{"id":503,"date":"2012-11-26T20:46:57","date_gmt":"2012-11-27T04:46:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.bukkhead.com\/blog\/?p=503"},"modified":"2012-11-26T20:46:57","modified_gmt":"2012-11-27T04:46:57","slug":"the-custodians","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.bukkhead.com\/blog\/2012\/11\/26\/the-custodians\/","title":{"rendered":"The Custodians"},"content":{"rendered":"

fiction by Jason Edwards<\/em><\/p>\n

There I was, sitting in the kitchen reading the December, 1958 edition of The Economist<\/em> (yellowed pages, ads for blenders) when Lana called me from the other room. \u201cSteve,\u201d she said. So I got up, fetched my pipe, and walked into the den good naturedly.<\/p>\n

\u201cSteve,\u201d she said. \u201cI want to go buy a pair of boots.\u201d Her gaze was pointed more or less towards the television, although not quite focused on it. One of the ESPNs, what looked like some kind monster truck thing. Didn\u2019t matter, since who knows what Lana actually saw, inside her head.<\/p>\n

\u201cMacy\u2019s?\u201d I said, pretending to take a puff on the pipe.<\/p>\n

\u201cWoolworth\u2019s, Steve,\u201d she said. It used to sort of creep me out, how much she said my name. Well, not my name, really. My name is Douglas. I have no idea who Steve is.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I said, fighting back a sigh. They say yawns are contagious. I\u2019ve never seen Lana yawn. But if you sigh in her presence, she\u2019ll sigh back, and long, deep-chested sigh, the kind that can dim the lights in a room and put pictures in your mind of sloppy nooses, small caliber hands guns, discrete poisons.<\/p>\n

I stood there for a second, looking at her, frozen, which I knew pleased her. She liked it when we looked like a photograph taken by an old Brownie 127, which is why she wore orange capris with a mustard and brown horizontal striped knit sweater. Her head seemed to gently bobble on her long, almost ungainly neck. Her cream-colored lipstick and bee-stung lips, her pointed noise, enormous thick black eyelashes, lazy eyelids, hair swept up high, big bangs sweeping back over her head and cascading down her back, in desperate need of Lustre Cr\u00e8me.<\/p>\n

I usually came to the house dressed in blue jeans and a ratty old black concert t-shirt, but somehow, throughout the day, I found myself in slacks, a button up shirt, a sweater, my own hair brill-cremed. And I was always carrying this damn pipe. But, a job\u2019s a job. And no time like the present, so I picked Lana up and slung her over my shoulder, carried her out of the den and into the garage.<\/p>\n

Car port. When I came to the house every day I parked my 2008 Kia Spectra in the garage, but whenever Lana wanted me to take her someplace, it was a 1960 Ford Thunderbird, parked in a car port. You\u2019d think this would be cool, a sweet ride. No. The car was filthy, not well maintained, ran poorly. I mean, it was no worse than my Kia, but certainly no better. But I had gotten used to it. I opened the door, set Lana in the back seat, adjusted her body so she didn\u2019t seem to loll so much, then got behind the wheel, brushing aside fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups. I had no idea where they came from\u2014we never ate in the car, I was the only one who ever drove it, and I cleaned the damn thing out two or three times a week.<\/p>\n

Anyway. Whatever. I backed out and we drove to Macy\u2019s. Of course, Woolworth\u2019s went out of business in 1997. Didn\u2019t matter. I could\u2019ve taken Lana to Hot Topic\u2014in fact, I had once, and that\u2019s where she\u2019d gotten the orange capris. Lately, though, whenever she wanted me to take somewhere, I chose Macy\u2019s. I liked the mall because I could park far away in the huge lot. You see, sometimes when we came back to the car, it was a different car. Not often, but sometimes. And being able to park in a specific spot, away from everyone else, made it easier get past the cognitive dissonance.<\/p>\n

And the mall was a short drive. The first time we went out, I actually thought I should try and take her to an actual Woolworth\u2019s, so we went to the old one on Maple, which rotated between temporary usages\u2014election campaign headquarters, raves, Halloween costume stores\u2014but still had the old Woolworth\u2019s sign. That day there wasn\u2019t anything in the store itself, but I hadn\u2019t known any better. Carried Lana to the front door, and just stood there like an idiot. Back then I was still carrying her in front of me instead of over my shoulder. Some hipster prat (wool stocking cap, horn-rims, pierced lips, ear lobe plugs, full beard, blue short sleeve chambray worksheet buttoned to the neck, both arms tattooed from biceps to knuckles, Levi 511s rolled up to reveal naked ankles above busted Vans) was taking pictures of us with his iPhone, and Lana started singing \u201cBlue Velvet\u201d in the deep voice which means she\u2019s feeling uneasy, so we left.<\/p>\n

So now I know better. Like I said, I\u2019ve amused myself, now that I\u2019m a little more comfortable around her, since it sort of doesn\u2019t matter where we go. \u201cSteve. Gelato, Steve,\u201d and I\u2019ll take her to Arby\u2019s (she doesn\u2019t eat anything\u2014I\u2019ve never seen her eat). Or \u201cI want to buy you a beer, you big strapping man,\u201d and we\u2019ll go to Starbucks so I can get a mocha. But after a while, amusing myself sort of got boring, so now I just take her to the same few convenient locations.<\/p>\n

Like this Macy\u2019s. I slung her over my shoulder and marched towards the store front. No one gave us a second glance. When I felt weird carrying Lana around, people would stare. Then I stopped caring, and so did they. And it\u2019s interesting to me\u2014Lana doesn\u2019t weigh very much, but it would be a lie to say she weighed less than, say, a sack of wet rice. She was definitely proportional to a slender twenty-six year old five foot seven inch bottle-red head. But you know how it is\u2014the perception was that she was light. Toss me a 50 pound sack of potatoes, and I\u2019ll marvel out how ungainly it is. But Lana was just Lana, and carrying her over my shoulder was really no big deal.<\/p>\n

We got inside the Macy\u2019s and I set her down in the evening gown section. She said she wanted boots, but I knew better\u2014she wanted to drift around the dresses, humming to herself and letting her fingers caress the fabrics. It was the only time I ever saw her walk on her own. She wore pants\u2014orange capris, like I said\u2014and I could see her feet move. But on days when she wore dresses, I swear it looked like she was floating. Her head never bounced or bobbed.<\/p>\n

I let her go to it and sought out the men\u2019s room for a quick smoke. You can\u2019t smoke in Macy\u2019s. You\u2019re not even allowed to in the restroom. But when I got there, I snapped a Chesterfield out of a pack and had a few quick drags. I don\u2019t smoke, and I have to special order these damn things from a tobacconists in England, since they don\u2019t sell them where I live and shipping cigarettes over state lines requires a special license that I don\u2019t have.<\/p>\n

And if you\u2019re wondering, don\u2019t, because there\u2019s no use to it and you won\u2019t get anywhere anyway. I mean I\u2019ve tried. I was looking for work, answered an ad in the paper for a \u201cpersonal custodian,\u201d and just sort of started showing up at the house where Lana lives. Or, if not lives, is. Nothing is ever consistent, sometimes I recognize things from the late 50s, early 60s, those few months in the 80s when everyone thought they were doing 50s retro but were really doing 60s retro. For a few days it was 90s retro 70s, but Lana didn\u2019t seem to like it much so I don\u2019t know if she controls it or if someone else does or if, somehow, I do. I try not to think about it. I try not to look things up in the internet anymore. I mean, I\u2019m pretty sure The Economist never ran ads for blenders\u2014that was probably Life magazine. The point is\u2026 well, there is no point. I show up and do what Lana wants and everything seems to be fine and who am I to judge? I don\u2019t know even know who I am, so who am I to judge?<\/p>\n

I finished my cigarette, looked at myself in the mirror, decided I needed a shave. Or a martini. Instead I went back to the gowns to see how Lana was doing. When I got there, she was talking to someone\u2026 or at least the Lana version of talking, which was to stand close as if in conversation, but sort of gaze over their shoulder. I\u2019d seen her do that with salespeople, mannequins, the homeless, old ladies at bus stops. Usually they just stood there too, as if content to have a conversation without words\u2014again, as if captured in a photograph.<\/p>\n

This time, oddly, Lana was actually saying things, and so was the other person\u2014a thin girl in a purple satin dress, spaghetti straps, wavy brunette hair, maybe too much eye-makeup, cheek bones that didn\u2019t say genetics as much as they said wealthy eating disorder. She seemed vaguely familiar.<\/p>\n

I wanted to hear what they were saying, so I moved closer, but slowly, so as not to disturb them. As I did, a burly man dressed in a tight brown Hugo Boss suit entirely well-fitted but entirely wrong for his body stepped in front of me. \u201cCan I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n

I knew he didn\u2019t work there, but it clicked almost immediately. \u201cI\u2019m with the lady in the stripes there. Can I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled. \u201cPersonal custodian?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I smiled back. \u201cYeah. Mine\u2019s Lana.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAllegra,\u201d he said, and took a step to the side so we could both watch them. \u201cI\u2019d always assumed I was the only one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d I said. I tried not to think about it too much, but found I was somehow comforted.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does yours work? Does she take you on jets?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u201cNo, mostly we just go shopping.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded. \u201cYeah, we do that sometimes. Mostly I take her to the airport. We get on privates jets\u2014they don\u2019t go anywhere. I read GQ, she holds a cell phone up to her ear. Never says anything. This is the first time I\u2019ve seen her talk to anyone else.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d We stand there for a while, watching, not quite making out what they\u2019re saying. Eventually, Lana drifted away from the other girl, and the guy turned to me. \u201cAntonio\u201d he said, holding out his hand.<\/p>\n

We shake. \u201cSteve,\u201d I said. \u201cActually, it\u2019s Douglas.\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled again, and then chuckled. \u201cI used to be Dave.\u201d He walked towards his girl.<\/p>\n

I went over to Lana. \u201cReady to go home?\u201d<\/p>\n

She turned to me, a sort of smiled, looking over my shoulder. \u201cTake me home, Steve.\u201d So I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder. I turned, and Antonio (Dave) had his girl over his shoulder too, a big grin on his face, almost as big as mine. We left through different doors.<\/p>\n

I walked us back to the car (still a 1960 Ford Thunderbird) and settled Lana into the back seat. Got behind the wheel, and glanced at her in the rearview. Somehow, she was holding a shoebox, what looked like a picture of cowboy boots on them. I sighed a sigh of contentment, and Lana picked it up, and sighed too. It wasn\u2019t so bad.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

fiction by Jason Edwards There I was, sitting in the kitchen reading the December, 1958 edition of The Economist (yellowed pages, ads for blenders) when Lana called me from the other room. \u201cSteve,\u201d she said. So I got up, fetched my pipe, and walked into the den good naturedly. \u201cSteve,\u201d she said. \u201cI want to … <\/p>\n

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