Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

But then she stopped loving it. Started saying things about it. As if it was wrong that a boy’s closest friend should be his father. That a father’s strongest friendship should be with his son. As if it were wrong.

Jealous is all she was.

And unreasonable.

She just could not listen to reason when he tried to explain it to her. Imagine, threatening to take his boy from him.

Nonsense.

Well, in the end it was her own fault. What happened was her own fault. No one told her to get so drunk and say those things and scare Paul so much he went running from the house. No one told her to go speeding off like a crazy woman looking for him. If she’d exercised just a little self control she never would have lost control of her car.

That had been hard. Explaining to Paul that his mother wouldn’t be coming home.

The look from the boy.

Like it was his fault.

The toilet tank is full now.

He lifts the lid from the seat and his fingers graze something and he flips it over and sees the plastic baggie held to the underside by a large X of white athletic tape.

And for the first time in years he knows just what to do.

– What about when they get out?

Paul snorts, blows smoke and passes the joint around.

– Get out? A crank lab in this town? They’re never fucking getting out. Something like that here, that’s like cheating at cards in the Old West. Hanging offense, man. They’re done.

Andy looks again at the paper spread across his dad’s workbench.

– Think Ramon’s OK?

Paul turns his back and walks to the other side of the garage.

– Somebody else please slap at the back of numbnuts’ head this time.

George slaps at the back of his brother’s head.

– Who gives a fuck if he’s OK, numbnuts?

Andy ducks, the slap glancing off the top of his head and sending his unwashed hair into his eyes. He tosses it back.

– I didn’t say I cared, I just asked if you thought he’s OK. That’s all.

Hector finishes counting the money they took from the Arroyos’ and sets it on the newspaper.

– Ramon is a psycho, man, kind of guy they shoot twenty times and keeps coming. Bullet in the leg means shit.

Paul points at the money.

– How much?

– Two fifty eight altogether.

Andy nods.

– Sixty four dollars and fifty cents each. Two of us get sixty five and give the other two fifty cents to make it even.

Paul takes a hit from the joint.

– Gee, I’m so fucking glad we have a rocket scientist here to do our math for us. Don’t know how us retards would have figured that out with the fifty cents and all.

Well baked, Andy giggles helplessly.

Paul hands the joint to George.

– Better keep this away from Mr. Lightweight. Looks like he’s over the edge again.

George hits the joint, watching his brother spaz helplessly, caught in a giggle fit that is clearly going the distance.

He passes the joint to Hector.

– I don’t know, man, I’ve been thinking about this. Maybe the secret, maybe the secret is to get him higher.

Andy is panting, shaking his head, tears starting to pop from his eyes.

Hector takes a hit, sucks the smoke in deep, holds the joint out to Andy.

– Take another hit, man, don’t listen to them, you’re handling this shit just fine. No, seriously, man, you got it all under control. Cops, teachers, parents, whoever, they’d never know you’re stoned out of your mind. Take another hit, go on, man, you’re fine.

Andy waves his hand at the joint, sides heaving, gasping through the giggles, in danger of pissing his pants.

Hector holds the joint up, strikes a pose. Eureka!

– He wants help hitting it!

Paul nods.

– Supercharger.

George nods.

– Definitely a supercharger situation.

Andy whips his head from side to side, tries to hold his hands up in front of him to keep them away, but clutches his aching sides instead.

– Nuhhhooo! Nuhooo!

Hector turns the joint around and puts the cherry inside his mouth, puffing his cheeks, while Paul and George take hold of Andy. He puts his face close to Andy’s and blows. A thick stream of smoke jets from the tip of the joint.

Andy wheezes most of it in through his flaring nostrils and gaping mouth, instantly choking.

They release him and he doubles over, coughing and laughing and sneezing, ropes of drool and wads of snot hitting the concrete floor of the garage.

George pounds him on his back.

– Don’t puke, man, that would be a breach of good taste.

Still bent over, Andy reaches back and slaps his brother away, the giggles fading as he gags a few more times.

Hector has taken the joint from his mouth. He blows some ash off the cherry.

– Looks like the supercharger did the trick.

Paul is laughing now, near silent hisses that slip in and out of his open mouth.

George looks at him.

– It’s catching. Lightweightness is catching.

Andy is straightening, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

– You guys are dicks, I thought I was gonna choke to death.

Paul slaps the toolbench, mouth still hanging open, tiny seal barks coming from the back of his throat.

George points at him.

– Supercharger, man?

Paul bends, puts his forehead against the top of the bench, banging his fist on the scarred wood, tears streaming.

Hector waves the joint in the air.

– He’s gone over the edge, man.

George bites his lip.

– Definitely on the dark side now.

Andy is at the sink that their dad uses for washing paintbrushes and their mom uses for bleaching things. He splashes water on his face, rinsing away the mucus around his mouth and nose.

– Man, he’s losing it, he may never come back. No wonder you guys laugh at me when I’m like that, he’s a mess.

Still bent at the waist, Paul lurches across the garage, shouldering Andy to the side and sticking his head under the tap.

George goes and stands right behind him.

– That’s a good strategy, wash that shit out of your system. Nothing like a quick shower to help reestablish some fucking self control. You want me to wash your hair for you?

Paul comes up, flinging his head back and shaking it from side to side, water flying and spraying the others.

– Oh fuck, man! Whew! Oh my God. I lost it, man.

He shoves Andy.

– You busted my shit up.

Andy grabs a dirty bath towel from the basket sitting on top of the washing machine and dries his face.

– Yeah, nice to know when I’m choking to death it’s good for a fucking laugh.

Paul snags the towel from him and rubs his hair.

– Fucking A right about that.

Hector holds out the joint.

– So who’s ready for another hit?

They all fall out, staggering into the open air and sunlight of the driveway.

Across the street, Mr. Marinovic comes out of his house and stands on the porch shaking his head at them. He walks down the cement path to the driveway and swings his garage door open and walks around the side of his ’78 Bonneville. Pulling into the street, he stops for a moment and watches them standing around their driveway, laughing and screaming and pointing at each other.

He rolls down his window and leans his head out.

– You should be working. It’s summer. Why don’t you have summer jobs?

The laughter stops. They all stare at him. The laughter starts again.

Mr. Marinovic rolls up his window, adjusts his rearview mirror, and puts the car in drive.

The boys watch Marinovic’s car turn the corner as they snort a few last laughs out their noses, shaking their heads, exhausted.

George walks to the curb and looks up and down the empty street. Paul joins him. A Cessna buzzes by overhead on its way to the municipal airport. It’s quiet again.