Half of Paradise

The last rays of the summer evening fell through the crack in the French curtains and the room became dark.

J.P. WINFIELD

Virdo Hunnicut was furious. His tie was pulled loose from his shirt collar, and he paced up and down the room talking loudly and jabbing his finger at J.P. to emphasize a point.

J.P. sat in the chair with only his trousers and undershirt on. His bare feet looked yellow on the rug. The razor nicks on his face were thinly flecked with blood, and his eyes were sunken. His hair was uncombed and it hung down over his forehead and ears. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his head; when he moved he felt something shoot through his neck and shoulders hot like ice. He heard Hunnicut speaking from afar. He tried to remember what had happened last night. He remembered going on the stage, and then somebody had booed and the curtain had been drawn and Seth was trying to pull him into the stage wing by his coat sleeve. Or was it April? It was like that bitch to do something like that. What was Hunnicut saying now? He didn’t give a goddamn, really. He wished Hunnicut would take a bath before he came into the room. He’d have to leave the window open all morning to get the stink out.

“—you’ll be finished, out on your ass in the street. I fired that goddamn stage manager for even letting you go on—”

Why didn’t he shut up, the fat unwashed bastard?

“Do you hear me? Open your eyes and look at me. We’re going to make an announcement over the air that you were sick last night. You had pneumonia but you wanted to go on anyway because you love the hicks so much. I’m going to wait a month and put you on the show again, but if you make another hophead performance like that you’re canned for good. Are you listening?”

Go fuck yourself.

“I don’t know how I picked you up to begin with,” Virdo Hunnicut said.

“Stop your goddamn shouting. I had my fill of it this morning,” J.P. said.

“I put you on top and you blow it.”

“I made a bundle for you.”

“You wasn’t nothing but a poor white trash farmer when you went on my show.”

“Listen, I ain’t—get the hell out of here. You’re stinking up the room.”

“What? What did you say?”

“You’re stinking up the room.”

Hunnicut’s face reddened. The sweat rolled off his neck onto his shirt. Everything about him was sweaty. His slacks stuck to his legs, and even his tie was damp. His face was strained with anger.

“You’re finished,” he said. “You take yourself and your cocaine and your slut wife with her douche bag and get out of town because I’m through with you. I’ve had enough. You ain’t worth the spit on a sidewalk. I don’t know how I put up with you this long. Go up to Little Rock and Nashville and see if they’ll give you a job when they find out you’re a junkie. I’m glad to get shut of you.”

Hunnicut walked out of the room, leaving an odor of sweat in the air behind him.

J.P. sat in the chair and felt the throbbing pain in his head increase. He couldn’t see clearly to the opposite side of the room. He wanted to get up from the chair and walk to the bed to lie down, but when he moved the pain dropped down in his neck and shoulders and he remained still. He wondered if he had said too much to Hunnicut. Pack your cocaine and your douche bag wife and get out of town. The stinking bastard. Don’t want junkies in Nashville and Little Rock to sell glow-in-the-dark tablecloths painted with the Last Supper. What about big-print Bibles miracle water actual photographs of Jesus books on faith healing flower seed egg formula vitamin tonic cut-out pictures of your favorite country singers? Snowbirds ain’t wanted. The pain in my head swells and lessens and swells again. My fingers twitch and the cigarette in my hand burns down to my knuckles. Got high Wednesday or Thursday night. Can’t remember after. My watch. Where the hell is my watch? Bitch of a wife probably sold it for a shot. If she ain’t spreading her legs for Doc Elgin. Back home we’d go after him with a gelding knife. Hopping a man’s wife for drugs. Couldn’t get in a whorehouse with a fist full of green. Eyes aching, feel full of sand like I looked at a welder’s torch too long. I need a drink or powder to get flat again and lie in bed with a soft-belly woman on top of me. That blond-headed whore up home with the rain falling outside. Tried to get her hot. You can’t get a whore hot. You hear stories about a fellow getting one hot and she keeps asking for more and then he gets it free whenever he wants. They ain’t got no interest in it. Even though they give you better loving than them tight-leg bitches that think they’re giving you something if they let you have a couple of inches. Take some snow now and a little whiskey and then go over to Jerry’s and get fixed up for the afternoon. Wonder if Hunnicut meant it. Who gives a goddamn? The unwashed bastard.

April comes into the room and stops behind my chair. We look at each other’s reflection in the dresser mirror. She is beginning to swell with child. Her dress is too tight. She don’t want to wear one of them maternity things. Don’t want to believe the baby is there. She told me she’d like to have a miscarriage. When she gets high she pretends she ain’t knocked up. I see the lines around her eyes and neck. Said she was twenty-seven. Must be older by ten years. Older than me. Hard to tell. She’s been jazzing since she was fifteen. First time in a woodshed with her uncle. She ain’t going to look good pregnant. Probably get fat and swole up like a sow. Wonder if she’s laying anybody besides Elgin. She always smells like she’s rutting when she takes off her pants. She ain’t going to get no more laying with a swole belly. A man don’t like to climb over a baby to get to it. She’s got a look in her eyes. She’s on it. She walks past my chair and out of the mirror and sits on the side of the bed and takes off her shoes. Her eyes stare at me flat. Sunday morning. She was over at Elgin’s. Prayer meeting with a needle in the tangle of sheets.

Need to dress and catch air before she starts talking. One paper of snow wrapped up in a sock in the drawer. I got to walk across the room and get it and cut out. She pulls her skirt over her knees and lays down in bed. She ain’t got any pants on. Rutting. I walk to the dresser jesus my head throbbing like the marrow of my skull brittle and cracked dust breathed into my brain and the pain drops down my back and circles my chest. Untwist the sock and tear the paper open. Put the powder under the tongue and wait. I feel it sucked into the skin taste it in the throat. Bitch was wrong. Never had to mainline. Ain’t going to neither. It don’t hurt you under the tongue. Niggers do it all the time. Don’t bother them none. You’re okay if you don’t jab it in the arm. Troy was hypo. Snow ain’t no different than getting drunk. Remember when I got tight on moon once. I could smell it in my sweat the next day. It ain’t no worse than moon. It don’t drive you blind or insane. Feel it spreading through my head and chest. Put on my shoes and shirt and get a drink at the bar and go down to the depot. Honey-colored hair. A little overweight but it makes it better.

“What did Virdo say?” April said. Her voice was slow and far away.

“He says I’m through.”

Her eyes turned from the ceiling and looked at him and blinked.

“I’m through,” he repeated.

“What?”

&

nbsp; “He called me white trash.”

“He’s not going to fire you. He told me so.”