The Tammy in Front
by Richard Weems
Marty once threw a pint bottle at some homeboy on the street who asked Tammy, "What’s up?" With Tammy, he was all talk, but it was talk he subjected her to every day, every opportunity he could find: how ugly she was, how she should weep in gratitude that he put up with her. He’d say he was going to drag her skinny ass back if she ever ran away, stick a crowbar in her, and hang her on the wall like a moose head. Three years ago, Tammy got with Marty because she needed somewhere to crash. She thought she’d use this fat man for a week, maybe two, then make off with some cash and his TV or phone to tie her over for a few days, but here she was, still cooking his food and lugging sacks of laundry up and down from the basement of the apartment building. His voice echoing in her head had replaced any sense of her future.
Then one night, he fell asleep with his vodka in the living room. Tammy slept on her stomach on the futon, glad to stretch out and not have his legs and arm all over her, but she woke with Marty spread on top of her, her panties pulled aside.
“Get some, get some,” he heaved in bile-laced gasps. He had long ago swapped erections for meanness, so he had nothing to put inside her. But as two of her could fit into his skin and still leave room for more, she knew it wouldn’t take much for him to smother her.
“Fuck you,” she grunted with what little breath she could muster.
“Yes,” he wheezed. “Yes, fuck you,” and soon he passed out again. It took her a few minutes to squirm out from under him.
Now she saw a path that had only one end: her death, intentional or no. But Marty’s voice still convinced her she had nowhere to go, no hope of anyone else taking her in, so she first had to practice getting out of the apartment on her own.
So, the next night, Tammy made sure Marty had a box of wine with his dinner. When he fell asleep, she slipped outside. She didn’t bother putting on socks or a sweatshirt. She went to the park to take a lap or two before going back.
This late, the park teemed with junkies and dealers, but when she cleared a bend on a dark path, Tammy saw herself up ahead. Only a fool would have denied it was her—the same lurching pace, the same ragged flip-flops. Neither of them had on anything but a threadbare t-shirt and denim shorts. Tammy could barely believe how tired she looked. She was twenty-six now, but the Tammy who led her through the park looked fifty, stick legs barely able to hold her up, a supernova of hair.
Still, Tammy was grateful to see herself. Maybe two of her could overpower Marty’s voice in her head, which even now tugged at her to go back, since she was useless and stupid and would dry up like a chili and wash down the gutter without him, thoughts that came at her in Marty’s rasp. Tammy needed someone on her side. Momma only made an effort to find her when she needed money. Her brother served somewhere upstate. And there was no way to call those other places shelters with a straight face.
The Tammy in front led her to a clutch of benches where a gaggle of old boozers passed around forties. Then she vaulted over the fence to the street with the ease of someone twice her height.
“You chasing someone, girl?” said a boozer with a glitter of skin tags on his eyelids.
Tammy appraised the height her double had cleared. There was no way she could follow suit. So, this must have been the place where the other Tammy wanted her to be, but why? These boozers looked too friendly to contend with a drunk as mean as Marty.
One with a stogie took the forty of Mickey’s from the first and looked Tammy over. “Maybe you got someone chasing you,” he grumbled in a voice that could pulverize pebbles. Tammy shrugged silently, unsure how to tell them they were both right.
One out of sight behind the others called out, “No way you got something pretty as her chasing you two hippos.” The rest of the boozers got a long, loud laugh out of that.
Tammy curled her ropy arms around herself, not that it did much good against the chill. The boozers offered some of their malt liquor, but she turned them down. There had to be something else the other Tammy wanted her to do here. The boozers settled back into their routine of belches, sports debates, and jibes about other park denizens, which was when Tammy heard of Shaken and the gun he looked to unload.
The one with the skin tags started it. “White boy came up to me last night. He was all like this.” He pointed his chin up as though someone was tickling him on the back of the neck. “Hey, old man, old man,” he cawed. “You need firepower, old man?”
“That’s him,” one of the other boozers confirmed. This white boy had approached all of them at some point. They called him Shaken because his head tilted back like he’d been shaken as a baby. The gun he was trying to unload had to be hot. Who knew how many cold cases it could have melted? Tammy pretended not to listen but took in every detail about Shaken—fidgety left hand, Mets cap, army surplus jacket. Hung around the swing set, desperate for money.
Then one night, he fell asleep with his vodka in the living room. Tammy slept on her stomach on the futon, glad to stretch out and not have his legs and arm all over her, but she woke with Marty spread on top of her, her panties pulled aside.
“Get some, get some,” he heaved in bile-laced gasps. He had long ago swapped erections for meanness, so he had nothing to put inside her. But as two of her could fit into his skin and still leave room for more, she knew it wouldn’t take much for him to smother her.
“Fuck you,” she grunted with what little breath she could muster.
“Yes,” he wheezed. “Yes, fuck you,” and soon he passed out again. It took her a few minutes to squirm out from under him.
Now she saw a path that had only one end: her death, intentional or no. But Marty’s voice still convinced her she had nowhere to go, no hope of anyone else taking her in, so she first had to practice getting out of the apartment on her own.
So, the next night, Tammy made sure Marty had a box of wine with his dinner. When he fell asleep, she slipped outside. She didn’t bother putting on socks or a sweatshirt. She went to the park to take a lap or two before going back.
This late, the park teemed with junkies and dealers, but when she cleared a bend on a dark path, Tammy saw herself up ahead. Only a fool would have denied it was her—the same lurching pace, the same ragged flip-flops. Neither of them had on anything but a threadbare t-shirt and denim shorts. Tammy could barely believe how tired she looked. She was twenty-six now, but the Tammy who led her through the park looked fifty, stick legs barely able to hold her up, a supernova of hair.
Still, Tammy was grateful to see herself. Maybe two of her could overpower Marty’s voice in her head, which even now tugged at her to go back, since she was useless and stupid and would dry up like a chili and wash down the gutter without him, thoughts that came at her in Marty’s rasp. Tammy needed someone on her side. Momma only made an effort to find her when she needed money. Her brother served somewhere upstate. And there was no way to call those other places shelters with a straight face.
The Tammy in front led her to a clutch of benches where a gaggle of old boozers passed around forties. Then she vaulted over the fence to the street with the ease of someone twice her height.
“You chasing someone, girl?” said a boozer with a glitter of skin tags on his eyelids.
Tammy appraised the height her double had cleared. There was no way she could follow suit. So, this must have been the place where the other Tammy wanted her to be, but why? These boozers looked too friendly to contend with a drunk as mean as Marty.
One with a stogie took the forty of Mickey’s from the first and looked Tammy over. “Maybe you got someone chasing you,” he grumbled in a voice that could pulverize pebbles. Tammy shrugged silently, unsure how to tell them they were both right.
One out of sight behind the others called out, “No way you got something pretty as her chasing you two hippos.” The rest of the boozers got a long, loud laugh out of that.
Tammy curled her ropy arms around herself, not that it did much good against the chill. The boozers offered some of their malt liquor, but she turned them down. There had to be something else the other Tammy wanted her to do here. The boozers settled back into their routine of belches, sports debates, and jibes about other park denizens, which was when Tammy heard of Shaken and the gun he looked to unload.
The one with the skin tags started it. “White boy came up to me last night. He was all like this.” He pointed his chin up as though someone was tickling him on the back of the neck. “Hey, old man, old man,” he cawed. “You need firepower, old man?”
“That’s him,” one of the other boozers confirmed. This white boy had approached all of them at some point. They called him Shaken because his head tilted back like he’d been shaken as a baby. The gun he was trying to unload had to be hot. Who knew how many cold cases it could have melted? Tammy pretended not to listen but took in every detail about Shaken—fidgety left hand, Mets cap, army surplus jacket. Hung around the swing set, desperate for money.
Marty was asleep on the futon when Tammy got back. She slept on the floor to avoid disturbing him, but she’d burst awake every time he stirred. When his alarm went off, she got right up and made him Cream of Wheat. He was on probation at the Jiffy Lube, so he couldn’t be late. He ate quickly, glaring at her as though she’d done something wrong. On his way out, he muttered, “Wait until I get home, you ugly puke.”
Tammy slept through most of the day. Already, Marty’s voice had grown a little quieter. She even snuck some money from the stash in his chair without shaking.
She got him another box of wine and warmed up a can of ravioli before he got home. Marty looked deflated, as though still winded from attacking her the other night. He needed only a couple mugs of the wine to sink him deep into his chair. She didn’t waste time and lit out for the park in her shorts.
She kept a quick pace, both to keep herself warm and to find herself again. She achieved both. The other Tammy already looked a little stronger, her gait moving her forward with purpose. She led Tammy to the remnants of a playground, where a white boy leaned on the fence, his head tilted back as though he was trying to read the bill of his Mets cap. The other Tammy paused a moment in front of Shaken and then continued on her way. Tammy gripped the thirty-six dollars she’d snuck from Marty’s stash and approached. Her double marched into the dark, her job done.
“I’ll take that piece,” Tammy said.
Shaken lifted his chin further, as though he had trouble getting Tammy into focus. “Ain’t got no shit to sell.”
“Don’t want shit. Want that piece people say you’re unloading.” Tammy flashed the money.
Shaken blinked and rolled his eyes. “Take your money, lady, but I ain’t got no piece.” His left hand shook as though he was about to throw some dice.
Tammy found herself shaking her hand with the money in the same way. “I’ll take care of it, the piece.”
He grabbed his junk. “This piece, ho?”
She squeezed her fist and stood her ground. No way she had led herself astray.
Shaken shifted his weight back and forth. “Should make you stank my cock, bitch.” Finally, he blew out his lips. “Your skinny ass too ugly to keep me from regretting it,” and he handed it over, a pistol in a used Whopper wrapper.
It was a small piece, not much longer than her palm. Tammy gave Shaken the money, and once clear of him, she checked the merchandise. The clip still had four shells. Stupid shit hadn’t even taken the one from the chamber. Amazing that he never blew a pinhole in his balls.
She didn’t know yet if she wanted Marty in a hospital or a box on Hart Island. Back at the apartment, she still couldn’t sleep deeply, but this time because she hoped Marty would do something to make the decision for her. She lay on her hip so she could feel the pistol dig into her.
Tammy slept through most of the day. Already, Marty’s voice had grown a little quieter. She even snuck some money from the stash in his chair without shaking.
She got him another box of wine and warmed up a can of ravioli before he got home. Marty looked deflated, as though still winded from attacking her the other night. He needed only a couple mugs of the wine to sink him deep into his chair. She didn’t waste time and lit out for the park in her shorts.
She kept a quick pace, both to keep herself warm and to find herself again. She achieved both. The other Tammy already looked a little stronger, her gait moving her forward with purpose. She led Tammy to the remnants of a playground, where a white boy leaned on the fence, his head tilted back as though he was trying to read the bill of his Mets cap. The other Tammy paused a moment in front of Shaken and then continued on her way. Tammy gripped the thirty-six dollars she’d snuck from Marty’s stash and approached. Her double marched into the dark, her job done.
“I’ll take that piece,” Tammy said.
Shaken lifted his chin further, as though he had trouble getting Tammy into focus. “Ain’t got no shit to sell.”
“Don’t want shit. Want that piece people say you’re unloading.” Tammy flashed the money.
Shaken blinked and rolled his eyes. “Take your money, lady, but I ain’t got no piece.” His left hand shook as though he was about to throw some dice.
Tammy found herself shaking her hand with the money in the same way. “I’ll take care of it, the piece.”
He grabbed his junk. “This piece, ho?”
She squeezed her fist and stood her ground. No way she had led herself astray.
Shaken shifted his weight back and forth. “Should make you stank my cock, bitch.” Finally, he blew out his lips. “Your skinny ass too ugly to keep me from regretting it,” and he handed it over, a pistol in a used Whopper wrapper.
It was a small piece, not much longer than her palm. Tammy gave Shaken the money, and once clear of him, she checked the merchandise. The clip still had four shells. Stupid shit hadn’t even taken the one from the chamber. Amazing that he never blew a pinhole in his balls.
She didn’t know yet if she wanted Marty in a hospital or a box on Hart Island. Back at the apartment, she still couldn’t sleep deeply, but this time because she hoped Marty would do something to make the decision for her. She lay on her hip so she could feel the pistol dig into her.
Marty had the day off, so she bought him a fifth of Popov’s, as though to thank him. He demanded baked beans for a late breakfast and drank until he passed out during Mary Tyler Moore. Tammy didn’t give herself time to think her way out of it—she pressed the pistol behind Marty’s ear and pulled. A pop like a snapper firecracker. Marty flinched awake, looked at the gun, and galumphed to the bedroom closet. When she opened the door, a column of light widened over him as he cowered in the corner, his hands shielding his head so she couldn’t tell if the round had struck or not.
“Take it easy, sugar,” he whined, “take it easy.” He wiped at his face.
Tears. Him. Shedding tears.
She didn’t need to shoot this coward. The sight of him like that flushed his voice from her brain, and she didn’t want to let him back in by being responsible for his murder.
She lowered the gun and watched him cry. She then kissed the air between them before she closed the closet door and threw the gun on the futon.
She put on one of his work shirts and went into the park. She walked with purpose, a strong woman’s stride, a free woman’s stride. It didn’t matter where she’d wind up. Would she see herself one more time, walking straighter this time? Would she look young again? She saw a little blood on her shooting hand—maybe she’d nicked Marty after all. She wiped her hand with the cuff of the oily shirt. Then she pulled off the shirt and dropped it in her wake.
“Take it easy, sugar,” he whined, “take it easy.” He wiped at his face.
Tears. Him. Shedding tears.
She didn’t need to shoot this coward. The sight of him like that flushed his voice from her brain, and she didn’t want to let him back in by being responsible for his murder.
She lowered the gun and watched him cry. She then kissed the air between them before she closed the closet door and threw the gun on the futon.
She put on one of his work shirts and went into the park. She walked with purpose, a strong woman’s stride, a free woman’s stride. It didn’t matter where she’d wind up. Would she see herself one more time, walking straighter this time? Would she look young again? She saw a little blood on her shooting hand—maybe she’d nicked Marty after all. She wiped her hand with the cuff of the oily shirt. Then she pulled off the shirt and dropped it in her wake.
Richard Weems is the author of three short story collections, one of which was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Prize. His work has appeared in North American Review, The Gettysburg Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, and elsewhere. He just recently retired from teaching.