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Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9849538-4-4

E-ISBN: 978-0-9849538-7-5

Book Cover & Layout Design: Tina Holmes Craig

First Edition. Published by Burrow Press, 2014

Print: burrowpress.com

Web: burrowpressreview.com

Flesh: functionallyliterate.org

Distributed by Itasca Books

5120 Cedar Lake Rd.

Minneapolis, MN 55416

orders@itascabooks.com

The stories in this collection first appeared in the following publications: “Clock-In” in Flash Fiction On-line; “Ask Jesus” in The Madison Review and Going Down Swinging; “Welcome, Lost Dogs” in The Southern Review; “Barbecue Rabbit” in Saranac Review; “Uninvited Guests” in The Wordstock Ten: Finalists from the 2010 Wordstock Short Fiction Competition; “The Lung” in Cimarron Review and Split Lip Zine; “Hospice of the Au Pair” in Green Mountains Review; “Princess of Pop” in Skidrow Penthouse; “The Sponge Diver” in Toasted Cheese; “Don’t Forget the Beignets” in The Louisiana Review; and “Train Shots” in Harpur Palate.

TABLE of CONTENTS

Clock-In

Ask Jesus

Welcome, Lost Dogs

Barbecue Rabbit

Uninvited Guests

The Lung

Hospice of the Au Pair

Princess of Pop

The Sponge Diver

Don’t Forget the Beignets

Train Shots

Praise for Train Shots

“Evidently, Vanessa Blakeslee was somebody’s big secret until now. I just don’t know how they kept her from us or why they would. No one writes this good the first time out, do they? Train Shots is more than a promising first collection by a formidably talented writer; it is a haunting story collection of the first order.”

~ John Dufresne, author of No Regrets, Coyote

“Train Shots announces an outstanding new voice. Vanessa Blakeslee’s stories traverse a trilling range of landscapes and voices, but no matter where her characters find themselves, their struggles with lost love and loneliness are authentic and engrossing and will not soon be forgotten.”

~ Laura van den Berg, author of The Isle of Youth

“In each of the eleven stories in Train Shots, Vanessa Blakeslee immerses her readers in nuanced and impressively imagined worlds in which characters must choose between loyalty or justice, between sticking with it or giving up. This is a book populated with unforgettable, complex characters, each seeking, in one way or another, a cure for heartbreak.”

~ Christine Sneed, author of Little Known Facts

“Vanessa Blakeslee’s story collection Train Shots is the literary version of a debutante’s ball, a lovely introduction to a young writer just coming into her own.”

~ Douglas Glover, author of Elle and Attack of the Copula Spiders

Clock In

First we’ll clock you in on the computer and then you can shadow me. Your code is the last four digits of your Social, but for tonight you’ll need mine to access the tables onscreen. Ever use this system before? It’s pretty straightforward. Go ahead—my number is 9791. Open the screen.

So here are all the keys representing the menu. The most important thing to remember, and what’s most confusing, is which items come with sour cream and guacamole. For instance, under “Apps”—hit “Apps,” then hit “Quesadilla”—you’ll see all the different quesadillas you can order: chicken, blackened chicken, black bean. You don’t need to modify for sour cream and guacamole because those come with the quesadilla. Also with the fajitas. They’re included in the price. But always ask the customer if they would like guacamole or not. It’s expensive and we don’t like to serve it automatically if we can cut costs.

However, with anything else you must charge for sour cream and guacamole. Or if customers want extra. Chimichangas, burritos, combo platters—none of those dinners include either. Make sure you tell customers so they know right off the bat. Now scroll down to “A La Carte.” Everything that makes up the combo platters, such as tacos and enchiladas, the customer can order a la carte. And here you’ll see the buttons for sour cream and guacamole.

One more thing. Some servers around here, like Erica, have a bad habit of calling in items to the kitchen that they need and not ringing them up. The managers don’t like that and you’ll get in trouble for calling, “Can I get a sour cream?” when you’re supposed to be ringing it in. Erica is on the shit list right now because everyone knows she steals. She’s a thief, so watch your drawer. Some servers carry their money on them, but I don’t. I doubt Erica steals cash—she’s more the type to hook her friends up with free food. But they’re on to her, George and Nancy. Actually, you might be Erica’s replacement. All I know is, she’s walking a thin line with management and they’ve wanted to fire her for a long time.

The kitchen doesn’t like when you call in side items, either. You can be sure George or Nancy will say, “Where’s the ticket?” Especially if George is here in the afternoon. See, he’s an alcoholic, so around two he can’t wait to get off and have his margarita. He’ll start snapping at you for practically nothing at all, so don’t feel it’s your fault. At four, when he clocks out, he goes straight to the bar and downs shots and margaritas. When you’re at the service bar he’ll lean over and say things that make no sense. Sometimes he sits at the bar all night and gets wasted. But no one else can get as much prep done or deliver orders as quick as when he’s clocked-in.

See the skinny little guy behind the line? That’s Arthur. He talks and acts like he’s Senior Cook, and he’ll yak your ear off about how much he picks up everyone else’s slack, but he has to take his “break” when we get off the wait list on a Friday night and it’s time to clean up. He’ll camp out by the Coke machine for thirty minutes and let the dishes pile up if he’s on dish. You may have seen him around Winter Park or at the Publix shopping center. He doesn’t have a driver’s license so he rides a bike. And he lives with about twenty cats. Let me warn you: his house reeks. None of them are spayed or neutered so they multiply like rabbits and he can’t take care of them all. My friend Gina adopted one of the kittens last year and it had a big sore oozing on its head and worms crawling out of its butt—this was a cat he gave her! Nice free cat. She spent three hundred dollars at the vet’s office. So don’t adopt any of Arthur’s cats.

Maybe we should go back to learning the system. What happens when you need to take something off a check—say you ring up something by mistake? Then you need to get George or Nancy. George is usually outside doing repairs—he’s the only one who gets anything fixed around here. Nancy keeps to the back office because of her smoking. That’s something no one talks about, Nancy smoking. She hides back there because she’s six months pregnant and doesn’t want the regulars to know. But everyone does know, about her smoking.

You’re really catching on. I’m so glad, because we’re all getting burnt out with the extra shifts. Watch out, though. Erica and I—you’ll meet her shortly—we have this joke that soon we’ll turn into George or Arthur. We’ll sell our cars and move into a duplex in the neighborhood out back. We won’t even need bikes to go to work. Hell, George and Arthur can move in with us, Arthur with his twenty cats, and after work at night, and on our vacations, we’ll hang around the service bar and make nasty comments to everyone who’s in the weeds because we’re miserable. So even when we’re off we won’t leave. We won’t have to. The restaurant is all that we need. Sounds funny, I know, but this place will suck you in. Now where were we? That’s right. My number is 9791.

Ask Jesus

Halloween night I’m about to run out the front door of my house when I realize the Ask Jesus figurine is missing from my cape pocket. From the driveway Erica yells at me to hurry up, as if I have to be reminded that her managers have been preparing this party for weeks. I ignore her and dash inside—without the figurine and its Magic 8 Ball embedded beneath, my costume won’t make sense. I head straight for the bedroom and tear apart the drawers. The front door slams shut and a moment later Erica lurks in the doorway of our room.

“Kind of hard to miss a pink Jesus doll,” she says.

“The Ask Jesus is not a doll,” I tell her. “He’s a limited edition figurine made in 1986. And you could take a look around and help me find him.”

“I’ve got all the parts to my costume.” She pets the short black feathers lining the top of her bustier. In a purple-netted skirt, fishnets, and heels, she’s supposedly a reincarnation of Gypsy Rose Lee, the burlesque star. I think she looks more like a ballerina on crack.

“Will you check the living room so we can find him and go?” I ask. I flip the bed covers and kneel, dragging my hand underneath.

Instead she sticks her tits in my face and waggles back and forth. “Don’t I look great in this?”

“Yeah,” I say, “great.”

She groans and struts away. “I knew you picked a stupid costume,” she says. “Look, why don’t you just throw on the Smokey the Bear suit from last year?”

“If I can’t find the Ask Jesus, I’m not going to the party,” I answer. I tilt the trashcan, but no pink Jesus.

“Fine,” she says. Her patent leather heels clop down the hallway and her laughter echoes off the bare walls. My face gets hot, and my eyes go watery with tears, and I think this is no way to spend our first week living together.

•

The next morning I stumble into the living room and find Erica passed out, spiked heels and all, on the beanbag chair. On the coffee table is a ripped open package of vanilla cookies, a glass of Glenfiddich, and a Bettie Page calendar opened to next month, November, with some dates circled. I push away the sticky glass and tug the calendar toward me.

She opens her eyes and lunges for it.

“What time did you get home last night?” I ask, glancing at the dates. The numbers have no apparent significance.

“Did you find him?” she asks.

“What?”

“Oh, God,” she says. She sits up and fake feathers from her boa are stuck on her forehead and neck. “The Jesus. Your stupid pink vinyl toy Jesus!”

“You shouldn’t call him stupid. It’s still Jesus.” I chuck the calendar at her feet and say, “I’m going to look for him outside. Maybe I brought him out when I put up the porch display. He could be stuck behind a mummy or something.”

She kicks and her heel smacks Bettie Page’s head, busts a hole through the paper. I grab her ankles. Her fishnets have runs in both legs. She writhes and almost jabs me in the throat.

“Quit it,” I yell. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Leave me alone,” she whines.

I unbuckle the shoe straps to disarm her. “How was the party?”

“Go ahead and ask Jesus when you find him,” she says. “As if you’d care to really know.” Shoes off, she kneads her toes against my stomach, then brings her feet to my chest and shoves me away. I grab one foot and start tickling the bottom. “Help me look for him. I’ll make you pancakes,” I tell her. “Maybe even eggs benedict.” She hates cooking, but it’s my only other passion besides costumes.

“I don’t like your cooking anymore,” she says. “And I’m not hungry.”

I drop her feet, slide away and leave her in a sulking lump to wander in search of the Ask Jesus.

•

That night I stroll into the bedroom to find Erica reclining with one hand behind her head. The other is massaging her boobs. She’s naked, and alternates her massage from one breast to the other every thirty seconds.

“Do you really have to do that?” I ask.

“If I don’t, the silicon hardens,” she replies. “I don’t want them to get like rocks. You heard the doctor.”

I step into the closet and turn on the light. “My opinion didn’t matter much, if you recall.”

“Well, I like them,” she says. “You have to admit they made my costume a success.”

“I still haven’t found the Ask Jesus,” I say. “Imagine if he’s right here, in front of my face.”

“Why don’t you just give up?” she calls from the bed. “Buy a new one.”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “He was here, and now he’s gone. It’s not like he ascended.” I rummage in the plastic storage bins piled high with Mardi Gras beads, a lunch box, a baton, the Smokey the Bear hat.

“I don’t even understand what your costume was supposed to be,” she says. The sheets rustle and I glance up at her moving towards me, her fake breasts planted like waxen udders. “Who’s the Bible Blazer anyway?”

“He’s the super hero of the Bible Belt,” I explain. “The Ask Jesus is central to the costume and stands for the entire ’What would Jesus do?’ movement. Without it, the costume fails in purpose.”

“You ought to have an Ask Mary doll in your other pocket,” she says. “To fairly represent women.”

“Ask Mary wouldn’t be the same as Ask Jesus,” I say, shaking my head. “Not at all. Are you just going to stand there naked or help me find him?”

“And what’s this?” She picks up the belt I made for the Bible Blazer costume and holds it far away, as if it’s a poisonous snake. I had fixed a miniature Gideons Bible—the free ones handed out in malls—over the buckle.

“Get out of my way if you’re not going to help,” I tell her.

“You could help me,” she says. Still holding the belt, she reaches down with her other hand and pinches her nipple. “Aren’t breasts a lot more exciting?”

We stare at one another in the doorway of the closet. I peel the belt away from her hand. “What happened at that party? You still haven’t told me.”

“Nothing,” she says. “It wasn’t important after all.” She looks down at her breasts. Then she does something strange. She slaps them, first lightly but then harder. I watch, amazed. Her lip pouts in anger. She keeps slapping as if I’m not even there. I step forward and grab her by the shoulders, but she brushes past me into the master bathroom. Seconds later the shower is running. I sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of what just happened.

From the shower Erica gives a cry and a thump sounds against the bathroom door. I leap up and push the door open a few more inches.

The Ask Jesus rolls into view.

•

That night Erica takes a sleeping pill and snores soundly within minutes, leaving me to lie awake and wonder: did she hide the Ask Jesus on purpose? I sit up and turn on the lamp. Even the dim light hurts my eyes. While I wait for them to adjust, I take the Ask Jesus off the bedside table and study him. He’s about the same height and weight of Mrs. Butterworth and an appropriate Easter pink. He wears a pansy-ass Jesus expression paired with long hippy hair that I don’t really find acceptable, but it’s Jesus, just the same. So what am I waiting for? I close my eyes and form my question. Am I right about what’s happened to my wife? Then I flip him upside down and stare into the window beneath his pink robes and sandaled feet for the response to appear. The water sloshes and I have to hold him underneath the lamp in order to read the bobbing message: It is decidedly so.

•

Barely a week later, I find the Bettie Page calendar in the garage trash, big red Xs over Bettie’s face, tits, and ass, although the page with the marked dates is missing. Erica starts wearing loose button-downs with the sleeves rolled up and making big breakfasts in the morning, even during the week—waffles, coffee, eggs-any-which-way.

Erica gets up on Sunday and says she’s going to check out a non-denominational church down the road. I stay home and complete an online dating profile with the requirement, “Ladies with enhancements of any make or model need not apply.” As I complete the series of personal questions, I consult the Ask Jesus perched atop my dresser, found but not forgotten. His answers seem to match my own. This gives me a good feeling.

I have just finished when Erica returns. She idly picks up the Ask Jesus and strokes his face. “Glad I found him,” she says.

“Did you?” I ask.

“Of course,” she replies. “Under the bathroom sink. The cleaning lady must have thought he was some type of soap dispenser.”

I doubt this is true. I suspect Erica didn’t want me to go to the party because her lover would be there, so she hid Jesus on me. Then they had a falling out, which she’s now trying to cover up.

I wave for her to hand over Jesus so that I may ask him myself. Is there any hope to save my marriage? I plead silently.

His response: Pray harder.

“You act as if God is really communicating with you through that doll,” Erica says with a snort. “It’s absurd.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe you should ask him if my ways are so absurd.” I set Ask Jesus on the table and scoot him forward to face her.

For a moment she remains still, as if squared off in a showdown with the figurine, but then she grabs it. She twists and shakes his body a few times and turns him on end. “Is my husband as foolish as I think he is, Jesus?” she asks in a steady but mocking tone.

“Allow me to predict his answer,” I say. ”Don’t count on it. Unless you want to confess. Tell me what’s been going on with you these last few months.”

She stares for a long time at the message but doesn’t show it to me. “No, I don’t,” she says. “What I want is a clean slate. And enough with this Jesus doll.”

“No questions asked,” I say slowly, deliberating. “That’s asking a lot. Especially when I have no idea whether or not you still love me.”

She nods. “What about you?” she asks, her voice small. She looks strikingly penitent. Maybe it’s the shirt, sans cleavage. Her eyes without makeup, searching mine.

I rise and pause just long enough to rest my hand on her head. “What do you think?” I ask. Then I walk out to the porch, banging the screen door, and toss Ask Jesus in the trash can with the other Halloween decorations, soaked and wilted after days of rain.

Welcome, Lost Dogs

Behind the stable, the afternoon sun cast its shadow across the mountainsides. On the rocky road winding to the ridge above my ranch, a noisy backhoe scooped the dirt away; another gringo’s purchase of paradise was going up to loom over the clusters of tin-roofed Tico houses crowded below. Fifteen years ago, we were the only ones here. But even then, my husband and I would shake our heads. More and more people born, and the ones already living didn’t have enough to eat. Same with the animals. So I decided against having children. And then his son was still running around, chin quivering over scrapes from soccer cleats. That was enough.

The stableboy shook his head at me. He explained that he slept in the back of the building, far from the road, and only heard the wind and the horses. Was he lying? He was fairly new, and young, about fourteen. He had been there only two months, hired after the last stableboy, also Nicaraguan, drifted elsewhere.

“I want you to ride up and down the road,” I said. “Ask everyone you pass if they saw this happen. Tell them there’s a reward.”

His eyes flickered, and he shifted his stance. “How much?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But there will be one. More for the yellow Lab, el perro d’oro. You know the one?”

He nodded, scuffed the heel of his boot in the sawdust. “The one that brings things back when you throw them,” he said.

•

At the soda just outside our gate, the street dogs lolled in the shade. They nipped at fleas and sniffed underneath each other’s tails. I told my story to the soda owner. He just shrugged. He saw nothing, doesn’t open until seven. But he asked how much of a reward for the stolen dogs. Was I just a crazy gringa to this man, standing behind his counter of cigarettes and lotto tickets? He knew me; I’d bought ice from him for years. But had he ever before seen anyone like me, trembling and shiny eyed over a bunch of dogs?

“How much can you win at the lotto?” I asked.

“Ten thousand dollars, U.S.” he said.

“I’ll offer a hundred thousand colones for the dogs,” I told him. For a maid or a stableboy or a soda clerk, that amounted to two hundred dollars, or almost a month’s wages.

Outside, the thick scent of cooking drifted out the windows of the houses. But I wasn’t hungry. There would be no feeding the dogs that night, no checking for ticks. This settled over me, as strange as putting on long sleeves after days of too much sun at the beach. Up until a year ago, I ran a small animal shelter in Piedades. We fixed animals for cheap. But keeping all the animals in cages bothered me, and there were so many dogs brought in we had to turn away dozens every day, so that by night, when I climbed into my car, I fought back tears. Finally I sold the business to a vet who needed the space. I built the dog pen on my property so that at least the ones I rescued could have room to run, to live.

What would happen if I didn’t find the dogs? Would I sell the house to a green gringo with palm trees in his eyes, and leave like so many old friends? Because wherever you go, there you are, as my husband used to say. The dogs had been my passion. But even if the dogs were found, I didn’t know if my heart had room for more, after this.

I ducked into doorways and questioned pregnant mothers with toddlers slung onto one hip. Both the mothers and babies displayed the round, clear faces of youth. I zigzagged through the young men with book bags hoisted onto their backs at the bus stop, until the last Tico kid boarded the bus and shot me a wincing smile. I waved over the farmer clopping down the street on his Paso Fino. He stopped to talk. But even though he had awakened before dawn, he knew nothing. “Bandidos are like ghosts,” he said. “And the winds were loud in the middle of the night.”