Back by popular demand - Cyndra and J.B. find themselves dangling from rapidly fraying threads. He remembers his Pa saying, "What don't kill you will make you strong." She doesn't remember much but how to push the MAX bet button. She loves this new world of a brilliantly glowing slot machine screen, a world in which nobody needs a damn thing from her.
For those of you new to Cyndra, J.B. and the kids, I began to write the story because I ached to write it. And sometimes a story aching to be written feels a lot like the jones to use. Maybe that's why so many writers, artists, musicians and other makers become addicts. I write Cyndra with commitment to my recovery, with respect for her, and with the conviction that often a story can teach more than a psych lecture or a professional paper. You'll find Cyndra 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 in earlier posts on this blog. We begin where we left off in Cyndra 5....
...Kelli hadn't let go of J.B.'s shirt the whole time he'd been standing and sitting and jumping up. "Momeeeeee," she whined, "I want my momeeeeee." "You and me both," J.B. said. That instant he saw Cyndra's cell phone laying on the kitchen countertop. "What the f--k! You dumb b---h. Sorry, Kelli, daddy said a bad word - make that two bad words." He swiped the Barbie doll onto the floor. Kelli shrieked. J.B. dropped down onto the couch with his daughter attached to his shirt. He tried to think of how hot Cyndra had looked as she went out the door. All it did was piss him off. That's how she'd hooked him. That's how he'd landed in Marine housing in the middle of hell, drier than the sand around him, with a piss-stinking baby and a sobbing little girl for company. "I'll never have sex again," he said to his kids. They just kept stinking and sobbing.
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Cyndra vaguely remembered something about Tim McGraw and crab legs and Girls Night Out. It seemed like a dream she'd had a million years ago. Her life seemed like a nightmare she'd been living even longer. If sitting in front of a friendly slot machine drinking from a bottomless glass of diet pop and vodka was self-destruction, it suited her just fine. Tyra appeared at her side now and then. Each time they were both more loaded. The last time she'd showed up she'd just laughed and plunked herself down next to Cyndra. "Hey, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
She shoved a twenty into her machine. "Look," she said, "it's all cool and spiritual." Cyndra glanced over. There were Aztec pyramids and heathen gods. Tyra drove her nuts with all her back-dated New Age bullshit. And then, two moons and three suns popped up on the screen, Tyra shrieked, they both watched the credits rocketing up and Cyndra figured maybe there was something to the machine's goddess-like powers.
"I just love this," she said. She and Tyra watched the bonus round spin gloriously. "You know," Tyra said, "when you get the little thingies that say you hit the Bonus round, it's just like the seconds right before a guy you want to kiss comes forward to kiss you. You just know all you gotta do is sit back and EN-joy!"
The three golden lions dropped into place on Cyndra's screen. She remembered the first time J.B. had kissed her and watched the memory wash away in a rising flood of credits - at a nickle a credit! "I don't ever want to go home," she said. "This is the most fun I've ever had."
Tyra stared at her slot screen. "That says a lot for romance, doesn't it?"
Cyndra didn't even bother to answer.
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It had to stop. It flat out had to stop. Yes, the kids were finally asleep. Yes, J.B. had logged into his favorite Girls Gone Wild site. Yes, he'd had two nice intimate experiences with the girls. Yes, for once Cyndra wasn't nagging him about something. But...but...but he'd started watching the clock. It was 1:30 a.m. and no Cyndra. He hadn't had a drink since the last hit of Nyquil, which had finished off the bottle. The crappy supermarket stopped selling booze at 2 a.m., meaning that if Cyndra didn't get her butt home in the next ten minutes, there was no time to head into town for a beer or twelve.
1:31.59. 1:32. 1:32.01. J.B. logged off and checked on the kids. They were both sound asleep. He considered the deep crap he'd be in if he left to buy some beer and Tyra brought Cyndra back and they both walked in to find the kids alone. It wasn't like he'd never been in deep crap before. But Tyra had a voice like a chainsaw and as ragged as his last nerve was, he didn't need to hear that.
He stepped out into the backyard. He loved that damn Mojave sky. He hated all the rest of the friggin' desert, but he loved the big bad black above him, the way the stars looked like diamonds, the way the flares from the bombing runs to the north burst like alien spaceships. Without thinking, locked the back and front doors, climbed in the truck and headed into town. The kids would be o.k. He'd be 15 hot minutes to the store, five minutes grabbing a couple six packs and 15 hot minutes driving back. No way any tragedy would happen. Especially since he'd busted his ass at the job all day and been a real sweetheart about Cyndra taking off.
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Cyndra slid the card into the ATM. The message flashed. "Funds unavailable." Tyra looked over her shoulder. "You hit your daily limit, sistuh. What is it?"
"Five hundred bucks," Cyndra said. She stared down at the card. "WTF do I do now?"
"You borrow a few bucks from me," Tyra said cheerfully. "And we just hunker down for a little longer."
******************
It had gone smooth. J.B. popped a brew as soon as he'd cleared town. That big bad sky was grinning down at him. Desert wind poured through the truck windows. He slid a Merle Haggard CD in the player and cranked it up. Life was sweet again. Then he saw the flashing red and blue lights.
J.B. checked his speed. A mile under the limit. He grabbed a rag off the seat, shoved it into the beer and dropped the can on the floor. He saw it all like you were supposed to do when you were drowning. The cop's face in the window. The faint whiff of brew in the air. The bust. Cyndra and Tyra storming into the house. The end of his life - as crummy as it too often was. Merle was singing The way I am don't fit my shackles. WTF, J.B. hissed, what do I do now?
