The Straitjacket Waltz

By Glynn Thompson

A dark humor pervades the story as Thompson's cast of characters struggle to find a place, their place, without compromising themselves. This position on compromise makes it impossible for them to master the steps of the order's waltz. The characters efforts to create their own waltz steps are, at times, magnificently insane; wonderfully hilarious. At other times, they fail miserably and pay heavily for it. The book explores how fragile the mainstays of a culture become for individuals who seriously challenge their validity. Religion, often to the detriment of spirituality, requires a Leap of Faith to get beyond reason. Some can't make that required Leap of Faith. They are unable to ignore the absurdity of dogma. The characters call out the contradictions and hypocrisies while demonstrating a will to define their own meaning and purpose. Politics, the social order, family, everything is scrutinized by the thoroughly engaging characters in Thompson's book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543967876

Book preview

Left.

Chapter One

A Tromper’s Life

December, 1970, 9:00 a.m.

A fiendish awareness clubbed me awake. Vicious blows to the head. The gut. Unrelenting. I rolled onto my side. Groaned for mercy. The mugging continued. I was drenched in icy sweat. Began to choke.

Sit up.

Sit up or throw up.

Gripped the top bunk rail. Pulled. Stifled a heave. Waited for another convulsion to pass. Forced my eyelids apart. Sandblasted eyeballs aimlessly wandered a shimmering room filled with shimmering, murky objects.

Homer.

On the floor. Arms extended. Tightly locked legs straight out. Superman frozen in flight. Fallen belly down to earth. I shuddered.

Hot.

Motherfucking hot.

Opened my coat. Tugged at my clothing.

Wet.

Soaking wet.

Crawled over Homer’s legs to the heater. Turned it down. Climbed the wall. Waited for my legs to stop shaking. Struggled out of the coat. Removed a flannel shirt. A sweatshirt. A tee shirt, each peeled layer adding to the dead leaves, dried twigs, and dirt on the floor. Went to the kitchen. Filled a beer can with water. Drained it. Snatched a deformed piece of bread from the table. Stepped outside into a gray overcast. Left the door open to air the room.

The landlord’s dump lay hidden beneath a soft, white blanket. I lit a cigarette. Leaned against the shed. Listened to Homer stumbling around inside. Pissing. Running tap water.

He joined me. Handed me my coat. Tied his bandanna in place. Pirate-style. Patted the back of his head.

Fucking cold, he said. Lit a cigarette off mine. Nodded toward his truck. Must have used your truck last night.

I’ll go looking for it later. Hacked. Dribbled something foul onto the snow. Checked my pockets. Shit. I left the key in it. Where the fuck did we end up last night?

Here.

We coughed and gagged our way through the cigarettes. Went back inside. Homer fell onto a pile of dirty flannel shirts, jeans, long johns, and heavy socks piled in the corner.

I fanned the door. Smells like a corpse in here. The heater’s jets alternately extinguished in the breeze. Popped loudly when reignited by an adjoining jet. The sheet over the window rippled stiffly. I shut the door. Returned to the bunk.

We sat, hurting, quietly smoking one cigarette after another. A thin, slowly undulating line of smoke formed. Expanded. Filled the room.

Homer coughed. I’m sorry I got us fired.

We weren’t fired. We quit. Kind of.

Homer stretched out. Wasn’t thinking.

Stop worrying about it. This snow’s put an end to the season anyway. Besides, there’s better jobs in hell.

No doubt.

Tromping cotton was worse than filling sandbags. Trompers busted ass inside a tall, flimsy, open-top, wire cage pulled down rows of cotton by a tractor equipped with a cotton stripping machine. The stripper fed an auger that blasted the cotton into the center of the trailer. We had to scatter the cotton with a pitchfork while running in circles to pack it tight. From sunrise to sunset, trailer after trailer, we were pelted with a dense, high velocity stream of cotton hulls, twigs, leaves, and dirt. The crap would find its way under our clothes, mix with sweat, then churn into a gritty mud that worked our skin like sandpaper. Every crack and crevice of our bodies had festered after the first week. The bandannas and cheapass goggles were useless – every morning our noses, throats, and eyes would fill with a burning, sandy paste before the first row was completed.

But if it weren’t for tromping I wouldn’t have met Homer. He’d left Oklahoma for California back in September. His plan was to swing through Juarez on his way west, but his truck crapped out in Lubbock. Fixing it had busted him flat. Like me, he ended up loitering around the Texas Employment Commission looking for work. This stocky, bearded guy had come up to us. Oil stained coveralls. Sleeveless blue jean jacket. Told us he could get us on as cotton trompers for a guy named Deacon. Paid sixty-five cents an hour. Cash under the table daily. The Commission didn’t have squat, so we’d jumped on it.

Homer and I hit it off from day one. We started taking turns driving to the cotton fields Deacon was contracted to harvest. When I figured out Homer was living in his truck I invited him to move in with me.

Things had started looking up for the both of us. My overall mental state improved just for having somebody to get drunk or high with every night. Somebody to hash out the big plan with. Hash out our futures, mine at Texas Tech seeking some kind of enlightenment, his in California exercising the freedom to pursue freedom for freedom’s sake. Ten weeks of discussion had brought us to an almost irrefutable conclusion – the ultimate success of our individual endeavors were well within the realm of possibility given their innately spiritual essence and the strength of our commitment. Our lives, we’d decided, were back on track. All we lacked, for now, were sweet, loving, female companions to share our pursuits. Loving, ravenously beautiful, female companions. Lustful. Wanton. They, like enlightenment and California, were equally within the realm of possibility.

Then things went to shit.

For the ten weeks we’d worked for Deacon we’d never missed a day. For some dumbass reason we thought that meant something. Like maybe Deacon thought we were special or that he actually appreciated our being model employees no matter how hung over we were. I guess that’s why we were both caught off guard when Deacon wouldn’t give Homer some time off to go to his grandfather’s funeral in Oklahoma. Then, at dusk, Deacon claimed the trailers had weighed in short all day. Everybody was going to be docked two hours pay. The Mexicans and Blacks rolled with it. Acted like they were used to that kind of shit. I’d cussed all the way back to the truck. Homer continued on up the turn row where we’d parked. He’d stopped at a bulging trailer still hooked to a tractor.

Removed a GI gas can from the tractor. Climbed onto the cotton. Poured the gas all over the heap. Slid down. Held his Zippo to some dried leaves in a corner of the trailer. Headed to the truck once the kindling caught. The gas soaked cotton lit off with a soft whoosh. We made a deliberately unhurried departure past lines of cheering, honking, waving trompers. It’d felt like being in a movie where, in the last frame, the underdog spits square in tyranny’s face. When we got back to town we proceeded to drink ourselves comatose.

I cleared my throat. Guess you can go to Oklahoma now.

Not going. Spent everything I had last night. I’m right back where I was in September.

I checked my wallet. Fuck me. Threw the wallet across the room. Listen…I’ve got eighty dollars stashed in my sea bag at Chad’s and he owes me some money. Let me ride along and I’ll pay for the gas.

No. That’s your school money.

The trip would do me good. Give me a chance to clear my head. Regear. You’d be doing me a favor, getting up from the bunk. I’m going to Chad’s.

I’ll pay you back.

It’s not a loan. I don’t loan money to friends. If it makes you feel better, find my truck while I’m at Chad’s and we’ll call it even. It’s probably parked outside one of the bars on University.

I pulled my gloves on. Headed up Ninth into a stiff, bitterly cold wind. Long, swishing, powdery snow lines snaked over the frozen street. Hunkered my shoulders to protect as much of my face as I could against the biting gusts. Hurried past a three-foot snow erection rising above a set of massive testicles. Passed by a tit-packed yard.

X-rated snow sculptures were a student ghetto tradition of sorts. In high school a bunch of us would pile into a car after a good snow. Drive to the student slums bordering Texas Tech’s east end. Cruise the area checking out the quadruple D breasts, spread-eagled nudes, and copulating couples twisted into every position a sexually frustrated college student could imagine. The monuments didn’t last long. Squads of frothing, shrieking, Bible quoting Jesus freaks would overrun the neighborhood performing frenzied breast reductions. Jack booting the fornicating snow lovers to hell.

I spotted two bundled figures on the other side of the street. One poised like a racingskater. Folded at the waist. Hands clasped behind. The other pushed the skater over a veneer of ice hidden under the snow. The pair passed a set of boobs without stopping to bash them into prepubescence.

Fellow heathens.

The skater suddenly lunged forward. Crashed to the ground, done in by one of the student ghetto’s geologic features — the convulsing, uplifted sidewalk.

Fifty years of weathering combined with the root systems of trees planted by the neighborhood’s original, affluent occupants had created a network of concrete outcrops. Some jutted four inches into the air. Six continuous feet of level sidewalk was a rarity. Time and the elements had eroded other sections to dirt paths.

The ghetto’s streets, red bricks laid down during the Depression, weren’t much safer than the sidewalks. Not a single brick’s surface shared the same plane. It was brick anarchy. Fissures and potholes were epidemic. Each one steadily growing deeper, wider, gradually inching towards each other. The Baptists saw it as part of a Divine plan to create one great abyss into which the Godless student ghetto would someday disappear. By their way of thinking, a fitting, catastrophic end equaling the annihilation of Sodom and Gomorrah.

I made it to Chad’s, shivering so hard I could barely keep my footing. Tapped on the door pane. Chad. Let me in.

Heard footsteps inside. Listened for the dead bolt’s metallic clink. Long seconds. No clink. Rapped harder. Chad. I’m freezing.

Silence.

C’mon, Chad, pounding on the door. Open up. I know you’re in there. Your car’s here.

The curtain in the door’s window lifted slightly. I caught a glimpse of Chad’s face. The cloth dropped.

I kicked the door. Goddamnit, Chad!

A weak Come back later, from inside.

He’s got somebody with him.

Tell her I’ll shut my eyes, I shouted. I’m dying out— breaking into a set of dry heaves.

Give me a minute, Chad.

I listened to him pleading with someone.

No, a female’s voice. Not until he’s gone.

It’s no big deal, Chad.

I don’t care, she hissed. Make him leave.

She don’t care?

I shoulder slammed the doorframe. The shed trembled. You better fucking care! Hear me? You better fucking care! followed by more slams. Snow avalanched from the steeply angled roof. The curtain jerked back. Chad appeared in the window, tanned, bony chest as puffed as he could puff it. Face a masterpiece of rage. He looked like a rabid capon.

Watch your language, he squawked. Let the curtain go.

You piece of— cut short by another wave of dry heaves. Three minutes, I panted.

If you don’t open this door in three minutes I’m dismantling your fucking car.

How will you know when three minutes are up? Chad. You don’t have a watch.

Yeah, and I sold it to pay for your penicillin shots. Hear that bitch? pummeling the doorframe like a boxer striking a punching bag.

Shots? the female.

Talk your way out of that one, fuckwad.

Three minutes! falling back against the shed.

The back door of the large house up front flew open. A naked, hairy, solidly built man stepped out onto a small porch.

What’s your fuckin’ problem? the ape shouted. Get in here. You’re gonna freeze your ass off or them goat ropers next door’re gonna kick the shit out’a ya. Stepped back inside. The voice was sluggish. Sloppy. He’d left the door wide open for me.

I gave Chad’s door a final punch. Three fuckin’ minutes. Hurried across the yard.

I entered a kitchen larger than me and Homer’s shanty. Drained wine and liquor bottles everywhere. Beer cans. Plastic cups. A keg floated in a tub of soupy water and disintegrating cigarette butts. The hairy guy had put on a pair of stiff, oil-stained jeans and a sleeveless, olive drab tee shirt no less greasy than the pants. The Doors played from somewhere in the house. He motioned for me to join him at a bulky, wooden dining room table. He brushed away a few rolling papers. Picked up a roach clip and a baggy.

Still trompin’? he asked.

How would you know about that? shaking violently.

B’cause ya smell like ass and you’re covered in lint and crap, man. Don’t even remember me, do ya? Back in September? Deacon? rolling a joint.

I looked him over. Built like a caveman. Brown-skinned. Rugged face. Close-cropped, black beard. Short, rumpled hair entering the early stages of balding. Eyes two black dots drowning in bloody pools.

You’re the guy from the Texas Employment Commission, I said.

He slapped the table hard. I jumped.

That’s right! he shouted. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. Shittin’ job’s ever’thing I told ya it’d be, ain’t it? Lot’a easy money. Horny women. Chance ta travel all over West Texas.

Beat starving. I guess.

Yeah. Gotta eat, man. Lit the joint. Took a hit. Held it in. Jerry. Jerry Chaff, but my friends call me Jerry, exhaling. Coughed. Get it? It’s a fuckin’ joke, man. My name’s Jerry, but my friends call me Jerry? Now ya get it? brows high.

I get it.

He offered me the joint. I removed a glove. I’m Gil. Took a deep hit. Returned the joint.

He squinted. What’s that?

Gil. My name’s Gil McNeil.

Oh, yeah. Jerry. Jerry Chaff. Glad ta meet ya.

Jesus.

Jerry took a long, deep draw. Held it. Bled his lungs. Hate ta run out’a this shit, man. This...this is exceptional. Squinted again. You spell your name with one L or two? Ya see I knew this guy once that spelled it with one L and he was queer as hell. Not that bein’ queer matters ta me. I don’t care about that shit. I’m liberal about that kind’a thing. That and weed. And Jews. Can’t hate Jews t’day for what their great-great-great-great-great-grandpas went and done. Ever’body makes mistakes, man. Ain’t nobody perfect. Except Jesus. Jesus was perfect. Rednecks’re the only thing I ain’t liberal about. Rednecks’re fuuucked up, man. Like them sons a bitchin’ chicken fuckers next door, jerking a thumb toward the brick house across the drive. Turds called the cops last night after my cousin tossed a grenade inta their fuckin’ party. Not a real grenade! A trainin’ grenade, but shiiit. No sense’a humor. Now I ain’t got no more trainin’ grenades ta dick with. Know what I mean? I mean, what’re ya gonna do with a live one? Blow somebody up? Gettin’ a laugh ain’t worth goin’ ta jail for. Took a hit out of turn. Handed me the joint.

I took a quick hit intending to back it up, but he’d reached for it the instant the joint cleared my lips.

A large American flag covered the window by the table. I lifted a corner. Peered outside.

Sounded like ya got a beef with ol’ Chad, he said.

Yeah. The douche bag.

What happen, man? Rip ya off on a lid?

Nah. He’s just a squirrely little douche bag.

Jerry turned serious. Chad’s my best friend. Saved my life overseas. Glared at me for a few seconds. Suddenly raised his brows to the limit. Smacked the table again. I’m only messin’ with ya, man! Lowered his voice. Only messin’ with ya. You ain’t the only one wantin’ ta kick his ass. Last year he got pounded on by a bunch’a high school kids for sellin’ ’em cut grass. He porkin’ your ol’ lady in there?

Nah. Have to get something from him.

You buy his stereo?

I dropped the flag. Stared at him.

Nice rig, he said. He’s wantin’ way too much, though. Chad told me he was sellin’ it so he can help a friend’a his get a wheelchair. Said the guy lost both his legs in ’nam.

Goddamnit!

The utility door scraped open. I lifted my corner of the flag. Jerry lifted his corner. Chad stepped outside, poised for a quick retreat. He was wearing a brown, suede sports coat. Pressed, tan slacks. White dress shirt, top button undone. Paisley tie draped about his neck. Fashionably long hair. Lightly bleached. Styled. Sunlamp tan. He could’ve passed for a male my-shit-don’t-stink magazine model.

He hurried his slut to the car. She was a lanky, platinum blond. Ski pants. Knee-high moccasins. Furry, white jacket stopping at a wisp of a waist. Not as classy as what I was used to seeing Chad with. More like something I’d spend a fortune on at a bar then drag home to have her fake passing out on me. She held the jacket collar against her face. Quick snips of frozen breath dotted the air. She paced back and forth while Chad cleared ice from the door lock. I watched her long, wavy hair tickle a tight little butt hinting at a jiggle with each tramping step.

Shiiit, Jerry, his breath fogging the glass. No panty line, wiping the haze away. I would’a give good money ta been his pecker last night. Know what I mean?

Chad pulled the door open. She disappeared into the car.

How’s he do it? I muttered. What’s he got that makes him such a cuntsman?

Other than a sports car, slick clothes, money, and grass? A stereo system? It’s a real mystery, ain’t it?

Yeah, but look at him. He’s no Robert Redford or Clint Eastwood.

Maybe he’s hung like a bull elephant.

Nah. It’s not that.

Oh, yeah? How would ya know that? Oh, fuck. You ain’t his lov—

He’s my brother.

No shit? brows high.

No shit.

I wouldn’t be tellin’ ever’body that. Short shanks is inherited. Ya tell ever’body about your bubba’s teeny wienie and ya might as well be tellin’ ever’body you—

And that’s my stereo system. And it’s not for sale. I left it with him because his place has a lock.

Fuuuck. I should’a known he was lyin’ about that wheelchair. Can you b’lieve that? Who would’a ever thought somebody’d lie about somethin’ like that? It ain’t in me ta think that evil. I’m forever gettin’ jammed up by assholes for that very same reason, man. Gave me the roach clip. Startled me again with a sudden Hey! followed immediately by a hushed, Feelin’ better now?

I took a hit. Yeah. Much better. Thanks.

I could hear Chad wildly scraping at the windshield.

Have to go, as I stood up. Have to catch him before he leaves. I’m gonna kill his fucking ass.

Kill your own brother over a damn stereo? I don’t mean ta be takin’ sides or shit, but that seems a little jacked. It’s only a fuckin’ stereo, man. But that’s none’a my business, taking the clip from me. Listen. There’s this big party at Sixth and X t’night. I’m invitin’ ya. That’s if ya ain’t in jail for murder.

Have to pass. Leaving for Oklahoma this afternoon.

Drivin’ ta Oklahoma in this kind’a weather?

Funeral.

A relative?

A friend’s grandfather. You got him on at Deacon’s the same day you got me on.

That big Mexican?

He’s not Mexican. He’s some kind of Oklahoma Indian. Cherokee I think.

He stroked his chin. Seems I remember him tellin’ me he was in the Marines.

Yeah. Discharged around a year ago.

And you was a squid.

A sailor.

Yeah. Whatever.

I hurried outside. Made my way around the corner of the house. Did you pay that slut with the money you owe me? I shouted.

Fuck you, a squeaky voice from inside the car.

Chad scrambled to put the car between us. Happy now? he screeched. Now that you have completely humiliated my date?

Bite me, Chad. Stay right where you are, dumbass, walking around the car. Got in his face. How much were you trying to sell my fucking stereo for?

Sell it? What in God’s name are you talking about?

You sorry piece of shit. If my stereo ever shows up missing you’re, signing your goddamn car over to me. Understand?

He looked away.

Understand? I shouted.

I understand, but I don’t know what—

I need the ninety dollars you owe me.

Ninety dollars? he whined. That won’t leave me anything. I don’t get another check from home until next week.

Pay him! the slut. I’m freezin’.

I put my hand out. Ninety. Now.

He pulled a wallet from his coat pocket. Removed two twenty dollar bills. This is all I’ve got. I swear.

I jerked the bills from his hand. It’ll do for now.

I’ll think twice before ever asking you for anything again. I mean it. Never again. You don’t care one bit about the bind this will put me in do you?

No. Give me the key to the house. I need my sea bag.

Why?

Why? Because it’s mine, jerkoff! Give me the key.

It’s unlocked.

Jesus Christ, Chad! Do you really think I’m stupid enough to believe you wouldn’t lock up your stash? Give me the key.

It’s unlocked. Honest. I wasn’t going to be gone that long.

I poked him in the chest. Don’t move. Not until I’m inside. Headed for the shed. I gave the doorknob a twist. Pushed. The dead bolt hung tight. I pumped the door. Faster. Harder. The door pane rattled in its caulkless frame. Chad’s Healy roared. I spun around. Too late. He’d made his break.

Fuck me.

The life drained out of me. I surrendered. Collapsed onto the snow. Lapsed into a freezing, thoughtless cloud.

I heard crunching steps approaching. Looked up.

Christ.

It’s the nut case.

You’re a pure pain in the ass, man, Jerry slurred.

He had a beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette burning in the other.

A pure pain in the ass, he repeated. Ya can’t seem ta decide how ta handle this, can ya? Flat ass stymied, hitting the bottle against the door pane. The pane shattered. He reached through the opening. Tripped the bolt. Problem solved. Plodded away.

Fuck me dead.

I took a deep breath. Struggled to my feet. Went inside. The smell of incense mixed with whorefume was damn near overpowering. I retrieved my sea bag from the closet. Emptied it onto the floor. Found a shoe stuffed in a sock to protect the spit shine. Shoved my fingers into the toe. Removed a small piece of paper.

IOU

Your loving brother, Chad

It took a few readings for it to sink in. When it did…something snapped. I began carrying every stitch of clothing he owned to the driveway where, load by load, I ground them into the muddy slush. Kicking. Grinding. Ranting. A guy in the house next door screamed at me from a second floor window. His torso filled the frame. Said he was going to rip my head off and shove it up my ass if I didn’t shut the hell up. A bottle crashed against the wall above him. The guy was drenched in a shower of beer and broken glass.

Ya want some shit, ya fuckin’ maggot! Jerry yelled.

The guy pulled back inside. Slammed the window shut. Yanked a shade down.

Jerry walked over to me. Keepin’ the peace around here’s gettin’ ta be a full-time job, he said. Ya oughta watch that temper’a yours, man. Especially after ya hit forty. Ya do this shit at forty and drink, and smoke, and do dope your heart’ll…BOOM! Heart chunks ever’where. Anyways, I heard ya talkin’ with Chad about your money situation. Does that friend’a yours need some cash ta get ta the funeral?

Nah. It’s covered. The problem right now is the stereo, walking over to the shed door.

Can’t leave it here with the glass broke out.

Jerry scratched his chest. Hell, I broke it, he mumbled. Seemed like a good idea at the time, mumbling lower. Oh, well. I’ll take care’a things for ya.

No thanks. You’ve done enough. I’ll have to risk keeping it at my place.

Ya don’t trust me? brows raised. It ain’t like ya don’t know where ta find me if I fuck ya over.

That’s true.

Move it inta my place, he said. I’ll keep it in my room. Even got a lock on my bedroom door since I don’t know ever’body showin’ up here for the parties my cousin throws. This ain’t your problem no more. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care’a the whole problem.

I thought it over while Jerry picked through Chad’s things. He’d hold something up, shake some of the mud off, wrinkle his nose, snort, then drop it.

You sure it’ll be okay? I asked.

What’d I say? Didn’t I say I’d take care of it? Ain’t that what I said? Damn. Help me get it moved. You got a funeral ta get to.

We transferred the stereo, some boxes of reel-to-reel tapes, and splicing gear to the kitchen.

Get this overseas? he asked.

Yeah. Base exchange. Lot cheaper than stateside.

That’s what I should’a done, man. Had ta leave in kind of a hurry though.

He kicked one of the boxes. What kind’a music ya got?

Little of everything.

He removed two tapes from the box. Read the labels. Ya gotta be shittin’ me, man. One Hundred and One Strings? Mantovani?

There’s some Stones, Zeppelin, Hendrix, and Dylan in there, defensively. Some country. Like I said…a little bit of everything.

Jerry snorted. I guess, returning the tapes to the box.

I’ll be over when I get back from Oklahoma, I told him. Two or three days at the most.

Take your time. I got it covered. I got it all figured out. The big picture, man.

I went back into Chad’s. Repacked my things. Found a pen. Scribbled a large You owe me $150, motherfucker on the wall above his bed. Slung the sea bag over my shoulder and stepped outside. Jerry was waiting for me.

Tell that buddy’a yours I was sorry ta hear about his grandpa, he said. Walked away.

When I got back to the house my pickup was parked behind Homer’s in the drive. Found Homer snoring on the bottom bunk, feet hanging over the end of the rack. Telegram on his chest:

GRANDFATHER PASSED STOP FUNERAL MONDAY STOP

I stripped. Showered. Carefully dabbed the abrasions around my waist dry. Scavenged for something clean to wear.

Everything stinks.

Put on the bare minimum. Searched for some coins. Didn’t find much.

Not enough for the machines and laundry soap.

Took the bar of soap from the shower. Cut it in half. Stuffed every piece of clothing in the house into Homer’s duffle bag. Hiked to the laundromat down the street.

Homer shook me awake.

Have any change for the Coke machine? he asked.

All I’ve got is two twenties, rising from the bench. Bill changer only takes dollar bills. Barely had enough change for the machines. Couldn’t afford laundry soap. Checked the dryer. The clothes were covered with fake hair. Shit.

Something wrong? Homer, looking over my shoulder. Oh.

Thought the coat would wash, I said.

He pulled it from the dryer. Try it on. Maybe that’ll help.

I slipped it on. Stood in front of a mirror by the detergent dispenser.

Mangy.

Flatass mangy.

Smells nicer, Homer. A little.

I shook what I could of the coat hair from the clothes. Began stuffing the duffel bag.

Chad gave me forty dollars of the money he owes me, sniffing a yellowing tee shirt.

Good enough.

The little bastard paid me from the eighty he stole from my sea bag.

Homer was checking under the machines for change. Did you beat the shit out of him?

Didn’t know he’d taken it until after he’d left, bouncing the sea bag on the floor.

Think we can do a round-trip to Oklahoma on forty dollars?

Not today. I’m so hungover I can’t see straight.

Let’s plan for an early start tomorrow. Weather’ll be better and it’ll give me a chance to find Chad. He’ll be pushing grass at a party somewhere in the neighborhood. Won’t take long to find a silver Austin-Healey. We’ll take whatever money he’s got on him.

Sounds good, giving up his search.

I closed the sea bag. Tossed it to Homer. Asked him where he’d found my truck.

Parking lot behind the End Zone, he told me. It’s acting up again. Kept dying on me.

Two young, sweet looking ladies carrying laundry bags walked by the front window. Homer checked his bandanna. I held the door for the ladies. I smiled big. They returned it. We headed for the house.

Got the impression the tall one wanted me, Homer. Got that ‘do me like a sweaty buffalo hunter’ kind of signal. You notice that?

Who could have missed it? Why didn’t you follow up?

Right. Ask her over for a romantic stale bread and tap water dinner. That’s a sure fire recipe for getting laid. Listen. Know what we should do? We should spend the afternoon sprucing the place up. If those ladies had worked up the nerve to ask us to plank them, would you really want to bring them to our place in the shape it’s in now? It’s a toilet. You should see Chad’s place. The devil could get a blowjob off a nun the way he’s got it set up. It oozes orgasm. That’s what we need to do. Turn our place into a snatch trap.

We could try, not overly enthused.

Serious as a heartbeat, Homer. Let’s clean it up. We could hit Buffalo Beano’s after we get back from Oklahoma. Spend some of what’s left on a few posters. Buy one of those tie-dyed bedspreads. Tack it to the overhead. Buy a padlock so I can set the stereo up. That’s why I got it in the first place. For mood music and parties.

At the house we assessed the damage. Discussed the challenges the kitchen and bathroom presented.

Maybe we should work on talking them into taking us to their place, Homer.

Yeah. Much better idea.

After Homer showered we treated ourselves to dinner at the IHOP. Hung around for another hour or more after eating. Lounging in a soft, clean booth. Stomachs full. Bodies warm. Drinking coffee. Smoking. Drifting.

Homer broke the silence. We need jobs.

I agreed. No low paying, shit job this time. Once school starts I can use the job locator service on campus. I’ll pull a few openings for you. They won’t know you’re not a student. With the GI Bill I’ll only need a part-time job. I’ll find you something more substantial. Ever considered going to college? The Bill’s almost like free money.

Might try college when I get to California.

California’s still the plan?

Yeah. Almost had enough to go. Fuck. How’d I go through a hundred last night? I must have been buying rounds for every son of a bitch in town.

I didn’t like talking about his leaving. Ready to head for the barn?

Homer slid from the booth.

It was almost six o’clock and already dark. Star clusters had begun to burn holes in the cloud cover. Homer pulled into the driveway. A party in the house up front was beginning to take shape. Janis Joplin belted the blues. Neither one of us bothered switching the light on in the utility. I climbed onto the top bunk. The Stones followed Janis.

When do you want to start looking for dipshit? I asked.

He removed his bandanna. Let’s wait a while, falling onto the bottom rack. Give him a chance to make a few sales.

I heard his Zippo clink open. A flint strike. Zippo clinking shut. Smell of tobacco smoke.

Loud banging woke me. Homer answered the door. A long haired kid, cigarette dangling from his lips, introduced himself.

You guys’re invited ta the party, he said. Held two beers out.

Homer, half asleep, took the beers. Turned to hand me one. The kid’s jaw dropped.

Fuck.

Homer caught him gawking at the back of his head.

We’ll be, uh, expectin’ ya, the kid stammered. Hurried away.

Acted like he’d never seen a Cherokee before, Homer muttered.

Probably hasn’t, sliding from the bunk. Not a real one up close, anyway. Let’s go Austin-Healy hunting. I know where to start.

He carefully tied his bandanna in place. Grabbed his coat.

We drove to Sixth and X. Cars were bumper to