Donald Pollock - Knockemstiff

“Bullshit. Girls love muscles. What about the guy who gets sand kicked in his face down at the beach?” Randy asked.

“You don’t even like to swim,” Del pointed out. “Look, girls don’t care how many push-ups you can do. They just want to get high and wear flowers in their hair. Maybe steal a car.”

“Yeah, then we end up in jail like your brothers.”

“Hey, I begged them to read this before they broke into that gas station,” Del said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Randy yelled. He’d already started another set of leg lifts. Del reached over and cranked up “I Don’t Live Today” past the little piece of tape that Randy’s brother, Albert, had stuck on the volume control. The speakers started making a funny noise, like someone was pounding the piss out of them with one of the dumbbells lying on the floor.

“I say we go to Florida and find these girls,” Del said, holding the cover up to Randy’s red, pimply face. “It’s like hippie heaven down there.”

“Damn, Delbert, that little one looks like somebody’s sister,” Randy grunted, just before the speakers blew.

…..

THE FISH STICK GIRL TOOK OFF HER ARMY JACKET AND loosened the belt on her shiny jeans, then got down on the floor in the Laundromat amid the fuzz balls and cigarette butts and started doing stretches. Del figured that somewhere along the way, probably the night he hogged all of her Haldol, he’d confessed that he got a kick out of watching other people work out. It wasn’t a kinky sex thing, but more like the pleasure a person gets out of seeing their best friend lose a job or some rich bastard go down in a plane crash. He wondered what other secrets he might have revealed. Del watched his pants slosh around in the window and tried to ignore the sexy sighs the Fish Stick Girl emitted with each slow movement. Though she’d been cursed with certain defects, she could bend into shapes that most people associate only with circus freaks and world-class contortionists. It was, he knew, just another part of her plan to make him a slave.

…..

ON THE BUS GOING TO FLORIDA, DEL READ RANDY THE juiciest passages in “Reds” over and over, but always avoided the ending. By the time they hit Atlanta, Randy had even memorized the entire chapter about the Spanish fly orgy in the abandoned beach house. He became convinced that the psychotic Dorcie would be waiting for him when they pulled into the station at St. Petersburg. After his cousin nodded off, Del slipped back to the restroom and tore out the last few pages of the novel. He didn’t have the heart to tell Randy that Dorcie, his little needle queen, had jumped off a bridge and drowned when the cops started closing in.

…..

“I’M HUNGRY, MAN,” RANDY SAID, THE MORNING THEY HIT the Florida state line. There were rows of orange trees along the highway. Everything smelled like air freshener.

“Look, those oranges are big as basketballs.”

“No, I mean I’m losing muscle fast,” Randy said. “I got to find some eggs.” It was true — Randy was starting to look like a rubber doll that had stepped on a nail. He was deflating before Del’s eyes.

“We’ll buy a dozen as soon as we get some money.”

“How we do that?” Randy asked, his voice cracking. “Does it say in that book how we do that?”

“Don’t worry,” Del said. “This guy tells you everything.”

…..

THREE DAYS LATER IN ST. PETERSBURG, THEY MET A HOTDOG vendor named Leo. He was dumping new meat into a stainless-steel steamer. The smell of snouts and eyeballs wafting from the stand had been driving Del and Randy crazy ever since they’d started sleeping under the pier. “Come by my place this evening, you,” Leo said, handing the boys a couple of dogs along with an address scrawled on a matchbook. “Go ahead, eat up, you,” he said, winking at Randy.

“Hey, Del,” Randy said later, “you think that guy’s funny?” Dried mustard was plastered on his chin.

“Who cares? I can’t go home, that’s all I know. My mom will kill me.”

“How much you figure people will pay for something like that?” Randy said.

…..

LEO CAME TO THE DOOR WEARING A FLOWERED BATHROBE and a pair of old tennis shoes with the toes cut out of them. His swollen feet looked like a pair of sea urchins. He lived in a sad motel room, with black tar footprints on the dirty carpet, somebody else’s sand in the tub. It was the kind of place that Del would always gravitate toward later on, the kind of dump where something always happens that nobody wants to admit happened.

“He can wait outside,” Leo said, nodding over at Del.

“No way,” Randy said. “I ain’t staying here by myself.”

“What? You think I’m going to bite it off? Nibble it like a little fish stick?” Leo said, laughing. “All right. At least have him stand over in the corner so I don’t have to look at him, you little fraidy cat, you.” Then he handed Randy an old wrinkled Playboy to look at while he got ready. The magazine was evidently Leo’s idea of foreplay, but some other kid had already drawn pointy beards on all the naked women.

While Leo was in the bathroom gargling mouthwash, Randy instructed Del to smack the bastard in the head if he saw any blood. “You heard what he said,” Randy whispered. “Shit, he might be a cannibal for all we know.” He pointed at a lamp by the bed that had blue seagulls flying around a yellow shade. He grabbed Del by the shoulders. “Don’t fuck this up,” Randy said. Del walked over and pulled the lamp plug out of the wall. Then he stepped into the corner and listened to the ocean just a block away. He could hear little kids squealing in the undertow, happy vacationers laughing in the sand. The whole world seemed louder that day at the Sea Breeze Motel.

…..

“WHAT YOU THINKING?” THE FISH STICK GIRL ASKED. She’d finished her workout and was washing her hair in one of the big metal tubs with the last of Del’s detergent. She wore her hair parted down the middle, one side dyed jet-black and the other side platinum blonde. It made her look like she had two heads.

“Nothing,” Del said, staring out the window at the SUDS sign swaying gently back and forth in the wind.

“Jeez, what an answer,” she said. “You always say the same thing.”

“Well, don’t ask then.” Somebody had etched WILL WORK FOR DOPE across the grime of the window with a shaky finger. Del turned away satisfied that he would never get that bad.

The Fish Stick Girl turned off the spigot and began squeezing the soapy water out of her hair. “Sweetie, I’m telling you,” she said, “your best bet is the Henry J. Hamilton Rehabilitation Center. It’s a lot of paperwork, but I know some people.”

“What makes you say shit like that?” Del asked. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the NO SMOKING signs hanging everywhere.

“Because you’re the type that does well in a constructive environment,” she explained, sounding like she was reciting a poem. “I noticed that the first time I saw you. At least you should take the test.”

Del decided to ignore her. “I keep thinking about the time Randy and me went to Florida. I ain’t never been that hungry. You couldn’t buy a job, it was so bad.”

“You used to work?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, it was a different world back then.”

“I got more fish sticks,” she said, reaching for her big purse.

“Put those goddamn things away,” Del said. “It was almost thirty years ago.”

“You never go hungry at the Henry J. Hamilton Center,” she said. “They have special activities. Wanda keeps track of your SSI. Shoot, they even have some old lady do your laundry. We could be snuggled up watching TV right now. I always tip her a fish stick.”