Donald Pollock - Knockemstiff

“Look, I told you, I ain’t moving in that place!” Del yelled.

“Suit yourself. So why did you go to Florida?”

“I don’t know,” Del said. “I read this book. I guess you could say we were looking for a better life.”

“Did you find it?” the Fish Stick Girl asked.

“No, it was just a goddamn book. I ain’t read one since.”

…..

WHEN LEO FINISHED WITH RANDY, HE MOTIONED FOR DEL to help him up. The old man was gasping for air. Del could hear his knees crackle as he stood up. They sounded like a landslide in an old cowboy movie. A white dab of Randy’s jizz lay on his bottom lip like a salted slug. Leo’s bathrobe came loose, revealing purple stretch marks that crisscrossed his bloated belly. Then he farted and limped over to his Listerine bottle, tipped it up like a wino with a jug. Randy just stood there like a gas station loafer, silent and dazed, waiting for another car to pull in.

Leo scooped some change out of a jar and sprinkled it in Randy’s hand like he was pouring gold dust into a little bag. “That’s it?” Randy finally said, staring down at the nickels, dimes, and quarters.

“There’s quite a bit of money there,” Leo said.

“I let you suck my dick!” Randy yelled.

“Quiet down, you,” Leo ordered. “That’s all I’ll pay for something like that. You got a lot to learn, you. I could have had more fun with a slab of bacon.” He pulled a sweet roll from the pocket of his robe and chomped the end off it. “Now,” he said, “take your ugly friend and get out of here, you. Boys like you are nothing but trouble.” Flaky crumbs floated through the air like tiny golden gnats.

Randy looked over at Del and nodded. “I want more,” he said, and Del swung the lamp at the fat man’s head.

…..

THE FISH STICK GIRL GRABBED HOLD OF ONE OF THE METAL poles that people hang their clothes on and started twirling like a dancer in a strip club. Del dropped his soggy jeans in the dryer and walked back over to the window. He watched her reflection spin faster and faster in the glass. Her long hair flew behind her like a cape. It seemed to Del that she would surely fly into the wall or bounce off one of the big metal machines. She began emitting a high-pitched squeal that sounded like an ambulance rushing down the highway looking for something to feed upon. Del backed away and waited for the inevitable crash. It was like being at the Atomic Speedway on family night, hoping for someone to fuck up and die so the kids would have a good time.

…..

NOT LONG AFTER RANDY WON THE MR. OHIO CONTEST, DEL stopped by to ask a favor. “No way,” Randy said. “You never pay back.” He was leaned back in a chair behind a gray metal desk in the garage he ran with his brother, Albert. The big trophy sat behind him on a shelf.

“You’re famous now,” Del said, figuring he’d try a new angle. “What’s that feel like?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Randy said. “It don’t make me no money if that’s what you mean. I didn’t even get the Bob Evans commercial.” He kept squeezing a little rubber ball with his hand. His ears flexed every time he mashed it. Del couldn’t imagine him selling sausage patties on TV.

“Look, man, I ain’t never said anything about what happened in Florida, you know that.”

“Ha! Delbert, that’s all you ever talk about,” Randy said. “Shit, you even told Sheriff Matthews.”

“How about two hundred?” Del asked. “They won’t let me back in my room.”

“I ain’t got it. You realize how much the drugs cost to win a big contest? I got more tied up in these arms than you’ll steal in your lifetime,” Randy said. “Look, I’m not telling you what to do, but you better get out of here before Albert comes back. He ain’t liked you since you fucked up his stereo that time.”

…..

EVENTUALLY RANDY’S HEART GREW TOO BIG FOR HIS BODY. He was one of those pincushions who never take a break, the kind that get hooked on size regardless of the consequences. “They won’t let me smoke,” he wheezed when Del stopped by the rest home to see him. Del looked over at the oxygen tank standing beside the hospital bed. The nurse had told Del that Randy was strapped down because the medication made him hallucinate. He hoped maybe his cousin had some pills stashed away.

“Shit, you don’t smoke,” Del said. “What would Mr. Charles Atlas say about that?”

“I’m way beyond old Chuck now,” Randy said. “Give me a weed.”

“Maybe they just want you to get better,” Del said weakly.

“Fuck that, I’m a dead man. They say my ticker’s big as a football. C’mon, Delbert, gimme a fuckin’ cigarette.” Del loosened the top restraints, and handed Randy his pack. “Watch that door,” Randy said. “That one aide is a real bitch.”

Del watched Randy gag on the cigarette in between hits off the oxygen mask. “Hey,” Del finally said, “remember that book I used to read all the time? Dorcie and Cole and…shit, I can’t remember the other one.”

“Holly,” Randy said. “Her name was Holly. She was practically a virgin.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Jesus, I can’t believe you remember her name.”

“Now that Dorcie was something else,” Randy said. “God, I wish I’d met her when I was benching six hundred. I’d have tore that up.”

“Christ, Randy, it was just a book. I mean, those people weren’t real or anything.”

“Oh, no, you’re wrong, man,” Randy said. “They was real. More real than most shit anyway. I still think about her. What’s that tell you?”

“What about the old man then?” Del whispered, leaning in close to the bed. “Do you still think about him?”

“Jesus, Delbert, you act like that’s the only thing in your life that ever really happened. Fuck that old bastard. He got what he deserved, the way I see it.” Del stood up and began pacing around the room. “Hey, while you’re up, hand me that magazine there,” Randy said. Del glanced around, saw an old copy of Ohio Bodybuilder on the windowsill. There was a picture of Randy on the cover. Del looked at his cousin in the faded photo, the victory smile, veins popping out everywhere. He handed over the magazine just as Randy took another hit off the cigarette and started coughing. It sounded as if someone was busting his chest apart with a jackhammer. He dropped the cigarette on the bed next to the oxygen mask. A small fire erupted in the sheets. When Del grabbed the water pitcher, Randy waved him away. “Get the fuck out of here,” he gasped. As Del hurried out the door, he turned back to see Randy ripping up the magazine and feeding photos of his glory days to the flames.

…..

DEL HAD THE FEELING THAT HE’D GO ON FOREVER, WHICH is a great feeling really, especially after you’ve watched your cousin commit suicide with a Marlboro. When the Fish Stick Girl finished her acrobatics and slid down the pole out of breath, he pushed her down on her knees behind the restroom door. “Act like you’re doing this for money,” he said urgently, unzipping his pants.

“Here?”

“Why not?” Del said. “This place is dead tonight.”

“How much money?” she asked, settling back on her heels.

“I don’t know. Enough to buy a hot dog.”

“A hot dog?”

“Not much, just some change,” Del answered, placing his hands on her wet hair. He closed his eyes and began to hear the ocean off the Florida coast in the dryer’s muffled rumblings. Inhaling the dank laundry smells, he thought of Leo’s mildewed carpet. He pictured the lamp in his sweaty hands, felt the weight of it, saw the seagulls make another pass around the shade. The Fish Stick Girl kept banging her face into his groin, and for a moment Del was fifteen again. He was on a Greyhound going south and reading that section in “Reds” where Dorcie fires up barbiturates for the first time. Randy was sitting beside him squeezing his pecs together and urging him to jump ahead to the chapter about the black guy named King Coon who knocked the white girls up with his thumb. Then they were laughing, pointing their own thumbs at some blond woman seated across the aisle. When Del realized it was over, he looked down and saw the Fish Stick Girl smiling up at him. He’d forgotten all about her.