No Heroes by Chris Offutt Page A

me off! That money is dirty. That money is fricking dirty.
    â€œAnd Sonny, I know them. They are cheapskates. If they pay me back wages for slave labor, they will charge me room and board for concentration camp.”

Jimmy Joe at the Video

    The other day a man in the video store reminded me that we knew each other thirty years ago. His name was engraved on a small oval of polished brass attached to his belt near the buckle. The last time I saw Jimmy Joe his hair hung past his shoulders. He played guitar in the county’s only rock band, drove a red GTO, and had girlfriends galore.
    â€œSince you left,” Jimmy Joe said, “I got married and divorced three times. Right now I want a wife that runs around on me. That way she ain’t bothering me at home.”
    â€œMy wife don’t bother me much.”
    â€œSee there, probably is running around.”
    â€œThink I should ask her?” I said.
    â€œYou really want to know if she is?”
    â€œDon’t reckon,” I said. “Long as she comes home, it’s her life, ain’t it.”
    â€œSon, you always was smart.” Jimmy Joe lowered his voice, and glanced rapidly around to ensure privacy. “You want to burn one out back?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Pot doesn’t do for me what I want done anymore.”
    â€œThat’s downheartening,” he said. “What is it you want done, Chris?”
    â€œI don’t know. I tried everything and nothing did a good enough job. I quit all of it.”
    â€œMaybe it’s you.”
    â€œYou’re pretty smart, too, Jimmy Joe. What are you up to these days? Still playing guitar? You were the best around.”
    â€œHad to put it down, son. Just gave up on it. Went to barber school and moved to Lexington, but came back home.”
    â€œHow come?” I said.
    â€œToo many heads to cut.” loo many:
    â€œYes, it’s a big town and I like to do the same thing over and over. Same job, same heads, same food. Shoot, I’m here renting the same movie for the hundredth time. I’d save money buying it off of them.”
    â€œWhat movie?”
    â€ Taxi Driver. Ever seen it?”
    â€œIt’s a good one,” I said. “You should get Mean Streets. Same guy made it. Same actor, too.”
    â€œNo, got to rent this one. I love that Bickle, T. That’s what it says on the back of his jacket you know—Bickle, T. I got it stenciled on one of mine. I tried to get people to start calling me that, but it didn’t work. You can’t pick your own nickname. That’s one of the rules. You ain’t got a cigarette do you?”
    â€œNo, I quit.”
    â€œMe, too,” he said. “But I ran out of nerve pills and figured I might as well smoke.”
    â€œYou get nervous, Jimmy Joe?”
    â€œAs a cliff rat, son. As a cliff rat.”
    â€œI never heard of that kind.”
    â€œMe neither. But any rat that lives on a cliff would be nervous. See how my skin is kindly orange-colored?”
    He pulled back his sleeve to show his arm, surprising me with its distinct orange hue. He turned his hands over.
    â€œPalms, too,” he said. “That’s what normal skin is supposed to look like, son. It’s from taking a lot of carotene. That’s why they call carrots carrots, on account of the color. It’s supposed to calm you down.”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œPeople are starting to get knowledged about it. You know, the Internet and whatnot.”
    â€œYou’re on the Internet?”
    â€œWhy, sure. Best thing that’s come in here since town water. That e-mail cooks with gas, don’t it.”
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    â€œAll right? I figured you’d be all over that.”
    â€œWell,” I said. “It bugs me sometimes. It’s permanent as a letter, but spontaneous as a phone call. It’s good to exchange information, but not