The Kiss Principle (Hazardverse: Sidetracks)

6

“You look like shit,” Lou said when I got out of the Escalade.

She was a big woman, as tall as me and barreled with muscle, and she wore her dark hair chopped short. The ends of it bristled out from under a John Deere hat. When her mother had named her Lourdes, she’d probably been hoping for good little Catholic girl, maybe even one who would grow up to be a nun. Which goes to show that it’s stupid to hope for things, especially when other people are involved.

Leaning on a wheelbarrow, Lou gave me a closer look as she pulled off her gloves. We’d known each other in college, and we’d stayed in touch even though we’d taken different paths. I’d finished my degree via night classes as soon as I got a job. She, on the other hand, now ran one of the largest grows in the county—acres of hoop houses lined up one next to each other, each of them full of cannabis, until the fields gave way to scrub and stunted, dusty pines. The air held the muskiness of the crop, mixed with a dark, loamy earthiness. Near the road, a massive steel framework mounted on a concrete foundation told me that Lou’s plans for an indoor grow facility were underway.

“Look who’s talking,” I said. “Dakota lets you out of the house like that? Dressed like Paul Bunyan about to go fuck Babe?”

“Dakota’s visiting her mom, and fuck you, and what the fuck happened to you?”

“Long story,” I said. “What the fuck are you waiting for? I’m fucking starving.”

“Fuck off. Fucking pansy-ass wearing your fucking white Lacoste tennis shoes to a fucking farm like a fucking idiot.”

I mimed jerking off.

“Yeah,” she said as she pushed off with the wheelbarrow. “You’re a pro at that.”

I almost laughed, but that would have ruined everything.

She headed for the barn, and I made my way to the house. It was frame, white clapboard, and built sometime in the 1930s. To hear Lou tell it, the first farm, all the way back when somebody had first broken open the ground and started working this land, had been hemp. She liked telling people that. Wouldn’t shut up about it, in fact. Particularly the part about how now a couple of lesbians were making a fortune with a legal grow.

Boards creaked as I went up onto the porch. The door was heavy and had a tendency to stick in the frame, and inside, the house was clean, but old lady curtains and a lot of junk made the place feel small and dark. Part of that was the old-fashioned layout, with lots of little rooms. And part of it was the fact that Lou was basically a hoarder, but she specialized in literally anything she thought she might use to fix something on the farm. One room was full of two-liter bottles she’d saved, don’t ask me why.

The kitchen, though, had the curtains open, and the window looked out on all that beautiful grass. The linoleum was worn down to the backing, and the furniture looked like it was as old as the house (even the refrigerator looked like it predated Eisenhower). But the room was full of light, and it smelled like curry and pepper and cauliflower.

Lou’s heavy footsteps announced her passage through the house.

“Dakota’s going to kill you for wearing your boots inside,” I said.

With a grunt, Lou moved past me and got two mason jars full of cold water from the fridge. She handed me one, opened hers, and drank deeply.

“You know, it’s a real fucking shame that the only people I know with literally unlimited weed happen to be a couple of vegan lesbians who won’t even keep beer in the house.”

“And it’s a real fucking shame you’ve got a gut and you’re losing your hair and you smell like snatch from eating out doctors all day,” Lou said. “Life’s full of disappointments.”

“One day, Dakota’s going to run you over with the baler, and I’m going to help her get rid of the body.”

“What are you going to do, princess? Paint her nails for her?”

The smile slipped out before I could stop it. Lou didn’t smile back, not exactly, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. She pointed to a seat, and I sat, and she went to work: pulling dishes out of the refrigerator, lighting the ancient gas stove (which still required a match), dropping a pad of vegan butter in the skillet. It hissed, and a moment later, garlic followed.

Lunch with Lou was a standing appointment. We saw each other once a month. I reminded her that human beings bathed more than once a week and that she might want to scrape the shit out from under her nails before fingering her lovely wife. And she had all sorts of pleasant things to say about my personality. In the craziness after Isabela had appeared, I’d forgotten about the appointment, but once Zé came into the picture, well, things had changed.

“What’s wrong?” Lou asked. “Where’d you stick your dick? And how long are you going to be on antibiotics?”

“Real fucking classy.”

“Is it the drip?”

“Yeah, it’s the fucking drip.”

Tofu sizzled when she dropped it into the pan. Then she turned around and folded her arms.

“It’s Chuy,” I said, slumping in the chair. “It’s a fucking mess.”

When I finished telling her everything, she said, “You need to go to the police.”

“I thought about that.”

“Then why didn’t you? Because in case I misunderstood something, there’s a baby in your house, and you don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Chuy—”

“He’s a junkie! For all you know, he stole that child so he could trade her for a score!”

Lou moved the pan around on the stove, attacking the tofu with a turner. The only sounds were the scrape of metal on metal and the occasional sizzle and sputter.

“I’m worried,” she said in a softer voice. “About you.”

“The baby is his.”

Lou shook her head as she worked the pan back and forth over the flame.

“She’s his,” I said. “And I’m not going to abandon her.”

“Of course you’re not. That’s the whole problem.”

“What do you want me to do, Lou? Put her with some foster family?”

“She has a mother, dumbass.”

“Yeah, what a great fucking mother.”

“You don’t know the first thing about her.”

“Neither do you! But I know Chuy, and even though Chuy is a fuckup in about every way that counts, he wouldn’t hurt a child. Especially not his child. He brought that baby home for a reason.”

“Yes.” Lou turned around fast, waving the turner at me. “Because he knew this is exactly what would happen.”

“Don’t start with that.”

“Every fucking time, Fernando.”

“I said don’t start.”

“You’ve been cleaning up his messes since you were twelve years old.”

“Somebody has to.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? Leave her on the table crying? You talk this big fucking game about tough love and consequences and all that bullshit, but tell me what the fuck you would have done if it’d been you.”

She pulled the pan from the stove, and the only sound was the hiss of the gas feeding the burner. She turned that off. Then it was silent.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Playing reverse cowgirl in Vegas.”

“Jesus, Fer.”

I shrugged.

“I’m about to eat,” Lou said.

“You told me my mom is hot. I’m the one who was scarred for life.”

“Your mom is hot. I still don’t want to picture straight-people sex.”

She pulled down plates and served the food. The tofu had some sort of chili-maple glaze, and we ate it with a cabbage salad that was crisp and cold from the refrigerator. For a while, our forks and knives clinked against the plates.

Then, in a different voice, she said again, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m a big boy.”

She snorted. “Remember when you blasted that dick pic to the whole class?”

“I didn’t—”

“I guess big is a relative term. What are we talking? Big compared to those little swinging peanuts?”

“That wasn’t my dick! And that was Robbie’s idea of a fucking hilarious prank!” I tried to stop. “And the angle on that picture was terrible!”

“The little head was so cute. It had a lot of personality.”

I stared at her. “This is why I’m so fucked up. This is what Augustus is always yammering about. It’s because of you. Why do I ever talk to you?”

“Because I give you free weed.”

“There is that.”

The rest of the meal passed more easily, and as I carried the dishes to the sink, Lou asked, “So, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got something. Maybe. A nanny.”

“How big are her tits?”

“For fuck’s sake, Lou.”

“I’m asking.” She cupped her chest. “Stop me when I get there.”

“I have other friends. I have other people who I can talk to about things.”

Her hands were still moving. “Wait, seriously? Tell me when I—Fer, Jesus, you’re kidding me. There’s no way—”

“I can pay for weed. That’s what I should start doing. I have a job. I’ll buy some.”

“I’m starting over. Are we talking apples? Cantaloupes?”

“He’s a guy, dumbshit.”

Lou grimaced. “Come on. First you tell me about this super-hot nanny with giant tits—”

“I never said that!”

“—and now all of a sudden he’s a dude. What’s wrong with him?”

“What?”

“Is he gay?”

“Wait, hold on.”

“I knew it. ‘Oh Fernando, I keep dropping everything.’” She mimed bending over. “Oh Fernando, help me. Oh Fernando, if it slips in on accident, it’s not gay.”

“How can you literally be the most homophobic person I’ve ever met?”

Another snort. “I heard you on the phone with Augustus last time you were here. I think the phrase was ‘Cum-drunk monkey slut’ and there was something about getting stuck on Theo’s knob.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. That’s Augustus.”

“Is he cute?”

“No, Augustus looks like a Mack truck collided with a camel’s vagina.”

“The manny, shit-for-brains.”

I stressed each word. “He’s a guy.”

“I know. I heard you.” She gave me a considering look. “Why him?”

“Well, he’s the only candidate, so he’s got that going for him. Oh, and Isabela is already obsessed with him. And he watched her while I slept for four hours yesterday, and I swear to God, it was better than sex.”

An expression I couldn’t name flickered in Lou’s face when I named Isabela, but all she said was “If that’s not an exaggeration, something is wrong with your dick.”

“He even made dinner and straightened up the house.”

That same expression darted across Lou’s face again. “So, what’s the problem?”

“I need to run a background check.”

“Easy.”

“Seriously? You’ll do that?”

“We do background checks on everyone we hire. Get him up here, and we’ll do it. I’m not letting some pervert jack off in my niece’s crib.”

I pressed my thumbs against my eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“That was only an example.”

“No more lesbians. I’m going to find a lot of straight guys. Probably white guys. Bros.”

“Yeah,” Lou said, “that’ll work out great.”

The conversation shifted to the grow, and as usual, I was impressed. Lou’s operation was growing steadily, which made sense—she’d known what she wanted to do since we were in college, and as soon as California legalized cannabis, she’d poured everything into the farm. After updating me on the new strains she was trying, as well as loading me down with enough to get me through the month, Lou walked me to the Escalade. The breeze rippled the poly of the hoop houses, and it snapped and rustled as the familiar, musky scent filled my nose.

I almost made it out alive.

“What’s going on with Bea?” Lou asked when we were ten feet from the SUV.

Only ten feet. I could make it.

“You piece of shit,” Lou said.

“Give me a fucking break!”

“You didn’t text her.”

“Things came up.”

“You promised me you were going to text her. I told her you were going to text her.”

“I had a baby dropped into my lap. My universe imploded. I’m so fucking sorry for not texting your friend.”

“That was this week. It’s been four weeks, Fer—what happened the other three?”

“Believe it or not, I’m busy.”

“Sitting in front of the TV every night after work?” Lou asked. “Getting loaded in your underwear?”

“I have a life. I go out with friends. I go mountain biking.”

“You go out with friends,” she said in disgust. “When do you go mountain biking?

“Well, not since I hurt my back.”

“Are you for real right now? I’m trying to help you. You’re fucking miserable in that house, spending every minute being a fucking clean-up boy for those two human disasters—” Lou stopped, but too late. Some of the color left her face, but she managed to hold my eye as she mumbled, “Sorry.”

I opened the Escalade’s door.

“Fer, come on,” she said. “I’m sorry. We want you to be happy.”

“Hey, look at that—turns out, I’m fucking ecstatic.”

“It’s—” Indecision made her voice waver, and then she burst out, “Aren’t you lonely?”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “And I don’t need you to understand. But I do need you to keep your fucking opinions to yourself.”

“Fer.”

I almost said, They need me. I almost said, I have to search Mom’s room after every breakup. I almost said, Chuy got stabbed, did you know that? And who had to change the bandages and drive him to the doctor and get his prescriptions refilled? I almost said, When? When was I supposed to walk away? When I started college, and Augustus hadn’t even hit middle school? And I wanted to say, How? I don’t know how.

But, softening my voice, I said, “It was nice of you and Dakota to try to set me up. I’ll text her. What’s her name? Betty?”

Lou’s eyes were shiny with tears, but she said, “You are an asshole.”

I got behind the wheel. “We’re, uh, still on, right? The job, I mean.”

“We’re still straightening everything out. A couple of guys on the senior leadership team are dragging their heels.” Maybe she saw the worry on my face because she added, “It’s going to happen, Fer. I might need you to schmooze a little, help them realize you’re perfect for this. Everybody will be here in a few weeks for some meetings, and I want you to get some face time.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can. Make sure you clean the shit off your nose.”

I opened my mouth to—well, fuck you wasn’t technically a way of saying thanks—but my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket. A message from Zé. It was a picture of Isabela propped against the sofa in one of the clearance onesies I’d picked up—one of the hot dog ones. The text said, Igz misses you .

Igz, I thought, staring at that tiny, old man face and the little tuft of black hair.

Then I texted, That is the stupidest nickname I’ve ever heard .

Another picture came through in response: a photo of Zé holding Igz—God, it sounded absolutely awful, but now it was stuck in my head. He’d used some kind of filter, and they both had big, bushy black mustaches.

When I looked up, Lou was watching me, and I realized I was smiling.

“What?” I asked.

In a thoughtful voice, she said, “Have I ever told you that you’re an idiot?”