She drove a 1963 Pearl Cadillac Coupe DeVille with bullet holes in the door and a horn that played Gospel music. “It was Elvis’s car,” she would tell anyone that would ask. He bought the car while he was busy making movies in Hollywood, and it still had the California sunshine trapped inside. She had a letter of authenticity signed in ballpoint pen by some movie producer. She kept it locked up in the glove box in case someone didn’t believe her.
We would drive around with the windows rolled down, listening to the engine and the road and wind rushing past. She would play Bob Dylan songs on the portable 8-track player in the seat between us and we would hum along. She never spoke, not until we got back to the trailer.
She would get out and look over the roof of the car directly at me, her big sunglasses hiding her sad eyes. She would smile a little. She would always shift her hips and walk me inside for a cold drink.
We would sit outside on the Astroturf rug, in the springy metal lawn furniture, staring out at the desert beyond the flamingos and jockeys still in their sweet repose. She would hand me Coke after Coke while she sipped on a pint of whiskey she always had hidden in her back pocket. Then we would crawl into the hammock hanging under the pop-out awning and sleep in the cold desert air. “I need some sugar, sugar.” I’d curl up next to her like a kitten who just found a warm spot to nap.
But that was then, when things were good. That was before she started drinking alone and wrecked Elvis’s Cadillac. That was before I would wake up and find her crying in the tiny bathroom of the trailer. This was long before she would wander off with a shotgun into the desert and come back a few shells lighter than when she left.
“I’ll never leave the desert,” she would say with a smile. That was on her good days. On her bad days she was throwing rocks and hunting ghosts with her 12-gauge. Those were the days that I was scared to be around her.
I had just made us breakfast, making up a song about bacon and eggs while I served her in my underwear. She screamed and threw the plate out of the window.
“I can’t eat this!”
“Momma, It’s just some bacon,”
“I’m not mad at you. You didn’t know.”
“Know what, momma?”
“That they poisoned it.”
“No one poisoned it. See?” I took a few bites. I smiled, my mouth full of food, and syrup dripping out to make her laugh. She got her shotgun from beside the bed and sat down with her back against a wall, facing the door.
“They’re trying to get me, but I’ll be ready.”
Her eyes had gone hard and cold. They reminded me of a bag of marbles, rattling around in my pocket.
She told me to sit down beside her. I listened. I tucked my knees up under my chin. The metal bathroom door was cold against my bare back. I held my palms flat against my ears while she fired a few shells, blasting holes in the door. My ears started ringing. I felt like I was about to pass out
She slid the barrel of the shotgun under my chin. “Don’t worry, sugar. I won’t let them get you. I’d never let that happen. I’ll kill you before I let them get you.”
“Momma. No one’s there. See?” I don’t know how, but I pulled together some courage and opened the door. I walked outside to show her that no one was there. I don’t think she ever really believed me.
There were times, mostly when she was inside crying, that I would sit outside in the springy metal chairs and pretend my daddy was there, though I'd never met him.
He wouldn’t be anything like her stories. He would drive up in a pickup truck that would backfire when it stopped. He would climb out, with a little sheepish grin and apologize for staying away so long. He would be wearing bluejeans that were cuffed above his sneakers, and a plaid short sleeve shirt, tucked in, just like the ones she would put me in when we had company. Some days we would even match.
He would come sit down in a chair next to me, and hand me a cold bottle of Coke. He’d have one for himself. He would ask how I’ve been, and if I’ve been good at school. I would tell him that the coach let me pitch the last baseball game. That wasn’t the truth though, the coach had never let me pitch.
Maybe he had a house somewhere. Nothing too big, or too small. At his house, he had a little dog that he was keeping around for me to come and visit. He also had a new momma.
But this time, I couldn’t go sit outside and pretend. She had the barrel of that shotgun pointedright at me the whole time. In an act of defiance that I was sure would be my last, I turned my back to her.
“Fine, Momma. Shoot me. But there’s nobody here.” I sat down right on the Astroturf, my back still to her. I crossed my arms and looked out into the desert.
I heard her creaking around inside the trailer. I started to wonder if she had shot me. I had always figured that getting shot would hurt. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe the cowboys on TV were all just faking it. The truth was that I had never been shot, so how could I really know what it was like? And likewise, how could they?
The wind picked up a little. I could see a couple of lizards playing way off in the distance. I thought about how hot they must be on those rocks. Whenever I walked around barefoot on the rocks, my toes always burned. They should be wearing shoes.
Dave writes weird little things on paper, because he doesn't know how to say the weird little things in his head. Twitter@poemsandrobots