Donald Pollock - Knockemstiff

The blonde hands me the Coneys, the fries, the melting Blizzards, but she doesn’t see me no matter how big and stupid I smile. While I’m still checking the sacks, a jacked-up Camaro full of boys pulls up behind us. They all look like the same model: matching earrings, shaved heads, little goatees sprouted around their mouths like hair around a poodle’s ass. They begin honking the horn, and the blonde tells me to move on, that I’m holding up the line. “Sorry,” I say, and pull forward without any ketchup.

In the rearview, I see one of the boys say something that makes the girl laugh; then I watch in disbelief as she raises her shirt to show her tits. “Holy shit,” I say, stopping the car. “Jerry, damn boy, turn around and check that out.” For a moment, the girl’s breasts are framed in the window like some advertisement for a new double-scoop sundae. They glow in the blazing sunlight, and I think of soft, precious metal. But even though they’re beautiful, it’s really her smile that takes my breath away. I’d give anything just to feel the way she feels right now. It’s the kind of feeling that people never realize they’ve had until years later, when it’s no longer possible to feel it. “Jerry,” I say again, turning around to look at him; but all he does is curl up his lips and make that damn duck sound again.

“Jesus Christ, Bernie, what are you doing?” Jill says.

I don’t answer. The boys in the Camaro have noticed me staring at the girl, and one of them starts imitating Jerry, squishing his face up and hanging his head on his chest. The girl is still laughing, but she’s pulling her top back down. And though I know that two years ago Jerry would have been right there with them, making fun of the retard, I set the emergency brake and haul my fat ass out of the car. I stand there for a second, pulling my shirt down over my white belly, wondering what I’m supposed to do now; but just before I lose my nerve, one of the boys calls out “Porky,” then another squeals, “Oink, oink.” Taking a deep breath, I walk back to their car and start kicking the shit out of the side panel. Believe me, I’m just a big tub of lard, but when the driver jumps out, a tall boy with big teeth and barbed wire tattooed around his skinny arms, I knock him down with one punch. I’ve never hit anyone that hard in my life, not even Delbert Anderson.

Suddenly, the world lights up, as if someone peeled the skin off my eyeballs. I look up at the sky, startled by the giant bloom of blue. But fuck, it’s only my sunglasses. I’m so pumped that it takes me a second to realize they’ve fallen off my face, and when I stoop over to pick them up, the boy tries to bite me. I reach down and grab the front of his shirt. My sweat splatters his shiny head like greasy rain. I pull him up off the pavement and smack him again, busting his lip open. By this time, the others are out of the car yelling shit, but keeping their distance. I realize then that they’re afraid of me, and I run at them. I grab the one that was making the stupid faces and bang his head against the hood of the car. A wave of dizziness rushes over me, and I let go of his skinny neck. Teeth marks burn my knuckles. A few drops of blood stain my shirt. I wobble for a second in the heat, then head back to the Chevy and flop down behind the wheel.

Jill’s squished up in the corner like she’s afraid I’m going to hammer her next, but I just sit there sucking the steamy air through my mouth. Jerry is still making the duck sound, and I finally turn around to look at him. Even after all this time, he’s got that angel dust glaze in his eyes, as if torching his brain is the only thing he’ll ever remember. His face and neck are broken out in a bumpy red rash from where Jill tried to shave him this morning. His white T-shirt is soaked with slobber, stained with his grandmother’s watery gravy. Every time Jerry attempts the duck, his tongue pops out and spit runs off his chin. I fumble around, then pull a napkin from one of the sacks of food and wipe his face. When my hand brushes against his jaw, his eyes close like a puppy’s.

The other boys are helping the driver back up. They’re talking big now, strutting around like they’ve got shit in their pants. I stick my head out the window and growl like a dog. Then I give them the finger. The girl in the window yells, “Fat motherfucker!” I turn back around and blast my horn, hold it down for a long minute. “My God,” Jill says. “Oh, my God.” She’s holding her hands over her ears.

“Hey, Jerry,” I say, “you wanta drive?” I drop the Chevy into low, and rev the engine until the Dairy Queen’s windows are rattling. The customers inside are staring at us and I wave at them. In my side mirror, I see the manager approaching cautiously from behind and talking on a cell phone. Suddenly, gunk breaks loose in the carburetor and a huge puff of black smoke shoots out of the tailpipe.

“You’re going to jail,” Jill says.

I laugh and pull out fast onto High Street, burning rubber, honking the horn. “Slow down!” Jill screams. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I slide the Zippo from my pocket and squeeze the small metal case, rub it between my fat, sweaty fingers. It has two dates engraved on it, like a tombstone. I toss the lighter out the window and shift the Chevy into second gear, then stomp the gas pedal and squeal down the street. People hanging out on their porches point at us as we rocket past in third. An old lady grabs a little girl up off the sidewalk. A siren begins to whine in the distance.

Suddenly, happiness rips through me like a sword. Reaching over, I grab Jill’s knobby knee, but she shoves my hand away. “Kak, kak!” Jerry squawks, as he bounces forward against his restraints. I dig a hot dog out of the sack and tear the wrapper off, cram it in my mouth. In the rearview, I see a police car coming up fast behind us, all of its lights throbbing. The trees, the signs, the entire world, start to bend backward as we race up the highway. “Kak, kak!” Jerry goes again, and I almost grit my teeth. But then, ramming the gearshift into fourth, I start over.

IWAS ON THE PHONE ONE DAY, TRYING TO UNLOAD A HOT four-wheeler to a deer hunter I knew over in Massieville, when Tex Colburn knocked on my door, introduced himself like he was selling Kirby vacuum cleaners or State Farm. I knew who the fucker was, but I decided to play dumb, just stood there looking at him. He pulled his big hands out of the pockets of his leather jacket, lit a cigarette. “I need a second-story man,” he finally said, out of the side of his mouth. I’d heard he talked like that, like he’d watched too many old gangster movies.

“What the fuck’s that?” I asked.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “What I got to do, kiss your ass? I need a fuckin’ partner.”

I glanced over his shoulder, saw his shiny new Mustang parked behind my rusty Pinto. My wife and I had just had a baby, a son named Marshall who constantly needed Pampers and formula and all that other baby shit. We were barely scraping by, and so, though I knew it was always better to work alone, I accepted his offer. Tex Colburn was serious business: front-end loaders, jewelry stores, vintage cars — high-priced stuff that people actually commissioned him to steal. Me, I was pinching push mowers and breaking into mom-and-pop groceries out in the sticks. Hooking up with him was big-time.

I ran with him for over a year and made more money than I’d ever dreamed a thief could make in southern Ohio. My wife and I moved into a fancy apartment, bought a new Monte Carlo, put down a hundred on the Super Lotto every Saturday night. Dee soon lost the baby fat, and I started bringing home a porno two or three nights a week to help rekindle our former fires. For every new position she mastered, I bought her another Longaberger basket. Finally I’d begun to enjoy a certain illegal prosperity.