Couples of South Pointe Lake

4. Morning Run

The front door of No. 82 Canyon Drive opened on a Monday morning, and out came Bobby ‘Red’ Van Houten.  The time was 06:07 a.m.  He stood at his doorway, his feet splayed apart, with his excessive bulk filling the frame.  He stretched his limbs and cracked his mouth open in a yawn that looked as like he intended ingesting anything unlucky enough to fly across his mouth.  He bore a mop of shaggy orange hair on his head that resembled a wet rug that had been left to dry under a rainy day; his arms looked like giant-sized pythons with a carpet growth of hair.  Many recognized him by his hair; few seldom referred to him by his first name.  Bobby was ambivalent about this.  As long as they knew who he was, was all that mattered.

He concluded his yawning then savored a moment to appreciate his girth under his sleeveless shirt and stumped his feet protruding out of his sweat pants.  He wore a pair of Nike trainers.  His gut had become too protruding; he barely sighted his p***s whenever he took a piss or got an erection.  That particular aspect had become a churning workout over the past couple of years.  His wife, Bella, no longer complained.  Once there was a time she regularly did, and it felt to him like compulsive nagging.  She feared that he might one day slump at the workshop and suffer a coronary failure.  She did what any smart-thinking wife would do and purchased him a gym membership in Cumberland for his fiftieth birthday, three years ago.  Red never took up the membership, and in months past, Bella ceased raising the subject.  What was left of their marriage had since suffered an irreparable deterioration.  As if for a belated attempt to make up for lost times, he had begun this routine morning jog, running three miles down Cinnamon Drive, past the Fruit Garden Market, the Post Office, and fire station building, all the way to the Lake Park.  Bella knew nothing about the secret behind his jogging, and he intended to keep it that way.

Bobby shut the door then proceeded down his driveway.  He stopped to adjust the flagpole beside his mailbox before continuing down Canyon Drive, which slopped twenty degrees down to Cinnamon Drive.  The street was quiet at this hour.  The sidewalks were littered with hundreds of dead leaves and bits of dirt strewn from people’s trash bins, courtesy of rodents or wild felines carrying out nighttime investigations.  Many of the lawns were wet with dew, a mist hung inches from the ground.  Bobby took comfort that he was one of few persons out in the street at this hour.  He enjoyed the thumping sound of his trainers making contact with the sidewalk’s concrete.  He loved the cold wind blowing against his ears and ruffled the lush hair on his arms.  In a matter of minutes, he would be working up a sweat.  The sweat would dampen his armpits and shirt; even his arm hairs would start glistening.  By then, he would have quickened his trot toward his impending stop point, knowing something was waiting for him there.  It made this jogging exercise very worthwhile.

His gut jiggled and bounced under his shirt as he trotted down the sloppy incline onto Cinnamon Drive.  A strong gust of wind blew at him as he turned right and continued his run. 

Ollie Moss stepped out of his front door at 06:21 a.m. in his bathroom robe.  The teenager that delivered newspapers had pedaled past his yard minutes ago—Ollie had stood at his bedroom window and sighted him coming from the north end in his Schwinn, flinging rolled-up newspaper after newspaper in each yard he passed.  Hanna gave off a light snore while snuggled on her side of the bed.  A stream of sunlight filtered in through the opposite window.  Ollie had awoken thirty-plus minutes before his alarm was set to ring; he turned it off before it could awaken Hanna.  His mind was preoccupied with the dilemma that was his buddy, Garry.  Although he had selfish reasons, he supported the notion of wanting Steve-O to get to the bottom of things.  

He cracked a yawn as he shuffled down his porch toward the cobbled path that was his driveway, where his newspaper lay waiting.  He grunted as he heard his spine crack reassuringly when he stooped to pick it up.  He looked up in time to see Bobby Red jogging by, puffing with sweat.  Bobby waved at him, and Ollie responded in kind.

“Morning, Red,” he said.

“Morning,” Bobby hollered back as he continued down the street.

Ollie watched him go, then shifted his gaze to the house formerly occupied by the Alvarezes.  Ollie thought something was off.  It took several seconds for it to occur to him what he assumed was missing.  It felt weird, as though his eyes were playing tricks on him.  He had neglected washing his face before coming down.  He rubbed his knuckles against his eyes and still nothing about the picture had changed . . . or rather, nothing about what he ought to have been seeing.

Before entering his house yesterday, he could have sworn there had been a FOR SALE signboard planted near the driveway of the vacant house.  The signboard always caught his sight every time he looked toward the house.  What was different today was the signboard no longer occupied its previous spot—the signboard was missing entirely.  Ollie scanned the yard, assuming at first that maybe some kids had knocked it over as they were wont to do, or by chance, some strong wind from last night fell it down. 

No, there was no FOR SALE signboard anywhere at all.  It was like it never was. 

Ollie turned and returned to his house.

*          *          *

It was a twenty-three minutes jog from Canyon Drive to the park.  Bobby was huffing and puffing through much of it; his face was crimson like a peach as he got within distance of the place.  He stopped when he was fifty yards from the park’s main entrance and decided to walk then; no way would he be jogging back home.  He noted the time on his watch, congratulating himself for another accomplishing run.  Not that it meant much.  Likely he would give up on this schedule by the end of the week if he made it through then.  He swiped his thumb across his brow and flicked the sweat that came with it onto the roadside.  

The park’s gates usually stayed open from 06:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m.  South Pointe was safe when it comes to vagrancy and looting.  The one major crime afflicting the neighborhood had to do with neighbors wanting to get in on each other’s private affairs.  Somebody was always watching, always wanting to stick their nose whenever they smelled a stink.  Bobby thought he felt eyes on him as he approached the park’s gate and looked about before slipping inside.

The park was lonely and quiet during early morning hours; especially now when Bobby Red knew, or at least figured, he had the place to himself.  The park won’t be teaming with life for another two hours.  He knew this as he strolled down one of several the winding paths that led to a World War 2 giant memorial.  He settled his sweaty frame on a bench and took stock of his throbbing muscles while he waited.  The park benches were wet with dew, but he didn’t care. 

Bobby heard footsteps along the cobbled pathway and looked toward that direction.  He made out a person’s head hovering behind a clump of hedges.  The figure emerged from an opening, and that was when Red relaxed when he saw who it was. 

“Hiya, Red,” the man smiled gingerly, revealing his uneven set of teeth at Bobby, who, in turn, grimaced at the sight of him.

His name was Charlie DeGreese.  He was thirty-one years old, but one might assume he was ageless, having spent half of his wayward teenage life in juvie, from which he graduated onto county jails for an assortment of crimes including B&E, selling stolen goods, and vagrancy.  A recovering druggie who once dabbled in hard stuff like heroin and cocaine, but that was months ago after his last arrest.  Now he stuck solely to m*******a.  He allegedly took it as part of his medication and knew how to get his hands on the good s**t.  That was how he became a supplier to Bobby, who loved his weed as much as anything else. 

“How’s it going, Charles.  You doing all right?” 

“As good as I can be.”  

He came and sat beside Bobby; his hands stayed hidden in his jacket’s pockets.  He had a ferret-type of quality about him and a distinct smell that Red despised.  If ever a patrol cop happened to stroll by, one glanced would be all it took to assume they were up to something illegal. 

“My girl’s been tripping lately,” Charles continued.  “But that’s nothing for your ears.  You got the dough on you?”

“Would you think I won’t?”

Red took out a wad of money from his pocket and slapped it into Charles’ palm. 

“Two hundred, as promised,” he said.

Charles made the money disappear into one pocket while his other whipped out a doggie bag filled with m*******a leaves.

“I smoke these myself,” Charles remarked as he handed him the bag, which Red weighted in his hand.  “You roll and light these up, and you’ll be in la-la-land the quicker than you think.  I told you I had the best shit.”

“Looks as though your s**t’s getting smaller than what it used to.  How come about that?”

“You saying I’m two-timing you?  You pay me for the good s**t, and that’s some good s**t I brought you.  I’m telling you, these here are the best weed south of the Rio Grande.”

“If I didn’t know you for the low life that you are, I’d say you’re getting more out of this relationship and giving me less,” Bobby Red grumbled.

“Come on, Red.  You’re hurting my damn feelings here.  I’d never stiff you, and you oughtta know that.”

“There’s always a first time.  Anyhow, I’d best be off.”

Red stashed the doggie bag into his pocket then took off, not once bothering to glance back.  

Charles remained at the bench, wanting Red to get steps ahead of him before deciding to leave; it paid to be careful that way.  He didn’t have a stellar relationship with residents of South Pointe and only got along well with few in Cumberland, the majority of whom considered him an eye-sore and a nuisance.  Some won’t hesitate to call the cops on him should he deign to stroll into their establishment.  Charles got on well with the cops that they were apt to stop and frisk him just on sight.  

When he felt he had waited long enough, he got up and strode through another gate in the park, this one leading to Cumberland.

Bella sat in a rocking chair in the back porch smoking a cigarette, reluctant to hang the remaining set of clothes in the hamper she had brought with her from the laundry room.  She knew Red was out doing his morning run.  She was also privy to why he carried out this covert activity, even though Red would like to assume her as clueless.  After all, it wasn’t like she cared about what he did with his life, besides providing for her and handling the mortgages and bills while Bella slaved for extra tips where she worked at the Golden Corral on Royal Boulevard.  

Married life had stopped been rosy for them.  There were plenty of times when Bella gazed at her husband with the disgust one might harbor looking at a cockroach before stepping on it.  Many times she stayed awake watching him snore lazily in bed, wishing she could smother him in his sleep and see about getting away with the murder.  Red thought he was smart, hiding his m*******a consumption from her.  How dumb did he think that anything went on in their household without her being aware.  She even knew where he stashed his bags and sometimes allowed herself the freedom to enjoy some of it with her boyfriend, Harold.  Of that, Red knew nothing, and she intended to keep it that way.  s*x between them was as dead and nonexistent as roadkill.  Red always lived up to expectations of blowing his spunk within minutes of sticking his pecker inside her, after which he would then roll off and make as though it was her fault entirely.  Those were the times Bella held herself back from wanting to strangle him.  If there were a way she could compel someone to do him away without the crime coming back to her, she would give it serious thought.

Bella sucked on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air above her head.  She looked at her arm, admiring her tattoos, but unhappy about the extra flab of flesh she was picking up.  It had taken a couple of months to add on some extra pounds, and it alarmed her that soon she would begin to despise her body size. 

She heard a noise coming from the kitchen and knew Bobby was back from his jogging.  Bella took one last drag of her cigarette before stumping it under her feet, then pushed herself up and continued with her clothes hanging.  The back screen door opened, and Bobby frowned toward her.

“Yo, Bell.  You see my striped briefs?”

She pointed at his pair of briefs hanging on the clothesline.  His face darkened when he saw that.

“The f**k you have to wash them for?  I was gonna wear that today.”

“Maybe next time don’t leave it lying where I won’t f*****g see it then,” she snapped back as she finished her clothes hanging.  “And that ain’t the only pair you got.  You ain’t gone looking in the closet?”

“I’d set that pair aside, ‘specially for today,” he grumbled.  “I wasn’t in need of your help if not I’d have thrown it in the washing machine my damn self.”

“I’ll remember to do that next time then.”

She picked up the empty hamper and barged past him into the kitchen.  If looks could kill, Bobby’s eyes would have shot laser beams at her back.  Bella discarded the hamper then went about making coffee.  The house was too small to curtail them from getting at each other’s nerves daily.  It was easy for them to maintain their cold stance than seek peace.

“How was your run today?” she asked as she picked her cigarette pack from where she had left it on the kitchen counter and lit herself another.

“Terrific as yesterday.  I’ll go do some reps in the basement before I ship off for work.”

That told her what she needed to know—he had gotten himself a new bag of weed, and now he wanted to be in the one place he felt comfortable enough to roll himself a blunt without doing it in her presence.  Bella knew he would make some to take with him to the workshop, but would stash the remainder where he figured she knew nothing about.

Oh, if only the son of a b***h knew.