by Kirk Alex
“What would you like me to call you? Sometimes you act like a real idiot and that’s why I called you an idiot. What’s wrong with that? You wouldn’t clam up when I was trying to get information out of them. Can’t you see what imbeciles we have for neighbors? I can’t wait to become a success and move to Beverly Hills and get away from all these low-grade types around here.”
“You keep trying to change the subject and I ain’t goin’ for it. Fuck Beverly Hills. Ain’t nothin’ but a fantasy. They wouldn’t let no white trash move in noway.”
“Are you speaking for yourself? Because I’m not white trash. You may be. I’m not. I’m not the one who comes from a hick place like Flat Rock.”
“You don’t put me down in front of people, no matter who they are—niggers, wetbacks, chinks, punks, fags, muff-divin’ lesbo skanks—and make me look bad. Any other man would have punched you out by now, and you know it, bitch.”
“DO IT, THEN! YOU’RE NOT EVEN MAN ENOUGH, YOU IDIOT!”
Roscoe went for it. Had had enough. Slapped her with his right and watched her about to topple to one side. He figured by giving her a backhand just as hard it would take care of that and keep her upright, only Petunia reeled with enough force that sent her spinning into the kitchen. She got to the broom closet, grabbed at the nearest handle (that turned out to have a mop head at the other end) and went after him. Whacked him across his back a couple of times. And when in her opinion that hadn’t been enough, she was off and running into their bedroom in search of the .38 revolver, and not having much luck locating it.
CHAPTER 266
The Crusts were unlocking their front door. “Those two are like a pile of dog crap. Kind of sneak up on you. By the time you know it’s there, it’s too late. Already got your foot in it.”
“If you got dog dip on your shoe, Harold, it’s because you ain’t looked where you was walking.”
As soon as they entered their home, Fay went directly to the color tv set. Turned it on in search of a religious program.
She found the UHF station she wanted: silver-haired televangelist with pale white skin and beady red eyes (like that white girl’s rabbit across the street) who looked like an undertaker in the dark suit he had on, was asking for help, the kind of help only donations can buy. Tithings. “If you contributed once this month, you can contribute twice this month. For we are truly in dire straits, friends. Give it up for Jesus, our Lord and Savior—and you will be blessed many times over.”
Harold looked at the set and it was enough to make him ill.
“I try to get along. What’s wrong with that? You’re the one always saying we should be neighborly.”
Harold’s wife didn’t respond. She was already lost in a world of her own, a world that just about allowed enough room for the beseechings and occasional homily blaring from the color set and not much else.
“Got to keep both eyes open around some of them white folks, though. They be friendly on the outside just like that turkey on that idiot box right there, but hatin’ your black ass on the inside.”
He wished right then he could have had a drink, just a taste of Jack Daniels, a Jack and Coke, but those quacks, the butchers who had cut him open had been strict about that: “No booze, Mr. Crust; no substance abuse and no cigarettes—unless you want more trouble.”
Greedy no-accounts, Harold thought. Yeah, cut him open like a sardine can. Zip him back up. Wait. Ain’t enough. More money to be made there. Stick a pacemaker in the nigga.
He knew he should be more forgiving. Fay was right about that. But it was not easy. Yes, health insurance paid for most of it. That wasn’t the worst of it. The scars would never let him feel whole again.
What right did some of these bad apples who worked in these hospitals have to cut folks open like him for no reason at all? Why weren’t these butchers being watched when they got hooked on toot and smack and reported to somebody? What about their “substance abuse”? “You have to be more forgiving, honey,” Fay was always trying to remind him. “Be grateful for the time you got left.”
Harold was in the kitchen, drinking cranberry juice from a glass. Looked at his wife. Immersed in what she was watching. She’s all right, he thought. God bless her. She’s all right. Was lucky to have her—and he knew it. Anger ain’t gonna help your pump none.
CHAPTER 267
Two evenings later Marty Roscoe and his wife were pulling up in their driveway with a carload of groceries. The faint buzzing sound of the electric saw could be heard coming from Biggs’s place as the Roscoes carried their groceries inside.
Not only was the refrigerator door annoying to deal with (in that it would not close properly unless one remembered to lift up on it) as she had mentioned it to Marty on more than one occasion by now, but there was the buzzing sound next door, buzzing and loud music—at this rather late hour.
When would they ever have any actual peace and quiet around here? True peace and quiet and harmony? When? This was a rhetorical query, as usual.
Marty opened a box of dog biscuits and tossed the Lhasa apso and the Boston terrier a couple of biscuits each. He took a can of Coors to the living room with him, shoved a Hulk Hogan wrestling tape in the VCR, and lowered his backside into his La-Z-Boy recliner.
He could hear his wife griping about something or other. Acted like he didn’t. Wanted no part of it. Instead, wanted one thing: to relax. See a couple of bad-asses kick some major butt. He’d looked at this tape a few times by now, but a good match you could see over and over. These were men who could take punishment as well as dish it out, unlike the Hollywood movie sissies he had to deal with when selling them props for their fake movies. Stallone and Schwarzenegger and Steven Seagal. Give me a break. And, oh yeah, that other peckerwood: Jean Claude Van Dummy. Fucking blow monkey.
“The bulb in the refrigerator is out again.” He could hear his woman’s voice cut through the ring announcer’s opening.
“Can’t be. I just replaced it last week.”
“It’s the door. I keep telling you that’s what causes it. Replacing the bulb isn’t going to solve anything. Isn’t it about time you did something about the refrigerator door?”
“What’s the matter with the door now?”
“The same thing that was the matter with it last week and the week before that and the week before that: It-Will-Not-Shut-Properly. Meanwhile, all we’re doing is wasting money on bulbs.”
“Lift up on it. All you gotta do. Stays closed every time. Problem solved. No reason to fret over it.”
“Sure. Only it’s not always easy to remember. Next thing you know milk is spoiling twice as fast as it’s supposed to. Not to mention all the other dairy products we have in there. Not to mention good money spent on bulbs.”
“Put a sign on the door, then. Works for me.”
“Sign on the door?” Sounded like she was talking to herself momentarily. “Half-ass measures may work where you come from.” Her voice back to its normal level, in that it was louder than it needed to be. “Why not, instead, tend to the problem the way it ought to be done?”
“I’ll look at it.”
“When?”
“When I get a chance.”
“When will that be?”
“When I get a chance.”
“Not only is this emotionally draining, but you are absolutely exasperating.”
“Told you before. You didn’t want to hear it.”
“You told me what before?”
“Should probably buy another refrigerator.”
“With whose money?”
“I give up.”
Roscoe cracked the top on his beer, and took a pull.
“It would be nice if we had a man around here who got off his ass and did a few things. Why get rid of a perfectly good refrigerator over a slightly defective door?”
Marty Roscoe had another pull. Turned the volume up on the wrestling match.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“It’s a used refrigerator to b
egin with. They fall apart—like humans. What do you expect? Either that, or tape a sign to the door, like I said. It won’t kill you to pull up on the door when you close it. That’s my two cents.”
CHAPTER 268
Although a couple of inches shorter than Hogan, the Macho Man was getting his licks in. Son of a bitch had biceps on him like tree trunks. So did Hogan. Fucking twenty-two-inch “pythons.” What he liked to call them. Eventually Marty would like to have arms that big. All he had to do was keep drinking beer and taking those little blue pills.
This is what it was about, though, two bad-asses beating the shit out of each other. No better way to unwind and kickback. If she would only let him. There was always something bugging her, a problem she found too annoying to let go. Woman never knew how to relax and take it easy. One of these days she would end up in a mental ward or with bleeding ulcers, or worse.
Petunia had no idea how to chill out and let life take its natural course, no matter how often he reminded her. Didn’t take much for him, though. Grabbed a beer, some peanuts or potato chips, and sat back while two tough ol’ boys hammered each other half to death. The more violent it got, the better he liked it.
All he wanted right now was to enjoy the match, do a few curls, if only she would let him. He reached for the fifteen-pound dumbbell that sat on the carpeting on the right side of his chair. Did half a dozen curls. Lowered the dumbbell, then grabbed the one on the other side of his chair. Repeated the amount of curls.
“You hear that, Marty?”
Roscoe swallowed more beer. Shoved peanuts in his mouth, unsalted. Unsalted was best for you. Salt was no good. Then again, neither was Fruit Loops. Fruit Loops was a guilty pleasure. Like some “strange” whenever possible.
“Marty?”
“Hear what? I don’t hear nothing. All I want right now is to see Hulk Hogan kick some righteous ass. Randy’s got it coming to him.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t hear that sound?”
“You hard of hearing? I just told you I don’t hear nothing.”
“It’s a buzzing sound, like one of those electric saws used for cutting wood.”
“The hell you want now? Let me relax, will you? You’ll get wood and it’ll be good. When I’m good and ready you’ll get plenty.”
Petunia spun toward him. Red-faced and fuming.
“Damn you! You do this to me on purpose!”
“What’d I say now?”
“You are deliberately pushing my buttons! You’re driving me crazy! That’s what you’re doing to me! You know exactly what you’re doing to me!”
“What the hell is it with you now?”
“The buzz! Didn’t you hear the buzz?”
“I told you you’re hearing things. Now cut it the hell out and make dinner. I’m hungry. Take care of your husband like a good wife.”
“Rednecks are all the same. I bet even Ziggy’s got a higher IQ.”
“Don’t call me a redneck, bitch.”
“YOU’RE DRIVING ME NUTS! AND DON’T YOU CALL ME A BITCH!”
“You wuz born nuts. That noise you keep hearing s’been in that imbalanced head of yours from day one. Ever since you wuz born. You’re unstable.”
“I’m warning you, Marty. You either get yourself a real job within the next two weeks, or you are out on your ass. Let some other fool out there supply you with beer and home-cooked meals.”
“Home-cooking? What’s that?”
“You’re out of line, mister. I’m through supporting your slacker ass. Furthermore, I’m seeing the lawyer first thing tomorrow morning. I want you out of here.”
“I contribute; you know I do the best I can. Is it my fault the studios ain’t making any period pictures right now? Most tv shows are on hiatus. Soon as it picks up and they start needin’ all them props I got I’ll have real money. I always paid my way, Petunia. Nobody can accuse me of being a slacker.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m seeing Bernie Schnitzel first thing in the morning. I have had it to here with you.”
Marty Roscoe figured this would be a good time to mellow out, and speak in a softer tone of voice.
“You don’t mean that, babe. Got a major swap meet coming up in Saugus in about a week. Always make decent money there. You didn’t mean what you just said: You’re not seeing a lawyer?”
“Like hell I don’t mean it. You’re useless to me. I bust my ass working forty-five, fifty hours a week in that lousy supermarket and all I get is crapped on when I get home. I don’t need this shit from you.”
“All right. What started it all? Could be you heard something. I’ll check it out. Ain’t no law that says the man can’t work on his home.”
“At ten o’clock at night? You tell him the racket had better stop or we call the cops on the bastard.”
Roscoe finally got up from his comfortable chair. There would be no other way but to go next door and talk to the so-called bishop.
CHAPTER 269
He was at Biggs’s backyard fence. Kicked at it until he had five or six pickets loosened and then completely knocked off. He squeezed through. Walked to the man’s front door and used the brass knocker in the shape of a crucifix.
Banged away with it. After awhile Biggs’s sidekick was sticking his nose in the four-by-ten-inch slot.
“I’d like to have a word with the preacher.”
“He busy.”
“He best get un-busy real quick. It’s like this, Buck: my old lady is having a meltdown on account all this noise been goin’ on at night. She wants to call the law on you people. Get me?”
Marvin listened to this, and slammed the slot shut. A moment later Cecil Omar Biggs was sliding it open.
“What’s the problem?”
“My wife’s unhappy about the racket.”
“Just doing some repair work: building a dog house, remodeling the pulpit; general repairs.”
“Figured it was something like that, only the woman is nagging me to death about it. Threatened me with divorce unless I talk to you about cooling it at least at night. That’s a sweet deal I got going with that nutty lady and I don’t want to blow it. Can you understand where I’m coming from?”
“No problem, neighbor.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Slot was shut. Front door opened. Biggs tossed some keys to the sidekick.
“Unlock the gate for him, Deacon.”
“No need. I’ll go out the same way I come in.”
“Wait a minute. It makes no sense for me to keep repairing my fence if you insist on undoing my repairs.”
“How else was I going to get to your front door if you keep your gate locked?”
“That gate stays locked for a reason. We like our privacy and wish people would respect that.”
“I respect it.”
Marty Roscoe walked off in the direction of the backyard. The deacon made it down the overgrown path going through the keys on the key ring. By the time he had the lock on the gate unlocked, Roscoe had already returned to his property using the gap in the fence he’d created earlier. Biggs cursed under his breath.
“Should put up an eight-foot chain-link fence all around, with razor wire on top. That would keep him out, and other vermin like him.”
“Yo. That would do it.” Marvin locked the gate back up and tossed the keys to him. “Essept that take’ coin.”
CHAPTER 270
Marty Roscoe was in the kitchen reaching inside the refrigerator for the beer he’d need to wash down the tv dinner that waited for him on the dining table. He grabbed the poor excuse for a meal and made it back to his La-Z-Boy and the wrestling tape. Hogan was pummeling the Macho Man. Roscoe dug into his grub. Stuff wasn’t half-bad when you had Coors for a chaser. His wife’s eyes had been on him from the moment he got back. She had followed him to the living room and couldn’t wait to point out the unfinished beer he had left on the coffee table.
“I’ll get to it.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Sure did.”
“So how did it go?”
“How’d it go? It went.”
“What did he say?”
“For some reason that strange son of a bitch gives me the heebie-jeebies every time I look at him. Ever had that feeling? Like lookin’ at something evil, like lookin’ at pure evil. . . .”
“And you got nerve to call me loony.”
“I know it don’t make much sense—the man bein’ a preacher and all—”
“The man is an oddball, Marty. How many times do I have to say it?”
“He’s still a preacher.”
“Bullshit.”
“That house he lives in is a church. They got trustees, a deacon, the whole damn thing. Harold and his wife met them. You heard them. He’s still a screwy son of a bitch. Got weird eyes. Ain’t never seen a man with eyes like that. Them eyes got no life to ’em; like they ain’t even human eyes. . . .”
“What did he tell you he was doing over there?”
“Building a dog house.”
“Building a doghouse? This late at night?”
“What difference does it make when he does it? You’re beating a dead horse, woman. You asked me to go and talk to him and I talked to him. Let me relax.”
“They don’t even have a dog anymore. What’s he need with a dog house?”
“How should I know? Maybe he wants to get another dog. Ever think of that?”
“All I’ve got to say is the noise better stop or I complain to the authorities. I’ve had it. It’s been going on forever. For Christ’s sake, how long does it take to build a dog house?”
“For crying out loud, honey, drop it. He stopped, didn’t he?”
“He’ll start up again, I know it. Like the creep always does.”
“Ain’t you got some lyrics to write?”
“Since when do you give a damn about that?”
“Don’t start with me again. I like your lyrics. What happened to that last batch you was working on?”
“They turned them down. Every single song. You know they turned them down. Rejected.”
