Rekulaks are extra-dimensional beings that live simultaneously in the past, present, and future. Their language is a little more complicated than user agreements. They eat choices. Wrap your head around that. Choices are symbols in the language they use to tell themselves stories about themselves. It’s the language of their identity.
