Percival Everett - Half an Inch of Water - Stories

“Just do it.”

Harold removed the radiator cap. He poured the sodium silicate into a beaker, about a quarter cup.

“That’s all it takes?” Donnie said.

“Listen, I think this is a bad idea.” Harold looked Donnie in the eye. “Just let me replace your head gasket.”

“And how much will that cost me?”

“Four hundred fifty.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes, dollars.”

“Pour it in,” Donnie said.

“No, you pour it in,” Harold said. “You can do it and just remember what I told you.”

“Pussy,” Donnie said. He took the beaker and poured the liquid quickly into the radiator.

Harold reached in through the window, turned the key, and started the engine. He joined Donnie back at the engine. “When the engine hits two hundred degrees, I think things should start to happen.”

“You mean that awful ticking will go away?”

“That’s the theory. I usually use this stuff for a quick radiator fix. Just a spoonful then. And you know what else they use this stuff for?”

“What?”

“To disable cars. Pour it in the crankcase, run the engine, and no part of the machine can ever be used again. None of it.”

Donnie stared at his truck. “Listen,” he said. “No ticking. You did it. You’re a fucking genius.”

“No, I’m a pussy, like you said. You poured it in,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood.

“How much?” Donnie asked.

“A dollar fifty.”

“You see, that’s what I’m talking about. Four hundred and fifty dollars, my ass. I’ll pay you tomorrow. I can drive it now?”

Harold nodded. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Relax. I told you there ain’t no leak.” Donnie got behind the wheel and closed the door. “See you tomorrow.” He gunned the motor. “Beautiful,” he said. He rolled out of the garage.

Harold watched him drive to the end of the gravel drive, then stop. The truck made no sound. He could see Donnie frantically turning the key again and again. Donnie got out, stood away from the vehicle, and looked at it. He put his hands on his head and looked at Harold.

“Guess there was a leak,” Harold shouted.

Donnie walked back toward the garage. “What now?”

“There ain’t no ‘what now.’” Harold pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. “Your truck has experienced what is known as a catastrophic event. It’s shit now. It’s dead. I told you what would happen if there was a leak. There was a leak and it happened.”

Donnie sighed and looked back at his truck and then back at Harold. He scratched his head. “There’s no fixing it at all?”

“I’d have to replace everything. Except the body and electrical system.”

“So, I fucked my truck.”

“Pretty much.”

“You got something I can drive for the day?”

“Take the Duster,” Harold said.

“That thing works?”

“Most of the time. There’s no second gear.”

“Thanks.”

Later that day, Donnie came back with the Duster. “You know, that’s not a bad little car.” He stood at the garage door and looked at the bronze Silverado pickup in the bay. “Whose truck is this?”

“Keasey’s.”

“Never-easy-Keasey? He’s back?”

“Yeah, he says San Francisco didn’t work out for him. Says he didn’t like it, anyway. Sounds like he was doing pretty good to me.”

“Nice truck. What’s wrong with it?”

“Just an oil change. Let me describe that to you. That’s when you take the old oil out and put in new oil, thus saving wear and tear on the engine and prolonging said engine’s life.”

“Well, fuck you. So, how’s Keasey looking?”

“Big as ever. Looks good. Got a wife.” Harold finished tightening the new filter. “Nice-looking woman. Pregnant.”

“And he brought them back here?” Donnie asked. “She from here?”

“Black girl.”

“Black girls are okay. White girls, too.” Donnie lit a cigarette. “Why’d he come back here?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Remember when he got his nickname?”

“I remember.”

“We were up by twenty points against those Casper boys. Keasey lost the ball, threw the ball to the wrong man, even tipped a ball into their basket until the game was tied with three seconds left.”

“I remember,” Harold said.

“So, Keasey shoots and the buzzer goes off and there’s that ball going around and around the rim. Everybody was standing up, waiting. Keasey was already running back to the bench with his fist in the air. Then the ball just dropped through the net and everybody went crazy.”

“I remember.”

“Every game was like that. Everything he did was like that. He was about to lose a footrace and the two guys in front of him got tangled up with each other and fell down. He won.”

“I know.” Harold poured the last quart of oil into the crankcase.

“One lucky son of a bitch. Never-easy-Keasey.” Donnie shook his head. “I came up with that nickname, you know?”

“Right.”

“I did.”

“He’ll be coming by here to get his truck in a few minutes and you can remind him.”

“I will.” Donnie looked over at his dead truck. “So, what will you give me for that piece of shit?”

“Give you? You owe me a dollar fifty.”

“The body must be worth something.”

Harold looked at the vehicle and then at Donnie. “Fifty.”

“Done.”

“No, fifty and I’ll get rid of it for you. I’m not paying a dime for that piece of junk.”

A 1976 white Chevy Malibu pulled into the yard. A tall, lanky man with a long dark braid unfolded from the passenger side. He walked toward the bay. The Malibu drove off.

“Keasey,” Harold greeted the man.

“All done?” Keasey asked.

“Yep.”

Donnie nodded. “Remember me?”

Keasey stared at Donnie and then shook his head. “You do look a little bit familiar.”

“St. Clair,” Donnie said.

“Oh, yeah. Danny, right?”

“Donnie. You remember me, don’t you? I’m the one that gave you your nickname.”

“What nickname is that?”

Donnie let out a confused, awkward chuckle and glanced at Harold. “Never-easy-Keasey.”

Keasey’s face grew hard. He looked away from Donnie toward his truck. “I always hated that name. So, that was you? Well, fuck you.”

Donnie took a deep breath. “I never knew it bothered you.”

Keasey’s face relaxed and he smiled. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.”

Donnie laughed.

“How much I owe you?” Keasey asked Harold.

“Thirty.”

“Good deal.”

“So, tell me, Keasey,” Donnie said. “What brings you back here?”

“I’m from here. My wife is having a baby and I want the kid born here, too. Why are you still here? That’s my question.”

Donnie shrugged. “I left for a while. Went to Iraq. I like here better than Iraq. It’s quieter.”

Keasey sneered. “Iraq is for pussies.”

“Fuck you,” Donnie said.

“Just messing with you again,” Keasey said and laughed.

Donnie tried to laugh.

Keasey looked at Donnie for few seconds. “I’m looking for a job. You know anybody in town that’s hiring?”

“They need some help up on a few of the ranches,” Harold said. He slammed shut the hood on Keasey’s truck.

“I don’t do ranch work,” Keasey said.

“What kind of work you want?” Harold asked.

“I ain’t choosy. I can work a register, a storeroom. I can make deliveries. I’ve worked in kitchens.”

“Can you do construction?” Harold asked. “There was a guy from Riverton in here, said he needs a framer. He left a card on the wall. He seemed all right. I heard he pays pretty good.”

“No good with tools,” Keasey said.