Bad Chili by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

and we left.
12
    When we got back to Leonard’s house we drank some coffee and chatted a bit, but it wasn’t a lively sort of chat.
    After a while, I took a hint, told Leonard I was going home, and I’d call him the next day. He almost helped me to the door. He stood on the porch as I was getting in my pickup.
    “Hap,” he said, “ain’t no one I’d rather have around than you. But sometimes I don’t want no one around.”
    “I understand.”
    “This is one of those times.”
    “No problem.”
     
    I drove home, wheeled by Leonard’s old house, the one down the road from me, gave it a longing once-over. It was boarded up and graying, and the old television antenna shooting up the side of the house, spreading out on top of the roof, had been ravaged by wind. It looked like some kind of giant alien hand gone to rot, leaving only bones. Paint flaked like psoriasis off the porch and the front door. The grass was tall and nodding in the wind.
    I wished Leonard would move away from his uncle’s house and come home. The place wasn’t much, but I liked him down the road from me. We had had some good times out here, and maybe we’d never have them again. Life was starting to get in the way.
    I was pretty wired when I got home, so I tried a shower, but that didn’t help. I sat around for a while, trying to read, trying to watch television, trying to listen to music. None of this did me any good.
    The day wore on. I got to thinking about Brett. I looked at my watch. It was late afternoon, but she wouldn’t have to go to work until late. I dialed her number. She answered on the third ring.
    “Honey, I was beginning to think I was going to have to part my hair on the other side,” she said.
    “Come again?”
    “I thought I was losing my touch.”
    “Do you practice it much?”
    “Actually, I don’t. And I’m not normally such a floozy, but I haven’t met anyone that’s interested me in ages.”
    “That’s flattering. What interested you in me?”
    “I just love that little bald spot.”
    “I don’t think you mean that.”
    “You know, you’re right. I don’t.” Brett laughed. The laugh was as nice as her smile. “I don’t know. Not really. There’s just something about you. You remind me of a big puppy dog. I think that’s it.”
    “Woof, woof,” I said.
    “How about taking me to dinner? I haven’t eaten yet, and I’ve got to go to work before long. I’ve had one of those days where all I’ve had to eat is coffee.”
    “Well, I’ve had one of those days too. Maybe we can cheer each other up.”
    “Forty-five minutes,” she said.
     
    We went to an expensive place called the West Coast. The place looks better than the food tastes, though the food isn’t bad. The West Coast is on a hill and has a large advertising sign out front that lists the specials of the week, most of the specials being some kind of seafood or steak.
    The restaurant itself is made of great slabs of lumber and vast expanses of glass. It has well-manicured bushes and lots of parking places. For some reason, people dress up when they go there.
    I dressed up a little myself. Dark slacks, dark blue sport jacket with a light blue shirt. I wiped off my shoes with a wash rag until they almost looked as if they had been polished. I had a tie in my coat pocket that I decided not to wear. It was a nice tie. Maybe later I could get it out and show it to Brett, just to give her some idea of what I might have looked like had I worn it.
    When I picked up Brett, I wished I had on the tie. She looked nice. She had on a white blouse with a blue design on it, a blue skirt, dark blue shoes, and dark hose. Her makeup was spare and her hair was as lustrous as a goddess’s. The blouse revealed the tops of her breasts and she smelled so good I thought I might have to pull over to the side of the road and cry for a while.
    “I hope I look all right,” she said. “I started to just shit in the face of all feminists tonight and wear an