fucking mayor of Ockah-Schmakka and you eat your fucking Red Ropes by decree?”
Hand had gone off the rails. Blackhawks turned to get his change. The clerk, about sixteen, with the distended and hopeful neck of a turtle, had been finishing the transaction, ignoring the proceedings. I was trying to ignore everything, too, and wasn’t sure why. Hand was my responsibility.
“Puffer,” Blackhawks said in a hiss and a fake chuckle. He was heading for the door.
“Puffer?” Hand said, but Blackhawks was walking out. “Puffer? What does that mean? That’s the best you can do? Puffer? You fucking pussy—”
The guy was gone. I couldn’t believe this. We were twenty-seven years old and Hand was talking smack in a convenience store with an Oco townie who couldn’t have been over twenty.
“Is there a bathroom here?” Hand asked the clerk.
“Broken,” the clerk said.
“Liar,” Hand said.
We bought our food and outside, with the remaining half of his Butterfinger levitating from his mouth, Hand urinated on the side of the Citgo mart, while trying to figure out the meaning of “puffer.”
“I’m assuming he means I’m gay, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“But isn’t the person who gets a porn star ready a puffer, too?”
“Fluffer,” I said, and wondered why I knew this.
“Oh.”
Hand continued his emissions and I walked over to the storage unit. After rolling up the thundering silver door and before I turned on the light, I saw Jack Sikma. He was standing in the corner, a life-size cutout of slow-moving Sikma, totemic center for the Bucks, a huge awkward white man but not a bad player in the paint, here with a welcoming look on his face. I flipped the light-switch and a single bulb at the back of the room went live. The place was full. Hand was now next to me, examining a stripe on his jeans where the wall had rebounded his effluvium.
“Jesus,” Hand said.
The place was neat, rows of perfect boxes, stacked according to size, and to the right side were things that didn’t fit, or things Jack had added at some later time. Mattresses. A net of soccer balls. A pachinko. A corner full of his old lunar maps.
The night was so cold.
“I’m gonna look around,” Hand said.
“What? Where?”
“Around. There’s a National Guard armory just behind here, up the hill. I’d rather not sit here with this stuff, watching you dig through it all.”
“You’re not gonna help pack it?”
“I am, but I know you want to look through everything first.”
“You don’t want to see this stuff?”
“Actually, no.”
“You can’t take the truck.”
“I’m not. I’m walking.”
“Leave the truck idling.”
“I will.”
“You’re gonna help pack all this up.”
“When you’re done looking, I’ll pack.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be back in a half hour or so. I’m going to see what’s up there.”
“You’re really going to—”
“I’ll be back.”
“Fine.”
And he left. He was a moron and a flake—he disappeared all the time—but I was happy for the peace. I opened a box of old school papers and drawings on construction paper, a stack of twenty, with eighteen renderings of Saturn, some with glitter. As eleven-year-olds, before I knew for sure that flying insects didn’t enter rectums while you sat on the toilet and before my heart was irregular—I’ll elaborate later but it was never such a big deal—Jack and I would get our posterboard and lie on our stomachs and draw our ideal future homes, the landscapes surrounding, the shape of the world in 2020. He was a better straight-line draftsman than me, so he did that stuff, and I did the grass and animals and people, big-handed and tiny-headed, but whatever we did, however we split the duties, the pictures never looked anything like we’d envisioned. But their ambition was clear, and thus they confused our teachers, who assumed we were as dumb as we acted. Soon enough, though, everyone realized Jack was different than me
Hand had gone off the rails. Blackhawks turned to get his change. The clerk, about sixteen, with the distended and hopeful neck of a turtle, had been finishing the transaction, ignoring the proceedings. I was trying to ignore everything, too, and wasn’t sure why. Hand was my responsibility.
“Puffer,” Blackhawks said in a hiss and a fake chuckle. He was heading for the door.
“Puffer?” Hand said, but Blackhawks was walking out. “Puffer? What does that mean? That’s the best you can do? Puffer? You fucking pussy—”
The guy was gone. I couldn’t believe this. We were twenty-seven years old and Hand was talking smack in a convenience store with an Oco townie who couldn’t have been over twenty.
“Is there a bathroom here?” Hand asked the clerk.
“Broken,” the clerk said.
“Liar,” Hand said.
We bought our food and outside, with the remaining half of his Butterfinger levitating from his mouth, Hand urinated on the side of the Citgo mart, while trying to figure out the meaning of “puffer.”
“I’m assuming he means I’m gay, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“But isn’t the person who gets a porn star ready a puffer, too?”
“Fluffer,” I said, and wondered why I knew this.
“Oh.”
Hand continued his emissions and I walked over to the storage unit. After rolling up the thundering silver door and before I turned on the light, I saw Jack Sikma. He was standing in the corner, a life-size cutout of slow-moving Sikma, totemic center for the Bucks, a huge awkward white man but not a bad player in the paint, here with a welcoming look on his face. I flipped the light-switch and a single bulb at the back of the room went live. The place was full. Hand was now next to me, examining a stripe on his jeans where the wall had rebounded his effluvium.
“Jesus,” Hand said.
The place was neat, rows of perfect boxes, stacked according to size, and to the right side were things that didn’t fit, or things Jack had added at some later time. Mattresses. A net of soccer balls. A pachinko. A corner full of his old lunar maps.
The night was so cold.
“I’m gonna look around,” Hand said.
“What? Where?”
“Around. There’s a National Guard armory just behind here, up the hill. I’d rather not sit here with this stuff, watching you dig through it all.”
“You’re not gonna help pack it?”
“I am, but I know you want to look through everything first.”
“You don’t want to see this stuff?”
“Actually, no.”
“You can’t take the truck.”
“I’m not. I’m walking.”
“Leave the truck idling.”
“I will.”
“You’re gonna help pack all this up.”
“When you’re done looking, I’ll pack.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be back in a half hour or so. I’m going to see what’s up there.”
“You’re really going to—”
“I’ll be back.”
“Fine.”
And he left. He was a moron and a flake—he disappeared all the time—but I was happy for the peace. I opened a box of old school papers and drawings on construction paper, a stack of twenty, with eighteen renderings of Saturn, some with glitter. As eleven-year-olds, before I knew for sure that flying insects didn’t enter rectums while you sat on the toilet and before my heart was irregular—I’ll elaborate later but it was never such a big deal—Jack and I would get our posterboard and lie on our stomachs and draw our ideal future homes, the landscapes surrounding, the shape of the world in 2020. He was a better straight-line draftsman than me, so he did that stuff, and I did the grass and animals and people, big-handed and tiny-headed, but whatever we did, however we split the duties, the pictures never looked anything like we’d envisioned. But their ambition was clear, and thus they confused our teachers, who assumed we were as dumb as we acted. Soon enough, though, everyone realized Jack was different than me
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