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Authors: Craig Holden
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back.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Fuck it is.”
“Somebody at Hydramatic knew Ted Kessler?”
“This guy was in, too.”
“Korea?”
“The Corps. I don’t know if he was over there.”
“So how’d he know him?”
“He knew of him. He heard shit.”
“A guy knew someone who knew someone who knew someone.”
“It was in the newspaper.”
“But not about him killing people with his bare hands.”
“Shit,” he said, and looked out the window again.
I felt as frightened as he was angry, though not because of some stupid story he’d heard. It was crazy, what I’d done with Joyce. I had good grades and I knew I’d smoke the MCATs when the time came, but even so I wasn’t the choicest med school applicant anymore. Twenty-three was getting old, I’d be utterly dependent on loans and grants and whatever else they could provide, and I had no connections, no doctors in the family circle making calls and buying drinks on my behalf. Ted could wash all of that away. Or he could shit can me.
Brigman tipped what was left of the beer into his mouth, set the can on the floor and said, “It’s down here. Turn.”
It was a tight little frame house, one corner of which was braced up by cinder blocks stacked on a sheet of plywood—the man was always home, I gathered, collecting government checks while his wife worked. Out back was a garden of weeds and a saddle-backed garage with half-raised doors that hadn’t moved in years and three dogs that I could see and as many kids, and there slowly dissolving in the dirty snow this faded lemon yellow ’Cuda. It was a ’71 340, not the bulkiest of the muscle cars but it had nice lines with its hiked-up rear end and the tight linear body that narrowed as it swept down to the grill. This one was beat, though; it made me tired to think of what it would take to bring it back.
Brigman walked around and pushed against it, opened it up and peered in. I could smell the must from where I stood.
“You keep lookin,” the man said, “you should just buy it.”
“Problem is,” Brigman said, “I got nowhere to work. Too damn old for curb work.”
The man looked around and took a deep breath and brought something up from inside his chest and gathered it for a moment in his mouth and then hocked it out onto the ground. “Work on it here, you want,” he said.
“Where?”
“N’a garage.” He pronounced it gay-rage.
It was stuffed with thirty years of shit, shit that flowed out of every opening it could find. It was an older cousin to our living room.
“How’s that?” Brigman said.
“Clean it there, a space. ’Course it’d be some rent.”
“Like what?”
The man shrugged. “Twenty-five a month.”
“That include electric?”
The man pondered it a moment, then nodded.
“It’s a good deal,” I said, and Brigman glared at me. I knew better than to comment in front of the seller, but I never thought he was seriously negotiating. This was verboten stuff, the fix he had denied himself for six years.
“You take it?” the man said. I watched his fat ruddy whiskery face as he looked around at the grim landscape, the sagging power lines and broken roads and weedy lots and falling down houses and the socked-in sky sitting on top of it all like some sadistic god wrestler pinning the world yet again. He tried to show nothing, as if the whole matter bored him, as if Christmas wasn’t looming, and almost succeeded. I could see, too, in Brigman’s face how he ached to put his hands on that machine, to make something work again.
“Gotta see about the money,” Brigman said. “Make sure if I can swing it.” But he hadn’t found a job (I doubted he’d looked) and besides he had no way of getting himself over here except the buses, which would take an hour each way with the downtown transfer. I still wasn’t sure why we’d come except that look he got when he touched it made him seem in some way as he’d once been.
The man nodded. “Don’t come back
“That’s bullshit.”
“Fuck it is.”
“Somebody at Hydramatic knew Ted Kessler?”
“This guy was in, too.”
“Korea?”
“The Corps. I don’t know if he was over there.”
“So how’d he know him?”
“He knew of him. He heard shit.”
“A guy knew someone who knew someone who knew someone.”
“It was in the newspaper.”
“But not about him killing people with his bare hands.”
“Shit,” he said, and looked out the window again.
I felt as frightened as he was angry, though not because of some stupid story he’d heard. It was crazy, what I’d done with Joyce. I had good grades and I knew I’d smoke the MCATs when the time came, but even so I wasn’t the choicest med school applicant anymore. Twenty-three was getting old, I’d be utterly dependent on loans and grants and whatever else they could provide, and I had no connections, no doctors in the family circle making calls and buying drinks on my behalf. Ted could wash all of that away. Or he could shit can me.
Brigman tipped what was left of the beer into his mouth, set the can on the floor and said, “It’s down here. Turn.”
It was a tight little frame house, one corner of which was braced up by cinder blocks stacked on a sheet of plywood—the man was always home, I gathered, collecting government checks while his wife worked. Out back was a garden of weeds and a saddle-backed garage with half-raised doors that hadn’t moved in years and three dogs that I could see and as many kids, and there slowly dissolving in the dirty snow this faded lemon yellow ’Cuda. It was a ’71 340, not the bulkiest of the muscle cars but it had nice lines with its hiked-up rear end and the tight linear body that narrowed as it swept down to the grill. This one was beat, though; it made me tired to think of what it would take to bring it back.
Brigman walked around and pushed against it, opened it up and peered in. I could smell the must from where I stood.
“You keep lookin,” the man said, “you should just buy it.”
“Problem is,” Brigman said, “I got nowhere to work. Too damn old for curb work.”
The man looked around and took a deep breath and brought something up from inside his chest and gathered it for a moment in his mouth and then hocked it out onto the ground. “Work on it here, you want,” he said.
“Where?”
“N’a garage.” He pronounced it gay-rage.
It was stuffed with thirty years of shit, shit that flowed out of every opening it could find. It was an older cousin to our living room.
“How’s that?” Brigman said.
“Clean it there, a space. ’Course it’d be some rent.”
“Like what?”
The man shrugged. “Twenty-five a month.”
“That include electric?”
The man pondered it a moment, then nodded.
“It’s a good deal,” I said, and Brigman glared at me. I knew better than to comment in front of the seller, but I never thought he was seriously negotiating. This was verboten stuff, the fix he had denied himself for six years.
“You take it?” the man said. I watched his fat ruddy whiskery face as he looked around at the grim landscape, the sagging power lines and broken roads and weedy lots and falling down houses and the socked-in sky sitting on top of it all like some sadistic god wrestler pinning the world yet again. He tried to show nothing, as if the whole matter bored him, as if Christmas wasn’t looming, and almost succeeded. I could see, too, in Brigman’s face how he ached to put his hands on that machine, to make something work again.
“Gotta see about the money,” Brigman said. “Make sure if I can swing it.” But he hadn’t found a job (I doubted he’d looked) and besides he had no way of getting himself over here except the buses, which would take an hour each way with the downtown transfer. I still wasn’t sure why we’d come except that look he got when he touched it made him seem in some way as he’d once been.
The man nodded. “Don’t come back
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