Andrew Sullivan - Waste

“They’ve moved the games to the high school,” Janet said. “I can’t sleep after watching Audrey keel over like that, and I’m not staying here to watch the two of you go at it again. I’ve already seen that before. Many times.

“Its fine, Jamie. You do whatever you need to do, just make sure your father eats something, and for God’s sake don’t bother returning that thing,” Janet continued, ignoring her husband. “Shoulda been taken out of this house a long time ago. Take the TV too, if you want, but he probably won’t go for that. You tell your brother I said hello, okay? We never see enough of him around here, but I understand why. Oh, don’t tell him that, though. Just say hi.”

Janet stood up and began stomping out the aches in her feet on the kitchen floor. She pulled her coat on and slammed the door behind her. The wind battered it around the jamb.

“Jamie, you gotta listen to me. You can take the TV, how about that?”

The hallway was short and crowded with black-and-white photos of the dead. Jamie opened the door to his mother’s bedroom and sat down on the bed. The walls were crooked, the corners mismatched. Jamie could hear his father grumbling, but he knew the man’s muscles had wasted away. Francis couldn’t even hold the gun straight anymore. Jamie dialed Don Henley’s number.

“Y’allo? Jesus, two in the morning, I coulda been sleeping. Y’allo?”

Don Henley didn’t sleep. He napped.

“Donnie, it’s Jamie.”

“Oh, man, you gonna bullshit me about shifts again?” Don said. “I told you, I can’t get any of the other guys to work. Sunday mornings. There’s like no customers anyway.”

“It’s not about that, it’s — there’s too much to explain. Never mind. All right. Listen to me,” Jamie said. “You know two guys, big fuckers with beards. Sometimes they come in the store, I guess? Sound familiar?”

“Look like ZZ Top? Those guys? Should have guitars on them, right?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Jamie said. “They come around a lot or what?”

“They give you trouble? My brother knew them better than me. They been ’round forever, back when we still had bikers in town,” Don said. “They aren’t even twins. Irish twins, same year but different birthdays. I think. Their momma musta pumped ’em out real quick, I can tell you that much, and — oh, for fuck’s sake Gloria, no I don’t need another ice cream sandwich. Just let me talk to J here and then we can get back to—”

“I don’t need their whole life story,” Jamie said. “I think I mighta pissed them off a bit today, and then all this weird shit…well, I just wanted an expert opinion.”

The line went quiet for a little and Jamie noticed the gun in his lap. He moved it onto the bed, but didn’t like how it looked sitting between the pillows.

“What did you do? They used to do a lot of the booking for the ring, you know, in the backyard, and they do a lot of — well, they got hands in all kinds of things,” Donnie explained. “The Brothers Vine is what my brother liked to call them. They got hands in everything. Brothers Vine. Used to come by for trim.”

“They came by this morning, and I gave them some for hunting bears.”

“Sounds about right. What exactly did you do?” Donnie asked.

Jamie put the gun on the floor and remembered what he said to the Lorax.

“Spit it out, buddy. I got fucking Rocky II in the VCR here and it isn’t as shit as I thought it’d be,” Don said. “I might even finish watching it tonight. What did you do?”

“I think I, um, ran over their dog. Big-ass dog. In my car last night.”

“You did what?” Donnie asked.

“Dog. Ran it over. Told some guy about it, and then Brock, he ended up like…”

There was a low whistle down the line and some whispering. Don spoke into the phone again. His voice was quieter now. Jamie kicked the gun under the bed. He didn’t want to see it.

“You know when I worked back at the warehouse? And when I was running the weekly Toss-Up Throwdowns in the backyard? They had a finger in that, and they needed to or I woulda been done faster than a goose in a trailer park. Blam,” Don said. “Where do you think all the stolen booze from the warehouse went? You think I didn’t forget to check off certain containers? Never the number-one brands, of course. Where do you think that would go? Brothers Vine.

“They don’t even care about the money. They don’t even work for themselves. Used to be hooked up with this real mild, skinny dude. He lived in one of those big apartment buildings off Olive, the ones they wanna condemn now since they’re only twenty years old and already falling apart. What I’m saying is, they got fingers in lots of pies and they are dirty fingers — so you don’t wanna just say sorry, you know?”

“So what do I do?” Jamie asked. “I can’t exactly track them down.”

In his mother’s mirror, Jamie saw the body in the bone can, ice crystallizing over the nostrils. It smiled and bobbed in the meaty slush.

“I don’t really know. These are major fuckers. Been around forever, they’re like a cleaning crew — just dealing with everyone else’s mess,” Donnie said. “They don’t cause too much of a ruckus — in and out. I had them do security once when we had the ring set up, like a few summers ago, but it was worse than Altamont. They do not fuck around.

“I say lay low, take some time off work, you can borrow a bit of cash off me, but don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just be safe. It’s just a dog, so they probably won’t kill you, but I mean the last kind of — Gloria, I can hear you standing at the door.”

“What if I wanted to apologize? I don’t want to have to worry about this chasing me for the rest of my life. How do I do that?”

“Shit, they been living at Da Nasty for like ten years now. Room — uh, shit, hold on a second, I had it from the last time I had to call them. You know they might kick your ass, right? They ain’t Santa Claus.”

“I know, I know. You think I’m happy about this?” Jamie said.

“It’s Room 227. I think. They been there for years, like I said. Not likely to change.”

“So what should I do? Beg? Bring a new dog?”

“You should really — oh, that is not fair, Gloria, I get one nosebleed and you bring it up fucking now? That was like a year ago. I told you, the dry air and my nose,” Donnie said. “We just need to get a dehumidifier and I am still talking to Jamie, so can you give me—”

Jamie hung up the phone and picked the gun up off the floor. Somewhere one of the next-door neighbors kicked over a kitchen chair and someone in another unit was running up and down the stairs. Jamie didn’t like the green wallpaper his mother kept on these walls. It didn’t hide the water stains. It didn’t hide anything. He strode down the hall, switching the rifle from hand to hand. He’d never really fired it before. He wasn’t exactly sure where to buy rounds at two in the morning, either. And there was still that body waiting for him, and it was a sign after all. A calling card. He’d been right. The Lorax was right, everyone was right. Jamie wanted to be wrong for once and have that be the right answer.

“You shouldn’t take that.”

Francis Garrison sat alone in his chair, but the television was still playing. He raised his hand at Jamie, but there was not enough light to pass through the hole. Jamie shook his head and pushed his way out the door. His father yelled his name, but Jamie did not turn around.

Outside in the cold, Jamie Garrison kicked at the tires of his Cutlass and ran a hand over the busted grille, searching for a piece of mane. The stars were out and the hood of the car was covered in frost. The body in the bone can waited for him in the dark, waited for whoever opened its heavy lid. He waited for his father to stagger outside, to the light the house on fire once again. No one emerged.