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I

I wanted to conquer the world that morning, but my beer tasted skunky and my head was full of cats.

I thought about getting to a meeting.  

As I reached for the door, it swung inwards, nearly clipping my face. Jing’s five-feet-four inches of lean purpose brushed past me with a basket full of clean laundry. That made it Tuesday, after the maid brigade blew through the giant house. The star of my heavens was many things, but a laundress was not one of them.

Jing was breathtaking when we first met and lovely still. Back when we were dating, she liked sex as much as I did, approaching it with an enthusiasm I found both wonderful and terrifying. More importantly, we were friends. I enjoyed listening to her talk about her work back then, though I understood only a fraction of it. She listened to my dreams without making fun of me. We never judged each other’s failings. Back then. I confess, I could live in those days forever in my mind, but Jing lived in the real world, focusing on her career in Big Pharma.

Murder blazed up from the unfathomable depths of her sloe eyes as she spotted the Bud tall boy in my hand.

I said, “Just coming to see you. I have the rent!” I smiled. She didn’t. “Well, most of the rent. I’ll have the rest— “

Jing cut me off. “Keep it.” She set down the basket and pulled out an envelope that was tucked among my shirts. Plopping it down on the kitchenette counter, she said, “Here’s money.” Yanking the beer from my hand and pouring it down the sink, she added, “You won’t be finishing this. I need you to watch Zack. In four hours, I’ll be on a plane for Tokyo.”

“What’s in Tokyo?”

“Five-hundred-dollar wagyu steaks and a boss who’ll stuff me full of ‘em if we finish this project.” I was pretty certain that wasn’t all her boss, Frank, wanted to stuff into her, not that it was any of my business at the moment. Funny how playing with pharmaceuticals made some men as rich as pharaohs and left others paying rent for a guest cottage in their own backyard. My sometime wife went on, “I need you to stay in the house til at least Friday. Maybe all weekend, too. Jessa is supposed to swing by. Give her the check on the kitchen counter; it’s for Emory, so don’t forget. It’s fine if Zack hangs out with his buddies, but they can’t drink. You either. Seriously, Zee. And yes, beer counts as drinking. You want to rebuild our trust? Don’t blow it. Get Zack to bed by midnight. He has summer school and if he flunks, he’ll end up repeating eleventh grade. If he goes out, tell him to keep his phone on… and remind him to actually answer the thing.”

“Check. And good luck.” She was calling me Zee again, not that name my mom picked out. That was a good sign.

Expressionless, she hurried around the cottage, loading my clean undies into drawers, and picking my dirties from the floor. I heard her hiss, “Chòu si le!” (I knew that one! It meant, ‘Stinks to heaven!’) Living in a studio cottage tended to concentrate my slovenly ways. From a chair, she lifted the Martin Dreadnought she’d given me for my fortieth birthday – a day I’d spent alone with the shiny new guitar and a bottle – and placed it gently in its case. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had shaken it to see whether I’d stashed anything inside, but she didn’t.     

Jing finished and looked me straight in the eye. “Be his father for a change,” she said. That hurt. “Remember, under no circumstances are you to Uber with the Lexus; use your Corolla and stay out of our neighborhood. Don’t burn the house down, do a good job with the kids, and maybe we can fool around when I get back.” Somehow, the prospect of getting a pity poke from the mother of my children hurt even worse.

This was the first time since our big blow-up that she was headed off. She’d been to China solo on more business trips than I could count, plus stops all over the map. We used to go together. I drove Jing to the airport in her brand spankin’ new 2018 candy apple red Lexus hybrid. I-85 traffic was easier to take in luxury. Maynard Jackson International Terminal, named for one of Atlanta’s larger-than-life mayors, had speedy curbside drop-off, as opposed to the congested nightmare at the domestic terminals. Porters with strong backs took her luggage.

“What about this bad boy?” I asked, pointing to a big aluminum trunk I’d never seen before. With the other bags cleared from the back, I noticed it was plugged into an outlet in the Lexus’s floorboard. Lord, they stuffed enough gadgets into a ninety-thousand-dollar SUV.

“That stays, Zee. Someone’s stopping by to get it. They’ll contact you. Remember to plug the car in the garage charger when you get home.” She kissed me on the cheek. I almost pulled her close for a real good-bye kiss and maybe a fanny grab, but I didn’t. It’d been a while since we had been that couple. Maybe this week would go well and…

Giving orders the whole way while simultaneously talking on her phone, my gal led two porters through the glass doors and over to the check-in counter. I got back in the Lexus (which cost more than the house I was born in) and pulled away from the curb.

One good thing about Uber was you could switch vehicles in the app. The Lexus commanded a higher fee than my Toyota. It seemed a shame not to take advantage of being at the airport.

Sure enough, I got a call to the Ride Share lot. A woman named Patricia got in. I peeked in the rear view: nice hair, smart suit, permanent scowl. Business type. I’d had my fill of those during my seventeen years in marketing. I was a free man now. I answered to no one, except whomever I answered to at the moment. No big bosses, anyway. My business card read: ‘Zebulon Angell -- Gig Mage.’

“Have a nice flight?” I asked. She grunted a reply, basically saying, “Shut up and drive.”

I fiddled with the dash controls and put on music. My music.

The years fly by

We’re halfway done

On our way to the sky

I hoped we’d go on and on

But the ache never leaves

And in the end

I never thought that I

could hate the word ‘friend’

The Martin needed tuning. Maybe a new D string. Maybe all new strings, whatever. I’m a writer, not a singer. This was a demo. All I needed was for someone to hear my lyrics. If I had to drive richy rich skirt back there, she was going to get an audition. Next came the tear-jerking refrain:

We’re just one heart shy of romance

One trick short of a magic store

One fool’s wishing his life away

Dreamin’ up a dream… of so much more

 

I pulled the SUV amongst the northbound interstate turtles, grinning and ready to spring my surprise on Miss Patricia.

“I bet you’ve never heard this artist before. Funny thing…”

“Don’t let wishes steal your life,” cautioned a small voice.

I glanced back in the mirror. Patricia was wearing a pair of those space alien antennae in her ears. A moment later, sabers flew from her lips as she opened a conference call with her team.

“I don’t need to know why the numbers are low,” she said in coiled Cobra tones. “I need to know the numbers are where they’re supposed to be. Jack, you need to get your sales reps in line. They’re new; work with them. Better yet, bounce the losers: Kieran and Benjie. There are plenty of good dogs, no need to keep the bad ones. The quarterlies are due in eleven days. Eleven days, people. Am I clear on this?” She was clear on that. I didn’t even work for her and I was terrified.

I switched off my music and put on the radio. Chris Stapleton, the lucky hack, would take it from here.

I let Patricia out at the Hilton on Courtland. She was on another call, reaming some poor wage slave. She offered me no good-bye, and no tip. I thought unkind thoughts. Another good thing about Uber driving is it let me be judgmental. It was like being in church.

As I pulled out of the hotel’s circular drive, a motorcyclist with his darkened visor pulled down nearly clipped my front end. He gunned his Harley’s engine to assert his dubious masculinity and raced off recklessly through traffic. I hate bikers. They’re such puffed-up jackoffs.   

I headed home. No more Uber calls for now. I pulled in our huge garage and plugged in the Lexus. Zack would be back around five. That gave me enough time for a quick beer and a nap. No point in getting to a meeting now, I’d only be getting another white chip anyway and I had a drawer full of those. Tomorrow would be better. Or next Monday to start the week off right.

 My phone rang. It was Nitro, my former sponsee – the guy who thought I had the keys to sobriety.

“Dude, I want to help, I really do, but you need someone who’s got a few thirty days put together. I’ve gone out.” A few months of steady sobriety sounded impossible at that point. Days sure, but nights, no way.

Jessa’s orange tabby, Damn Kitty, looked up at me from its cookie bowl and ran away like her tail was on fire. I used to love that cat.

On the phone, Nitro was getting frantic. “I gotta meet with you. You gotta help me.”

This was against the rules, since I’d gone out and should not sponsor anyone just then, but he wouldn’t listen.

As we spoke, I sorted through the mail on the counter. Jessa’s envelope was still there. Good, I hadn’t missed her. Georgia Power’s monthly love letter was (still) addressed to me. I opened it… and nearly died. What the hell was using that much juice? I immediately thought of the Lexus and its new cargo box. It had to be a freezer. Maybe Jing’s boss had sent her some samples of his fine beef. What good were pricey steaks if they cost a fortune to store?

Nitro was yammering on. He had worked himself up into a frenzy.

“Nitro. Nitro. Are you drinking now? Are you drunk right now?”

“No! I’m straight.” He wasn’t slurring, at least no more than he usually did. “I’m so damn straight. That’s just it.”

“Just what?”

“I’ve changed, Zebulon.” Nitro took a breath. “I am transformed! I got turned into a god and it’s killing me.”

 

II

 

 

Nitro was a decent enough older guy, older than me anyway. With yellowing teeth, facial scruff, and a Greek sailor’s cap perched atop a frizzy head of hair somewhere between Frederick Douglass and Fred G. Sanford, he came off a bit pathetic. Divorce will do that to a man. Nitro had been run through the mill three times.  

Getting to him took time. I knew I had to make this quick if I was going to get home for Zack. I turned the Lexus in to a rundown restaurant on Buford Highway and found him waiting at a table; no food, just water. The waitress loved that, I’m sure. I could tell he was upset, though. He could barely hold the glass steady in his hands.

He jumped up when he saw me. “Zebulon! Thank Sweet Chocolate Jesus you’re here!” I held up both hands, palms out, before he hugged me. I sat down and ordered us chips and salsa.

We were supposed to be going through the Twelve Steps, not that I was an expert. I used to have some time put together, eighteen months. A few beers and a wet-brained decision to sell stuff from Jing’s professional supplies changed that. Sometimes we read a few pages from the Big Book, but Nitro mostly used me to run his errands. He had been trying for more than a year to get a driver’s license, having lost it to a DUI. We studied together for two weeks. Finally, we got up early one morning and drove all the way to Whitehall Street, in a crappy part of Southwest Atlanta. I waited outside the DMV for two solid hours. Nitro had been drinking the night before and flunked the test.

“Nitro, I’ve got like ten minutes before I have to head back. I’ve got – “

“That’s fine! This won’t take only a minute.” So, this claim of godhood was no big deal? Glad I drove down. He explained, “My Bessie brought me something. Some chewy candy.” Bessie was future ex-wife number four. “It tasted kinda fruity, kinda nasty. She said I needed it if I wanted to please her. I said fine. I chased it with Colt ’45 and it went down fine. And damn if I didn’t please her. Pleased her, pleased me. That’s how it went all night and the next day besides.

“Next thing I know, she’s so pleased, she’s runnin’ her mouth all over town.” Sometimes Nitro’s ings had a g, but when he got worked up he clipped them short. “You know Bessie is tight with my ex. So, I’m minding my own business and suddenly here comes Doris.”

“I thought Dina was your ex.”

“No, not Dina. Not Dina any damn day of the week. She’s another ex, the mean one.” I sipped my Coke and followed along as best I could. “This was Doris standing there, and she wants to be pleased. Well, I wasn’t gonna say no. Doris is real fine. But don’t you know that Doris told Hattie.”

“And Hattie wanted…”

He looked me in the eye and nodded. “Hattie wanted. Hattie got!”

“I’m… happy?... for you,” I said.

“Well don’t be!” He thumped the table and the waitress scowled. “That’s Bessie and two of the exes!”

“They… all… wanted your attentions?”

“Like cats. Just like cats.” Nitro huffed.

The phone conversation made sense now. Well, as much sense as anything involving Nitro. He was the god of low-rent love affairs. “Sounds like every man’s fantasy,” I lied.

“No, sir. A man my age has limits, special candy or no!”

I looked at my watch. “Well, I’d love to help, but I’m married… and I’m in enough trouble with the wife, so you’ll have to find someone else to help you to… uh… please the cats.”

“Jesus wept! I didn’t call you down here to jazz my girlfriends. I need a place to hide out and catch my breath. My back’s ready to quit me and,” he whispered this, “my balls are killing me! It’s like someone stuck a knife in my taint.” That painted a picture. “Zebulon, I need a quiet place to sleep for bout a week.” He said the halfway house where he lived was no good. Despite the rules, there were women in and out at all hours. “You gotta put me up.” Without waiting for an answer, he got up and walked out of the restaurant, leaving me to pay. By the time I got to the SUV, Nitro was sitting in the passenger seat, smiling and humming to himself. How had he gotten in? I would swear I locked it.

Slipping behind the wheel, I said, “Look, I’d like to help, but Jing would be pissed if I— “

“It’s only for a few days, Zebulon. You got that nice little bungalow out back you told me bout. I’ll be quiet as a bug. I won’t cause your missus no headaches.” Among his talents, Nitro also knew how to carry on a one-sided conversation. I might have tossed him out of the car, but I kind of liked having him around. He depended on me like I mattered. That made him a rare commodity these days. I also felt a tinge of guilt. He started drinking again after his sponsor (me) started up.

We survived the trip north on the interstates with the gravelly-voiced help of Tom Waits, getting back a few minutes before five. Once again, I plugged in the Lexus.

“A car fridge. Don’t that take the prize. You rich folks gotta have your luxuries.” Nitro was standing behind the SUV’s opened hatch, reaching for the freezer lid. “What’s in it?” He tugged, but the lid was secured with an electronic lock.

“Steaks, I think, wagyu.” Why the hell had I told him that? “Doesn’t matter. It’s locked.”

“Wahoo? All I heard was ‘steak.’ No problem. I can get that open and then we’ll have us one or two. You said she was away right?” Had I told him that, too? Crap! “She won’t miss one or two little bitty steaks. Hand me that screwdriver hanging on the wall.”

I stepped over and grabbed the tool from a rack over the work bench that was piled high with pieces of wood from some unfinished project. When I turned back, Nitro had the freezer door open -- it swung upwards, brushing the SUV’s overhead -- and stood staring, his mouth hanging open.

“That’s not steaks, Zebulon.”

“No. It sure isn’t.”

In the freezer, inside a clear plastic bag, was something not fit to eat.

“That is one dead monkey,” Nitro said flatly. “Poor thing. Ain’t that a shame?”

“It sure is.”

“The little fella sure died happy, though.” Through the tented fabric of the bag, I could see what Nitro meant. “Yessir, I do believe that is the happiest dead monkey I ever seen.” 

 

III

I dialed Jing to ask about the dead macaque with the outsized woody, but she was thirty-five thousand feet in the air and didn’t answer. I decided to try later. My phone had two messages. One was from Mom; I knew what that was. The other was some guy pre-booking a late ride. Ah, the hectic life of a gig mage.

I made sure the SUV was plugged in. I didn’t want the thing in the freezer to thaw out; it would take more than Febreze to get the stink of rotting monkey out of a Lexus.

That’s when a Ford Explorer drove up with Zack and a group of his friends. I recognized most of them. They blasted by me and into the kitchen without saying hello and started unpacking the fridge. Someone hauled out a tray of those pork ravioli things Jing makes all the time; they taste good, but they make me windy.

“I could put those in the microwave for you, Zack.”

He said without even looking over, “It’s okay, Dad, we’ll fry them ourselves.” His tone told me that: a) I was in the way, and b) I was useless with Chinese cooking.

The others were laughing at… something. I couldn’t follow any of their dueling conversations buzzing around the kitchen. They proceeded to fry the pot stickers, filling the air with the smell of chives, ginger, and pork. A few of the boys had plates; others grabbed leftover pizza, balls of sticky rice, or whatever… and wolfed it down.

One of the boys I did not recognize came over to me and asked, “What’s your number?” (“Hello, my name is ____. Thanks for having us over. By the way, can I get your number?” is how he meant to ask, I’m sure.)

“Uh, you are?”

“Kevin.” I waited a beat, but there was no follow up. Social skills were extinct.

“Why would you like my phone number?” I tried to stretch out the question to clue him in that he was a dolt.

“My mom wants to hire you to tutor me in English.” Kevin looked to be full Chinese and spoke without an accent or the phantom infinitives used by those struggling to master the beast that is English. I figured his parents had brought him to America as a child. Many in Atlanta’s Chinese community were good at making money and determined that their kids would get into the best schools and do even better.

I gave him my number. He texted his mom.

“I’m available on – “

“I have math tutoring Mondays after school and golf on Tuesdays. Thursday nights are good, after swim team. So, tomorrow.”

“Fine. Tomorrow. “

“Zack says you charge sixty. Let’s say one-twenty, you keep eighty. See you tomorrow night at seven.” I felt/heard a buzz from my phone. It was a text from Gillian Li, presumably Kevin’s mom. (Chinese transplants loved to pick a new name for their new life in America, like buying new clothes. Jing was ‘Barb’ to her Chinese friends. I preferred to call her Jing. I knew a bunch of Barbs, but there was only one Jing!) It dawned on me that I had no say in Kevin’s plan to overcharge his mother. I was going to make money, which means I didn’t have to Uber so much, and that was fine.

Nitro came up to me with a plate loaded with pot stickers. “These are fine! Jus’ fine.”

“I’ll get you settled in a minute,” I told him.

My attention shifted back to Kevin, who was now talking to Zack about something. “…a sample? A taste.”

“No. I told you – “

“Fifty,” Kevin said, pulling out a gold money clip. What teen had a money clip? I could never get used to the way kids were able to pull wads of cash out of nowhere. When I was a teenager, a twenty had to last all weekend. Whatever Kevin wanted it wasn’t something I wanted sold in my – in Jing’s house. I wanted them gone. I wanted to use this day for some bonding.

“Excuse us,” I said loudly. “Zack and I have a father-son thing to do.” No one looked over. Seeing manners were wasted, I gave a piercing whistle through my teeth. “Everyone out!” I yelled and hustled them out the door. That took some doing and Zack protested.

Once the others had piled back into the Explorer, I grabbed Zack by the arm. Nitro followed us out, stuffing one last pot sticker into his mouth en route. I pointed Nitro to the cottage and told him not to call any of his lady friends for now. He made a face like a scolded child but agreed to behave.       

Starting the car – my Corolla this time so Zack wouldn’t narc me out to Jing – I glided past the Lexus. “Let’s spend some time together. Maybe go get something to eat.”

“I was eating… with my friends,” Zack said.

By this point, we were in traffic. “We could go to the game store and pick out a new – “

“Dad, we haven’t played games together in years.” I didn’t realize until he said it that it had been that long, and the fact hit hard. “Well, you name it.” The words fumbled out.

“I don’t know.”

“The park?”

“Fine.” It was the quietest ‘fine’ I’d ever heard, but I took it.          

In the glove compartment, I found some packets of crackers from Wendy’s that I would never eat but couldn’t bring myself to throw out. Zack and I spent all of twenty minutes in the park, walking around the lake and feeding the ducks. The evening was nice, despite the ninety-degree heat that sweat-glued our clothes to our bodies.

We stepped onto the familiar quarter-mile trail, our feet raising red clay dust. I remembered taking him and his sister there many times. The park was a freebie and a chance to throw them both into an ankle-deep creek and watch them shriek with laughter. Zack and I rounded a bend in the woods and came upon the little face in the bole of a tree. Some local artisan had carved a wood spirit into the living oak long ago.

“Do you remember how you and Jessa used to think this was carved by forest elves? I used to tell you the elves would get us if we didn’t get home for dinner. You remember?”

“Yeah.” Zack said.

“That’s it? ‘Yeah?’”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I was remembering all the fun we used to have when you two were little.”

“Yeah. That was good.” He shrugged and walked on.

We watched a couple push their toddler on the baby swing and it occurred to me I may have missed a few steps between that version of Zack and the nearly grown one standing next to me. I awkwardly said something to that effect.

“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” he said.

It mattered.

We headed back to the house.

I got busy cleaning the kitchen while Zack disappeared. The envelope Jing had left out for Jessa was gone. Damn. I’d missed her. We’d only been gone an hour. Dammit.

I heard a curse and a sharp thud from downstairs. I ran down to find Zack quickly shutting the sliding partition that subdivided the huge, finished basement. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been down here. “What’s the problem?” As I said it, I spotted a fresh dent in the drywall, about where a teenager’s foot would go if it were angry enough.

“Nothing.”

“It’s something. You yelled.” There was an electronic lock on the partition. I didn’t remember that being there. “What’s that? What are you keeping in there, Zack?” It was obvious what had happened. “Did Kevin come and take his taste?”

“Dad – “

“Open the doors, Zack.”

“No. No one’s supposed to –”

“Your buddy Kevin went in there.”

“Our home security is a joke. I didn’t think he could get in the lab, though.”

“The lab?” We stood there for a moment, staring at each other, more strangers than father and son. “Zack, open it.”

“He took my key fob,” Zack said with an exasperated sigh.

He was obstructing me. “Open it,” I repeated. “You’ve already seen what’s in there. My turn now.”

Zack manually tapped in the combination and the pad chirped. He slid open the unlocked partition, revealing what used to be our rumpus room. 

There were cages with two more monkeys staring out. They wore diapers, but still managed to stink. Who was taking care of them? An examination table stood where the pool table had been. A laptop and something that looked like a microscope from a starship filled a bench, competing for space with racks of test sample vials, a centrifuge, and other lab equipment. The familiar Remington print I’d picked up at a yard sale looked out of place hanging above the pricey gear. Along the opposite wall were greenhouse grow lamps and hydroponic tables filled with greenery. It wasn’t marijuana, but something else, more like tiny saplings, plus a pile of rotting fruit.

Zack looked at an opened cabinet that held several white containers. There was a gap where one was missing from the collection. Kevin had known exactly what he was looking for.

“Zack, what the hell is all of this? Are you running a drug ring down here? Your mother is going to kill you!” I sensed my mistake the second I spoke.

“Dad… this is Mom’s lab.”

Of course it was. Jing had installed all this. My focus wasn’t the best sometimes. Slowly, I recalled her saying something months and months ago, about being able to spend more time at home, in her own space, but I didn’t know she had all of this. Banished to the cottage, I was out of touch with happenings inside my own home. She must have ferried the stuff in using the SUV. She would have needed help to install some of it. How out of it had I been lately?

“We’ll go over and get the stuff back from Kevin.”

“No. It’s fine. Mom knows about Kevin. It’s just that he’s such a dick sometimes.”

“Your mom lets him use her homemade drugs? You’re saying she’s getting the whole neighborhood high?”

“She’s not a street pusher; this is lab quality product. And it’s not the whole neighborhood.”

A thought hit hard. “What about you?”

“No! I have…” He trailed off and my suspicions shot up a trillion percent. It was bad enough that Jing had a DIY cartel. If she had dragged Zack into it something…

“You have what?” I demanded, losing control of my own questions.

“I have a girlfriend.” Zack said it like it was the last thing in the world he wanted to tell me. It took me a moment to see beyond his not wanting me to know he was dating and realize what he was also telling me.

“This stuff – “

“It’s called lǎo hǔ yīn jīng, ‘Tiger Penis,” he said. The Chinese loved tiger penis, bear penis, deer penis, donkey penis. They were gaga for penis. “It’s named after the old folk medicine. She gets the fruits shipped in. She’s trying to grow her own trees, but that hasn’t worked out too well. Anyway, the fruit is the main ingredient.” Zack added, “Tiger Penis is super tricky. Mom’s been working forever to get it right. Traveling, working out parts of the solution in labs all over the place.”

“Tiger Penis. It does what exactly?” As I asked the question, a dead monkey’s schlong flashed in my mind.

Zack flushed and said, “It gets you high. But mainly, it makes you crazy horny. And…”

“There’s an ‘and?’” I asked.

“When a guy takes it, the girl… is into it, too.”

The pieces were coming together. Jing was building gods in our basement.

I wanted a beer.

 

           

IV

I tried my best to get more information out of Zack, but he kept telling me to ask his mom. I certainly had questions for Jing. I wanted to know how she could let teenagers use whatever this stuff was. It would be tomorrow before she was accessible by phone, though.

My mind was racing. I went out to the cottage to talk to Nitro. He was poking through my stuff. He’d found all my hidden bottles. I asked him point blank about the sex candy.

“I don’t know where Bessie got it,” he said. “I didn’t ask.” It came out ‘ax.’ “My attention was otherwise occupied.” He smiled at the thought.

“Has it worn off?” I asked.

“I think so. I could sleep twelve hours, for sure.”

I decided to let Nitro get a nap. I told him not to exhaust my beer supply (that I wasn’t supposed to touch) and left him to himself. Only then did it occur to me that I’d never given him the key to the cottage; it was still in my pocket. Whatever.

Zack was fine for the night. He was good about getting his homework done. At least, that’s how I remembered him being a few years ago. More importantly, I took him at his word that he wasn’t using this stuff. Which was another question: what the hell did Zack or Kevin need with bootleg Viagra? When I was their age, I could get hard fantasizing about Sally Jessy Raphael.    

I decided to take the Corolla for a spin, earn a few bucks, and let my thoughts sort themselves out. I’d be back to make sure Zack got to bed at a decent hour.

As an Uber driver, I quickly figured out what my passengers were doing wrong. I wrote out a list and posted it on a card in the back seat. It read: ‘Dear Rider, In order that you may have the best possible ride share experience, please follow these simple rules. Call me from where you are; be where you call me from.’ That seemed simple enough, but somehow folks never quite mastered it. There were other issues as well, so I added to my list. ‘If you’re going to have three toddlers in tow, also tow along three child seats.’ ‘No, you may not eat your catfish sandwich in my car.’ ‘Yes, when I drive you ninety minutes through pouring rain and traffic to your multi-million-dollar McMansion and you don’t tip me, I will give you one star.’ Finally: ‘If you’re going to tell your girlfriend about her boyfriend’s bent pecker, don’t be surprised when she screams at you. Also, if you don’t want me listening to your phone calls, hang your head out the window.’ No one read the note as far as I could tell, but I felt better knowing it was back there.

Two thirty-something women got in the back, sharing giggles, holding red plastic Solo cups of whiskey and mixers, which I could smell up front. They were on their way to a club near Perimeter Mall. I played my music, cruised I-285, and let the time melt away.

I was angry with Jing. Furious. I thought about leaving a voice mail, hoping to catch her between connecting flights, but then I thought I’d better calm down first. She should be in Tokyo around eight in the morning my time. I should let her get settled, maybe get some rest.

She’d probably get a room at one of the city’s wildly expensive hotels. Jing and I spent a weekend in Tokyo years ago, back when we used to visit Asia frequently. The city has a lot going for it. It’s clean, the people are polite to a fault and they feed you to bursting on magnificent meals arranged on the plate like works of Avant Garde art. The cityscape contains a few surprises hidden among its submissively drab streets: a towering glass needle here, a museum there.  

Jing’s boss would see to it she didn’t get bored. They’d go to some restaurant high atop the city, ten thousand lights shining up from below to backlight an award-winning chef as he prepared ultra-pricey steaks and all the little pickled and diced treats to go with it. Jing would wear something black, tight. Too tight. Her figure had laughed off childbirth twice and she could pass for a woman years younger. Her perfumed hair would scent the air as she swept through the room, like a priest swinging a censer in church, though rather than warding off sinful thoughts, her fragrance would incite them.

Afterwards, they might go dancing in one of Tokyo’s crowded clubs with its electronica music and hypnotic lights. Then, he’d take her back to his hotel room on some pretext of going over paperwork. He’d offer her a drink, something romantic. Courvoisier perhaps, or Sake. He’d be careful, so as not to raise her defenses. Then, the moment would come, and he’d move in on her, his lips pressing against hers…

“Excuse me, that’s Ashford Dunwoody Road. That’s our exit,” a boozy voice slurred from the back seat. “You missed it!”  

 

V

 

 

I should have a number of awards. I have been a marketing guru, songwriter, tutor, and a father. Successful men have trophies and titles and certificates hanging on the walls. I have done important things in this life, but the Powers That Be decided to keep all the rewards and recognition for themselves. It wasn’t fair, but it’s where I was.

It’s the kind of thing that ran through my mind while rage-texting with Uber, which I did a lot. I’d gotten a call to pick up a lady way up GA 400, on Mansell Road. It was a twenty-minute drive to get there – which means I was down twenty minutes plus gas before I even got started. So, I arrived and waited. No answer. The app had me cooling my heals for five minutes before I realized it was a pre-scheduled deal. That meant I still had to wait another eight minutes until the agreed upon pick-up time. The reason I didn’t see that earlier was because I was answering calls while driving and if I read everything on the screen, I’d kill someone. Anyway, I waited the extra time.

I got a text: “Im here. Where you?”

I texted back: “I’m where you sent me.”

She texted: “Im RIGHT here, apt212.”

I texted back: “That’s not where you sent me.”

She texted: “Other drvrs don’t have no problem. Pick me up. running late.” It took me a moment to translate drvrs to drivers. Why do people do that?

I checked the app, and she was a good twenty more minutes away. I tried to explain this via text. Turns out, the lady entered the wrong address, got the pick-up and drop-off locations switched. That happens a lot.

She texted: “Why you such a idiot? Forget it. Im tell your boss.”

 So, she canceled. Dick. Can women be dicks? I support equal rights, so I say yes, they can be and frequently are. Anyway, I claimed a cancelation fee, but Uber said I wasn’t entitled, because… reasons. So I spent the next forty minutes in a text war… which I lost. I’m pretty sure no human was on the other end of that discussion, only an algorithm with an attitude and a pre-written script.

It was five dollars for the cancellation fee, but really should have counted as eleven dollars, considering the time I’d had to wait. I decided to appeal. I don’t like being blown off like that.

As long as the day was going the way it was going, I decided to check on the woman who gave me the gift of life ‘after thirty-three hours of labor, hard labor!’ She’d used her maternal wood-burning kit to inscribe that fact on my brain. She had texted me, saying there was something she needed to talk about.

Ma’s dark orange car was parked in front of her condo, its wheels and doors coated in mud. I was sure there was a story there, but I didn’t want to know. I’m not really sure how to describe my mother, mostly because she’d always been there, kind of like old wallpaper; you’re not really sure when you got it or if it was there when you moved in. Anyway, Ma was a youthful sixty-something and liked to keep active. Sometimes too active. 

I walked up and knocked on the door.

“Zebulon! Come on in!” she beamed, her puffy pinkish face and blue eyes framed in a ‘do of frosted blond hair.

That name. Zebulon. It was so damned redneck. I’d spent years working to eliminate the Dixie from my speaking voice (I do turn it to eleven when singing ballads) but the sound of my own name pegged me as a southern boy. I might as well wear a Confederate flag patch on the ass of my jeans and spit tobacco juice. I decided who I was. I still wore Dingo boots but lost the mullet after high school.

Ma hugged me, patting my back with the hand that wasn’t holding the Canadian Club. Half-melted ice clunked in her souvenir Falcons cup. It was not quite eleven in the morning. I will point out that I have never seen my mother soused. I envied her generation’s seeming (to my eyes anyway) ability to handle their booze. She knew her limit, a trick I’d failed to master.

We exchanged small talk for a few minutes.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“The checks show up every month, social security and your dad’s pension. I’m living la vida loca!” she beamed. I let the dated reference fly by.

We took our usual places around the kitchen table. I knew without looking that there was a case of one-seven-fives under the sink. I didn’t want to know how many were empty. Ma kept her drink close at hand, sipping sparingly.

The conversation was tricky. Any reminiscing about the past would lead to memories of Dad propped up in a bed in the dining room, slack-faced, pathetically hanging on, needing to be bathed. I didn’t want to talk about any of the recent events, which I barely understood anyway. I danced around my living arrangements and tried to focus the conversation on the kids. Even that was hard. I knew what Zack was up to… and didn’t want to talk about that. I hadn’t had a decent conversation with Jessa in… a while.

Using her spooky Ma powers, she zeroed in on Jessa. “She’s loving her Sociology class,” Ma said, taking a sip. The last part came from inside the plastic cup: “I think she has a thing for her professor. Ha! She’s got my genes.”

To the list of things I didn’t want to discuss with my mother I added my daughter’s love life. “That’s great.” It sounded horrible as soon as I said it.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I reached in and turned it off. It was tempting to pretend it was important.

“She says she’s thinking of moving out of the dorms. She’s asking if she can stay here.” Ma’s condo was okay, nothing special, yellow vinyl siding butted against the neighbor’s blue vinyl siding, which butted on green, tan, and so on, stretching along the shore of a neglected pond. The home was roomy for one, although over-decorated with a lifetime’s accumulation of furniture. I remembered the record player and LP rack in the blonde wood cabinet from when I was little, and somewhere around here was the toy chest my grandmother painted with horses. The condo had a spare room, currently home to exercise equipment. Not bad, but nothing compared to Jing’s – our – house. Or the cottage for that matter.

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“So, I gather,” Ma said at half volume.

 “You don’t have to say yes. Jessa can move back into the house.”

“I don’t think that’s her plan either.” She brightened. “Are you sure I can’t fix you a drink?”

“Oh, no thanks. I’m trying again.” A half-truth since I was thinking about getting to a meeting. Talking sex and family with Ma was hard enough. Sharing a drink with her frankly terrified me.

“Good for you, Zebulon.” And there it was again. My name delivered in that tone that only one woman on Earth could generate. It was like sticking pins into all 23,978,534,685 of my nerve endings at once.

“Ma, I prefer to be called Zee.” I’d prefer to be called Bill Gates, but life ain’t that generous.

“We should take a trip home. You don’t remember Zebulon. We left when you were eighteen months old.” And I’ve carried that name ever since. Georgia has its share of interesting place names. If Mom had been born a few zip codes over, I’d be saddled with the name Hopeulikit, Montezuma, or Santa Claus. “We should go, you, me, and my grandbabies. All of us.” A moment later: “You can take Jinny.”

“Jing.” Great, Ma said I could take my wife.

“I’ve always like her. So good with money, so focused on it. And she’s so pretty with her nice clothes and all her make-up and such, bless her soul.” A true Southern lady like my mother could say the most horrific things about someone, as long as she followed it up with ‘bless her soul.’ The comment matched Ma’s tone and she-wolf smile. “Anyway, we’ll get a room at a bed and breakfast. They have Putt-Putt and…” And that is where my mind dove out the nearest window.

It’s not that far, but I haven’t been to Zebulon, Georgia since I was in diapers. I know that Mom met Dad there, and that Dad was a firefighter there before he signed on in Sandy Springs, which paid better but still not well. I know Vic Chesnut came from Zebulon; I played his songs sometimes. Zebulon Montgomery Pike was a soldier who gave his name to Pike County, Georgia, to Pike’s Peak in Colorado, and to me. I still have family in Zebulon – they used to come north for the holidays every year before Dad’s stroke made it impossible to have visitors. They were fun-loving beer drinkers who talked about NASCAR. I haven’t kept in touch. I’m not sure why.

“You’re forty-two, Zebulon.” The sound of that name she’d pinned on me yanked me back to the present.

“Yes. And?”

“Forty-two, good health. You still have a wife somehow and two great kids.”

“I know. I know.”

Mom lifted her giant cup of C&C in a toast. “Your life is full.”

I grumbled, “I don’t feel full.”

Mom spoke into the cup again, “That’s a problem. It’ll make you an old man.”

I was out the door before she could serve me a Ma lunch of tomato sandwiches and banana rice pudding. I was ready to tell her I had a meeting with my music agent. That was kind of true, it was next month, but my phone saved me the trouble.

One of the texts that buzzed in told me to ‘meet Hui’ back at the house. I figured this was the pick-up Jing had mentioned, but the text wasn’t from Jing. It was from Mrs. Li, Kevin’s mother.

 

VI

The easiest way to unload a fridge packed with dead spunk monkey is to get two other guys to do it for you. That was my plan, anyway. Nitro started to help but clutched his back in dramatic fashion and promoted himself to supervisor.

“Keep your end up, Zebulon. Don’t drop it, for heaven’s sake,” he said, making broad motions with his hands.

I carried one end while Mister Hui, who had shown up with a pick-up as promised, easily managed the other. He was nothing but polite. I instantly took a liking to his smile and gentleness. At six-four, he fell into the ‘gentle giant’ category. He sported a spikey hair style, Georgia Tech letterman jacket, and designer eyeglasses.

“It’s Hui Rong, but you can call me Rong,” He said as we lugged the heavy unit out of the SUV and over to his Ford-450.

“Don’t scratch that pretty paint job!” Nitro scolded, then turned and spit on the ground for emphasis.

Rong continued, “I have someone coming to Missus Li’s to help, so you don’t have to concern yourself with unloading after we get there.” It felt odd adding this errand onto our scheduled sit-down to discuss her son’s tutoring. To Nitro, he said, “You will come, too. Missus Li would like to meet you.”

“Is she pretty? Naw, I don’t care about that. Is she rich?” I’d heard Nitro attempt that joke before. Why was Mrs. Li interested in Nitro? How did she even know about Nitro? I wanted to ask, but I was busy keeping my fingers from getting mashed between the fridge and the truck bed.

We finished getting it loaded and Nitro helpfully swung the tailgate shut. “So, in American, your name is Rong Hui?” Nitro butchered the pronunciation to make it sound like ‘wrong way’ and then laughed at his own gag. I try not to make fun of Chinese names, considering the moniker I carried, but sometimes it was irresistible. I blushed with embarrassment and took a breath to apologize.

“Yes, that’s funny,” Rong Hui (the name was stuck in my head ass-backwards now) said quickly. He was grinning. “My classmates at Tech kid me all the time.” I put his age somewhere in his mid-twenties, except maybe a little older. Yes, I liked him. I envied him his ability to laugh at himself.

“You’re a student?” Nitro asked.

“This fall I’m signed up for International Finance, Pre-Law, Organic Chemistry, Botany, and Jazz. Right now, I have online ESL classes,” Rong said. It was quite a list. In fact, Pre-Law wasn’t really a thing. It was what you told your parents, so they’d keep sending money. As for ESL, he meant he was in a course of English as a Second Language, like most of my students. 

“You sound like you’ve got it down. Too bad because I tutor English,” I offered.

“Yes, Mister Angell. You’ll be tutoring Kevin tonight.” Odd that Rong knew that. “Get in.”

Zack was off somewhere, and my calendar was empty for the rest of the day and evening. I could have driven, but I was taking a break from Ubering thanks to a rich kid with a weak stomach. He had tossed his cookies while sitting up front with me. The smell of secondhand Jose Cuervo Gold was potent. The kid – who was maybe twenty-one; I did not ask -- was profusely apologetic. I told him he’d done the right thing by calling for a ride in his condition. (How I wished I had never made that mistake.) I also said that Uber would charge him a two-hundred-dollar cleaning fee. He begged me not to report him. He promised to pay me to clean my car. It was late and there were no detail shops open, so I took him to an ATM. The next thing I knew, he was making it rain. He peeled off several hundred dollars – and kept counting. I handed him back some of the money, kept more than two hundred, and told him I’d take care of it. I got him where he needed to go, drove straight home, hosed out the Corolla for an hour, and pocketed the money. My best night ever.

My right shoulder slammed into the door as we lurched around and past a semi. Rong was a terrifying driver who played K-pop at top volume, chatted even louder, and laughed his way through stop signs. I asked him whether he got many tickets. He said, “Never. I know people who know people.”

We drove to one of North Fulton’s many gated communities, where Rong offered the guard his license. The guard offered back a rented smile and waved us through, but not before taking a close look at the fridge in the back. He didn’t ask any questions in deference to Rong, but shot the stink eye at Nitro and me, as if trying to recall us from a wanted poster. After the gate, we drove for a while. We passed a golf course, a horse stable and riding ring, plus well-spaced homes set on expansive lawns. Some were southern classic with Doric columns out front, calling to mind Scarlett O’Hara lusting for Twelve Oaks. Wealth had incongruously altered those rolling hills, plopping down French Colonials, Tudors, or literal castles of brick and stone complete with crenelated turrets. Or so the casual visitor would think. We happened to pass one home still under construction. Men at one end nailed plywood sheets over pine studs while a second crew sprayed on the stones and brick, sculpting and coloring the thin layer to pass for heavy masonry. Let twenty storm-filled Georgia summers lay siege to these castles and they’d be reduced to ruins. Of course, by then, smart investors would unload them at breathtaking profits.

We pulled into a driveway that circled a silvery tree, its trunk made up of gleaming chrome and burnished metals. Oddly shaped fruits made of green patinaed copper hung in clusters from the half-scale tree. I figured it was a Chinese thing and it struck me as shiny but sterile. The house itself was a three-story monstrosity of concrete and glass, the handiwork of a god-child architect playing with oversized blocks. The upper windows reflected the surrounding area in shades of blue silver, affording privacy. The ground floor windows were clear and revealed generous interior spaces large enough for indoor golf. I swallowed hard. This place made Jing’s – ours – look like a shack.

“Nice,” I said, grabbing the haversack I used because it looked like something from a Hemingway novel.

“Mmm. Mister Li must do all right for himself!” said Nitro, nodding his head for emphasis.

“Mister Li is no longer with us,” Rong answered and that basically killed the conversation.

He took us to the front door and rang the bell. I looked back to see two men get in the truck and drive it off, presumably to the garage, wherever that was. This house was too big for me to take in all at once.

I half expected a butler in a tuxedo to answer the door, but in fact, what appeared was an image of loveliness: Mrs. Li. She was trim and toned, a few years younger than me, not a line on her angular face. Her hair was perfectly arranged as if a hair specialist had just finished teasing it with a brush. She wore a blouse of subdued aqua over white slacks, adorning herself with elegant gold jewelry. I caught myself before my face gave away what was running through my brain. Okay, not exactly my brain.

As I stammered out some nonsense, Mrs. Li took charge of the moment. “I am Gillian.” Hard G. “Kevin his mom.” Her syntax was less polished than her son’s or Rong’s, but the effect was utterly charming. There was a power to her words, a cool confidence. 

Nitro’s filter was even worse than mine. “Well, dayum!” He laughed and cracked the widest smile I’d ever seen on his face. “A beautiful house and a beautiful mama to go with it! I envy your boy.” He leaned in close to Mrs. Li. “You wouldn’t want to adopt an older child now wouldja?”

Mrs. Li was magnificent. “I got hands full to raise teenager now. I think you too much trouble,” she said, smiling. I was watching a master surgeon cut out Nitro’s heart and hand it to him. Nitro stamped his feet in delight.

I wasn’t as amused by his manners. I backhanded Nitro’s arm then turned and said to Mrs. Li, “Hi. I’m Z… Zebulon Angell.” I used my full name for the same reason I didn’t want to allow myself to think of her as ‘Gillian.’ It was dangerous to get casual with a woman like this. My marriage was rocky enough. Besides, at some point, I needed to talk to her about her son’s behavior in my house. He’d stolen our stuff.

She led us inside. Expensive art hung from the sunlit walls of the foyer. As we crossed the large space, Rong took my arm firmly. He leaned in and whispered, “Mister Angell, so you know, Missus Li is someone you want to please.” His hand crushed my bicep almost to the point of pain.

Gillian – I couldn’t think of her as anyone’s mom – pointed out some of the works on her wall. “This Liu Wei. Favorite for me,” she said pointing to what looked like a child’s attempt to fill a canvas with circles, blocks, and lines using all the colors available. “Look,” she said with some excitement. Under the painting, there was a tiny card inscribed: ‘a sentiment of excess, corruption, and aggression reflective of cultural anxiety’ -- On loan from the High Museum.

“I’m impressed,” I said, honestly. “I didn’t know museums loaned things to people.”

“They to borrow from Guggenheim. I from Atlanta High Museum. We are to have understanding.” Gillian’s smile ripened into many meanings.

“I thought everyone these days was nuts about Banksy,” I said. I knew nothing about Banksy. I had seen stories on the news, and in my opinion his stuff looked like things Ma still kept in a box from my kindergarten days.

“Pretend.”

“I beg pardon?”

At that moment, Kevin stepped into the room and traded furtive comments with his mother. Then, he turned to me and said, “My mother says that your artist (my artist?) Banksy is pretentious. He puts on a show to make his work seem more important than it is.” There was more Mandarin tossed back and forth between them while I waited. Kevin continued, “She says it’s wrong to sell something of no value and only a fool sells anything without knowing its true worth. She says it is best to wait a decade or two before buying such art, and even though she might one day acquire a Banksy piece, she would not display it in her home.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure this conversation was entirely about art. My mind raced with other concerns. First off, how in the world was I going to broach the subject of Kevin’s theft with his mother? The soles of my feet sweat inside my boots. Second, Kevin spoke English better than most Atlantans. I doubted very much that he needed an English tutor. Which brought me to my biggest question: what the hell was I doing here?

Gillian spoke. “You act to be tutor for Kevin.” It came out oddly, even for her.

I was adrift so I reached for the AA adage ‘fake it til you make it.’ “Yes. I’d be happy to,” I said. I patted my haversack, which held some of my favorite books for tutoring. I had a fair number of Chinese American students. So, along with To Kill a Mockingbird and Into the Wild, I liked to assign The Three-Body Problem. Cixin Liu’s sci-fi saga was wildly popular and offered solid Chinese history as a jumping-off point for its space opera. It was also a chihuahua killer. I’d save that one for later. Kevin could read one of the shorter books in two to three weeks. I should be tougher than that, but these kids had a million activities eating up their time, so I cut them some slack.

I typically spent a first session talking with a student, and maybe had him read a short story such as The Cask of Amontillado to see how well he could put together an essay on Poe’s dark, dank ditty. I had a whole speech prepared about how Montressor was the real victim. Sure, Fortunato gets bricked up and everything, but Montressor’s petty motivations drive him to an unspeakable crime against his drinking buddy, and he carries that guilt until the end of his life when he unloads on the reader (“You, who so well know the nature of my soul.”) Montressor makes himself the victim. Most of my students got the nasty murder but missed that aspect of the story.

I explained this to Kevin, hoping to impress his mother who was looking on. I was about to ask if we could find a table and begin work when Kevin spoke up.

“Poe and Mockingbird. Okay,” he said and left the room.

Gillian and I smiled at one another. She invited me to take a seat in the great room. It was filled with white furniture and bits of cherry wood oriental cabinetry, plus more of the fine art that marked this woman’s style.

“You like booze?” she asked, holding up a white and blue porcelain bottle with a red wax seal. 

 I was sorely tempted to accept. The Chinese used alcohol as a social tool and didn’t mind when a guest over-indulged, which certainly is what I would have done. White alcohol, or baijiu as it’s called, can be one-hundred twenty proof. It knocked my ass into next week every time. “Water is fine,” I said.

She stepped over to the open kitchen area and pulled a bottle of Evian from the fridge then brought it over with a glass and set them down in front of me. As I was pouring, Kevin returned.

“An essay on Poe,” Kevin said, grinning and proffering a sheet of paper. “And this is some kind of report on Mockingbird,” and with his other hand, he laid a three-page report on top of the first sheet. “It’s worth an A.”

Obviously, he had made a minimal effort to find some things online and print them out. His name was on them. To his credit, they looked formatted correctly, no stray copyrights, although there was an odd mark of three interlocked triangles in one corner. It was pointless asking whether Kevin had read anything. It bothered me a little that I was being paid to rubber stamp something. It worried me even more that he’d create records of our fake lessons, complete with grades, to get into a good college.

I looked to Gillian and then to Kevin and then back to Gillian. Kevin smiled and left the room.

“Done. Good,” said Gillian. “Now we talk business.”

“I’m not sure what’s happening, Gillian. Kevin has to do the work. Otherwise –”

“Kevin bright. So bright,” she said. “He getting what he need.”

“I feel like I’m cheating you both. I feel cheated.” I meant that I didn’t want to miss making my big tutor speech, but she heard something different.

“He pay you one hundred?”

This threw me. “Eighty, actually.”

“So. Kevin cheat you. OK,” she said, giggling a little as if she were amused both at her son’s cheating and his greed. She moved quickly to her designer purse, which sat on a counter, pulled out a checkbook, and brought it back to where we were sitting.

Looking at her jot down numbers that meant money to me, I mumbled, “No, I don’t mean that."

She handed me the check. It was for sixty thousand dollars. I stared at the neat handwriting. She’d even managed to spell my name right: two l’s. My mouth hung slack. “Gillian –”

“We do business.” She pushed the check into my hands and folded them over the paper, pressing her own hands onto mine. This felt either very good or very not good.

“What kind of busines are we talking about here?” I stammered. She was in on this little paper-buying scheme of Kevin’s. She was fine with it. (‘You act to be tutor…’) I swigged my Evian.

Rong and Nitro walked into the room. Nitro had his right sleeve rolled up and there was a band-aid on his arm.

“We have taken some blood samples from Mister Baine,” Rong said, surprising me with Nitro’s actual name, Marqus Baine. “I will run the labs and let you know. However, he looks to be in perfect health, give or take a decade of hard living.”

“You got that right!” Nitro chimed in. I had no idea he was going to be tested, but then I had no idea what was going on anyway. Nitro gushed, “Zebulon, you got to see this place. They got a movie room fixed up like The Fox Theatre, a indoor pool, and a real hospital room, too! Man! You and me is in the wrong business.”

“Yes, business. Good business,” Gillian beamed. “Welcome, Mister Marqus. Welcome, Mister Zebulon.”

“What business?” I repeated.

Her almond eyes grabbed hold of me as her voice took on the gravity of a thousand Earths. “Mister Zebulon, you to be president for Tiger Penis World Distribution.”

 

 

 

 

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