Outside working.
Texas Summer.
Hot as fuck.
103 in the shade, man.
Transistor radio tuned just right as always.
Turn To Stone by Joe Walsh.
Fuck yeah.
Song hits hard three beers deep.
Goddamn that beer is cold.
Put ‘em in the freezer beforehand.
Keeping an eye on my watch so they don’t blow their load prematurely.
That bass is just nasty.
Fuzzed out.
Gritty.
Like some 70s pussy mags.
Hell yeah.
Garden is shabby as fuck.
Yeah I was lazy, ok.
Tomatoes.
Eggplant.
Cucumbers.
So many goddamn cucumbers.
Damn this one looks like my dick.
Seven inches curved.
Bumpy.
Ok not that bumpy.
Still those bumps freak me out.
I should be clean, man.
Probably.
Right?
Hell.
Never was in the military neither. Still I heard them stories. So many stories.
Damn bumps.
Doc calls them skin tags.
Just a little extra meat.
Like what the military makes.
Well actually they’re more like a fucked up Jesus.
Turning meat to vegetables.
Doc freezes them damn skin tags off sometimes.
Not sure what they do with them afterwards.
Shit. Better than dog tags.
Or being blown up for Israel.
Funny how there’s been no ‘peace in the middle east’ since 1948.
Never will be as long as we play world police.
Or you know the fact that only two countries voted to not make food a universal right.
Yup, two. Look it up.
Israel—and its good roided up pitbull—the USA.
Those poor dumb kids thinking they’re gonna be war heroes.
Maybe I could start a VFW for those who don’t serve.
Hell, the beer would be cold and the waitress would still have big tits.
Shit, couple of old grumpy fucks and it’d be perfect.
Ah fuck, that’s just a Harley bar. Lots of fakes. Some real.
Goddamnit thinking too hard again.
Time for another beer.
Throw the cucumber in my sack.
Fuckin’ nice.
Check my watch. 6:30pm.
I sigh.
Grab my keys.
Head on to the VFW.
6:56pm. Walk in.
Drop a quarter in the jukebox.
D7.
I Sang Dixie by Dwight Yoakam.
Neon signs flicker and the incandescents are barely on.
Order two Millers.
I thank Shirley and hand her $8 cash. $2 tip. Fuckin’ generous bastard I am.
Looking out through the window.
7pm sharp.
Just barely can see it in the parking lot overheads, an old ratty Dodge Dakota rolls in.
Silver, rusted.
Before he even opens the door my thoughts start racing.
I think of his pool cue case covered in USMC stickers.
I think of how he used to look.
I think of how he beat the fuck out of Matthew Johnson when he got to me.
I think of how he said I was knocked out and the blows kept coming.
I think of how he said the principal pulled him off Matthew.
I think of how I had to go through surgery to look normal.
I sip my beer long and slow.
I think of how he taught me how to fight dirty.
I think of how he told me not to give a fuck what people think.
I think of how he cries after six beers.
I think of how he tries to hide it.
I think of how he misses his brothers.
I think of how he tells me every week, “you comin’ back, right?”
I see him hobble in. Like clockwork every Thursday evening. Always 7pm sharp.
Never late.
Told me once he only got blanched—just a quick dip in the water.
Told me his mind is still perfect. Minus the memories, but they had pills for that.
One real leg.
One titanium.
Face looks like a goddamn leather mask sewn from corpses.
“Hey Wayne, good to see ya man.”
“Heh, yeah now if only a woman would tell me that.”
“Got one here for ya.”
Miller High Life girl on the label is the only one that will look at him.
Besides us other degenerates and Shirley.
He takes it and downs the whole thing in one go.
“Two more of these ice cold motherfuckers, let’s go.”
He slams down $8. Shirley laughs.
“Ok, baby.”
Two more clear bottles appear. Perfect shape.
The Champagne of Beer.
The damn beer doesn’t help any of us.
But I pretend it does.
Wayne doesn’t.
“Let’s play some fuckin’ pool, man.”
I have a few last thoughts as I grab my cue and the Miller.
I work next door to a military recruiter’s office.
They love the vegetables I bring them.
More than the eighteen year olds that walk in off the street.
Mine don’t fucking bleed.
Or scream.
Or start as meat.