Vera.”
“Huh?”
“Brett,” a gruff woman’s voice calls out from behind him. “Who is it?”
A lady with penciled-on eyebrows appears behind him. Her Miller High Life T-shirt strains, and she has a trail of cigarette ash down her left boob. She rasps, “What do you want, kid?”
“Are you Vera?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“I’m Ray Eckhardt’s nephew.”
“Brett, you know this kid?”
“Yeah,” Brett mumbles. “I know the fag.”
“Heard Ray’s in bad shape,” she says. “How’s he getting along?”
“Not so hot,” I say, and hand her the twenty dollar bill. “He sent me for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
She opens the door further and motions me inside. The place is dark and thick with haze. At the end of a short hallway I can see pool tables, the jukebox, and a bar.
“Brett, y’better have him wait in our apartment while I fetch his J.D.”
“Do I hafta?” he whines.
Smack!
Her hand strikes upside Brett’s face like lightning. I step back, terrified.
“Don’t you ever give me mouth, boy!”
Brett just sighs indifferently and leads me into a depressing room. A tattered sofa faces an old black-and-white TV with tinfoiled antennas. Beside the dish-stacked kitchen table, a baby kicks in a high chair, its very wide face smeared with what looks like pureed carrots. The baby doesn’t look normal: its slanted eyes are too far apart and its mouth hangs open.
“C’mon in, homo.”
Standing there in that awful, smelly apartment, I know why Brett hates me. I even feel sorry for him. The dick-wad.
“Can’t believe you had the gutth to come here,” he says as he sits beside the baby, who is now crying and slapping its hands on the tray. “Thought you Eckhardth were too good for a playth like thith.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“I don’t wanna know you at all,” he says, and grabs a small yellow plastic spoon from a glass jar on the table. Brett is feeding the baby! I am on Mars. I decide to embrace the weirdness.
“I want you to stop beating me up,” I say.
“Oh yeah, and what’re you gonna do if I don’t?”
“I’ll tell everyone at school you have a retard for a brother.” I hate myself for saying it, but as Uncle Ray told me, “You gotta take no prisoners.”
He glares at me a long moment, then points his finger at me. “You do that and I’ll fuckin’ kill—”
His mother thunders through the door and hands me a heavy paper sack and a five dollar bill. “Here ya go, kid.” I place the bottle in my backpack and glance at Brett, who stares bullets at me while continuing to feed the baby.
Once outside I pedal off. The Bank of Harker City digital clock flashes 6:55. I’m right on time.
When I pull up to Burger In A Box, Regina, still in her waitress uniform, is leaning against the building, dragging on a Kool.
Can I kiss a girl who smokes? Maybe I could, somehow, skip the kissing and just get right to her tits?
“Hey there, Regina,” I say, and brake dramatically in front of her, my back tire skidding on the concrete. “So, how about we go down to the park and hang out?”
She glances around, as if looking for someone, then shrugs.
“Great!” I exclaim. “Climb on.”
I move forward on the seat as she squeezes on behind me. Never before has anyone ridden on my bike with me; it’s hard to steer and even harder to pedal as we wobble all over the road. If I get a hard-on, this could be fatal.
“Finish your literature report?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.”
“What book did you choose?”
“
Hollywood Wives
by Jackie Collins.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
About a minute later, as I struggle to steer us down Main Street, I ask, “So, what’s it like working at Burger In A Box? You must see a lot of crazy stuff there, huh?”
“What’s so hard in your backpack?” she asks.
“Oh, that’s just a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
“Hot damn!” She squeals and squeezes me as if she had just won a new dinette set
“Huh?”
“Brett,” a gruff woman’s voice calls out from behind him. “Who is it?”
A lady with penciled-on eyebrows appears behind him. Her Miller High Life T-shirt strains, and she has a trail of cigarette ash down her left boob. She rasps, “What do you want, kid?”
“Are you Vera?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“I’m Ray Eckhardt’s nephew.”
“Brett, you know this kid?”
“Yeah,” Brett mumbles. “I know the fag.”
“Heard Ray’s in bad shape,” she says. “How’s he getting along?”
“Not so hot,” I say, and hand her the twenty dollar bill. “He sent me for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
She opens the door further and motions me inside. The place is dark and thick with haze. At the end of a short hallway I can see pool tables, the jukebox, and a bar.
“Brett, y’better have him wait in our apartment while I fetch his J.D.”
“Do I hafta?” he whines.
Smack!
Her hand strikes upside Brett’s face like lightning. I step back, terrified.
“Don’t you ever give me mouth, boy!”
Brett just sighs indifferently and leads me into a depressing room. A tattered sofa faces an old black-and-white TV with tinfoiled antennas. Beside the dish-stacked kitchen table, a baby kicks in a high chair, its very wide face smeared with what looks like pureed carrots. The baby doesn’t look normal: its slanted eyes are too far apart and its mouth hangs open.
“C’mon in, homo.”
Standing there in that awful, smelly apartment, I know why Brett hates me. I even feel sorry for him. The dick-wad.
“Can’t believe you had the gutth to come here,” he says as he sits beside the baby, who is now crying and slapping its hands on the tray. “Thought you Eckhardth were too good for a playth like thith.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“I don’t wanna know you at all,” he says, and grabs a small yellow plastic spoon from a glass jar on the table. Brett is feeding the baby! I am on Mars. I decide to embrace the weirdness.
“I want you to stop beating me up,” I say.
“Oh yeah, and what’re you gonna do if I don’t?”
“I’ll tell everyone at school you have a retard for a brother.” I hate myself for saying it, but as Uncle Ray told me, “You gotta take no prisoners.”
He glares at me a long moment, then points his finger at me. “You do that and I’ll fuckin’ kill—”
His mother thunders through the door and hands me a heavy paper sack and a five dollar bill. “Here ya go, kid.” I place the bottle in my backpack and glance at Brett, who stares bullets at me while continuing to feed the baby.
Once outside I pedal off. The Bank of Harker City digital clock flashes 6:55. I’m right on time.
When I pull up to Burger In A Box, Regina, still in her waitress uniform, is leaning against the building, dragging on a Kool.
Can I kiss a girl who smokes? Maybe I could, somehow, skip the kissing and just get right to her tits?
“Hey there, Regina,” I say, and brake dramatically in front of her, my back tire skidding on the concrete. “So, how about we go down to the park and hang out?”
She glances around, as if looking for someone, then shrugs.
“Great!” I exclaim. “Climb on.”
I move forward on the seat as she squeezes on behind me. Never before has anyone ridden on my bike with me; it’s hard to steer and even harder to pedal as we wobble all over the road. If I get a hard-on, this could be fatal.
“Finish your literature report?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.”
“What book did you choose?”
“
Hollywood Wives
by Jackie Collins.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
About a minute later, as I struggle to steer us down Main Street, I ask, “So, what’s it like working at Burger In A Box? You must see a lot of crazy stuff there, huh?”
“What’s so hard in your backpack?” she asks.
“Oh, that’s just a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
“Hot damn!” She squeals and squeezes me as if she had just won a new dinette set
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