Tequila Spike

By Anonymous

I prayed for help, but help never came. By the time you read this, I'll be dead.

I'm going to kill her first...and once the kid is safely on the bus...I'm going to finish me.

I'm writing this to prove that if you were in my place, and saw what I saw, and knew

what I knew, for sure, for sure...you'd kill her too.

Thweeeeeet...

The door sensor goes off as a woman enters the store towing a little kid. It's my

first week as a clerk, and I still pay attention to faces. Anyway, she's pretty in a messy

kind of way, wearing sweats that've been around too long, and smoking a super­long

menthol. Her makeup looks fresh, even though it's pretty thick for ten in the morning.

She says hi in a raspy voice, not loud. The kid, a girl about five years old, doesn't look at

me and goes straight for the donut case.

``She's going to pick out what she wants to eat,'' the woman says. Her name is

Chloe.''

She sticks out her hand. Like I said, I was still pretty new, so I stretch my hand

across the counter and shake. I catch the kid's name but not hers.

They come in every morning for donuts and soda. Chloe's always quiet; no

acting up. They never try to steal anything, but I figure something's off when the mom

starts a story and never finishes before beginning another, like she's topped up with

secrets, but holding back. Says she's on disability, but not what for. Something about

`the social worker doesn't know she has Chloe' and `it's better that way because she

doesn't want interference'.

If she stays too long ­ talking at me in that crackly, rapid­fire whisper of hers, it

makes me dizzy.

I sort of notice she's dragging the kid around at all hours. Says Chloe has

insomnia, just like her. I don't know, the kid sure looks sleepy to me. I feel worry take

root inside my gut, which bothers me because it's pointless. What can I do?

She starts asking me to baby­sit. Chloe and I go to the park and play sand castles

with empty ice­cream containers. We glue popsicle sticks together and make picture

frames. I have a room at the back of the store. Everything is calm back there and

daytime­quiet. Sometimes I leave the back door open so Sacramento sunshine throws a

big yellow square on the floor. Chloe lays inside it and puts puzzles together. Finished,

she turns her little face up and says, ``Did I do good, Bebbie?'' My name is Bebbie, like

Debbie only with a B.

I tell her, ``Yes, Chloe, you did good. You did very. very good.'' We kick back

and float on the day, suspended in time and sunbeams.

Was I lonely before Chloe? I never thought so. But now, when she's not with

me, the time just seems so...empty.

Thweeeeet...

A boyfriend starts showing up with the mom. A white guy with a black eye,

fading. He fondles the mom's ass right in front of everybody. I pretend I'm

straightening packs of cigarettes, so my face doesn't show my disgust.

I'm glad men don't notice me. Mousey brown hair, tied back. Bangs always

flipping the wrong way, no matter how hard I fight them. My store apron doesn't help

my figure much. It bunches up and cuts me in two, like a bed pillow tied in the middle.

But I have to wear it; and they didn't hire me for looks. I make the cash work out, end of

every day.

The next time they come in, Chloe has strips of a sheet tied around her feet. I

don't hide my face this time.

The mom declares, ``She got burnt on the pavement. It was hot.''

``How did it happen?''

``We were hitchin' a ride and got into a fight with the driver, so we had to get out.

I didn't know the pavement was hot. And Chloe was in bare feet. Got the hotfoot,

didn'cha Clo?''

``Has she seen a doctor?''

``She never needs a doctor. She's a good girl.''

I look for the kid's reaction, but her face is set like cement. That kid knows how

not to make trouble. She's been trained, for sure.

I find a tube of ointment and hand it to the mom with her donut and soda. ``Put

this on her feet. It'll help.'' The mom says thank you and they leave. I feel the worry

root grow another inch inside my gut.

A week later, the white guy is replaced by a gangbanger with tattoos on his neck

and hands. Up close at the cash, his jacket flops open, and I see a holster under his arm.

He lets Chloe skip out the door without taking her hand, and dammit it if she doesn't

scoot right into the parking lot. A van squeals its brakes and stops an inch away from

her. The mom and him act soooo surprised and snotty ­ like cars aren't supposed to be

driving in the parking lot. I imagine Chloe lying under the wheels of the van, with dirty

bandages on her feet.

The banger stays around for a while, but after a couple months he stops showing

up and I stop keeping track. There's a passing parade with the mom ­ the kind of people

circling the drain who haven't made the final flush yet. One time, a bleach blonde comes

in with them and buys an apple. I'm happy cause it's probably the first time Chloe's ever

seen a person eat a piece of fruit. Bleach­Blo pulls out a stiletto blade and starts slicing

bits of apple and eating them right off the blade. Four or five slices in, the stiletto slips

and cuts her deep between the thumb and forefinger. Blood shoots clear across the aisle

and sprays a shelf of spaghetti sauce. You should've heard the hooting and howling.

Chloe doesn't cry or say anything at all. But her little face is white, shock white.

I pray at night, even though I don't really believe in it. Please help me come up

with something. Please, please don't let the kid get hurt. You have to understand; I

never had a kid in my life before. I hear prayers get answered sometimes, and I figure

it's probably like playing the lottery. If you don't buy a ticket you can't win. So I pray

anyway, for Chloe.

The mom wants an afternoon alone with one of the drain­riders. It's my day off,

and I agree to come by. They live at the El Morada Motor Hotel, a squat row of units

with parking strips painted outside. You can rent by the week. The minute I step inside,

my sinuses fill up. The room hasn't been cleaned since Saddam got pulled out of the

rabbit hole. Heck, the place looks like Saddam's rabbit hole. Junk, garbage and crumbs

everywhere. It stinks. The room explains everything. It explains too much.

The mom hands Chloe over to me, babbling how good it is to go out on a date and

have some time to herself, blah, blah... We go to feed pigeons. A couple loaves of bread

from the store are precious to Chloe. She can sit and feed birds forever. When her stash

gets halfway down, she starts tearing pieces smaller, so they'll last longer. I love

watching her take care of birds.

``Did I do good, Bebbie?''

``Yes, honey, you did real good.''

I call Child Protection, and here's how it goes down. They respond right away ­

but because there's no immediate danger, translation: no blood and bruises, they can't

act. Instead, they tell the mom they'll be back in a week to ``check out the environment.''

That's the law, right to privacy. Guess what happens...can you guess? The day the social

worker comes, the mom rents a kitchenette with a bedroom nook, so it looks like Chloe

has her own bed. The mini­fridge has bologna and ranch dressing inside, so it looks like

there's food. The worker reports it as ``a low income, but satisfactory environment.''

And that's that. Next day, Chloe's back in the hellhole.

I try to accept the verdict. I tell myself that I've done the most anyone can do.

The law has intervened and the law says it's okay. But that worry plant is so tall inside

my guts, it's pushing up my throat. When whatever is bound to happen finally happens, I

won't be able to live with myself. Did you catch that? I won't be able to live.

My next thought is about killing.

I go around and around on how to do it. I'm pretty sure I can get the job done and

get away with it, but Chloe is the problem. How do I just show up with a kid? Even if

we move away, I'll get asked for a birth certificate, and questioned about medical records

and all that. Without ID, they'll peg me for one of those child molester­kidnappers. I

have to let go of wanting Chloe, or anything for myself, and just concentrate on what's

best for her. Once I get my head wrapped around that, the rest is easy.

I make a few calls and discover that in the state of California, orphans hit the

jackpot. With no family standing in the way, the good life rolls up on wheels and takes

the kid in, day or night. She gets new clothes, food, toys, and a temporary home ­

somewhere clean, safe, and the caretakers all checked out. The state starts an immediate

search for a family to permanently adopt. The good­life­on­wheels has money for

everything you can imagine ­ medical, dental, and special help with school. The way

things are going, I don't think Chloe is ever going to get to school, so this sounds like a

dream come true.

There's just one thing standing in the way of the jackpot and Chloe...and you

know who that is by now, don't you?

I decide to poison her.

Low­key, no trauma, no drama...no violence for Chloe to witness. Chloral

hydrate. Spiked in a bottle of liquor. I've had it forever and remembered it when that

blonde, billionaire widow, may she rest in peace beside her son, made it famous. I'll tell

Chloe that Mommy's sleeping ­ I won't say forever ­ and put her in front of the TV with

a donut while I quietly call 911. When emergency crews arrive at a situation, the first

thing they do is remove the children. As soon as Chloe goes outside with a rescue

worker, there will be a minute while they check the mom for vital signs. In that little

space, I'll step into the bathroom and put a bullet in my head. Okay, let me bring you up

to speed here `cause you're surprised. I have to go down the same time as the mom. The

law will nail me sooner or later, and Chloe needs all the bad stuff in her life to be over in

one day...so she can get on the bus to a new life with no loose ends pulling her any way

but forward.

I'm not afraid to die. I'm not dying for nothing.

It's evening, and I invited myself over to the El Morada. The mom's latest

lowlife took off and she's alone, so now's the time. I already put the Anna Ni­chloral

hydrate in a bottle of tequila. I got Mr. Bubble for Chloe, and a big new bath towel. The

towel is wrapped around a gun ­ a handgun from the store that the owner leaves behind

the counter just in case. I'm going to ask the mom if I can give Chloe a bath before bed,

and while I'm in there, hide the gun under the bathroom sink for when I need it in the

morning...

Knock knock.

Chloe knows I'm coming, and throws herself into my arms. The mom is right

there, all smiley when she sees the tequila. I give it to her, and she starts rummaging for

a couple plastic cups, while Chloe and I go into the bathroom and get the Mr. Bubble

going in the rusty old tub.

Chloe gets in and lathers up, playing with the foam, and I know it's the right

moment to get that gun shoved way back under the sink. So far so good...and all of a

sudden the outside door busts open like somebody put a boot through it, and a voice

hollers, ``You whore,'' and stuff about acting like a taconera while I been away, and

there's a little zhzhzhoot sound, like a shot. Somebody hits the wall right next to the

bathroom door and makes a soft, sliding sound all the way down.

I meet Chloe's eyes ­ wide and shiny with fear. My fingers go to my lips, a silent

shhhh, and I inch the shower curtain across to hide her. Steps come up to the bathroom

door ­ the impact sprung it open a few inches. I'm glued to the sound of those feet and

I'm too freaked to even think about reaching for the gun under the sink. A drip from the

tap hits the bathwater. It sounds like a firecracker going off. My eyes focus beyond the

crack in the door and I see the mom's torso ­ and a man's hand reach out to touch her. I

recognize tattoos on that hand. And then his face draws near, until his eye appears in the

door crack. ``Come out,'' he says. The barrel of a gun rises to point at me, underneath his

eye.

My legs won't move; knees rubbery, not responding. ``Out,'' he says again.

If it wasn't for all the blood, the mom could just be taking a nap, sitting all

relaxed like that. Except for the bullet through her heart. She has an empty plastic cup in

one hand and my tequila in the other. The banger recognizes me, smirks, and crosses to a

cheap boom box. A gangsta starts growling about guns and hos ­ murder music. Banger

takes the bottle out of corpse­mom's hand and drinks from it long and hard. ``Where's

the kid?'' he says.

I stutter something about gone with a babysitter while he swigs away. ``Tastes

like shit,'' he says, holding the bottle up. It explodes in a thousand sparkling shards.

Behind the dazzling spray of tequila, a rose opens in his throat, scattering bloody petals.

He staggers back, leaving a red swerve on the grimy shag, hits the screen door, and

crashes through. Shouts and commotion outside as I look behind me and there is Chloe,

little Chloe, naked and dripping, holding a smoking gun. Her small voice sounds

innocent and clear, like bird song after a bomb blast.

``Did I do good, Bebbie? Did I do good?''

Bio: It SAYS Anonymous for a reason, jackass...