The Voting Machine

The Pleasure and the Pain

I crawled back into the dumpster, nestled into my bed of rotting garbage. I groped through the layers of trash, hoping for something to eat. Except for the cactus fruit, I hadn't eaten anything since Brenda's protein bars more than 24 hours ago. I finally located a half-eaten turkey sub with 4 packets of mayonnaise underneath a side of cardboard. I always hated mayonnaise but I ate it just the same. I kept the Barstow man's leather jacket wrapped around my shoulders like a blanket, with his Colt and Luke's snub nose both in reach in case anyone opened the lid of the dumpster. I closed the lid and covered my nostrils to block the smell of cigarette butts, fast food wrappers and decomposing fruit.

I finally shut my eyes. My dreams comingled with memories. I thought back on the first time Suzy and I spent the night together three years ago. Lying entwined, kissing and exploring under the sheets on a twenty-dollar garage sale mattress in my apartment. After we'd made love a second time, she held me tight and whispered in my ear.

"Tell me about your life. You never talk about your family," she said.

"I don't talk about it because they are gone. Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know who you are. You can't know someone if you don't know anything about their family."

"You can't know who someone is based on their family."

"No, but you know where they came from."

"Here's what you need to know. If I ever start a family, it's not going to be like what I came from. I want to stay together through everything. The pleasure and the pain."

I kissed her again and she raised herself on top of me, her dark black hair falling around me like a curtain. Six months later we were married.

I woke up and lifted the lid of the dumpster. I stared out at the stars, so clear in the desert night. When I drifted back asleep, a second memory visited. It was the final night that my wife and I spent under the same roof. We were screamed at each other in age while our daughter sobbed. The TV news blared in the background with reports of Gina's death in the bombing. Suzy slammed the door and I drove away that night.

I didn't respond. I didn't even apologize. I just had to escape. Something was driving me insane.

My final night in LA, the handsome neighborhood bartender tried to offer consolation as he served my drink. But I didn't want to talk to Davis that night. I left the bar, walked the pier and drove around the freeway until it happened. The black sedan clipped me on the left, knocking me into the truck until I bounced around the freeway like a pinball. It was one of those German luxury cars with the huge metal frames. A Mercedes. It seemed like he came into my lane, though I honestly wasn't sure. I could see the line. It was too close to call. I stared into my own death as the traffic rushed towards me, saved in the final second as I screeched to a halt on the shoulder beyond the barrier wall. I visualized the Mercedes that had ruined my life that fateful night. It was a California plate. Blue letters, gold border.

            What was the number on the plate?

            6?

            6X?

            6XY?

            6XY3?

            None of the cops or witnesses believed my story about the black Mercedes that night. Everybody said that I was at fault. I began to wonder whether I was making myself believe a lie because I couldn't face the truth. If only I'd been able to convince the cops that night. I never would've gone to jail. I never would've ended up in Las Vegas. I never would've gotten mixed up in the election. I could've gone home that night and made up with Suzy. I might be sleeping beside her right now with our daughter in the crib. Instead I was lying in a mound of garbage.       

The desert moon was high and clear, reminding me how small I really was in the scheme of things. At daybreak, the sun cast a pink glow against the horizon. I raised my head and peered out the dumpster, waiting for the first signs of activity in the strip mall. A large, olive-skinned man arrived in a white van. He was wearing a down jacket and cargo pants. He inspected the smashed glass in front of the Dollar Delight and made a call on his cell phone. Then he drove the van behind the storefront to the alley. I waited until he was out of sight before I crawled down from the trash bin. I wore the Barstow man's jacket, holding both handguns in my pockets. I landed on my feet and sprint across the parking lot. I'd made it half way to the street before the man circled back from the alley and tracked me down.

"Get in," he commanded from the driver's seat of the van, aiming a .38 at me with his free left hand. I took a close look at the collar of his thick jacket. If I tried to shoot him and he had a Kevlar vest underneath, then I was a dead man. Instead, I raised my hands in the air and followed his orders, climbing into the passenger's seat.