Bud Smith: F 250

“Never shot an anything,” I said.

“It’s fun. We’ll go to the range. We can draw Charlie’s face on the target. That’ll make you feel better.”

“Maybe.”

“Got my grandpa’s Luger, too. You’ll dig it. He stole it off a Nazi after he shot him. Guy was getting out of his jeep to take a piss on a tree. Grandpa was up in a nearby tree, just relaxing.”

I was quiet.

“And about Natalie,” Ethan said.

“Yes, Natalie.”

“Don’t feel bad about her, man. Don’t feel bad about Charlie either. He was a shitty bass player, and he’s a weird dude.”

“Weird, yeah.”

“Couple years ago, we met some girls at the boardwalk. One in particular was way wild. Did I ever tell you this story?”

“No.”

“Well, we were all way drunk. And so, end of the night, this girl wanted to come back … come back here. And, well, me and Charlie,” he laughed, “me and Charlie ran a train on her. It was kinda awkward. Especially since, get this: while I was riding the girl from behind and she was blowing Charlie, he said, ‘Yeah bro, give her that hard dick!’ What a weirdo. Could never look at him the same after that. Who the hell says something like that while tag-teaming a chick? Kinda glad what happened with you and him happened. Glad to kick him out of the band.”

I shrugged.

“Plus, he’s too serious with that office job of his. Never gonna leave that. Picture that fuck in a tour bus? Plus he’s getting fat. Sweats too much on stage. Plus the whole Natalie thing. And don’t get all bent out of shape about that. I would have totally banged Natalie if I could have. Natalie’s a hot piece of ass. She liked me less than you, liked Charlie more than you. That’s all,” he said.

“If you’d have touched her, I’d have set your BMW on fire.”

“Wow. As if. Relax. Law of the jungle, right? Kill or be killed. You’re too touchy,” he said, sitting up. “I’m gonna make myself a vodka and cranberry, you want one?”

“No, I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be sore.”

“Well.”

“Besides,” Ethan said, “if you set my car on fire, my dad will just get me another one.”

Gail sang in the shower, operaticbut with made-up words. Bombastic. Her own joyful language. Aldo sat on the tin chair at the tiny yellow table wedged between the lone window and the door to the kitchen. He was half squinting but his eyes were clear.

“How’s things?”

“Problem at the house,” I said.

I unzipped the leather pouch with the meter and the needles.

“You can always come back here if you need to,” he said.

“I appreciate that.”

The room down the hall had been home when mom and him were together — before she split down to Florida. Aldo forced me to finish high school as part of a promise he made to her. Gail was in my room now. I wasn’t going back, not to that couch by the kitchen table where he sat all night drinking and talking to himself.

“Okay. Now, seriously, watch how I do this,” I said. I had to take some blood from him for the test.

“Can’t kid, I’ll pass out.”

“Watch.”

Aldo looked out the window as I started to take his blood, but he wouldn’t look.

“Just a little bit. Come on, man. Didn’t you tell me once that you stabbed someone?”

“I did. But I didn’t look at the goddamn b—”

“Blood,” I said. “B-l-o-o-d. Get over it.”

The meter beeped.

“See, look at this. More insulin. Told you,” I said.

“More? Goddamn, been eating better. They’ll turn me into a rabbit. Fucking rabbit food. Eating the goddamn lawn. Munch munch munch. Eat the lawn, or we’ll take a foot. One or the other. If they take a foot, I won’t dance as good. If I can’t eat anymore hamburgers, I’d rather do a swan dive into a wood chipper. Lee, who would love me if I couldn’t dance?”

“You can’t dance. Me, I can dance. I’m like a wave on the dance floor. Forget dancing, forget poetry, forget drinking, forget blabbing to me about your bullshit. See this needle? You’ve got to learn to do this yourself.”

I flicked the side of the needle, dislodging suspended air bubbles.

He sighed. “I can’t be taught.”

The shower shut off through the paper-thin wall.

“I’m leaving. Soon.”

“These kids are like California, California, California. They say it like it’s fucking the lost island of Atlantis. Have your cronies read Grapes of Wrath,” he said. “You’ll go looking for oranges to pick and there’s too many fuckers there picking all the oranges.”

“Enough negativity. Even though I agree with you.”

“You agree with me! Fucking A! Besides, you just got back, you’re not leaving Jersey. It’s just not in your stars.”

“Fuck the stars,” I said.

“Oh, I’d like to.”

Gail kept singing … started coughing. The coughs were as big as her. I got a little more worried.

“Way she goes on like that, I barely sleep,” Aldo said.

“Never seen you sleep.”

My memories of living there consisted of Aldo reading at the table, lips always moving, or playing solitaire, cards flapping down and lips moving. The a.m. radio babble or classical music in-between static. Gail wasn’t around yet. I forget the last bartender’s name.

Now, times were different; listless Gail needed help too. She had the room I used to have. Keep it, Gail. She was snoring in the bed down the hall, where I used to snore. Keep the bed, Gail. If I came back, I’d be tossing and turning on the couch. Fuck no. A nameless alley cat used to walk across my body randomly in the sweaty night.

Things are different. Cat’s gone. Radio’s broke. Aldo’s deck of cards was missing the ace of spades. I like where I am now. Think I’ll stay.

Aldo shakes, but doesn’t know it yet. Slight.

“Went over there the other day,” Aldo said. “Ya know, the Mayweather. Read to a new blind guy. Terry. Terry is in the middle of a terrible book, a courtroom drama. I wish I had more time. I’d read him a good book.”

There’s a rotating circle of volunteers that read to patients at the Mayweather. Each volunteers about an hour a day.

“Takes all my will power not to make stuff up. People need each other,” he said. “All throughout.”

At Christmas, Aldo does the Santa Claus routine at the Mayweather. The suit, the only nice clothes he has, is hanging up in the closet. The fake beard is in a plastic bag. I volunteer my time too.

“I won’t be here forever to do this. Gotta toughen you up, old man.”

“Leaving, I know. I know.”

I put the insulin needle in. I dropped the dropper. The fluid slid in.

“I did all that when I was your age. Touring. Three weeks in the van west. Home a month. Two weeks in the van south. Home two months. A month north. It’s how I lost this tooth. Started to lose my hair in St. Paul, where I first noticed. VFW bathroom mirror. Music saves a man’s soul. Soothes the savage beast. Gets ya laid. Even the ones as ugly as me.”

Gail came out in a pink towel, humming. She went down the hall, into the room where Aldo’s mother lived before her fall down the stairs. Before the new wheelchair. She’s in the Mayweather now, too. Gail doesn’t like needles either. Had a junk problem in her youth. Said, “It’s a miracle I’m alive.”

I put the test meter and the insulin needles away. I zipped up the leather pouch. Aldo looked at me again. The color came back to his face.

“Not so bad,” he says.

Gail coughs, louder, down the hall.

“You’ll outlive everybody,” he says.

“Oh fuck.”

“No, it’s true. She’s not doing so well. Listen to that rattle. Cancer probably.”