Cover

Abundance

Dedication

To my pa,

Nilo Pelea Guanzon

Abundance

$89.34

It’s-a-girl pink. Too festive a color for the soap in a McDonald’s men’s room. Wrong color, anyway, just like it was eight years ago today. Michelle had been certain that the little boy now waiting outside for Henry would be a girl. So certain that she’d handed Henry a pink-ribboned cigar, right before lugging herself out of the truck and onto a stretcher.

Henry’s thoughts scroll through a reverse inventory, its sum a taunt. The absentee list of birthday paraphernalia—balloons and streamers, candles and cake, a pile of presents, a pack of friends, a mother—seems to etch itself into the graffitied bathroom mirror. Henry’s burned a gallon of gas to drive them three towns east of the boy’s elementary school to this McDonald’s in particular. Not only for its PlayPlace, but because there’s no bus stop out front. No keypad code to access the bathroom. This is one of the nicer locations, even if passing squalor has left a few stains in here. Mirror all carved up with phone numbers, initials, fuck u’s. Smack center, one jagged message of encouragement says, It gets better.

Henry still reeks of the day. No chance to wash up. After he picked Junior up from school, they’d killed a couple hours at a park rather than inside the public library. When he unclamps an armpit reaching for the soap, a wet-leaf gutter musk seeps upward. The soap dispenser’s porthole is a bloodshot cyclops. Tired and near empty. A weak sneeze of pink in his palm. He jiggers the pump till he’s squeezed out every last driblet. The faucet is automatic, has a sensor but no knobs to warm the frigid gush. He’s cavernous with hunger, and a shiver echoes through his bones. He works the soap into a sudsy film. Picks the crud from his fingernails, his cuticles, the cork of his palms. Before scrubbing his face and chest, he extends his leg, presses his boot toe against the door. Wouldn’t want to be seen like this, doing this.

Pinching the sternum of his crewneck, he fans air over his torso, then pats himself dry with a paper towel. His black hair juts upward, stiff with dried sweat and limestone dust, months overdue for a cut, making a boxy helmet around his face. He slicks it all straight back, then almost smiles. Thinks back to the singlewide, the first night in their new home. When Michelle had seen him like this, fresh out the shower, she covered her smirk with a fist, muzzling the dim contours of her incisors but not her trademark pre-insult, “Ha.”

“What now, huh?”

“Nothing.” She gave the bedsheet a little matador flap. “Just your hair like that? Dad wouldn’t know whether you’s a guinea or a spic.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m still torn whether you’re a redneck or plain white trash.”

“Come here.”

And so he did.

When he slides his boot toe off the men’s room door, something jingles. A bright metallic note skitters across the floor tiles, comes to rest in the corner. A quarter. He squats to retrieve it, slips it into the front pocket of his jeans.

$89.59

The way Junior slouches by the soda fountain, jaw slack as his shoulders and awe stretching his eyes, he ought to be watching a rocket climb into the blue instead of this fast food menu. The park’s dose of June sun has left a flushed, feverish slick on the boy’s brow. When he finally notices Henry checking his forehead, the boy’s posture snaps from languid to infantry stiff. Out of respect or fear, Henry can’t tell. Can’t help but wonder if the boy is still scared of him. Either way, he’s proud of his son, but instead of saying so, he just squeezes the boy’s neck, each vertebra a prizefighter’s knuckle.

“Dad?”

“Pa.”

“Pa, did you know Happy Meals are on the Value Menu now? Three bucks.” Junior flashes that same frown of approval Henry himself often makes before saying, “Not bad.”

It is, though—bad. Bad that Junior’s already weighing dollars. Even worse is the oil slick of relief that runs over Henry as soon as that internal, automatic arithmetic crunches out a figure that’s a third of what he’s budgeted for this birthday treat.

“You order whatever you want.” He steers Junior by the shoulders, settling them in line.

The clerk grips the cash register like a politician at a podium. His resemblance to Junior doesn’t edge anywhere near uncanny, but close enough for concern. Similar almond tilt to their eyes, cheekbones lifted, craniums egg-shaped. Pigments hard to place but sure enough dark. What well-meaning white people like to call exotic.

Nothing exotic about the acne splattered over the clerk’s face, so rutted and saturated that the boils down his neck look like runoff from the mess on his cheeks. Nothing exotic about the assembly-line hustle hard at work behind a geometry of stainless-steel panels and slots, glowing a fuzzy amber under heat lamps. Even though they’ve traveled a gallon east to celebrate at this one, a nicer one set on the final rung of the city’s suburban orbit, the half-hidden machinery of these places never changes. Only the clientele, and with them the expectations.

Since getting out, the biggest change Henry’s noticed is how everyone stares at their palms now, their heads constantly bowing to handheld screens as if in prayer. But when had they switched out all the overhead menus for plasma displays? Each time he looks back up, it seems he’s just lost the Value Menu to dessert options or an inflated photo of a Big Mac, glossed up like a centerfold.

A manager is calling out order numbers, her accent curling digits into melodies. The top half of an employee disappears out the drive-through window. A sizzling metal basket is lifted out of the deep fryer, excess oil rattled off before french fries get dumped into a heat-lamped basin where they’re sifted with a tool—half hand shovel, half funnel—and chuted into red cardboard sleeves. Even over all the commotion, Henry can still hear the salt sprinkling, and his nostrils fill with a scent that’s got no name, only a color: gold.

Henry is now welcomed to McDonald’s, asked permission to take his order. He can’t bring himself to look at this acned, stretched-out version of his son, and such sour aversion to the poor kid’s face only makes him feel worse. It’s bad that he doesn’t want a burger-flipping future for his son. Even worse that he thinks himself better than a greasy, minimum-wage job when he doesn’t have even that. The last field of every job application. Check the box. Admit to convicted felon status. This bars him from so much more than nine-to-fives and food stamps.

Only after Junior confirms the price and orders a Happy Meal do Henry’s eyes meet the clerk’s.

“No,” he says. “Make that a Big Mac, a meal. And Supersize it.”

“No pickles, please,” Junior says.

No pickles, Henry repeats, then orders himself a McChicken off the Value Menu. He scoops out a mound of coins and splashes them onto the countertop. His index finger slides coin after coin—four pennies, seven nickels, two dimes, eight quarters—across the counter. Turning over three singles and a fiver isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s a relief to shed that heavy pocketful of coins, rattling after each step like tiny shackles.

$79.00

Henry sends Junior to wash his hands before squaring up at the soda fountain. He fills the cup with thirty-two ounces of Coca-Cola, takes two deep, fizzy gulps that tickle all the way down, then tops the cup off again. He peeks over his shoulder and—coast clear—heaps three greedy fistfuls of ketchup packets onto their tray.

This must have been one of the first franchises in the county to get refurbished. All the clunky, hard-plastic booths lacquered with that ’90s paper cup color scheme of teal and purple have been ripped out, thrown out, and replaced with a stripped-down, pseudo-urban minimalism. Angular tables and chairs, booths arranged asymmetrically, all of it coated in a subdued palette of matte burgundies and Atlantic blues, despite the vast stretches separating them from both the eastern and western coasts.

The PlayPlace has been spared the facelift. Apparently interior decor trends have zero sway on the timeless functionality of tube slides and ball pits. In the glass cube extension housing the PlayPlace, only the furniture has been updated, looking like it’d been drawn up by some brooding Swede determined to undermine the wholesome American notion of warmth and plenty that those yellow arches outside not only embody but promise.

Instantly Henry realizes his mistake. Never should have tucked himself in the corner table next to the trash. From here he can see too much. A woman throws away a quantity of uneaten fries, burger bun ridges, and chicken nugget nubs that shapes his mouth into an appalled oval like the hole of the trash bin.

Once she exits the cube with her flock of kids, it’s only Henry and a table occupied by two mothers, their daughters scuttling through the plastic bridges above. These mothers have got at least a decade on him, but they radiate health and comfort, arms muscled and lean from mornings at the gym, skin somehow sun-crisped yet silky at the same time. The prettier of the two—shrink-wrapped in athletic wear, her hair an asphalt-black wasp hive—catches him staring. His sights snap to Junior, before he can confirm whether the kink of her lips had been a sneer or a grin. He’d secretly disagreed with Michelle. Still thinks he looks sort of handsome with his hair slicked back like this. It feels good, if only for a second, to let himself believe this pretty mother might think so, too.

Patience. Too busy pacing himself, taking careful bunny nibbles of his McChicken, to monitor Junior. The boy now eyes his first bite into the Big Mac like a mistake. Henry dabs a fallen glob of mayonnaise off the wrapper, runs the flavored pad of his finger over his teeth. With his tongue, he presses the salt and serum into the membrane of his gums. No matter how slowly he eats, each swallow lands in his stomach with a distant thud, like a handball meeting the bottom of a dried-up well.

Junior sniffles. Puts the Big Mac down to smear at his nose. “Can I go play?”

Henry assesses the boy’s progress. Half the burger gone, a divot dug into the fries. Not bad. This is the most the boy has eaten in a single sitting all week. Still, tonight Henry wants the boy stuffed to the backs of his eyeballs. Wants him waddling out of here, tummy swollen with enough nourishment to pad him for slimmer days to come.

Then again, it is the boy’s birthday, and so Henry asks what day it is.

Junior cocks his jaw into that same defiant crook Michelle always had, right before dropping something snarky. “Tuesday.”

“You know what I mean, smarty-pants.”

Junior’s neck sinks into his shoulder. That familiar, bashful hunch. The one Henry has been trying to wheedle out of the boy with pep talks on posture and confidence, the same one Papa had barked and skull-slapped out of Henry as a kid.

However essential it is to steel a son against the world’s fangs, he still gets it, can’t be too hard. A boy needs more than a father’s hot ore to grow into his own, and so he now decides to do Papa one better. He tugs Junior’s head close, kisses the whorl of his cowlick, and says, “The birthday boy can do whatever he wants.”

And off Junior goes, before Henry can even mention tonight’s surprise. What remains of the boy’s dinner starts going stale under Henry’s watch. Just moments ago, those fries were glistening, the steam casting a slight, woolly mirage in the air above them. Now they’ve got the same pallor and allure of a toppled stack of two-by-fours, more suited for construction than consumption. Even so, he wants some. Inside him births a craving so sharp it feels like the teeth of a rake, but something deeper tells him no. Not your son’s food, not the boy’s birthday dinner. Remind yourself of the consequences, the inpatient counselors had warned. Remind yourself, whenever you get the itch, of who you’re going to hurt besides yourself.

The ghost of that fry, pressed square along the crease of his tongue, is all Henry sees and tastes when he closes his eyes, but he is a mountain of will power. He is serenity, in total control, Mahatma fucking Gandhi in steeltoes. If he were to deprive his own son of even a single fry, where would it stop? Look at what he’s done, who he’s been. Might have a lot to learn but he sure as shit knows that even a hairline fracture in the floodgates of his discipline can turn him right back into that greedy rat from the picture book—if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk, and if you give a mouse a glass of milk, he will so on and so forth, until Henry is coming to at three in the afternoon with his head wedged between a bathtub and toilet that’s crusty with bile and blood from god knows who or what or when or how.

The why, on the other hand, is easy. The why is because he’d lost control.

At least there’s free refills. No guilt for swigging soda to his heart’s content. He gives a quenched, bubbly sigh. Without thinking, he reaches for the heap of ketchup packets, a reserve of sugar for later hunger pangs, but then catches himself. Wouldn’t want to be seen. He risks a glance at the two mothers, who are now huddled over a phone between them. Sly as can be, he sneaks fistful after fistful of the ketchup packets into the pockets of his jeans, then tugs the hem of his crewneck over the lumpy denim bulge.

Is that why he hadn’t sung “Happy Birthday” before digging into dinner? So he wouldn’t shine a spotlight on this pitiful spectacle? He has been and will keep doing everything he possibly can, but all these two mothers would end up seeing is yet another deadbeat dad filling his kid with cholesterol and sodium and processed cheese and cancer and come on—does he really think this an acceptable way to celebrate? Pathetic. Cheap. Tacky. So unabashedly middle American, so irrevocably lower class.

But who’s to say these women are any better than him? They’re right here, too, feeding their daughters the same hot garbage.

Henry has stewed himself into a rage, alone, in a McDonald’s PlayPlace, next to the trash. He collects himself with a deep breath. He exhales and opens his eyes: this whole mental tirade set off by a french fry.

The mouth of the tube slide produces two girls who dash across the padded floors, scamper up the steps, and belly-flop into the ball pit with two plastic splashes. From above, in a sagging cage made of stitched cargo straps, Junior watches the girls giggling and swimming through the ball pit. At such a distance, it might be a trick of the eye, but the expression on the boy’s face is forlorn. Moldy with a despondent longing no eight-year-old should understand, let alone endure. If that wasn’t enough, his son now reaches through the straps of the cage, and this whole prisoner metaphor is pretty much too much for Henry to bear.

What else to look at but the pretty mother? This time he strives for subtlety, glancing from the corners of his eyes with his chin aimed out the window, ready to act as if he’s waving to someone pulling up in the parking lot, in case she catches him leering all over again. But studying her this time around, it’s like he’s scanning her for flaws. A sort of secret payback for everything he’d imagined she might have thought about him.

And so he decides she is wearing too much makeup—way too much for a Tuesday evening at McDonald’s. Yet another prom queen past her prime, scrambling after the shrapnel of her bombshell days. Maybe she paints herself up like that because she doesn’t see herself as beautiful as—he can’t help but admit—she really is. The sharp arcs of her features and the oaky polish of her skin suggest some sun-bleached Mediterranean village, not a franchise grease pit here in flyover country. She ought to be draped in white linen, not that waxy athleisure wear. Still, the elasticity of her outfit offers a lovesick-making display of her architecture, a form so deliberate in its bends and narrows, it’s as if Henry himself had sculpted his ideal woman into breathing. She’s got that spitfire air of a woman who isn’t scared to tell a man exactly how she wants to be kissed, how she expects to be loved.

He is positive he could do precisely as instructed.

It’s as if the crescendo of this imagined feast signals her. Those martini-olive irises, feline in their shading, now meet his. With the same shamelessness with which she’d taken him in his fantasy, her eyes now roll at him in reality, in this PlayPlace.

McChicken. Burger meat. Pig.

The tube slide coughs out Junior. Getting to his feet, he winds his shoulders a few times before locking them into the posture he’s been taught. His belt cinches the waistband over itself, making ugly denim wads around his hips. His clothes, even from here, are visibly filthy. He flashes a sweaty, hold-my-beer grin at Henry, and marches toward the ball pit, the girls. A sense of purpose drives his twiggy-limb strut as he ascends the steps to the ball pit, one by one.

And then, just as Junior crouches to dive in, the pretty mother calls the girls. It’s time to go home.

$77.41

A child should never stop smiling on his birthday, and so it’s up to Henry to overturn Junior’s grimace. Rivulets of ice cream streak off the cone and over the top of the boy’s hand, a milky tree branching down his wrist. More of Henry’s latest attempt to do his duty seems to coat the boy’s arm than his tongue.

In the McDonald’s parking lot sits their home for the last six months: Henry’s trusty F-250. The truck’s bed is lumpy with thirty-gallon Hefty bags full of clothes. Bolted flush under the rear window is a lockable, diamond-plated utility case holding the few valuables that hadn’t been set outside in the frost during a last-minute, mid-December yard sale. A few power tools and a plain white urn pin down a plastic folder with their birth certificates and old photographs.

Henry opens both the driver’s-side and suicide doors. A narrow bench seat is littered with Junior’s bedding, toys, school books, a plastic gallon jug for water, and Mom’s bese saka–printed shawl. Lying tipped on its side is the heating crown, a metal, nest-shaped contraption Henry made by crimping and molding a wire clothes hanger to support the dashboard cigarette burner under a can of food. As of last night, their dinner stash is gone. All the tins scraped clean and fed into a machine for nickels to save up for tonight’s surprise.

Before settling behind the steering wheel, Henry empties his pockets into the door’s side compartment. On top of a prepay flip phone, its minutes long spent and battery dead for a week, he unloads all the ketchup packets. Duct-taped in the frame of the passenger’s-side window is a layering of cling wrap as dense as a basement cobweb. When Junior closes his eyes, tilting his face to absorb the sunlight caught in the cling wrap, it reminds Henry of his own mother. Sad to think neither the boy nor his grandma would ever get to see just how similar they are to each other.

“Eat up,” he tells Junior. “You’re making a mess.”

The boy scowls at the ice cream cone as if it’s just asked a steep favor. To it he says, “My stomach hurts.”

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