he’d found a compelling argument—“there’s still all the beer in your car and we can’t bring it in here.”
That did seem sort of important, or maybe she was too addled to think it through. “All right, how about you get your food, then I drop you and Ronnie and the stupid beer off on my way home. Deal?”
“Sure.” He was happy that he’d gotten her to agree. She was aware that he hoped to make her keep agreeing to things, like a salesman. Ronnie was slouched in a corner booth, stinking up the air with cigarettes. Josie did a quick reconnoiter. Nobody she knew in the place, thank God, just an old dried-up farm couple who looked like they’d been stranded there for the last week and a man in a cowboy hat who was studying yesterday’s newspaper a page at a time. Not until two or three in the morning would itturn into the
Night of the Living Dead,
a ghastly overlit graveyard filled with all the after-closing drunks and the guys who’d just finished beating their wives.
Ronnie seemed almost pleased to see her. He blew a smoke ring in her direction. “Hey, what’s your name?” he demanded, which she took as a sign of friendly interest.
“Josie.”
“What kind of name is that? That’s a name you give to a cow. Josie the Cow.”
“And Ronnie’s a name you’d give to a pile of bull.”
He stared at her with his little cracked, red-rimmed eyes. In ten, twenty, thirty years he would never look like anything but the tragic result of inbreeding. He smacked his palm flat on the table and hooted. He had decided she was funny.
Josie drank two Cokes and swallowed an Advil she found at the bottom of her purse, and Moron and Ronnie worked their way through patty melts and fries with gravy. She was beginning to feel steadier, more cheerful, as if sometime in the future this would all make for an amusing anecdote. When they paid and walked out to the parking lot, the heat closed around them once more.
“This is really sucky weather,” she complained. “It makes you hate having skin. OK. Where do you want to go?”
“To Podolsky’s so we can beat his chicken ass,” said Moron.
They directed her to one of the little blocky houses on that same western edge of town where they’d been before, a neighborhood that no one she knew lived in, a place where some portion of everyone’s household goods ended up in the yard: kids’ Big Wheels, plastic coolers, rugs hung over porch rails. They must think she was a spoiled little rich girl, which she guessed she was, actually. “End of the line,” she said, pulling up in front of the Podolsky residence.
Ronnie got out. “Have to make sure he’s home.”
Josie sighed, because Moron wasn’t budging and was this night of the giant fuckup ever going to end? “I really really have to go home,” she said, politely fuming.
“Yeah, sure.” Nothing short of a crane was going to get him out of the front seat. The bicep closest to her had a blue barbed wire tattoo around the meatiest part of the muscle, like it was holding a package together. He said, “I liked it when we worked together. You were always nice to me.”
“I think I should tell you. I’m sort of going out with somebody.”
“Yah?”
“You probably wouldn’t know him. He’s older. He works nights. What are you—”
Ronnie and another boy were getting into the backseat.
Moron said, “Podolsky, you are dead meat.”
“I figured you’d be OK. And here you are OK, see?”
Ronnie said, “Podolsky, this is Josie the Cow. Josie the Driving Cow.”
“So you guys up for this?”
“Yeah, you ready to squeal like a little piggie and run wee wee wee all the way home?”
“Sit on my face, would you?”
“Excuse me,” said Josie. “Everyone should get out of my car now.”
“We got to go see some guys,” explained Ronnie.
“So call a cab.”
“What’s her problem?” asked Podolsky. He was older than the other two with his hair cut down to bristles and a hollow-looking face. He
That did seem sort of important, or maybe she was too addled to think it through. “All right, how about you get your food, then I drop you and Ronnie and the stupid beer off on my way home. Deal?”
“Sure.” He was happy that he’d gotten her to agree. She was aware that he hoped to make her keep agreeing to things, like a salesman. Ronnie was slouched in a corner booth, stinking up the air with cigarettes. Josie did a quick reconnoiter. Nobody she knew in the place, thank God, just an old dried-up farm couple who looked like they’d been stranded there for the last week and a man in a cowboy hat who was studying yesterday’s newspaper a page at a time. Not until two or three in the morning would itturn into the
Night of the Living Dead,
a ghastly overlit graveyard filled with all the after-closing drunks and the guys who’d just finished beating their wives.
Ronnie seemed almost pleased to see her. He blew a smoke ring in her direction. “Hey, what’s your name?” he demanded, which she took as a sign of friendly interest.
“Josie.”
“What kind of name is that? That’s a name you give to a cow. Josie the Cow.”
“And Ronnie’s a name you’d give to a pile of bull.”
He stared at her with his little cracked, red-rimmed eyes. In ten, twenty, thirty years he would never look like anything but the tragic result of inbreeding. He smacked his palm flat on the table and hooted. He had decided she was funny.
Josie drank two Cokes and swallowed an Advil she found at the bottom of her purse, and Moron and Ronnie worked their way through patty melts and fries with gravy. She was beginning to feel steadier, more cheerful, as if sometime in the future this would all make for an amusing anecdote. When they paid and walked out to the parking lot, the heat closed around them once more.
“This is really sucky weather,” she complained. “It makes you hate having skin. OK. Where do you want to go?”
“To Podolsky’s so we can beat his chicken ass,” said Moron.
They directed her to one of the little blocky houses on that same western edge of town where they’d been before, a neighborhood that no one she knew lived in, a place where some portion of everyone’s household goods ended up in the yard: kids’ Big Wheels, plastic coolers, rugs hung over porch rails. They must think she was a spoiled little rich girl, which she guessed she was, actually. “End of the line,” she said, pulling up in front of the Podolsky residence.
Ronnie got out. “Have to make sure he’s home.”
Josie sighed, because Moron wasn’t budging and was this night of the giant fuckup ever going to end? “I really really have to go home,” she said, politely fuming.
“Yeah, sure.” Nothing short of a crane was going to get him out of the front seat. The bicep closest to her had a blue barbed wire tattoo around the meatiest part of the muscle, like it was holding a package together. He said, “I liked it when we worked together. You were always nice to me.”
“I think I should tell you. I’m sort of going out with somebody.”
“Yah?”
“You probably wouldn’t know him. He’s older. He works nights. What are you—”
Ronnie and another boy were getting into the backseat.
Moron said, “Podolsky, you are dead meat.”
“I figured you’d be OK. And here you are OK, see?”
Ronnie said, “Podolsky, this is Josie the Cow. Josie the Driving Cow.”
“So you guys up for this?”
“Yeah, you ready to squeal like a little piggie and run wee wee wee all the way home?”
“Sit on my face, would you?”
“Excuse me,” said Josie. “Everyone should get out of my car now.”
“We got to go see some guys,” explained Ronnie.
“So call a cab.”
“What’s her problem?” asked Podolsky. He was older than the other two with his hair cut down to bristles and a hollow-looking face. He
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