by Rex Pickett
Jack’s eyes bulged. “Sounds like something you saw in a movie. Forget it.” He wouldn’t take the bottle.
“You got a better idea? I’m not going to hunker down here in the bushes all night because some local yokel thinks he can scare us. I’m not afraid of some fat little fucking pizza-face.”
“Do I have to remind you? The fucker’s armed.”
“A rifle. They’re awkward at close range. If we surprise him, we can easily take this guy.”
Jack leveled his eyes at me and I held his gaze. I could
“All right, I’m off,” I said. I started to move away.
“Wait wait wait,” Jack hissed.
I stopped in a crouch and looked over my shoulder. “What? It’s now or never, Jackson. Either shit or get off the porcelain.”
“What’s the cue?”
“I forget.”
“Jesus, Homes.”
“Hey Brad, whatever you hear me shout out, what the fuck difference does it make?”
“Fuck, if I get shot by a boar hunter, I swear to God, Homes, I am going to hurl bolts at you from heaven until Kingdom Come,” Jack replied.
“You think that’s where you’re going?”
“It’d better be. hell’s going to be awfully crowded with you and your relatives there.” He gripped the wine bottle by its neck, and held it upside down, ready for action.
“Okay, I’m off. On my cue, you come up like a bat out of hell and coldcock the fucker.”
“Wait a sec,” Jack said. “Let’s go over this …”
I tore my wrist free from his grip and broke away before he could hold me back with another barrage of doubts. If I hadn’t been drinking, I’m sure I would have waited Brad out in the bushes all night until he gave up and drove off. But I had been drinking—and drinking heavily—since the Clubhouse, and I was lost in a maze where reason and prudence weren’t illuminating the way out.
I edged along the crest of the knoll, scrabbling just below the rim, employing the scrub as handholds. Now and
When I decided I had put enough distance between Jack and me and sandwiched Brad in between, I rose up out of the brush and poked my head over the rim. In the faint light, I spotted Brad snooping around inside my 4Runner, his rifle propped against the left wheel well. Angry that he was looking around for something to loot, and seizing the opportunity of his momentary disarmament, I vaulted up onto the crown and strode directly toward the boar hunter. “Hey, Brad, what’s going on?” I called out loud enough for Jack to hear. My legs were shaking, but I thought I sounded authoritative and in control.
Brad leapt out of the car, spun around, and advanced on me without his rifle. I heard a scuffle of heavy footfalls and, moments later, glimpsed Jack hurtling up onto the crown, wine bottle raised aloft like a Sioux’s tomahawk.
“Brad, buddy, what’s going on?” I called out again, never once breaking stride, in an effort to distract him.
Jack, moving fast, discovering Brad weaponless, ditched the bottle, lowered his shoulder and collided with him on the dead run—like a linebacker taking out a tight end—and tackled him to the ground. Being bigger and stronger, Jack easily overpowered the boar hunter, quickly pinning his right arm behind his back and digging a knee into his lower spine. Brad squealed in pain.
“Get the gun,” Jack commanded, now in charge. “Get the gun.”
I hurried over to the 4Runner to claim the boar hunter’s
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, cracker?” Jack shouted at a helpless Brad, who was now moaning pathetically in the dirt.
“I was just spooking you, that’s all,” Brad whined. “Just some fun.”
“Is this your idea of fun, huh, crackerman? Huh?” Jack wrenched Brad’s arm higher up his back and he let out a yelp. “You think that’s funny, huh?”
I stepped forward. “You little motherfucker,” I screamed, joining in on the victory dance. “How would you like it if we took a couple of shots at you?”
Jack jerked his arm up even higher. “You scared now, you little critterman!” Jack taunted.
I pulled back the cocking lever on the thirty-ought-six, then tickled Brad’s ear with the end of the barrel. “Should we just blow him away right here, Jack? What do you think? Then torch him in his truck and make it look like suicide?” I screwed the muzzle into the back of his head for emphasis. “Motherfucker.”
“I wasn’t going to shoot you, I wasn’t, I was just trying to scare you,” Brad blubbered. Jack and I both thought he was starting to bawl.
“You fucking wuss,” Jack yelled at him so close it must have damaged his eardrums.
I shifted the gun away from his head and raised it in the air. Suddenly there was an enormous explosion, as if a grenade had gone off, and I momentarily lost my balance, staggering in place.
“Jesus, Homes!” Jack yelled. “Jesus!”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot it.”
“Don’t kill me,” Brad cried, “don’t kill me. I’ll do anything you want. I swear to God.” There were real tears in his eyes now.
Jack looked up at me, still kneeling on Brad. “Don’t point that bad boy over here, Homes, you’ve had a shitload to drink.”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot it. It just went off,” I said lamely.
Jack turned back to the matter at hand. “Hey, crater face, have you ever seen the movie, Deliverance?”
“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” Brad repeated over and over, squirming helplessly under Jack’s weight.
“Should we do a Ned Beatty on him, Homes?”
“That’s your department, Jackson.”
“Maybe we should just stick his gun up his ass and see if he likes it.”
“Would give a whole new meaning to hair trigger, wouldn’t it?”
Jack and I shared a cathartic laugh while Brad shot us a horrified backward glance, his eyes stricken with terror. The sociopath had met his match.
“What’re we going to do with this punk?” Jack said, growing impatient.
“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me,” Brad continued to plead.
“Shut up,” Jack shouted back at him. “Shut the fuck up. We’re not going to kill you. We’ll turn you in to the cops before we kill you. We’re upstanding citizens, unlike you!” Jack looked up at me. “What do you think, Homes? Call the fuzz on him? Turn him in?”
I shrugged and thought about it for a few seconds. In truth I was tired and was eager to get back to the warmth of the motel. “Bradley?” I addressed the boar hunter in a nonthreatening voice.
“Yes?” Brad peeped.
“What were you doing, man? Tell us the truth. It could help your cause.”
“I was just going to scare you. I guess I get a little twisted sometimes.”
“A little twisted?” Jack raged. “You should be fucking institutionalized!” Jack looked at me. “That’s so fucking lame, Homes. Let’s just take him to the cops, or take his keys and make him hoof it home.”
“No, please don’t take me to the cops. I’ve got a record.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Jack said. He pinched one of Brad’s whey-colored cheeks. “Never would have figured you for a felon.”
“It’s not what you think,” Brad protested weakly.
Jack grabbed a fistful of Brad’s hair and bent his head back as if he were going to scalp him. “If I told you what I was thinking, critterman, you’d crap your pants.” He let go of his hair and Brad’s forehead thumped hollowly against the hard dirt.
“Jesus, Jackson,” I said, feeling a sudden twinge of sympathy for Brad.
“Sorry, Brad. But it’s a lot less painful than the hundred volts they’re going to zap you with up at the state loony bin,” Jack finished.
“What were you arrested for, Brad?” I asked.
“DUI—twice,” Brad stammered.
“I’m impressed,” Jack said. “You do the program?”
“What?” Brad asked, straining to look backward. “Yeah, I did the program.”
“Didn’t work, did it?”
“No,” Brad replied, as if it were expected of him.
“That’s because you’re a dumb fuck!” Jack said. Brad didn’t reply. “Say you’re a dumb fuck, crater face.”
“I’m a dumb fuck,” Brad repeated meekly.
Jack cuffed him on the side of the head. “Louder!”
Brad raised his head and shouted, “I’M A DUMB FUCK. I’M A DUMB FUCK.”
“That’s better,” Jack barked.
“All right, all right,” I said. I squatted down next to Brad, rested the stock of the rifle on my knee, and pressed the muzzle flush to his temple. “Do you still have your driver’s license, Bradley?”
He looked at me, bewildered. “Yeah, why?”
“Here’s what we’re going to do. Friday they’re holding a big wine festival up at Fess Parker’s. We need a chauffeur. Are you interested?”
“What?” Jack protested, alarmed. “I’m not going to let this cracker ferry us around. You’re fucking nuts!”
I silenced Jack with an index finger to my lips, signaling him to let me continue the negotiations. “Bradley?”
“Yeah, I’m interested,” Brad squeaked.
I moved the muzzle of the rifle away from his head and straightened to my feet. “All right. We’re going to confiscate your gun and your wallet. If you’re not at the Windmill Inn Friday bright and early—around noon—we’re turning them into the police and telling them what happened out here and that you escaped and you’re on the lam.”
Brad didn’t respond right away and Jack yanked his arm up, twisting it in its socket. “Answer my partner, critterman.”
“Okay, okay,” Brad said, clearly relieved, but just as clearly baffled. “I’ll drive you. I’ll drive you.”
Jack fumbled roughly around in Brad’s back pocket and removed his wallet. Then he released him and rose to his feet. Jack admonished him to remain on the ground until
We climbed back in the car with Brad’s rifle, executed a swerving one eighty, and roared off the clearing. Through the back window I could see Brad still lying on the ground, obeying our orders. We bounced back down the rocky switchback and connected up with the main road.
The ride back to Buellton was longer than I thought it would be. We had disappeared farther into the hinterlands than I had imagined, or maybe sobriety had made the distance greater. Neither of us had much to say to each other on the way back. Jack was still furious with me, but because we had come through the ordeal relatively unscathed, he was inclined to keep his wrath to himself. I didn’t think Brad’s lenient sentence was much to Jack’s liking either, but we were headed back to Buellton in one piece and that’s all that really mattered.
Back at the motel I was dispatched to the Clubhouse while Jack made apologetic calls to the women in his life. I half-heartedly nursed a glass of wine in the deserted lounge and made small talk with the barkeep, never mentioning the incident with Brad. For an absurd moment, I fantasized that Maya might walk in from work, take a stool next to me, and start a conversation, but no doubt she and Terra were sitting at home with food for four and unhappy about being stood up.
I gave it an hour, then, unable to bear the solitude and alienating decor of the bar anymore, I trudged back to the room. I half expected Jack to be gone, off on another all-night tear with Terra, but instead I found him lying in bed, staring introspectively up at the ceiling.
I took off my coat and hung it up. “Talk to Terra?” I asked.
Jack nodded without looking at me.
“What’s happening?” I asked, peeling off my new Byron sweatshirt.
“Didn’t feel like going over,” he said tonelessly. “Told her something came up.”
I looked at him for elaboration, but he avoided my gaze.
“Talk to Babs?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell her we went boar hunting tonight?”
Jack rolled his head slowly and looked at me and smirked. “We had a good talk.”
I finished undressing and slipped into my queen. “She stop hassling you about cutting the trip short?”
“Yeah. We’re over that.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
Jack switched the TV on and shuttled through the channels. He didn’t find anything so he snapped it off, plunging the room into darkness. We shifted restlessly in our beds, still keyed up from the bizarre confrontation with the boar hunter. Against the wall I could make out the silhouette of the confiscated rifle, and it made it seem all that more real. With our cases of wine it made an impressive cache. I chuckled, wondering what the maid would think when she saw it in the morning.
“Fucker almost killed us tonight,” Jack said, dead sober.
“I don’t think he was ever going to kill us,” I said.
“Yeah, now, maybe, in retrospect, but at the time, I thought the fucker was shooting at us. Lead us out, some dark road, blow us away, steal our money, that’s what I was thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking shit. I was pretty loaded.”
“You were a little twisted, Homes.” Jack chuckled. “I’ll grant you that.”
“But I held it together.”
“You made the call.”
“I stared him down, that little motherfucker.”
“I did the dirty work,” Jack boasted. “As usual.”
I laughed. “Yeah, we make a pretty good team.”
“Think he’ll make the bell Friday?”
“If he doesn’t come back tonight with more artillery and blow us away,” I said.
“Why’d you say that? You really think that?” Jack asked.
“No. He was just goofing us like he said.”
“With a fucking rifle. I mean, some of those shots were close.”
“Yeah, well. He’s got a twisted sense of humor.”
The heater hummed as we fell silent. It felt weird all of a sudden to be lying in the dark in the same room with another man. Except for eight years of marriage, I’d lived alone all my adult life.
“When he was shooting at us, you know what I was thinking about?” Jack suddenly asked. “Aside from dying, that is?”
I waited.
“I thought about Babs.”
“It took a near-death experience to bring her and the wedding back into focus, huh?”
“Don’t make fun, Homes. I’m getting personal here. You undercut me every time I get serious.”
“Can’t be that often then,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in bed.
There was a pause as Jack gathered his thoughts. “So, I’m thinking about this woman, Terra, and how I don’t really
“I know what I’m here for,” I said, making light of his confession.
“Yeah, but you made that decision a long time ago. Don’t tell me you don’t have regrets about all the shit that happened with Victoria?”
“Look,” I cut him off. “I’m the wrong guy on this subject, Jackson. I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that individuals like me are unfit for cohabitation. I recognize this flaw—if, indeed, it is a flaw—and I operate accordingly. Others are different.”
“But this is what I’ve been struggling with,” Jack said sincerely.
“I understand. But you’re not going to find your answer up here in Buellton. That’s just what’s so ridiculous about the whole thing.”
His voice sharpened. “I know that.”
“In a way, we’ve both got the wrong personalities in the wrong aesthetics.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Homes?”
“Well, I wish I had your gift to meet women. That way I could leapfrog unhappily from one to the next without fear of long lonely gaps in between. You, on the other hand, could use some of my introspection, my capacity for aloneness, so that you wouldn’t feel the need to go traipsing from one woman to the next. Especially now that you’re getting married.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you, about leapfrogging from one woman to the next?”
“For now it seems to be the only thing that works.”
“So, you’re saying because I’m outgoing I’m always at risk?”
“Exactly,” I replied. “You comprise the ten percent that ninety percent of the single women date and ultimately hate. You give the rest of us a bad name.”
Jack laughed. “And if I were a dark little misanthropic fucker like you, I’d be better suited to cohabitation?”
“Contradiction in terms, I guess.”
Another silence fell. I could tell Jack wasn’t asleep, and neither was I. The cricket song competed with our breathing. After a long few minutes, as if he had been cogitating on something all the time, Jack said out of the blue: “Do you believe in love? Love with one person until your dying days?”
I didn’t answer right away. My eyes had adjusted to the room now, and I could make out Jack’s hulking shape in my peripheral vision.
After a minute or so he rotated his large head toward my queen and said, “Huh?”
I started to snicker.
“I guess that’s a no,” Jack said, unamused.
The floodgates opened and I disintegrated into uncontrollable laughter.
Then, unable to restrain himself, Jack, too, burst into laughter. We laughed together until we couldn’t have spoken if we’d wanted to. Then, suddenly, as if the gears had been thrown into reverse, he started yelping in pain. “Ow, ow, shit. Shit!”
“What?”
“Fuck.” He switched on the end-table light, sat up in bed, and examined his rib cage. He fingered a sensitive area and winced. “Ow. Shit. I think I broke something out there, Homes. Jesus.”
I sat up on my elbows and looked over at him. He was genuinely grimacing in pain. The upward light of the lamp caricatured his anguish. “Go see a doctor tomorrow,” I suggested.
“Fuck,” he said, sucking in his breath against the hurt. “This is all I need.”
“Nothing you can do about it tonight. Unless you want me to take you to the emergency room.”
“No.” Jack snapped the light off and eased back down onto the mattress. “Oh, man, this hurts all of a sudden.”
“There was this pro golfer who was out for six months because he cracked a couple of ribs. Know how he did it?”
