Read Online Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shaw Johnny
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four beers and two shots of tequila, he added in his head. “ Diez. ”
Bobby turned to me, taking my money out of his front pocket. “Ten bucks. I bet this would cost forty in LA. Another reason to love Chicali.” He dropped fifteen on the bar, grabbed the four beers, and nodded for me to grab the shots.
“ Gracias ,” I said more meekly than I meant to.
Bobby found a table. We sat with our backs to the wall, facing the relative darkness of the bar. Bobby took one of the shot glasses and tapped mine. We downed them together. It tasted like it had been made that morning, but the burning felt good. I washed down the shot with half my beer. I started to feel more relaxed. In two hours, I was going to feel right at home, if I could feel at all.
In an effort to ease my mind, Bobby took control of the conversation. I concentrated on drinking and smoking. He talked work and farming and his experiment with marriage and the subsequent divorce. He mentioned Griselda, the woman he was currently seeing, but stopped short. “It’s good. She’s cool. Don’t want to jinx it.” Finally, he moved on to his kids. It made me realize how much of a child I was and how little responsibility I had. Is it better to have responsibility and fail or to choose to remain irresponsible?
“Stacy is in Riverside,” Bobby told me. Stacy was his daughter. She was probably around five by now. “With her mom. And probably some dude who’s not me.”
“What about Julie?” I asked. That was Bobby’s other daughter, born when we were still in high school. A mistake he hadn’t even known he had made until years later. Probably for the best since it kept him from doing the wrong thing by doing the right thing.
“Still in Twentynine Palms. Becky’s with some jarhead stationed there,” Bobby said.
“You see them much?”
“Never. Once, twice a year.” He drank down a whole bottle and started another one. “I send ’em money, birthday presents, Christmas presents, Valentine cards, like that. Make sure I know how old they are, what grade they’re in. I’d say I miss ’em, but hell, I don’t know ’em really. They’re good kids, I think. And their mothers are good mothers. I know that. Probably better for them they’re not around a guy like me.”
“A guy like you? What’s that?”
He ignored my question, continuing. “I like getting the Father’s Day cards, I’ll tell you.”
He took a look down the neck of his bottle. “I know it sounds cliché, but you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time? I should’ve been born in Conan’s time.”
“Wait, what? You mean Conan the Barbarian?”
He turned to me, no smile. “Yeah. I’d’ve been a good barbarian.”
“You know, Conan isn’t real. He’s a fictional character.”
Bobby gave me his best shut up look. “Yeah, Jimmy. I ain’t a dumbass. I went to college, too. I also know that it’s impossible to be born in a different time. Why you got to ruin it? Why you got to mess up my barbarian fantasy thing? Why you got to be the guy sitting in the back of the movie theater when the monster shows up, you say, ‘That would never happen?’”
“Sorry, man.” I had touched a bit of a nerve about his kids, and I should have just let him change the subject. Bobby sat and brooded, his eyebrows suggesting that he was working out something in his head.
“Fuck this,” Bobby shouted, smiling his crazy smile and slamming his hands against the table. I wasn’t ready for it, and my waiting beer crashed to the floor. Loudly. Shattered glass and foaming brew. At that moment it was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
The old man stopped playing guitar. Everyone stopped talking. The bartender walked to the edge of the bar, one hand out of sight. He said, “ Esta bien todo? ”
Bobby got to his knees and began picking up pieces of broken glass. “ Esta bien. Lo siento. Un accidente. ”
The bartender slowly raised his hand and grabbed a rag off the bar. I
Bobby turned to me, taking my money out of his front pocket. “Ten bucks. I bet this would cost forty in LA. Another reason to love Chicali.” He dropped fifteen on the bar, grabbed the four beers, and nodded for me to grab the shots.
“ Gracias ,” I said more meekly than I meant to.
Bobby found a table. We sat with our backs to the wall, facing the relative darkness of the bar. Bobby took one of the shot glasses and tapped mine. We downed them together. It tasted like it had been made that morning, but the burning felt good. I washed down the shot with half my beer. I started to feel more relaxed. In two hours, I was going to feel right at home, if I could feel at all.
In an effort to ease my mind, Bobby took control of the conversation. I concentrated on drinking and smoking. He talked work and farming and his experiment with marriage and the subsequent divorce. He mentioned Griselda, the woman he was currently seeing, but stopped short. “It’s good. She’s cool. Don’t want to jinx it.” Finally, he moved on to his kids. It made me realize how much of a child I was and how little responsibility I had. Is it better to have responsibility and fail or to choose to remain irresponsible?
“Stacy is in Riverside,” Bobby told me. Stacy was his daughter. She was probably around five by now. “With her mom. And probably some dude who’s not me.”
“What about Julie?” I asked. That was Bobby’s other daughter, born when we were still in high school. A mistake he hadn’t even known he had made until years later. Probably for the best since it kept him from doing the wrong thing by doing the right thing.
“Still in Twentynine Palms. Becky’s with some jarhead stationed there,” Bobby said.
“You see them much?”
“Never. Once, twice a year.” He drank down a whole bottle and started another one. “I send ’em money, birthday presents, Christmas presents, Valentine cards, like that. Make sure I know how old they are, what grade they’re in. I’d say I miss ’em, but hell, I don’t know ’em really. They’re good kids, I think. And their mothers are good mothers. I know that. Probably better for them they’re not around a guy like me.”
“A guy like you? What’s that?”
He ignored my question, continuing. “I like getting the Father’s Day cards, I’ll tell you.”
He took a look down the neck of his bottle. “I know it sounds cliché, but you ever feel like you were born in the wrong time? I should’ve been born in Conan’s time.”
“Wait, what? You mean Conan the Barbarian?”
He turned to me, no smile. “Yeah. I’d’ve been a good barbarian.”
“You know, Conan isn’t real. He’s a fictional character.”
Bobby gave me his best shut up look. “Yeah, Jimmy. I ain’t a dumbass. I went to college, too. I also know that it’s impossible to be born in a different time. Why you got to ruin it? Why you got to mess up my barbarian fantasy thing? Why you got to be the guy sitting in the back of the movie theater when the monster shows up, you say, ‘That would never happen?’”
“Sorry, man.” I had touched a bit of a nerve about his kids, and I should have just let him change the subject. Bobby sat and brooded, his eyebrows suggesting that he was working out something in his head.
“Fuck this,” Bobby shouted, smiling his crazy smile and slamming his hands against the table. I wasn’t ready for it, and my waiting beer crashed to the floor. Loudly. Shattered glass and foaming brew. At that moment it was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
The old man stopped playing guitar. Everyone stopped talking. The bartender walked to the edge of the bar, one hand out of sight. He said, “ Esta bien todo? ”
Bobby got to his knees and began picking up pieces of broken glass. “ Esta bien. Lo siento. Un accidente. ”
The bartender slowly raised his hand and grabbed a rag off the bar. I
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