“And what’s a game room? Like an arcade?”
“Kind of. It’s where all the gang members and drug dealers go to launder money. There’s gambling and all sorts of stuff going on. And you can hire people to… take care of certain things.”
“Oh, I see,” I frown. “Well, I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore.”
He looks almost wistful. “When someone really fucks up on this island, they sometimes get dealt with. There’s a wood chipper…”
“A wood chipper?” I flinch at the thought, immediately understanding he’s not talking about using it to process wood..
He nods, a dark gleam in his eye, as if he’s proud to know the gritty details most people don’t. “Can you imagine what a human body looks like, being processed through a woodchipper? What thatsoundslike?”
My mind flashes back to a movie where that happened. I can’t remember which one, but I remember what it looked like, and I shiver.
“I—I guess I can, but I don’t really want to? I guess like a meat grinder, but for humans?”
“It’s very loud, and very disturbing to watch,” he nods, his mouth pressed together in a grim line, his eyes gleaming. “But it’s also very quick. Efficient. And there’s little to no chance of anyone ever identifying the body. Because it’s in tiny little pieces. And it gets scattered around and buried in mulch, like regular fertilizer. That’s how we take care of things around here.” He looks wistful again.
I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit, so I change the subject.
He’s a storyteller, and I imagine that kind of talk impresses some of his male buddies. But I just think it’s him being a weirdo, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable.
If anything, I might be able to use it in a book, I suppose.
I try to laugh it off, but there’s an unease that lingers. I’m assuming he’s just pulling my leg, but the glint of pride, or something like satisfaction in his expression, makes me wonder just how close he’s really been to things like that.
23
HE LIKES MY OTHER CAT, TOO
“Let me take you to see your cat,” Timmy says, smiling at me.
“Would you mind?” I feel my eyes grow large at the prospect of seeing my baby.
He kisses me on my forehead. “I’d seriously love to.”
We hop into his truck, and it’s so fun driving with Timmy, different from what I’m used to. He cranks the stereo and plays all sorts of songs I’ve never heard before, exposing me to new music, as well as some songs I do know. It feels so free.
One of my joys has always been driving around listening to music—I love music in general—and it’s with a bit of shock that, when I think about it, I realize I didn’t really listen to music for the past six years or so. My ex only liked to listen to music he made himself, and he’d seem offended when I’d listen to anything else.
He was also adamant about not listening to music while driving—again, unless it was his own—so I gave up that joy, and I’d really not given it much thought until now.
But Timmy is like my own personal DJ, playing everything from classic rap to the latest EDM and house, pop, R&B, even reggae and local Sunset Cay jams. I feel like my mind is being re-expanded.
As we drive, Timmy leans back casually, one hand on the steeringwheel, the other gesturing as he talks and occasionally landing on my thigh, bouncing from topic to topic as the songs change. He has a way of describing things that almost feels like he’s pulling them out of a dream, mixing memories with imagination, past with present. The way he talks, it’s like everything is happening now, and I keep having to mentally rewind and sort through what he means.
“You know the kids, they get me to do this all the time,” he laughs, gesturing at the radio. “‘Turn it up, louder, louder!’ they’ll demand. And they’re all in the back, screaming like it’s some kind of dance club.”
“Oh, right… the kids?” I reply, trying to follow along. “Which kids are you talking about, again..?”
“Oh, back at Darren’s place. I live in the room next door to him. And my ex’s kids. They’re always listening to music, skateboarding around the yard. I swear my daughter’s going to be like that.”
I frown slightly, sorting through his mix of words. Does he mean… kids he might have one day? Or actual kids that exist now? “Wait, your daughter? You mean…ifyou have a daughter?”
“Yes, exactly.” He glances over and winks. “I just know she’d be skateboarding, a tomboy.”
I nod, catching up slowly. “Got it, a hypothetical future daughter.” A little puzzle piece falls into place, although not quite snugly.
He smiles. “Yep!”