They all freeze. A car drives past out front.
George hauls himself up and sticks his face in the window.
Andy is on the floor, half of the curtain draped over his legs.
– You OK?
Andy looks at him, a little blood on his lower lip from where his teeth sliced it when his face hit the floor.
– Yeah, thanks, fag.
– It wasn’t me, it was Paul.
Paul punches George in the back of his leg.
– Fuck off.
George kicks at him.
– Stop being a dick all the time for a change.
Hector heads for the glass door.
– If he’s OK, tell him to let us the fuck in.
George adjusts his grip, pulls himself up a little higher.
– You cool to let us in?
Andy is getting off the floor, looking at the hole in his shirt.
– I’ll be there in a sec.
Still inspecting the hole, he opens the bathroom door and Fernando is standing there and he punches Andy in the face and starts kicking him when he hits the floor while George screams and tries to claw his way through the window that’s far too small.
Things That Look Different but Are the Same
Geezer untwists the neck of the paper bag and looks inside.
There’s a word for this. The moment he sees the jewelry he knows there’s a word for what has happened and what will happen as a result.
– Un something.
Jeff blinks.
– What?
– An un word. Un something. When there’s just no fucking excuse whatsoever for it. The kind of thing you cut people’s eyes out for.
Jeff runs a hand down the length of his ponytail.
– Unconscionable?
Geezer looks up from the bag.
– That’s it. Unconscionable. That for which you cut some fucker’s eyes out.
He rubs his nose.
– Kids?
– Yeah. Teenagers anyway.
– The ones you got crawling around your trailer all the time?
– Yeah.
– One of them knows somebody or something. What’s the deal on that?
– One of them, he.
– One of them he, what?
Jeff looks at the bullfighter in black velvet hung over Geezer’s head.
– He was running Amy Whelan’s shit for a while.
Geezer upends the bag in his lap. He picks out an engagement ring he doesn’t remember being with the rest of the jewelry when he told the spics they could keep it.
Amy Whelan.
Could have swore she was clear on the concept. Went over there and made a point of showing her that Oakland holds this town, that as far as that’s concerned, he’s Oakland’s hand here. Showed her how the Oakland boys handle shit. Thought she was clear. Should have known better. Doesn’t matter how together a person seems, how well they got their priorities in line, they start seeing drug money roll across their table and they get greedy and stupid. The two being pretty fucking much…fuck.
– The word?
Jeff shifts from foot to foot.
– The word?
– When two things mean the same thing? Two words got the same meaning. Not when they’re spelled the same but mean different things, the opposite of that.
– Synonymous.
Geezer rubs at the small stone in the engagement ring.
– That’s it. Synonymous. When two things look different, but they’re the same.
Greed and stupidity. Synonymous. Amy Whelan’s done gone and got greedy. Got stupid. Got some kids involved in his shit. Fucking up shit for everyone. Upsetting his personal applecart, creating friction with Oakland, interfering with supply and demand. The supply of cash that Oakland demands for staying out of his ass.
Unconscionable bitch.
– Where they now?
– My place.
– This all they got?
– One of the guys, this kid Paul, the big one who’s over there the most, he said he might have something else.
Geezer runs his palm over the slick nylon of his shiny gold sweat suit.
– More jewelry?
– No. I don’t think so.
– Guns? He pick up a couple pieces somewhere?
– Maybe. Sounds more like he got his hands on someone’s stash. A bag of coke or something.
Geezer wraps his fingers around the handle of his grabber, squeezing, making the plastic claw at the end of the aluminum pole into a fist.
– Yeah. Coke. Crank, maybe?
– Um, I don’t. You know, that’s your thing, man. I don’t know where they’d get crank that didn’t come from you.
– Said one of ’em works for Amy Whelan?
– Used to.
– So maybe she wants to get some new business going?
– I don’t think so, man. I mean, everyone knows that’s your deal. No one’s gonna mess with you, Geez.
– Sure. Of course. Kid got his hands on a couple eight balls, wants to move one of them.
– Yeah, probably.
– OK, look into that.
Geezer scoops the jewelry out of his lap and back into the bag and sets it next to him on the black leather couch.
– How much they want?
Jeff looks at the bullfighter again, looks at the gilded plaster sconces that bracket it dripping plastic grapes.
He shrugs.
– Shit, Geez, they’re kids, you know? They’ll take whatever you give and be happy with it.
Geezer smiles, leans back, the couch creaks as his fat rearranges.
– And you, you gonna be happy with whatever you can get?
– I’m just doin’ them a solid. Shit ain’t mine, they just brought it to me.
Geezer looks him over.
Loser. Guy should have it stapled to his head. Stapled to his head. Could you do that? Probably not with a regular stapler. A contractor’s stapler, a big industrial one that would go in the bone, the kind they use to staple into concrete and shit. Use one of those, you could staple a dead cat to a guy’s head and it’d stick. Or a live cat. Or a weasel. Staple a live weasel by its tail and watch and see what it does. Or one of them…long and wormy…like a weasel, but?
– Like a weasel, but different?
– Um.
– Long and skinny and furry, a rodent, but it hunts other rodents.
– A ferret.
Geezer closes his eyes and laughs.
– Yeah. That’s it. Ferret. A ferret by the tail. That’d be something.
He laughs until he coughs.
Jeff takes a step closer.
– You OK?
Geezer waves him off. Choking, he reaches over his stomach for the glass of juice on the coffee table, squeezing the grabber’s handle, the claw closing around the glass.
He brings it close, removes the glass from the claw and takes a sip.
– Pluck your eye out with this thing. Best five bucks I ever spent.
He puts the grabber back in its place.
– So, you’re just selling the shit for them, getting nothing out of it?
– Well, I get, you know, twenty percent. A couple bucks. Who can’t use a few bucks?
Geezer nods, runs his fingertip around the Looney Tunes characters enameled on the side of the glass he got from Burger King. This loser. Had some moves back when. Now look at him. Security guard. Good for opening a lock and turning his back every now and then. Good for giving the Seville a tune up and detailing the mags. That’s it. Should have cut him loose years ago. What you get for being sentimental, you get dead weight like Jeff Loller on your back.
Still, Amy Whelan’s punks trust him.
He rolls his bulk forward, reaches between the black leather sofa cushions and pulls out a thick roll of bills.
– Two hundred.
Jeff wraps his arms around his torso, the cold air blasted into the trailer by the swamp cooler starting to raise gooseflesh.
– Two. Um.
– That’s not what you were looking for? For the kids who’ll take anything?
Jeff shakes his head.
Geezer snaps the rubber band off the cash.
– It’s too much, right? I know it’s too much. Don’t go spastic because it’s too much, Loller.
He pats the bag.
– This is good stuff. These kids, they might be good little thieves. I want to overpay a little, give them a little career encouragement. You take your twenty percent and forget ripping off whatever you were going to rip off. I want them to like me. Right?
– Hey, I wasn’t gonna rip anybody.
– Really, who gives a fuck? Just don’t do it. OK?
– Yeah, but I wasn’t even thinking.
– Jeff, I’m not gonna apologize for saying the truth. Drop it.
– OK. OK.
– Two hundred?
– Yeah. Of course, man.
Geezer grunts and holds out the empty juice glass. Jeff takes it and puts it on the coffee table next to the lily pad shaped ashtray with the ceramic frogs waiting to hold a cigarette for you. Geezer licks his thumb and starts peeling twenties from the roll.
– Here we go. Come and get it.
Jeff takes the money and puts it in his pocket.
Geezer shoves his bankroll back in the couch.
– And see if maybe they want to do something for me.
– Like what?
– Steal some more shit. I know a place. Here, let me write this down.
– Sure, but I should split. Gotta get to work.
Geezer uses the grabber to pluck a notebook from the coffee table, brings it to his lap and scribbles, passes Jeff a scrap of paper clutched in the claw.
– Split. Have fun.
Jeff turns the knob, starts to open the door.
– And, Jeff?
Jeff stops.
– Yeah?
Geezer leans forward.
– You know where a guy would get a stapler? A big one?
Paul comes back into the trailer and finds Andy sprawled on the floor.
George is leaning Jeff’s cabinet speakers together to form an A frame above Andy’s face.
He looks at Paul.
– What’d you have to talk to him about?
Paul squats next to Hector, looking through Jeff’s albums, looking for the perfect one.
– Seein’ if the truck needed a push to get started.
Hector pulls Van Halen Van Halen from the stack.
Paul shakes his head and pulls out Number of the Beast.
Hector rolls his eyes.
– Shit may as well be pop.
– Fuck you, Maiden rocks.
– Rocks your grandma.
George leans between them.
– I don’t know what you guys are fucking around for. There’s only one way to do this.
He grabs an album and slides it from its sleeve.
Hector stands up.
– All this shit is tired anyway. It’s like Day on the Green Greatest Hits or some shit.
George puts the album on the turntable.
– Fuck you, you like going to Day on the Green as much as anyone.
– I like going and getting fucked up and checking out the chicks, but the music is dinosaur rock. Beat and tired.
Paul puts an elbow in his ribs and heads for the fridge.
– Metallica is not beat.
Hector jumps on his back.
– One decent fucking band! A whole day of tired music and one decent headbanger in the whole lineup.
Paul crashes into the sink and falls to the floor with Hector clinging to him, the two of them wrestling on the linoleum.
– You’re dead, fag.
He goes after Hector’s hair, Hector slapping at his hands.
– Not the hawk, not the hawk, man! That’s not cool!
Paul is rubbing his hand over Hector’s head, demolishing the hawk.
– Gonna scalp you this time. You wanna look like a injun, you can die like one.
George turns away from the spectacle and kneels next to his brother and offers him a chromium blue sneak a toke made out of spun aluminum.
– Here.
Andy takes the bomb shaped pipe and sucks a hit out of it and hands it back to his brother.
– Thanks.
George turns to look in the kitchen as the garbage can is kicked over and empty beer cans spray across the floor.
He looks at the pipe in his hand and then at his genius brother.
– What the fuck are you doing here, Andy?
Andy is staring up into the angle where the speakers meet, thinking about Pythagoras. The sum of the three angles will be equal to two right angles. That’s a fact. He focuses on trying to generate an accurate measurement of the angles by applying his estimations to the formula.
He has cottonmouth and sucks the back of his tongue to try and create some moisture.
– Hangin’. You want me to leave?
– No, man, I just. I mean, why aren’t you doing something else?
George blows smoke at his two best friends rolling around in the mess of cans and cigarette butts and fast food bags.
– We got nothing better to do. You could be doing shit. You could be studying for the SAT. You could be working on science fair shit. You could be making one of your dungeons. Something, you know, creative or something.
Andy’s looking for the trap. Is George being serious? If he answers him, will he grab his hair and call him a fag?
If the triangle made by the speakers and the floor had a right angle he could apply Pythagoras’ Theorem and show that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. No one could argue that it is not.
– You guys are my friends.
George is looking at the floor now, his eyes hidden by the fall of his hair.
– You have other friends, man. You could be off playing Dungeons amp; Dragons with them. Not getting into trouble. Not burning up brain cells. You’re going to college, man, you got better things to do.
Andy blinks.
College. What’s so great about college? Everyone makes a big deal out of it. All college really means is going someplace and being all alone. Pythagoras was head of a secret society, he believed that at its deepest level, reality is mathematical. The inner circle of his followers were the Mathematikoi. They shared his beliefs.
– My other friends don’t understand me.
George laughs.
Andy closes his eyes. Here comes his ration of shit.
George reaches for the stereo.
– Little brother, if you’re hanging with us because you think we understand you, you are in the wrong place.
He flips the needle down and it hits the groove and “Children of the Grave” blasts Andy’s face in perfect stereo.
He opens his eyes and watches his brother get up and kick Paul and Hector apart long enough to be able to get a beer out of the fridge.
He smiles and listens to the music, his favorite Sabbath song, the one his brother picked out for him.
Manners Worth Gold
Jeff angles the pickup into its spot between the 240Z and the Beetle that he hopes will be running someday. He kills the engine, keeping his fingers crossed, and the engine cuts without giving the particular shudder and groan that means it won’t go anywhere else for the rest of the day. Thank God for that. Late enough for work now that the bus is no longer an option. The truck is gonna have to get him there.
He listens to the sound of top volume Black Sabbath coming from inside his place. It’ll be par for the course if they’ve sucked down all his brews. He thinks about peeling a twenty from the money Geezer gave him. Just to cover the cost of the beers those punks drank. He gets as far as sticking his hand in his pocket, and then pulls it out.
Better not. Geezer ends up meeting the kids, someone might say something about how much money they got. He wants them to have two bills, it be
tter be two bills. And he’ll still come out of it with forty. So that’s cool.
He walks around the 240Z, running his hand across a primered patch of Bondo. He remembers when he and Bob used buckets of the stuff to fill in the dents and creases on a ’53 Ford Crestline they’d fixed up in high school. Man, they’d just about shoveled it onto that car. Sucker made some time, though. So did they. Lots of chicks took a ride in the back seat of that jalopy.
It was the right thing, not saying anything to Geezer about George and Andy being Bob’s kids. Would have just queered the deal and they’d have been out the cash. Bad enough Amy’s name came up.
He steps up on the porch, wondering if she really is dealing crank these days, pulls open the door of his trailer, and looks at the mess in the kitchen and the stoned kids scattered on the carpet.
– Fucking A.
Paul points at Hector.
– He did it.
Hector throws a beer can at him.
– Faggot.
Paul goes for him, but Jeff gets him by the scruff and trips him.
– Enough. Cool it. Don’t care who did what, let’s see some asses cleaning this shit up.
Andy gets up, moving around the trailer with the garbage bag, picking up the mess he had nothing to do with making.
Jeff points at the blaring stereo.
– And turn that down for a second. We got business.
George twists the volume down to nothing.
– What’s the word?
Jeff has his head in the fridge.
– The word is I told you punks to leave me a couple beers.
Paul points at Hector.
– He did it.
Hector throws a beer can at him.
– Faggot.
Jeff stands with his hands on his hips.
– What the fuck are you guys on anyway?
Paul looks at George.
– What’s it called?
– Phenobarbital.
Jeff’s eyebrows go up.
– No shit? You get it from your aunt?
– Boosted it.
– Give me a couple.
George takes a pill from his pocket and tosses it to Jeff.
The Shotgun Rule Page 9