The Dominant Hand Page 4

  The tall kid half turned and his foot twisted on the ground. He nodded his head slightly.

  “How?” Marcus asked. The album was something he had never expected to sell; he just brought it in because he wanted the British band to have their album in a stateside store.

  “I’ve got a friend in England who sent me one of their EPs and I saw that you had it the other day but I don’t have the money for it. Sorry.”

  “What’s your name?” Marcus asked.

  “T.J.”

  Marcus stood up and walked around the counter.

  “If I give you seven dollars and you go to Bison Witches to get me a bowl of clam chowder, I’ll let you have the album,” Marcus said.

  “Are you serious?” T.J. asked.

  “Yes. What other British bands do you know of?”

  “You mean like Coldplay?” T.J.’s friend asked.

  “Get out,” Marcus replied, pointing the friend out of the store.

  The friend was insulted, but didn’t move.

  “Get out of here, man,” T.J. whispered. “I’ll find you later.”

  *******

  A tall, thick-shouldered German named Dirk leaned on the counter talking obscure folk music with Marcus. Business was slow, aside from a guy in the back who was digging through the used records. The door pinged, drawing Marcus’ attention away. Dirk shifted uncomfortably when he saw who was walking through the door.

  “Hullo,” Dirk said to Eric Brimes, a wealthy car dealer and donor to the University of Oklahoma. The store didn’t get many of Brimes’s kind. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, had sharply combed hair and reeked of a rich man’s cologne.

  “Dirk,” Brimes said with a quick-trigger smile. “How is the knee?”

  Marcus liked Dirk despite his being a varsity athlete at OU. It helped that Dirk was also an encyclopedia of obscure Eastern European music, which Marcus loved. Dirk also liked David Hasslehoff, which Marcus found endearing.

  “It’s good,” Dirk mumbled, nodding his head and stiffening his back.

  “Good,” Brimes replied, patting him on the shoulder as if he was preparing to buy a racehorse. Brimes looked over at Marcus and nodded before walking through the store.

  “Tell Andy congratulations for me,” Brimes said to Marcus without looking back at him.

  “Who?”

  “Umm. Andy Nunez,” Brimes chuckled, referring to a Norman musician and venue owner that rich people liked to say they knew.

  “Okay, for what?”

  “That Rolling Stone mention.”

  Marcus smiled, realizing that Brimes was talking about the record store being mentioned on the back page of Rolling Stone.

  “What Rolling Stone thing?” Marcus asked innocently.

  “The store, getting into Rolling Stone,” Brimes replied, irritated. “Andy owns this store, right?”

  “No, I own this store,” Marcus corrected. “Thank you all the same.”

  “Oh,” Brimes replied. “Well, you’re welcome.”

  Brimes turned and walked through the store, passing a man at the used records and continuing to the discount bin. Brimes shuffled through the discs and soon returned with a copy of P.M. Dawn.

  “Is that all for you?” Marcus asked, ringing up the disc.

  “Yeah.”

  Brimes paid and left without saying another word.

  “So is P.M. Dawn a heavy seller of yours?” Dirk smirked, as they watched Brimes hop into his bright red Corvette convertible.

  “I guess it was my fault for having it in the store; I should have thrown it away if I didn’t want anyone to buy it,” Marcus chuckled. “Maybe I should just rename my store Jim Jacobs, Wayne Coyne and Andy Nunez Records.”

  The man who was digging through the records passed by the counter, nodding slightly as he left. The man’s hair was tightly cut and he wore a powder blue polo, another unusual sight at the store.

  “Thanks,” Marcus smiled.

  “Who was that?” Dirk asked, once the man walked out.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “He’s been in pretty regularly the last couple weeks. He spends a lot of time at the records and usually buys something.”

  Dirk grunted as they watched the man walk down the sidewalk, disappearing into a side street.

  “He sort of looks like an off-duty cop,” Dirk grinned. “Are you being investigated for tax evasion?”

  “I guess, or maybe they’re staking me out to see if they can get some dirt on Jim.”

  “Ooh, do you have dirt?”

  Marcus chuckled and shook his head.

  “Sorry, man, that whole group isn’t nearly as interesting as everybody wants to make them out to be,” Marcus said.

  “What about what happened with your friend from Dallas?”

  “Ira?” Marcus asked with a sigh. He leaned back in his chair.

  “They didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Are you sure?” Dirk asked. “I’ve heard …”

  “They didn’t have anything to do with it. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Dirk shrugged. The door opened again and Marcus’s wife, a short, bob-haired blonde, walked in and skipped behind the counter. She pecked a kiss on Marcus’ furry cheek and slapped his butt.

  “Get outta here, sweet cakes,” she chirped, as she sat down and turned on a small television by the register. “Hey Dirk.”

  “Hullo.”

  “Thank you, honey, how are the kids?” Marcus asked.

  “They’re with my parents; they’re going to Incredible Pizza, so they’re fine.”

  “Are you going to Dallas?” Dirk asked, and Marcus nodded. “How is … uh …”

  “Ira,” Marcus repeated.

  “Yeah, how is he doing?”

  Marcus scratched his beard, grinned weakly as his wife reached out and rubbed his arm.

  “Not good.”

  2

  When traveling long distances, such as his two hour and fifty-two minute trip to Dallas, there was an order to the venture consisting of:

  I. Collect CDs, which itself had an order consisting of:

  A. Start off with R.E.M.’s “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?” It was a nice start to a long drive and made the trip feel like an adventure.

  B. Compile an orderly progression of music to maintain a positive driving mind set.

  C. Ensure there is just enough music to get you there and back without overloading yourself with choices.

  II. Clean out the car thoroughly, even if no one else is riding with you.

  III. Arrange for enough time to stop by various landmarks such as:

  A. Notable record stores, though there were only a few worth Marcus’s time.

  B. The white barn of porn DVDs and magazines—not to buy anything, but to keep the mind invigorated for the last leg of the trip.

  C. Braum’s in Denton to get a cup of coffee so he wouldn’t seem overly drained from the car ride. He couldn’t get it before, otherwise he might need to stop to use a gas station bathroom before Dallas. He hated gas station bathrooms. He didn’t particularly like the Braum’s bathroom either, but he was used to it.

  He annoyed many passengers in the past with his rituals, even if he skipped the porn stop because he didn’t want to weird them out. Marcus felt that getaways from the store were few and each car trip out of Oklahoma should be made into a mini-vacation, and vacations that were well-structured didn’t stress Marcus out.

  His mood was somber, given the purpose of the trip, so he packed heavily on kitschy albums such as Monty Python, William Shatner and John Wayne’s spoken word. He also avoided packing any albums that would remind him of Ira; the car ride would be lonely enough as it was.

  ******

  Marcus sometimes shook when he was anxious—just small spasms, as if he were shaking the bad thoughts out of his body. He shook when he realized he’d only visited Ira at the hospital three times. Ira was Marcus’s best friend; he was the person who’d breathed fir
e into Marcus’ passion for music. Marcus wouldn’t own a record store had it not been for Ira.

  Marcus gripped the steering wheel tight and let his eyes water. He shook again. It made Marcus nervous when he thought about Ira because he didn’t know what to think.

  Marcus was agnostic, Ira was Christian. Marcus decided not to be bitter about Ira because:

  I. Ira would resent Marcus if he used Ira’s condition as an excuse to hate God.

  II. A miracle might still happen, and Marcus didn’t want to do anything that might convince God not to let Ira wake up, though Marcus didn’t really believe God would have anything to do with it.

  III. Marcus didn’t really believe God had anything to do with anything, and blaming him for Ira’s incident would be fruitless because Marcus had no way of holding God to account anyway.

  The miles of yellow-striped pavement streamed underneath the car. Marcus thought of his friend often despite what Dr. Demento said. Marcus wasn’t ready when he saw Dallas in the distance.

  ******

  Ira’s face was chubbier than it had been before the incident. He was gaining weight because of his inactivity. His young wife, Amber, was wrapped in a comforter as she sat in a plastic chair and crocheted. The only sound was the occasional beep from the stacks of medical equipment around Ira’s bed. His hair was neatly trimmed, a scar was left from the tracheotomy and he had on earphones, which led down to an iPod. His broken nose had healed awkwardly so it bent slightly to the left, but without the pronounced bump Marcus had seen in other broken noses. There were a few scars on Ira’s face, but the majority of the scars were hidden on the top and back of his head.

  Ira’s eyes would open from time to time and he’d look around, but it wasn’t because he was awake. Marcus hadn’t realized that people in a coma did that; he thought they laid peacefully with their eyes closed until that moment right before the doctor pulled the plug, and then BAM! They woke up.

  As it turns out, the eyes wandered sort of like a newborn’s. They couldn’t actually see anything, but they were open because that is what they were designed to do. Every once in a while, the earphones would slip off and Marcus or Amber would replace them. Marcus wanted to look through the playlist to make sure there wasn’t anything on there that Ira wouldn’t want to be trapped in a coma listening to, but he worried that would be overstepping his bounds.

  Ira grunted and shifted, his big eyes scanning up and around, but not directed at anything in particular. When those eyes began tracking objects in the room, that’s when he’d be awake. Marcus wondered who Ira would be when that happened, if it happened. Marcus decided on these possibilities:

  I. Ira would be the music expert who loved his wife, loved his merciful God and loved the Dallas Mavericks.

  II. Ira would be mostly the same, but maybe would have a hard time remembering things.

  III. Ira would be a shadow of the friend Marcus so dearly missed.

  After five months, Marcus wasn’t sure if it was even possible for Ira to wake up and be Ira anymore. If that was the case, Marcus often thought about what situations would justify Ira being better off dead, and whether Marcus would be strong enough to pull the plug if he was asked to.

  He didn’t want to make a list for either of those questions.

  “So how’s the store?” Amber asked with a weary, yet honey-sweet smile.

  “It’s good, still making a profit.”

  “How are the boys?”

  “Really good, going to school now,” Marcus said. “They ask about Ira a lot, they wanted to come with me, but it just wasn’t possible.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Marcus didn’t like many of Ira’s previous romances, but he loved Amber. She was casual, relaxed, confident and generous with Ira’s friends. You didn’t have to fight her to spend time with Ira, there was nothing overbearing about her. That was unusual for someone Ira dated.

  “I brought some music for Ira; where do you want me to leave it?” Marcus asked.

  Amber held out her hand, so Marcus dug through his pack and handed her the stack of CDs. He’d already unwrapped them for her, as a small way to do anything he could to help. She never asked him for anything, which made him feel uncomfortable and ineffectual.

  “Are you hungry?” Marcus asked. She shook her head.

  “Well, I’ll be back in a little bit, I didn’t eat on the way down.”

  “You didn’t stop at the Braum’s?” she asked.

  “No, I forgot.”

  “That’s so unlike you.”

  Marcus chuckled.

  “So, no more cops at the door, huh?” Marcus asked.

  She shrugged.

  “They still come by from time to time to ask if Ira knew this person or that person,” she said. “They don’t tell me much. Have you heard anything? Are they still looking at those cult people in Norman?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that they are,” Marcus mumbled, looking at Ira. “I’ve also heard rumors that they are looking at gang members. They’ll find them though, whoever did it.”

  He squeezed Ira’s arm and retreated from the room. He stepped into a public bathroom, checked the stalls, sat the timer on his watch for twenty seconds and allowed himself to cry until it beeped. He dried his eyes and went to find a Braum’s because it did really bother him that he hadn’t remembered to stop on the way to Dallas.

  Jack Daniels

  “Okay, JD, we’re ready, come in,” a crackling female voice called through the door.

  “We?” Jack Daniels muttered to himself. He tightened his kimono and pulled his long gray hair back behind his shoulders. He reached for the door, but paused.

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “It’s a surrrrpriiise,” she sang.

  JD knew for a fact that no one had snuck into the building, and there really wasn’t a way to climb up to the loft above his small club, The Listening Room. As he grew older, he became less patient with surprises, because with sex, the unexpected was rarely pleasant.

  JD opened the door, hoping for the best but already regretting wasting a Viagra on a woman he wasn’t sure he even wanted to fuck anyway. She had nicknamed herself “Orchid.” That was the only description he ever gave his friends when they asked about her. He felt it said everything. Well, that and the fact that she claimed they shared a common Native American heritage when he knew she was actually an Italian from New Jersey.

  “Surprise,” Orchid cooed as she peeled off a bathrobe to reveal an oversized French maid’s outfit. It hung on her body in all the wrong ways. It revealed all the wrinkled and scarred parts of her stomach, breasts and arms that looked like topographical maps, but hid her butt, which was actually quite decent for a lady her age.

  You could see decades of smoking in the deep fissures surrounding her mouth and her persistent hacking coughs. Years of meth had eaten into her cracked, yellow and brown teeth, and there was a long, thin scar on her throat she refused to explain.

  “Oh, very nice,” JD smiled, relieved that it wasn’t something worse. He suspected that the outfit was either loaned by a friend or found in a dumpster.

  “What about Brucey?” Orchid asked. “Doesn’t he look handsome?”

  JD glanced down to Orchid’s Labrador sitting next to the bed. He was wearing a business vest and tie with little shoes strapped onto his paws. The dog’s big brown eyes were fixed to the ground in humiliation.

  “I guess so,” JD said.

  She slid off the bed and hugged Brucey, then gave JD a long, doe-eyed stare.

  “Umm …” JD began.

  “I just think that after knowing each other for a while now,” Orchid purred as she stood and sashayed toward JD, “our lovemaking has been so special that I think that Brucey has been left out.”

  “Whoa!” JD said, jerking back from Orchid, and backing against the wall. “I’m not having sex with a dog, woman!”

  “Jack Daniels!” she snapped, moving to the dog and covering his ears. “You are so vulgar!”


  She then looked down at the dog, cooing and rubbing his fur. The dog wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she purred to Brucey. She covered the dog’s ears again, and looked up to JD, who was still pressed back against the wall. “I didn’t mean you’d have sex with him, you gross little man. I meant, maybe he could be in the room to take in the energy we create.”

  JD half-turned from Orchid and her dog as he slowly reached for the door handle.

  “I just don’t think I can dig on that, baby,” JD said.

  “It’s okay,” she replied, standing up and approaching JD. If he could have sunk into the wall, he would have. He considered tossing her out on the sidewalk, maid’s outfit and all. He had taken a Viagra, though, so he decided to hear her out.

  “I brought his home,” she said, referring to his cage. “He’ll be locked up, but he’ll also be witnessing the beauty of flowering.”

  JD didn’t like it when she called fucking “flowering.” He didn’t know what she would be doing, but he certainly wouldn’t be doing anything remotely like “flowering.”

  “He’ll be in his cage?” JD asked.

  ******

  “Bullshit, you actually went through with it?” Austin laughed.

  JD sat on the stage of The Listening Room, plucking at his acoustic while Austin and Tiny Tim laughed so hard he could feel the vibrations on the body of his guitar.

  “Okay, ha ha,” JD snarled. “Enough of my sex life.”

  “All right, boss,” said Austin, a short, sharp-jawed greaser with slicked-back salt and pepper hair. He was still laughing as he switched on the sound board. Austin normally ran in the rockabilly crowd and brought a lot of those shows over to The Listening Room. Greasers behaved respectfully and always bought a bunch of beer so JD didn’t mind, though the hippie in JD never felt comfortable around them. Austin would fix JD’s car for him cheap, and JD did like that.

  Tiny Tim, a tall, thick-shouldered farmer began unraveling an amp cord as he tried to stifle his laughter. A laugh burped out of him, and soon Austin was laughing, too.