Snakebite Read online

  SNAKEBITE

  By Zena Schultz

  Copyright © 2021 Unceded Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-9994961-2-8

  ISBN (E-book): 978-1-9994961-5-9

  Editing by Dustin Bilyk @ The Author’s Hand

  Front Cover Design by Ovila Mailhot

  Printed by Ingram Spark in the United States and Canada

  First printing edition 2021

  Contents

  Chapter One: My Antidote

  Chapter Two: Let It Bleed, Guisy

  Chapter Three: The Heist

  Chapter Four: Higher

  Chapter Five: Pure

  Chapter Six: Hard core

  Chapter Seven: Reservation

  Chapter Eight: Undoing

  Chapter Nine: Cyborg

  Chapter Ten: Cartography

  Chapter Eleven: Raison d’être

  Chapter Twelve: Grand Slam!

  Chapter Thirteen: Come In, the Door’s Unlocked

  Chapter Fourteen: Allen Wench, Wrenching my Heart

  Chapter Fifteen: The Dying Star

  Chapter Sixteen: Let’s Just Kiss!

  Chapter Seventeen: Alan Smithee

  Chapter Eighteen: Tail Piece

  Chapter One

  My Antidote

  I’m tired. My body needs a break. The only escape I’ve ever had was my star-glittered, concrete, four-walled hotel, blandly named “The Pen.” So, when my last heist was smoking hot, instead of high tailing it, I looked up at the security camera and blew a kiss. Gave them a little tongue too, then I lit a Marlboro and bent my head down, broken, enjoying my last drag.

  On the floor of the local trailer-town bank, on my belly I surrendered, no fighting back.

  Redemption comes in different forms—a whiskey bottle, easy pussy, a loaded revolver—each short lived, each with a price. But this time when it visited me, it was different: Fucking hope.

  After the shakes behind bars, my body finished detox. I followed the prison crowd. All the big shits went to the gym, the runts to the kitchen, but me...well, I chose the chain gang. My hands needed a beating of a different kind. The illusion of freedom was good enough for me. At least I'd be on the other side of the barred windows. Route 66 unraveled me.

  I sold my car and everything I owned—well, except for my pink laptop. Cash and a borrowed station wagon were all I needed, and the city embraced me. I followed my gut and went with it. My script made it. After winning the competition my name meant something in the industry.

  But everything I’ve done was for him. My character. I bled for him. He bore deep into my thoughts like stitches mending a belligerent wound, only he’s the one who ripped a tear in my heart. And I writhed and screamed until he came out all brand new and hungry, needing me. I guess I do have a maternal bone in my body.

  I decided that going Indie was the only way for me. I wanted full control of my manuscript, an ode to the new and upcoming genre featuring “you can do it” and “never give up” kind of folks like me. After I compiled enough grants and sponsors, I took the next step, forming a group of bandits—my production team. They needed credits on a screen and I, proud mama, wanted to share with the world this life that kicked and screamed.

  The only way to pacify my fucked up little man was to find him, so being the creative genius that I am, I searched the internet for the perfect casting. Nope, couldn’t find him. The tone had to be perfect. The man had to be perfect. Despite my entire production team telling me to settle on a wannabe hipster rising star, I refused, almost ready to give up.

  Fuck, really? I had to get back to the city before the banks closed. Honking the horn did nothing to break through the road jam. Why do these prisoners have to be picking up roadside garbage out here right now? Can’t they just go make some license plates or something? Damn it!

  I passed by the boys in blue and white. They all looked broken, especially the lone wolf. One arm on the steering wheel, the other resting on the side of my car, as I approached him, I couldn’t get over his face: his thick eyebrows, his strong chin, the gray cloud above his head. I had to shake my head and get him out of my thoughts. But he’s the one, so… forlorn.

  Shocked, I dropped everything else, including my mind, and went to call my set to tell them to quit casting because I found my lead. It was then I reached down into my attaché to find my stupid phone, and I messed up bad. Like bad.

  I killed a man. Hung-over, I plowed over the lone wolf with the front end of my Subaru Outback.

  “I want to get the hell out of here. Fuck,” I mumbled to myself. Rubbing my eyes, I looked down to avoid the blinding sunset. Spectacular as it was, my eyes had never adjusted to sobriety or to life without Ray Bans.

  ‘What the fuck? Is that a driverless car? Oh. That would make a cool movie,’ was all I thought, then thud. I woke up dead. Well almost dead in a hospital.

  After the prison made the bad move of abandoning me on the highway, they released me early on good, well, almost dead behavior.

  With no medical, no family, and no money, I was banished from the emergency ward. Fucking hypocrites! What about your Hippocratic Oath? Still in prison garb, I took to the street trying to figure out where or who to go to for help. Then she came along, my black angel.

  “Excuse me sir?”

  “You got a cigarette there, darling?” She puts her car in park, gets out and opens her passenger door. Her big brown eyes look at me with pity for fucks sake. Bitch.

  “Sir, I’ll give you a ride. Let me help you into my car.” Not knowing where to go, I look disappointingly to the sky and nod my head. When I turn to look at her, well, let’s just say she looks like my sister. The last time I seen her was before she passed on. I’ll give this kid a chance.

  “Hey. What’s your name? You kind of look familiar,” she asks me.

  Bitch, I was a star.

  She looks at me, waiting for an answer. When it’s obvious I’m not saying anything, she says, “Well. Come with me. I have to make a quick stop then I can bring you home.”

  Chapter Two

  Let It Bleed, Guisy

  She did more than just knock me out. She knocked a sliver of hope into me. If I can tell anyone something important, maybe one of those mantras people love to follow, it is this: be careful what you pray for and who you pray to because it’s a real kick in the ass when you get your answer. All good things come to an end and that’s when the real shit starts over again.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the kid.

  “Guisy,” she mumbles back at me. I want to be rude and laugh but she seems nice enough. “My friends call me Jay.” Guisy slips off her shades and throws them on the floor, “Call me whatever you want...I owe you, Sir.”

  “Yah, you owe me. Take me home.”

  “Sure, direct me,” she says, smiling.

  “I live on the East side. Just drive.” To avoid further conversation, I roll the window down, lean back and tilt my baseball cap over my face. The corner of my slanted eye searches her over.

  At first, the kid seems calm and collected, balanced, then she shocks me and grosses me out. As soon as she thinks I’m sleeping she starts chewing her nails. Like I mean going to town on her body parts. Then she does the big no-no—she picks her nose. Gross. But at that same stupid moment my body betrays me by releasing a little gastric bubble. Disgusted she tries to roll her window down to inhale gulps of fresh carbon city air but fails. She
deserves it. After all, she did hit me with her car.

  The drive was altogether horrible. It was disturbing, like watching a horror flick starring a baby possessed by a devil kind of bad. What she was doing to that poor clutch plate was a sin.

  “Guisy, Jay, or whatever, I’ll do the driving. If you continue driving the way you do the clutch plate will give out and you won’t be able to switch gears. And can’t you smell that burnt stink going on under the hood? That clutch is screaming for you to stop and pull over and let me drive,” I say to the girl. She lights a cigarette.

  “Fine,” she responds.

  “Thank you. Smoking will kill you, you know,” I scold the kid as I search my prison pant pockets for my lighter.

  As she hands me her keys, she dangles them in front of me and gets pissy. “What’s your name anyway?”

  I’m shocked, again. I snap the keys out of her hand and jump in the driver’s side. I can’t believe I’m going to drive a station wagon. More shocking though is the fact that another kid doesn’t recognize me. Ugh.

  “I used to be famous for my smile,” I say.

  “Is there something in your eye?”

  Humph. “My name is John Clark, the Silver Fox.”

  Jay’s fingers fly on her cell phone, “Oh. Found you. Man, you used to be a hottie!”

  Really? Past tense?

  “Anyway, John, I’m going to catch up on some sleep. Wake me up when we get there.” She yawns and curls up to the passenger door armrest.

  The drive seemed like forever, but I enjoyed the opportunity to recall my past adventures on film and television. I try not to think about the serious stuff and focus on the good, like my first call back and my first debut. It was fucking awesome, and then when I got picked up by an agent, it was even better—the party lifestyle and all the women. I had it all.

  For years, I’ve tried to be happy and keep fit, just in case, but I’ve being waiting a long time and my body and wallet are feeling the effects. My hips feel like they’re broken in a few places. I always refused a stunt double back in the day, and now I’m paying for it. Damn. The urgency to get to my apartment is now renewed.

  Two hours later, we pull up to the Bole apartments. I park the car in the visitor’s area and wake her up.

  “Jay. We’re here,” I say, shaking her awake. “Come in and have a drink with me. I’ll tell you all about life in LA.”

  “Sure. I’ll bring my laptop. I want to know more about you. I’ll write your bio.”

  By some miracle, my apartment is still mine. I thought I’d come back to nothing, homeless once again.

  I tell her about life in Montana. I tell her about my parents and the hardship they went through to come to America. I tell her about how my mother died in the high hills during a snowstorm. I tell her about all the loves and broken hearts of my life. I tell her how it feels to be undesirable and burnt out. She’s a curious lady and very kind…empathetic. She doesn’t feel sorry for me. She takes me as I am.

  After a few drinks and a mouth dry from talking, my stiff body pushes off the chair and I limp to my bathroom to run a hot bath. Before I jump in, I open my medicine cabinet looking for something to kill the pain. Not finished with undressing, I open the door and check on Jay. She’s sitting at my dining room table fiercely typing away. The kid’s got heart.

  “Let it bleed, girl.”

  Chapter Three

  The Heist

  I’ve always hated my legs. I mean...I’ve worked on upper body and core strength my whole life, so while my upper half is still in pretty good form, it’s too late for my bottom half. Fuck. White, hairy tree stubs. No, more like dying palm trees, and just when my bubble bath relaxes me, my nerves get shot again by just standing up and taking in the view.

  What next?

  I decide to dry off and use my towel to wipe my foggy mirror so I can shave. Considering all the years I’ve spent under the sun without protection, my skin has fared quite well. Two handsome wrinkles make an appearance every time I smile. Character. My razor is dull and well-used, and my bottle of shaving cream is empty, so I improvise and use my Pert to lather up my face. After a quick wash down, I admire my handsome Paul Newman face then decide to trim my eyebrows, only a bit. The last fixer-upper rehab tool is a quick dab of Old Spice, because who could resist that smell?

  Out of the jailbird stripes and into my Wranglers and white T-shirt. I feel fresh, hip, like a new man hot and ready to slay the world.

  I hesitate to open the door. Why can’t I open my own damned bathroom fucking door? I need a beer.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. Oh! You look good. The stripes weren’t working for you,” she says, laughing, “but your zipper is down, dude.”

  “It’s broke. Like me.”

  “I got us some grub. Boy, you must like to bath. You were in there a long time.” She laughs again. So happy. My eyes turn toward the bags of groceries.

  A case of beer, a pack of smokes, pizza, chips, fruit. Is that a bag of oats? Holy fuck… She’s a health nut like the rest of the dames in this city.

  “Did that hot bath help?”

  “Oh yeah it did. Thanks.”

  Just as we started to chow down the damn lights went out. “Should have paid my utility bill I guess.”

  “Shit happens.” She laughs.

  “Did you at least get to charge your laptop?”

  “Yes. It’s good to go.”

  “What are you writing?”

  “A short story, but my main jam is screenwriting. I’m working on a piece, but I may rewrite it a little bit.”

  “Since you met me?” I ask her, curious, but she doesn’t answer.

  We spend the entire day mostly in the dark talking about our pasts. She really listens. She asks lots of questions. She laughs and laughs. We get along pretty good.

  After a few beers, I light up a smoke and start to relax, reflecting on everything which led me here today. Just a week ago, I walked into the prison and gave up. Two days ago, I thought I was going to die. For the first time in a long time the regret starts playing in my thoughts like a skipping record. If I had known then what I know now, what difference would it make?

  “John. Do you have any candles? I can hook you up with some cash tomorrow to reconnect your utilities,” Jay whispers, but I barely hear her. “Johnny?”

  Guisy looks out my tiny living room window, pensively, and notes the bright pink sunset. I watch as she gets up and walks slowly into my living room and admires the photos on my walls, mostly stills from my movies. She finds an ashtray and butts her smoke.

  Ready and willing to leave my torments behind for at least one evening, I reach out to this girl. What an awkward pair we make. I’ll give her a chance even though my luck is fucked—because I need a friend. The room begins to fade into dark and our silhouettes meet at the coffee table. I take her hands and lift them up between us. Her hair is messy and wild. Her black eyeliner and mascara have melted away creating a raccoon mask around her eyes, smudged by the humidity, heat and alcohol, but her light heart smudges away my shame sitting heavy on my shoulders like boulders. Her goofy, buzzed grin and grunge out eyes match my torn jeans and stained Stanfield tee.

  I tilt her head up, lift Jay’s arm up high, and twist her wrist, spinning her gently around in a circle. Buzzed, she hesitates then giggles. I take a risk and fall into her arms as she dips me across her chest. Buzzed, I lose my balance and grab hold of her shoulders; tiny shoulders that can hold us both up just when I needed it the most. In her arms, I rise to my feet and, lost in hope, our faces touch. She takes a chance and looks up into my eyes. We’re like two tired superheroes, and after a lengthy battle against the villains, I wrap my arms around her tightly.

  Chapter Four

  Higher

  At last, I can feel without giving in to the fear. I’ve gone down far enough, can’t get any lower. Yeah, I made the mistake and it fucked me royally, but I’m here in the now. I can breathe. I can start over again.

  S
he feels so good, like a little bundle of joy, a newborn babe. So, I’ll keep her in my arms, and when I let go, all that shit is shattered, fucking gone.

  I’m torn, though. What to do? Man, she gives me chills all over. I can barely handle it. Not the horny kind of crap, something different…Like, can I kiss a nun? If I do, will I burn? Will I melt?

  I’m already melted.

  As broken as he is, is that a reflection of me? Are we a match of messed up? Does this make me as sad as him or as resilient?

  I’ve overcome so much shit just to get here. I left the reservation in hope of living a life filled with my hopes...active, real dreams. My past has been horrific. Just thinking about how I was raised gives me chills that will best any horror flick I’ll ever see. But I was the little train that could. After quitting school, I upgraded and got my grade twelve. Then I learned to write with heart and soul. It took years to accomplish all the little stuff...poverty, no food, second-hand clothes, surrounded by drunks and drugs.

  No, I can’t go back. I can handle failing because that just fuels me to try harder, to learn and do better. I think being an Indian in the city is going to be rough on me, but maybe this is my sanctuary too? Maybe, together, John and I can rise.

  I’ve been walking on my knees all my life. Then I wobbled but learned to walk. I ran through all the shit, giving the bird to my past, and now I’m here. I made it and just when I needed a friend, a confidant, I ran into him, literally.

  But are we friends? What is this?

  He doesn’t seem to mind I’m a native woman. He’s like a homeless puppy: color blind, loyal and needing a home. I don’t want him to let me go. This feeling is new for me. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty because at least I can control that. So, what about the butterflies in my belly fluttering around nudging me, moving me, at his touch?

  Chapter Five

  Pure