A Short-Fiction Excerpt
RISK AND REWARD
Apparently Bad Daddy’s is where true locals go. It’s on the outskirts of the city, and Hank and Jerry are regulars. When I agreed to carpool, I did not realize that I would find myself sandwiched between my coworkers in Jerry’s 1994 firetruck red Toyota pickup, complete with original chipped white pinstripe, patches of rust, and faulty transmission. “We’re gonna turn you into a true Razorback in no time, Caleb,” Jerry said, as he reached between my legs to change gears. Jerry was a wiry guy, late thirties, eyes suspiciously far apart on his face, framed by overly gelled dark brown hair. His giant chicklet teeth and warm smile made his company feel inviting. I smiled, while tugging on my khaki pants which had been migrating up towards my crotch with every violent bump, as we made our way down the pothole laden streets.
“This is the spot to go, boy. Wings for days, fifty cent a pop. When I was your age, I could have easily burnt through a Benjamin on wings alone. It’s the sauce. Shit will light you up going down, but it’s a nice burn, and then wipe your ass with a lick of fire coming out,” Hank slapped his knee and hurled a laugh out from somewhere deep within his bulbous gut. He was a big ole boy, who could have easily filled the cab of the truck on his own. Early fifties. Even though he was missing the majority of his hair, the few white strands that he had plastered to his dome produced a hearty amount of dandruff, which speckled his meaty shoulders, and began to dot my own with each animated thrash of his body. He smelled profusely of burnt bacon and tobacco. I was surprised to see a gold band trapped in-between the knuckles of a doughy finger on his left hand. I wondered if he was actually still married, or if the ring had simply become inseparable from its fleshy prison. “You ain’t gay, right?” Hank raised his eyebrows at me.
“Huh?” I muttered, realizing a little too late that I had been staring a little too intently at my co-worker. “No, no. Sorry. I just noticed your wedding ring. I didn’t realize you were married. I don’t recall you ever mentioning a wife.”
“Yep, I’ve been married to Dixie for over twenty-three years,” he said.
“She’s a noodle shy of a pasta, that one,” Jerry chimed in.
“Look who’s talking,” Hank chuckled, reaching over my body to slap Jerry on his boney right knee. “Don’t listen to a word this one says, boy. His wife, Mary-Beth is the real nut in the Cracker Jack box.”
“She might be crazy, but you have to admit, she’s a looker, Hank. Don’t know how I convinced that pretty little thing to marry me, but we are pushing ten years.” He raised his left hand, to highlight a hulking titanium band.
“That so?” I said, rubbing the empty space on my own ring finger. We grumbled over a particularly large pothole, which I welcomed (even though my crotch was not as pleased to once again feel the seam of my pants) because the topic of marriage was dropped, and the conversation switched to infrastructure. With the condition of Jerry’s truck, I deduced that his driveshaft was several potholes past the point of snapping. We circled the Arkansas river as we left the heart of the city. . .
“This is the spot to go, boy. Wings for days, fifty cent a pop. When I was your age, I could have easily burnt through a Benjamin on wings alone. It’s the sauce. Shit will light you up going down, but it’s a nice burn, and then wipe your ass with a lick of fire coming out,” Hank slapped his knee and hurled a laugh out from somewhere deep within his bulbous gut. He was a big ole boy, who could have easily filled the cab of the truck on his own. Early fifties. Even though he was missing the majority of his hair, the few white strands that he had plastered to his dome produced a hearty amount of dandruff, which speckled his meaty shoulders, and began to dot my own with each animated thrash of his body. He smelled profusely of burnt bacon and tobacco. I was surprised to see a gold band trapped in-between the knuckles of a doughy finger on his left hand. I wondered if he was actually still married, or if the ring had simply become inseparable from its fleshy prison. “You ain’t gay, right?” Hank raised his eyebrows at me.
“Huh?” I muttered, realizing a little too late that I had been staring a little too intently at my co-worker. “No, no. Sorry. I just noticed your wedding ring. I didn’t realize you were married. I don’t recall you ever mentioning a wife.”
“Yep, I’ve been married to Dixie for over twenty-three years,” he said.
“She’s a noodle shy of a pasta, that one,” Jerry chimed in.
“Look who’s talking,” Hank chuckled, reaching over my body to slap Jerry on his boney right knee. “Don’t listen to a word this one says, boy. His wife, Mary-Beth is the real nut in the Cracker Jack box.”
“She might be crazy, but you have to admit, she’s a looker, Hank. Don’t know how I convinced that pretty little thing to marry me, but we are pushing ten years.” He raised his left hand, to highlight a hulking titanium band.
“That so?” I said, rubbing the empty space on my own ring finger. We grumbled over a particularly large pothole, which I welcomed (even though my crotch was not as pleased to once again feel the seam of my pants) because the topic of marriage was dropped, and the conversation switched to infrastructure. With the condition of Jerry’s truck, I deduced that his driveshaft was several potholes past the point of snapping. We circled the Arkansas river as we left the heart of the city. . .