Vernon God Little

Beulah Drive is spongy with heat. I wander over to a lemonade stand some kids have set up on number twelve's driveway; they ask fifty cents for information about the reporter, so I wander back, and check the red van under the Lechugas' willow. My nose flattens to the rear glass. You can see a lunchbox behind the seat, with half a brown apple in it. Some wires on the floor. A chewed-up ole book titled 'Make It In Media'. Then you see Ledesma's head rested on a pair of ole boots. He splays naked across a canvas mat inside, eyes closed, muscles heavy and slick. He jackrabbits when I spot him.

'Shit!' He jerks up onto an elbow, rubbing his eyes. 'Big man – come round to the door.'

I tap a stray teddy onto the Lechugas' lawn, and move around to the side. A blast of sweat hits me when the door opens. The guy's face is waxy. Definitely over thirty. I can tell my ole lady likes him, but I ain't so sure.

'You live in the van?' I ask.

'Tch – the motel's full. Anyway, it gives my corporate Amex a break.' A bunch of glass phials tumble across the floor as he grabs his clothes.

'Mom says you can come up for a Coke.'

'I could sure use your bathroom. And maybe a bite to eat.'

'We have joy cakes.'

'Joy cakes?'

'Don't ask.'

Ledesma grabs a handful of the tiny bottles from the floor, stuffing them into a pocket as he stretches into his overalls. He studies me through quick, black eyes. 'Your mom's stressed today.'

'This is one of her better days.'

He gives a laugh like asthma, 'Hururrr, hrrr,' and slaps me on the arm. Kind of slap my dad used to give me, when he was feeling friendly. We move back over the road and up the driveway, but Ledesma stops by the wishing bench to adjust his balls. Then he shakes his head, and looks at me.

'Vern – you're innocent, right?'

'Uh-huh.'

'I don't know why it gets to me, tch. All this shit raining down on you, I can't help thinking – what kind of fucking life is this?'

'Tell me about it.'

He puts a hand on my shoulder. 'I'd be prepared to help.'

I just stare at my New Jacks. To be honest, intimate moments aren't my scene at all, especially when you just saw a guy naked. Next thing you know you're in a fucken TV-movie, quivering all over the place. I guess he senses it. He takes his hand away, tweaks his crotch again, and leans against the wishing bench, which sharply tilts away.

'Shit,' he says, pulling back. 'Can't you stand this somewhere flat?'

'Yeah, like – back at the store.'

He laughs. 'You should tell your story, little big man, clear your name – the world loves an underdog.'

'What about the spot we just did, with Deputy Gurie?'

'Tch – camera wasn't running.'

'Get outta town.'

'Call it a favor – between underdogs.'

'You're an underdog?' Mrs Porter's door opens as I say it; Kurt's nose snuffles out.

'Only underdogs and psychos in this world,' says Ledesma. 'Psychos like that fat-assed deputy. Think about it.'

I don't think long. You have to quiver on TV, it's a fucken law of nature. You have to quiver and be fucken devastated all the time. I know it for sure, and you'd know it too if you saw Mom watching Court TV. 'See how impassive he is, he chopped up ten people and ate their bowels but he doesn't show a care in the world.' I personally don't see the logic in having to quiver if you're innocent. If you ask me, people who don't eat your bowels are more likely to be impassive. But no, one learning I made is that juries watch the same shows as my ole lady. If you don't quiver, you're fucken guilty.

'I don't know,' I say, turning to the porch.

Ledesma hangs back. 'Don't underestimate your general public, Vern – they want to see justice being done. I say give them what they want.'

'But, like – I didn't do anything.'

'Tch, and who knows it? People decide with or without the facts – if you don't get out there and paint your paradigm, someone'll paint it for you.'

'My what

?'

'Pa-ra-dime. You never heard of the paradigm shift? Example: you see a man with his hand up your granny's ass. What do you think?'

'Bastard.'

'Right. Then you learn a deadly bug crawled up there, and the man has in fact put aside his disgust to save Granny. What do you think now?'

'Hero.' You can tell he ain't met my nana.

'There you go, a paradigm shift. The action doesn't change – the information you use to judge it does. You were ready to crucify the guy because you didn't have the facts. Now you want to shake his hand.'

'I don't think so.'

'I mean figuratively, asshole,' he laughs, punching out six of my ribs. 'Facts may seem black and white by the time they hit your TV screen, but professional teams sift through mountains of gray to get them there. You need positioning, like a product in the market – the jails are full of people who didn't manage their positions.'

'Wait up, I have a witness, you know.'

Ledesma heads up the porch steps. 'Yeah, and Deputy Lard-ass is so interested. Public opinion will go with the first psycho who points a finger. You're butt-naked, big man.'