The Shotgun Rule

by Charlie Huston

  None of it in the cards. Thirty five. A woman like this. Sons like these.

  They’d been taking bets on him fifteen years ago, most people who knew a thing about him would have had theirs on prison or a coffin. And it would have been safe money.

  The Rocky Mountain High Incident

  – Eurythmics, Culture Club, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode and the Talking Heads.

  – I like “Psycho Killer.”

  – I know what you like, man, it’s my fucking list and those are the five gayest bands in the world.

  Hector rips open a bag of Doritos.

  – There’s not really anything gay about Talking Heads.

  Paul grabs the chips from him.

  – Just because you like one of their songs doesn’t mean they’re not gay.

  George holds out a hand and Paul passes him the bag.

  – I’m with Paul on this one, the Heads are pretty gay. I mean, what’s up with the big suit?

  – Fuck cares about the big suit, listen to the music.

  Andy peels back the lid on a can of bean dip.

  – I think Hector likes them.

  – Fuck you. You don’t even have a list. There’s no music too gay for you.

  Andy gets a chip from the bag and scoops a wad of dip.

  So he likes a lot of music, big deal. Course, the problem isn’t liking all kinds of music, it’s liking mellow music. Not just a track like “Behind Blue Eyes,” which rocks toward the end, after all, or even instrumentals like “Orchid,” but really mellow shit. Jackson Browne. Journey. John Denver. Paul caught him listening to Denver once. Would have been better if he’d walked in on him jerking off.

  For now he needs to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise the Rocky Mountain High Incident will be mentioned and harped on for the rest of the night.

  He dips another chip and rolls a four sided die on his notepad and writes down a number.

  Hector holds up a hand and checks off fingers one by one.

  – The gayest bands are. Culture Club.

  George flips another page in the Monster Manual and looks at a picture of a fire elemental.

  – Culture Club goes without saying. At this point we should really be doing the gayest bands other than Culture Club and Duran Duran.

  Paul has moved and is sitting next to him on the bed, looking at the pictures over his shoulder.

  – Fuck, that’s cool. That’s what I want to be. Andy, I want to be a fire elemental.

  – You can’t.

  – Fuck can’t I?

  – There’s no stats for them. I’d have to make it up again and it takes too much time. I’ll give your character something with fire that’s cool.

  – Cool. Thanks.

  Andy thinks about fire, he thinks about fire as a weapon and what it would be like to burn someone, and he sees what it would look like. He shakes the image away and rolls the twenty sided die.

  At first he fought when the guys wanted to be monsters and shit, stuff that Dungeons amp; Dragons isn’t designed for, but then he realized it was more fun that way. The more they ignored the way the game was supposed to be played, the more fun it became for him. Chaos.

  He thinks about fire again, about fractals and how they can describe a natural phenomenon like fire. He thinks about whether there is a difference between what is random and what is chaotic.

  Numbers arrange themselves for him and he writes them down.

  Hector starts with his first finger again.

  – Fine, no Culture and no Duran and Paul can’t be a gay fire elemental. The five gayest bands are Devo, Depeche Mode, Flock of Seagulls.

  Paul hits his own forehead.

  – Hugely gay. The Flock. How’d I miss those cocksuckers?

  – Wham.

  – Massively gay. Again, how’d I miss that?

  – And Phil Collins.

  George slaps the Monster Manual shut.

  – Not a band.

  Hector stands up.

  – You know, I don’t even care. He’s so fucking gay and his music sucks so fucking hard he has to be on the fucking list.

  Paul takes the Monster Manual and flips it back open, looking for the fire elemental again.

  – I’m still so stunned by Fuck a Seagull and Wham, I don’t think he even needs Phil. You can D.Q. Phil and that is still the gayest list ever.

  He nudges Andy with his toe.

  – What say?

  Andy writes a number for armor class and looks up.

  – Mondo gay. Hector clearly knows his gay. His gayometer is in fine working shape. His recognition of gayness is noteworthy and admirable. All hail Hector, King of Gay.

  By gayometer Paul and George have already fallen out laughing. They’re helpless long before King of Gay.

  Hector holds his hands above his head.

  – So be it, King of Gay. Still better than being Mellow Lad, like John Denver over here.

  Andy laughs and writes something on a paper and holds it out.

  – Here’s your character, Hector, King of Gay. He has a plus five to find gay.

  One arm held out straight, Hector spins in place.

  – Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Slowing, stopping, swinging back in the other direction, bringing his arm down toward Andy.

  – Beepbeepbeep. Beeeeeeeeep!

  Pointing right at him now.

  – Cool, it works. Guys, I just found some gay.

  It’s another half hour or so before they get started, spread around the room, Diary of a Madman in the tape player, the last of the bottle of Jack that Jeff bought for them making the rounds.

  Andy doesn’t remember how they ended up playing the game with him. Somehow, one of the days they’d started by fucking with him about it had ended with them playing. George had probably had something to do with it. Leading Paul and Hector from messing with him into letting him show them something new. And now they play just about every week. Getting stoned while Andy takes them through a new dungeon or a haunted forest or whatever. Playing until they get bored and just start saying I hit it with my battle ax every time they run across something that breathes.

  – I hit it with my battle ax.

  – I use my flame sword.

  – I find its gay.

  Andy starts dropping the geodesic dice back in the little leather bag he keeps them in.

  – When do we meet Jeff?

  His head stuck out the window so he can smoke, George holds up a couple fingers.

  – Two. He’ll drive us over to check out the house.

  Paul crowds next to him at the window and takes the smoke from his hand.

  – We should just hit it tonight.

  – Let’s take a look first. Could be a dog or it could have an alarm or some shit. You know how to do anything with an alarm? Cuz I sure as shit don’t.

  – But if it’s cool, we should rob it tonight.

  – The guy wants to pay us to do this shit, man. Let’s be cool.

  Hector squeezes next to them and takes the smoke.

  – Yeah, let’s do it when he says. Two bills for that shit we had. I want more of that.

  George gets his cigarette back, takes the last drag and flicks the butt, the cherry trailing over the neighbor’s fence.

  – That’s the point, man. If he can do this, tell us what houses have good shit, and he’ll buy it from us? I don’t want to fuck it up. Jeff says the guy says it’ll be empty tomorrow night. We’ll just take a look tonight. Make sure it’s not too sketchy.

  Behind them, Andy’s eyes scan the dungeon he designed earlier in the day, mentally crossing off the rooms the guys have already traversed, the hazards survived, the riches plundered. More monsters and fewer traps next time. The guys like fighting more than they like figuring things out.

  The Sketchy House

  Hector hears the screams from the side of the house.

  He wraps the chain around his hand and punches the plate glass door. It shatters, shards raking his forearm. He reache
s down and flips the lock and pulls his arm out. He yanks on the handle and the door jams against the length of 1×2 he’s forgotten about.

  He throws rabbit punches at the glass, widening the hole.

  The screams stop.

  Someone is coming into the livingroom.

  – Yo, Hector.

  He stops punching the glass, stands there staring at Timo.

  – Hector, I ever tell you what a piece of ass your little sister is?

  Hector hits the glass again, spattering it with his own blood.

  Timo is laughing.

  – Keep coming, I want to talk to you about her. You pop her cherry yet? Or your old man beat you to it? Hope not, I’m looking forward to that shit. So far all she gives up is tit, but I’ll be in her pussy in a week.

  Hector kicks the glass, the hole is almost big enough to get through now.

  Timo points at something.

  – Hey, yo, what’s that?

  Hector sees the reflection in a hanging shard of glass just before Ramon limps up behind him and cracks him in the back of his head with his crutch.

  The Rule of Shotgun

  The pickup starts.

  Jeff rolls out of the trailer park and pulls up at the QuickStop gas pumps. The gas is eight cents cheaper in the middle of town, away from the freeway entrance, but the guys here know him and won’t give him shit when he leaves the engine running while the gas pumps. Let it die and it may never start again. He puts five bucks in the tank and heads out, a tallboy in a brown bag between his thighs.

  A little breeze blows through the open windows and cools off the cab. Fucking Security Eye and their polyester uniforms. Couldn’t they at least throw down for something made with a blend, something that might breathe a little? He uses his left hand to undo the buttons all the way down his front, exposing his sweat stained T.

  He swigs the beer.

  Should be at home. Sitting on the porch, finishing the rebuild on that carburetor. Should be getting the Harley back together so he can ride and not have to worry about the pickup starting, not have to worry about if he’s gonna have to take the bus. Instead, gotta pick up the kids.

  Damn it, Geezer. Fat slob doesn’t have enough guys around he can get to rob his houses for him, has to get these kids involved?

  Oh well, not like he can really do anything about it. Gonna tell Geezer how to do his business? Gonna tell the kids to knock this shit off and tuck in their shirts and go to class? Geezer’s gonna do what he wants. The kids are gonna do what they want. Everybody’s gonna do what they want, just like they always do. Everybody’s gonna do this shit, no reason why he shouldn’t help out here and there and make a few bucks himself.

  But shit, gotta be tonight? Really want to get the Harley on its feet.

  He pulls the pickup to the curb, finishes the last of the beer and drops the bag and the can out the window and lights a smoke.

  Little fuckers best not be late.

  – Hey, littering makes the Indian cry. Don’t you watch TV? Ain’t you seen the Indian cry when people litter?

  The pickup lurches as Andy and Hector climb into the bed.

  George strolls up, bends over and picks up the beer can.

  – Crying Indians, man, that’s no joke.

  He holds out the can.

  Jeff takes it from him.

  – You guys high again?

  – The word is still.

  – Yeah, well you’re still a punkass without a car. So get your ass in and let’s go.

  George sees Paul about to pull open the passenger door.

  – Shotgun!

  Paul flips him off.

  – Fuck you, I called it on the way over here.

  – You can’t call shotgun until you see the car.

  – Since when?

  – Forever, man, that’s always been a rule. No early shotguns.

  – It’s a gay rule.

  George comes around the truck.

  – Hector, what’s the shotgun rule?

  Hector sits on top of the wheel well.

  – Got to see the vehicle in question, man.

  George reaches in the back of the truck and pokes his brother.

  – Andy?

  Andy is on his back, looking at the sky.

  – It’s the rule. The only rule standing between us and the savages. It keeps the forces of chaos at bay. Scorn not the rule.

  Paul starts to climb in the cab.

  – Fuck chaos. I called this shit right after we climbed out the window. You can see the street from your window. You look, you can see your window through the trees. I called shotgun when we could see the truck.

  George blocks him.

  – You can see it. But did you see it?

  – Man, are you splitting hairs with me on calling shotgun?

  – Hey, you heard Andy, man. Chaos. You want to risk chaos?

  Paul moves George’s arm from his way and gets in the truck.

  – Dude, I’ll take my fucking chances.

  Jeff looks at both of them.

  – You ladies settled? Got that one all worked out? I just want to know so I can keep track of the gas I’m burning here so I know what to charge your asses for the taxi service.

  Paul closes the door.

  – Shotgun. It’s a complicated issue.

  George boosts himself into the bed of the truck and stands behind the cab and slaps the roof.

  – We ride!

  Jeff drops the empty beer can back in the street and pulls away.

  – Fucking kids.

  Andy raises his arm, pointing at the stars.

  Calling out.

  – Daring chaos by breaking the eternal rule of shotgun, they set out on their journey.

  On the dark street off North L, Jeff drives the truck past the house, letting the kids get a good look. It’s just another crappy house in another run down neighborhood. A couple lights are on. There’s a streetlamp out front. Second time around the block Jeff dumps all the kids except George at the corner. George lies on his back in the bed of the pickup with the pellet gun Jeff dug out from behind the seats. He pumps it until it won’t pump anymore. Jeff stops below the streetlamp, and George draws a bead the way his dad taught him years ago when they shot his grandpa’s old.22 in the fields beyond the 580. The gun pops and the lamp goes black and Jeff pulls away as glass showers the street. They pick up the guys and go home.

  Why doesn’t he come home?

  He stays out all the time. But tonight of all nights, why doesn’t he come home?

  Kyle Cheney sits in the livingroom, his back to the front door, TV tuned to NBC. The Tonight Show was on when he nodded off, but now it’s only a cloud of static. All the lights are off. The scene is set. But his son won’t come home.

  He’s at George and Andy’s.

  Where else would he be.

  That’s where they always end up. He watched them exit the trailer park, weaving their bikes back up the street, knowing where their next stop would be. After they disappeared he let himself go back to the QuickStop, ignoring the pints and half pints behind the cash register this time, going to the back where the proper bottles are. And then discovering he was 27 cents short. Having to dig through the change in the loan a cent on the counter. Sweaty, counting pennies out of the green plastic dish, the look from the Middle Easterner behind the counter.

  Then heading for home and realizing he couldn’t park the car in front of the house. If there was any chance of the boy coming home before midnight it would be ruined if he thought his father was there.

  Parking the car two blocks away. Walking with the bottle in a brown paper bag, cradling it in the crook of his arm so it would be less visible.

  People, nosy people, butting in.

  Waiting. Sitting on the kitchen counter, peeking out the window, waiting. Waiting doesn’t work. And it’d be worse if Paul found him like that, desperate like that. He got cleaned up, took a shower. Ate a Hungry Man. A few bites, anyway. Thought he should get the car, de
cided not to.

  Maybe Paul will look out a window over there, late, see the car missing, wonder what’s wrong, come looking for his father. Like any son would.

  He needs not to be desperate when that happens. In control. Relaxed. In the livingroom, watching TV, back to the door, not concerned.

  Don’t let him know anything. Not until he goes to the bathroom and opens the toilet and sees the note. Then he’ll be scared. Then he’ll have to listen to what his father has to say.

  When he comes out of the bathroom and sees his father with the bag of methamphetamine sitting right next to him? Paul will understand everything, without being told.

  He reaches for the brandy bottle on the floor, misses, gets it on the second try, opens it and takes a drink. His eyes want to close again. It’s the brandy. Too much today. Normally he has it under control. It’s just that today was so stressful. Finding out your son is involved with drug dealers is stressful. Who wouldn’t need a few drinks? The problem, the problem now, is to stay awake. Can’t let the boy see how upset you are, but you also can’t have him slipping in and out while you’re asleep. Time for a little self discipline. He puts the cap back on the bottle and puts it down.

  The TV hisses.

  And his son doesn’t come home. Doesn’t see the missing car. Or sees and doesn’t care.

  Yes, the trick will be not letting Paul know how much he cares. He wipes the tears away, hiding the signs.

  Date Night

  – Mijo, where have you been? All night. All night.

  Hector bends and kisses his mother’s cheek.

  – I was at George and Andy’s. I told you yesterday, Ma, I spent the night like I told you.

  – No, mijo, you didn’t.

  – I did.

  She turns from him and stirs a pan of refried beans.

  – No, Hector, you didn’t tell me. I didn’t sleep. All night I didn’t sleep.

  – Ma, I told you.

  – No. You did not tell me. You did not. Do not lie to me.

  – Ma.

  – You tell me you told me, that is a lie. Lying to your mother.

  – What did he do?

  Hector’s father stands in the open door of the kitchen, leaning on his cane, his bathrobe hanging open over his belly.