Eric Dimbleby - White Out

He’s shook .

Shook because he thinks the world’s comin’ to a nasty end. I don’t argue with him on that. Tries to keep his voice real quiet-like, sort of like he’s out huntin’ wabbit , but it’s cause his son is sleeping on the floor, snoring like you wouldn’t believe. He says his kid is scared shitless what with not seeing his momma in so long. I know that feeling all too well. Not havin’ a momma is a terrible thing, same for not havin’ a Daddy. It’s been a long time since I had those.

On a side note… oh Momma , look at that Momma!

Every time I walk to the bathroom, I go right by a picture of the whole family. Mommy’s wearin’ something tight and black. Her boobies are pokin’ out just enough to get the mind reelin’, and I swear to Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples that I can see the shape of a nipple beneath that shirt, just trying to sneak out to say hello pardner , care for a lick?

She’s a looker, not like the usual barnacles that I get stuck to my zipper in gas stations, supermarkets, all those places you pick up easy broads with no morals. This girl here—this Momma—she’s grade A. Prime stuff, sort of like Christian’s whiskey supply. The shook-up twit don’t deserve her.

I’m a charmin’ motherfucker, in case you haven’t figured that much out yet.

I can’t wait to charm his wife. Chris says that the Momma’s gonna be home real soon, that she’s on her way. I can’t wait to meet her.

Kid showed me the stashes in the basement.

Christian is a dolt for letting me see this, and his son ain’t much brighter. He is one of those fellas that automatically trusts you. Those are the best kind of cons for wanderin’ men, because we don’t have to work too hard to get that golden goose egg when we want it.

The kid’s named Paulie and he don’t know shit about wanderin’ men. Don’t know shit about stallions. Mostly cause his father ain’t nothin’ more than a wet rag, hangin’ out to dry. This boy needs a role model and I won’t mind bein’ that, as long as his Mommy shows me proper respect when she gets home.

It’s time to settle in.

It’s time to settle up.

The kid’s sleepin’ for the night. Ol’ Chris Kringle and me are back in the bottle again, but he’s trying to take it easy. Funny thing, is that I’m trying to take it easy too. Need to keep my head straight tonight. We’re racing to see who can be the soberest for longest.

He keeps lookin’ at my shoulder, keeps askin’ about my wound. I can’t do this shit much longer. Somebody needs to shut his mouth up. Little while ago, he asked if I had seen Marianne from next door when I was out travellin’. Said he ain’t seen her in days. I know why, and I feel like if he keeps nagging me I might just tell him what I did to her.

I hand him back the bottle and I see he’s pretendin’ to swig. That ain’t working for Edgar, no fucking way.

“What do you say we find some shot glasses? Really make this cold go away, keep us warm.”

He says to me, “They say that’s just an urban legend. Alcohol just messes with your bloodstream and it doesn’t do anything to help you keep warm. It’s deceptive. That’s why people are always dying in hot tubs, because it throws off your blood, throws off your heart.” I heard that one before, but I still don’t believe it. This guy thinks he’s some kind of cocksuckin’ scientist and here I am, trying to do him a favor… trying to take away his pain. Ain’t that a bitch?

“I reckon. But it would feel nice. Sort of like we’re still human bein’s, you know?” I say, putting a sorry whine into my voice as I say this. Like I’m about to cry, but really I’m about to laugh because he’s falling for it.

“I know. I haven’t felt all that human in a while, not without Annie by my side.” His eyes get all big like he’s about to cry. What a loser. What a sap. I can’t bear to watch this madness, so I walk to the kitchen and fetch shot glasses from the cupboard. I already scoped out the place pretty good, which should make people on Chris’ end of the stick worried, but he doesn’t even notice, so wrapped up in his own shit. Maybe his ass is drunker than I expect. I sit back down with the shot glasses, placing them in front of us on the coffee table, filling mine halfway and Chris’ all the way to the tippety top. It’s too dark for him to tell the difference.

“You must love her lots,” I say. Listen to me. Love. That’s a riot and a half. Love is the biggest fraud anybody ever done created.

Love ain’t nothin’ more than two sets of genitals slamming together like a drum beat.

Love is a hot meal and total silence.

“I do,” he says and my heart just about explodes with rainbows and unicorns.

I change the subject because I don’t want to know too much about that pretty princess. She’s gonna be just like Christmas mornin’. I wanna leave some of it as a surprise. I can’t wait to see her come through that door. I’ll be so damned rock hard; I might not be able to contain myself. I almost make an excuse to take the lantern and walk to the bathroom, so I can have another gander at that sweet candy in the picture on the wall.

“Let me ask you something. You ever killed a man, Christian?”

He looks at me like I just told him I’m about to corn-hole his wife, which ain’t so far from the truth, mind ya’.

“I mean to ask because this thing is getting pretty far out, you know? What if somebody came into your house and attacked your family? You think you could defend yourself? I know you love your family, but how far would you go to protect them?”

I pour another shot for him, and he takes it. Maybe I’m getting at his nerves, making him think about all the bad shit that may happen. We take three shots in a row. I skip one altogether but he doesn’t notice. I guess my question really rattled his birdcage, cause he’s taking shots on his own now, no need for Edgar to push too hard on it.

“Yes, I guess I could kill if I had to. I’d do whatever it takes.”

“Good man,” I say.

“My family means everything to me.”

“Again, good man. Wish I had a pop like you growin’ up. Somebody to protect me from all the crazies out there,” I say, pointing at the window. Even though we can’t see through it for all the snow, he looks at the window, nodding. He knows about the crazies. He just don’t know how fuckin’ close he is to The Crazy Train itself. The poor sucker.

“So where did you grow up?” he asks me, wanting to change the subject again himself. I feel like he already asked me this, so maybe he’s trying to wear me down, trying to get me to slip up. I pour another shot and he takes it real fast. Motherfucker is on autopilot now, hip-hip-hooray. I pretend to take a shot, but he don’t notice. He’s too wrapped up in his own damn head.

“Here and there. Grew up on the road mostly, like I said. Started drinkin’ and acting a fool when I was real young.” I pause, looking at the fire.

Here I go. Ready?

“And in case you’re wondering why I asked, yeah, I killed a man once.” Once. Can you believe that? Sometimes, the best lies have an ounce of truth in them. This is sorta like the total freakin’ opposite of that I guess. Or should I say, I reckon . Christian trusts me when I get to reckonin’.

Another shot, down the hatch. I take one this time, since he’s way ahead of me. I need to feel loose, just the same as anybody else in this here situation that can become quite troublin’.

“Really?” he asks, his jaw opening to reveal a set of pretty white teeth, shining in the lukewarm fake-ass fire.