Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

“I just wisht I had money for a donut.”

“What happened to your pay from yesterday?”

“Bootsie took it.”

Sully got the waitress’s attention, ordered Rub a donut.

“One of them big ole cream-filled deals,” Rub explained to her, pointing to the ones he meant. When the girl put one in front of him, he waited for her to go away and then said, “She gave me the smallest one.”

“They’re all the same size,” the girl said, as if to no one in particular. She was standing by her post at the register. She looked at neither Rub nor Sully.

“Are not,” Rub whispered, staring at the donut.

“Eat the fucking thing,” Sully said.

Rub did as he was told. When he bit the donut, cream filling bulged out the anus-shaped opening at the other end. Sully had to look away. “Carl been by?” he said.

Rub was intent on the donut and didn’t hear. His first bite made a large opening, leaving wings on either side of the puncture. No matter which wing he bit into now, the cream filling was going to escape.

“I’m going to knock you right off that stool in a minute,” Sully said.

Rub looked over at him to see if this threat was genuine. Apparently it was. “What?” he said.

“I asked you if Carl was here.”

“When?”

“Before I came in, Rub.”

“Only for a minute. He came over and told me I smelled like a pussy finger. I wisht we didn’t have to work for him on Thanksgiving.”

Sully took out two dollars, enough to cover the coffees, Rub’s donut and the tip their sullen waitress hadn’t earned. “Did he give you any money?”

“He said come by the office when we’re finished.”

Than which there was no more typical Carl Roebuck maneuver.

“Meet me at Hattie’s in ten minutes,” he said. “Maybe we can get this job done by midafternoon.”

“Hattie’s is closed,” Rub reminded him.

“Outside,” Sully said.

Rub looked dubious.

“Don’t try to figure this out, Rub,” Sully told him. “Just do it.”

“You don’t have to get mad,” Rub said. “You get mad as easy as Bootsie.”

“We keep the same company,” Sully said.

Sully left. From outside the donut shop he could see Rub poised over the donut, and for some reason Sully stopped, curious to see how Rub would resolve the problem. Instead of biting either wing of the donut, Rub inserted his open mouth into the hole his first bite had created. Naturally, this was a perfect fit. When Rub sucked, the cream bubble forced out through the anal aperture was drawn back into the donut. This was an oddly cheering solution, and Sully wondered briefly if people underestimated Rub. Briefly.

When there was only one person in the world you really wanted to see, what were the odds you’d run into him outside a closed OTB in North Bath at 7:30 on Thanksgiving morning? Better than you might imagine, it occurred to Sully, because on the way over to Carl Roebuck’s office he spotted Jocko’s silver Marquis parked in the empty lot, Jocko at the wheel, reading the newspaper. When Sully sneaked up and banged on the window about two inches from Jocko’s ear, he jumped about a foot, pleasing Sully, a man for whom sneaking up on people and scaring the shit out of them had always been a profoundly satisfying activity. Jocko too seemed pretty well satisfied when he recognized Sully, who was often his own explanation, grinning in at him. Jocko flipped him off, then used the same middle finger to direct Sully around to the other side of the Marquis. Sully got in gingerly, left the door open and his leg mostly outside. “Howdy, Chester,” Jocko said, studying Sully over his glasses. Jocko was dressed conservatively as always. Light blue shirt, fat tie, sans-a-belt slacks. In his late thirties, his hair was short, graying at the temples, and he was about fifty pounds overweight. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest his radical, long-haired student days, during which, he’d admitted to Sully, he also majored in pharmaceuticals.

“You plan to sit here until they open tomorrow?” Sully asked.

“Churches and OTBs should never close,” Jocko said. “There should be a law.”

“There is,” Sully reminded him. “It closes OTBs on Christmas and Thanksgiving. I know of a couple churches that are open if you’re interested.”

Jocko waved this suggestion away. “I try to stay away from long shots.”

“Can’t be much worse than betting trifectas.”

“I don’t bet them either,” Jocko said. “Triples are for lost, desperate souls like you.” His face brightened suddenly. “I like the idea, though. Special trifecta wagers on Christmas and Easter. I can see the promotion. Trinity wagers. Christianity finally pays off.”

“That solves Christmas and Easter. It still leaves Thanksgiving.”

“No problem,” Jocko shrugged. “Most people think Thanksgiving is a Christian holiday. This is a mighty confused nation we live in.”

They were grinning at each other now.

“I was hoping I’d run into you …” Sully said.

Jocko folded his newspaper, tossed it into the backseat. “Step into my office,” he suggested, leaning past Sully to open the glove box. “And close that goddamn door before we both freeze, will you?”

“I’m not sure this knee will bend so early in the morning,” Sully said.

“Try,” Jocko suggested as he rummaged in the glove compartment.

Sully winced, finally got his whole leg inside and closed the door. “You must have the shortest legs of any grown man in town.”

Jocko’s glove compartment resembled a small pharmacy, or candy store, full of small, bright plastic bottles. Jocko yanked out several of these, held them up to the light, said “Nah” and tossed them back. After a minute he found a tube that met his approval. “Here,” he said, handing it to Sully. “Eat these.” His standard line.

There was no label on the tube, but Sully accepted it gratefully.

“Don’t operate any heavy machinery,” Jocko advised.

“Just a hammer today,” Sully promised. “I’ll probably pound my thumb all morning.”

“Go ahead. You won’t feel it,” Jocko said. “Somebody told me you’d gone back to work. I figured that was so dumb it had to be true.”

“Just for a while, probably,” Sully said. “I’d like to get a little ahead for the winter. Then I’ll go slow for a while. Maybe I’ll feel better in the spring.”

Jocko looked at him over the rims of his glasses. “Arthritis doesn’t get better,” he said. “It gets worse. Every time.”

“Two more years and I can take early retirement,” Sully said. “After that, fuck ’em.”

This came out sounding like the bravado it was. Sully knew that the only reason Jocko didn’t argue was kindness. They both knew his knee wasn’t going to give him two more years of hard labor.

“What’s the line on the game Saturday?” Sully wondered. He was both genuinely interested and anxious to change the subject.

“You can get Bath and twenty points is what I’m hearing.”

Sully raised his eyebrows. “That’s tempting.” like Vince, Sully had lost on Bath against Schuyler Springs every year for the last dozen. And like Vince, he always got points, just never enough of them.

“I know what you mean,” Jocko commiserated. “I’d love to see the kids win one. Your paramour’s kid is a pretty good little guard. He doesn’t get much help, though.”

Sully ignored the fact that Jocko, like so many people in town, knew of his relationship with Ruth. “A win would be a lot to ask,” Sully admitted. Recent Bath-Schuyler Springs contests had become so lopsided that Schuyler was threatening to drop the smaller school from its schedule on humanitarian grounds. The preservation of “the game” was a hot political issue, and the man who’d won the most recent Bath mayoral election had made the continuation of the game his only campaign promise. “I’d personally be thrilled if they beat the spread. Who’s giving twenty, by the way?” Bath would probably lose by more than twenty, but so far twenty was the most Sully’d heard anybody giving.