Between Wrecks Read Online Free Page B

twenty-four photographs of the old kitchen, all of which looked down on the new tiled countertops, the laminated flooring, the new cabinets that replaced a gigantic island that once took up so much space they had to move the table outside to rot. Mal didn’t get it. Keeping pictures of old rooms on the wall pretty much, to him at least, kept the new room looking old.
    â€œYou don’t see women getting face lifts then plastering pictures of their old selves all around the vanity,” Mal said to Gus. He sat at the counter. At the far end sat a man known as Windshield, who claimed that he still had tiny fragments of glass imbedded in his face from when he took a hard exit out of a Ford truck. Gus’s bar had a sign out front that only read “Gus,” for back when he bought the place he couldn’t remember if it should be “Gus’s Place” or “Gus’ Place.” Neither looked correct. No one who ever came into Gus Place knew the grammatical rule or cared. One time some fraternity boys came by and painted an H on the end of his name. Another time somebody from the Latin Club came and changed it to read “Caesar Augustus,” which Gus kept for a good month until Mal told him that it might be an omen that he was going to get stabbed by an everyday regular drinking customer.
    Mal tried to think of another analogy about the new kitchen, something about a hip replacement.
    â€œMissed you at Frankie Perkins’s funeral Sunday,” Windshield called over to Mal.
    Mal spun a roll of film then set it upright next to the other. He said, “I didn’t know Frankie Perkins.”
    â€œWell he was asking about you,” Windshield said in a voice that started off a baritone and ended up so high he could’ve done a Memorex commercial for breaking wine glasses.
    Gus leaned over to Mal and said, “Don’t mind him. He said the same to me. For some reason he thinks this dead guy used to frequent the bar. Anyway, Brenda called and said you weren’t allowed bourbon. She said you can have two vodkas.” He laughed. He poured a jigger and a half of bourbon, placed it in front of Mal, then reached down and got him a can of Pabst. “I’m just kidding. She ain’t called this time. Yet.”
    â€œThose fuckers on TV. How many shows are on about renovating or redecorating or do-it-yourself-ing? There’s got to be twenty of those shows on nonstop between channels 70 and 80. Who are these people? I’m surprised there are any contractors left out there doing real work.”
    Gus stood up straight and half-turned. “I been thinking about changing around the bar. I’m getting tired of y’all getting to stare down at the water. Some kind of flood or freak tidal wave shows up, I ought to be the first to know about it, not my customers.”
    Mal stood up from his stool and craned his neck to look at the Saluda River. He said, “Beavers still working hard down there. Maybe Brenda can come on by and help them out with the interior of their den. I guess she’d have to use some kind of underwater camera for the before-and-after shots.”
    â€œLodge,” Windshield bellowed out. He stood up and looked out of the plate glass window too. “Beavers live in something called a lodge. Moose don’t, even though they call it the Moose Lodge. My daddy used to be a member. I didn’t notice neither of y’all at his funeral neither.”
    Gus said, “Don’t make me cut you off, Windshield. I’ll cut you off. You know that.”
    Windshield grabbed his can of Budweiser and stood still.
    Mal drank the bourbon in two gulps. “I wish to God I’d never won that money from the scratch ticket. Who wins money off a scratch ticket? Back in the old days renovating the kitchen meant getting a new toaster oven.”
    Gus poured Mal another bourbon. He said, “You should’ve quit your job. Then you’d be