Schmoe

Schmoe

By Matthew Rose

Schmoe lived in his green army jacket, each pocket filled with stuff, things, things he always needed: a zippo lighter, rolling papers, Marlboro’s, can opener, dope crunched up in a ball of aluminium foil and keys.

Schmoe took out his key chain and added another pair to the ones for his house and the ones for Akel’s. These were the keys to the Lincoln he’d just bought.

“Fuckin A,” he said.

He’d been working at Akels for nearly a year and put away the $500 he needed to get the 4-door. Schmoe knew the car worked, in fact he used to drive Akel around. “Fuckin’ A,” Akel said. “You’re my chauffeur Schmoe.”

Schmoe wanted this car like nothing else.

“$1000 bucks, Schmoe.”

“Don’t call me that Akel.”

That was a year ago. Since then some problems with the carburator, electric windows, air conditioner and problems with the headlights, tail lights and radio had brought the price down. Akel rarely used the car anymore and referred to it as a “real piece of shit.”

“$750, Schmoe,” he said.

“$500. Don’t rip me off and don’t call me that.” It was a deal.

Schmoe drove away his hulking “piece of shit” with a kind of joy he’d never experienced before. Strange since he had been driving the same pile of shit all that time, before, for Akel.

“Fuck mobile,” he said. He waved to strangers walking Main Street. “Hello, you dumb fucks!” They waved back.

“So whaddya think?” Schmoe said, popping the hood. Steam poured out of the engine.

“Fuckin’ A,” Flax said, patting Schmoe on the back. “A fucking piece of shit.”

Flax was standing in the driveway. “$500 bucks? Fuckin’ A.”

Flax got in and tried to get the windows down. Then he flipped on the lights to no effect. He got out and the two looked into the engine.

“It’s just cooling off,” Schmoe said.

“It’s fucked, look there’s oil all over the driveway. Fuc-King A, Schmoe.”

“It’s a convertible, but the top’s fucked,” Schmoe. “I’m going to fix it. I can fit 20 people in there. And don’t call me that.”

Schmoe worked on his Lincoln in front of his house. His funds were low so he didn’t do much but pulled at and screwed back in every wire. He also rinsed the engine with gasoline because someone told him that would get the grime off. He got some water and some anti-freeze and asked a neighbor who was an electrician to replace the lights for a couple of beers.

In spite of his new car, Schmoe was lonely. So sometimes he took drugs. Tonight, with his broken down hunk of shit sitting in the driveway, Schmoe took a Quaalude and called his mother in Florida.

The Quaalude was starting to hit when his mother said, “How can you work in that disgusting delicatessen?” He said he had to go and dropped the phone on the floor. He picked the phone up an hour later, when he called Flax. Flax was not home. Schmoe could hardly walk, and wondered if when he spoke the words were coming out as words. He called his mother back. He began to flip out when the phone just rang and rang and wondered if he had actually dialed the number. Then his mother picked up.

“Sorry,” said Schmoe.

“Joey,” she said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just didn’t want you to worry about me,” he said. He sounded normal.

“You sound like you’ve been taking drugs again. Have you?”

“No! Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Why don’t you study something? Like computers?”

“I’ll call you on Sunday,” Schmoe said. “I have to work on my car.”

“I love you, Joey.”

“I love you too, mom.”

But that wasn’t the conversation at all. The phone rang. It was Schmoe’s mother.

“Why didn’t you pick up... You okay, Joey?”

“You called right in the middle of my doing something I would be doing if someone was here...”

“What?”

“Look I can’t talk to you right now...I’ll call you back.”

Schmoe hung up and tried to walk across the kitchen, but couldn’t and so crawled to the refrigerator on his hands and knees. He opened the refrigerator door and got out a carton of milk. He studied the picture of the missing kid. For a moment it looked like him. He took a slug of the milk and even though it was fresh, it tasted spoiled and Schmoe spit it out across the floor. Then he lay down with the refrigerator door open and put his head on the tiles and fell asleep.

Two hours later the doorbell rang and Flax walked in and discovered Schmoe in the kitchen on the floor with his pants around his ankles and his hand holding on to his penis in a pool of milk. Flax gave Schmoe a gentle kick to the head. Schmoe hardly moved. Flax then got a glass of water and dumped it on Schmoe’s face.

Schmoe’s eyes half opened. Schmoe wasn’t sure of what was going on.

“Get up, Schmoe, we’re going out! Gonna try your new car.”

Flax left the kitchen and went into the living room and turned on the stereo and then made a couple of phone calls. When he came back Schmoe was bent over the kitchen sink running cold water on the back of his head. Flax took a towel and with his foot wiped up the milk and then tossed the towel into the overflowing garbage can.

In 30 minutes, Schmoe was feeling right side up and Tate and Palmer were there, with a case of beer.

“Have a Mich, Schmoe, looks like you need one.”

“I took a Quaalude and wow, talked to my mother. Fuck I’m wasted.”

“So let’s smoke a doobie and go,” Palmer said.

“Where? Where we going?”

“The Reckless Lime,” Flax said. “The Whiskey Farmers are playing.”

“Fuck.”

“Let’s take your piece of shit--it works, doesn’t it?” said Tate.

They smoked one, finished the beers and then piled into the Lincoln. Schmoe was ripped but he seemed able to drive without much of a problem. He ignored the comments like “Cops! Holy Shit!” and “Didn’t you see that red light Schmoe?” as Flax kept him steady: “Turn here, slow down, right here, left...”

Schmoe’s head was in a total fog. He lit a cigarette; he relaxed. They were going to make it. No one would get killed. He started laughing. He was proud. He had a fucking Lincoln.

He began to come down from the Quaaludes and the slight buzz he got from the beer and the dope was settling him. Steam poured out of the Lincoln.

“Pull in here,” Flax said.

They parked behind the The Reckless Lime and they all got out. The Lincoln seemed relieved to stop. Steam seeped from under the hood now in a slow but steady hiss. The parking lot was big and had a floor of cracked seashells, even though they were a bit from the water. High trees and shrubs lined the lot; it was barely lit and probably the scene of various beatings and rapes.

They poured into the Reckless Lime and the Whiskey Farmers were doing covers of the Allman Brothers and Lynard Skinnerd. Schmoe got separated from the group and squeezed into a place at the bar and ordered a Michelobe. He saw Flax and the others talking to some skinny chick. Flax was pulling her and the others were laughing. Flax came up to him and patted his green army jacket.

“Give me your keys, Schmoe.”

Schmoe reached into the pocket closest to his heart and handed Flax his keys.

“Wanna come?”

Schmoe said in a minute.

“Fuckin’ A, Schmoe.”

He saw Flax, Tate and Gene usher the skinny girl out the door.

Schmoe turned to watch the band. The music was pounding and loud and everything smelled like rot.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” Schmoe asked himself. A girl in a halter top brushed up against Schmoe and said, “Excuse me,” really loud shouting into his ear.

“Hey, you... you got a light?”

He reached in for his zippo and lit her cigarette and then looked at her. He could barely concentrate on her face. Shit. He was wrecked.

“You’re cute, what’s your name?” she shouted into his ear.

“Joseph, my name is Joseph, don’t call me....” he shouted back at her. She was really beautiful.

“You’re cute, Joseph,” she said again. “You have any coke?” she said, but Schmoe didn’t hear her.

“Look,” Schmoe said, “I gotta go out for a sec...I’ll be right back.” The girl put her hand on his face and kissed him. “Sugar,” she said.

“Right back,” said Schmoe.

Schmoe stumbled through the crowd and out the door, still holding his bottle of Michelobe.

“Leave the beer here,” said the bouncer, who then turned to proof some 16 year old girl. “You can go in,” he said to her, but by then Schmoe was out the door and in the lot crunching the sea shells.

“Where the fuck is my car?”

He found it with the windows steamed up. Schmoe opened the driver’s side door and got in. It stunk of pot and beer. Tate and Palmer and Flax were in the back seat with the skinny girl. They were smoking a joint. Tate handed it to Schmoe. Flax had his arm around the girl. Schmoe had never seen her before. She looked smashed. Flax dropped his hand on her chest.

“Nice little titties,” he said. “Why don’t you do us all?”

“What?” she said. “Give me that,” and she took the joint from Schmoe.

“Come on, fuck us all!” Flax said. “You’re so hot.”

Flax took the joint and opened the door and threw it out and then closed the door and started kissing the girl. She pushed him back. Tate and Palmer started to grab at the girl and she giggled.

“One at a time!” Palmer unzipped her pants and Flax pulled her shirt off. Tate unzipped his own pants. Schmoe watched from the front seat.

“Want a piece of this, Schmoe?” Flax said.

“Schmoe? What a stupid name--what’s that supposed to mean? Schmoe!” said the girl and she giggled as Flax started kissing her breasts.

“Oh, I love your little titties,” he said.

Palmer had begun to pull her pants off and Tate was climbing on to her as well--like three dogs furiously lapping at a very small puddle.

Schmoe watched them in the rearview mirror, lit a cigarette and said, “Yeah, I’m Schmoe,” and then opened the door and got out, slamming the door.

“Schmoe,” he could hear Flax say. “Fucking Schmoe.”

Schmoe stood next to the car and listened. He could hear the girl say “No,” first softly, then more loudly. “Stop, stop,” she said, and then it was quiet. He wondered if Flax had stuffed her bra in her mouth. He hated Flax.

Schmoe walked back towards the bar and heaved his half empty Michelobe bottle into the trees. As high as he could throw it. He waited for what seemed like an hour, but finally it came down and smashed somewhere. A dog barked.

Schmoe walked back into the bar and found his place. The girl was no where to be seen. He ordered another Michelobe and listened to the band. He was still very high, now more from the pot than the Quaalude.

The girl came back and put her arm around his shoulders, pulling at the worn green collar.

“I thought you had abandoned me, soldier.”

“No, no I just had to get out. I needed some air,” Schmoe said. He fiddled in his pockets and pulled out his zippo. He lit her cigarette.

They talked a while about what Schmoe did (“I’m in the food service business”) what she did (she was a nurse) and ordered more beers and then Schmoe saw Flax and the others come back into the bar.

Their hair was all messed up. Schmoe didn’t want to see them, but he wanted his keys. He grabbed Flax’s arm and said, “My keys, Flax, give me my fucking keys.”

“Fuckin’ Schmoe, man, they’re in your fucking car.”

“Be right back,” he said to the nurse.

Schmoe walked out holding his Michelobe, and the bouncer said he couldn’t leave with the beer and Schmoe said, “Okay,” but walked out with the beer anyway.

The bouncer followed him and grabbed his collar. “Look jerk...I said...”

“Okay okay,” Schmoe said handing him the beer.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ beer asshole. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

Schmoe found his way back to the Lincoln. He took two long pulls on his beer and tossed it into the trees. He heard someone say: “I’m calling the cops.”

Schmoe was leaving anyway. He opened the driver’s side door. The keys were in the ignition and the radio was playing.

The car smelled like dank pussy and spilled beer. He tried to get the windows down to air it out but they didn’t work, so he opened his door and then got out and opened the back door and saw the skinny girl lying on the floor. She was naked except for her bra which was unhooked but still around her. Her body was marked by hand prints. Her underwear was around her ankles.

Schmoe took off his army jacket and dropped it on top of her. She didn’t move.

Schmoe didn’t know what he should do. So he slammed the door shut but it didn’t wake her. He wondered if she was dead. But when he got back in and shut off the radio he could hear her breathing.

“Fuckin’ shit,” said Schmoe.

Schmoe got out of the Lincoln again and pulled the top back by hand. It was open fully now. He buckled the folded canvas top shut. The air was cool but heavy. He started the Lincoln and then turned on the headlights. Schmoe put the car in drive and slowly pulled out of the lot. He didn’t see any cops.

He pointed the Lincoln south. There was plenty of gas. He could drive for another three, four hours, he figured.

He cruised through town and then took the highway and stayed on that for half an hour and then pulled off and headed south again. The sign said: New Jersey, but someone had spray painted over it to read: “Florida,” with a smiley face. The girl seemed to come to.

She woke up crying. Schmoe looked for her in the rear view mirror and saw her head.

“Where are we going?” she said, sitting up. He saw her face in the mirror. Her mascara was all over her face. She was dirty and her hair was messed up.

“I’m going to take you to a special place, don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” Schmoe said.

“I want to go home,” she said, beginning to cry now, loud. Tears were pouring down her face.

Schmoe drove on south and took small roads that were barely lit.

“You’ll see,” said Schmoe as he hit the gas and flew through the night.

“We’re almost there, I promise...everything is going to be fuckin’ A.”

Matthew Rose ©1999
12 Rue Lalande
75014 Paris France
Tel: +33 1 43 21 94 85