Joe Lansdale: The Complete Drive-In

He was good in school, but he didn’t take any particular pride in that because no one gave a damn. He was knowledgeable about film, makeup and special effects particularly, but again, no competition. Bob and I loved that stuff too, but we weren’t wrapped up in it like Randy. So the only thing he could measure his knowledge and skills against were low-budget films, mentally playing out in his mind that he could do better if given a chance.

But the thing I remember best about that morning was Randy turning to me while all hell was breaking loose in the movie (admittedly the hell in the movie wasn’t as intense as it ought to have been), and saying, “Do you think Willard has a steady girl?”

“Hell, Randy, I don’t know. I’m sure he has girls, but I don’t think he’s the wearmy-ring kind. I think the tattoo on his arm, EAT PUSSY, is sort of a statement on romance, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Randy said. “I suppose so.”

After that he just watched the movie, but I could tell his mind wasn’t on it. He had a sort of dreamy look in his eyes, like he was thinking about something that lived way down deep in his brain.

About noon we ate some ham sandwiches and drove over to Safeway and bought some supplies for the night: Cracker Jacks, chocolate-covered almonds, potato chips, some Cokes and a few bags of cookies. Bob was supposed to get a case of beer; he had connections. Connections that bought it cheap and sold it dear, and didn’t give a damn if you were a minor or a warthog. In spite of that, Bob could deal with them better than we could. He dressed the way they did, could talk their line of talk, and the bottom line was he was so damn tight, when he blinked the skin on his dick rolled back. Just the man for hard money dealings.

He had also promised Randy and me that he would bring us some jerky from his dad, who had made it himself from last season’s deer. He’d given us some of it before, and it was fine. In fact, last time he’d given us enough to feed an army. Well, mine mostly fed my dad, even if it did give his teeth a workout. He loved the stuff, tried to convince everyone who came by the house they should too. My dad and Bob’s dad should have gone into business together. Bob’s dad could make it and my dad could hawk it.

I remember passing the kitchen once, and Dad was sitting in there at the table with one of his business partners, and he had pushed a strip of the meat off on him, and I heard the guy say, “I’m not so hot on this stuff, Harold. It’s kind of like chewing on a dead woman’s tit.”

From then on when I ate the stuff, I had to chew it in an absentminded sort of way, not thinking too much about the texture so I could enjoy it.

We took the goodies home, read some Fangoria magazines Randy had brought over, and Bob arrived an hour later than usual for our ventures.

Two things were noticeable right off. One was that the fool was fresh from the shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off; his shirt was stuck to his back and the hair that hung out from beneath his hat was wet and shaggy. The second thing was that he had been in a fight; he had a black doughnut around his left eye.

“You know that girlfriend I used to have?” he said.

“Used to have?” Randy asked.

“Yep, used to have. Caught her with Wendle Benbaker.”

Wendle was about the size of a small camper trailer. He had played tackle for Mud Creek High until graduation, and his hobby, when he wasn’t drinking beer and talking about girls, was talking about girls and drinking beer. He was the only guy I knew who moved his lips over the Playboy foldout as well as the magazine’s text. I think it was the staples that confused him.

And to be honest, Bob’s girlfriend, Leona of the Big Tits, didn’t strike me as any great loss. Her nickname was how she was known by the staunchest anti-male chauvinist, both male and female. She invited being called that, even liked it, thought it was an honor; she wore those monstrous boobs like war medals on a proud general’s chest.

“Reckon this discovery,” I said, “caused you and Wendle to fight.”

Bob rubbed his sore eye. “Good, Sherlock. You’re right. Jake was supposed to meet me out back of the Dairy Queen with the beer, and he did. But after I loaded it up, I saw Leona and Wendle sitting in his car around front. She was sitting so close she might as well have been wearing his pants with him. Burned my ass up. She told me she didn’t do nothing on Fridays but watch TV. Told me I could go with the guys, no sweat. Now I know the hell why. She’s been letting Wendle check her oil.”

“What did you do?” Randy asked.

“Went over there, yanked the door open and called him a sonofabitch, I think. I was a bit under stress right then and don’t remember so good.”

I nodded at the black eye. “And I take it he wasn’t scared none?”

“Not that I could see. And he can move fast for a big guy. Sucker popped out of that Dodge like a ripe zit and hit me in the eye before I could shag it.”

“Looks bad,” I said.

“You oughta see him.”

“You hit him?” Randy said, amazed. “You hit Wendle the tank?”

“No, but I damn sure got some oil stains on his pants. I mean I ruined them little buddies.”

Randy and I let that hang, trying to work it into the scheme of things.

“Oil stains?” I finally asked, as if I were delivering the cryptic line “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane.

“When he knocked me down, I crawled under his car and he crawled after me. Some car had been leaking oil there-Wendle’s, I hope-and he got his white pants all nastied up. Covered both knees. Won’t wash out. Them boogers are ruined.”

“That’s showing him,” I said.

“He was so big I got over beneath the muffler and he couldn’t get under there after me… remember that if he starts for you. You get under his car by the muffler and you’re safe. He can’t get there.”

“Good tip,” I said. “Go for the muffler.”

“He did kick me, though. He can get his legs under there after you pretty good, so it ain’t completely safe. He jammed my little finger some, but he finally gave up, got back in the car and tried to back it over me.”

“Looks to me you escaped,” I said.

“Rolled out from under there like a dung bug. You remember how fast I could roll in gym when we was doing that tumbling exercise, don’t you?”

“You were an ace roller, as I recall,” I said.

“Damn right.”

“What was Leona doing?” Randy asked.

“She got out of the car, started screaming and cussing-which was a thing that hurt me. She told me a couple of times she was a lady and didn’t say them kind of words. Swore she wouldn’t say ‘shit’ if she had a mouthful. But she was out there yelling at Wendle to pull my head off and to kick a turd down my throat.

“When I rolled out from under the car and started running, her and ole Wendle yelling at my back, I knew right then and there that things between us were over.”

“Does sound kind of past the patching stage,” I said.

“Well… I ruined that sucker’s pants.”

We put the goodies in Bob’s truck, drove over to Buddy’s Fill-up to get gas and some ice for our beer chest.

While we were there, I went to the bathroom to take a leak and Bob joined me at the urinal. The two caballeros.

The place was really nasty, smelled awful. The urinal was stopped up with candy wrappers and some things I didn’t want to examine too closely, lest I identify them. Over in one corner was a mashed item I hoped was a Baby Ruth.

Most of the graffiti were illiterate and the artist who had drawn naked women on the walls seemed to lack acquaintance with human anatomy. My dad told me his generation learned a lot about sex from writings and drawings on bathroom walls. I hoped to goodness our generation was getting its information from better sources.