The You I've Never Known(4)

“I’ve got no clue who that can be. But I guess I should find out.

Don’t you dare finish those.”

She smiles. Better hurry.

Tamales disappear around me.

Glad you like them, though.

You could use a little meat— “On my skinny damn bones?

Yeah, I know. That’s what Dad says.”

I go to the front door, peek

out the adjacent window to make sure I’m not opening it for a mass murderer or something. But, no, it’s just Syrah, who’s basically my other friend. I unlock the dead bolt.





Speaking of Bolts


That’s what Syrah does, right past me. “Uh . . . come on in?” I offer.

Duh. I already did. Hey, what do I smell? Mexican food? Score!

She zips straight toward the kitchen.

Syrah moves at two velocities:

freeway speed limit or stoned.

I trail her, feeling no jealous stab at all as I watch her retreating form.

Monica has curves, but they’re carved.

She’s granite. Syrah’s soft outside and in. It’s the inside that counts, and that’s why I like her, though you wouldn’t know how decent

she is if you only listened to her talk.

Sometimes she’s got an obnoxious mouth. Sometimes I do, too, courtesy of my ex-military dad, who uses every awful word in the book anytime

he gets a little wasted. C’est la vie.





By the Time


I reach the kitchen, Syrah

has already helped herself

to two tamales, leaving

the last three in the pan.

“Should we finish those

now, or save them for later?”

Better save ’em, says Syrah.

We might get the munchies.

I know your birthday’s not till tomorrow, but I brought you a present. Two, in fact.

She reaches into her purse

and, like magic, a full bottle

of vodka appears, along with

a couple of rolled cigarettes.

“I don’t suppose that’s tobacco.”

Syrah laughs. It’s a lot pricier.

But I swiped these from my crack-brained brother. I’ll catch hell for it later, but I don’t give a shit.

And that’s why we love you.

Monica takes her plate over

to the sink, opens the vodka,

and sniffs. Pee-yew. You stole this, too, I’m guessing. Yeah?

Let’s just call it borrowing, not that I’ll give it back, but who cares? My mom stocks up on this stuff five bottles at a time. She was halfway to blitzed when I left. She’ll never miss it.

We finish eating and I take

the time to wash the dishes.

The last thing I want is to

invite one of Dad’s ugly scenes.

He despises a dirty kitchen.

A dirty anything, really, except

maybe Zelda. Ooh. Ugly thought.

Got any OJ? Syrah pokes her head into the fridge, withdraws

with a carton of orange juice.

Aw, come on. You don’t like vodka straight? But Monica says it with a smile. Does

anyone like vodka straight?

I take three tumblers from

the cupboard, hand them to

Syrah. “We have to go outside.

I really don’t need my dad

to smell booze, let alone weed.”





We Pull Chairs


To the far side of the house,

away from the road. Luckily,

the manufactured homes in

this area sit on large lots.

We barely know our neighbors,

but then we never do.

Dad insists we keep our distance, that we not invite

people living nearby

to borrow stuff or peek

in our windows. Okay by me.

Who needs a next-door spy,

especially when my girls

and I are sitting outside,

enjoying a toke or two?

Early October, the evening

is still really warm, made awesome by little puffs of westerly breeze.

Said wind makes lighting the joint something of a challenge, but one Syrah is most definitely up to.

Got it. She takes a big drag, holds it a very long time.

She passes the blunt, finally

exhales. So where’s your dad?

He won’t be home soon, will he?

Dad almost caught us the last time we indulged, and while

he isn’t above maintaining

bad habits, he would not be

good with my having any.

“He went out dancing

with Zelda. They’ll definitely be out late, unless they have

an argument or something.”

That’s not out of the question, which reminds me to remain

alert to the possibility.

Zelda. Who in the actual fuck names their kid Zelda?

Considering my own thoughts

earlier, both the question and her colorful phrasing make me smile.

Monica snorts. Could be the kind of mom who names her kids Syrah and Chardonnay?

First of all, as you well know, I pronounce my name SEER-uh, not sir-AH. And second, so happens Mom didn’t name us. Dad did.

First of all, just because you mispronounce your name doesn’t mean it isn’t actually sir-AH, any more than your sister calling herself char-DON-eye would make her not Chardonnay.