Barry Hannah - Long, Last, Happy - New and Collected Stories

He spits into the snuff in his hands. He thrusts his hands into his trousers, plunging his palms to his groin. The other man has found a length of leather and thrashes the wall, raking his free hand over a steel brush. He snaps the brush to his forehead. He spouts choked groans, gasping sorrows. The two of them upset goods, shatter the peace of the aisles. The man with the leather removes his shoes. He removes a shovel from its holder, punches it at his feet, howls and reattacks his feet angrily, crying for his mute heels.

“My children are low-hearted fascists! Their eyebrows meet! The oldest boy’s in San Diego, but he’s a pig! We’re naught but dying animals. Eve and then Jesus and us, clerks!”

The owner jams his teeth together, and they crack. He pushes his tongue out, evicting a rude air sound. The other knocks over a barrel of staves.

“Lost! Oh, lost!” the owner spouts. “The redundant dusty clock of my tenure here!”

“Ah, heart pie!” moans the other.

The woman casts a glance back.

A dog has been aroused and creeps out from its bin below the counter. The owner slays the dog with repeated blows of the shovel, lifting fur into the air in great gouts.

She, Celeste, looks cautiously ahead. The road is still empty.

The owner has found some steep plastic sandals and is wearing them — jerking, breaking wind, and opening old sores. He stomps at imagined miniature men on the floor. The sound — the snorts, cries, rebuffs, indignant grunts — is unsettling.

The woman has a quality about her. That and the heat.

I have been sober ever since.

I have just told a lie.

At forty, I am at a certain peace. I have plenty of money and the love of a beautiful red-haired girl from Colorado. What’s more, the closeness with my children has come back to a heavenly beauty, each child a hero better than yours.

You may see me with the eye patch, though, in almost any city of the South, the Far West, or the Northwest. I am on the black and chrome Triumph, riding right into your face.

WRIGHT’S FATHER, A SPORTSWRITER AND A HACK AND A SHILL FOR THE university team, was sitting next to Milton, who was actually blind but nevertheless a rabid fan, and Loomis Orange, the dwarf who was one of the team’s managers. The bar was out of their brand of beer, and they were a little drunk, though they had come to that hard place together where there seemed nothing, absolutely nothing to say.

The waitress was young. Normally, they would have commented on her and gone on to pursue the topic of women, the perils of booze, or the like. But not now. Of course it was the morning of the big game in Oxford, Mississippi.

Someone opened the door of the bar, and you could see the bright wonderful football morning pouring in with the green trees, the Greek-front buildings, and the yelling frat boys. Wright’s father and Loomis Orange looked up and saw the morning. Loomis Orange smiled, as did Milton, hearing the shouts of the college men. The father did not smile. His son had come in the door, swaying and rolling, with one hand to his chest and his walking stick in the other.

Wright’s father turned to Loomis and said, “Loomis, you are an ugly distorted little toad.”

Loomis dropped his glass of beer.

“ What? ” the dwarf said.

“I said that you are ugly,” Wright said.

“How could you have said that?” Milton broke in.

Wright’s father said, “Aw, shut up, Milton. You’re just as ugly as he is.”

“What’ve I ever did to you?” cried Milton.

Wright’s father said, “Leave me alone! I’m a writer.”

“You ain’t any kind of writer. You an alcoholic. And your wife is ugly. She’s so skinny she almost ain’t even there!” shouted the dwarf.

People in the bar — seven or eight — looked over as the three men spread, preparing to fight. Wright hesitated at a far table, not comprehending.

His father was standing up.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Wright said. He swayed over toward their table, hitting the floor with his stick, moving tables aside.

The waitress shouted over, “I’m calling the cops!”

Wright pleaded with her: “Don’t, don’t, don’t!”

“Now, please, sit down everybody!” somebody said.

They sat down. Wright’s father looked with hatred at Loomis. Milton was trembling. Wright made his way slowly over to them. The small bar crowd settled back to their drinks and conversation on the weather, the game, traffic, etc. Many of the people talked about J. Edward Toole, whom all of them called simply Jet. The name went with him. He was in the Ole Miss defensive secondary, a handsome figure who was everywhere on the field, the star of the team.

Wright found a seat at the table. He could half see and he looked calmly at all of them. His voice was extremely soft, almost ladylike, very Southern. Wright was born-again, just like Jet, who led the team in prayer before every game.

“Let’s talk about Jet. I know him well,” Wright began.

His father shifted, embarrassed. “We know that, Son.”

“I grew up with that boy,” he went on.

“Wright, we know. .”

“We shared the normal boyhood things together. We were little strangers on this earth together. We gamboled in the young pastures. We took our first forbidden pleasures together”—he winked—“our first cigarette, our first beer.” Wright paused, shyly. “I shared my poetry with him.”

“God,” said Wright’s father.

“We met when he and the other boys chased me down the beach with air rifles, shooting me repeatedly on my bare back, legs, and ears until they had run me to earth. He was always large and swift. He used to pinch me in the hall and pull out my T-shirt so that it looked as if I had breasts. He used to flatulate at his desk and point at me. In point of the fair sex, there was always a gag from this merry lad. He took my poems and revised them into pornographic verse, complete with sketches, mind you, and sent them to my sweetheart—”

“Son,” pleaded Wright’s father.

“Oh, I even tried the field with him myself, though thin of leg. He was a champion already, only a sophomore at Bay High. I will say that he, ha ha, taught me very well how to fumble on return of punts and kickoffs. For such was I used — as swift fodder for the others.”

Loomis and Milton were entranced. Wright’s father was breathing very heavy and looking at the floor.

“ Wright .” This time he was almost demanding.

“Those smashes of his! I certainly, ha ha, coughed up the ball and often limped into the showers. One afternoon while no one was looking, he clipped me from behind, right on the concrete floor.”

Wright was smiling meekly as his voice trailed off. And when he went on, it was quieter but very even.

“We won all the games. I say we, though I stood on the sidelines or played in the band — French horn. I remember his beautiful mother watching from the stands, but what I mainly remember was Jet, with all his tackles and interceptions. He was All-State his junior year, then went on to duplicate that his senior, ultimately receiving, as you know, a full scholarship to the university here, where fate — or most likely God — brought my family and me to this fair city, my father finding employment and I a convenient although irregular education.”

Wright’s father’s hands were over his face.

“It’s back to the night of our senior graduation from Bay High, that night you are familiar with—”

“Yes, Goddamn it, we are familiar!” said his father.

“Wait. I want to hear the story again,” said Loomis Orange.

“Yeah. Again,” said Milton.

“That night, knowing I had my new Vespa motor scooter as a present from my father and mother, Jet and some of the boys waited at the end of the drive out from the auditorium. Still wearing my robe, my mortarboard under my arm, I cranked up that lovely red Vespa for all it could rip. I was in a hurry to change and join Jet and the others out at the lake party. They were in the bushes on either side of the road with a rope lying hidden between them. Well, they ‘clotheslined’ me. The rest is history.”