-For Natalie



We rolled into Bloomfield on a Wednesday and parked next to the courthouse. We'd been driving pretty steady for days and needed some sleep. Rusty put on the radio and I asked him to look for some old country, some music about losing your love and wanting to go back home. He found a good one and we leaned our seats back and pulled our hats down to keep the sun out. It was wintertime and the world was mean.
After a couple hours we got out and had a stretch. We were on our sixth day and heading to Kansas City for Rusty's brother's wedding. The trip was supposed to take a day or two, but we got hung up in Dayton for three and the stops kept coming. Between the both of us we had ten or so bucks, just enough for a drop of gas or some pitchers of beer.
From the back of the car we got a couple of beers and poured them into some leftover coffee cups. We had a seat on a bench outside the courthouse and watched the good people come to pay their utilities and property taxes.
Sonuvabitch, Rusty said, and spit on the ground. Reckon we missed the ceremony.
I said, Sure thing.
A car pulled up and out stepped this old couple in matching sweaters and slacks. The wife had a neat little hat on with a ribbon on the side. She kept rifling through her purse and her husband wouldn't stop wiping his nose with a handkerchief.
I'm inclined to believe, Rusty said, that love is nothing but a disease.
I took a swig of my beer. It was warm. One could make a case, I said.
My wife says she loves me and curses my name in the same breath, Rusty said. She says I was put on this Earth to mystify and confound.
I get a letter from my boy every week, I said. And each is about how I am a curse he'll never escape. My shame is large and heavy.
We stuck around a bit and drank and watched the town move through its day. City trucks came by every so often and salted the road. The sky got looking like snow too, what with the grey clouds and such.
I have one testicle, Rusty said. Was born with one and got only one to my name. It aches when weather's coming.
And now? I said.
Nearly crippling, he said.
We were fixing to leave when a police car parked in the spot next to ours. The officer opened his back door and pulled out a man in handcuffs. He looked like another guy. I don't know. The officer led him down the sidewalk and right by us. I'd been there before, and lord knows I'll probably be there again, so I gave him a nod and wished him luck.
For lunch we found this little place across the street that sold breakfast all day. We both got some coffee and shared a stack of flapjacks. It was the most I'd eaten in a couple of weeks. I was so full I slumped down in the booth and let my belly hang out, all fat and satisfied. Rusty felt pretty good too. He sat there across from me and picked at his teeth for awhile.
I got comfortable there, kicking my feet up and listening to forks scraping plates and spoons clinging against the sides of coffee cups. The waitress wasn't bad to look at either. Her name was Bernice and she smiled whenever Rusty or me said something smart.
That's the type of woman I could be happy with for the rest of my life, Rusty said after she'd refilled his cup. Something about the way she carries that pot tells me she's gentle. That she's patient and understanding.
He went on and on about how he was going to talk her into coming along to Missouri. How he'd have a pretty girl on his arm and show everyone what was what. But he didn't say anything to her besides thanks and thanks a lot. We cleaned up in the bathroom and went to get some more sleep in the car.
When we woke up snow and ice was everywhere. It covered the windshield and the car was cold as hell. Night had set and the courthouse had concluded business. That town looked dead then cept for a couple of restaurants and bars on the square. We chose the one with a neon sign in the shape of a guitar and went in to get warm.
Only people in the place was the bartender and a farmer in a mesh hat. He had a glass in front of him he kept staring at. For whatever reason he couldn't take his eyes off it.
Rusty got us a pitcher and I found a booth in the back where we wouldn't be bothered.
Bastard's half foam, Rusty said, pointing at the beer.
It's lukewarm, I said. Tastes like spit.
We drank and watched the snow come down. Some songs played on the jukebox, but the speakers didn't work right and the voices sounded fuzzy.
The rent is two weeks overdue, Rusty said. There's a stack of bills I haven't even looked at. I'm so deep I'll never get out.
I said, Every Sunday my mother calls and tells me how the cancer is eating her. She coughs and cries and prays.
My wife is in love with her neighbor, Rusty said. She calls whenever he trims his bushes and tells me how the sweat glistens on his back. He is perfect and she believes he could be in love with her too.
We finished the pitcher off and spent our last cent on another. It tasted as bad as the first, but we worked on it just the same. Outside it was getting ugly. Cars were sliding through stops and running up on the sidewalk. After the farmer left it was just us and the guy working the bar for an hour or so. Then the door swung open and in stepped this fella wearing a thick Carhartt. He had on these real fancy-looking grey boots with red tips. He was older and had this big pot stove of a gut that hung over his jeans.
How ya doin'? he asked the bartender. He grabbed a stool and pointed to the TV in the corner. Care to put the game on? he said.
The bartender clicked on the TV and went through the channels. Finally he came to a basketball game. The screen was full of static but I could see Indiana was playing Wisconsin.
Big game tonight, the bartender said.
No doubt, the fella said. We could play if we got our heads out of our asses and took care of the ball.
I left Rusty to his bitching and went up to watch a little of the game. Wisconsin was tough and played the way a team should. They rebounded and fought through screens. They kept their heads in crunch time and never despaired.
Gonna have your hands full with them Badgers, I said to the fella.
That a fact? he said.
Sure is, I said. Indiana can't handle their press and they don't have the shooters.
The fella said Hmm. Don't know if no one's told you or not, but you can't talk shit about the Hoosiers like that. Not around here. The fella lit up a smoke and ran his finger around the rim of his glass of beer. Boys been shot for less, he said.
That a fact? I said. Well, I'll have you know I come from the Great State of Massachusetts, birthplace of the game, and I don't have to take shit from nobody.
The fella chuckled and took a sip. Fair enough, he said. Care to put a little money on the line?
Fifty, I said, feeling around my empty pockets. Got faith in those 'Consin boys. They're built like tractors and got arms like concrete posts.
The fella and me sat there and watched as Wisconsin got off to an eight-two start before hitting a cold stretch. Before I knew it it was half and I wasn't feeling so hot.
Looking good, the fella said. Looking real good. Say, figure we oughta put our money on the bar. Get the ugly business out of the way.
I moved around on my stool a little and felt the place in my jeans where my money'd be if I had any. Not to fixing to lose, I said.
I hear you, the fella said. He polished off a glass and ordered another. Just don't want to think you might squelch, he said. That's all.
Soon as he said it I looked behind the bar where all the bottles of booze were lined up. There was a sign with a woman in a bathing holding a bottle in her hand. Below the sign was a shotgun with its barrel filed down.
Would just hate to think that, the fella said.
I looked back to the booth and saw Rusty passed out on the table. Our pitcher was knocked over and the beer was spilling onto the floor. I knew if I had to make a run for the door I was gonna have to leave him behind and that made my heart sick.
Looky there, the fella said.
Wisconsin's star forward was lying at half-court, holding his knee and weeping. The coach loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. The fans behind the bench cried and dug their nails into each others' flesh. The Hoosier faithful swooned and cried out in joy and deliverance.
After they carried the boy off the half started and things got worse. The Badgers looked shaken and lost the ball every time down the floor. The fella next to me cheered and pounded the bar. He kicked his special grey boots against the rungs of his stool. I kept looking at that shotgun.
This is about to get ugly, the fella said. You, gee, ell, why.
But it didn't. All of a sudden those boys started working it inside and taking those close shots. The ones that didn't go in they grabbed off the cup and put them back up. Pretty soon they had a little seven point run, then ten and then twelve. They chipped away until the lead was down to two and there was just fifty seconds on the clock.
I'll be damned, the fella said.
He didn't pound the bar no more and he didn't kick those boots around either. I'll be goddamned, he said as the Badgers tied the game up and settled into their press.
Right then I wanted to be on that court. I wanted to be right there on the wing, the hot lights shining down and the people screaming. I'd seen the Hoosiers run a play the whole game, the guard cutting across the paint and getting the ball. I knew it was coming, sure as shit, and I knew if I was in there, Badgers written cross my chest, I could just float over and get a hold of that pass. I knew it like I knew my own name.
And goddamn if it didn't happen just like that. That point guard made his move and called for the pass, but that Wisconsin forward and me were on the same page. He left his man and jetted into the lane. The pass came and he got a finger on it, just enough to send it bouncing to the other block, right to the waiting hands of his teammate. I jumped and hooted as they went down court and rattled one in.
The fella didn't waste any time. He slapped five bills on the bar and made for the door. I picked up the cash and stuffed it in my pocket. It was the most money I'd had in years, and right then I thought of all the things I could do with it. I could spring for enough fuel to make Kansas City and even send my poor mother a few bucks to help with the pain. I could buy some paper and write my boy a letter that'd clear up all the misunderstandings. It would take care of all the space between us and maybe his shame would start to heal.
It took some effort but I shook Rusty awake and we had a couple of drinks before we headed out. The night was cold and the wind and snow stung, but we had bellies full of booze and money for some gas. The road was clear and Missouri seemed close enough to touch. We had a day of easy driving to go. Maybe three or four if we had a drink along the way.


 

Jared Yates Sexton is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Georgia Southern University and serves as Managing Editor at the literary magazine BULL. His work has appeared in publications around the world and has been nominated for a pair of Pushcarts, The Million Writer's Award, and was a finalist for The New American Fiction Prize. His first collection of stories, An End To All Things, is now available from Atticus Books.