Dig

by Dan Dillard

CHAPTER SIX

  The hangover

  Rusty peeled himself out of bed and felt like a man encrusted in a layer of dried salt. His tongue felt as dry as a neglected kitchen sponge. The first thing he saw on his nightstand was a half empty soft pack of Camel Lights which explained the shit-flavored coating on the inside of his mouth and the fire in his chest as he tried to take a deep breath and coughed instead. He hadn’t smoked in fifteen years. He blinked a few times to help clear his focus, clucked his tongue and wanted nothing more than to brush—or perhaps shave—the hair from his teeth. Once his vision was wholly restored, he saw the clock. Green numbers. 9:54 am.

  His back ached as he sat up, sore in the kidneys. With a quick stretch, he got up, absently grabbed the pack and shook a cigarette into his mouth. He pissed for a long while, eyes closed, unlit smoke dangling out from his mouth like a second, sleepy penis. Rusty flushed, yanked up his boxers and looked in the mirror. The cigarette made him laugh, a few puffs of laughter that started him coughing again. He put the cigarette over his ear and splashed some cold water on his face.

  Sun streamed in along the edges of the curtains which flapped in the blower of the air conditioner. Rusty stumbled back to the bed like a zombie in a Romero flick and found his cargo shorts, pulled them on and fished the lighter from his pocket. He knew it would be there just like in his heart, he knew the cigarettes would be there when he woke up. It was a drunken certainty. When he opened the door, the humidity and warmth of the morning sun felt good on his skin and the smell of salt water filled his nostrils for just a moment before the smoke took its place.

  His wallet was in his back pocket and he checked it for the Admiral keycard before letting the door shut behind him. Wincing as his bare feet came down on the rough parking lot, Rusty walked to the corner where the restaurant was, turned right past its entrance and continued on toward the waterway. There was a swing there, elongated like the kind people put on their porches only that one was metal and not wooden. It hung on chains from a galvanized stand which was concreted in the ground—part of the public park.

  “Good morning,” Robyn said from behind him.

  Rusty turned and saw her. She wore a ponytail, jeans shorts and a green Admiral t-shirt, different than the previous day. Her makeup was a little heavy, but he couldn’t blame her after the night they had. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed in the low light of the restaurant. Still, she was quite lovely in his estimation. She held a mug of coffee out to him.

  “Jesus, you read my mind,” he said.

  “That’s what I do. I read minds. It’s why I chose restaurant work.” And there was the infectious smile that subtracted ten years from her face. She sat next to him and looked out over the water.

  “Feeling all right?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’ve been better, but I’ll survive.”

  “You aren’t working already, are you?”

  “I manage the place, hon. That means I’m always working. Last night I was filling in for my bartender. She’s home with a sick little boy. This is my regular shift. I’m just glad we aren’t open for breakfast.”

  Rusty nodded and sipped his coffee, chasing it with a long drag on the Camel. He leaned back on the swing and let the smoke out.

  “You working on your tan?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Sorry. I just needed some air. Plus, it was freezing in my room this morning. I guess I forgot to turn the AC down.”

  “This place is old. Freeze and sweat are the only two settings.”

  They both giggled. A pained expression from each. It wasn’t the smile that lit her up. That one emphasized the cracks in her skin, the age around her eyes and then it quickly faded into something troubled. She pointed at the pack of cigarettes he was still holding and he handed her one along with his to use as a lighter.

  “Russ, let me ask you something,” she said.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The uneasy look became concern. “You’ve been away for a long time…does anything seem different around here to you?”

  He looked around, noting the houses, the light house on the horizon, the fishing pier he remembered from when he was a kid. No, everything looked pretty much the same. Except for the old Oak tree which was now a stump.

  “The old tree is gone,” he said. He didn’t want to mention the odd smell, or the feeling he had. He didn’t want to seem crazy right off the bat, but something felt off. Until her question, he was going to chalk it up to nostalgia’s lack of a high definition signal.

  “The old tree was vandalized by some drunks about a year ago. They chainsawed it down in the middle of the night and got caught red handed,” she said.

  “Really?”

  Robyn held her hand up in a scout’s honor pose.

  “Wow,” Rusty said. “Bastards.”

  “Yep. According to my momma, those boys spent a couple nights in jail and I think they’re still doing community service. That’s not what I mean, though. I mean it’s part of it. Look, I’ve only been back home for about a six months. My ex and I lived up in Virginia, but when we divorced I called Ed and Linda—they own the Admiral—and asked for a favor. Things just worked out that I got this job and my daughter…” She trailed off and pulled hard on the cigarette. Her eyes narrowed and she watched toward the waterway and let the thought go. Rusty watched her for a minute, noting the lines at the corners of her eyes again. He’d seen the same thing on his own face. It was a bitch getting older.

  “What are you getting at, Robyn?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, and then turned to face him, tapping her ashes into the wind. “It’s mean here.”

  Travis was friendly until we pulled into town and then hadn’t he gotten what? Mean? Was that the word?

  “Mean?”

  “Yeah. It’s nothing you’d notice out right, I guess. But the old hospitality just isn’t there. Folks aren’t as outgoing as they once were around here. The craziness I loved as a kid. At least I don’t see it. And there’s crime…seems like some domestic dispute or drunken brawl happens every night anymore. Maybe I’ve just gotten older and I can see through the bullshit, but it seems like people were just nicer when I was here as a teenager.”

  “You seem pretty nice.”

  She smiled and then leaned over and kissed his cheek. He smelled the coffee and cigarette on her breath, but there was an underlying sweetness as well. “Thank you. You’re pretty nice yourself,” she said. Her smile lasted a good long while as she smoked and sipped her coffee. “Still…I just have an awful feeling.”

  “You’re nervous about the reunion. Everyone’s going to think you got old and fat. You didn’t take over the world like you said you were going to back in the day.”

  Robyn smacked him on the arm. “Fuck you,” she whispered, but her face let him know she got the joke and wasn’t offended.

  It didn’t stop him from trying to explain and doing a poor job at it. “I didn’t mean you were. I just meant that you think that’s what they will think.”

  “All women don’t think they’re fat.”

  Rusty chuckled. “Yeah they do.” She laughed with him, smacking him in the shoulder again.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I think you look pretty amazing,” he said.

  “You’re sweet and it’s nice to hear. Come to think of it, I haven’t been complimented by a sober man in quite some time.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  The pair was silent for a long time. A few cars pulled in the lot behind them. One, filled with kids and fishing poles parked in the space nearest Rusty and Robyn. The children jumped out and followed their mother and father to the pier, laughing and skipping and excited.

  From another car, an older couple emerged. The woman nagged the husband in audible but unintelligible noises all the way to the door of the restaurant. Rusty watched as the old man dutifully held the door for her, taking all of the abuse in stride.

  “Do you need to go?”

  “Are
you trying to get rid of me?” Robyn asked.

  “Not at all. You have customers is all.”

  “That’s Jean and Top Kepler. Turkey club on wheat toast for her. Coffee for him. I’ve not seen the man eat in the whole time I’ve been here. Retirees.”

  “Top? A marine?”

  “Yep. Master Sergeant Pain In The Ass, I like to call him. He was a Parris Island DI and he’ll be glad to tell you all about it if you let him. I can’t blame him, she doesn’t let him get much said.”

  “I’m a marine, ya know?”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you two should have plenty to talk about. Just put on a shirt first.”

  He looked down at his chest, his skin already feeling tight on one side from the heat of the morning sun. “Right,” he said.

  “Well, Mr. Rusty Clemmons, marine badass, I have work to do. Come on by for some lunch if you’re hungry. Sue will be glad to take care of you.”

  Sue? Why did the name sound familiar. An image of a chubby man and a tow truck swam up through his hangover. Travis. He almost forgot. “Hey, that reminds me. The tow truck driver who brought me into town…”

  “Travis Langford. Dear sweet Jesus, don’t mention him to Sue. The last time he stopped in, she almost poured hot coffee on him.”

  “He said I should mention to her that he said, ‘Hello’.”

  “Then she might pour hot coffee on you. Trust me. Let that go. She’s a sweet lady. I don’t know what kind of bad business is between them lately…it didn’t used to be that way. More of that meanness, I think.” She trailed off for a moment. “Things are just meaner than they used to be.”

  “Okay,” Rusty said.

  “What are your plans for today? Gonna find a hot date for the reunion?”

  “Well, I have to get my car fixed first…but since you mention it, who are you going with?”

  “Oh, hon, I’m all on my own. It’s just been me and my Kelly for a few years now, but she’s all but moved out at eighteen.”

  “Well, Miss Robyn, I’d be delighted if you would be my date.”

  She smiled the younger looking smile again. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m saving myself for…someone special.”

  “In that case, can I just catch a ride? I mean if I can’t fix my old boat?”

  “Sure thing, hon. Sure thing. Meet me at the restaurant at 6:00 pm Saturday night and I’ll give you a ride.” She sauntered away, a forced sway to her hips and Rusty watched. Each gyration coincided with the bell that was ringing in his head.

  Once she was inside, he looked back to the waterway and focused on the small fishing pier. One of the children from earlier was frantic, bouncing because there was a real fish on the end of her line. Her father beamed and held it up while her mother snapped a picture. The squeals cut through the wind. Traffic had begun to pick up there on the waterfront. A familiar sky-blue ice cream truck pulled into a vacant space, its occupant, a young man in a blue t-shirt, shorts and a ball cap stepped out and began to set up shop.

  It wasn’t the same man Rusty remembered from his youth—a stout man, Santa Claus like in his size and his personality. That man would be much too old now, Rusty thought. Maybe it was his son or a nephew or cousin. Or maybe he’d sold the business to a new and budding entrepreneur. The truck was the same, the sandwich board sign which sat behind it was the same. It was too early in the day for ice cream, though. He needed more coffee…and something fried and greasy.

  Once Rusty had his shoes and a shirt on, he walked into the little restaurant and ordered a soft-shelled crab sandwich. He sipped his coffee black and ate quickly. Sue was his waitress, a round lady with blond hair and black roots. She smiled easily and talked a lot.

  “You here for the reunion? Robyn mentioned you two went to high school together.”

  “Yes,” Rusty said.

  “I’ve still got a few more years before my twentieth. I doubt I’ll go. I didn’t much like high school or the people in it. Can’t see why I’d want to go back and see them.”

  “You from here?” he asked.

  “No. I was raised up in Rockingham. Moved down here five years ago. I just love the beach.”

  Rusty nodded. He was relieved when she was called away by another customer needing a sweet iced tea refill.

  A few times he saw Robyn peek out from behind the kitchen door. He wondered if she was peeking at him out of playful curiosity or if she was watching to make sure he didn’t mention Mr. Travis Langford. Either way, it made him uneasy. He’d decided he wasn’t going to mention Travis back on the swing—would’ve forgotten altogether if Robyn hadn’t mentioned Sue’s name. On top of that, his head hurt and he didn’t want to hear any more about Sue’s love of the beach or he hatred of high school in Rockingham.

  He found a ten dollar bill in his thinning wallet and dropped it on the table as he walked out the door, back up the road toward the NAPA building, back into the small town where he had grown up. Robyn’s words were on his mind the entire time. Things are just meaner than they used to be.

  He had an inkling of what she meant. There was something underneath it all. Something that smelled like rot and decay. Maybe southern hospitality was decaying…molding and disintegrating under the stress of a brave new world. Texting and cell phones as smart as computers had brought on the death of a good old fashioned hand shake and a warm smile. Y’all come back, now, was replaced with a series of unintelligible LOLs and BRBs. For a moment, Rusty was sad. He despised his phone. He used it only for work purposes and rarely for those. He pulled his phone from his pocket, still hinged in the middle, still with three or four characters per key. He could no more text a readable sentence than he could flap his arms and take off flying.

  The walk to the NAPA store seemed to take considerably less time than the walk he’d taken from the store to the motel. He reasoned it was because he wasn’t carrying luggage and he hadn’t driven all night and half the day before.

  The door creaked open and a bell dinged over his head. The man behind the counter looked up over his newspaper and held a hand up in old man acknowledgment. His head was shaped a bit like Frankenstein’s monster from the old Universal films. On the breast of his shirt, the word BILL was sewn underneath the NAPA logo.

  Mr. Shockley I presume.

  “That you’re Rivi out there?” Bill said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Piece of shit, ain’t it?”

  An unexpected burst of laughter escaped from Rusty’s mouth. “I suppose so. Especially at this point,” he said. Bill chuckled with him, a grandfatherly noise.

  “You know what’s wrong with her?” Bill asked.

  “Yessir. She needs a radiator. Do you have anything here that might work?”

  Bill scratched his chin and raised an eyebrow. “Well, now that depends. Do you want something original or will aftermarket do? Lots of so-called standards I could sell you for around a hundred dollars. Might find a usable one in the junkyard out on Highway 17 up to Leland.”

  “Aftermarket is fine. She’s no show piece.”

  “Sure as shit not…but she could be if you loved her a little.”

  Rusty looked out the window at the old car. He had loved it for more than twenty years in varying degrees, but hadn’t the need nor the energy to restore it now. The Bat had become a novelty. One which would probably end right there at his reunion and have him putting a very expensive plane ticket on his Visa card to get home. Still, he smiled at Mr. Shockley and said, “I suppose. For now, I just need her running.”

  “Uh huh,” Bill said. “I have one here by Champion I could do $119.00 on. You’ll want new hoses as well. Do you need someone to install it? I could recommend a few places if you like.”

  It occurred to Rusty that Bill was being quite friendly. Not to argue his own intuition or Robyn’s statement about the town, but Mr. Bill Shockley, proprietor of the Smithville, NC NAPA seemed to be good people with his southern hospitality firmly int
act.

  “The price sounds fine to me. And the hoses. I could put it in myself if I had too…”

  “So,” Bill interrupted. He was still staring out the window at the car. “What brings you into our little town in that thing anyway?”

  Rusty cleared his throat. The cigarettes were still hurting him, but he wanted another one. He knew later that day, he’d be popping into the convenience store down the street to grab a pack. “High School Reunion. Twenty years.”

  “Well, hell. A local boy come home? How long you visiting for?”

  “One week, NAPA willing,” he said with a grin and a glance at the ceiling as if the NAPA gods were up there waiting for acknowledgment. Bill didn’t grin. His face had gone gray, like he was fighting off a cold or something worse.

  “I suppose you could use my garage and my tools for the day. Nobody uses the garage anymore. Least of all me.” He held up his arthritic hands and flexed them open and closed. “Too much rust on the nuts and bolts, you know?”

  “That would be fantastic, thanks…” Rusty began.

  Bill Shockley held a hand up, stopping any further gratitude. “If,” he said. “If you can promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  Bill’s face hardened, eyes dark under his heavy Frankenstein’s-monster brow. Every wrinkle on his face stood out and the gray look worsened. “Promise me there won’t be none of that faggoty-queer stuff,” he said.

  Rusty wasn’t sure what faggoty-queer stuff he was talking about. The shock of the blatant statement had him off guard, unsure if laughter, a simple nod or outright outrage was the proper response, but Bill went on.

  “I’m Bill by God Shockley and I fought in Vietnam. I’m about God, guns and Ol’ Glory and I won’t have none of that god-damnable high talk about fucking liberal, bleeding-out-of- your-man-cunt-faggoty-queer stuff.” His version of Vietnam rhymed with ham. Everything else was pronounced with impeccable diction.

  I stand corrected. Good people? No, Robyn was right. Maybe I should have stayed in Chicago. I could be…I could be…what would I be doing? Nothing. Nothing with no one, that’s what. Still, nothing would be comfortable. Not like this.

  The thoughts staggered him for a moment. The fact he would most likely be doing nothing hadn’t ever occurred to him before that moment. He glanced back at his life over the past few years. A couple of dates. A few dinners out with work coworkers. Not buddies, but coworkers and Rusty wasn’t even sure if that word was applicable. Those gatherings had been mostly quiet affairs for him. He shook hands and made nice and he answered questions if they were asked directly of him, but he wasn’t outgoing. Those people didn’t know him. Maybe—he hoped—the friends he had in high school knew him. Maybe they got Rusty Strings Clemmons. Maybe his whole trip was some weak attempt to grasp at the glory days and his days were anything but glorious.

  Faggoty-queer stuff. The old man in the NAPA shirt said faggoty-queer stuff. Who talks like that?

  Rusty’s mouth hung open just a little. He was hungover and he was tired, but that statement woke him up. He didn’t consider himself a liberal, nor was he faggoty queer. He didn’t really affiliate himself with any side, but he felt he was decent and a decent person didn’t talk that way—at least not to a stranger, much less a customer. If Rusty hadn’t been in a bind, he might have told Bill Shockley where precisely to cram it, how deep to cram and how many foot pounds of torque to apply to the cram. The problem was he was in a bind. He was in a bind and he hadn’t told anyone to cram it since 1986. That had ended with a MCRD San Diego’s DI’s fist to the bridge of his nose followed by a lot of bleeding and pain.

  Bill was gripping the edges of the cash tray which sat underneath the computer register so tight his nail beds were white. His breathing was heavy, his teeth clenched and his eyes were wet like a man who had just finished a heated argument or that most rare session of crying.

  “Not to worry. I’d just like to get in, fix my car and get on my way,” Rusty said. His words were careful and slow and he watched Bill Shockley like a growling dog watches an intruder.

  “Good deal,” Bill said, calming, now tapping gently on the register. “Pay up and I’ll give you the grand tour.” Just like that, Bill’s spell was over and his cheeks pinked up a bit. That quick and Bill Shockley was back, like the old story about the hotel in the mountains of Colorado. You had to open the steam valve to bleed off the old boiler or she’d blow sky high.

  Rusty pulled out his wallet and paid for the radiator, the hoses, clamps and some coolant. Bill pulled the latch on the front door and flipped around a sign that read BACK IN 5 MINUTES—HOLD YOUR HORSES.

  “Come on, Rivi. I’ll get you set up. Need to freshen up the coffee anyhow.”

  Meaner than it used to be, Robyn said. Maybe everyone in Smithville has a touch of the Alzheimer’s. I hope it’s not contagious.

  He followed Bill down a hallway which ran perpendicular to the counter and out a back door. Behind the building was a small parking area surrounded by oak trees. There was a standalone garage made out of cinder blocks that were painted blue to match the main building. Its single bay door was closed. Beyond the garage there was a row of tall shrubs, holly maybe, and then a row of houses, all one story and straight out of the 1950’s and 1960’s.

  Bill unlocked the walk-through door with one of the dozens of keys on his ring and flipped a light switch. The two men entered and Rusty looked around at the rows of toolboxes and workbenches. Anything he could want was available to him aside from a lift, which he didn’t really need, as there were ramps he could prop up on to get to the belly of the Bat. Everything was surprisingly clean and had its place.

  Two boxes stood out. One, a large ammo canister painted military olive drab. By itself, it didn’t mean much. He’d seen dozens of them in people’s garages, thousands of them when he was active duty. Next to it was a wooden crate the size of a large mailbox. TNT was stenciled on the side in faded red paint. The combination gave him a chill.

  “What’s that for?” he said, pointing at the crate.

  Bill looked over his glasses and smirked. “Well, I own a lot of land around here. Subdivided some of it a few years back. Used that to blast out stumps and such.”

  Stumps and such. Had to remove the goddamn liberal faggoty-queer-man-cunt stumps.

  “Pick up the bay door, will ya? My back can’t take it.”

  Rusty did as he was told. “What’s this place for? You tinker?” he said.

  “Ah, I used to. Back a few years ago I used to fix up people’s problems out here. Simple stuff like your radiator. No body work, that shit just frustrates me. Anyway, I’m too old now. Can’t see, can’t hear. Once I lay down, can’t get back up. Love the smell out here though. Oil and grease, at least I used to. There’s a stink around these parts I can’t seem to get rid of. O-ffends the nose. Hell, you might could chalk that up to my advanced age as well. You smell anything off?”

  “Smells like a garage to me,” Rusty lied.

  He smells it, too. And Robyn. What stinks in Smithville? Sounds like a newspaper headline from an old movie.

  “Must be this old honker of mine. You know they never stop growing, noses. Maybe I just smell it because this thing keeps getting bigger?”

  Rusty grinned. Bill was an entertaining character when he wasn’t having outbursts of hatred.

  “I’d best be getting back to the counter before someone has a fit over needing an air freshener or a windshield wiper blade.”

  “Thanks,” Rusty said and Bill hobbled back into the store.