Country looked up from the library computer. Genny sat across from him, munching on a granola bar. Most of her hair was in a ponytail except for one loose bunch which dangled on her forehead. She jutted out her lower lip and blew the strands back in place.
“Whatcha’ workin’ on Countr (pronounced cunchr)?”
“For the third time, I’m looking for a job.”
“You never told me that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Country pushed the mouse away.
“You got something on your mind, Gen?” he asked.
“Nope. You go ahead and work.”
Country tried to read the expression on her face. He got nothing. “Alright, then,” he said and buried his face back in the computer screen.
“Nope,” Genny said. “You go right ahead and take care of business. I’ve got nothing to talk about. No news or anything like that.”
Country stopped again. He arched both eyebrows and frowned at the same time. “If you’ve got nothing to say, then I’ve got work to do.” He waited for a minute. Genny munched on her granola bar, nonchalant as an escaped goat chewing the farmer’s favorite Picasso.
He started to …
“Nope,” Genny said. “I don’t want to bug ya’. It’s not like my news is important or anything. I mean, I thought we were friends and all …”
Country shifted in his seat.
“… but no, no. You just go ahead and take care of your own stuff. I’ll just sit here silently and wait.”
Country rolled his eyes and went back to work, scrolling through pages of something called ‘online want ads.’ He heard a scratching sound like a rasp giving an iron bar a close shave. He looked back up and let out a large puff of air. Genny now sat with her legs crossed, a nail file in her right hand madly attacking the thumbnail on the left.
“Oops,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all,” Country’s lips said.
“I think I am, but you’re just too polite to say.”
“Mmm,” Country muttered. He scrolled down to the next page. “Handyman,” he said to himself. “I could do that. Bouncer? Maybe. Golf Instructor? Too …” He paused. “Genny! Would you stop it?”
“Stop what?” she said as her fingers continued to tap the table.
He slammed the computer screen shut, not realizing laptops weren’t a thing yet. “Alright. That’s it. Spit it out, Genny.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“Whatever it is you want to tell me.”
Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, Genny. I really want to know.”
He hoped she knew he didn’t really want to know and would make it a quick story. Twenty-five minutes later …
“… Then, when Mr. Glocken finished his spiel, one boy in particular stood in awe, enraptured by the lovely melody that came from Mr. Glocken’s newly created instrument. That was the day Clarence Clemons knew he wanted to play the saxophone.”
“Howard Zinn?” Country asked.
“Best as I can recollect,” Genny said.
“And that’s what you had to tell me? What couldn’t wait another second?”
“What?”
“What you just spent the last half hour talking about.”
“I was talking?” Genny said. “I thought it was you the whole time, and I was just thinking to myself.”
Country’s lungs inflated to twice the normal size. His brain tried to figure out a way to leave. “No, Genny,” he said. “It was you. First, you started on about the latest trend among the stars. Something about fake moles.”
Genny casually removed the frijol from her cheek.
“Then, you segued into trickle down economics through government spending – I’m not sure you get the gist of the theory – shifting to the difference between a panic and a pandemic, continuing on to some incomprehensible story about the time you bit a sasquatch, and finally settling on how Mr. Glocken invented the saxophone. Quite frankly, there are probably another ten topics I missed, but somewhere in the middle I lost the will to live.”
“Hmm,” Genny pondered. “That’s not what I wanted to tell you. Now, what was it?” She tapped her lips with her fingers. “Oh, right.” She rolled up her sleeve. “Check this out.”
Country scooted forward for a closer look. “What is it? It looks like someone drew one of the ninja turtles on your arm with a magic marker. Where’s its shell?”
“No, silly,” Genny said. “It’s not magic marker. It’s a tattoo.”
“Why’d you get a tattoo?” he asked.
“I had to.”
Another giant breath. He let it out very, very slowly, hoping that by the time he was done, the nightmare would have ended.
“Why did you have to?” he finally said.
“I joined another club!”
“Oh. That’s nice,” he said. “Which one?”
“The Esnapping Tortugas.”
“Very good. I’m happy for you.”
“Really?” Genny asked.
Country shook his head. “No.” He paused. “What am I going to do with you, Genny? We’ve only been out here a few months, and you’ve already been arrested three times at save the seals events.”
“In hindsight,” Genny said, “bringing the club was a mistake.”
“I suppose,” Country said, “but that’s beside the point. You also quit the pre-med program at UC Disney Land, joined a vegan cult, and got yourself involved in who knows what. I don’t know whether to be sad, mad, or disappointed.”
Genny pondered how she should respond, losing track mentally as often as a dog with a bladder infection wants to go outside. “What you say is true, Countr,” she eventually responded. “To some degree. I did quit UCDL but that’s only because I joined the Beijing Online School of Hairstyling and Doctoring. I should graduate by the end of the year with a specialty in emergency medicine. And I take offense at the term vegan cult. Sure, there’s a picture of Wheaty, the god of cultivated grains, above the door to our meeting hovel made entirely of recycled chicken beaks, but I don’t believe in that new age hocus pocus. And concerning the thug life … I didn’t choose it. It chose me.”
Country rubbed the back of his neck as though the weariness of this life had collected at the base of his brain stem. “Genny,” he said, “I’m worried. About a lot of things.”
Genny reached out and put her hand on his. She immediately thought of toasted marshmallows. “What sort of things?” she asked.
“I don’t know if I made the right decision coming out here. Other than my studies, which I could’ve completed just about anywhere, nothing seems to be going our way.”
Genny furrowed her brows. “I’m not sure what you mean, Countr. I think things are going pretty well. I’ve got a good job with plenty of friends. As you said, you’re going to school. You look like you enjoy it. We’ve both got nice apartments near the beach. What’s not to like about California?”
Country didn’t answer at first. Maybe because he didn’t have the words. Maybe because the words he had were too painful to say out loud. He stroked his chin twice and spoke.
“I came out here because I was trying to find your father.”
A lump already began to form in Genny’s throat.
“I thought I was following the signs, something I read in one of Mrs. Lizardo’s computer files. They spoke of a company based in Los Angeles. That’s why I came here. This company turned out to be nothing more than a shell corporation. It has nothing to do with clams,” he quickly added before Genny’s mind wandered again. “I wanted to do this … to find him … for you.” He hesitated. “And for me.” His chest shuddered a couple of times as the pain he kept deep inside rattled against the cage which held it hostage. “I’ve failed both of us. The worst part is, I’m not sure if we’ll ever ….”
Genny squeezed his hand. She whispered, barely audible for either one of them to hear. “We’ll find him.” For a moment, she actually believed it. But only for a moment.
Country wiped his face and put on a brave, new one. “There’s also the matter of money,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Genny asked.
“We’re running out.”
“Nonsense,” Genny said. “We’ve got more money than we could possibly ever need.”
“I don’t mean to alarm you,” Country said, “but the Bivins’ money is all but gone. I could maybe stretch it out to a month and a half, two months tops, but then I’ll be broke. And you. You spend half your salary on rent and the other half on antique bobbleheads.”
“Speaking of which,” Genny interrupted. She pulled a cloth out of her purse. Carefully opening the corners, a hidden object emerged, revealing a grotesque figurine carved from wood. Roughly hewn, it had the body of what might have been a stork supporting a gigantic head with a bearded face. “Rumor has it, the Galapagos tortoises made this as a going away gift for Darwin. You see how the chisel marks are rough, child-like. Darwin said this was either because the tortoises didn’t have opposable thumbs – except for Tanga, of course – or it was proof that our forefathers evolved into chimpanzees.” Bobble Darwin nodded up and down as if in agreement.
“It’s beautiful,” Country said with the tone he used when he meant the exact opposite. “Regardless, I’ve been paying for the rest of your expenses with my savings, which, of course, exacerbates the money situation.”
“Where’d the money go?” Genny said. “I thought there was enough to last a couple years, at least.”
“There was. Or would’ve been, but I failed to account for some uniquely Californian expenses.”
“Like what?” Genny asked.
“State income tax. Sun tax. Smog tax. Feces and used needle tax. Having money in your bank tax. Legislators need a raise tax. Home tax. Homeless tax. Anchor baby tax. Anchor border crosser tax. Privilege tax. I don’t have to pay that one for some reason, but you do. Gas tax. Electric vehicle tax. Surf tax. Hollywood needs some incentives tax. Luxury tax. Tax tax. Just to name a few.”
“That sounds fair,” Genny said. “I’m surprised the other fifty-six states don’t adopt similar measures.”
“You’re joking, right?” Country said.
Genny’s head bobbled left and right. Mainly to the left though.
“I’m sure all the money they collect goes to worthy causes,” she said. “Besides, it’s only the rich that pay, and they have plenty of money for this and more.”
Country rolled his eyes. “You might want to consider an economics course.”
“I’m taking one now,” Genny said. “Professor’s name is Gruver … Groover … Goober …? No, it’s Kruggman or something similar. He’s so smart and dreamy. I’d vote for him for Nobel prize, if I could. Anyway, he says that rich people are the cause of all our problems. Them and white people in overalls. They’re riding ’round on their tractors by day, plowing their fields. At night, they sit by the campfires outside their doublewides, thinking of ways to oppress people of color. I’m not sure what the overall’d are doing, but that’s beside the point. The point is, the rich and greedy create income inequality which can only be rectified by governmental control of every aspect of your life, with the exception of what you do in the bedroom. I personally like to sleep. Although, I have been known to have dance contests with the chupacabras that wander in at night. As I said, Nobel material.”
“There’s so much wrong with that,” Country said, “I don’t know what to address first. How about this? How does this goober ….”
“Kruggman,” Genny corrected.
“I said what I said,” Country said before continuing with his question. “How does he account for individual rights and liberties, specifically those written into the Constitution, in this little theory of his?”
“Ugh. You sound like one of those overallers,” Genny said with unconcealed disgust. “When utopia rears its lovely face, I’m going to have to send you to the gulags so Helmut and his team of debriefers can cure you of your fascism and your white privilege.”
Country looked at his smooth chocolatey skin and then at Genny’s milky white face. The smog must be messing with her mind, Country thought. “I’m not in the mood to argue,” he said. “The fact remains that we’re almost out of money. Unless we can cure you of your addiction …”
Genny hugged bobble Darwin to her chest.
“… or I can find a job.”
“Just ask the government for some money. They make it you know.”
“I’d rather earn my way,” Country said.
“Fascist,” Genny muttered under her breath. Her eyes got glinty. Without another word, she stood up and started to walk off.
Country called after her. “Are we still on for tonight?”
Genny turned briefly. “Harrumph. I suppose,” she said. The disdain trilled through the air.
Country followed her until she disappeared out the organically grown front door. Sitting back in his chair, he placed his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs.
“Maybe it was a mistake,” he said to himself.
A shuffling sound came from behind him. He sat up and looked around. A woman in a dull gray skirt with a fashionable, white blouse doubly unbuttoned at the top walked towards him. A tan leather handbag with a long strap draped around one shoulder. Her brown hair flowed in long, wavy trails. Deep red lipstick adorned lovely, full lips. Stiletto heels made her appear even taller than she was.
With the rehearsed motion of someone used to getting her way, she stuck her hand out towards Country.
“Hi,” she said. “I couldn’t help overhearing the spat with your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said.
“Oh. Even better. Not that it makes a difference, I suppose. Anyway, my name is Courtney Hutchins. Do you mind if I have a seat?”
Country gave a little nod and stood up to pull out the chair.
“I’m not used to that,” she said to herself.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Hutchins?” he asked.
She stared at Country for a while, occasionally twisting her head back and forth. “Mocha eyes,” she said. “Strong jaw. Good cheekbones.” She reached out and pinched them. “Would you mind standing up for me?”
Country obliged.
“Now, spin around.”
He did.
“Ooh,” she said. “I like what I see.”
“Can I ask what this is about?” Country said.
She stood up and scribbled something on the back of a card. Handing it to him, she said, “Meet me at this location tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock sharp. Tell them Courtney sent you. I’m guessing all your problems are about to be solved. And do me a favor. Write your name and number right here.” She tore the corner off a piece of paper and placed it on the table. “That way, if you don’t show up, I know how to find you.”
After watching him write down his information, she blew a Hollywood kiss and walked off. He turned the card to the front. It read: Courtney Hutchins, CSA. Harbinger Studios.
“The solution to all my problems,” Country mused and shoved the card into his pocket.