J. Osborne - Black Gum

Shane thumbed through the pictures in his phone. “Keeps me out of prison.”

Got a text from a number I’d never seen. I told them to meet me at the Cellar. I ordered a Natty Light and leaned against the bar. Few weeks ago they’d done it up for Halloween, rubber rats all along the back bar, skulls with light-up eyes and witches and a mummy in the corner. Taken it all down and replaced it with tinsel and a Christmas tree, but they hadn’t taken the time to get the cobwebs down from the cross beams and the chipped ceiling tiles. I plucked a wisp off my beer and balled it up and dropped it over the side of the bar.

Hank Williams on the jukebox. The old white folks roared and howled. The bartender sat on a stool with her legs crossed, engrossed in her phone.

I looked over at the thin man playing the slot machine in the corner.

“You winning?”

The man blinked behind his round glasses. “It’s not a money machine.”

I took a sip. “I’ve seen you pump a hundred dollars in that thing.”

The thin man pressed the red square. The slots spun on the TV screen. “Twenty maybe.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s my stress relief.”

I shrugged.

“You need some stress relief.”

“I got this eucalyptus candle.”

His face lit up. “Those are good. The three-wick?”

“The three-wick.”

The man nodded at me and pressed the button on his slot machine.

My customer pulled the heavy door back and stepped in. I could feel the cold all the way at the back. He weaved around the pool tables and the cowboy hats that turned one eighty to watch him take his seat and hold up a finger to the bartender.

“And I thought it was white outside.”

I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He took it and smiled at me. “Richard Beck.”

Beck paid for his beer and the bartender brought him a couple quarters back. He spun one of the coins and leaned back. “I feel like I’m about to be lynched.”

It had gotten quieter. I told him, “Let’s just finish our beers and we can head out to my car.”

He nodded.

We sat in silence for a long time. A talent show on the TV. Big girl belting something out. The jukebox quit and the bar was quiet.

Beck said, “She’ll never make it.”

“Nope.”

“America only has five seats in its heart for fat entertainers, and they’re taken up by Adele and Precious.”

I blew beer out my nose and signaled for another.

“What happened to ‘finish the beer?’”

“Oh shit. Sorry.”

Beck said, “Two whiskeys.”

The bartender handed us two beers. “Just a beer bar.”

“No liquor?”

She stared at him. “Well, it’s just a beer bar.”

I said, “I’ve seen tons of liquor in this place.”

The bartender’s eyelids went sharp and she put her hands on her hips.

Beck turned to me. “Bro, please.”

I began chugging my beer. Beck followed suit.

As we caught our breath we watched a man in a velvet tie-dye sweatsuit talk to a pool stick. Tipped his tie-dye cap back and rubbed chalk on the stick’s end. Still whispering to it.

Beck grabbed my shoulders in mock panic. “Save me from these honkies.”

We headed out into the snow and watched our feet.

Beck tapped my shoulder. “Sample.”

I gave him one.

He made a face. “Hate dry swallows.”

My car was parked in the alley behind the bar. We got in and I turned the car on and blasted the heater. I gave him the pills and he gave me a roll of twenties.

The speed started to take effect. He talked a mile a minute. He asked me if I rapped, and I told him no. He asked me if I knew anyone who rapped. I said no. He asked me if I had an Instagram.

I said, “I know what it is, but I don’t have one yet.”

He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “I’m gonna show you some shit, my friend.”

“I don’t really have the eye for it.”

“Hold up. Hold up. Check this shit out.” He held out his phone. “Scroll through.”

A picture of an Uzi.

“That’s my Uzi.”

“You put a picture of an Uzi on Instagram?”

“Hell yeah. I got my boy to set it up. It’s like, triple locked or some shit. He knows computers and phones and like, technology. It’s all good.”

I scrolled. Three men in ski masks. They didn’t have shirts on. They were standing in front of a table holding up several pounds of cocaine.

“Real shit.”

I scrolled. There was a video of five men beating a man. The man was holding his head and screaming at them to stop. They yelled back that this is what happens when you’re a pussy-ass bitch.

“Put that nigga in the hospital. Look at his shoe fly off! His shoe done ran for help.”

I scrolled. A woman fellated the cameraman. In the background, on a mattress, a girl lay prone. Several men stood over her. One man crouched behind.

I handed the phone back. “They’ll shut down your account for shit like that.”

Beck looked at me like I was crazy. “No one’s gonna report shit. This is like a documentary.”

“It’s very raw.”

“Straight raw, man. Everything on this earth is straight raw.” He glanced down at his phone. The video was still playing. He laughed. “This bitch needs better friends.”

There was a disc golf course down the road from Charlie’s house.

Shane tossed his disc and it went wide and hit a tree. The branches shook and ice sloughed off them to break on the hard snow. We gave him shit and he flipped us off.

“Can’t wait for those biscuits,” Charlie said.

“The biscuits are the best part,” I said.

“I’m not buying either of you biscuits.” Shane stepped aside so Charlie could throw.

His disc landed near the goal.

Shane frowned. “Shit.”

I geared up for mine. Did a couple practice tosses. I hurled it. It hit the very same tree and landed next to Shane’s.

“Maybe we’re both buying biscuits,” I said.

“We can’t both lose.”

We hiked down to our discs.

Shane said, “I ran into five-oh last night.”

Charlie’s eyebrows raised.

“Nothing happened. I was just going to sell. It was like two, two-thirty. When I got there cops were everywhere.”

“So you dipped?”

“I asked them what was going on.”

I blinked. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Charlie said, “You have got to be some kind of retard.”

I said, “What was going on?”

Charlie put his hand on Shane’s chest. “If you bring that shit to my house, I swear to god.”

Shane picked his disc up and brushed the snow off. “No one’s bringing anything to your house.”

I asked again: “What was going on?”

Shane tossed his disc. It landed wide. “I don’t know. Something about a guitar and nunchucks.”

Charlie’s house was packed again.

Same shit.

Shane looking at me, telling me, “I do believe we have gotten silly again.”

Me sitting with the two of them, going on about how we could take this even further. The money was good now, sure, but we could take it up a notch. Hire folks to do shit for us. There wasn’t a reason not to, I’d say.

Charlie humored me and Shane didn’t understand what humor was, same as most people who laugh too much.

He took me aside and told me, “I’ll work on it.”

A cheer from the garage.

A group of folks I didn’t know were out there smoking cigarettes and this big Samoan kid was hitting a punching bag so hard the damn thing went near perpendicular to the wall. He stepped away from it and said, “I’m a beast,” and we all told him he was a beast. A tweaker took me aside and started up. His girlfriend was pregnant and he was scared. “I’m looking forward to being a dad, I’m gonna be the best dad ever,” he said, “but I don’t know.” He bit the inside of his cheek and shifted from foot to foot. I tried to focus. He went on about his own father and how he wouldn’t do that, and I nodded and paid attention though my mind was thirty places at once.