Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

He sips his own warm beer.

– OK, but it’s worth something, right? It’s got to be worth something.

Jeff looks at the kids.

How’d he end up with this crew hanging around? Wouldn’t have happened if George hadn’t been delivering pills for his aunt last summer. First time Bob Whelan’s kid showed up on his porch with a baggie of ludes, he just about shit his pants.

Truth is, if he hadn’t been tripping three days straight and desperate to crash, he never would have let the kid in the front door. Not that there’s anything especially wrong with scoring off a high school kid, just, you know, Bob Whelan’s son? That’s begging for trouble. But, man, he’d needed those ludes something desperate. Turned out the kid’s mellow as hell. Totally solid. No chance that kid’s gonna lose his cool and say the wrong thing around his dad, let him know what he’s up to. Bob probably wouldn’t mind the kids over here, but he’d flip if he knew about the pills. Found out Jeff scored off his son, it would not be pretty at all.

Yeah, George is definitely a chip off the old fucking block. But he doesn’t have a clue what his dad was like back then.

’64 to ’68, they had themselves a time. Might still be having a time if Bob had handled things a little different. Well, that was then. Dude turned grim after he had the second kid and took the job at the quarry. For awhile he was still looking to party on a Friday night, blow a joint, go down to the Rodeo Club have a couple drinks and some beers. Then he stopped coming in at all.

Now? Say hi when they cross paths at the gas station or something, but haven’t hung out for years. Too much baggage. Too much water under the bridge. Something like that.

But blood is blood. Whatever went down, whatever trip Bob got into with grinding the 9 to 5, his kids haven’t bought in. Close your eyes around George, sometimes you’d swear you were hearing Bob talk. Got that thing, that easy mellow, makes people listen to what he has to say, makes people trust him. Fucking gift, that is.

And once he got his foot in the door, the others just seemed to squeeze in after him.

His brother is just a total spaz. Where that weedy little braniac came from is a mystery. Couldn’t be more different from Bob. Cindy, she was a smart girl, a real bookworm, but hard to see a chick that hot having a kid that geeky. He is a trip. Picked up that copy of The Tao of Physics and whipped right through it. Took Jeff the better part of a year to read that.

Hector’s cool, too. Knows more about rock and roll than any other Mexican. Tried to bring some of that punk shit in here and play it, turn him on. Fuck that. Loud and hard is loud and hard, but you got to know how to play your fucking instruments, sing a little, man.

They’re all OK kids. Why shouldn’t they hang here, play his albums, have a place to bring a chick every now and then? Long as they sometimes bring their own bottle or a couple Js, it’s no big deal.

Paul’s the one spends the most time here.

Cuts classes so he can come around and work out with the DP weight bench on the porch. Hangs around and passes tools while Jeff tries to get the 240Z running. Hell, come home from the Club some nights, find the kid crashed on the shredded vinyl easy chair out front. Middle of last winter the first time it happened.

Came home drunk as hell, weaving the pickup all over the road, ran over that old bitch’s toy fence across the way. The chick he was with screamed when she saw Paul on the porch. Sweatshirt and a patched Levi’s jacket, arms wrapped around himself, hands stuffed in his armpits, curled up and passed out in the chair. Tried to slap him awake and send him home, but he was out. Chick felt sorry for the kid, made Jeff bring his ass inside. Next day he woke up around two, chick was gone along with twenty two bucks from his wallet; Paul was outside pulling weeds. Next time it happened he wasn’t passed out, just asleep. Kicked him in the foot, asked him if he wanted to crash inside. Kid said he was cool on the porch if it was OK. Told him to get his ass inside. Found a sleeping bag and put him on the floor. Kid’s wearing one of Jeff’s Harley caps right fucking now. Weird. Kind of like having a little brother when you never had one your whole life. ’Cept he’s not. Just some kid needs a place to hang and get out of his own house. And, shit, who the fuck doesn’t know what that’s like?

He finishes his beer and balances the empty can on top of the overflow erupting from the garbage bag under the sink.

He looks at George, over there leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

– How’s your dad?

George shrugs.

– He’s cool.

– That right? Your old man’s cool? He get to be cool all of a sudden?

George scratches his armpit.

– He’s fine. You know, work. Whatever.

– Your mom?

– Same.

– Uh huh.

Andy’s still picking fuzz from the carpet.

– That right about your folks, that’s what they’re up to, working?

Andy rolls his head back.

– Yeah, you know. Work. Dad’s doing stuff in the yard. Tearing it up. Mom wants a rock garden.

– Rock garden.

Jeff thinks about their mom. Cindy Hunt. She’d been a piece of ass. One of those smart hot chicks. Did they make out that one time? Shit, can’t remember if that was her or that other chick. Rock garden. What the fuck happens to people?

Hector is flipping through his albums.

– Your pop, what’s he, still at the quarry?

Hector keeps looking for something recorded later than ’75.

– Disability.

– How’d that happen?

Hector flips past Grand Funk Railroad and Jefferson Airplane and The Average White Band.

– Had a front loader drop a couple tons of gravel on his leg and got put on disability.

– What’s he doin’ now?

Hector pushes the stack of records back together with a thump.

– Sitting around taking painkillers and drinking wine.

– There’s worse things.

– If you say so.

– I say so.

He pokes Paul in the shoulder.

– What about your dad, what’s up with him?

Paul plucks at the pull tab on top of his can, playing the “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” guitar riff.

– I’uh nuh.

– He’s still teaching, right?

Paul twists the pull tab back and forth, trying to tear it free.

– Hey, man, wake up. He teaching, yeah?

Paul wrenches the tab loose.

– Yeah, whatever, he’s teachin’, what the fuck, that’s what he does.

Jeff picks up the wad of chains.

– So, safe to say none of your folks know about this shit.

Nothing.

– Safe to say they’d be pretty pissed, they ever found out.

Nothing, all of them just watching the floor, waiting.

He hefts the knot of chains a couple times on the palm of his hand. He thinks about his shitty minimum wage job with Security Eye and the cash he just dropped on a rebuild kit for the Harley’s carburetor. He thinks about if Bob heard he helped his kids hock some hot jewelry.

– Yeah, they’d be pissed. And if I get involved in trying to move this shit, they’ll be more pissed at me. And the cops, they’d be really pissed at me and hit me with receiving and possession of stolen shit and contributing to the delinquency of minors and all that crap.

Paul puts down his empty can and grabs at the chains.

– So fuck it, we’ll get rid of it ourselves.

Jeff pulls his hand back, still full of gold and silver.

– Get rid of it yourselves. This much shit, get busted is what you’ll get.

He puts the chains on the counter, out of Paul’s reach.

– I know a guy. He moves stuff sometimes. Buys shit. I look at this, I think I can get him to come up with a hundred, maybe. I’ll take twenty percent for setting it up, leaves you with twenty bucks each.