sorry…” I started to say, but realized he neither understood nor cared to understand, and besides was right, I suppose. He had to say something to cover his guilt for not helping his friends.
“I’ll… I’ll remember your ugly fucking face,” the other one shouted as Morning and I walked to where Cagle leaned patiently against the wall. “We’ll catch your ass some night, son of a bitch. In a dark alley, by your-god-damned-self!” I walked back to them, thinking, What a long eighteen months it was going to be.
“Let’s stay straight, buddy. You swung at me before I could say hello. You just made a mistake. You should have stayed out of it like your pal here. So shut your mouth before you make two mistakes in one night. Next time I see you all, I’ll buy the beer. And tell the other guy to watch where the hell he’s walking. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” they said in chorus.
I caught up with Morning and Cagle. Morning was chuckling quietly.
“You guys through yet,” Cagle muttered.
“Set them straight?” Morning asked, grinning as we hailed a jeepny. He was loose now.
“Maybe they won’t cut us off at the pass.”
“Piss on ‘em.”
“You’re pretty good for a passive resister, Morning.”
“That’s why I’m here. I took crap from rednecks as long as I could, then one spit in my face one hungover morning at a lunch counter in Birmingham. I dropped his peckerwood ass.” He took a plate of four teeth out of the left side of his mouth and showed it to me. “But his gentlemen buddies got me. Damnit, I forgot to take this damned thing out,” he mumbled, putting it back in. “Someday I’m going to take a shot in the gut and choke on my plastic teeth.” He laughed. “How’d you like to try to swallow that monster of Quinn’s?”
We were on the highway now and the quiet whiz of the tires, the cool wind and the receding lights of Town made the fight seem far away. As we swept past the Cloud 9, a wild burst of laughter shot out to meet us, mocking my thoughts.
“You’re pretty salty yourself,” he said.
“I’m out of practice, Morning, and intend to stay that way. The next time you tee-off on a guy just because you’re pissed at a broad, count me out.”
“Bullshit,” he said, smiling again, stretching his arms and popping his knuckles. “So I was pissed off. What’s your excuse?”
“With you on the Trick, my stripes aren’t worth a rusty razor blade.”
“Not me, man. I don’t rock the boat.” He flipped his cigarette away and it flashed past me in a streaking red line, then sparkled the road like the fuse of a firecracker. He rubbed his hands greedily together, savoring the heat of violence. As I noticed him, I caught my own hand cradling my right fist, remembering the solid clunk it had made against the airman’s ribs. My wrist would hurt the next morning, but not very much. No more than Morning’s hands.
4
Smacks
Tetrick’s admonition to step easily with Lt. Dottlinger commanding the Company proved all too correct. During the set of days after my lengthy initiation into the seminal rites of Town, a small incident, the breaking of four cases of bottles, touched off the events known as The Great Coke Bottle Mystery, or Slag Krummel Rides, Howsoever Badly, Again.
It was a Wednesday or Thursday morning — without the limits of an established weekend period of rest, we seldom knew the day of the week. Lt. Dottlinger always checked the Day Room first thing each morning. He counted the pool cues and balls, and the shuffleboard pucks, examined the felt of the pool tables for new nicks or tears, and made sure the Coke machine was full. These things were nominally his responsibility since the equipment had been purchased from the Company Fund and the Coke machine was a concession of the Fund. All seemed well until he felt a bit of glass crunch under his spit-shined shoe. He picked it up, and found it to be the lip ring off the rim of a bottle. He knew the trick: two rims
“I’ll… I’ll remember your ugly fucking face,” the other one shouted as Morning and I walked to where Cagle leaned patiently against the wall. “We’ll catch your ass some night, son of a bitch. In a dark alley, by your-god-damned-self!” I walked back to them, thinking, What a long eighteen months it was going to be.
“Let’s stay straight, buddy. You swung at me before I could say hello. You just made a mistake. You should have stayed out of it like your pal here. So shut your mouth before you make two mistakes in one night. Next time I see you all, I’ll buy the beer. And tell the other guy to watch where the hell he’s walking. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” they said in chorus.
I caught up with Morning and Cagle. Morning was chuckling quietly.
“You guys through yet,” Cagle muttered.
“Set them straight?” Morning asked, grinning as we hailed a jeepny. He was loose now.
“Maybe they won’t cut us off at the pass.”
“Piss on ‘em.”
“You’re pretty good for a passive resister, Morning.”
“That’s why I’m here. I took crap from rednecks as long as I could, then one spit in my face one hungover morning at a lunch counter in Birmingham. I dropped his peckerwood ass.” He took a plate of four teeth out of the left side of his mouth and showed it to me. “But his gentlemen buddies got me. Damnit, I forgot to take this damned thing out,” he mumbled, putting it back in. “Someday I’m going to take a shot in the gut and choke on my plastic teeth.” He laughed. “How’d you like to try to swallow that monster of Quinn’s?”
We were on the highway now and the quiet whiz of the tires, the cool wind and the receding lights of Town made the fight seem far away. As we swept past the Cloud 9, a wild burst of laughter shot out to meet us, mocking my thoughts.
“You’re pretty salty yourself,” he said.
“I’m out of practice, Morning, and intend to stay that way. The next time you tee-off on a guy just because you’re pissed at a broad, count me out.”
“Bullshit,” he said, smiling again, stretching his arms and popping his knuckles. “So I was pissed off. What’s your excuse?”
“With you on the Trick, my stripes aren’t worth a rusty razor blade.”
“Not me, man. I don’t rock the boat.” He flipped his cigarette away and it flashed past me in a streaking red line, then sparkled the road like the fuse of a firecracker. He rubbed his hands greedily together, savoring the heat of violence. As I noticed him, I caught my own hand cradling my right fist, remembering the solid clunk it had made against the airman’s ribs. My wrist would hurt the next morning, but not very much. No more than Morning’s hands.
4
Smacks
Tetrick’s admonition to step easily with Lt. Dottlinger commanding the Company proved all too correct. During the set of days after my lengthy initiation into the seminal rites of Town, a small incident, the breaking of four cases of bottles, touched off the events known as The Great Coke Bottle Mystery, or Slag Krummel Rides, Howsoever Badly, Again.
It was a Wednesday or Thursday morning — without the limits of an established weekend period of rest, we seldom knew the day of the week. Lt. Dottlinger always checked the Day Room first thing each morning. He counted the pool cues and balls, and the shuffleboard pucks, examined the felt of the pool tables for new nicks or tears, and made sure the Coke machine was full. These things were nominally his responsibility since the equipment had been purchased from the Company Fund and the Coke machine was a concession of the Fund. All seemed well until he felt a bit of glass crunch under his spit-shined shoe. He picked it up, and found it to be the lip ring off the rim of a bottle. He knew the trick: two rims
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