Between Wrecks Read Online Free Page A

after about a year what you can do is get me to go sell off that silver and that paper money. And you already got the insurance money. I don’t want to brag none, but I would think that this is a good idea, and for it you’d give me a cut, you know,” Bobby said. “If I leave here tomorrow,” he sang out, “and you go turn in the silver, somehow you’re going to get caught for insurance fraud.” He said, “Hand me that thermos.”
    â€œI’m serious when I say I want that bench,” Doc said. He reached behind the counter and pulled out two coffee mugs. Bobby Suddeth poured Doc some, then poured himself to the rim, then handed me back the Thermos. “Jesus S. Christ.”
    We drank. Bobby said something about how those cigarette lighters hurt. He said it reminded him of playing dodgeball with rocks and hardboiled eggs back when he was a kid. I couldn’t wait any longer and said, “What’s that mean, Doc? Tell me what ‘Jesus S. Christ’ means. I’ve never heard it that way before.”
    He wouldn’t make eye contact. He limped over to the counter, picked up the phone, and said, “I’m calling Gloria.” I could hear it ring a good ten times. No answering machine picked up. “She must be at Wal-Mart again. That woman won’t be happy until she buys one of everything sold at the Wal-Mart.”
    I sat down on the loveseat. I wanted to go nowhere. For a second I thought about asking Doc if I could rent out some space here, maybe set up a studio, maybe in one of the junked buses. Then I thought about Abby up in Minnesota, and imagined her strolling around the baby section of Wal-Mart, picking up bibs and whatnot. Why hadn’t she called me? Why had she asked that I not contact her, ever?
    Doc said, “Shade. It stands for ‘Shade.’”
    I nodded. I thought about Jesus on the cross, probably hoping that there was some shade to comfort him a little. The three of us sat in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Doc said how he couldn’t be selfish anymore, and pulled a brand-new bottle of bourbon from beneath his counter. We passed it around. He said, “I’m not going to kill you, Bobby, though I ought to. I know you’re living back there.” He pointed with his thumb.
    I said, “I need to get home,” but didn’t move.
    I didn’t move, for I knew that our story together wasn’t finished. I closed my eyes and inhaled the odd smell of cilantro and candle. Later on, I knew, we would get in my truck and drive to that nursery. Doc would ramble around pretending to buy a couple saplings to plant around his salvage yard, but really he’d be taking mental notes. Bobby Suddeth would look for things to steal while no one watched him. I’d end up maudlin, remember too many songs that played back when my wife and I underwent rites of passage, then make some more promises to myself I would never keep, and from which I’d never be able to escape.

TRADITIONAL DEVELOPMENT
    Mal Mardis spun two spent rolls of color film on the bar, didn’t look up at Gus, and realized that cutting basic cable alone wouldn’t solve the problem. He’d also have to find a way for his wife to quit subscribing to the magazines. This morning’s mission was no different than when Brenda renovated their bathroom, den, or what used to be a two-car garage. Mal was supposed to drop off the film at any of the one-hour developers twenty miles from their house, use that time to buy at least two dozen frames, go back to the developer—Eckerd, Jack Rabbit, Wal-Mart, One-Hour Photo—select the nicest shots, and ask that the person behind the counter now blow them up into 8 x 10s. Then Mal, according to his wife, could use that hour to visit Gus, have two non-brown liquor drinks, return to get the enlargements, and come home. Soon thereafter, Brenda would nail up on available wall space