by Stan Hayes
“Stickin’ it in other people,” I said through my teeth.
“Bingo! And while it ain’t the pleasantest picture there is, we know where Mose’s been stickin’ his dick since he came to town.”
“Bingo your own goddam self,” I said. I didn’t want to think about Mose’s dick, or anybody else’s, gettin’ stuck into Mom. If it took pissin’ Flx off to make me stop thinkin’ about it, then that’s what I’d do.
But he didn’t jump on me claws-first like he does sometimes when I piss ’im off. He stayed put, slappin’ me lightly with the wing that stayed around my back. “Hey,” he squawked, “how the hell old are you, anyway? Grown people stick dicks into other grown people. They do it because they like it. Time you got used to it.”
“I don’t fuckin’ wanta get used to it,” I said to him.
“Well, sport, I know you’re mad when you use language like that. But when you have some more time to think about it, you’ll realize that it’s part of what all of us fauna gotta do. Your mama’s lucky to have a friend to fuck ’er; not everybody does. Might as well live with it; make a joke out of it if that’s what it takes. Be seein’ ya.” Flx had had his say, and as he sometimes does, he spread his gray wings and flapped straight through the window, not even asking me to open it first. Guess he couldn’t wait to see that hood ornament.
“Well, Moses,” said Pap Redding, settling himself at the table nearest the lobby in the Bisque Cafe, “Am I missing anything at the Ritz- ah, the Winston- this week?”
“You’ll always miss something when you don’t come to the Winston,” said Moses, stirring sugar into his coffee. “But you really shouldn’t miss She Wore A Yellow Ribbon.”
“Yellow Ribbon? Is it a musical?”
“Nope. “A John Ford western, with John Wayne. He’s a cavalry officer; an old cavalry officer. Good title song, too.”
“Well, seein’ as how it’s John Wayne I’ll see if I can get there before it’s gone. How long will you have it?”
“Today through Sunday.”
“I’ll see what plans Mrs. Powell has. Seems you’re doing right well with the theatre.”
“Yes. Better than I expected, to tell the truth.”
“Well, they say promotion is everything. That big white motorcycle outfit was a hell of an idea. Although I guess it’s parked today.” He looked out the window at the cold blue winter sky.
“Yeah, it’s a little cool today for biking, but I’m goin’ flying this afternoon with your oldest boy.”
“Is that right? You a pilot?”
“Nope. Not yet. Just a student. Anyway, you’re right. The bike’s helped a lot, along with the other stuff. The Saturday morning kids’ shows haven’t done so bad. A lotta the kids come to town for the morning show, and come right back for the first regular show in the afternoon.”
Reba interrupted them briefly to take their orders. As she walked away, Pap asked, “How’d you feel about getting into another business?”
“Another business? What other business? I’ve just got this one where I can afford to think about something else every now and then.”
“Something’s come up that I think you’d be interested in. Not suggesting that you give up the Winston; hiring a good manager could free you up to do something else, if you’re interested. The money side of it, though, may be more than you want to take on, excuse my saying so.”
“Go on,” said Moses, his eyes showing white above and below the gray irises.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever met my good friend Harvey Fulford; he owns Hamm County Beverage, the beer and wine distributorship, over on Seventh Street.”
“No. I know who he is, but never met him.”
“Harvey’s my age; sixty-eight. He’s built up a very nice business over there, and unlike me, he’s ready to retire. The son who would’ve taken it over was killed in the D-Day landings on Omaha beach. So he wants to sell. I asked him to keep it quiet until you and I could talk. How’d you like to be a beer baron?”
“Depends. You’re talking about some pretty big dollars. Any idea how big?”
“The best part of a million.”
Moses looked at him silently for the better part of a minute, waiting for him to smile. He didn’t. “You’re serious,” he said.
“Yes, I am. I don’t joke much about money. I’d like to see you make this deal. It’s one I’d keep in the family if I could, but none of my kids are up to it. They’re all doing other things, it’s out of my line and frankly I think that you’re more of a merchant than any of them ever will be. If the money were available, would you be interested?”
“Yes. And thanks for thinking of me. I guess Acme Brands is the main competition.”
“They’re the only other player, with most of the big names. They’re owned by Zenith Brands in Atlanta. Harvey says he does about a third of their annual volume, around three-quarters of a million.”
“Does he owe any money?”
“Hell, no. It’s the closest thing there is in this town to a license to steal. Since Hamm’s a beer-and-wine-only county, people are going to drink a lot of beer, in good times or bad. All the distributor has to do is make sure they don’t run out.”
“So if I’m hearin’ you right, you’d like us to be partners. I run it and you bankroll it.”
Pap smiled. “That’s it, if we can work out the details. “Harvey would’ve taken my note for the full amount ten years ago, but now he just wants out, on a cash deal. So we’ll need a bank loan, which is certainly no problem.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward,” said Moses. “How do you see it playing out? You’ll pardon my saying so, but I wouldn’t want to end up being a partner with your estate. Where’s the point down the road that you’d want to get out of the deal, just as Harvey does now?”
“This time last year, I would’ve thought that it wouldn’t be an issue. My guess then would’ve been Ríni’d gotten her goddamn divorce and that you’d be my son-in-law by now. Apparently that won’t be the case; suppose I should’ve guessed it after she owned up to puttin’ that thing on your hood.”
Moses aimed a wry smile at him. “That wasn’t that big a deal. Once I realized all the trouble she went to in gettin’ it on there, and got over the fact that my new name around town was Bu-dick, and got the friggin’ thing offa there, I started to see the joke in it. Sorry for any embarrassment on your end, though.”
“Hell, son, I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s between y’all is between y’all. She’s her mother’s daughter. Well, anyway, since you won’t inherit my share as part of the family, we’ll need a buy/sell agreement to take care of our mutual interests. That way the surviving partner would own the whole thing. I have absolutely no plans to die any time soon, but we can take a look at how we’re doin’ in a year or two and adjust things as necessary. The agreement will let either of us buy the other out, or we could just sell it and take our profit.”
“I like the idea. And I appreciate your asking me to be part of the deal. But there’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If I’m going to run it, I’m going to run it. I won’t be asking your help, and I’ll appreciate your not volunteering it, beyond board meetings, that is.”
“Hell, son. You’re a good businessman. I’d rather you handled the headaches. If I’d wanted to run it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Come AWN, Jack; they’re prob’ly there already!”
“OK. Just a minute. Can’t drink this any faster; I ain’t gettin’ a headache just so you’gn go sniffin’ around for Trisha.” Jack sat at the counter in the cafe, a metal mixer cup and a glass of chocolate milkshake in front of him. Ricky Terrell spun slowly at his side, face toward the ceiling, eyes closed.
“Gonna’ dance with Trisha,” Ricky crooned to himself. “Gonna’ sniff her sweet hair. Put my arms around her, sweet little tits riit ’air. Tellin’ ’er I want her, that we could be a lovin’ pair.”
“You want
sump’m, Ricky?” Reba asked as she took the empty metal cup from the counter. “How ’bout a shake?”
“No thanks, Miss Reba. I’m just fine. We gotta get goin’. Come AWN, Jack.”
“Awright, den.”
“Where you boys goin’ in such a hurry?”
“Oh, nowhere,” Jack said, draining the glass and banging it down on the counter as he jumped from the stool to catch up with Ricky, who had run out of the cafe, through the hotel lobby and onto the street. “Thanks a lot, Reba.”
“Tell y’all’s little sweedarts ‘hey’, ” She laughed, watching them disappear up Main Street. That’s all about girls, she said to herself. They get that look on their faces even when they’re little boys. Chasin’ girls, even when they don’t know what to do with ’em if they ’us to catch one. Them little peters’re prob’ly stickin straight up riit now, just thinkin’ about gittin’ next to sump’m.
Jack caught Ricky at the corner, where he had pulled up and was dancing an impatient jig, waiting for the traffic light to change. The heavy midafternoon traffic on US 1 prevented his darting across against the light, which he desperately wanted to do. Turning to Jack, he asked, “Is my hair stickin’ up in the back?”
“Hell, yeah. Sides, too. Ol’ Trisha’s gonna take one look at you an’ run th’ other way.”
“Butt-hook!” The light turned green, and Ricky was gone, juking to the right to miss the bumper of a rust-mottled blue ’39 Dodge as it creaked to a stop.
“Butt-hook!” Jack shouted after him, laughing and running to catch up as Ricky’s lean, dark figure streaked ahead.
They ran past the front of Archer’s Market, the least well-kept of three grocery stores along Main Street with Archer in their names, each the property of a fiercely independent Archer brother. They hit the stairway leading to the space above the store at a dead run, slowing to a halt before the glass-paned door at the head of the stairs. Most of the glass surface was taken up by a piece of orange paper, on which bold black hand-lettering proclaimed
BISQUE
YOUTH
CENTER
The glass was also obscured by a gauzy white curtain, through which, around the edge of the sign, they could see activity, but couldn’t make out faces. “Shh!” Ricky whispered, putting a restraining hand on Jack’s belt buckle.
“What’re you waitin’ for? We ran all the way over here.”
“I wanta see if I can hear who’s talking.” Nat “King” Cole’s voice sang Mona Lisa over the muted voices and laughter inside.
“Ah, shit. Le’s just go in and see.”
“You were kiddin’ about my hair, right?”
“Yeah. Except it’s gettin’ gray now, waitin’ for you to open the door.”
“Butt-hook,” said Ricky over his shoulder, opening the door and walking in.
“Butt-hook,” echoed Jack, laughing. A large open expanse of marbly-green linoleum separated them from the three girls who stood around a dilapidated juke box at the far end of the room.
“Hay-eey,” said Trisha, drawing out the greeting to two languid, inviting syllables. She was tall, slim and under control, her dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She and the others were ninth-graders, just a year ahead of Jack and Ricky, but the year’s difference put them in high school, while Jack and Ricky, eighth-graders, still languished in the limbo of junior high.
“Hay-eey,” Ricky echoed, as they approached the girls. “Whachall doin’?”
“Nothin’ much,” said Trisha. “I liike that shirt.”
“Thanks,” Ricky said, smiling, his eyes fixed on her. The sonofabitch, Jack thought. They can’t resist that smile.
Terry Marsh, standing next to the juke box, looked in the boys’ general direction with mild interest. “Y’all wanta dance?” she asked, as “When I Fall In Love” faded away. She was, to Jack’s eye, almost a double for Diana Lynn, from the willowy, near-fragile physique to the sweetness of her smile.
“Play sumpm’ fast,” he said.
“You,” Terry replied. “I’ve put enough money into this thing.”
Jack walked over to the jukebox and looked at the titles. He pretty well knew them by heart by now; they only changed them for Christmas. He dropped a nickel in the coin slot and pressed E2, “Beg Your Pardon,” by Francis Craig. As it began, Phyllis Rogers, girl #3, moaned aloud. “That old thing again? It’s just music.” Her disgust came with a woeful, equine look.
“It’s for dancing,” said Jack, stretching out his hand to Terry. Her full, pleated gray flannel skirt flared as Jack spun her in a casual jitterbug. Her dancer’s calves, muscular and full under the skirt, fascinated him. She was so slim, almost skinny, except for them. They shared the floor with Trisha and Ricky, who ignored Mr. Craig’s rhythm, slow-dancing. She was slightly taller than Ricky, who used the difference to his advantage, whispering into her ear, then kissing it. She giggled, pulling back very slightly.
“Ricky,” she said. “Watch out. Miz Redding’ll run you off.”
“But she’s not here,” Ricky observed. I’d like to be kissin’ her ear, he thought. “Where is she, anyway?”
“Said she had to run home for a minute. She’ll be back any time now.”
“She leave you in charge?”
“She left us all in charge- of ourselves.”
“Then give yourself permission to come out on the porch with me. For just one kiss.”
She giggled again, pushing back from him as the song ended. “I swear I don’t know where you get the guts. Preston’d kill you if he knew you were kissin’ on me. My little next-door neighbor.”
“You gonna tell ‘im?”
“No, silly. But if you kiss on me out in public, it’ll get back to him.”
“J’you ever think he might get killed?”
“What?”
“Just don’t worry about ole Preston doin’ any killin’- he ain’t the type.”
“He’d do anything for me.”
“So would I.”
“Ricky, you’re really cute- but you can’t be my boyfriend. You know that.”
“Trisha!” Phyllis squealed from the Center’s battle-scarred sofa as she squinted into her compact’s mirrored lid. “You said you’d help me with this mascara, and I’ve gotta go in just a little bit. You can play with your neighbor boy any time.”
Ricky looked over at the sofa, shaking his head. “Goddamitey-dayum!”
“‘Scuse me, sweetie, but I did promise her,” Trisha said. “You know how Phyllis is about her looks.”
“I just know how I am about her looks. Scared to death.”
“Be niice. She had sump’m bad happen to her today.”
“What?”
“Don’t say anything. Charles Crawford passed her a note in English.”
“So what?”
“It had a buugah in it,” she said, giggling in spite of herself.
“Hm. Guess I know what her new nickname is. Hey, Jack. Ping pong?”
“Quarter a game, if you spot me two.”
“Awright, den.”
“Clear!” Moses shouted, echoing Gene Debs.
“Contact!” Gene Debs responded. Moses pulled the Piper J-3’s prop through, standing back as the engine sputtered, caught, roared briefly and settled into a lumpy idle. At his thumbs-out signal, Moses pulled the wheel chocks clear of the landing gear, tossed them out of the way and jumped into the front seat. Pulling the clamshell cockpit doors shut, he slipped the fittings of his shoulder harness into the buckle of his lap belt and closed the latch. The narrow bucket seat felt good under him; he was a pilot again, for the first time in more than a decade.
He had told Gene Debs that he’d had a few pre-solo instructional flights in J-3s out of Teterboro airport when he lived in New York. That had been long enough ago, he said, that he’d like to start completely fresh, as though he’d never had a lesson. “That makes two of us,” said Gene Debs. “You’ll be my first civilian flight student.” Moses had gone through the CAA’s ground schoo
l material for a private pilot’s license in a few weeks, and this crisp winter morning would see him in the air again.
“I’ll get the intercom installed in a couple of weeks; for now, it’ll be too damn noisy for a lot of conversation in the aircraft,” Gene Debs had told him. “We’ll cover everything that we’ll be doing on this flight now. After we do our pre-flight and start the engine, I’d like for you to try your hand at taxiing us into position at the end of the runway. We’ll do our run-up and power check, and I’ll take us off and climb out to five thousand feet. Then you’ll do some three-sixties in both directions; first shallow ones, then gradually steepen ‘em on up to forty-five degrees. You want to hold your altitude, and roll out gradually on the same heading that you began on. After that, I’ll demonstrate this aircraft’s stalling characteristics to you, first power off, then with the power on. Then you can try a few stalls and recoveries yourself, and we’ll finish up with some touch-and-go landings, first me then you. On this flight, I’ll always take over from you before we touch down. Any time that I wiggle the stick and say ‘I’ve got it,’ you just show me your hands so I know you know that I’m flying the aircraft.”
Moses gave the engine half-throttle to get the J3’s fat tires rolling, then eased it back as the aircraft began moving. He dabbed the left brake to turn out on the grass runway, taxiing down its left side to the eastern end. At the end, he turned the aircraft ninety degrees to the right, letting it roll to a stop before setting the brakes. As Gene Debs observed, he advanced the throttle until the engine reached 3500 rpm. He then turned the magneto switch from the BOTH setting to LEFT, noting a small drop in rpm, then back to BOTH, then to RIGHT, for a similar drop, and finally back to BOTH. He brought the power back to idle again, and moved the stick and rudder pedals through their full travel as a final check on their operation. “I’ve got it,” Gene Debs called, adding power to taxi onto the runway. He kept adding power as they lined up, and the little yellow aircraft, feeling the urge of its newly-fitted 140 horsepower Continental engine, picked up its tail almost immediately. They broke ground a few seconds later, and Gene Debs began a climbing turn to the left as they passed over the runway’s end.
