Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

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, decided 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.

– 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.

– What did he lie about?

She crosses the kitchen to him.

– Nothing, nothing, mi amor.

She puts a hand on his arm and tries to guide him to the table.

– Sit, I have your breakfast, sit.

He shrugs her off.

– I can walk. Leave me, I can walk to the table.

She smiles and nods and backs away toward the stove.

– Amor.

She starts filling a plate with beans and tortillas and a few links of Brown ’N Serve.

– Hector, take this to your father.

Hector takes the plate and a fork and a paper napkin and sets them on the table.

– You been lying to your mama?

– No, Pop.

– Bring me some water.

Hector fills a glass of water from the tap and takes it to the table. His mother keeps her back to them, tending the pots on the stove.

– Here, Pop.

His father takes the pills from his robe pocket and hands the bottle to his son.