I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River

by Shawn Underhill

  “Congratulations,” Ryan said.

  “Mind getting those for me?”

  “Get them yourself.”

  “You knocked them over.”

  “What do I look like, some kind of a servant? You ought to be apologizing to me. I almost spilled my coffee thanks to you.”

  “Maybe watch where you’re going.”

  “Maybe watch where you leave your crap.”

  “Seriously? You can’t walk straight up an aisle?”

  “I do fine when other people’s shit isn’t laying around in my way.”

  “Just stand them up for me, man.”

  “You stand them up.”

  “I’m sidelined.”

  “Should’ve been more careful.”

  “Why’re you being such a dick?”

  “Go down to the town hall,” Ryan suggested. “I heard they’ve got tons of spaghetti down there.”

  “What?”

  “Just keep your crap out of my way from now on. Understand?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Murphy said.

  “I just did.”

  “You could apologize.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Guys,” Leo Russo said, stepping over with a hot pizza. Short Italian guy. Little legs, big upper body.

  “Excuse me,” Ryan said to him.

  “Cut it out, or get out,” Leo said, looking around from one to the other. “You pick.”

  Ryan stood aside. Leo looked around for a moment and then leaned in close to the table and set the pizza down. He straightened up and stepped back and looked at Ryan.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This kid’s blocking the aisle with his crutches. That’s a fire hazard. I’ve got half a mind to call the fire chief.”

  Leo Russo looked at Murphy and said, “Don’t block the aisles.” Then he turned and walked back to counter.

  The girl had been looking back and forth the whole time. She was still doing so while now managing the additional responsibilities of the pizza. She ran the cutter over it and carefully served a slice onto a plate and set the plate before Murphy, who was still glaring up at Ryan, trying to maintain strong eye contact.

  “Is she gonna cut it up in little pieces and feed you?” Ryan asked. “You hurt your foot so bad you can’t even handle a pizza?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Just a question.”

  “Get away from us.”

  “Make me.”

  “I’m sidelined.”

  “Tough luck.”

  “Why’re you starting trouble? I’ve seen you at games before. I thought you were a decent guy.”

  “You started it.”

  “You did.”

  “No, you did.”

  Murphy smiled, shook his head.

  Ryan said, “I know you’ve got a big Tom Brady poster hanging right over your bed. Don’t try to lie about it.”

  Murphy smiled a thin smile, grinding his teeth behind his pressed lips. Annoyed, but handling it pretty well.

  He actually had two Tom Brady posters.

  “Maybe I’m picking on you just because I can,” Ryan said. “Maybe I like laughing at losers with nobody to stick up for them. Or in your case, losers wearing a boot.”

  Murphy huffed and sneered, as if in total shock. He looked around, then settled looking at the blonde girl. He figured she was definitely the safest bet for securing immediate support. She didn’t think he was a loser.

  There was a family with little kids at a far table, near the arcade. Nobody Ryan recognized. Maybe from a neighboring town, just stopping in for pizza. They were staring and listening intently and trying to pretend they were just eating. Chewing slowly, not speaking. Heads down, eyes up. They’d been captivated since the moment the crutches clattered to the floor.

  Ryan, still staring down at Murphy, said, “What’s your mom driving these days?”

  “What?” Murphy snapped. “Leave my mom out of this.”

  “I’m curious about the car. Maybe if we both like talking cars, we can be friends. Is that her Prius out there?”

  “Uh, the Toyota is ours,” said the guy with the family that was watching and listening. He was holding up his hand, as if waiting for a teacher to call on him in class.

  Ryan nodded to him.

  The guy lowered his hand and said, “It’s actually a Yaris, not a Prius.”

  “My mistake,” Ryan said.

  “It happens.”

  “Economics, right?”

  “It makes sense financially, having kids an all.”

  “It’s a weird economy these days. Can’t be too careful when you’ve got kids.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Ryan nodded again, signaling that the conversation was over, then refocused on Murphy.

  “What’s up?” Murphy asked. He was nodding slightly. His mouth had relaxed into more of a smirk. Maybe he was smirking about Ryan’s pajamas. Or like he thought it was all a joke, or a misunderstanding, and he expected Ryan to apologize any second.

  Didn’t happen.

  “Your pizza,” Ryan told him. “Give it to me.”

  “What? Did you get hit in the head too many times?”

  While the kid was still looking up, Ryan began pouring the last inch of cooling coffee from his cup over Murphy’s pizza slice. Murphy looked down and snatched the plate away, too late. Ryan adjusted and dumped the rest of the coffee on the rest of the pizza and then dropped the cup. The cup rolled away onto the table, toward the girl. She sat back fast in her chair, rigidly, as if the cup was trying to get her. Murphy tossed his plate noisily back onto the table. He wisely moved his cup of soda, so Ryan couldn’t spill it in his lap, and then he sat there, fuming silently.

  He wanted to stand up. Bad. Jump up, actually, and start swinging. Ryan could see it. He knew the look. He knew the feeling. The hot seeing-red feeling. But Murphy knew better. He wasn’t a dumb kid. He was hobbled to begin with. If he stood up, he knew he’d end up with a lot more problems than a boot on his foot. He might be in a body cast.

  The girl never made a peep. Just sat there, big eyes, mouth hanging open.

  “Take it outside,” Leo Russo boomed from behind the counter. Ryan knew for a fact that Leo kept a loaded pistol under the counter. He knew that Leo meant what he said. “And stay away from my car,” he added.

  Ryan nodded to him.

  “I mean it, Matt.”

  “I’ll pay for all the furniture we break,” Ryan said. “You have my word.”

  “You’re paying for that pizza,” Murphy said to Ryan.

  “No chance, bud.”

  “Enzo saw the whole thing.”

  “Think he cares?”

  “You’re paying me back, Ryan.”

  “Grab your crutches and make me pay. Make something happen, chief.”

  “This boot isn’t forever. You know that, right?”

  “Did you ride in the ambulance when you hurt your foot? Or did your mom drive you to the hospital?”

  The kid smiled for a second, then said, “Second thought, I have a better idea. I’ll have the pizza boxed up and sent to your place. For your fat bitch over there. How’s that, Ryan?”

  “You really want me to pay?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Sure. Right after you pay for Clay Jamison’s lost wages, I’ll pay for your pizza and drinks.”

  The kid had no response. He deflated very slightly, but his expression was still mostly defiant. He didn’t like losing.

  “We’re disturbing this family over here,” Ryan told him. “Grab your crutches and come outside. We’ll settle up.”

  ***

  He waited outside, smoking a cigarette while Murphy and the blonde girl sat at the table talking.

  The Italian guy often mistaken for Enzo brought a small box to the table and the girl put some of the pizza in the box. Apparently they’d discussed the matter and decided on salvagin
g as much of it as possible. They’d already paid for it, and the coffee hadn’t touched every slice. No sense wasting it, letting the Italian guy send it over to the hogs at the farm.

  After a minute the girl stood up and walked around the table to the door and put her face close to the glass, to see out beyond her reflection. Ryan waved. She didn’t reciprocate. Just turned and went back and told Murphy.

  They spoke some more and nodded in agreement about something and the girl got Murphy’s jacket off of the back of his chair and he leaned and struggled and pulled it on awkwardly, still seated. Then she got his crutches for him and he struggled up off the chair, face grimacing, all of his weight on his right foot. They moved to the far right-hand side of the restaurant, a few yards in from the front doorway. The girl took one of the crutches while Murphy hopped into the restroom with the other.

  There was a wait. Not too long. About enough time for a number 1, plus enough time for a guy balancing on one crutch to struggle with his zipper and button and then hop to a sink and wash his hands. Lean carefully and get both hands dry under a blower, and then lean carefully again in another direction while prying the door open. The blonde girl stood there a few feet from the door, occasionally checking her folding mirror. She had a purse and the pizza box and one crutch to keep her company.

  Murphy reappeared. He took the second crutch and leaned against the wall. The girl handed him her purse and the pizza box and Murphy leaned there juggling the collection while she took her turn in the adjoining restroom.

  Another brief wait. Then she reappeared and took the purse and box and went ahead and held the door open for Murphy.

  He ignored Ryan completely on his way out. No more mention of reimbursement for the pizza. Not even a glance. He just moved on by, taking the high road, eyes front, focused, expression neutral. He was stepping and swinging, getting into a pretty good crutch rhythm on his way over to a red Kia sedan.

  He slowed by the car and the girl held both crutches while he opened the driver’s door and hopped on one foot and turned and stooped his body and lowered and wedged his ass down into the driver’s seat and then leaned back and carefully brought the sore foot into the foot well and closed the door. It wasn’t easy, being a tall kid. He looked relieved.

  The girl opened the back door and slid the crutches onto the back seat, one at a time, balancing the pizza box with one hand. She closed the door and went around behind the trunk and got into the passenger seat, where she settled in and buckled her seatbelt and took something from her purse. Presumably her folding mirror.

  Not the hastiest retreat in history. Or a great moment of personal pride in the face of adversity. But it worked. Hobbled Murphy was on his way out of the danger zone.

  The car started and the lights flicked on and Murphy backed it out of the parking spot and hit the brake. The lot was all one open space from the restaurant up to the road, with no specific entry or exit. Just lines simulating where the sidewalk should be. The car rocked slightly when he shifted it into drive and the brakes made a little grasping noise, holding the car back as the idling engine tried to move it forward.

  Then Murphy buzzed the passenger window down. The blonde girl slouched way down in her seat and Murphy leaned halfway over her, staring at Ryan. His neutral expression was gone. Now he smiled like the cocky quarterback whose parents had spent good money on braces and quarterly polishing visits. He flipped Ryan the finger, then stepped on the gas and pulled out onto Main, heading south.

  Right in front of another car, also heading south.

  The oncoming car with the right of way was a Ford. A little blue Fiesta. Its driver had to veer right into Enzo’s parking lot to avoid hitting Mrs. Murphy’s red Kia. The Fiesta’s driver stomped on the brakes and blasted the weak horn and buzzed the window down and yelled something feisty at the Kia’s driver. Something about being a blind asshole.

  Mrs. Murphy’s Kia braked briefly, its nose dropping and its driver momentarily startled as the Fiesta zipped and skidded a few feet behind it. Then the Kia revved and the nose came up as it sped off south on Main.

  The guy in the Fiesta buzzed down his passenger window and shouted to Ryan, “You see that crap?”

  “Close call,” Ryan said.

  “You know him?”

  “Not really. You should report the car to the cops. Red Kia. It was his fault. I saw the whole thing.”

  The guy nodded, all tense and angry, white knuckles on the wheel. Then he craned his neck to check north and stepped on the gas and revved the Fiesta’s tiny engine and pulled out heading south again. Probably to find the Kia and get its plate and make an angry complaint call.

  Ryan turned back to Enzo’s in time to see the watching family returning to their table from the big windows at the front of the building.

  They’d gotten dinner and a show for the price of only dinner. No actual fight. But plenty of tense drama for a weeknight in a little town.

  ***

  Ryan walked home and went inside. He gave Sharky a cookie and then stood there a moment, trying to decide which of his truck keys to grab. Ford or GMC. It was always a tough decision. He loved both trucks pretty much equally.

  He decided on the GM product and grabbed the keys and went out to the truck parked in a row near the property line by the nursery, along with his Ford, and his father’s ten-year-old Diesel Chevy, which now served mostly as a snowplow truck.

  The GMC was late seventies, restored not for show quality but to be a nice driver. Big 502 V-8 under the hood, expensive headers, massive air intake, dual exhaust and chrome-tipped pipes. Big horsepower, even bigger torque. The truck was navy blue with chrome accents, nice big white-lettered tires with knobby treads, roll bars, everything. The whole nine yards. Steel panels and bumpers. Basic and rugged. Proudly American made, long before the bailouts and the rise of hideous post-modern plastic styling.

  Ryan turned the old-fashioned key in the ignition and grunted like Tim Allen, a normal part of his routine. The starter whirred and the big motor coughed and caught and chugged to life, then rumbled and shook like a fuming monster roused grudgingly from its sleep. Like a furious dragon confronting a thief in the dark. Ryan feathered the gas and a symphony of violence met his ears. A beautiful song of fury, roaring through four-inch pipes. Somewhere, far away, he felt pretty certain that the guys from Metallica were feeling a mysterious chill crawling up their spines, urging them to take up their instruments.

  He flipped on the lights and dropped the column shifter into drive and rumbled toward Main Street.

  ***

  Two minutes later he passed drunk Gary Lampson’s house on Rabbit Road. The place was all dark. Hopefully Gary was sleeping it off.

  Two driveways up from Gary’s he turned in, headlights washing over a white house. He hit the horn a few times, until a woman looking like an older version of Kerry Jamison opened the front door and peeked out.

  “Send Clay out,” he called to her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “We’re going to dinner.”

  She went back in and Clay emerged wearing his fuzzy Croc slippers and sweatpants and a sweatshirt that matched perfectly. An outfit, not just sweats. Obviously he was planning on being in for the night. He looked horrified. Like the powers and principalities of the cruel world had finally come for him. He walked slowly to the driveway, as if fearing the walkway had been seeded with tripwires and explosives.

  Ryan said, “Get in,”

  “Why?”

  “We’re taking a ride.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Just do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going for a ride.”

  “Where?”

  “A feminist meeting.”

  “The town hall?”

  “Yeah, get in.”

  Clay climbed in and closed the door, all tense and hesitant, but mildly curious. He seemed to think the truck might reach out and bite him at any moment.

  Ryan b
acked out and they rumbled down to Main, turned right and then turned left into the big parking lot by the white Colonial town hall. The place was all lit up. Only a half-dozen cars in the lot. No cruiser in sight. Chuck was taking a break. Probably patrolling around back roads while smoking cigarettes and chugging coffee.

  Clay asked, “Are you really going in?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said as he opened the door and got out of the idling monster. “Lean forward.”

  Clay leaned forward, face near the windshield, and Ryan folded the back of the bench seat and retrieved his Halloween costume, still at hand after being used a few weeks prior. He removed his Patriots cap and pulled on the rubber mask and walked away carrying a rubber machete, its blade stained red.

  The people of varying political views gathered in the town hall for large portions of cheap spaghetti all stopped talking when the doors shut. They turned to look. The front doors had opened and closed loudly, and now in the entryway stood a larger version of Vlad Putin. No one knew what to say.

  Then he growled and raised a bloody machete. Everyone gasped. A few screamed. Silverware clattered. Neil Schmidt dropped his dinner roll, and Wanda Emery nearly swallowed her false teeth. Vlad’s growl swelled into a roaring battle cry as he charged at them, through the center of the large room, between rows of folding tables, scattering a few folding chairs, and swinging the machete wildly overhead. The place erupted with chaotic noise and activity like a hen house at sunrise, minus the feathers. Then Vlad disappeared out the single back door and charged down the wheelchair ramp. The whole terrifying ordeal was over in mere seconds. No one was injured. Only one drink was spilled.

  “Are you crazy?” Clay asked when Vlad jumped back in the cab.

  Ryan peeled off the mask and tossed the machete to Clay. He put on his Patriots cap and dropped the shifter into drive and roared off heading south on Main.

  ***

  “No bullshit. What was the Murphy kid doing to you?”

  “What?” Clay said.

  “You heard me.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Kerry.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s just a jerk.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing.”