Half an Inch of Water: Stories

by Percival Everett

Harold reached in through the window, turned the key, and started the engine. He joined Donnie back at the engine. “When the engine hits two hundred degrees, I think things should start to happen.”

  “You mean that awful ticking will go away?”

  “That’s the theory. I usually use this stuff for a quick radiator fix. Just a spoonful then. And you know what else they use this stuff for?”

  “What?”

  “To disable cars. Pour it in the crankcase, run the engine, and no part of the machine can ever be used again. None of it.”

  Donnie stared at his truck. “Listen,” he said. “No ticking. You did it. You’re a fucking genius.”

  “No, I’m a pussy, like you said. You poured it in,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood.

  “How much?” Donnie asked.

  “A dollar fifty.”

  “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Four hundred and fifty dollars, my ass. I’ll pay you tomorrow. I can drive it now?”

  Harold nodded. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Relax. I told you there ain’t no leak.” Donnie got behind the wheel and closed the door. “See you tomorrow.” He gunned the motor. “Beautiful,” he said. He rolled out of the garage.

  Harold watched him drive to the end of the gravel drive, then stop. The truck made no sound. He could see Donnie frantically turning the key again and again. Donnie got out, stood away from the vehicle, and looked at it. He put his hands on his head and looked at Harold.

  “Guess there was a leak,” Harold shouted.

  Donnie walked back toward the garage. “What now?”

  “There ain’t no ‘what now.’” Harold pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. “Your truck has experienced what is known as a catastrophic event. It’s shit now. It’s dead. I told you what would happen if there was a leak. There was a leak and it happened.”

  Donnie sighed and looked back at his truck and then back at Harold. He scratched his head. “There’s no fixing it at all?”

  “I’d have to replace everything. Except the body and electrical system.”

  “So, I fucked my truck.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You got something I can drive for the day?”

  “Take the Duster,” Harold said.

  “That thing works?”

  “Most of the time. There’s no second gear.”

  “Thanks.”

  Later that day, Donnie came back with the Duster. “You know, that’s not a bad little car.” He stood at the garage door and looked at the bronze Silverado pickup in the bay. “Whose truck is this?”

  “Keasey’s.”

  “Never-easy-Keasey? He’s back?”

  “Yeah, he says San Francisco didn’t work out for him. Says he didn’t like it, anyway. Sounds like he was doing pretty good to me.”

  “Nice truck. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Just an oil change. Let me describe that to you. That’s when you take the old oil out and put in new oil, thus saving wear and tear on the engine and prolonging said engine’s life.”

  “Well, fuck you. So, how’s Keasey looking?”

  “Big as ever. Looks good. Got a wife.” Harold finished tightening the new filter. “Nice-looking woman. Pregnant.”

  “And he brought them back here?” Donnie asked. “She from here?”

  “Black girl.”

  “Black girls are okay. White girls, too.” Donnie lit a cigarette. “Why’d he come back here?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Remember when he got his nickname?”

  “I remember.”

  “We were up by twenty points against those Casper boys. Keasey lost the ball, threw the ball to the wrong man, even tipped a ball into their basket until the game was tied with three seconds left.”

  “I remember,” Harold said.

  “So, Keasey shoots and the buzzer goes off and there’s that ball going around and around the rim. Everybody was standing up, waiting. Keasey was already running back to the bench with his fist in the air. Then the ball just dropped through the net and everybody went crazy.”

  “I remember.”

  “Every game was like that. Everything he did was like that. He was about to lose a footrace and the two guys in front of him got tangled up with each other and fell down. He won.”

  “I know.” Harold poured the last quart of oil into the crankcase.

  “One lucky son of a bitch. Never-easy-Keasey.” Donnie shook his head. “I came up with that nickname, you know?”

  “Right.”

  “I did.”

  “He’ll be coming by here to get his truck in a few minutes and you can remind him.”

  “I will.” Donnie looked over at his dead truck. “So, what will you give me for that piece of shit?”

  “Give you? You owe me a dollar fifty.”

  “The body must be worth something.”

  Harold looked at the vehicle and then at Donnie. “Fifty.”

  “Done.”

  “No, fifty and I’ll get rid of it for you. I’m not paying a dime for that piece of junk.”

  A 1976 white Chevy Malibu pulled into the yard. A tall, lanky man with a long dark braid unfolded from the passenger side. He walked toward the bay. The Malibu drove off.

  “Keasey,” Harold greeted the man.

  “All done?” Keasey asked.

  “Yep.”

  Donnie nodded. “Remember me?”

  Keasey stared at Donnie and then shook his head. “You do look a little bit familiar.”

  “St. Clair,” Donnie said.

  “Oh, yeah. Danny, right?”

  “Donnie. You remember me, don’t you? I’m the one that gave you your nickname.”

  “What nickname is that?”

  Donnie let out a confused, awkward chuckle and glanced at Harold. “Never-easy-Keasey.”

  Keasey’s face grew hard. He looked away from Donnie toward his truck. “I always hated that name. So, that was you? Well, fuck you.”

  Donnie took a deep breath. “I never knew it bothered you.”

  Keasey’s face relaxed and he smiled. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.”

  Donnie laughed.

  “How much I owe you?” Keasey asked Harold.

  “Thirty.”

  “Good deal.”

  “So, tell me, Keasey,” Donnie said. “What brings you back here?”

  “I’m from here. My wife is having a baby and I want the kid born here, too. Why are you still here? That’s my question.”

  Donnie shrugged. “I left for a while. Went to Iraq. I like here better than Iraq. It’s quieter.”

  Keasey sneered. “Iraq is for pussies.”

  “Fuck you,” Donnie said.

  “Just messing with you again,” Keasey said and laughed.

  Donnie tried to laugh.

  Keasey looked at Donnie for few seconds. “I’m looking for a job. You know anybody in town that’s hiring?”

  “They need some help up on a few of the ranches,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood on Keasey’s truck.

  “I don’t do ranch work,” Keasey said.

  “What kind of work you want?” Harold asked.

  “I ain’t choosy. I can work a register, a storeroom. I can make deliveries. I’ve worked in kitchens.”

  “Can you do construction?” Harold asked. “There was a guy from Riverton in here, said he needs a framer. He left a card on the wall. He seemed all right. I heard he pays pretty good.”

  “No good with tools,” Keasey said.

  “What did you do in San Francisco?” Donnie asked.

  “I was a model,” Keasey said.

  Harold leaned against the truck. “Say what?”

  “I was a model,” Keasey repeated.

  “Yeah, right,” Donnie said. “Modeling what?”

  “I was a hand model.”

  “What’s that?” Harold asked.

  “You know. In ads for watches and rings there are hands. I ha
ve good hands. I had good hands.”

  “Had?” Harold asked.

  Keasey held up his left hand, all four fingers of his left hand.

  “What happened to the middle guy?” Donnie asked.

  “Chopped off,” Keasey said.

  “We can see that.” Donnie lit a cigarette. “How did you lose the damn thing? Flipping the wrong person the bird?”

  “You want a soda?” Harold asked.

  “What?”

  “A soda, a drink. Donnie, you want one?”

  “Yeah,” Donnie said.

  “Sure, I’ll have a Dr Pepper,” Keasey said.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be a pepper, too,” Donnie sang.

  Harold stepped over and used his key to open the soda machine. “Tell us about the finger,” he said. “What happened?”

  “Lost it in a bet.”

  Harold and Donnie looked at each other.

  “That happens,” Donnie said.

  “All the time,” said Harold.

  “Fuck both of you.” Keasey took a long pull on his Dr Pepper. “I bet a bunch of money on the Super Bowl. I didn’t have the money. Guy says he’ll take a finger. What could I say?”

  “Could have offered him a toe,” Donnie said.

  “He didn’t want a fucking toe.”

  “I would have given him my little finger,” Donnie said.

  Keasey gave Donnie an exasperated look. “He wanted the middle one, all right? Only consolation is that when I think about it I remember I gave him the fucking bird finger.”

  “Not much consolation,” Harold said.

  “At least I got workers’ comp out of it. Insurance, anyway.”

  “How much does a finger go for these days?” Harold asked.

  “A nice piece of change,” Keasey said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Harold raised his orange soda. “To fingers.”

  They drank.

  “Hey, you guys want to make a buck?” Keasey asked.

  “Let you chop off our fingers?” Harold said and laughed.

  “No, it’s a hell of a lot easier than that. I need somebody to pick up something down at the bus station in Laramie. As you know, my wife is pregnant, so I can’t go. I can’t go nowhere.”

  “What is it?” Donnie asked.

  “A box.”

  “I figured that much. How big is the box? Is it heavy? And, most importantly, what’s in it?”

  “It’s not big or heavy and it’s just got some personal stuff in it.” Keasey finished his Dr Pepper.

  “Why didn’t you just have it mailed to you up here?” Harold asked.

  “My idiot friend in San Francisco lost my address and thought Laramie would be just fine. He didn’t how far away we are from Laramie. So, it’s waiting at the station down there.”

  “Can’t they send it up here?” Donnie asked. “That’s a long-ass drive all the way down to Laramie.”

  “They won’t. Say they need to see my identification.”

  “You must be able to do it online,” Harold said. “You can do everything online now.”

  “Okay, okay,” Keasey said. “It’s not really a shipment. It’s something I left down there in a locker.”

  Harold cleared his throat. “I can’t leave work. I’ve got cars backed up through the weekend.”

  Keasey looked at Donnie. “What about you?

  “No wheels. I fried my engine.”

  “You can take my truck,” Keasey said. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars. All you have to do is bring it back here.”

  “I need to know what it is,” Donnie said.

  “What a couple of pussies,” Keasey said. “It’s personal, I told you. You want to make five bills or not?”

  Donnie looked at Harold. Harold turned and walked over to stand beneath an old Ford Ranchero on the lift.

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Is it drugs?” Donnie asked.

  “No drugs.”

  “Counterfeit money?”

  Keasey laughed. “No counterfeit money. Just some personal items, mine and my wife’s.”

  Donnie looked again toward Harold, but his friend was at least pretending to work on the Ranchero’s transmission.

  “Listen,” Keasey said, “I got to go pick up some things from the market for my wife. You think this over and tell me your answer when I get back.” He turned to Harold. “Here’s your thirty.” He held up three tens.

  Harold walked over and took the money. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” Keasey said. “I’ll be back in a few,” he said to Donnie. “You’ll still be here?”

  Donnie nodded. He stepped over and stood beside Harold while Keasey got into his truck and drove away.

  Harold went back to work on the Ranchero.

  “What do you think is in the box?” Donnie asked.

  “I don’t give a shit what’s in the box.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Nope,” Harold said.

  “I am.”

  Harold laughed. “You’re curious about five hundred dollars.”

  “Sure. Why not?” Donnie said.

  “He’s not going to let you look in the box anyway. Jesus. A bus station locker? Gotta be drugs.”

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  “What else could it be? His toothbrush collection?” Harold said. “Just name one thing it could be other than drugs. Hey, if you want to do it, do it. Don’t look to me for permission.”

  “I don’t need your fucking permission. Toothbrush collection?”

  “I’m going to get back to work now. If you want to wait for Keasey in the office, you can. You can stretch out on the sofa, watch Oprah, and enjoy your last hours of freedom.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Harold flipped the wrench in his hand. “I’m saying that there’s drugs in that locker and if you’re crazy enough to go get them, then I’ll be sending you cookies in the mail for a few years. And for what? For five hundred dollars.”

  Donnie waved his hand, dismissing Harold’s words. “What channel is Oprah on?”

  The Ranchero was off the lift and parked in the yard. It was the dark side of dusk when the bronze Silverado crunched gravel and Keasey got out. Harold stepped away from the tool bench he’d been straightening. Donnie staggered, nap-drunk, from the office.

  Keasey walked over to Donnie. “What did you decide? Want to take a little drive?”

  “What’s in the box?” Donnie said.

  “Like I told you, just some personal stuff,” Keasey said.

  “Any drugs?” Donnie asked.

  Keasey made a show of trying to think, scratched his chin. “Nope, no drugs in the box. I would remember something like that.”

  “A grand,” Donnie said. “I’ll do it for a thousand dollars.”

  “Ain’t this some shit?” Keasey said.

  “It’s a long drive,” Donnie said.

  Keasey gave Donnie a long, hard look. He glanced over at Harold, then back at Donnie. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Donnie raised an eyebrow and stared back at the taller man. “It’s not all that much.”

  “Okay, a thousand dollars.” Keasey laughed. He looked at Harold. “Your boy here drives a hard bargain.”

  Harold nodded. “You guys mind discussing your business somewhere else? I’ve got to clean up so I can go home.”

  “Right.” Keasey looked at Donnie and signaled with his head for him to follow. “Come on, tough guy.”

  Harold watched at they stepped away to the far side of Keasey’s truck. He pulled down the garage doors while they talked. They shook hands. Donnie sat behind the wheel of the Silverado and Keasey sat in the passenger seat. They talked for a few minutes more and then rolled away.

  Harold was asleep in his bed in his house on his street when someone woke him banging on his door. His girlfrgend, Shannon, was beside him and made no sign of moving to get up. He looked out and saw Donnie on his kitchen stoop. Harold opened the door a
nd looked at him, then at the sky just becoming light behind him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I drove down to Laramie and picked up Keasey’s box,” Donnie said. He looked back at the big pickup parked behind Harold’s Duster.

  “Drugs. I told you.”

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  “It’s not even morning yet.”

  “Harold?”

  “Come on in.”

  Shannon was tying her robe in the doorway as Donnie stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Hey, Shannon,” Donnie said.

  “Go on back to bed, baby,” Harold said.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Everything is fine. Now get some sleep.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Night, Donnie. Don’t be long, Harold.”

  “Everything is not fine,” Donnie said once Shannon was gone. “Not fine at fucking all.”

  “Drugs, right?”

  Donnie looked into Harold’s eyes. “No drugs.”

  “You looked in the box?”

  “I tried not to, but I got this feeling somebody was following me.”

  “You saw headlights?” Harold asked.

  “No, but I got this feeling. I stopped at the rest area outside town and looked inside. I needed to know if it was drugs. It’s not drugs.”

  “What the fuck is it?”

  “Come with me,” Donnie said. “You got a flashlight?”

  Harold grabbed a flashlight from a drawer and followed Donnie out across the yard to the back of the truck. There was a regular-looking cardboard box sitting in the bed.

  Donnie lowered the tailgate and pulled the box to the edge. “Look in there,” he said. “Take a peek in there.”

  Harold opened the flaps of the box and looked inside, saw nothing, then remembered his light. He directed the beam into the box and saw a plastic bag but little else.

  “Look close,” Donnie said.

  Harold did. “Is that a head?”

  “It’s a fucking head,” Donnie said. He started to pace on the driveway. “Why is there a head in that box? It was on the seat next to me. I just drove two hundred fifty miles with a head on the seat next to me. Harold, that’s a head, somebody’s fucking head.”

  “Well, it’s not drugs.”

  “I wish it was drugs.”

  “What I am I going to do?” Donnie asked.

  “I guess you give it to the guy who paid you to pick it up.”

  “You don’t think I should go to the cops?” Donnie sat on the tailgate and looked up at the sky.