“Good shit, huh?”
The Gulch was as dark as you’d ever want it to be even at three in the afternoon. Day and night passed unnoticed since there were no clocks or windows and the low-watt lighting above the bar acted as a beacon for those that could still walk, to make their way toward the goods, but it did not illuminate any of the surrounding area, a fact for which the Gulch’s patrons were grateful. “Hoah, lookie whose mommy let him out to play.” The greeting was too loud and woke up a pair of regulars dozing in the corners. Terry tipped his imaginary hat to Cal Dotson sitting at the bar and sidled up beside him. Cal wrinkled his nose. “Judas priest, you smell like Saigon snatch on Monday morning.”
“Don’t get any ideas, pervert. Buy me a drink.”
Cal threw a peace sign at the bartender and said “Hey, man, two.” He turned toward Terry and looked him over. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch a scolding?”
Terry grabbed his Bud and finished it without coming up for air. He shook his head. “I am single and all a-tingle.”
“No shit?”
“None. Beth kicked my ass to the curb. I’m moved into my dad’s old place.” He dropped his wedding band into the community jar where it clinked against the many that had taken up permanent residence there. It was worth a free pitcher.
Cal clapped him hard on the back. “Congratu-fuckin-lations. Let’s celebrate.”
“I am broke, like flat.”
“S’okay. We’ll drive out to Springfield and make a withdrawal from 7-11, then pick up some honeys at the Salvation Army. Get your tootsie rolled.”
They took Terry’s truck and made their way along 71 toward Springfield. Terry chose a spot he’d not hit before and coasted around the back of the convenience store. It was the main attraction of a mini strip mall also home to a beauty supply and a pawnshop, neither of which looked to be doing business. Cal made fat lines of speed on the dash and cut into a Hardees straw, giving half to his partner.
They burst through the front door with grocery bags over their heads, unable to see clearly unless they used one hand to hold the eyeholes gouged in their plastic masks flush to their faces. To compensate for limited vision, they turned their torsos continually in severe arcs with pistols drawn to cover the whole store.
“What’s good here?” shouted Cal as he grabbed the lone clerk by his shirt and planted the barrel of his gun under the young man’s chin. “Down on your fuckin’ knees, now.” Terry covered the store, rounding up a heavy set woman with a teenage daughter in tow and a swell-gutted man of about thirty with a camouflage ball cap on his dome.
“You, you and you, over there.” He instructed them to the back corner of the store nearest the restrooms and the office. The three trudged backward with their hands up ‘till they were against the wall. Terry turned his head slightly and yelled for his partner. “Clear.”
Cal hopped over the counter and instructed the clerk to empty the cash drawer while he scanned the shelves for high-end swag. The heavy woman was trying to hide her cut-off wearing, poky-tittied, piece of jailbait daughter from Terry.
“What’s on that t-shirt?” He asked. The girl stepped around her mother. She sported bangs highover her forehead and braces gleaming off her teeth. On her face, her natural irritation with old people was losing a battle against fascination with his disregard of the law and snub-nosed phallus cradled confidently in his hand. The t-shirt in question was for the Silver Bullet Band and she let him read it rather than say. “You like Seeger, Lil’ Bits?” She nodded, defying him to say something evil about her tastes. “Yeah, he’s not bad, I guess. I thought it was Floyd at first, though. You like Floyd?”
She shrugged.
“That’s right, you’re a little young for them. How old are you anyway?”
“Fourteen and a half.”
Fourteen. Sweet mother, he felt old. “You get your period yet?” She blushed and got back to the shady side of her momma, who spoke through clinched teeth to Terry.
“You say one more thing to her, asshole and I’ll rip your dick off and roast it on a spit.”
“Yeah, okay. You do that now.”
“Hoah, man, lookiddit. Videos.” Terry turned around and fol- lowed Cal’s pointing finger across the store toward the video section. “Awwright.”
Finished clearing the register, Cal grabbed another sack for videocassettes and started scooping the shelves clean into the bag. He enlisted the clerk’s help with the task. “Hey man” Cal nudged him with his pistol from behind, “you got a nudie section?”
“Uh-uh.”
“How ‘bout one of those machines? You rent machines?” The clerk nodded his head. “Well let’s have one of them too.” The clerk came out from behind the counter carrying a V.C.R. the size and shape of a small suitcase. “Awesome. Give it to my partner.”
Terry took the machine by its handle. He guessed it weighed thirty pounds. He watched the customers and they watched Cal and the clerk gather videocassettes into plastic bags. Each one held roughly the contents of a single shelf and as soon as it was filled, it was placed on the floor with the others. Then Cal or the clerk would run back to the counter for another sack. After three trips, Cal just brought a bunch of bags back to the video section with him. Pleased with himself for this innovation, he stood back and let the clerk bag the rest.
The sheer volume of their haul threatened to overwhelm his pickup, but infused with crank confidence, and with his eyes bulg- ing, Terry vowed to watch every one of the tapes they took.
When they were finished, Terry locked the clerk and the cus- tomers in the manager’s office and cut the phone line. The plastic bags were bulging and spilling their contents in the parking lot. He and Cal each took four and left more behind as they ran out the front door. The sight of so many movie cassettes made them giddy and they laughed all the way to Springfield.
“Hoah, shit. Next time we’ll have to hit a spot with a porno section. I can’t believe I never thought of it.”
“Swear to me, man, we’re gonna watch every one.”
“What’d we get? Tell me you got the bag with Firewalker.” They found a cheap room and paid for two days, then hid their haul inside before seeking company.
They pulled in to the lot that the Salvation Army shared with the thrift store and the grocery. Pockets bulging with quarters destined for the Shop 4 Less’ arcade, they walked into the sunlight and strode coolly past the Army’s offices, scanning the front win- dows for potential party girls. They ambled on toward the thrift store and the pop machine on the corner. Shastas uncorked, the delicious sound of the fizzy drinks mirrored their insides perfectly and as mating calls go, there are less effective ones used in the summer heat.
Sunday
The crank had soured in their guts five hours earlier and their teen- age dates had split ten minutes later. As orgies go, it hadn’t been much. Cal and the skinny blond had kept to themselves leaving her chubby friend alone with Terry. She had no technique, but was mercifully unselfconscious and up for whatever.
Cal kept feeding tapes into the machine, each time eliciting giggles from the girls. The four of them had watched six movies in one night. There were strong feelings for both Ghoulies and Police Academy expressed between the quartet, but nothing matched the response to American Ninja, hands down, the hit of the evening.
Cal said he was going to get himself a tape machine soon and the skinny blond said she’d had one all to herself back when she’d lived with her parents. “No way.” Said Cal. “Why’d you ever run away then?”
“My dad kinda freaked out when he caught me blowing his best friend.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah, things were a little too weird around the house after that.” Terry turned that scenario over in his head for hours after they’d left.
Cal wasn’t puking anything up anymore, just flexing his throat muscles and making noise. “Use some aerosol, please, man.” Cal went on wretching. Terry tossed a can at the toilet from across the room.
“Like I care. Use it.”
“Being married sure made your smell holes delicate.” Calwalked back to his twin bed and Terry tossed him a 12 oz. apol- ogy. He settled in and wiped his mouth with the bed sheet. “What’s this one called again?”
“H.O.T.S.”
“Is it just me, or isn’t that the little dude from Brady Bunch?” On screen there were two sororities who had issues between them, settling accounts with a game of strip-football. It was a pretty decent contest. “Shit. You got a kid now, too, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fucks you up a bit, I bet.” Terry’d had to rip a plastic shield off the back of the motel’s T.V. to hook up the video machine and he was leaning toward leaving the damn thing attached when they checked out. He was getting sick of movies.
“Yeah. Looks like me even.”
Cal was unconscious.
Tuesday
Terry and Cal braced each other for the stroll from his truck to the front door of his dead father’s house. The grocery bag of cash was near empty and Beth had left his dog tethered to the front porch. Layla was cheering them on like a coach at the Special Olympics. Terry reached her first and had six layers of sweat replaced on his face by extra strength dog gob. The puppy’s tongue flicked excitedly and tickled the roof of his mouth and back of his teeth.
He was happy he’d traded one bitch for the other.
Thursday
The sound of the front porch creaking woke him up and he gripped the snub-nose underneath the couch cushion. There was no knock. Beth came in carrying little Wendell who was dressed only in a suspicious looking diaper. His hair was already too long and his nose was runny, though he didn’t look like he’d been crying.
“Had the locks changed, Terry. Had to. Just wanted you to know, your key won’t work anymore. You got your truck and your chair and your dog. Anything else you want, you’re gonna have to break a window. Here.” She handed the infant to him and went to inspect the contents of his refrigerator. “Judas priest, Terry. What are you going to feed Wendell?” I sure as hell don’t see anything here. I’d have brought some canned Italian, only some asshole fed it all to the dog. Plus all the Cheerios. Which then got shit- sprayed all over my rug.”
Terry smiled involuntarily, but caught himself when he felt tiny fingers grab his nose. He looked into his son’s face and instantly recognized himself. Freaked him out. He put Wendell on the floor and tried to stand up with some authority. “What are you doing in my house?”
Beth faced him with her fists resting on her hips. “I have still got a job. I didn’t spend the first half of the week sleeping off the weekend. Mrs. Edwards can’t take him today, so you’ve got to. The plant called and fired you official yesterday, so I knew you’d be available.” She walked past him and picked up their baby. She kissed Wendell fiercely and set him back on the floor. On her way out the door she said, “I’ll be back by six.”
Layla was sniffing at the baby and then they were both look- ing up at him.
1998 Was a Bad Year
It was his turn with the kid this week. Beth was out of town with some new boyfriend who was taking her all manner of places she’d always whined about wanting to visit. Good luck, bro, thought Terry. See if she lets you in the back door now. Since Wendell was with him and he had to work hard to score points in the dad department, Terry’d decided to teach the boy to drive.
Wendell was thirteen and it was embarrassing how soft he was. That was his mother’s fault. She was always spoiling him, always cuddling him as a baby when he cried. Maybe that shit worked with girls, but you had to be tough on boys. It’s a cruel thing to not whip boys, they’ve gotta learn about things young so that they can handle it when the world takes off its belt.
A bonus to having the squirt around and knowing how to drive was that Terry could get stinko at the Gulch without chancing another DWI on the way home. He pinned a note to his jacket instructing the bartender, who would find him passed out or incapacitated, to get the kid out of the Monte Carlo on the corner to help him out the door.
It must have worked because when the banging in his head woke him up he was on his own bed. His jeans were wet and cold about the crotch, but the bedding looked to have been spared the worst of it. The banging started again and sent regret throbbing through his head. He heard someone talking in the other room followed by the creak of the front door. “Who was that?” he called to Wendell.
“Run, Dad! It’s the police!” Came the immediate reply. Like a hungover robot, Terry’s legs shot out from under him and carried him toward the bedroom door. He tipped over his dresser to block the way, then slid the window open and jumped through kicking his legs spasmodically and landed upon his head in the lumpy lawn outside his bedroom. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled into a crouch and sprinted through the back yard into the woods, over the creek and north toward St. Louis.
After five minutes of flat out running, which had slowed to a sloth’s pace, he fell to his knees and puked a puddle of yellow liquid that would surely kill the grass. Then he rolled over and passed out.
He woke again to banging in his head. It felt like someone was trying to jackhammer their way out from behind his eyeballs. When he got to his feet and began the long trek to civilization, he tried to remember why he’d slept in the woods. He’d heard Wendell say ‘run’ and ‘police’, and instinct had carried him to that spot, but he might’ve overreacted.
When he found that he was on autopilot, heading for the Gulch, he smiled. Good old autopilot. He was there before the jackhammer guy seemed close to getting out and Terry tried to tickle him to passivity with a hair of the dog.
Cal Dotson came in after a half hour and called out when he saw Terry. “Hoah, the man of the hour.” He beamed like Terry’d just made him a grandfather as he crossed the dark void between them and sat on the adjoining stool. Cal clapped Terry hard on the shoulder and then smacked the bar with equal enthusiasm. “Bartender, do not accept a
1dime from my friend here. Everything he wants tonight is on me. In fact-- “ Cal looked around and counted the patrons up to two, “--next round is on me.”
The bartender grunted and the other two drinkers said, “Fuck you” in unison. The drinks were poured and didn’t have to wait long to be picked up. Cal smiled at each of his benefactees and ignored their sour expressions while he explained the reason they were celebrating.
“My friend here is a published author as of three days ago.” Nobody cared, but Cal continued. “And like all great authors, he confronts the establishment in his time and lives in mortal danger of its wrath, all the while sowing seeds of immortality in the hearts and minds of all those who read his words.” He drained his Bud and signaled for another before the empty glass was on the bar. “His ideas, once released, can never be called back or quieted. They sally forth and do not return void.”
The bartender poured himself a drink too, slammed it, and then said. “The fuck you going on about?”
Cal made as if he were sizing up the bartender and the clientele, then placed his hand upon Terry’s shoulder. “You look, to me, like gentlemen of the world and as such it may warm your hearts to hear that Terry here fucked the sheriff’s daughter.” Indeed, there was a mumbled appreciation of this claim.
“And furthermore, my colleagues of discriminating taste, he chronicled the event.” Terry felt his balls tingle, as Cal’s story was just now cutting through the alcoholic fog that gripped his mind. “Then he published the story in High Society magazine.”
The bartender raised his eyebrows.
“It’s electric out there.” Cal gestured toward the outside world. “Everybody’s talking about it. Blaylock’s is sold out and they’re disappearing from all the liquor stores in a fifty mile radius. You my friend, my hero, must take precaution. Please finish your refreshments and then go underground. Follow the drinking gourd and trust no one till they talk funny.”
Ah, thought Te
rry. Now it makes sense. He began to giggle uncontrollably. The thought of Sheriff Mondale finding the published account of his wild kid’s kinky habits in the hands of every deadbeat loser in town made him happy. Cal joined him and after an interval, even the bartender smiled and poured another round.
After a few minutes, the wisdom of Cal’s advice also crept in. The police had already been to his house. They were probably looking for him now. Mondale was going to nail his ass. He needed to create some distance between himself and Johnny law. Suddenly panicked, he turned to Cal. “You got any cash for me?”
Cal shook his head. “But such as I have I give unto thee.” He took a set of keys out of his pocket and placed them on the bar. Take care of her, amigo and bring her back soon, but go now. Be smart.”
Terry slapped the keys off the bar and clapped his friend on the back. Cal was right. He hadn’t thought this through that well. He really should take off for a spell. Wendell would be fine on his own for a few days. Probably have the time of his life, maybe even ditch his virginity.
He found Cal’s pickup outside and stepped into the cab. He was dimly aware of eyes on him – the famous outlaw who’d defiled the sheriff’s little girl. He was still woozy and decided to skip taking a bow. The engine started right up and he was shifting into reverse when he heard the hood smashed. Startled, he looked into the cold dead eyes of justice.
Sheriff Mondale’s fist left a ham-sized dent in Cal’s truck. Terry looked around and saw that they, indeed, had an audience. The Gulch emptied as well as the grocery on the corner. The clerks had abandoned their posts and stood with their faces smashed against the glass storefront to see him die. Traffic stopped going both directions and the whole thing played half speed.
Cal stood there, in the doorway, guiltily nursing his beer while his best friend was about to die. The sheriff walked around the front of the truck while Terry sat still and dumb. When Mondale got to the door, Terry pushed the lock down. Mondale reached in the open window and pulled up on the mechanism. Terry slapped it back down and started rolling up the window. Mondale just pulled the glass completely out and it shattered on the pavement.
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