Joe Lansdale - Bad Chili

“Shit,” Brett said. “There’s this special on poisonous toad frogs in the Amazon tonight. How in hell could they be envious of us, knowin’ that’s comin’ on?”

“You know, you’re right.”

“They finish that, we’re still busy, they can switch over and watch the life of that shit O.J. Simpson on Biography. Sounds to me they got a pretty full evenin’.”

“You’re right again.”

“’Course, I have to go to work, so it doesn’t matter much. We got to quit fuckin’ sometime. ’Course, I’m not tryin’ to say it has to be right now. You want to see you can lower the bald man into the canyon one more time?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

We tried to make love again, but this time we weren’t as successful. Oh, all right – I wasn’t as successful. The bald man was tuckered out. We laughed about it, kissed, got dressed, went into the living room.

Leon was asleep on the couch. Clinton was lying on a pallet, his head propped up on pillows. Leonard was sitting on a chair drinking a Coca-Cola. They were watching an old detective show.

“Lazy, rainy day,” I said.

“Man, ya’ll must have been playin’ Monopoly,” Leonard said. “Long as y’all were in there, you had to be.”

“Monopoly?” Clinton said. “I like that game. We could play to pass time.”

“I was kidding,” Leonard said.

“I do have a Monopoly game,” Brett said. She went to the closet and dragged it out.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You get to playin’ that, you might could get distracted too easy.”

“Naw,” Leonard said. “It’s okay. It’s not that engrossing.”

I went to the window, pushed back the curtain, and looked out. It was rainy and dark and the day was dying on top of it. I could see lightning shimmering against distant clouds.

Soon Brett would be heading to work, Leon and his. 45 with her. Me, I had a late job interview at the LaBorde Fowl Processing Plant for a night watchman job. My application had yielded some interest in the way of a postcard. I had called and a night foreman named George Waggoner had set up an interview.

I turned to Leonard. “What are your plans, Leonard?”

“Me and Clinton gonna play a little Monopoly, I think. Then I’ll go pick up some grub. I might stay the night, Brett don’t mind.”

“’Course not,” Brett said. “It’s good to know you’ll be here when I come home.”

“In the mornin’ I’m supposed to meet Jim Bob at my place, and so are you, Hap.”

“What for?”

“I called him earlier, see if he’d had any luck.”

“Well?” I said.

“He said he had some things comin’ together, he’d know better tomorrow, so we’re gonna meet in the morning. Nine o’clock, my place.”

“Good enough,” I said.

“You fellas think this wrestler really means to hurt me?” Brett asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m just being cautious. For a while.”

“How long?” Brett said.

“I don’t know.”

“And you really haven’t any idea if he means to hurt me or not, do you?”

“No.”

“You can count on one thing, though,” Leonard said. “It ain’t gonna happen. He ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

Brett smiled at him. “Thanks.”

Leonard nodded.

Brett looked at me. “You got that interview.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m about to leave… Didn’t you tell me to remind you to call Ella?”

“That’s right,” Brett said. “I thought I’d check on her. She called yesterday. She’s made up her mind to leave that thug Kevin.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“Me too,” Brett said. “I’m going to call, try and give her the moral support. ’Course, if he’s there, that won’t be easy. He sleeps a lot, though.”

“He work?”

“Some kind of shift where he’s on a few days, off a few days. He’s off right now.”

I gave Brett a kiss, told everyone so long, drove to the chicken-processing plant to check on the night watchman’s job.

“This is a costly operation,” Waggoner said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand.”

“There’s all manner of expensive equipment here. We even have the occasional business spies. People trying to sneak in here and get our secrets. That’s going to get worse, Collins.”

“You’ve actually had spies?” I asked.

“Couple of niggers hired by our competition, and I won’t even show the company the respect of saying their name.”

“What did these spies do?”

“They took photographs of our equipment.”

“No shit.”

“And of our chickens.”

“Doesn’t one chicken look like another?”

“Not when they’re raised the way we raise them. We slap the juice to them, Collins. We got the biggest, fattest chickens you ever seen. Big fat juicy drumsticks. That’s ’cause they don’t walk on ’em. Can’t. Our chickens can’t walk. We’ve bred them that way.”

“Hope you haven’t just given me one of your secrets.”

“No. That one’s out. Darn animal-rights people been all over our rear ends about that one. Let me tell you, Collins, we’re the envy of every chicken-processing plant in East Texas. Possibly Oklahoma and Louisiana as well. You can even throw in Arkansas if you want.”

“Why not,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I said why not throw in Arkansas.”

“Is that some kind of remark, Mr. Collins?”

“You said we could throw in Arkansas. I’m saying it’s okay with me.”

Shit, I thought, don’t do it to yourself, Hap. Waggoner is an officious, fat, rednecked prick in an expensive suit with a tie that doesn’t match, but hold back, baby. You need the work.

Waggoner studied me to see if I was being humorous. I could tell this was a guy didn’t like humorous. He saw humorous, he’d shoot it and fuck it in the ass and bury it in the chicken shit at the plant. That’s how he felt about humorous.

“We need a man who is willin’ to put his life on the line, if need be,” Waggoner said.

“For chickens?” I said.

“For the business, Mr. Collins. And yes, chickens. We take this business very serious, and I need a man who is serious.”

“I think I can be serious about chickens,” I said.

“No thinking to it, you are or you aren’t.”

“I can do the job, Mr. Waggoner. I can keep people out. I can patrol the area. And I don’t think there’s really that big a threat to the chickens or your industry from industrial spies, but I see one of those sonofabitches, I’ll be on him like stink on shit.”

“I’d prefer you not use that language, Mr. Collins.”

“All right,” I said.

“I’m a churchgoing man myself.”

“Which church?”

“Methodist.”

“Dancing Baptist.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s what they call Methodist. Dancing Baptist. You know, they’re allowed to dance. Baptist aren’t supposed to. Sometimes, they call Methodist Baptist that can read.”

“I’m not sure I care for that sort of thing, Mr. Collins.”

“It’s a joke, Mr. Waggoner. I’m a little nervous. I’m tryin’ to warm us up.”

“Well, you’re not. I don’t care for humor in job interviews.”

“Sure you’re not a Baptist?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You know, we got some other jobs here might be better for you. Chicken reproduction, for one.”

“Come again.”

“Chicken reproduction. We need people to help us stud chickens.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that. How would I stud a chicken?”

“I think you’re tryin’ to be humorous again, Mr. Collins.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Obviously, you would be required to stimulate the roosters and preserve their sperm.”