Charlie Huston - The Shotgun Rule

He watches.

When the stakes are all in and he’s walked over the whole yard and looked at the ground to make sure it’s even and flat and nothing bulges from underneath, Bob Whelan goes to the front of the house for a shovel and the wheelbarrow that are in the garage.

He parks the barrow next to the pile of rocks and starts shoveling.

George comes out of the house and gets another shovel from the garage. He tries a couple grips until he finds one that hurts a little less and will let him work with one thumb and half his right hand in a cast.

He starts shoveling rocks.

– When’d you do the rototiller?

Bob dumps a shovel load of rocks in the wheelbarrow.

– First thing, sunrise.

– Neighbors must have loved that.

– Job needed to get done.

– What’s that smell?

– Lye.

– That’s like acid or something, isn’t it?

– Put it down so weeds won’t grow and punch holes in the plastic.

George stops, tries a different grip, goes back to shoveling.

Bob points at his hands.

– You should wear some gloves.

– Won’t fit over the cast.

– On your good hand.

– I’m fine.

– Gonna get blisters.

– I’ll live.

George shovels, awkward by his father’s side, working hard to bury what needs to be hid, even if he doesn’t know it’s there.

Paul gets there first.

He stands in front of the benches, away from the Mexican family with their twined cardboard boxes, and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, scanning the sidewalk for a butt.

– Hey.

He looks up as George and Hector cross the street.

– Got a smoke?

George pushes his bike, going slowly so Hector, walking with his cane, can keep up. He leans the bike against one of the benches, drops Hector’s backpack next to Paul’s duffel bag and takes a fresh pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his Levi’s jacket.

– Here. For the ride.

Paul catches the box, slaps it into his palm a couple times and peels the cellophane.

– A going away present, you shouldn’t have. Fag.

He pulls one out and offers it to Hector.

– You allowed to smoke, Quasimodo?

Hector smacks him in the shin with his cane.

– Fuck you.

Paul gestures with the cigarette.

– Seriously, aren’t you supposed to avoid it? Isn’t there a risk of infection with all that shit?

Hector snaps his new silver teeth.

– Shit’s close enough to healed, just give me the fucking smoke.

Paul hands him the cigarette and lights a match.

– Careful you don’t burn your face, might end up uglier than you are.

Hector leans close to the match and lights his cigarette, the scars on his face livid.

– Least my scars came from a fight and not from picking zits.

Paul tosses the spent match.

– My scars came from your mom’s pussy hairs grinding in my face.

George picks at a loose thread sticking from the Scorpions patch on his shoulder.

– You guys are such a cute couple. You guys should skip LA and go to SF. Go to the Castro. I hear there are some cool bars in the Castro for guys like you.

Paul flips him off.

– I’ll go down there and tell all your boyfriends you’ll be in soon.

They smoke.

Hector looks at the family on the bench, catches the little boy staring at his face. He sticks his tongue out at the boy and the boy laughs and sticks out his tongue. His mother catches him and tugs his hair and whispers in his ear and he starts to cry.

Hector looks down the avenue.

– What time?

Paul pulls the schedule from his back pocket and runs his finger down it.

– Two thirty seven.

George kicks a rock into the street.

– Any trouble getting out of the home?

– Hells no. Fucking place. All the kids are juvies or head cases. Think the staff’d be more careful about who can go where and shit. Just raised my hand in group therapy and said I needed to piss and went and got my bag and jumped out the window.

George blows some smoke.

– Group therapy.

– Group bullshit. The counselors think they know shit. But they don’t. They keep saying about how you need to talk about shit. I keep saying, talk about what? Talk about what a dick my dad was and how happy I am he’s dead? Fuck that. They don’t know shit.

– My folks still want you to stay with us.

– That’s never gonna happen, dude. Counselors say for my own good I need a controlled environment. Just means they want me to say things they want to hear that make them feel better about shit before they let me live where I want to live.

– So say it.

– Fuck no. You say it. I stay, I’ll just be sitting around that place till I’m eighteen and they have to leave me alone. Why do that there? Won’t change what I do in the spring. Still gonna join up on my birthday.

– Not without a diploma.

– Fuck that. Don’t need to be a high school grad to enlist. Just have to pass the GED. They’ll sign me and let me take the test a couple months later.

Hector shakes a finger.

– Don’t forget to study.

– Who studies for the GED? I’m not a retard.

He pitches his butt into the gutter.

– ’Sides, gotta look after you, cripple.

Hector sees the bus come into view several stoplights down.

– Then get my bag, bitch.

George picks up both bags and brings them to the curb and dumps them at Paul’s feet.

Hector raps the tip of his cane against the pavement.

– What’s up with Andy?

– Home. Doing school stuff.

– Still not going to classes?

– No. Says he can finish quicker if he does the work on his own. Little fucker’s gonna be done with the whole year by January the way he’s going.

Hector checks the bus’s progress.

– Cool.

Paul picks up his bag and hefts it onto his shoulder.

– He know where he’s gonna go?

– No. Wants to work with me and my dad once he’s done. Until the fall. Then he’ll go to college wherever.

– He fuck up my bike yet?

– Not yet.

– He will.

– Probably.

– You tell him we’re going?

– No. I’ll tell him later. He just would have wanted to come down here. Probably try and sneak into your bag.

– Yeah, my nut bag.

The bus pulls up and squeals and hisses and stops and the door opens.

George reaches in his pocket and pulls out some cash and holds it out.

– Here.

Paul looks at it.

– What the fuck is that?

– Some money.

– Don’t want your money.

– It’s cool. I’m making plenty on weekends. This is what’s left from, you know, what Jeff gave us.

Paul picks up Hector’s backpack.

– Don’t want it.

Hector grabs the money.

– Thanks, man. Guitar money.

They move back as an old couple is helped out of the bus by the driver.

Paul watches the money go into Hector’s pocket.

– He remember anything yet?

George shakes his head.

Hector touches a scar that cuts across his upper and lower lips.

Paul spits.

– Good.

The Mexican family stands by as the driver stows their boxes in the luggage bay and then they file onto the bus.

The driver looks at the three of them.

– That all your bags?

Paul nods.

– Yeah.

– Want them down here or with you?

– We’ll keep ’em with us.

The driver slams the bay door closed and straightens and stretches his lower back.

– All aboard, then.

Hector puts his arms around George.

– Be cool, man. See my mom, tell her I’ll write her a card. Tell her I’m just tired of being in this town. Not gonna die here. Tell her I’m cool. Same for my sister.