Percival Everett - Big Picture - Stories

“Hm,” Winston said.

“And you know who that feller was?” Jubal didn’t wait for a reply. “It was the idiot with the dish-licking pooch. Dog spit probably got into his brain and made him loco.”

They paid up and went down the street to a tavern called the Stirrup that held a big lighted sign with a tilted martini glass — the olive was rolling back and forth. Winston and Jubal drank beers and ate nuts and played pool. Jubal shot pool with his crutch and he was doing pretty good until the beers started to take hold; his balance became uncertain, his shooting got sloppy, and the rubber tip of his crutch threatened to scratch the cloth. They walked over to a booth and sat down. Jubal drummed his fingers on the Formica — his nails were in need of trimming — and drank beer from a bottle.

“I think that ought to be your last one,” Winston said.

Jubal didn’t seem to hear him and looked away at the door. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned, “Lookie what the cat drug in.”

Winston looked up to see Lucius Carter, in a new white hat, with another man and a broad-shouldered, heavily made-up woman. Her eye shadow was evident even from across the room and it extended well beyond her brows.

Lucius saw Winston and the one-legged man and made straight for their booth. “How you boys?” he asked.

Winston and Jubal nodded. Winston knew Jubal didn’t much like Carter.

“Couldn’t find no ladies, so you had to settle for each other, eh?” Carter said.

Jubal looked at the blond woman who had come in with the other man. “See you couldn’t find no ladies either.”

Carter smiled an evil smile. “What was that?”

“You heard me,” Jubal said, looking him in the eye.

Winston sighed.

“How do you think you’d get around with no legs, Hoppy?” Carter said.

Winston grabbed Jubal’s arm as he started to rise. “Steady, cowboy.”

“Yeah,” Carter said, “better keep your girlfriend under control.”

Jubal snatched free of Winston’s grasp, stood, and swung his crutch, which caused Lucius Carter to duck and step back. “Son of a bitch,” he shouted. Winston found himself standing, too. Jubal swayed there for a moment while the alcohol found his brain and then he passed out.

The blond and the second man came and stood with Carter over the unconscious man. Winston gathered him up, loaded him over his shoulder, grabbed his crutch, and walked out. He carried the man down the street and through the lobby of the New Deer Point Hotel, past a clump of tourists who probably thought this was a neat piece of local color, or maybe they thought the dusty black cowboy was taking the one-legged, unconscious, old man upstairs to have his way with him. He climbed the stairs and wedged Jubal between his shoulder and the wall while he got the door open. He dropped him onto one of the beds.

He sat at the window and looked out at the quiet street. It was a lonely life, he thought. Then he heard gurgling, coughing, and he saw that Jubal was having some kind of problem. He leaned over him. Jubal was choking because his dentures had gotten turned sideways in his mouth.

Winston sighed long. A cowboy touched a lot of things, he thought, blood, dung, placenta, but here he was, stone-chilled by the prospect of reaching in and pulling out the man’s dentures. But he did it. With a deep, held breath, he did it. He dropped the teeth on the nightstand between the beds and ran into the bathroom and washed his hands for a considerable time, nearly disappearing one of those little wafers of hotel soap.

He thought about turning on the television, but instead just undressed, opened the window wider, got into bed, and closed his eyes.

Next morning, Winston woke up and showered while Jubal was still unconscious, his snoring letting on that he was alive. Winston didn’t disturb him, just grabbed his sack of laundry and left the room.

While his clothes were in the machine he read back issues of Sports Illustrated and Newsweek and McCall’s and smiled at a little Indian girl who kept running down the aisle away from her mother, rolling a plastic bottle of fabric softener.

“How are you?” Winston asked the girl as he folded a pair of jeans.

The four-year-old just stared at him. She had big dark eyes and straight black hair that fell down her back in two braids. She was wearing a sweatshirt with a bear on it.

“My name is Jack. What’s yours?” He smiled at the woman who didn’t seem to mind him talking to the child.

“Mary Dreamer.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

The girl ran back to her mother, pausing to pick up a fabric-softener sheet off the floor. Her mother snatched it from her and threw it into the trash.

A man in a dirty coat with greasy, matted hair came in and pushed through the magazines on the counter before asking the woman for change. The woman pulled her daughter behind her and told him to go away. He walked over to Winston, smiled big, and showed a mouth with two lonely teeth. Winston could smell the whisky and, before the man could ask, gave him two quarters.

“Thanks, pard,” the man said in a loud voice, flashed the smile again, and went away.

The woman frowned at Winston, he assumed because he had given the scary man some money. Still, he said good-bye to the girl as he left.

When he got back to the room he saw that it had been ransacked. The sheets were off the bed and lying on the floor. One side of the drapes had been yanked down. Jubal was hopping around on his leg and pulling at his hair.

“What’s happening here?” Winston asked, dropping his laundry inside the door. He glanced quickly, nervously behind him and shut the door. “What are you doing?”

“My grinners. I can’t find my grinners.” Jubal looked at Winston with a pathetic face.

“You were choking on them last night, Jubal, so I took them out.”

Jubal looked sick. Here was a man who once sucked milk from a cow’s teat on a dare, but the idea of a man reaching into his mouth was about to make him ill.

“You were choking,” Winston said.

Jubal hopped back and sat on his bed.

“I put them on the nightstand.” Winston pointed and started toward the table.

“Well, they ain’t there now,” Jubal said and he shot up. “Jesus H. Christ on TV, somebody done stole my grinners.”

Winston was confused, dizzy, and he didn’t know what he was saying, but words came out. “I’ll go look outside.” With that he hurried out. He stood in the hallway looking at the closed door. There was no reason for him to go outside in search of the dentures, but he went anyway. It was someplace other than in that room.

He went out, leaned against the outside wall of the building, looked up at the sky, and let the sun hit his face. He blew out a breath, then found himself looking at the sidewalk and gutter and street. He heard humming coming from down the block and he glanced over to spot the lean man from the Laundromat walking his way. He looked back into the gutter.

“Howthodo,” the man said.

Winston studied the man and frowned.

“Howthodo.”

Winston leaned in close. “Say something else.”

“Wha thu wa ma sa?” The drunk’s mouth seemed peculiar. He had teeth, more that just the lonely two he’d shown before, weird teeth that seemed to move around.

Winston pointed at his mouth. “Where’d you get those?” he asked.

The man spat the dentures out into his dirt-crusted hand. “I bought ’em.”

Winston looked up at the window of his room. “How much did you pay for them?”

“A buck.”

“I’ll give you five for them,” Winston said.

The man pondered, then said, “Hell, they don’t fit no way.” He took the five-dollar bill from Winston and placed the teeth in his open palm.