The guard’s shack looks like a dollhouse as I come up to the gate. The guard doesn’t even pay attention as I pass through. Just sits there watching his little TV with his hands folded on top his plump belly, nods at me without taking his eyes off the screen. I slide my license back into my pocket and carry on through. The backstretch feels a whole lot safer with those uniforms guarding the premises. Hell, we’re all saved souls with the zookeepers around day and night.
Hard to believe those fat bums got jurisdiction over what I can and cannot do. That they’re the long arm of the law, not making the rules but upholding them so’s everything works out according to the books. As if racing horses is a fair sport and the rules are there to give everyone the same chances at winning. Ha, what a joke, the rules always favor the rulemakers. Which is why the peasants have to do as they’re told while the bosses cross their legs and blow smoke rings the shape of dollar signs.
I pass through the gate as a race comes round the three quarter pole. On the otherside of the fence the horses stampede past making the ground tremble like a small earthquake. The crowd lights up over in the grandstand as the announcer calls the end of the race. Round and round they go. Giddy up and put your money down. Always a win, place, show. No matter how fast, no matter how slow. So count your nickels and spin your dimes. A penny saved is a penny earned. The going’s always good when business is fine.
Whatever, it’s all a fucking bogus racket. I turn up the road in front of the kitchen, head towards the stairwell. Going to just chill out in my room this evening. Everybody’s got horses racing and I don’t feel like breathing in the crowds over in the grandstand. They bore the living hell out of me.
I get to the stairwell and climb on up to the catwalk. At the top I look out over the backstretch. Same old, same old. But nothing really stays the same forever, there’s always something changing in some way, shape, or form. Which must be why I got a fucking fine for smoking in the shedrow when I wasn’t even smoking in the shedrow. And why the damn guard wouldn’t have nothing to do with my pleas. “Them’s the rules, buddy,” he says like a real puke. “You should’ve just waited until you were out in the road. Your problem, not mine.” No shit I lit up in the shedrow before stepping out onto the road, it was windy as all get out. But pleading common sense to a lazy fuck in uniform is like building a fire out in the pouring rain. Won’t get no warmth no matter what.
Rocco steps out of the showerhouse as I approach my room. His red hair bunches out from underneath his cap like a clown. Got no shoes on his feet and his crack shows with how his jeans hang halfway down his ass. I wonder if he’s ever been with a girl, the rub. And if so, what girl would get with a guy like Rocco Finn? Are girls even on his radar? Does he give a shit about anything?
“Hey Rocco,” I call out. “You not racing no horses tonight?”
He turns around with an unsteady shuffle, looks at me with a blank stare. A shiner covers his right eye like a bad make-up job. His wrinkled shirt’s buttoned in the wrong holes and there’s stains under the armpits. For a horsegroom he sure ain’t good at grooming himself.
Rocco wipes his hand across his mouth. “No horses tonight, no,” he says. “Don’t got none racing until after the Derby.”
I come up to where he’s standing. “Well that’s an easy enough schedule. All your evenings are free. So what do ya do with yourself when you’re not working?”
His eyes get confused as he searches for his answer. I get a feeling like I just stepped into an empty room. “I drink,” he finally says. “There’s nothing else to do.”
I take my eyes away from Rocco’s face and look back out across the backstretch. The race announcer calls another race like an auctioneer. I peer around the catwalk at all the steel doors. When there’s nothing else to do there’s always drinking to be done. And maybe that’s what it’s all about, not trying to win or even trying not to lose. Just drinking because there’s nothing else to do. Anyone who says different is a liar since everybody’s drinking , the winners and the losers both.
“I hear ya, buddy,” I say. “So you want a drink? I ain’t doing much right now but passing the time until tomorrow. I got a couple beers for us in my room.”
Rocco shrugs his shoulders and nods his head okay.
“My room’s right over there,” I say. “What the hell.”
And why not offer the fellow a drink, he ain’t such a threat. Who cares what Amelia has to say about him. I’m not gonna choose who I have a drink with and who I don’t according to her bloody hang ups. It isn’t her who’s going to make up my mind about people. Rocco’s never done me no wrong and I’m curious about what he’s all about. There’s got to be more going on than just a loser rubout living off his uncle’s pity. Got to be more to him than being a beaten dog people only put up with. Or maybe not, who knows.
When we get to my room I hand Rocco a warm beer. Take one for myself and sit at the other end of the couch. He chugs a few sips and sits back, breathes deep. Hoists his can and offers me a weak smile.
“Yer welcome,” I say and take a sip. “Sorry for them being warm but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Beer tastes good warm or cold.”
I cross my legs, lean back in my seat. “So a horse whack you a good one? That shiner looks pretty fresh.”
Rocco swigs some more on his beer, sits quiet without moving. Stares ahead at the wall. Holy jeezus, wherever he is he’s far fucking gone. Almost like a zombie sitting there on the couch. I don’t do nothing but wait for his brain to swirl his thoughts into order. Let them swish around the pickle juice until his tongue waggles.
Out of nowhere he starts up. “I got punched by Clarence Howe yesterday. He’s an asshole.”
“There’s lots of assholes around this place, that’s for damned sure,” I say. “He just walk up and plow you? That ain’t like most people, most people got reasons for throwing punches. They may not be good reasons but they got their reasons.” I picture Grady Callico with my boot stomping his head on the ground.
Rocco shrugs his shoulders, sits hunched over. A fly buzzes around his head and lands on his cheek. He brushes it away with a limp wrist. “No, he said I took some money from his jacket. I told him to go fuck himself. So he punched me.”
“Did you take his money?”
Rocco shakes his head. “His wallet fell on the floor. I didn’t take nothing from his jacket. I put his wallet back and told him so. When he went and checked he said there was money missing. I told him I didn’t take no money from his wallet. He said bullshit and I told him to go fuck himself.”
Seems possible what he’s saying is what happened. If he stole any money he wouldn’t have even told that Clarence guy. He can’t be that dumb. He must’ve been hoping for a tip for being such a guardian angel. Twenty bucks for putting the thing back where it belongs. A place for everything and everything in it’s place. Rocco Finn, janitor of fallen objects.
“So you’re saying he fed you a knuckle sandwich for no good reason. He didn’t remember how much he had in his wallet so you had to pay.”
“I told you, he’s an asshole.”
“Why’d you even pick it up? You could’ve just left it there. It wasn’t your problem to deal with. Screw the bastard.”
Rocco gives me a look that’d make even a lawyer feel sorry him. I don’t know what to think, he could be pulling my leg so that I ply him with more beers. Ain’t like it’s beneath him to go pulling dumb stunts just like he did at that Stakes party.
He shrugs his shoulders. “I was being nice, nothing wrong with that.”
There isn’t anything wrong with being nice, he’s right there. But when you’ve been a prick enough times being nice becomes a tough sell. It’s not surprising people figure the worst of the guy. Which is why reputation is such a bitch. You’re guilty until proven innocent, since who you are depends on who people believe you are. And if they say you’re a no good weasel then that’s who you are, no matter how many wallets you scoop up off the ground.
“That’s people for ya,” I say and take a sip on my beer. Tastes almost rank with how it’s warm. “Always damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Hell, I got nailed with a fine for smoking in the shedrow yesterday. A hundred fucking bucks. And all I did was light up out of the wind while one of the guards was walking by. The prick, he didn’t care. You think I can afford a hundred dollars for something I wasn’t doing? To make matters worse, I find out today the race secretaries want to see me. They’ve called me up to their offices for the end of next week. Fuck me, I got no idea what that’s all about.”
Somebody hollers on the road outside my window. A horse trots by blowing heavy like sails flapping in the wind, must’ve just come from the races. Rocco stares ahead at the wall with a weird grin. Sits there with his beer in his lap grinning like an orphan clown. I sip on my beer, check out the wall but there’s nothing to stare at. The guy’s somewhere else, man, somewhere far away from where I’m at.
“They do that sometimes.”
“What’s that?” I ask as if I’m talking to myself. “They do what?”
Rocco goes on staring at the wall. “If they don’t know who you are they call you up to their offices to talk.”
I feel a soft twisting in my guts which I don’t like one bit. “So what do they wanna talk about?”
“Who knows,” Rocco says with another shrug. “They just want to talk.”
“Jeezus, buddy, help me out here. The hell should I be expecting?” I finish my beer and crumple up the can, toss it at the garbage. “Does this mean I’m being written off the track? Are they gonna grill me for information? Am I gonna be whipped like a dog? The fuck, Rocco, I don’t need this hassle.”
The race secretaries, the eyes in the sky watching over everything. The big ass bosses who got big ass chips on their shoulders against every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the backstretch. Now they got a bone to pick against me. All because I got fined for something I wasn’t even doing. This isn’t right, I shouldn’t have to go talk with them if I don’t wanna talk with them. The fine says I pay money and all’s good again, it doesn’t mention anything about talking with the pigs upstairs in their offices. I’m a horsegroom for fuck sakes, I belong in a barn, not some stuffy office. This is the last thing I need. Ah hell, at least it’s not a call to the test barn. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake. Damn, what would I do if that call came my way. I’d be pissing as dirty as a juiced up racehorse. Oh no, I can’t let that happen. I got to tell Amelia no more of that shit for me, not until after I see what the race secretaries want. Not until I get my own back covered, even then who knows. I can’t afford to be written off. But what the hell does Amelia do? She wouldn’t piss clean if she got called down to the test barn. Does she have urine samples chilling in the fridge just in case the eyes in the sky come calling for her? I never even asked, never even thought of asking. Holy shit, what have I been thinking not to have my own back covered all this time? No, instead I go and sell my piss to Grady goddamn Callico. I cover his back but not my own. This is too messed up. Do I have to go ask Grady to buy my own piss back? No way, I can’t do that, I just can’t. I don’t want anything to do with the son-of-a-bitch, not with how he’s carrying on with Stacy. No way would I give him the satisfaction when he’s already taken me for enough of a ride. I’d just as soon stomp his head into the ground, put him out like a cigarette butt. Ah fuck, what a place to be. How’d I ever find myself here? I’m a fool, a goddamn fool who can’t see beyond the end of his own nose. And I’m getting played like a fiddle for the benefit of everybody but my own self. Miss Stacy brokenhearts Lansdowne, sweet ass Amelia, Grady fucking Callico, Vladimir even with how I lent him money, and now the pig race secretaries. I’m getting played from all sides. Jeezus, I got to get myself out of this mess.
I get up from the couch and fetch two more beers. “You done with that beer yet?” I ask Rocco and he drains the last of his beer, hands me the empty can. I pass him another beer. “This is all I got for beers. You want any more you got to buy ‘em yourself.”
Rocco’s shirt rides up so his paunch hangs out. On his belly are hairs as red as those on his head. He cracks open his beer and takes a sip. I stay standing and watch him drink. Can’t even say he knows I’m in the room with him. He sits there like a chubby bear who’s been kicked out of the circus and just doesn’t give a damn anymore.
“So who do you hang out with, Rocco?” I ask.
“Nobody. I go to work and after I drink.”
I look out the window for a few seconds but they feel like a long few minutes. “Now I can’t blame you for not wanting to hang out with people here on the backstretch,” I say at last. “But what about off track? You got no friends off track? With all the time you got on your hands why not get off track and visit some people?”
Rocco belches like a foghorn, adjusts himself on the couch. “All my friends are dead. I got no one to visit. Who cares anyways.”
All the air in the room seems to go moldy all at once. I turn away from the window to find Rocco staring at me with bloodshot eyes. A mild nausea takes hold of my stomach as we stare at each other. The hell is this about? Some sob story as a reason to drink himself into oblivion? But the way the guy sits there it’s as if I’m staring into a hole in the ground. A big empty pit with no bottom.
“What are you talking about? Hell, your uncle hired you on here. That’s something.”
“My uncle don’t give a fuck about me. He only gives me a job cause he can pay me way less than what he pays anybody else. I’m cheap labor, I ain’t good for much else. He only hired me on as a favor to my Mom cause she didn’t want me following in my Dad’s footsteps. But she died from cancer five years ago so my uncle only keeps me because I’m cheap labor. Who the fuck knows where my Dad is, he’s a douchebag anyways who beat the shit out of my Mom.”
Rocco hiccups after taking another swig of beer. I watch him smile for his own sake cause he sure ain’t smiling for me.
“What about your friends being all dead?”
Rocco sits up straight, gives me an angry look as if I’m wasting his time with dumb questions. As if he’s being rubbed the wrong way with me asking what I’m asking.
“I told you,” he announces. “All my friends are dead. Joey’s dead. Elijah’s dead. Tom’s dead. They’re all dead, they never made it out of the town where we grew up. Fucking car accident or they drowned or they got sick. What difference does it make, they’re all dead.”
He sits back on the couch with all the wind gone from his lungs. He slumps over and sips on his beer. I watch the hole in the ground grow deeper and wonder how to reach down there. Because wherever this guy is he’s way down there out of my reach.
“What town you come from?”
Rocco belches again. “Up north. Do you really fucking care?”
I look back out the window. “Forget about it,” I say. “Drink up.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
I sit back down on my side of the couch and stare at the wall. Rocco drinks his beer. His problems ain’t the same as mine, that’s for damned sure. And I sure as hell don’t want his problems no matter what the deal. I don’t want mine neither. Don’t want ‘em and don’t need ‘em and won’t have ‘em. Screw this whole goddamn place. I won’t let these trenches get the best of what I got going on. I may be a fool but I’m no fool playing a fiddle and I’m sure as hell not a peasant.
Rocco stirs over on his side of the couch and I glance over. For all the times he gets kicked around this place he isn’t even worth the while. Why would people get all up in arms over a guy who isn’t even there? No kidding he can be put down an easy as squashing out a house fly. Only he isn’t a house fly so he’s just not worth the bother getting all mighty over. But people don’t work that way. They love the easy kill too much when nothing out there’s easy.
Hard to believe those fat bums got jurisdiction over what I can and cannot do. That they’re the long arm of the law, not making the rules but upholding them so’s everything works out according to the books. As if racing horses is a fair sport and the rules are there to give everyone the same chances at winning. Ha, what a joke, the rules always favor the rulemakers. Which is why the peasants have to do as they’re told while the bosses cross their legs and blow smoke rings the shape of dollar signs.
I pass through the gate as a race comes round the three quarter pole. On the otherside of the fence the horses stampede past making the ground tremble like a small earthquake. The crowd lights up over in the grandstand as the announcer calls the end of the race. Round and round they go. Giddy up and put your money down. Always a win, place, show. No matter how fast, no matter how slow. So count your nickels and spin your dimes. A penny saved is a penny earned. The going’s always good when business is fine.
Whatever, it’s all a fucking bogus racket. I turn up the road in front of the kitchen, head towards the stairwell. Going to just chill out in my room this evening. Everybody’s got horses racing and I don’t feel like breathing in the crowds over in the grandstand. They bore the living hell out of me.
I get to the stairwell and climb on up to the catwalk. At the top I look out over the backstretch. Same old, same old. But nothing really stays the same forever, there’s always something changing in some way, shape, or form. Which must be why I got a fucking fine for smoking in the shedrow when I wasn’t even smoking in the shedrow. And why the damn guard wouldn’t have nothing to do with my pleas. “Them’s the rules, buddy,” he says like a real puke. “You should’ve just waited until you were out in the road. Your problem, not mine.” No shit I lit up in the shedrow before stepping out onto the road, it was windy as all get out. But pleading common sense to a lazy fuck in uniform is like building a fire out in the pouring rain. Won’t get no warmth no matter what.
Rocco steps out of the showerhouse as I approach my room. His red hair bunches out from underneath his cap like a clown. Got no shoes on his feet and his crack shows with how his jeans hang halfway down his ass. I wonder if he’s ever been with a girl, the rub. And if so, what girl would get with a guy like Rocco Finn? Are girls even on his radar? Does he give a shit about anything?
“Hey Rocco,” I call out. “You not racing no horses tonight?”
He turns around with an unsteady shuffle, looks at me with a blank stare. A shiner covers his right eye like a bad make-up job. His wrinkled shirt’s buttoned in the wrong holes and there’s stains under the armpits. For a horsegroom he sure ain’t good at grooming himself.
Rocco wipes his hand across his mouth. “No horses tonight, no,” he says. “Don’t got none racing until after the Derby.”
I come up to where he’s standing. “Well that’s an easy enough schedule. All your evenings are free. So what do ya do with yourself when you’re not working?”
His eyes get confused as he searches for his answer. I get a feeling like I just stepped into an empty room. “I drink,” he finally says. “There’s nothing else to do.”
I take my eyes away from Rocco’s face and look back out across the backstretch. The race announcer calls another race like an auctioneer. I peer around the catwalk at all the steel doors. When there’s nothing else to do there’s always drinking to be done. And maybe that’s what it’s all about, not trying to win or even trying not to lose. Just drinking because there’s nothing else to do. Anyone who says different is a liar since everybody’s drinking , the winners and the losers both.
“I hear ya, buddy,” I say. “So you want a drink? I ain’t doing much right now but passing the time until tomorrow. I got a couple beers for us in my room.”
Rocco shrugs his shoulders and nods his head okay.
“My room’s right over there,” I say. “What the hell.”
And why not offer the fellow a drink, he ain’t such a threat. Who cares what Amelia has to say about him. I’m not gonna choose who I have a drink with and who I don’t according to her bloody hang ups. It isn’t her who’s going to make up my mind about people. Rocco’s never done me no wrong and I’m curious about what he’s all about. There’s got to be more going on than just a loser rubout living off his uncle’s pity. Got to be more to him than being a beaten dog people only put up with. Or maybe not, who knows.
When we get to my room I hand Rocco a warm beer. Take one for myself and sit at the other end of the couch. He chugs a few sips and sits back, breathes deep. Hoists his can and offers me a weak smile.
“Yer welcome,” I say and take a sip. “Sorry for them being warm but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Beer tastes good warm or cold.”
I cross my legs, lean back in my seat. “So a horse whack you a good one? That shiner looks pretty fresh.”
Rocco swigs some more on his beer, sits quiet without moving. Stares ahead at the wall. Holy jeezus, wherever he is he’s far fucking gone. Almost like a zombie sitting there on the couch. I don’t do nothing but wait for his brain to swirl his thoughts into order. Let them swish around the pickle juice until his tongue waggles.
Out of nowhere he starts up. “I got punched by Clarence Howe yesterday. He’s an asshole.”
“There’s lots of assholes around this place, that’s for damned sure,” I say. “He just walk up and plow you? That ain’t like most people, most people got reasons for throwing punches. They may not be good reasons but they got their reasons.” I picture Grady Callico with my boot stomping his head on the ground.
Rocco shrugs his shoulders, sits hunched over. A fly buzzes around his head and lands on his cheek. He brushes it away with a limp wrist. “No, he said I took some money from his jacket. I told him to go fuck himself. So he punched me.”
“Did you take his money?”
Rocco shakes his head. “His wallet fell on the floor. I didn’t take nothing from his jacket. I put his wallet back and told him so. When he went and checked he said there was money missing. I told him I didn’t take no money from his wallet. He said bullshit and I told him to go fuck himself.”
Seems possible what he’s saying is what happened. If he stole any money he wouldn’t have even told that Clarence guy. He can’t be that dumb. He must’ve been hoping for a tip for being such a guardian angel. Twenty bucks for putting the thing back where it belongs. A place for everything and everything in it’s place. Rocco Finn, janitor of fallen objects.
“So you’re saying he fed you a knuckle sandwich for no good reason. He didn’t remember how much he had in his wallet so you had to pay.”
“I told you, he’s an asshole.”
“Why’d you even pick it up? You could’ve just left it there. It wasn’t your problem to deal with. Screw the bastard.”
Rocco gives me a look that’d make even a lawyer feel sorry him. I don’t know what to think, he could be pulling my leg so that I ply him with more beers. Ain’t like it’s beneath him to go pulling dumb stunts just like he did at that Stakes party.
He shrugs his shoulders. “I was being nice, nothing wrong with that.”
There isn’t anything wrong with being nice, he’s right there. But when you’ve been a prick enough times being nice becomes a tough sell. It’s not surprising people figure the worst of the guy. Which is why reputation is such a bitch. You’re guilty until proven innocent, since who you are depends on who people believe you are. And if they say you’re a no good weasel then that’s who you are, no matter how many wallets you scoop up off the ground.
“That’s people for ya,” I say and take a sip on my beer. Tastes almost rank with how it’s warm. “Always damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Hell, I got nailed with a fine for smoking in the shedrow yesterday. A hundred fucking bucks. And all I did was light up out of the wind while one of the guards was walking by. The prick, he didn’t care. You think I can afford a hundred dollars for something I wasn’t doing? To make matters worse, I find out today the race secretaries want to see me. They’ve called me up to their offices for the end of next week. Fuck me, I got no idea what that’s all about.”
Somebody hollers on the road outside my window. A horse trots by blowing heavy like sails flapping in the wind, must’ve just come from the races. Rocco stares ahead at the wall with a weird grin. Sits there with his beer in his lap grinning like an orphan clown. I sip on my beer, check out the wall but there’s nothing to stare at. The guy’s somewhere else, man, somewhere far away from where I’m at.
“They do that sometimes.”
“What’s that?” I ask as if I’m talking to myself. “They do what?”
Rocco goes on staring at the wall. “If they don’t know who you are they call you up to their offices to talk.”
I feel a soft twisting in my guts which I don’t like one bit. “So what do they wanna talk about?”
“Who knows,” Rocco says with another shrug. “They just want to talk.”
“Jeezus, buddy, help me out here. The hell should I be expecting?” I finish my beer and crumple up the can, toss it at the garbage. “Does this mean I’m being written off the track? Are they gonna grill me for information? Am I gonna be whipped like a dog? The fuck, Rocco, I don’t need this hassle.”
The race secretaries, the eyes in the sky watching over everything. The big ass bosses who got big ass chips on their shoulders against every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the backstretch. Now they got a bone to pick against me. All because I got fined for something I wasn’t even doing. This isn’t right, I shouldn’t have to go talk with them if I don’t wanna talk with them. The fine says I pay money and all’s good again, it doesn’t mention anything about talking with the pigs upstairs in their offices. I’m a horsegroom for fuck sakes, I belong in a barn, not some stuffy office. This is the last thing I need. Ah hell, at least it’s not a call to the test barn. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake. Damn, what would I do if that call came my way. I’d be pissing as dirty as a juiced up racehorse. Oh no, I can’t let that happen. I got to tell Amelia no more of that shit for me, not until after I see what the race secretaries want. Not until I get my own back covered, even then who knows. I can’t afford to be written off. But what the hell does Amelia do? She wouldn’t piss clean if she got called down to the test barn. Does she have urine samples chilling in the fridge just in case the eyes in the sky come calling for her? I never even asked, never even thought of asking. Holy shit, what have I been thinking not to have my own back covered all this time? No, instead I go and sell my piss to Grady goddamn Callico. I cover his back but not my own. This is too messed up. Do I have to go ask Grady to buy my own piss back? No way, I can’t do that, I just can’t. I don’t want anything to do with the son-of-a-bitch, not with how he’s carrying on with Stacy. No way would I give him the satisfaction when he’s already taken me for enough of a ride. I’d just as soon stomp his head into the ground, put him out like a cigarette butt. Ah fuck, what a place to be. How’d I ever find myself here? I’m a fool, a goddamn fool who can’t see beyond the end of his own nose. And I’m getting played like a fiddle for the benefit of everybody but my own self. Miss Stacy brokenhearts Lansdowne, sweet ass Amelia, Grady fucking Callico, Vladimir even with how I lent him money, and now the pig race secretaries. I’m getting played from all sides. Jeezus, I got to get myself out of this mess.
I get up from the couch and fetch two more beers. “You done with that beer yet?” I ask Rocco and he drains the last of his beer, hands me the empty can. I pass him another beer. “This is all I got for beers. You want any more you got to buy ‘em yourself.”
Rocco’s shirt rides up so his paunch hangs out. On his belly are hairs as red as those on his head. He cracks open his beer and takes a sip. I stay standing and watch him drink. Can’t even say he knows I’m in the room with him. He sits there like a chubby bear who’s been kicked out of the circus and just doesn’t give a damn anymore.
“So who do you hang out with, Rocco?” I ask.
“Nobody. I go to work and after I drink.”
I look out the window for a few seconds but they feel like a long few minutes. “Now I can’t blame you for not wanting to hang out with people here on the backstretch,” I say at last. “But what about off track? You got no friends off track? With all the time you got on your hands why not get off track and visit some people?”
Rocco belches like a foghorn, adjusts himself on the couch. “All my friends are dead. I got no one to visit. Who cares anyways.”
All the air in the room seems to go moldy all at once. I turn away from the window to find Rocco staring at me with bloodshot eyes. A mild nausea takes hold of my stomach as we stare at each other. The hell is this about? Some sob story as a reason to drink himself into oblivion? But the way the guy sits there it’s as if I’m staring into a hole in the ground. A big empty pit with no bottom.
“What are you talking about? Hell, your uncle hired you on here. That’s something.”
“My uncle don’t give a fuck about me. He only gives me a job cause he can pay me way less than what he pays anybody else. I’m cheap labor, I ain’t good for much else. He only hired me on as a favor to my Mom cause she didn’t want me following in my Dad’s footsteps. But she died from cancer five years ago so my uncle only keeps me because I’m cheap labor. Who the fuck knows where my Dad is, he’s a douchebag anyways who beat the shit out of my Mom.”
Rocco hiccups after taking another swig of beer. I watch him smile for his own sake cause he sure ain’t smiling for me.
“What about your friends being all dead?”
Rocco sits up straight, gives me an angry look as if I’m wasting his time with dumb questions. As if he’s being rubbed the wrong way with me asking what I’m asking.
“I told you,” he announces. “All my friends are dead. Joey’s dead. Elijah’s dead. Tom’s dead. They’re all dead, they never made it out of the town where we grew up. Fucking car accident or they drowned or they got sick. What difference does it make, they’re all dead.”
He sits back on the couch with all the wind gone from his lungs. He slumps over and sips on his beer. I watch the hole in the ground grow deeper and wonder how to reach down there. Because wherever this guy is he’s way down there out of my reach.
“What town you come from?”
Rocco belches again. “Up north. Do you really fucking care?”
I look back out the window. “Forget about it,” I say. “Drink up.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
I sit back down on my side of the couch and stare at the wall. Rocco drinks his beer. His problems ain’t the same as mine, that’s for damned sure. And I sure as hell don’t want his problems no matter what the deal. I don’t want mine neither. Don’t want ‘em and don’t need ‘em and won’t have ‘em. Screw this whole goddamn place. I won’t let these trenches get the best of what I got going on. I may be a fool but I’m no fool playing a fiddle and I’m sure as hell not a peasant.
Rocco stirs over on his side of the couch and I glance over. For all the times he gets kicked around this place he isn’t even worth the while. Why would people get all up in arms over a guy who isn’t even there? No kidding he can be put down an easy as squashing out a house fly. Only he isn’t a house fly so he’s just not worth the bother getting all mighty over. But people don’t work that way. They love the easy kill too much when nothing out there’s easy.
