Read Online Sleep with the Fishes by Brian M. Wiprud - Free Book Online Page A

Bugs they were not. Leeches they were.

For those who think four-dollar pitchers are only served in heaven at a tavern with a ten-cent jukebox, the Duck Pond is cloud nine. Yuengling is served in smooth-sided fifty-two-ounce pitchers, and a 1964 jukebox plays a single for a dime. Album sides are four bits.
    What with the advent of compact discs, though, the music at the Duck Pond was limited largely to pre-1990 tunes. Nobody seemed to notice. Certainly not Big Bob. His favorite band was Boston, the Doobies taking a close second. And as it happened, Big Bob was personally responsible for wearing the Boston
Boston
album smooth, at a cost variously estimated by regulars to be somewhere between two and three hundred dollars’ worth of plays. The demise of that first album came as a relief to some, but soon thereafter Big Bob supplied his own copy of Boston’s second album,
Don’t Look Back.
Having drawn the short drink stirrer, Russ was picked by fate to tell Big Bob that he was limited to one play and one side of
DLB
a night.
    Everybody was sure Big Bob would be emotionally crushed. And in turn, they were sure Russ would be physically crushed. Contrary to popular speculation, though, Bob took it very well. In fact, he was quite moved that Russ was such an up-front kinda guy. And as it happened, Big Bob came to consider Russ his barroom sage on matters of the heart, though matters of intellect were still the realm of
Newstime
magazine.
    “So she looks at me kinda funny. I don’t know how to describe it, Russ. She wuzn’t laughin’ at me, but she wuzn’t takin’ it real serious. Do ya think maybe she thinks I’m too big for her?” Big Bob sloshed some more Yuengling in Russ’s mug, then his own. They sat at a pedestal table with a flecked plastic top. A wagon wheel chandelier bedecked in illuminated plastic duck decoys hung overhead.
    “What can I tell you, Bob? Louise is four foot ten and you’re six foot five. What would you do if a girl eight feet tall asked you out?” Russ was already looking around for a way out of the heart-to-heart. He really wanted to huddle with motor-head Lloyd over the International’s distributor troubles.
    “That’s different. Guys is supposed to be taller’n the gal anyways. Besides, we’re talking about people at normal sizes.” Bob stared at his beer and tried to decide when he wanted his
DLB
album side—sooner or later.
    “O.K., Bob, point taken, but I was after your gut reaction. Someone who’s big is a little intimidating, that’s all. Hey, whatever happened to that girl Maria, the timberman on that bridge job of yours? She’s five eleven.” A ray of hope—Lloyd had just strolled in with Kris. If Russ could only catch his eye, get him to come over and sit down, Bob would probably withdraw to the jukebox.
    “Nothin’ happened to Maria. The point is, Russ, I like the little ones, whut can I tell ya, and I don’t think it’s fair that just because I’m the size I am, I can’t find a small girl. Why, I remember reading in
Newstime
, October of ’85, a feature on midgets and dwarfs and stuff—how that little guy from
Fantasy Island
—he married a girl who was twice his size. And so did a lot of those fellahs. All real normal relationships too. Now why can’t it happen th’other way around? Russ?”
    A dark look shadowed Bob’s brow. Russ jumped back on track.
    “Yes, but what you’ve got to realize, Bob, is that if you’re going to create a narrow set of parameters, no matter what they are—say, you insisted on a girl with an I.Q. of 180—there are going to be fewer who meet the requirements. You’re going to have to maybe ask out twice the number of small girls before you find one who’s not intimidated by your relative sizes and before you come up with a winner. Hullo, Lloyd!” Russ shrugged at Bob, who was still entrenched in his dilemma.
    “How ya guys doing?” Lloyd gave a knowing look to Russ. “Hey, Big Bob, how’s the pile-driving? Could you