The StickHare
Chapter 3

Last chance for last chances. Drizzle-darkened evening sky beyond bus window. Brother and sister sat silent behind the driver. On the edge of that gloaming season when a cook could open and close a restaurant in afterlight, the forgotten sun replaced by dirty dishwater glow of ethereal day-moon.

Henry didn’t mind the low wages. Of course, who wouldn’t want more money? But a few cents or a few dollars more weren’t going to make enough of a difference to matter. Not now. No matter how high he jumped, he could never reach the moon. And henry desperately needed to get to the moon.

No, what bothered him most about the drudgery of kitchen work was the schedule. For in order for families to go out for Sunday brunch or Saturday night supper or escape the heat on some random August afternoon and cool off with a chocolate malt, someone—a whole lot of someones—had to be stationed in that dank cacophonous machine whose cramped innards bore sharp edges and blistering surfaces, where the stale humid air could easily top a hundred degrees.

Sometimes, more often than not, the little man felt like an honorary Morlock serving up tasty treats to those privileged Eloy. Knew what Jack Kerouac meant when he called himself a, “bent-back mudman monster.” Kitchen work was his long hot burden. This bus ride. This life.

Twenty-minute ride felt so much longer on such evenings. Georgia hugged a Styrofoam container in her lap while Henry tracked the progress of droplets racing over the window. Could he have, he’d bet on the third from left. Big fat bubble of rain jiggling in the wind. And when it finally burst, it would blow past those little dinkers around it. A thousand on the big one. When it finally gave way, the largest droplet cut a zig-zag path, not only losing the race but not even finishing. Henry rapped his fist on the window.

“Hey now.” Driver looked him in the mirror over his head. “Take it easy.”

Henry nodded and stared into his own lap; little hands open, palm up, as if waiting to catch the next parcel of woe.

Mile past the city limits, their bus slowed and turned around in a construction lot. Henry and Georgia stepped to the flooded asphalt and Henry clenched his sister’s wrist while he looked back and forth both directions of the road. Two, three, four times.

“OK.” Henry toed the pavement and they ran, the big woman jerking the little man along and nearly sending him tumbling into the ditch the other side.

Up a-ways, the two turned off the highway onto clay and gravel. Two miles they trudged, Henry walking around puddles Georgia was sure to bunny-hop into with both feet together, jaw set, arms cocked—jumping to the moon.

Past a “Dead End” sign, where the road split off into a sandy two-track sparsely dotted with cabins and trailer homes, the two hopped a little stream and followed a mud pathway up a hill to the peeling white paint and green shingles of the old farmhouse their mother had left them.

“Left.” Not the word Henry would have used. “Abandoned?” Perhaps. What do you call it when a mother leaves her children with ailing stepfather and no means of survival?

“Cunted.” That’s the term. She cunted them. Simp, wee one, and confused cackling oaf whose money she once loved. But she left that too, on department store counters and under dessert plates and in the pockets of muscled young men with energetic thrusts to spare. She left coins until there were no more to leave. And when the money had gone, so had she.

 

Henry smoked a cigarette and sat the edge of the bath while cold water ran. Getting the propane tank filled was a priority when tonight’s bet paid off. And size 12 men’s winter boots for Georgia, and rolls of visqueen and boxes of staples to cover the house’s many leaky windows before winter.

Splashing sounds and motorboat noises covered the creaking of Georgia’s door as Henry sneaked into her bedroom and whispered “sorry” while carefully fishing a rolled-up twenty out of sister’s piggy bank.

“Cleeean.” Georgia sang with a shiver as she laid heavy splatting footsteps.

Stuck his head out in the hallway and called back, “Get dried off and put your pajamas on for dinner. Yeah?”

Violent rub of towel on her head distorted her voice. “Do we gots em um chockit milk?”

“I don’t know.” Henry pocketed the money and closed the door behind him as she came lumbering up, naked but for the towel on her head. Told her, “I’ll go see.”

Downstairs, Henry slid fries and chicken strips from to-go container onto a cartoon emblazoned plastic plate. Warmed them in the microwave while he searched the refrigerator, which contained a bag of liquified lettuce, a gallon jar of mayo from work, dill pickles also from work, and a large margarine tub of individual foil-encapsulated restaurant condiments.

Microwave beeped and Georgia stomped down the stairs and into the living room. Henry squirted six mustards onto the plate and found the matching cup in the sink and rinsed and filled it with water.

“I’m going out for a bit.” He set her dinner on the coffee table. “Take small bites. Watch your shows. If you need to pee—listen to me—if you need to pee, pause your show and go. I’m not doing any laundry tonight.”

“No chockit milk?” Georgia regarded the glass with a most forlorn gape.

“Sorry. No. We’ll get some soon, though. Yeah?”

Henry took a cold shower and smoked a cigarette on the toilet and grunted and pushed until the room spun and when nothing came he sniffed his jeans and recoiled at the musky funk and took his stick deodorant and rubbed some on the inside seam from zipper to seat. His shirt he soaked in the sink and rung dry as his small hands would allow and put it back on.

Looked himself in the hand mirror balanced on the back of the sink and snarled. Rubbed his stubbled chin and considered shaving and grumbled before going back downstairs. Took the hairbrush with him and hopped on the couch next to Georgia.

“Didn’t comb your hair again, Ms. Medusa.”

“Forgot.” She chewed a big mouthful of chicken and stared with undue intent at the small color TV screen.

“Small bites.” Henry wagged his finger and gently brushed back her short tangled hair.

“Small bites,” Georgia mocked with a head waggle.

“Alright, smartass.” Henry finished brushing and put on his coat and boots. “You know the rules.”

“I follow them rules.”

“I’ll be home in a little while. When the show’s done, pop in another one.”

 

Downpour when the little man stepped onto the main road. Upturned his jean collar, pulled up the sweatshirt hood, and stuck out his thumb and hunched his shoulders against the impending shivers. Not a minute on the macadam before an orange station wagon pulled over. Henry felt a shudder and took a breath to forestall the seed of optimism growing warm in his belly.

Quick trip into town and he hiked the last two rainy blocks to Stretch’s Pub. Got a few looks from the euchre players at the tables and a fat guy shooting pool but no-one sat the bar, so Henry struggled up into a captain’s chair and hung his damp jacket over the high leather back. Bartender poured a shot of house whiskey and fetched a room temperature bottle of their cheapest beer from the storeroom.

“Thanks.” Henry laid four singles down. “Turn this up?”

Over pregame chatter, bartender asked, “Still comin down?”

“Coulda swam here.” Henry took the shot glass in his shaking hand and looked with disgust before pouring it into his mouth. Nose burned, eyes watered, and he guzzled until half the beer was gone. When hot tranquility engulfed him, and his back sweated, the little man held the bar with both hands to keep from falling.

“Hey, bud?” Bartender leaned so no-one at the tables could hear. “You gonna make it?”

Henry rested on his elbows for stability, nodded, and said, “Last chance for last chances.”

 

When the game tied at the half, there was still hope. When his boys were down in the third quarter, it was a mere setback. When a fumble in the fourth led to a 72-yard touchdown, Henry knew they would win. He was going to win. Going to pay off his debts. Get Mesick off his back.

“Always bet the underdog.”

“How’s that?” Bartender looked up from drying and stacking pilsners and shot glasses.

“Beer me.”

The keep eyed the little man with concern. “How bout a glass a water.”

“Look, I’ve had a rough—” Henry closed one eye to cut the number of bartenders standing before him and tried to sound sober enough for his indignance to be taken seriously but he was tired and drunk. “Fine. Water, then.”

“Had a rough day?”

“Was gonna say I’ve had a rough forty-three years. But, sure.” He sipped and watched the last few minutes of play with one eye closed. Dallas controlled the ball, and a three-point lead. All Green Bay needed was an interception or another fumble and to tear-ass it down the field. Three minutes to go. There was still time. Then Dallas stopped passing. Short run plays. Hoping to wait out the clock.

“No, goddammit. No, no, no.” Henry slammed his duck egg fist on the bar and knocked over the water glass.

“Hey.” Bartender threw his towel down to sop the spill. “Take it easy.”

“Really wish to god people would stop telling me that.” Henry stared dumbly at the lack of action on the screen. “If I wanted the advice of morons—”

“Alright.” Bartender wadded his towel in both hands. “Time to go home.”

“Lemme finish the game at least.”

Bartender pointed the balled-up rag at the door. “Behave or you’re gone.”

Henry put on his coat and watched sadly as Dallas made first down after first down until thirty seconds remained. He lit a cigarette and, in trying to jump down, hooked his toe in the footrest and landed face first with hands outstretched—stocky little bird lurching from the nest for its inaugural belly flop.

“Way to glide, there, twinkle toes!” shouted the fat man at the pool table, and laughter from the tables followed. Even the bartender chuckled.

Henry rose to his stinging hands and knees and snorted heavily through his nose—a tiny bull apt to charge. Closed his eyes against the ridicule and waited for the flashes of violence to light up the dark of his mind and fade back to the impotent hum forever on the edge of knowing.

Out in the alley, Henry rubbed the ache from his hands and knees and cursed his luck. Genetically predisposed to lose. It was in his hair, under his nails, coating the roof of his mouth. He hated winners almost as much as he hated himself. Thought of cheering one on sickened him.

“She’s my something-something ba-by, she’s my something-something giiirl,” Henry sang in his best Tom Waits—to himself, to the rats, to the rain.

Easiest thing in the world to be tall, rich, pretty. Try the other side for a while. Takes no great commitment to cheer on a winner. So smug. So comfortable. Confidence? Huh.

Henry’s body and brain hummed so hard with liquor’s happy indifference he found himself trying to manufacture the very real worry which, come morning, would make it difficult to breathe.

Lifted his face to the hidden sky. Rain had let up some. Sporadic drops played sleepy jazz on dumpsters, tin roofs, upturned buckets. His shadow lunged and retreated, a prancing black jester at the foot of an empty throne. Henry splashed ankle-deep into a puddle and hopped around shaking his foot and said, “I can’t do this anymore. Goddammit, I can’t.” That’s when he noticed the blue monstrosity under a burnt-out streetlamp but pretended not to see.

Dome light glowed as the long door of the old Buick opened. Henry stared at his little feet, feeling the wind leave him. Kicked the wet foot, swearing and gesturing with exaggeration the way a liar gets angry about picayune shit in hopes of diverting attention from his deceit.

Henry’s eyes on the twinkling asphalt. Didn’t notice the footsteps. Didn’t want to notice.

“Missed you this morn.” Voice young and thick with Eastern Europe.

“Been hectic.” Henry shielded his eyes under the light, pretending not to be sure of what was certain. Mumbled desperate nonsense. “Work … busy … soon.”

“Verk has been Hectic. This vhy you no pay?”

“Very busy.”

“Has you any of the money?”

Henry looked into the orange halo from the sodium light above the big Czech’s head. Tried to speak but his little lips only wriggled mutely.

“No small service you ask of me, of my family. Your terms, these were. You promise to pay but you don’t pay. Ve must have something.”

Henry took out his wallet. “Three bucks. All I got.”

Big man groused in secret utterance and pulled a shiny from his back pocket.

Henry raised his hands and flinched.

“I cannot kill you. Who vould respect such a man?”

Henry peeked between his hands. It wasn’t a gun but pliers.

“My brothers, now—” Mesick motioned and took the stubbly child jaw into his hand and pressed cold steel against Henry’s lips. “Open and be still.”

Henry started to pull away from the stink of cigar and cinnamon.

“A long day it has been. Do not make me chase.”

Henry clamped his eyes. Sour of dirty steel alloy made him swallow. His tongue touched the tongs. There was a gritty scrape as the simple machine took hold of Henry’s top left front tooth.

“Úspěch!” shouted the big man.

Force of the yank and sudden release sent Henry pinwheeling back into garbage cans. Pressure in his mouth became a raw tearing sensation as the hole dripped sweet metallic into his jaw. Tongue recoiled. Swallowed unconsciously and shuddered with a gag.

Big man held the pliers, a jagged little lump in their pincers. Dipped the tool in a puddle, washing the tooth clean, and dropped it into a sandwich bag which he stuffed into his coat pocket.

“Again.” Mesick brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and motioned and took a step toward the little man.

Shame, as much as pain, put Henry to crying.

“Again and home ve can go.” Mesick scrunched his nose and upper lip, exposing his top teeth. “Like the bunny. Show me.”

Henry mirrored the big man, his pink teeth bared in maniac fashion. He blubbered and coughed and sprayed the big hands and face with bloody spittle.

“Kurva.” Mesick turned his head to spit. Pawed at his face in disgust. “Last chance for last chances, my little friend. Be still.”

Henry leaned back against the cold of the dumpster. Closed his eyes. Off-kilter rain on hollow steel. Salty fingers pushed past his lips. Pliers cold on the chin. Cigar and cinnamon. Hands stank strong of alcohol—cheap gin or cheap cologne?

Again, his tongue instinctively probed that which invaded its maw. Again, Henry held a breath. Crying without breathing was hard.

Big man counted: “One … two … gungk!”

Again, there was a jerking, a terrible force which sent Henry to the ground. But no new pain. Flutter in tangerine darkness behind his lids. Blinked to see a hulking figure beyond the ring of light. Mesick coughed and raised his arms—bird flapping for takeoff. Grabbed his head and splashed facedown in the puddle.

Black creature shimmered as it stepped into the light.

“You’re bleedin, huh?” Meandering sing-song voice so familiar, so foreign in this time, in this place, in this strange black skin.

“Georgia?” Henry got to his feet, hunching and squinting to identify the face under the black plastic hood. She’d made a poncho out of garbage bag. “What’re you doin here?”

Stuck out her bottom lip, chin trembling, and pointed with a large framing hammer down the alley toward the car.

“Gimme that.” Henry took the hammer. Crouched and motioned for Georgia to help roll the man out of the puddle. Held a finger under the big man’s nose.

“He’s sleepin.” Georgia nodded slowly but her face belied her uncertainty.

“Oh my god. What’d you do?” Henry put his ear to Mesick’s mouth for a good minute. Searched the body. In the dead man’s coat, seven white envelopes of various thicknesses. Henry stuffed them in his own pocket and looked up and down the alley. Washed the hammer in the puddle and threw it into the dumpster.

Georgia saw the money and pointed and chanted, “Chockit milk. Chockit milk.”

“How’d you find me?” Henry pocketed the cash. “How in hell’d you get here?”

Georgia shrugged.

Henry stared up into the light and shielded his eyes. Trying to decide whether this was a dream.