Ferret convinced the guys to start the night at the old elementary school, now called The Teacher’s Lounge, where they’d turned the gym into a bar after closing the overcrowded, falling-apart school. They were building a bigger one a few miles away, but it was more important to get the money from the drinkers than build the school first. So the kids were in temporary trailers, bunched up tight next to the construction site. At recess, the kids played twenty feet from heavy machinery and diesel fumes. Thank God Ferret’s daughter didn’t have to go there. But he didn’t really mean it. The reason he drank at the school in the first place—one of the non-stripper bars if you didn’t count the near-naked waitresses, was because being there around the chalk dust, the scoreboard, the old speakers high on the walls converted to a stereo system—it all reminded Ferret of his girl, Violet, who had just finished first grade. Dee Dee had a thing about “V” names. The next one, should there be a next one, would be either Vivian or Victor. Ferret was hoping, for Dee Dee’s sake, that one was enough. She didn’t handle stress well, and if it wasn’t for her parents living in the same city, he would have had a hard time leaving her by herself to raise even one. Not like he had a choice. As soon as he told Dee Dee he’d taken the job without asking her first, she thought of it as a betrayal. There was no way she would move all the way across the country where she didn’t know anybody. This was all on him.
He bellied up to the already three-people-thick wall at the bar, fought through and eventually bought a round of the most watery beer they had for him and the Russells because Pancrazio had already disappeared, trolling for enough pussy for each of them. If he ever did find some, most women had to be paid just to come sit, talk, and drink. Not talking about prostitutes here. That’s the way it was, so few women, so many men, highest bidder got some company, even if it didn’t lead to fucking. Even though Pancrazio knew Ferret wasn’t interested in cheating, it didn’t stop him from trying to find the type that would make him fall.
The guys stood out in the middle with their eyes peeled, waiting for a table to free up. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of Ferret barely able to hear while Good Russell bitched to both of them that he was going to knock some guy named Blub off the fucking derrick with a fucking joint if he kept up the shitty job—two weeks and still had no idea what he was doing. Most of those guys washed out early. But Blub kept fucking up and fucking up and when would he get the hint? Or when would someone get hurt?
The table, two girls, four guys, started to clear out and Bad Russell got there just as the last guy stood up. Bad Russell slammed his glass onto the table, and that last guy sat back down again, gave Bad Russell a dirty smirk. “We’re not done.”
“Nuh uh.” Bad Russell shook his head. “Go have fun with your friends. Mine now.”
The Russells had enough of a rep in town that the guy pretended to laugh like he could take either Russell, but got lost quickly. They sat down at the table, which was stained with barbecue sauce, and watched the crowd. Ferret always asked himself the same thing on these nights—how is this more satisfying than being back at camp? It wasn’t, but too many days at camp made a man’s skin feel itchy somehow. A night out cured it long enough.
The Russells kept at it, their work week sounding much more like that reality TV show about Texas wildcatters than what Ferret had been through. Ferret thought about Dee Dee and how to get her closer to him, physically and mentally. They’d never been this far apart before.
*
Dee Dee was also the reason Ferret ended up working at a shipyard back home instead of heading to Nashville with his band. He was the guitarist. They had sold out bars in Mobile and Pensacola all the time, and were even asked to play with some country superstars when they needed an opening act around the South. They’d had a damned good shot. Dee Dee, pregnant with Violet, made him choose. What the hell could he say, right? The girl didn’t want a country star’s lifestyle. She preferred staying home and she got nervous around crowds of people, even around the other guys in the band. She was—what’d her mom call it? An “Optimistic Pessimist”—absolutely sure everything was always going to suck.
He had been laid off at the shipyard, didn’t have a clue what to do next. Some buddies were talking about the oilfields in North Dakota, about Alaskan crab boats, about pyramid schemes, about running weed from Houston to New Orleans. He had mentioned the oil thing to Dee Dee, and she barely looked at him. Said, “How do you expect to make that work, Finn? Are you just...leaving us? Are you tired of me?”
That was silly. The only things he could see different about her than the day they met were about fifteen pounds, shorter hair, and glasses. He really liked the glasses, and he loved the curves. Freckles. Full eyebrows. Bubble cheeks. He still wanted her more than anything. But this anxiety in her that seemed to creep higher every year, he didn’t know where it had come from. She wasn’t like this when they dated, or she had hid it well. It was so gradual, he couldn’t remember exactly when it first reared its head. But no matter how hard a time he had, he couldn’t imagine it driving them apart.
Next day, Ferret’s father-in-law had called, asking him to come into his auto parts store, a franchise branch he owned. Maybe see what they could find for him to do. Made him sick in the gut. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to wear a tie to meet him. It was Dee Dee’s dad, for fuck’s sake. Old Spice body splash and a blue dress shirt that was a bit too tight, khakis too loose, and brown shoes that he’d worn to church twice a year for eight years.
Dee Dee’s dad, Lee, was pretty beefy for a guy going on sixty. His franchise was on a corner lot, nice and clean. Inside were fluorescents and white slick tile floors. Everything was in boxes or molded plastic containers. Too clean, that was what Ferret always thought about these joints. Not like the hardware and auto parts stores where his grandpa had taken him when he was a kid—rebuilt alternators on wooden shelves next to the shiny new ones, streaks of oil on the floor, smudged fingerprints everywhere. Didn’t matter how much the man tried to put on a clean front, Lee’s store stank of grease.
As soon as he had stepped into the office, Ferret could tell this would be bad. Lee sat and waved his hand towards the other seat, which was eighty percent duct-taped. “Finn, young man, glad you could make it.”
The desk was an old sixties industrial model, with a row of unboxed car parts next to his computer monitor, some small, some big, all pristine. Ferret settled in.
“Thanks for seeing me, Lee. I told Dee Dee it’s a bit premature.”
“Mm hm.” Lee wasn’t even looking at him, checking his email.
“We’ll be fine. No urgency. If I quit I don’t get the severance, so—”
Done with his computer, Lee swiveled and picked up a spark plug. “What’s this?”
“Spark plug.”
He put it down, picked up a different part. “This?”
“Brake pad.”
Surprised. “Good, good. And this?” Another part, larger.
Ferret got the picture. Goddamn it. “An alternator. Look, is this—”
“Great, three for three. Dee Dee said you weren’t up on cars. I didn’t expect that, you being a country boy. Don’t country boys like cars?”
“Like to drive them.”
“But you don’t know how they work? I mean really work.” Lee shook his head. “You waste so much money when you can’t fix the simple stuff. Can’t change your own oil. Jesus.”
Ferret had heard it plenty before at dinners, barbecues, and Christmases. Lee would never just say what he was thinking—that Ferret was less of a man because he didn’t mess with tools and cars. Instead, it always came across like the older man was teaching his son-in-law, right? Making him stronger. More like Lee.
Lee held up a round rubber strip.
“That’s a belt.”
“Yeah, but what sort of belt?”
“I don’t know. I thought you only needed one.”
“Well, okay, the newer cars, but what if someone came in and asked for belts for
a classic? What then?”
“I’d look it up.”
“You’ve got to know.”
Ferret snapped his fingers. “Serpentine belt.”
Lee dropped the belt. “Are you listening?”
“I know if someone comes in asking after an old belt, they probably already know the name of it and the part number better than I would, and then I look up what they tell me.”
Lee rubbed his temple, looked down at his desk. “That’s not the point. I’m trying to explain.”
“Is this a test or a job interview? Because if you want to quiz me on shit, maybe I should get out of your hair and go find a real job, okay?”
Lee looked up. Then at the other two parts on the desk. Ferret didn’t know either one of them. He guessed one was some kind of filter. When Lee spoke again, it was flat and cool. “If you want the job, it’s yours. But if you want more, I can help. You could be a manager here one day.”
Ferret wanted to take the alternator and bash it through the front window. He wanted to tell this asshole where to shove his clean, greasy-smelling store. Wouldn’t Dee Dee love that? Wouldn’t she?
Ferret sniffed. “I’m sorry. It’s hard, you know, losing your job—”
“Don’t think of it like that. You’re gaining an opportunity.”
“Okay, okay.” Every day, eight hours, under Lee’s wing. “Thank you. I’ll take it. I need a couple of weeks.”
Lee stood. “Sure, sure. Not a problem. Tell Dee I’ll call her later.”
Another handshake. Ferret knew the man would be on the phone to Dee Dee a minute after he left. He’d get home, say, “Your dad said—” and she’d say “I know.”
So what Ferret did was head over to the library and start looking up as much as he could about the North Dakota oil jobs, and called about one right then and there. Then he went home to an overjoyed Dee Dee, making some brownies for him, Violet wrestling with their Boston Terrier, Bean, as he yipped and squirmed. Dee Dee babbled on about how nice it would be, Finn working with her dad and maybe even taking over the store one day, but then she looked up. She could tell by his face that he’d made a different choice, and that’s when it all went to shit.
*
Ferret had drunk one too many, and he knew it. The Russells were like bottomless pits when it came to beer. Ferret got dopey after his third. And the noise in this joint put the drills to shame. The speakers were mostly blown, blaring, and the styles kept switching—Alan Jackson then Kanye then Nickelback. Pancrazio finally showed up again, invited them to a table full of local nurses, all of them smoking, some of them still showing off the hundreds he’d given them for their time. Their beers had olives in them. Pancrazio immediately headed for the one who looked like she led the pack. Pretty in make-up, probably harsh without. The dress was thin enough to show her lavender bra. Dirty blond, probably mid-forties. The one next to her, she was Ferret’s speed. Goddamnit, Pancrazio. The driller leaned over and spoke into her ear, and she was checking Ferret out, most certainly. Twentysomething. Jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. Straight brown hair and glasses. Bashful.
Fake bashful. Ferret could see right through it. Pancrazio had to have told her, “Play coy with him. Get a few more beers into him, too.” Jesus. It was like his boss looked at him like some sort of challenge, see if he can get the married guy to trip up.
Good Russell said, “Did Pancrazy tell you he was a war hero?”
That got coos from the women, although Pancrazio looked as if he wanted to strangle Russell. Ferret hadn’t heard about this. Wasn’t he too old for Afghanistan? Too young for Vietnam?
Pancrazio cleared his throat. “I’m no hero. I did my part because they asked me to.”
Another nurse, toothy with tall hair, asked, “Which war?”
“Bosnia.”
Hardly any of the women except Pancrazio’s choice blonde even knew where that was. Africa? Was it an island? Or, “Wasn’t that Muslims?”
The bashful girl leaned close to Ferret’s ear. “What do you do?”
He’d lost track of the other conversation, so might as well talk to her. No harm in talking. “Whatever they need me to. I help set up the drills, the platform.”
“Sounds hard.”
She put some emphasis on hard. Leaned closer. Ferret looked around the bar, crammed full of guys looking for pussy, and here was this girl trying to give it to the one married guy who didn’t want something like that on his mind. Seriously, he’d been getting more offers in Williston than he ever had with his band.
He asked the nurse, “What’s your name?”
She held out her hand for him to shake. “Sam.”
Ferret shook. She wore a purple birthstone ring. He couldn’t help but glance down. She was wearing flip-flops. A toe-ring. Jesus.
“I’m Nick.” First name that came to him, the singer in his old band.
She had gotten closer to him as they’d talked until their thighs were pressed against each other. She had turned her chest towards him. Ferret noticed Pancrazio staring at them, seemingly having more fun doing that than picking up his own warm body for the night.
Ferret swirled the last drops of beer in his bottle and climbed off his chair. “I’m going to get another.” This was where he was supposed to ask if anyone else wanted one, but they were busy and didn’t notice and he didn’t want to get the next round anyway.
Sam said, “No, let me.” She reached for the bag on the back of her chair, but Ferret waved her off. Her beer-with-olives was still half-full. She put up a finger and curled it like come here, and he did. She said, “Can you get me a Lemon Drop?”
He sighed, nodded. Ferret thought about disappearing. Sam wouldn’t care. She’d made a cool hundred and could land another before the night was over. But that wasn’t really what Ferret was thinking. He was thinking about the next workday, Pancrazio giving him shit, calling him fag, and sticking him with shitty, petty jobs all shift. Pancrazio had done this before—the Thai stripper from L.A., the eighteen-year-old from the all-night Walmart self-checkout lanes, and Betty, who delivered UPS to the man camp.
Goddamn Pancrazio. Ferret had actually gotten Betty to his room—break those rules, son—and gotten his tongue in her mouth and his hands down the back of her work shorts before coming to his senses and telling her it was a mistake, sorry about that and all. She had given him a sad grin, a nod, and a “See you around.” Weeks later, he still went out of his way to avoid the UPS truck.
Ferret weaved through the people standing around the bar, saying “Scuse me” but doubting anyone heard him. He was bumped around like the turbulence on his flight up north. He went to the Men’s Room first, bypassed the line for the stalls and the crowded trough-style urinal, and found an empty sink. He ran cold water and looked at himself in a mirror so cheap that it was like looking into tin-foil. His ears were bright red and hot. They got like that when he drank beer. He cupped his hands under the tap, then rubbed water on his face and slicked some over both ears. Then he let some run into the mesh of his Sonic Drive-In cap, the one he had borrowed from his dad eight years ago. It was a moment to himself. A little bit of relief from the heat, the crowd, the whole damned waste of time.
Back in the bar, something bass-heavy rattled Ferret’s eardrums. He didn’t mind loud, but he had liked it better when he had been playing with his band. He found a spot at the rail, leaned over on both elbows. What he wanted was a Diet Coke. One of those tasted real good after a few beers. He was done drinking for the night. He looked down and saw the two bartenders working the other end, and he settled in for a few minutes of waiting. Time to stare at the bar—cheap wood, stained brown, pounded together in a hurry. It had seen lots of spills, lots of salt, and bits of napkin turned to cement all over it.
The guy on Ferret’s left who kept backing into him was not a field guy. One of the higher-ups, but not much higher. Ferret knew the type from down South—rich enough, clean from his Baptist haircut all the way down to his fingernails, but entitled and dismiss
ive and a typical all-round asshole who thought he had a friend in Jesus and the company president. Ferret ignored him, even though whatever story he was telling was getting louder and made him keep pushing into Ferret, who didn’t have much room to go anywhere.
Despite all the bumping and grinding, Ferret finally got his order in, getting a smirk from the bartender. Diet Coke. Right. She charged him five bucks for it. He picked up the cup from the bar, and that was when the beige-shirted Baptist beside him stepped back and made Ferret get his feet tangled up and spill half the Coke on the bar, and he had nowhere to go but the guy on the other side of him, apologizing as he tried to smooth out the guy’s work shirt. But the Baptist looked over his shoulder and shouted down at Ferret, “Do you mind?”
Ferret shook Coke off his fingers. “Just trying to get my drink.”
“No need to stand so fucking close.”
“Hey, just getting my drink.”
Ferret picked up his empty cup and took the napkin beneath, tried to wipe the stickiness off his hand. But the Baptist had turned to face him, and his two friends watched, grinning, looking bored enough to take this where it didn’t need to go.
“Let me get you another.” The Baptist slapped his hand on the bar and shouted Hey at one of the bartenders. The same young woman, midriff T-shirt one size too small, came back and smiled. The Baptist flirted like he had a shot—seriously, she had to be thinking Ass the whole time. He held a ten folded between two fingers like it was dog biscuit. She sneaked a glance at Ferret and raised her eyebrows.
The Baptist got Ferret a plastic cup of beer and handed it over. Hadn’t even asked what he wanted. “Thank you, really.”
“No hard feelings. Not from me.” The Baptist reached out to shake his hand. Ferret had to switch the beer to his other one. The guy gripped too hard and shook Ferret’s whole body, making the beer spill all over his hand and drip onto the floor. The Baptist hopped back. “Hey, watch the shoes.”
Worm Page 2
