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The Hero Shot - Part Three

By Richard Lange

It was Hollywood. There were tryouts but no call backs. There was an agent, and then the agent went to jail. And after five years of this, there was the Christmas when his family mocked his head shot. Now that the money is gone, he's back in Riverside, which his mom never left and where his brother, Paul, has settled with his wife.

I start with the gate. It's falling off its hinges. Mom has a hammer and nails, so I straighten that out and then tack up a few boards that have come loose from the fence. The backyard has been invaded by the kinds of plants that creep in when your guard is down. Ivy spills over the retaining wall, and morning glory climbs the trees and chokes the rosebushes, flashing sickly purple blossoms. I wade in with a hoe and pruning shears, and by noon the flower beds have been liberated.

Mom brings me a sandwich and a Pepsi. I eat at the picnic table. The neighbor's orange cat watches from under a bush. I dangle a shred of bologna and make kissing sounds, but he's not buying it. There's dried blood on my knuckle. I lick it off and reopen a little cut. A thorn must have hooked me. The birds are going crazy, talk, talk, talking among themselves.

"Hey, stranger," Boots yells out the sliding glass door. Her rings catch the sun when she waves. Boots is Mom's oldest friend. She taught me to sing "Folsom Prison Blues." She and Mom are going to the movies. Every Wednesday it's that and a cheeseburger at Carl's Jr. "Don't let her work you too hard," Boots says. "Lincoln freed the slaves."

I mow the lawn and edge it. I prune the skeletal peach trees and grapevines. The trimmings fill the trash can. Used to be you could burn this stuff. I remember flames snapping and smoke in my eyes. Was it Dad who lit the match? Two Mexican kids watch from across the street as I sweep the sidewalk, the driveway, the gutter. The fat one wrestles the little one to the ground, letting him up when he screams. The sun is setting by the time I uncoil the hose and wet everything down.

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The shower needs to be caulked and the faucet leaks. I should start a list. I dry off, then wipe the fog from the mirror with the edge of my hand. A good shave isn't in the cards, though -- my razor's for shit. I wouldn't say I'm vain, but the web of tiny wrinkles around my eyes depresses me. At least my gut's holding up.

Pork chops for dinner. Milk gravy. Mom tells me about the movie. "It was sad, but good sad. He loved her so much. Boots cried and cried." I'm doing calculations in my head, tearing down walls. I could turn this house into something sweet. Mom agrees to give me the money for paint and linoleum to fix up the bathroom. She grabs my hand and presses it to her chest. "You've been sad, too, haven't you?" she says.

I'm embarrassed. I pull away. "I'm fine," I say. "Don't get all worked up."

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Reed and Sue Richards of the Fantastic Four have a son named Franklin. Dr. Doom steals the kid, and they go to war. My mind wanders. I toss the comic and close my eyes. Someone once taught me a Buddhist chant to calm myself, but I forgot it a long time ago. I slide my hand down my pants. That's a bust, too.

Mom's asleep in front of the TV when I sneak out the door. I wait until I'm around the corner to light the joint. It's been a while since I smoked. By the second hit, I could tell you everything you need to know about the neighbors simply by analyzing the cars in their driveways. It's so obvious. The high intensifies, though, and turns creepy. A dog snarls at me. A Toyota makes a questionable left. And my heart. Man! It's racing like a sonofabitch.

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The kick came out of nowhere, catching me square in the mouth. I almost swallowed my teeth. That's what you get for fighting in bars. A few years had passed since that Christmas mess. Mom gave me a little attitude but fi nally said I could stay with her awhile. I had to get out of Hollywood; I didn't want anyone to see me like that.

It shocked her. My nose was broken, too. She sent me to her doctor and her dentist. She was still teaching, so I had the house to myself for most of the day during my recuperation. I'd take fistfuls of pain pills and watch TV, drifting in and out. Commercials made me cry, and I'd see old friends gasping and clapping in studio audiences. I couldn't stop running my tongue over my new front teeth.

Mom tried to lay down the law when she found my stash. I was ready to go anyway. A buddy had called with a remodeling job in Brentwood, and they were holding auditions for some reality show. I left a note on the kitchen table, not thanking her for anything, but promising repayment. I was always hopeful on my way out.