floated across the muddy ditch that ran alongside the gravel road and disappeared into the dark house. Nobody, he suddenly realized, had bothered to tell her good-bye or thanks or even see you next time, whore.
. . . . .
B Y THE TIME HE LEFT THE DRIVE-IN AND DROVE BACK TO Knockemstiff, Duane’s beer buzz was gone along with his nerve. Topping the last steep hill before the holler, he slowed down, and then turned into Porter’s rutted driveway. It was one o’clock in the morning, but a light still burned in the run-down garage. He dreaded facing the old man with a clear head tonight. Duane could picture Clarence sitting on the couch waiting up for him, a bottle cocked between his legs, anxious to examine evidence, ask dumb questions. Even talking to his old man on a good day felt like being trapped in an elevator with a cannibal who’d been off his feed.
Pulling in next to Porter’s beat-up Ford, Duane shut off the engine and stuck his sister’s wet panties in his pocket. He walked around the side of the building, pushed back the piece of heavy brown felt that served as a door, and looked in. Lard was sprawled out on two bales of musty straw, his greasy bibs pulled down around his scabby knees. A trouble lamp plugged into a frayed extension cord hung from one of the rafters above his head, shining down on his mountainous belly like a circus spotlight. A few feet away, Porter and Wimpy were passing a bong back and forth and tossing an occasional dart at the huge ball of fat. The darts were special ones with points that had been ground off until they were only an inch or so long. Every time one of the shafts found a sweet spot, the boys turned Lard on to another hit off the plastic pipe. It was the only sport they were any good at.
As soon as Duane stepped through the door, Lard grinned and yelled in his ducky voice, “Hey, Duane, see my girlfriend?” Then he held up his Nancy Sinatra album cover, the same one he’d shown Duane a million times before. It was her
Boots
LP, the one that transformed her from a spoiled rich brat into a bona fide sex goddess. She was all curled up like a cat in tight go-go shit, red leather skirt, knee-high boots. Lard carried it with him everywhere, stuck down the front of his bibs. Sometimes he used it as a shield, held it in front of his fat pasty face whenever someone got ready to chuck another bomber at him. He claimed he wanted to save his eyes.
Duane smiled and shook his head. “Damn, boy, ain’t you got any other records?”
Lard whooped and hugged the record jacket, then planted a wet smacker on Nancy’s frosted lips. “Not like her I don’t, Duane,” he said.
Porter tipped up a can of beer and killed it. “Man, am I glad you’re here,” he said to Duane. “You babysit the fat bastard for a while. He’s gettin’ to be a real pain in the ass.”
“Aw, he’s all right,” Duane said. “Lardy, you been bad again?”
“No, Duane, it’s him,” Lard protested, pointing a stubby finger at Porter. “He drink too much Blue Ribbon.”
Porter winked at Duane, then tossed his empty can at Lard’s head. “Duane, them two’s been at it like dogs all night,” he said, yanking a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. “It ain’t right. I say we light that cardboard bitch up unless the fat stud wants to start sharing.”
“No! No!” Lard cried. He tried to stand up, but fell back down. Pink sap ran slowly from a small puncture in his stomach, disappeared beneath the dunes of blubber. “Porter, you leave her alone,” he wailed, rocking side to side on the straw bales.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Duane saw Wimpy cock his arm back. “Incoming!” Wimpy yelled. Duane watched Lard jerk the cardboard cover up to his face just as a dart bounced off his chest and stuck in the dirt floor. “Almost got you, you damn freak,” Wimpy said.
“Darn you, Wimpy,” Lard said, smearing the tears running down his cheeks with a dirty palm, “you put my
. . . . .
B Y THE TIME HE LEFT THE DRIVE-IN AND DROVE BACK TO Knockemstiff, Duane’s beer buzz was gone along with his nerve. Topping the last steep hill before the holler, he slowed down, and then turned into Porter’s rutted driveway. It was one o’clock in the morning, but a light still burned in the run-down garage. He dreaded facing the old man with a clear head tonight. Duane could picture Clarence sitting on the couch waiting up for him, a bottle cocked between his legs, anxious to examine evidence, ask dumb questions. Even talking to his old man on a good day felt like being trapped in an elevator with a cannibal who’d been off his feed.
Pulling in next to Porter’s beat-up Ford, Duane shut off the engine and stuck his sister’s wet panties in his pocket. He walked around the side of the building, pushed back the piece of heavy brown felt that served as a door, and looked in. Lard was sprawled out on two bales of musty straw, his greasy bibs pulled down around his scabby knees. A trouble lamp plugged into a frayed extension cord hung from one of the rafters above his head, shining down on his mountainous belly like a circus spotlight. A few feet away, Porter and Wimpy were passing a bong back and forth and tossing an occasional dart at the huge ball of fat. The darts were special ones with points that had been ground off until they were only an inch or so long. Every time one of the shafts found a sweet spot, the boys turned Lard on to another hit off the plastic pipe. It was the only sport they were any good at.
As soon as Duane stepped through the door, Lard grinned and yelled in his ducky voice, “Hey, Duane, see my girlfriend?” Then he held up his Nancy Sinatra album cover, the same one he’d shown Duane a million times before. It was her
Boots
LP, the one that transformed her from a spoiled rich brat into a bona fide sex goddess. She was all curled up like a cat in tight go-go shit, red leather skirt, knee-high boots. Lard carried it with him everywhere, stuck down the front of his bibs. Sometimes he used it as a shield, held it in front of his fat pasty face whenever someone got ready to chuck another bomber at him. He claimed he wanted to save his eyes.
Duane smiled and shook his head. “Damn, boy, ain’t you got any other records?”
Lard whooped and hugged the record jacket, then planted a wet smacker on Nancy’s frosted lips. “Not like her I don’t, Duane,” he said.
Porter tipped up a can of beer and killed it. “Man, am I glad you’re here,” he said to Duane. “You babysit the fat bastard for a while. He’s gettin’ to be a real pain in the ass.”
“Aw, he’s all right,” Duane said. “Lardy, you been bad again?”
“No, Duane, it’s him,” Lard protested, pointing a stubby finger at Porter. “He drink too much Blue Ribbon.”
Porter winked at Duane, then tossed his empty can at Lard’s head. “Duane, them two’s been at it like dogs all night,” he said, yanking a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. “It ain’t right. I say we light that cardboard bitch up unless the fat stud wants to start sharing.”
“No! No!” Lard cried. He tried to stand up, but fell back down. Pink sap ran slowly from a small puncture in his stomach, disappeared beneath the dunes of blubber. “Porter, you leave her alone,” he wailed, rocking side to side on the straw bales.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Duane saw Wimpy cock his arm back. “Incoming!” Wimpy yelled. Duane watched Lard jerk the cardboard cover up to his face just as a dart bounced off his chest and stuck in the dirt floor. “Almost got you, you damn freak,” Wimpy said.
“Darn you, Wimpy,” Lard said, smearing the tears running down his cheeks with a dirty palm, “you put my
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