Behind the bar, a redtopped mixologist of inebriating, liberating, and licentious libations,

a hirsute many freckled handler of salt, oils, chips and nuts, wiper of wet rings, dropped beer
suds and anything that could exude or expulse from a carelessly packed and overflooding
alimentary system, and last but not least the bushy eyebrowed green eyed master of the satellite
TV: Rusty.
Ample and callipygous, Junoesque, taut and tandy, bareskinned and highheeled, wet
lipped, savory and unabashed with inflated breasts and bouncy greased buttocks, hung with tacks
and tape: the calendar girls.
Sunk in the shadows of selfspun despair, murmuring, muttering pathetically when not
silently pining, whining: Gerald the toll booth attendant.
Lumped in varying forms of earthy, leaden, hunchbacked, mutant and lumpy attendance,
pigs at a trough, three of the regulars: Barney, Fred and Mason.
Missing in action: Flint and Tyson
More fondly memorialized on cigar box banjoes hung on poorly lit walls: the deceased
worthy.
About to make a barely noticed but still welcome entrance: Dorsey.
Others who will come and then they will go, of most considerable stature, of terrible
heights, remarkable girths and vagarious appetites: the Preacher, the Sheriff and the Detective.

At some point in this evening, destined to make a more head-turning, head-scratching

entrance, invigorated, enchanted, enthused, loquacious, desiring of cheap meaningless
friendship, longing for false but chummy comradery, ready to fight any good fight, raring to go,
heaped full of scorn, pissing vinegar, in other words totally and shitfaced drunk and still alive
despite being shot at: the writer.
Last to enter, frighteningly sober, without respect for mans sanctuary, lacking fear, no
regard for the smell, the darkness, the sweat and smoke of mans den, pursuing a lost cause,
enraged and enlarged by rage: ok, lets save the best for last.
How about a horse?
Yep, clearly.
And smarter than a coyote?
If they is smarter than a dog then they is probably smarter than a coyote.
How about a monkey then?
Nah, monkeys are smarter. They is almost smart as a child I think some think.
How about an elephant?
Elephants are smarter than children, at least smarter than boys. Maybe girls too. So
you know they is smarter than pigs.
Dolphins. How about a dolphin?
Ok. Shut up Barney. Sorry I said anything.
You told me to name five animals smarter then a pig.
Now Is sorry I did. Shut up. Im watching the game.

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 Then whyd you ask me that?

Cuz I figured youd sit thinking about it silently for a few hours. Now shut up.
Ice plugging his nostrils, the smell of pig manure frozen to his hair and pants, on bowed
legs that were cowboying in from out of the winter cold, doffing coat and hat and glove, pulling
up a stool with his name on it, as previously forementioned: Dorsey.
Hey Rusty. Hey Fred, Barney.
Hey hey hey
Lowering his mouth to the ear of the intended recipient, placing a hand on the wide
boney shoulders of the recipient, raising his voice almost to a shout to the recipient: Dorsey
How are we doing Mason!
Startled, balding head wobbly on a neck of ninety year old bones, face formed as in the
folds of an old leather glove, eyes sagging like dying oysters: Mason.
Oh, oh, howre you doing Dorsey. How are you?
Good.
Satisfied, ruby cheeked, watery eyed, as if to catch pigs in a creek, casting his voice in a
wider net: Dorsey.
Hey boys, whats the score?
Thirty one to twenty seven, down four.
Need a touchdown huh.
Yea, a minute forty eight.

3 | Page

 That cold air felt good. Rusty, can we open the door for a while? Its hotter than July
in here.
Not opening the fucking door in the middle of winter. You guys dont drink enough to
pay the oil bill to begin with.
Leaning on the bar, leaning into the barkeep, whispering: Dorsey.
Hey, Rusty whos that?
Overhearing and then answering in like whisper: Fred.
Its Gerald.
Whos he? I seen him.
If you crossed the bridge youve seen him.
Yea, the tollbooth guy.
Yep.
Aint seen him around before.
Lost his girl
Didnt lose his girl.
Excuse me, his girl is fucking another guy.
A bevvy of fucking guys.
A bevvy?
A shitload.
What, he just find this out?

4 | Page

 Seems shes six months along.

And shes still fucking around on him
Worse, it aint his to begin with.
Hey then Id be bummed too.
That aint why hes bummed
Huh?
Hes still wanting to marry her. But now she left him.
For the father huh.
Nope, some other guy.
Anyone try talking to him?
Fuck that, someone should knock some sense into him.
Nah, leave em alone.
So hey I got a question. Whos on the bridge tonight?
Must have someone. He cant be the only one.
Who knows. Maybe no ones going to East B tonight.
Some painted ladies over therell be pretty mad.
Some empty g-strings.
Laughing, with some effort: Dorsey.
Hey, anyone seen Tyson?
Hes in Omaha.
5 | Page

 Whats he doing there?

Fuel truck broke down. Took his rig.
Tyson?
Yea Mason.
Hes in Omaha.
Right.
Back to the game, between salt swelled lips, cracking shells, chomping nuts, spitting
skins: Fred.
Damn! Shouldve took a timeout. Just giving the game away. Like usual.
I was waiting for him to help me with the hog heaters. Ended up doing it myself which
took me all afternoon. Ive done seen so much pig shit and listened to so much pig squealing in
one day that I cant bear to look another pig in the face.
Speaking of that, didnt see you at Tommys funeral.
Couldnt make it, had to get them heaters up for all them suckers freeze.
You gotta go to funerals to make sure someone comes to your funeral.
Around here all you need is food to get people to your funeral.
Feel for his Mabel. Them six kids. Not sure how shed going to do it.
What you think shes going to do?
Dont know. Sell the farm. She cant manage all them pigs.
Tommy was a good pig man, but he was not up to the times.
True, that farm ain't worth much. Poor Mabel.
6 | Page

 Tommy was too young you know.

Too young for what?
What do you think? Youre only too young for one thing. And thats croaking.
Could be too young to drive.
When did you start?
Nine, ten.
How about drinking?
Same.
See.
Whats the right age?
Some say you should die in the winter of your life. Tommy, he done pick the summer
of his.
All I know is youre never too old to die.
Its all a game of roulette.
Luck is what you make of it.
Unless youre Walker.
Yea, well, his luck has done run out it seems. Looks like they picked him up today.
Fred, you lose a tooth?
Yea. Damn it to hell. Not many left you know.
Better to lose your teeth than your hair.

7 | Page

 No way. Id give up hair for my chompers any day.

Only cuz you got some.
Women see your hair fore they see your teeth.
Some things you gotta have.
Like a brain?
No Barney here is proof of that.
I remember Tommy once told me that he dated a girl when he was in the Army and she
had no asshole.
What?
Why was he looking for it?
Gotta have an asshole. Come on.
He swore.
Clearly Tommy couldnt tell an asshole from a hole in the ground.
Sure as hell can now. Ha Har.
Lets leave old Tommy alone, being hes dead and all.
Tall as a silo, thin as a barren tree, hunched shoulders bearing the weight of a towns
many overweight souls, cheeks reddened from either the cold or from staring into the fire of the
devils den, hair once the cap is lifted a mess of spikes and waves that fingers cannot smooth,
nose and lips white as if they had been kissed by a ghost: the Preacher.
Howdy Reverend.
Howdy Rusty.
8 | Page

 Nice service today, Reverend.

Thanks Fred. Howdy Mason.
Came in for something to warm you up?
Not really, Rusty, but what the hell, give me a scotch.
Well okay?
Sure. Hi Dorsey, hows the Missus?
Good. Plump and happy.
Thanks Rusty.
On the house Reverend.
Well heres to Tommy. May he find his way through the ways of heaven.
Cheers.
Nice funeral all right.
At least nothing bad happened, huh?
Nothing good, nothing bad. Just like Tommy his funeral was.
Just like him.
Could have been like Ol Dales funeral.
Ah shit! Raining like a swine of pissing sows that day.
What happened?
Ah man! All that rain and Dales wife, well she slipped in that the mud, and she
werent no small woman, so she hit the ground hard, and then slid right into the hole, she did.

9 | Page

 The hole?
Full six feet. Couldnt get her out, all slippery and muddy and stuff. And like I said she
werent no small woman to begin with.
Remember Missus Hamiltons funeral when the casket done broke?
Sure.
She fell plumb out of the box. No lie, Reverend, trundled right out right in front of
everyone. Not wearing no skivvies for her trip to heaven either.
Oh my, that werent a pretty sight for a Sunday morn.
Or any day. She was what a hunnerd?
What was the worse thing you seen at a funeral Reverend? You must have seen a fair
number of doosies.
Ah, boys, now that wouldnt be right for me to say.
Ah, just the guys here Reverend.
Ah, OK. It was a childs funeral that was the most unusual one I guess youd say.
No!
Yep. See, they were about to lower the coffin when a girl, the deceaseds sister, started
crying on account she had her brothers toy in her hands, a truck or a bulldozer it was, and it was
supposed to have been put in the coffin with the boy, for him to play with you know, in eternity.
At least it werent one of them ringing game toys, can you imagine hearing that for all
eternity.
Had one of those when I was a pipsqueak, yep.
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 At least it werent one of them ringing game toys, can you imagine hearing that for all
eternity.
So the coffin is nailed you know
Or screwed shut sometimes.
Right and you cant open it at this point, so the parents say to the little girl that they will
put the toy in the ground with the coffin, but that just sent this girl to crying even louder, her
screams are filling the entire countryside and so the father got some tool, some pry bar from
somewhere, and sets to opening the casket up right there.
Ooo.. I know what happened, the kids pops out right, hes been alive all this time.
Dont spoil the story Fred.
Nope its worse.
Worse? Ah great.
The coffin is low to the ground you know so when they finally get that lid off, well
everyone can see
Its the wrong boy.
Fred shut up.
Nope, the fact was he werent in there at all.
Its empty?
Yah, as empty as Satans book of promises.
As empty as what?
Completely empty Mason!
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 Oh, oh. Not good.

Its empty and the little girl she now lets out a piercing scream like you wont believe,
like you have never heard, cuts right through your skull this wail did and the mother well she
nearly faints, someone catches her, and the fathers knees are buckling like hes been suckered
with a right cross and everyone just starts backing away from that coffin.
This is good.
And then, probably half a mile away, we all hear another shout and we all look and
what do we see but this small boy running across the fields towards us.
Ah my this is a dandy.
Its a miracle story.
His name was Randy?
No Mason, I said dandy.
His name was Dandy? Why, what kind of a name is that?
Go on Reverend.
So here is this small boy running towards us, dressed in his little black suit with his
white shirt and tie, his hair bobbing on his head, calling for us, running fast as he can.
O my fucking god oops, sorry.
Forgiven
Shit Fred be more careful will ya?
Now the mother faints for dead herself. The father collapses to his knees again and he
begins to pray like a dying man, everyone else is waiting in dead silence as this little boy runs
12 | P a g e

towards us, everyone except the little girl, before anyone can stop her she goes tearing off across
the field towards the little boy.
This is too much. Cant take it. Im stepping outside.
Hush. Stay right here you woose.
Thats what happened, there was a hush went over the crowd there as they watched this
boy running in their direction and the little girl running in his direction, even I who I have to
admit has some skepticism about things of a supernatural order was beginning to feel a bit
queasy. Hey Rusty, can you pour me another?
Sure Reverend, you done earned this already.
Reverend dont stop, what happened?
Was it a ghost?
Get this story to the end, Reverend, you are killing us.
This cant be true.
Tis true, Fred.
Cant be, thats what I always tell myself in those movies, you know.
And so finally, we watch the little boy stop and the little girl she keeps on running,
running all the way up to the little boy, probably a hundred yards away. She gets to him and there
she stops and they are facing each other, face to face, all of us wondering what is going on?
What are they talking about? When after a few minutes, the little girl turns around and starts
running back towards us. The little boy watches her for a minute and then he turns the other way
and begins running back to where he had come from.

13 | P a g e

 Which was where?

This takes forever, we are all there waiting. Thanks Rusty. And finally the little girl
gets back to where we are standing, she is all out of breath, but there is a smile on her face. The
mother and father come up to her as if she had been abducted and released back to them, hat is
what you would have thought for how they hugged her and held her. Finally the father is down
on one knee and he holds her at a distance and asks here, what did he say?
Here it comes.
Unbelievable.
Still out of breath, still with this smile on her face, the little girl says the boy had come
running all the way from the funeral home to tell his dad that they had forgotten to put the dead
boys body in the casket. The boy was the undertakers son.
Holy shit!
Ah my god!
That is a goddamn good story Preacher.
Its true too.
Truth cant be beat.
Its a binder in my mind.
Whats a binder, Barney?
It something that I am going to bind up and keep. A binder.
Good for you Barnes.
I heard that before, Reverend.
14 | P a g e

 You did Mason?

Sure. Storys been around for years.
Just happened last year.
Happened last year too? My god, who wouldve thought it could happen twice?
My, that was a good one. Whew.
Got some bumps still, look.
Is that the best funeral story you ever heard Rusty?
Right at the top there of all stories that parlay with death, Dorsey.
Mentally exhausted, vocally numbed, spiritually enthused, wondering silently in
inebriated half thoughts and semi-concepts about life, death and where in the hell is the
thereafter: the drunks.
So Reverend, can I ask you something?
Sure. Not sure I can answer you though.
When you said a bit back that you had some skepticism about things supernatural, what
were you saying? Do you mean you dont believe in you know
Of course he does Fred, hes a goddam preacher after all.
Skepticism Dorsey doesnt rule out faith. You could say I got faith, but what I believe
in, what seems to be true, what I would consider to be knowledge about both this world and the
next well that I aint so sure about.
Coming back up for air: Rusty.

15 | P a g e

 Thats too much for these pea brains in here. All they got room for up here is their
social security number and the time the next game is coming on.
Speak for yourself Rusty. I consider my brain to be like a field of corn. Sometimes its
big and full but then sometimes you gotta mow it all down to reap the benefits.
Holy shit, Barneys philosophizing us.
What the hell does that mean Barney?
So what else you got going on Reverend?
Ah yea, busy day. Gotta go to the jail now.
On account of Walker?
Seems so. What do you guys know of all this?
Not much to tell you the truth.
Something dont seem quite right.
Nothing is right when something like that happens to a little girl like that.
No it sure dont.
Cain and Abel.
Whats that Reverend?
From the Bible, the story of Cain and Abel.
Why you bringing that up?
With a wink of his rheumy eye to the Preacher: Mason.
I know why.

16 | P a g e

 You do Mason?
Cain killed his brother Abel over jealousy. You need to know your Bible.
We know the story Mason.
You know I have come to think that maybe Cain came to be born of the serpent and not
Adam?
Is that true Reverend what Mason says?
In some peoples thoughts.
Mason is always reading things and then he thinks he thought it up. Huh Mason?
And so my idea is that man is infected with that evil. Its a part of him, no cure for it. In
all of us.
Many interpretations to that Mason.
But you brought up Cain, Preacher. And I knows why. Cuz were infected.
Wouldnt be so sure that is why I brought it up. Not sure why I did.
Reverend, if anyone would know the answer to this, it would be you I suppose.
Not sure that is correct to assume, but go ahead Fred.
Why would God allow such a thing to happen? From where I sit, it seems that its the
innocent victims that suffer the terrible things happen to them, while the evil ones they go free.
Evil does not go free, Fred. We men have to catch up with it. And if we dont then God
will.
Punching his collapsed and hardly hardy chest: Mason
Its all in us, Preacher, inside here.
17 | P a g e

 Why does God allow this Reverend? Makes no sense to me.

Maybe that is Gods way of making us good men raise our own hammers of justice.
And Tommys death? Werent no sense or reason to that. And then the Terrells son
Darryl being killed in Iraq by a Jeep falling on him? No sense to that either. In my opinion if
God is the reason these bad things happen, then why have a God at all? Why this God?
Gods ways are not known to us.
Dont we have the Bible to tell us? Aint the answers there?
The bible is not necessarily the word of God. It was written by men.
Well, I think God needs to open his kimono a bit for me to believe alright.
Open Gods kimono and that would be a sight Im sure.
God dont wear a kimono.
Then what exactly does he wear Mason?
He wears a fine linen jacket and pants with a silk shirt.
Yea, yea, you read that in some book too. In GQ probably, huh.
Guys, aint we all had this conversation before? Seems it takes yens a few drinks for
your minds to get loose enough to turn to God and all these here spiritual arguments. Couldnt
you stay sober just long enough to see the end of the game?
Ive seen it for myself. Fine fine linen. Not a wrinkle in it.
Make no mistake Reverend, Im a God fearing as any other but I like any other man
care when things happen to someone like Jeri Lynn.
His initials on his shirt cuff.
18 | P a g e

 Ask not about gods intentions but of ours. Thats where evil is, in us.
Then we are a pathetic set of creatures. Thats what I think.
Give Fred here another drink, his sorrows are beginning to sorrow me and I have had
enough sorrow for one day.
Finishing his drink, placing the glass carefully, thoughtfully, slightly religiously on the
bartop, before standing and readying to leave: the Preacher.
Rusty, you gotta guitar for Tommy?
Not yet, working on her over there.
Reaching into his pocket, pulling out a hog call, flipping it like a minnow in his palm: the
Preacher.
Raising his head: Mason
I aint seen one of them in years. But I knows they is never as good as the mouth call.
O, shit, here we go again.
Well listen, one of the first things you learn on a farm back in the days is hog-calling.
Pigs are temperamental you know. Omit to call them, and they'll starve rather than put on the
nose-bag. Call them right, and they will follow you to the ends of the earth with their mouths
watering. But not with one of them things. No.
Well, Mason, I do have to move on
Calling hogs is lost art it is. No need to call em any more they are all wrecked up in
pens all day. Used to be you could tell a mans roots by his pig call. If he was from Wisconsin,
for example, hed use the words, poig, poig, poig to bring home the bacon. In most of Illinois,

19 | P a g e

they call burp, burp, burp, while in Minnesota, you find peega, peega, peega whereas in
Milwaukee, with all them people of German descent, you will hear the good old komm
schweine, komm schweine. Oh, yes, there are all sorts of pig-calls, not counting such things as
beating on tin cans with axes or rattling pebbles in a suit-case.
Ok Mason, well, this here call was Tommys, he gave it to me and I just thought you
could put it on his cigar box
You see, I knew a man out in Nebraska who used to call his pigs by tapping on the
edge of the trough with his wooden leg. But this turned out to be fatal. One evening, hearing a
woodpecker at the top of a tree, they started shinning up it and when the man came out he found
them all lying there with their necks broke.
You done something downright fatal Reverend, you got Mason going now on pig
calling. And aint going to end any time soon.
And he confuses what he knows with what hes read.
Most people don't know it, but I got it straight from the famous lips of Fred Patzel, the
hog-calling champion of the Swine and Roses that there is a one to call all pigs. I mean, people
say he could bring pork chops leaping from their plates.
Showing the rare illumination of a dim light behind his close knit eyes: Fred.
I know that Patzel feller. From up in Wisconsin right? He were well known alright
even out here, though not so much for his pig calls
What was he known for then?
Seems he was a grave digger of some reputation.
At Fred, wagging a bent and large knuckled finger: Mason
20 | P a g e

 Thats right. That was him alright. He told me once that, no matter whether an animal
has been trained to answer to the Illinois burp or the Minnesota oink, it will always respond
immediately to this one magic call. Call out your oink in Illinois or burp in Minnesota, and the
animal merely raises it eyebrows and stares coldly. But go to either state and call hoo-oo-ey
A grave digger. Your telling me theres a guy known for digging graves?
Sure. Wouldnt you want to know that your dear ones lay straight, level and true in a
perfectly sculptured graves. Right Reverend?
Well, the best labors are done as art. OK, got to get myself to the jail.
Yes sir, that was Patzel alright. He had a vision, Patzel did, a vision that one day a boar
would destroy his city.
Good luck, Reverend. I hear the people are up in arms over there. Watch yourself.
Thanks. God bless you all.
Beware Reverend, a boar will destroy your kingdom!
God Bless, Reverend.
Hat back atop his pious, bowing head, moving with the glide of a humble commitment,
closing the door behind him: the Preacher.
Ok Mason, no more pigcall pigshit. How many times we got to hear that.
Now who in the hell would want that job?
The Reverends?
Yea, I mean shit, nothing but funerals and last rites, married couples screaming at each
other, talking before a congregation that is half drunk and half asleep. All that for what?

21 | P a g e

 Its like insurance, I guess.

Preachers a good guy though.
Insurance none of us have got.
Where else does the man of god come in and have a drink with ya, huh?
May not be such great insurance. If youre a preacher and you fuck up in even a little
way that is like fucking up in a big way if you are one of us heathens.
Like maybe he goes to hell if he drops a Bible or accidently says goddamn or fuck
Jesus Christ or something like that?
Yea, wouldnt want that insurance, for sure.
Were you there that Sunday when Old Darcy fell asleep in church and must of had a
dream or something cuz he woke up all a sudden and yelled Shit! real loud.
No, never heard about that.
God would probably forgive Darcy for that. Preacher could never get away with
something like that.
You think God smiles when we do stupid shit like that?
Darcy told me afterwards that he had been having a dream that he dropped his
grandchild or something like that.
Has to. All the stupid shit we do. He better be smiling or he is pretty miserable up
there.
Preacher gave a nice eulogy.
True.
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 Reminding us that life is a passing moment that has already passed.

Is that what he said?
Something like that.
Sounds good.
Why aint he married?
I dont know. Cuz hes smarter than the rest of us?
Think hes a fag?
Nah.
Why not?
Cuz you can tell. He aint a fag, you fag.
Here. Heres to a good man, all. Cheers to the Preacher.
Sure is. Cheers. But he can have his job, thats for sure.
Lot worse jobs than that.
Yea, tell me three, Barney.
Uhh. Easy. Bagging road kill off the highway
Yea, especially the ones they call scrapers.
cleaning the bedsheets at the old persons home
Aaa, who cares.
Emptying the Port-a-Johns at the fair.

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 Those aint so bad Barnes. How about being the Presidents body guard? Gotta stand
there, put your chest out and take the bullet anytime.
Worse than that how about being the guy who has to stay awake all night at the nuclear
power plant? Nothing to do but watch for alight to go on. Fall asleep and the place could blow
up the earth.
That aint a job.
Sure is Barney. Learned about it on TV. Said it was the most stressful job on the
planet. Saw on the Internet too there are these nurses in China who all they do all day is jerk off
guys for artificial insemination.
Nothing wrong with that job, not if youre a girl.
If you was a guy and had that job that would be rough. Probably dont give you a
choice over there. Just glad to work, them people are.
If you are one of them gals, what do you do when you go home? The last thing you
want to see is your hubbys wiener.
Does your wife want to see yours Dorsey?
Shes forgot I has one. Sad thing is so have I! Ha Har!
None of those are the worse jobs, not by far.
Okay, Rusty, then you tell us what the worse job is.
Ok
Give us five.
Number one, being a white man in Africa

24 | P a g e

 That aint a job either. And thats just being a racist asshole.
a faggot in the Marines
Not fun at all.
bagging the pig intestines and shit at the slaughter house
nah, you get used to that shit. Did that when I was a kid. That aint so bad.
being the doctor at an AIDS clinic who has to feel their nuts and ask them to cough.
Yea, that would be bad.
Is that it?
You need more?
Asked you for five. That was four unless I have one less finger than I had yesterday.
Number five then, tending bar for you ugly miserable motherfuckers.
Knew that was coming.
Well, if it werent for us youd have no customers at all. So fuck you too very much.
Fourth down again. You gotta start thinking these games are fixed. Cant make a play
all game long and now in the last minute its like they are skating down the field like it were
nothing.
Now what happened with Jerri Lynn, now that was damn wrong.
Hell right it was wrong.
Nah, you cant do that to any child, permanent damage and a lifetime of misery, not just
for the child, but for the mother and everyone else.
Damn that pass was just wasted. This is it, they gotta go for it. Whats to think about?
25 | P a g e

 Who do you supposed done it?

Seems the Sheriff has someone in mind.
Yea, Fred, who?
Seems he thinks Walker might have done it.
Thats ludicrous. Walkers strange but not that strange.
Same people said he raped her in the first place, hes the one who knocked her up a
while back.
And the young Walker dont seem to mind. Dont make sense.
I dont get that, I tell you. Not at all.
Well, Ive known Walker a long time. He may be peculiar but he aint one to do that.
There aint a man in B capable of doing that level of crime.
Bet it was some drifter, some injun maybe, a drunk you know.
Flint told the detective that he was here at Rustys when he found her. But he werent.
Didnt see him and I was here.
I know, strange, huh?
Hey speak of the devil, here he comes now.
Who?
Immense, cloudlike in its immensity, covering the storefront windows, passing like a
cloud, filling the open door, entering, closing the door, standing there like a fat giant of a man:
the Detective.
Howdy.
26 | P a g e

 Howdy Detective.
Walking to the near end of the bar, facing the fat man, wiping the bartop clean, asking,
what can I do you for: Rusty.
Bourbon. Neat.
Sitting on a stool, half on half off, coat still hung across his broad meaty shoulders, belly
to the bar: the Detective.
How are we doing Freddy?
Smiling, nodding, looking down: Fred.
Hows the game?
First down. They might pull this off. Course they never do. Always come close then
fall down. But who knows.
How much you got on it?
Two hundred. Howd you know.
Can tell by your posture. Youre hunched over like a man who is losing, defeated.
Never let others know when you feel defeated. Anyone seen Flint around?
Shoulders raising, fingers spreading, heads rolling, eyes glancing across, over, about, into
and out of each others glancing eyes, same answer emanating from cautious mouths, nope: all.
Scratching his chin: Rusty.
Not since the last time we talked.

27 | P a g e

Pinching the shot glass, looking into the dark amber, sitting the edge on wet lower lip,
tilting head back and glass up, swallowing it down, smacking the bar top, pointing with a finger
for another: the Detective.
So detective, you figure out who done it?
Done what?
What they did to Jeri Lynn of course.
Sure.
You do, you know?
Sure we know. We just aint sure who it is. But we knows alright.
Poured into ample gullet, past domino teeth and over a tongue like a bulls, gulping
another shot down: the Detective.
Another one okay.
Sure. But why aint the Sheriff handling this?
He is. But sometimes you need a third eye I guess.
Another bourbon: the Detective.
Know what a third eye is?
A detective?
No. Got it wrong myself. The question is, what do you call a pig with three eyes?
I dont know, a freaking pig, I guess.
A Piiig, with three Is. Get it?
Yea.
28 | P a g e

 Speaking of pigs, why aint you working on whosever stealing ours?

Didnt know about that.
Yep, over a hundred from Dale Sergeants farm just this week.
Right before he was to take em to market.
Them are somebody elses pork chops now.
More than three hundred the month before from another farm up the way.
Pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket, spreading it out, laying it across the fat
palm of his hand, then wiping off his face: the Detective.
Hot in here. How in Sam Hill do you steal three hundred squealing pigs?
None of us can figure it.
That would take a truck.
Or a spaceship maybe.
Folding the handkerchief into squares, shoving back into his pocket: the Detective.
If you ask me, dont seem like someone on the outside is doing that.
You think these farmers are stealing from themselves?
Everyone else is right? One for the road?
Sure, Detective. Here you go.
A fiery belch, then a deep sigh of burning bourbonic relief, followed by the smack of
glass bottom to bartop: the Detective.
Say what do you guys think of Walker?

29 | P a g e

 Same as everyone I suppose

Which is?
Strange guy.
His wife was a beauty once though.
Sure was. If our species didnt have a proper willy, shed be a reason to ask God for
one.
What, just so she could snatch it off you.
Leaving his stool with elephantine grace, moving through space as if none properly
existed to fully accommodate him, his head in a cloud above the cloud of his great sweating,
sweltering, swaying, lumbering, near slumbering, earth pounding, earth tilting, earthsized body:
the Detective.
Suppose to snow tonight?
Nope calling for clear skies.
Means it will be cold then.
Most likely.
Titled head, open palm, raised eyebrow, basically asking, what do I owe you: the
Detective.
On the house, Detective.
Well if you do see Flint, be sure to tell him to call me.
Sure.
Ok boys. Thanks.
30 | P a g e

A cloud that passed from inside to outside to another land: the Detective.
Hes tanked.
No kidding. He aint solving this crime tonight unless who done it buys him a drink
first.
Hey Fred, so Sheriff thinks its Walker but whats the detective really think who done
it?
Dont know.
You were with him all day right, he didnt say anything?
Said plenty things alright. Not all of them within my understanding. Maybe hes got
his own ideas.
Walkers a strange guy though.
Sometimes its the normal people that do the things that scare you. Like Grady killing
his wife, remember that. He was what nearing ninety. Killed her with an iron.
If your ninety you aint normal.
Average lifespan is less than seventy five, Dorsey.
Im eighty nine.
See, Masons almost ninety. He is pretty normal.
One more year of normal. Thats all hes got.
Whats that Dorsey?
I said you are all we got, Mason. Stick around.
Oh, oh. Ok.
31 | P a g e

 Grady werent crazy though. Some thought just come over him.
Maybe she asked him to what they call that euthanol euthaneen
If she asked for it, it wouldnt have been kill me with an iron. Pillow maybe, even a
gun to the head. Not a fucking iron though.
Euthanize thats it.
Third down again. Third and fifteen. He cant keep doing this. Gonna catch up with
him soon. Watch him gag.
The world is cruel, you know that Fred. In fact if it werent so cruel we wouldnt have
as much fun as we do, you know that. When the world is as cruel as it is the only thing you can
do to fight that is to laugh right Dorsey? Thats why we are as funny as we are.
Im not thinking we are so funny all that much of the time .
Thats cuz youre always crying in your beer Dorsey. Lift you fucking head up. Life is
a joke you know that? Marry a gal you think you love and years later she is a piece of furniture
that you cant afford to reupholster
She is that huge.
Thats what I done said.
Ha. Har.
Take over your daddys land thinking you will carry on the farm and then find out the
only way you can make any money is to let the government pay you not to farm it.
Nothing funny about that.

32 | P a g e

 Its so sad its plum funny, Barnes. Think about it. Then you have some kids and you
think they will at least grow up to be football stars in college or a nurse or maybe a doctor. And
they can barely pass the tests to work at the powered milk factory. You gotta pay their rent each
month so they wont get kicked out.
Tell me about it, I got me four of em.
Then you got a mom whos dying of diabetes and a dad whos a drunk and hes got
glaucoma and all they do is fall down and fight with you when you try to help them. Boys, when
youre surrounded by such a miserable menagerie of things, all you can do is laugh. Aint that
right Freddy boy?
Yep.
With a large hat set down on a impossibly large forehead that was growing out like a
mantle over eyes spread in a deers gaze, jowls and jaws large enough to catch bats, a nose that
hung like a lumpy tuber, all stuck to a head that would never cease growing, on shoulders broad
enough to fill a doorjamb, on a body that began broad as a doorjamb then slimmed awkwardly to
thin hips and knock-kneed legs, walking into the bar without smile or recognizable expression:
the Sheriff.
Hey Sheriff.
Hey Rusty, how goes it?
Good. Drink?
No thanks. Working.
Seems you got a lot of commotion going on all a sudden.
Yea, not a lot of good going on unfortunately. How are you fellers?
33 | P a g e

 Good.
Not bad Sheriff.
Pulling off the gloves that covered hands as large as a pigs ham, the fingers broader than
hocks, the nails as large as quarters: the Sheriff.
Say did you guys ever hear about the blonde walking down the road with a pig under
her arm?
Nope.
Someone stops and asks, hey where did you get that? Pig answers, I won her in a raffle.
Ha. Har
Reaching into a dish of peanuts, cashews and almonds, filling his considerable maw,
chewing down the oily meats with closed eyes: the Sheriff.
Funny one Sheriff.
Naw it aint really. Say anyone seen my boy Flint around?
Not today, Sheriff. Seems he got quite a few of you people looking for him.
Yea, Rusty, the boy has got a knack for disappearing at the right times.
Heard he picked up Walker this evening.
Yep, Dorsey. But theyre telling me he aint there at the jail.
What do you think?
I think the world has all the stupid people it needs is what I think.
You think Walker done it?

34 | P a g e

Another fistful of nuts, licking the salt off swollen lips with a calfs purple tongue: the
Sheriff.
Dont know. Wont know.
But you got him at the jail.
Just for questioning.
Hows the missus Sheriff.
Shes good. Broke her toe you know.
Didnt know.
Yea. At one of them dance classes she goes to at night.
Seems Flint and Walker got something between them.
Why you say that?
Dont know, just seems so.
Flint needs to figure for himself where he comes from. If not, then he is going to get
himself into an even bigger jam.
Fist of nutmeats, unchewed bits on lip and chin: the Sheriff.
What do you mean by that Sheriff?
Then, through opening door, bundled plump and capped with earmuffs and beanie,
tugging at mittens, tearing from his eyes, running from his nose, casting a cold silence across the
room, stamping his feet to free them of snow and cold, done with wild dogs, done with barns,
done with ghostly old women from the future with guns, entering without ceremony, without
acknowledgement, without greeting: the writer.
35 | P a g e

When do you know you are an alcoholic? How about when you walk into one of those

places, see the little sign on the table that says two drink minimum and you say, piece of cake!
How about when you sit down at the bar and the bartender brings you a beer on a barf bag!
How about when you realize friends call you Drunk cuz they dont know your real name. Ha ha
ha.
Just what I says. Ok boys, well you know what Im looking for.
Sure do. Good luck Sheriff.
Pulling off his coat, hanging it on a metal hook near a jukebox, unwrapping a scarf from
around his neck, pulling down the sleeves on his sweater, wiping his nose on a sleeve, tickling
his nose, flattening his long white hair: the writer again.
I, like everyone else I suppose, always had the fantasy of being a standup comic, havent
each of you thought about that, one time or another? Of course you have. It is the fantasy to be
up on stage and making an audience laugh. But really what that fantasy is about is about being
in control. I control you, I am in control. I can make you mad, I can make you laugh, I can make
you hate me, love me, I can embarrass you. Thats what it is. We all want control. What is
behind your fantasy of being a standup comic is that really we all want to be the president, we
want to be the dictator, not forever, just for a few minutes. Just long enough to get off on the idea
and then go on to what we normally do during the day. Its just like masturbating, only funnier.
Ha, ha, ha.
Oh. Hear about the blonde who colored her hair?
Nope.
Another fistful from a bowlful that Rusty had just refilled: the Sheriff.

36 | P a g e

 So she colors it black, then she goes walking past a pig farm and says to the pig farmer
there, hey if I can tell you how many pigs are in there can I have one of them squealers. Pig
farmer says, now young lady if you can guess how many pigs is in there I will let you take one
for your own. The girl say one hundred and seventy eight. The pig farmer was amazed as that
was the exact number. So he goes to the woman, by golly youre right. I guess you get one of
my pigs. The woman bends down picks one up and walks away. The farmer stops her before
she goes too far and says, hey Miss if I can guess the real color of your hair can I have my dog
back?
Ha Har.
Thanks for the laughs Sheriff.
Sitting down at the far end of the bar, closest to Mason who has not stopped looking
down at his still plentiful drink, four seats from Dorsey and two more distant from Fred and
Barney, rubbing his hands, picking up an advertisement for a local brew, letting out from his tiny
mouth an issuance that sounded like a shwoosh, about to set elbows on the bar, then looking for
any residual stickiness before he finally set elbow to bartop, seemingly satisfied of the
cleanliness of his location: the writer as before.
By the way, all standup comics are alcoholics. Its true. You have to be. Not that we
have to be drunk to stand up here, in fact that rarely works out very well. No, we have to be
drunk to live with ourselves for what we do when were not up here. When we are not up here
we are broke, have miserable love lives, crappy relationships with our parents and spend our
time trying to avoid friends who are alcoholics. In fact we actually have no friends. That is one
reason why we come up here because for a few minutes I have a bunch of friends, right, right,
come on you can applaud. Yes, we are friends. Until I call you a drunk one too many times and
37 | P a g e

then you say something and I say something back and we end up hating each other but that is
what friends do, they stop being friends at some point.
Licking his lips, wiping hands on hits sleeves, pulling gloves back over those monstrous
hands, hat back atop a forehead that would make a sperm whale amorous, lumbering out through
the narrow space of the door: the Sheriff.
See I told you the other day the Sheriff knows.
You didnt tell me the other day nothing. And it aint a matter of whether the Sheriff
knows, its if he wants to know. If he wanted to know he would know. Thats all there is to it.
Funny that his wife is blonde huh? With all them jokes he tells and all.
Aint everything always a coincidence, Barney.
Thinks his wife broker her toe at a dance class, yea right. Probably broke it on some
bed post.
Poor guy.
Detective today asked me if Flint looked like the Sheriff.
Ha, and I look like Michael Jordan.
If you look like Michael Jordan then I look like Obama.
It was a joke, Fred. Its called satire, being satirical.
Thats being ironic I think. Hell I dont know. High school was a long time ago.
Probably flunked that class anyway.
Tommy was good at school.
Yea and that got him far.
38 | P a g e

 He joined the Army is why. Tossed his brains once he went there.
Sheriff when he was drinking once told me he wished Flint werent his son. Said it
would make things a lot easier.
Probably would.
Leaning against the bar nearest to Fred, legs crossed at the ankle, shoulders towards the
far end of the bar where the new patron had just staked a stool, his head at an angle, his hair still
red enough to make sense: Rusty the bartender.
Do you believe in evolution? Do you? Yes? No? I mean evolution is like its everywhere
isnt it? Is it something we are supposed to believe in or just simply accept? I mean I am not
sure any more. When does a scientific theory become something that just simply is? When did
we stop saying I believe in gravity? I dont believe in gravity. Do I believe in the speed of light?
Or is the speed of light just the speed of light. I dont believe in the color blue. I guess we call
certain things facts, not theories. So is evolution a fact or a theory. That guy says its bullshit.
Well evolution seems to be the explanation for everything, for why birds have different kinds of
beaks, why whales have these little stubby back legs, why man has this opposable thumb, why
dogs don eat our faces off when we are sleeping and covered with pizza grease. If you want an
answer to those thing, you call on evolution. Hello? Evolution? Can you tell me why my balls
are right out there where everyone can kick them? Hello? Evolution? My girlfriend wont do
certain things in the bedroom. Can you explain that for me? Hello? Evolution? Why do I pee
more the older I get? Hello? Evolution?
Raising his eyes, squinting at the television screen, briefly, looking at the banners for the
Chicago Bears, briefly, looking over the calendar girls pasted on the mirror, very briefly, finding

39 | P a g e

the eyes of the bartender who has not moved from his position of leaning against the bar next to
Fred: the writer again.
I used to think evolution was just about sex, I mean without sex you cant create other
little mes and yous and that is what it is all about right? Well, sort of, what evolution is really
about is will those little me and yous make more mes and yous and will those other mes and yous
be more successful in creating more mes and yous than other mes and yous.
Silence: from everyone in the bar.
So if one thing is clear it is this: Ugly people are everywhere. Notice that? Look
around, there are more ugly people than beautiful people, more ugly people than good looking
people. There are more ugly people than any other kind of people. Its a fact. Not a belief. And
another thing thats clear: ugly people have as much sex as good looking people. In fact, I bet
you ugly people have more sex than good looking people, why? Because ugly people will have
sex with other ugly people and good looking people wont. Thats pretty simple. How do I know?
Because Im ugly, thats how I know.
Hands raised to the sky one last time, body bowed with defeat, face masked in disbelief,
shoulders quivering with ruination, belly bloated with his own sense of loss, overall deflated by
his own endless stupidity: Fred.
They lost again, unfuckingbelievable.
Gotta give up on them Freddy. Betting with your heart never wins nothing.
But they had it. They had it right in their grasp.
Save your money for the women in your life. If you are going to waste it, waste it
good.
40 | P a g e

In fact, I think good looking people are simply here on earth to get us ugly people horny
enough to have sex with other ugly people.
His head rising like a fist of flies from a knuckle of shit: Gerald.
How did you know?
Hey Gerald, youve come back to join the living.
Know what?
What I done.
You aint said a thing since you come to visit us.
Aint you I come to visit, thats for sure. Not you either. Or you.
Leave him alone, hes gotta work through it himself.
Work through it? Huh? Thats what it is. Thats what you call it. This aint work.
Sitting and drinking aint work. Sitting in a fucking two foot square coffin taking into my hand a
quarter that I watched you spit on, pull from your ass, or whatever else you think is funny, thats
work, thats what work is. Work is death.
No one would do that Gerald.
Ha! I see it all from where I sit. I see what people will stick in or into their orifices and
what they will pull out. Fucking animals. Fucking dungbeetles. People is.
Hey Rusty, I dont think Gerald needs no more.
Fuck you what I need. Bring it here. Everything good or bad. Comes out of an orifice.
Nose dripping into the foam of his new beer, eyes squeezing upon the thoughts that found
their way to his thick, sloppy tongue: Gerald.
41 | P a g e

 I had a barrel of coins, all those extra dimes, nickels and quarters that people gave me,
the ones who did not think I was some idiot sitting in a booth, the pieces some people dropped
before it got to me hand. Over all them years. Must have been a hundred thousand of them,
couldnt even lift the damn keg. Had to roll it
Bobbing back nose first to his drink: Gerald.
Roll it where Gerald?
It was all for her. I began collecting them way before I met her, but when I met here I
knew I had been saving them for her all along, everyone of them I saved for her. Could have
bought a house with them coins I bet. Could have had a house together.
Gerald you got them coins still right?
Moving but not moving with the living, moving with a tic that raised his head, his face
sop with drink, his eyes buried behind the swell he had created: Gerald.
Like a million silver fishes. It was a thing of fucking beauty. All free.
What?
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck what Dorsey? What is he talking about.
Where are them coins Gerald?
Deflating, collapsing, falling, flies back to their pile: Gerald.
Oh shit.
Oh shit what Dorsey. Whats going on?
He threw them coins in the river.
42 | P a g e

 How do you know?

Fuck it, I know.
Turning on his heels, remote in one hand, a damp cloth in the other, squinting at the flat
screen set on a cradle next to the upper shelves of the bar, deftly finding the next game already in
progress: Rusty.
Coughing, gurgling, grunting, as if choking on the silence: the drunks.
Ever watch porn? No? Yea right. Everyone watches porn. They say women now watch
as much porn as men. Used to be porn was a guy thing. Now women are getting into it. Good
for you gals. Nothing wrong with that. Used to be that porn was sexploitation of women. Not
anymore. Sex is entertainment and people get paid to do it and we pay to watch it and just like
we would love to be a professional athlete most of us would love to be paid to have sex. Who
wouldnt. But if you watch as much porn as I do you notice something pretty quickly, all those
girl are really really hot. There are no ugly bitches doing porn. Used to be. Ever click on the
retro tab? Get those old clips from the 60s and 70s? Aside from the fact that some of those
women had bushes that were twice the size of an average bikini today its true, remember those
big old beards, cmon, they didnt need bikinis, that heavy bush covered everything, couldnt see
a thing some of those women were downright ugly. Now in porn all the women are shaved,
and they are all beautiful too, all of them. Who are all these beautiful woman who fuck and suck
for money? They cant all be actresses. No way. You know what I think? I think they are just
ordinary people. The woman you see in the office, the woman who works at Macys behind the
cosmetic counter, your kids English teacher, that good looking gal who checks your groceries.
They are the porn stars of today. I know it.

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Bulging in belly, shapelessly inflated in face, dark haired trimmed without any real care,
big handed and dirty nailed, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, facing directly the face of the
newcomer to the bar: Barney.
See, I believe the people we see around us are the porn stars we all watch every day on
our laptops, on our TVs, on our cell phones, yes on our cell phones. But not you ugly people.
You are not porn stars. The beautiful people are having sex in front of video cameras, while ugly
people are having real sex. Us ugly people are the only ones really getting it on, that is what this
is all about. We are the ones who are doing the real banging, having the real orgasms, getting
the real jollies out of the experience. Not you beautiful people, you are just trying to keep a hard
on for a few more minutes, trying to avoid making a pussy fart on camera, trying to look sexy
and hot and pretend like you are enjoying it when in fact the guy who is boning you is really a
queer with shaved legs and chest and smells like a cologne called Rimjob.
Wet eyed, ruddy cheeked, picking up the advertisement for beer again, shifting broad
buttocks across a leather stool, finally seeking the eyes of the bartender who has been silently
studying, waiting: the writer.
Ugly people, we will inherit the earth. Beautiful people, you are our slaves. You are our
entertainment. You are our disposable Barbies and Kens and you are wasting your seed just so
we can sow ours and populate this earth with more ugly people and so continue our dominance.
That is a fact, not a theory.
Raising a finger to Rusty: the writer.
Speaking of ugly people and sex, sometimes one plus one does not equal two? Have you
noticed that? I mean, have you noticed that when two ugly people marry, their kid, for some
strange reason, is actually good looking? Doesnt happen all the time, but it does happen. And
44 | P a g e

good looking parents, two of them, they procreate and out comes some really ugly creature. It
may be Gods way of evening the score. But if we leave god out of this, as evolution tells us to,
then it is evolutions little game to keep us on our toes. To keep the ugly people from becoming
all there is, making sure there are some good looking people around to entertain us. Hello?
Evolution?
Approached by the bartender, looking over the taps, looking across the bottles of liquor in
front of the mirror, looking at the sample beers lined up not far from him, speaking with a slight
hesitation in his voice, talking with a discernible tinge of education, of unmanly softness,
uttering too many words for the content of his question, the question being what kind of light
beer would the bartender recommend: the writer.
Snorting: Dorsey.
Harrumphing: Fred.
Silent contemplation of the waters before him: Mason.
Head buried in arms, whining lowly, dejected at the loss of his team, even more sorry
over the two gs now lost, accepting the finality of final defeat: Barney.
Picking up a glass, pulling down a tap, allowing air to run off, placing the glass beneath
the golden stream at a professional angle, smacking the tap back up pouring off a smidgeon of
foam, setting the glass of light beer on a round cardboard mat: Rusty.
Looking up, uttering a quiet thank you: the writer.
Looking away, feet still in their positions before the writer, one hand down on the
counter, talking to no one but saying loudly, thatll be three bucks: Rusty.

45 | P a g e

Hesitating, then groping pockets, front and then back, lifting a well worn, brown calfs
leather wallet from a pocket on his ass, a Christmas gift from years ago, filled with old receipts,
coupons, an advertisement for gout medicine, but no greenbacks, looking up peevishly, with a
raising of one eyebrow, a slight smile, a face expressing that it knows the answer, but asking
anyway if a credit card will do: the writer.
No: Rusty.
Looking hard at the piss yellow beer, a cold wind from the open door at his back, his face
flush, embarrassed, facing an even greater humiliation, about to put both hands down on the
counter to push off, about to offer a false but face-saving offer to go home and get some money:
the writer.
Its on me: Dorsey.
Weight that had risen now falls, crashes back to stool and on elbows crashes also to the
bar, it all crashes softly, without a sound, but crashes all the same, the body collapsing with
sudden relief: the writer.
Why did the pig run away from the pig sty? He felt that the other pigs were taking him for
grunted.
Turning around, standing tall, one hand pointing to the ceiling, no, pointing now past the
ceiling, pointing through and beyond the ceiling and into the sky, shouting out in the loudest
voice heard on this night so far, its on me, lets all drink one for Tommy: Rusty.
As if awakening, suddenly squirming on their seats, jiggling fat and legs pumping, heads
up and squealing, a pack of whelps searching for their mothers teats: the drunks.
Here here. Har. Har.
46 | P a g e

 It was good gathering though wasnt it?

For Tommy? Yea.
Heres to Tommy. A good man and man who gave us good things and good memories
of them.
Here, here.
Remember when Calvin died, that was tough.
Well Calvin was one of a kind werent he? That boy could lift a grown sow by her ears,
a pickup onto two wheels by its fender. Remember?
Sure did. A man of some fucking substance Calvin was. A real finisher, a tough
butcher of a man.
Tommy was a good man too.
Sure was, one of the best.
Always remember when Calvin was at the HyVee fire and he done rushed in there
without no gear and came out with the entire freezer section of sausages and hams. Saved Bob
the grocer a few thousand bucks, remember?
What fire?
An old fire Mason, long ago
Oh, oh. Ok.
Oh sure. Or when Calvin took on those bikers on their hogs from Texas remember that?
Stood his ground in the middle of the road and started grabbing them dirtbags by the hair and the

47 | P a g e

belt buckles as they drove past, must have been fifteen or sixteen of them. All them bikers left
here squealing like pigs didnt they?
What do you call a pig with no clothes on? Streaky bacon!
Tommy had his days too.
Sure did.
Like when that giant boar got loose during the state fair and was heading right for the
kids area and Calvin being the only one fast enough to catch it and sure enough the only one
strong enough to rassle that thing to the ground, when they hit the ground there was this sound
like thunder, a shaking like we had some kind of earthquake and the dust rose up and covered
everyone but when they saw what had happened we were all smiles through that dust and spit it
out as happy as could be.
Calvin was a man among men.
A hog man of hog men.
More hog to him than there was man, more man to him than hog. A manboar from his
hocks to his snout. Werent he?
What do you get when you cross a pig with a canary? I don't know, but when it sits on
your electric wire and sings, all your lights go out!
How many of them hotdogs did you eat at Tommys today?
Two. Werent enough to go around.
Werent that good either.
Nope, feeling them rise a bit. You too.

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 Yep, why I was asking.

You know there aint no shame in being ordinary.
We aint saying otherwise.
Tommy was plain ordinary, thats all. Not his fault. He were not Calvin that is for sure,
but none of us are. And so I say lets remember Tommy for what he was, a super ordinary guy, a
guy like us.
Here. Here.
This is the heart of the heart of the country right? Good old American values. Hard
work, honesty. Loyalty. What do you do here to entertain yourselves? Once the pigs are all
slaughtered, the cows milked and the land raped then what do you do?
Looking from pudgy face to bloated face, seeking an opening, desiring to say a word, to
enter the conversational fray, to commune, to have intercourse, to bugger with words, going for
it: the writer.
I guess I missed the funeral.
You done missed a fine funeral. Did you know the poor but now properly disposed of
deceased?
I knew of him.
Well, he was one of us, a man of the earth he was, apples to apples and dust to dust is
what he was, thats for certain.
But why so glum? In some places they pay respect for the dead by making fun of them.
Whats that?

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One by one, refilling the glasses, first Dorseys, then Freds, then Barneys, then last but
not least, at least not yet, the writers: Rusty.
In front of him the fresh beer is placed, onto his hand the suds rolling down the cold
glass, a finger on his other hand lifting in subtle acknowledgement, but also in question, as in, do
I need to pay for this: the writer.
Winking: Rusty.
Glasses raised: all.
Tommy boy!
His small mouth of two thin lips sucking down first foam and then with the cold fizzy
bitter watery water of life racing over tongue, down the throat: the writer.
What were you saying writer?
Drawing a sleeve across his mouth: the writer.
Its a good way to relieve the sorrow. You tell jokes about the deceased. Remember the
good things.
Well there werent much funny about Tommy.
Not unless you consider how he died to be funny.
Seeing an opening, sensing his acceptance into a real conversation with the local drunks,
pursuing the lead, knowing timing was all, going literally for the kill: the writer.
How did he die?
An electric hesitation: all.
He fell.
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Heads bowed, shoulders rolled forward, hairy necks bared as if ready to receive the truth
from a guillotine blade, deadly silent: all.
Blinking, drinking and awed: the writer.
Whats so funny about that?
Head down to his chest, beer glass against his forehead, eyes closed: Barney.
Stumbled into the pen, fell upon by his prime hog who was more scared than ornery, he
choked to death that way.
Looking up, one eyed, red eyed and blurry eyed: Barney.
Some perverse people may think thats funny. That theres something funny about
falling and dying in pigshit like that. That someone would actually laugh about someone dying in
pigslop. That you might meet your maker in a pig sty.
Choked to death on pig shit, pig manure filled his mouth, pig feces stuffed his lungs like a
Thanksgiving turkey: a news article never written.
Struck by a remembrance of this story heard earlier, struck by the remembered sight of
the terrible guffaw that followed it, at first silent, then jiggling with giggling, then quaking with
shaking, then laughing chokingly: the writer.
Head back up, cutting short on what was to be a strong, poignant and deliberate draught
of his beer, smacking the near-full glass hard to the counter top of the bar, head bent down again
and swaying back and forth in a way drunks hang their heads and sway them before they say
something sour and dour: Fred.
Well, this here is a town where wes respectful of the dead and wears black if not on our
body then all through our hearts.
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 Well said Fred.

Guys, all I was saying is that in some places death is a time to celebrate, to remember
with laughter the person who has died. Its called a wake.
And I have to add that I resent you coming in here with your wakes and other shit.
You is foaming at the mouth again Fred.
We know who you are writer, we have seen you here in our town for more than a few
years and we dont take kindly to someone who just appears out of nowhere at a time like this
and expects us to listen to these cockamamie ideas, your bullshit attitudes.
Motherly voiced, sensing danger, moving glasses out of impending harms way: Rusty.
Calm down, Fred, this aint no private party here, were a public bar.
This here is a bar for the public, and that public is the god fearing, death respecting
public that loved Tommy as we loved Tommy, not some public we dont care nothing about.
Stop it Fred.
I meant no disrespect, I was only trying to help you.
Well fuck off writer. Fat dumb fat fuck fucker fuck.
Hey Fred, that aint necessary. The writer here hes just trying to be a nice guy.
Offering something of what he can offer, thats all. So what do you mean writer by offering
some jokes about the deceased, may not be a bad idea for us to do something that takes the edge
off all this, you know what I mean.
They always start the elections here in the Midwest. During the summer every four years
this is where they start our electoral process. Why is that? Youre just a bunch of farmers for

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Christs sake. What do you know about the rest of the world? I will tell you. Nothing! What do
you know about inner city schools. What do you know about marine life conservation? What do
you know about anything rally? I was talking to someone else and I asked them what they
thought about the wars in the Middle East and they said they didnt; known a thing about theme
and they were glad to keep it that way. That is the Midwest, the place that wants to know
nothing about anything else. There, that should be your state saying. And yet this is where
candidates decide if they are going to run for election or not. All based on your votes. And all
the camera crews come up here and they spend the day interviewing every Paul and JoAnne,
asking them their opinions and you guys actually act like you are experts. Yea, experts at
knowing nothing.
Slumped, looped, blooped, but not whimped or whooped: the writer.
Leaning back against the shelves of liquor, arms crossed over his liver shelf, and taking
on the atmosphere of someone who always had something to say but knew that there was always
a time to say it, not before, not after: Rusty
Maybe what the writer said would be good for us. Dont just remember what you think
you should remember. Remember the real things about the guy, the things that if we remember
then maybe they will keep him alive. The stupid things he did, the bad things he did.
What did Tommy do?
Well not much I reckon upon reflection, that was the good thing about Tommy. He
never did anything.
He was pretty good whistler.
What do you say to a naked pig? I never sausage a body.

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 Darn good whistler he was.

Pig whistler?
Sure, but songs too.
Same dern song though, over and over again.
Yea, right. What song was that?
Dont know, but he killed that song for me. Whistled it so much he killed it.
I asked someone today, how were they? You know what she said, she said she was tippety
top. Another time I asked someone the same question, you know what they said, they said I am
as right as rain, thank you. Asked another person, How are you? Middling to fair, he said.
Now what do these things mean? Sure they all mean the same thing, nothing. And that is the
point I am trying to make, you people, you Midwesterners here have more ways to say nothing
than any other tribe in America. You are the masters and navel gazers of nothing.
For me, Tommy will always be remembered for what he did that day all them summers
ago.
Hell yea, I remember that day! Who dont remember that day!
That was not just a day to remember, that was a day that Tommy made into a summer to
remember.
That was a summer that we will remember forever, that this town will remember
forever.
It was a day that became the summer, and a summer became a history that we can never
forget.

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 No doubt! Like you said it was not just a day but something iconic, something that
should be captured in a statue that we should put up downtown in honor of the Summer Tommy
made, one we cant not remember and should never forget!
You know you guys are right. How could we sit here and forget that summer Tommy
made last forever. That is what he left for us, that is what he made for us. We should make that
statue as big as Calvin
And put it right in the road after you get off the bridge
and if we cant make a statue then we should create a plaque
Right over the river where it all happened that day.
I thought it was in Crapo Park where it happened?
and if we cant create a plaque we should name a church after him
St. Tommys Cathedral.
and if we cant get a church to do it, lets name a street after him.
Summer Tommy Street or Tommy Summer Street.
Tomsum street. Sumtom Street. Bum dum, cra dum bum tum. Sree da diddle wee dum
tom.
Yea boys, we need to remember Tommy and what he had done for us, for all of us, what
he done for the entire town. And so we need to remember to do something and not forget these
things like we always do when we fall from these stools and blindly zigzag our ways home.
Of course, no one knows nothing, everyone knows something. I accept that. So I have a
list of things that you Midwesterners know. How about these: You plant taters, you get taters.

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Life is simpler if you plow around the stump. Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time
and annoys the pig. When you find yourself in a hole, quit digging. Dont sell the mule to buy a
plow. You cant wallow with pigs and expect not to get dirty. Dont name a pig you figure on
eating. Even a dog knows the difference between being tripped-over and kicked. Dont put gas in
a car youve already wrecked. You can put a coat and tie on a pig, and its still a pig. You cant
polish a turd. Never wrestle with a pig, you get dirty and the pig likes it.
Satisfied with such soft and cozy layers of nostalgic thought, heavy eyed with
remembrance, sated with gallons of drink, lumpy and happy, gassy and relishing the frequent
digestive eructations, asses quick to stools, elbows smack to the bar, heads nodding off their
hirsute trunks: the hirsute drunks.
You cant polish a turd! I love it.
What would happen if pigs could fly? Bacon would go up! Why are pigs such great
football fans? They're always rooting. Why can't there be a Santa Pig? Pigs don't fit in chimneys.
Hey no boos, come on that ain't nice. Im allowed a few pig jokes. And before you get
too violent, let me confess something. I was born and raised here in this land of pigs and corn.
Lived here until I was eighteen then got out here as if my life depended on it. And it did. Quite
literally. So a few pigs jokes are okay.
So what am I doing here? you ask with a breath as hot as summer. Why dont I go back
you say? Let me wipe your spit off my face and tell you what you dont deserve to know. I dont
know why I am here. I am here out of a mystery that somehow took me by surprise one day, a
chance event, almost as if I had been abducted by alien beings and when they were done with me
they dropped my probed and violated body not at my old place of living but here, the place where
I had been born, the nightmare of my existence. As if it were all just some big old experiment to
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see how much can the human mind can really tolerate. How much suffering can it take?
Because this is suffering people, living here with you, this is a nightmare, let me tell you. I
thought it was worse as can be living in a filthy little apartment in a crappy section of New York
City, crowded in by people who had no manners, who felt the whole world was their spittoon,
their toilet. But here, in this place of emptiness, pure emptiness, where the skies and the fields
and the horizons are empty, well you can figure something else is empty as well. And by that I
mean the craniums of the people who live here amidst this emptiness.
Tell me. How many of you are alcoholics? None of you? Doesnt surprise me. Just
because you drink until your are bloated and blind with double vision doesnt mean youre an
alcoholic. Because to be an alcoholic means to recognize your behavior as abnormal. It means
to be abnormal, to be not normal, normal being the sober way of being in the world. Well, none
of you are alcoholics because everyone here is an alcoholic, so the norm is to be a lush. This is
you, morning day and night, this is you perched like bogmen on your stools sucking down your
light beers and making talk that would drive anyone else anywhere in the world insane. That is
you and your life.
I mean where else is the idea of being a neighbor mean you put at least five miles
between you and any other human being. Its true, I met a guy the other day who said he lived
five miles away from the next nearest house. I said doesnt that get a bit lonely? He said no, I
am looking for a house that is ten miles away from everyone, tired of my neighbors knowing
what I am doing. Now what do you suppose this guy is doing that he needs to be ten miles from
everyone else? Cultivating anthrax? Making bombs? Sounds pretty spooky to me.
I mean where else is the idea of secondary education something along the lines of
repeating the twelfth grade, aint I right, as you would say, but let me tell you, a lot of us do
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escape. We do get out. Someone once told me there was more Iowans in San Diego than in
Iowa. Could that be true? That the real name for San Diego before the beaners got their way
was Des Moines-By-the-Bay. Its true.
You talk some stupid shit when you get drunk, you know that Fred?
Too wee cur rum a tum tum.
But where else can one go and be with such good friends, huh? I mean, really. We been
together how long Barney?
Too long, I cant feel my penis or my legs.
I mean in terms of years.
In that case, its been forever.
Thats the right answer, forever! Heres to forever boys!
Where can you go and hear such things as we hear? Huh? We got the stories that make
up a life, the stories that make up a world. Where else can you hear such things as we hear?
Flying high, feeling muscular, feeling good, feeling like bursting out in song, feeling
drunk as a pig in slop, feeling at the top of his game, feeling in complete control, feeling the
feeling you get when you got your audience right where you want them, feeling that high when
you now you got that zinger and you are just about ready to zing, feeling far too cocky, feeling as
if he overestimated himself all of a sudden, feeling regret for something that has yet to happen,
feeling ready to burp but really about to blurt out something he would soon wish he hadnt: you
know who.
I mean where else but here would you hear someone say: I aint had so much fun since
the hogs ate little sister?
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Wavering in their seats, drunk hardly more than usual, hardly hard of hearing, red faced
not from alcohol as much from a sudden flush of amygdalanic anger, unable to process the
sentence with a semicolon between clauses, totally capable of hurting men twice their size,
envisioning a plump little man being hurled like a bowling ball out the open door: the others
sitting at the bar.
What in blazing hell did you say?
Something about your little sister Dorsey I think?
Something about a hog eating my little sister?
Bent backs bent back erect, pigpooed boots solesmacking the floor, fleshflabby arms
pushing hogbellies from the counter: Fred, Dorsey and Barney.
Well you know writer, I think we done gone out of our dog gone way here over the dog
gone years to try to make you and your missus members of our dog gone community.
Sure, and my dog licks my face because he loves me, not because Im salty.
I mean you dont go to church at all but thats okay, and you dont come round to many
functions, but thats okay too, and you obviously cant drink for shit, accepted you as one of us
sowbuggerers, and so I think we done every right by you.
Sure, and the Pope blesses me every night in his prayers.
And so when you come into our bar, I think you should show us all a dick little more
respect.
Sure, and my penis is getting longer as I get older.

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 You may have an education and may have a do nothing but think job at the university
and all such, but we are proud of who we are and dont deserve to feel like we aint as good as
anyone else.
Sure, I was the smartest kid in the sixth grade just cuz my mother said so.
It is all about respect, and just as we are here respecting one of our purely deceased
friends and whoopee buddies, we expect you to respect us and our place.
Sure, and you havent eaten too many pumpkin whoopee pies.
But maybe it is time you picked your flakey nose and soft little ass off that stool and
went back home-ity home to Momm-y before you vomit-y vomit old man.
Sure, and I want psoriasis where everyone can see it, why not my nose?
Maybe Mommy misses her little boy.
Sure, and I change my underwear every day.
Or maybe we should just help you, being the good guys we are, help throw your ass out
on your fucking trotters in the fucking snow before you stink up our bar with your shit words!
Sure, and I dont have bad breath. Sure, and I always look both ways. Sure, and I always
waited for her to come first. Sure, and I always leave the seat down. Sure and I never stole
money from my fathers wallet. Sure, and I wish I were Jewish or at least a practicing Jew. Sure,
and I believe that democracy is the sign of a stable new world order. Sure, and I never cursed an
Arab taxi driver. Sure, and I am getting happier as I get older. Sure, and I always worry about
the size of my carbon footprint. Sure, and I wont ever say anything like that again. Sure, and I
know life is a box of chocolates. Sure, and I want me some. Sure and I get it man. Sure, and the
other side is in fact greener. Sure, and whose brother? Sure, and I have always been more than I
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could have been. Sure, and the last time is never the best. Sure, and sharks dont really like the
taste of human flesh. Sure, and I brush my teeth every day. Sure, and clowns deserve our
applause. Sure, and when you are away I will be faithful. Sure, and you believe that. Sure, I get
my own drift thank you. Sure, and another one bites the dust. Sure, and beauty sleep works. Sure,
and my asshole is a virgin. Sure, and I will drink to that. Sure, and I know the words to the
pledge of allegiance. Sure, and I care. Sure, and who told you to enter this fray? Sure, who told
you to be so smart? Sure, and who told you to stick your fingers in this pie? Sure, and who told
you to give a damn?
Blurry, red and woozy eyed, swaying, tilting and lilting, bellied and jellied, taking the
karaoke mic in one hand, facing the skeptical and somewhat disdainful stares of his audience,
prepared to break the ice, the frozen eyes: the writer
Whew. Tough crowd tonight. So tell me what do you guys do for fun here? Eat nails.
Kill things. Listen to your fat grow, your skin stretch? This is it right? Ha! Thought so. Hey I
know what its like. I know small towns. I love small towns. Grew up in one myself. So I know
all about it. Nah, Im no stranger to small towns. Grew up in one just like this one here. Small
clot of rusty brick warehouses on the river, some steepled churches, clapboard houses wedged in
here and there. A train running through the center of town like a zipper on a pair of old tattered
jeans. Yea, like that one? No real architecture here, unless you think ugly square buildings with
absolutely no character is an American form of architecture. Your houses were all bought
where? Out of a Sears Roebuck catalogue, right? Yep. Ordered off a sheet that you mailed in a
hundred years ago and a few weeks later your house shows up in a bunch of crates. You get
together with the neighbors and put that sucker up one Saturday night. Now that is what I call
fun. Still do that? No? Too bad. I liked that idea of fun. What else do you do? Fish? Any of
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you fish for catfish? Yea? Some big suckers down there right? I think those are just stories
myself. Heard them all when I was a kid. Big old seven foot long catfish, always had a name
like Old Sam or Present Danger or King Cat or something like that. Would suck your skin off if
it got a hold of you. But you guys like your catfish sandwiches alright dont you? Yea good
stuff. Tell me, does all the crap that makes this river as filthy as a New York sewer contribute to
the taste of your catfish sandwiches? Just wondering. Can almost walk across the river
sometimes its so dirty. Remember when we went swimming when I was a kid, didnt have
bathing suits back then, remember that. Right, just went in with your knickers, your underwear,
your whities. Well one dunk in that river and you were wearing brownies. Remember?
Nowadays mother wont let their kids drink tap water let alone put a toe in that river. How
different things are now, huh? Back when I was a kid we didnt worry about things like pollution
or poisons or electrical charges or dynamite or asbestos or flammable liquids or any of that shit.
Those were exactly what made life as a kid fun. Thats right. Remember? Fun was nearly killing
each other or dying yourself. Remember the things we used to make? Tire swings, ropes that we
held onto and sung out over some ravine or cliff. We never died doing that. Go carts that we
would build out of pieces of wood and spare bicycle parts and race down hills at eighty miles an
hour. Things would start to shudder and fall apart halfway down. Never died at that either. We
would build tunnels under ground and take our lunches in there and eat with candles, while kids
stomped on the ground overhead trying to make the walls cave in on us. We survived that.
Swimming was one way you could die, well not just in the river but remember swimming in
those ponds? Those cesspool things full of muck and fertilizers and who knows what else?
Jump in one of those ponds and you could find a refrigerator down there, a car maybe, probably
some dead animals, who knows, a bunch of old paint cans, car batteries, it all went into the soup

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that we swam in. Mothers didnt just let us swim in those poison pits, they told us to. Get out
Bill and go swimming in the pond, you are driving me crazy, go swim in the pond and dont
come back for until its been dark for a few hours. Playing in the dark, remember that? No kid
gets to play in the dark now unless its in his closet or under some covers. Us? We ran around
the neighborhoods until midnight. We used to play in the woods and fields at night, remember?
Used to take our little brothers out and get them lost in the middle of the darkness. Dad would
tell us to watch out for the boogey man and we would get all scared and hed come in and see us
all sitting in the living room and hed say why are you in here why arent you playing in the dark,
and wed say because we are afraid of the boogeyman. Get outside, my dad would yell, get out
and play in the dark or I will show you the boogey man alright. Can you imagine telling your
kids that now? Would you ever let your kids do that now? Fuck no. All full of molesters and
druggies and kidnappers and all sorts of riff raff out there now. Firecrackers were another thing
we did for fun. We had firecrackers back then. Not these little playthings that you see now, but
real stuff. Cherry bombs, black cats, M80s. Remember those things? I love those things. And
wed blow up everything with those things: cans, bottles, whatever. Never lost an eye or nothing.
Remember playing the game of who could hold the cherry bomb the longest before throwing it
away? One of us eventually would have the thing blow up in our fingers. Happened all the time.
Yea, happened to you too? Right, that was fun. Wasnt it? The good old days. We did all sorts
of shit you would never let your kids do today. We played in toxic dumps, breathed asbestos,
lived in homes filled with cigarette smoke, washed our hands with gasoline, played with old car
batteries. Any of us any worse for any of that? Hell no. I dont think so. We tromped barefoot
through pig shit and chicken shit and horse shit. We didnt always wash our hands before dinner.
We ate all kinds of terrible shit like fried fat and headcheese, all that gravy made out of grease,

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remember all that gravy on all them potatoes. Meatloaf. Porkchops. Bacon. Scalloped potatoes,
green bean casserole, corn chowder. Never enough cream or cheese or butter in everything. Had
to put on another glob before you ate it. Did it hurt us any? I dont think so. We are all fine
right?
Nodding, bobbing asleep: Mason.
No, we didnt have the extracurricular activities back then that we do now. We didnt
even have half the sports to play like you do now. I mean we had our summer sandlot league,
but nothing like today where you travel all over the country playing in week long tournaments.
Hell we didnt even have uniforms. T-shirts with our team name on it. The Spaniels, the
Bumblebees, or something stupid like that. That shirt looked like shit after about the second
game, but you had to wear it for the entire summer. We all looked like a bunch of dust rats by
the end of the seasons. Back then things were different werent they? So different. Nothing was
organized for kids. Today everything is organized around kids. Lessons for this, lessons for that.
Programs and clubs and organizations. We had none of that. We had hammers, nails, knives and
whatever junk we could find to play with. No drugs back then though. Kids all into drugs these
days. No pot when I was a kid, certainly no coke or horse or any shit like that. Snuff and
chewing tobacco was what we did to abuse substances back then. Remember. Sniffing glue.
Smoke some cigarettes. That is what you did to be bad. Oh sure, we drank, sure. But that was
usually the vinegar wine our aunt was making. Remember that stuff? Had to put in about eight
cups of sugar to make it palatable. Drank it and then got sick, threw up for three days. But wed
do it again of course. Of course.
Looking at Fred, looking at Barney, looking at Rusty: Dorsey.

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 What else you do for fun here? Anything? Play Bingo? Yea, Bingo is big here aint it.
Used to be bigger I bet before them Indian casinos came along. Now you all go blow your
pension and security checks on the slots. Dont you? Cmon, admit it. You aint leaving
nothing to that grandson or granddaughter of yours. Hell no. You got your slots and we all know
how fun it is to sit for eight hours in front of a video screen with a bucket full of quarters in our
lap, punching those buttons, waiting like one of Pavlovs dog for a bell to ring, drooling until a
few coins fall. Yea thats a blast. What else? Work? Come on, work by definition aint fun.
Work is the opposite of fun. No, listen the only reasons you say that what do you do?
Unemployed? Oh, well then work might be fun for you compared to sitting around feeling
helpless, useless and seeing your life waste away. But no really, work is only fun to you guys
because you have been brought up with that heavy Calvinistic indoctrination that life is work,
work is good, so work is fun. Its bullshit. You have been brainwashed. Look at you, just look
at your bodies. How many pieces you have missing? How many fingers, toes, earlobes, teeth
whatever have you lost while working? A bunch right? Look at your bodies, all hunched over
and twisted like you been pulling the same levers or lifting the same blocks every day of your
life. Your bodies are what you used to do. Youre deformed now. Ugly as a punch press. Work
aint fun. Nothing fun about work. Work kills us. Kills your spirit. It aint going to save your
spirit. Why should anyone believe that? Makes no sense. It is just another way we were
brainwashed into working. Thats all. Every read Animal Farm? Its a book. Its not about a real
farm. Oh, so then you dont want to read it because it is not about a real farm? Ok, I am going
to skip my jokes related to Animal Farm. So what else? Drink? Yep, know that one. Been there
done that. Am here, am doing it obviously. So right now I am having just as much fun as you
are. Maybe more. Cuz I am up here and you are down there and I got the mic. Hows that?

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Why would I get down? Are you going to come up and take over? You think you are funnier
than me? You are saying anyone is funnier than me? Where is this anyone. Bring him up here.
I always do better when there is some competition, a little spit flying between me and a fellow
comedian. Where is he? Thought so. Anyone is the same as nobody. Aint he?
Standing up, walking away, exuding a long shiiiiiiiiit, an anyone and nobody: Rusty.
So where was I? Lost my train of thought. Why do we call it a train of thought by the
way? One thought is not really connected to another, thoughts dont come into mind in such an
orderly fashion, like cars on a train, connected tightly to each other, one after another after
another. Thoughts are like, thoughts are like if you dont know this, in the comedic life what I
am doing right now is called reaching for a line. I lost my place in my piece and so I am
reaching for the next line. Kind of like reaching for a life preserver, especially if this goes on too
long. Natives get restless.
Fingers thumping the bartop, shoes tapping restlessly, heads nodding in angst, natives
getting restless: the drunks.
Ah yes, small towns is what we were talking about. So you see, I must have convinced
you that I know a thing or two about small towns. One thing about small towns is you all know
each other. Thats a good thing about small towns. You actually get to know people. Everyone
knows each other, knows everything about each other. I personally view that as annoying and
suffocating. Its true. I feel nauseated right now thinking that some of you guys might know
certain things about me. It is bad enough that you know me at all, but to think that you might
know some of the things I do at night, or what my habits are, or what I say to my wife, what
kinds of movies I like to watch makes me shudder. Fortunately I am one of those guys you dont
talk about, dont care about. I am one of those guys that is on the other side of the railroad
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tracks, although there are no real tracks between you and me. But we got some distance between
us. I know that. Small towns though always have a set of railroad tracks and I find it fascinating
that there is always someone living on the other side of those tracks. You know what I mean.
You know what I mean, right? There is always a good and bad side to those railroad tracks. You
all live on the good side and all the others, well they just so happen to live on the other side.
How does that happen? How does a town end up with them two sides to the railroad tracks.
Does a train pull up one day and the whites go this way and the niggers and chinks go that way?
It cant be much more complicated than that, right? You dont mind that I used the n-word do
you? I mean I know it is an unspoken law that you can use the n-word anytime you want when
you are talking to your buds but not when you are making a public oration. I know small towns
and small towns are racist. They are. You have to admit, you are all racists here. It is not just
the t-shirt you are wearing that has a big red cross on a nappy haired Obama that tells me that.
No. It is not the bumper stickers on your truck that says: Whites have rights, that tells me that.
Nah. Its not just your past histories of throwing bottles at spooks, spitting at kikes or swearing
you will never go to McDonalds again as long as a bunch of Mexican illegal aliens are making
your hamburgers. Nah, none of that is a sign you are racist. Thats all just normal. You see I
know small towns and I know what it means to be normal in a small town, and to be normal in a
small town is to be a fat, beer guzzling bigot. Now, dont get offended. I am talking about
myself as well. Not just you. Look at me, Im fat, Im guzzling beer and Im a bigot. Not proud
of any of those things, but hey thats who I am. Its in my system. Comes out like fart. Could
control it but cant always, you know what I mean? Fortunately no one hears me in the car when
I curse the stupid chink in front of me who is driving too slow or silently shout at a bunch of
nigger kids skate boarding in front of my bank making all that noise wearing those pants down at

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their ankles. Keep it to myself. A closet bigot. Thats me. Fags. You hate fags too, huh. Damn
right you hate fags. Me, I dont care about a persons sexual orientation. I aint going to get any
of it anyway, so why should I care? Im not just talking about now, this goes way back with me.
Sex was not a big thing in my life. Well, I take that back, it was a big thing, cuz when I got it it
was a big thing! Truly. A rare and big event. Straight men dont talk much about their penises.
Ah, not really. I mean we call each other dicks and pretend to make allusion or reference to our
genitals but we dont really talk about our dicks. I mean you wouldnt sit here and say to the guy
next to you, hey my dick has a small blister on it today. Or, I wish I had a bigger dick. Or, hey
buddy, hows your dick today? No, ha, we never say things like that. We never talk about the
size of our dicks. That is the one thing we dont talk about. The guys with big dicks dont like to
brag about it and the guys with the small dicks dont want anyone to know that and so no one
says anything. Fags, I bet, talk about dicks a lot. Dont you think? I think they do. I mean to
be a fag, by definition you have to like dicks, like them a lot and not just your own. I bet fags
have names for their dicks like Colosso, or Bruno or Greta like the dragon. Wonder if some fags
call their dicks by girl names, like Suzy or Bonnie? I bet some do. Is this making you
uncomfortable? Dick talk is pretty uncomfortable for most guys. Me, I have a really small
penis. Its true. Like a little mushroom cap down there. I am not afraid to admit it, but I still say
that with a feeling of shame. Cant help it. We live in a world where big dicks are preferred. I
have had to learn to use my tongue in ways you guys probably never imagined. That was my
only recourse. This is making you even more uncomfortable I can tell. Ok then what about
pussies? Wanta talk about pussies? Silence huh? Nope, guys dont like to talk about that either.
Funny huh? Most guys dont even know the basic anatomy of a pussy. Do you know the
average pussy has out labia, inner labia, a clitoral hood under which the princess clitoris rests,

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that it has a hymen, the urethra, that there is a vagina and all sorts of other little interesting things
going on down there? No? All you do is you stick it in and pump right? How many guys here
still have sex with their clothes on? Shirts, pans, boots and socks. Just unzip, climb on top,
wham bam and your done. How many guys think that is great sex? Only a few of you. Thought
so. I cant do it, my dick is too small. I got be completely naked with three pillows under my
butt and then that cowgirl can only move a little ways like this. Ok, listen, this part of the routine
is funnier with a mixed crowd. I had no idea this was going to be a group of guys only, a bunch
of loners in here commiserating over a stupid funeral which had too few hotdogs.
Heads shaking, fists whitening, thighs pushing feet against the ground so that butts slid
from their seats: the drunks.
OK, so how do you know you are living in a small town? How about when you talk
about going into the city you mean you are going to the grocery store. How about when the
population sign only has three digits. How about when you dont have a water tower, but a water
closet. Small towns are racist. They are. You have to be. It is part of that tribe mentality. Your
parents grew up with it, your great grandparents had to live by it. These were little tribes out
here in the middle of nowhere. You had only your own rules and laws. You couldnt be
accepting some other racial groups rules and laws. There was no idea of tolerance back then. It
wasnt just white people against black of Indians. Hell no. It was white people against white
people. Norwegians against Germans against Swedes against Irish. There is always a dog that
gets kicked. Put people together and they will find someone to kick around. Dont need a
different color, although that makes things a lot easier, but a bunch of white people will figure
out which one is the dog of a white person a so that person can get kicked. We were clans, and
we still think and believe that way even though we are told that is bad, that is wrong.
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 What you dont agree with me?

Smacking the bartop, throwing a stool, chucking a newspaper, letting out a howl, a yell, a
scream to be quiet: dont need to tell ya.
How do you know youre a racist? How about when you say all those people, you
really mean all them kikes, niggers, spics, gooks, japs, chinks, jungle bunnies and beaners out
there? How about when you say some of your best friends are those people by which you
really mean kikes, niggers, spics, gooks, japs, chinks, jungle bunnies and beaners? How about
when multiracial to you means full of vitamins? How about you hate all those people who can
jump higher than you, run faster than you unless they are on TV on Sunday? How about when
your family tree looks an awful lot like a burning cross?
Like a pack of dogs, like a congress of baboons, like a cackle of hyenas, like a trouble of
wolves, like a rout of coyotes, circling, tightening: the drunks.
Ok, well thank you. You have been great. In your own way. I see my time is up. This
has been fun. See you next time, thanks for coming out everyone. Good night.
Then, through the front door, suddenly and with impeccable timing out of the winter
night, busting in from the cold, clad in black, a black wool coat to the knees, black boots, black
gloves on hands that hung to each side, a black scarf around the neck, a black woolen hat
surrounding a face full of color, full of blood, full of memories long undesired, full of fury: the
writers wife.
Back to the door, squat and rollypollie, head bent to the bartop, dropping the mic,
unmoving, afraid to move, knowing without knowing, endorphins rising above the titer of the
alcohol in his blood, the sounds of heels tromping up his spine: the writer.

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Clopping hard across the linoleum floor, removing one leather glove and slapping that
into the gloved palm of the other, looking around at eyes that look up at her then down then up
then down like bobble heads on the dashboard after hitting a pothole, sniffing the air with no
signs of pleasure or pleasantness, scanning the walls and shelves and countertops and barebreasted motorcycle straddling calendar girls of the man cave with no indicators of admiration or
amusement, with no real signs of repulsion other than for the old man balled up on a stool in
front of her: the writers wife.
Straightening up, not looking back, pushing the empty beer glass to the inner edge of the
bar, putting hands flat on the countertop, lifting, buttocks rising, legs extending, feet feeling for
the floor, stumbling, falling, grunting: the writer.
Slapping his wipecloth quickly across his shoulder, straightening up, advancing a step
towards the old man, eyes wide and mouth open, uttering the first two words of the intended
question that never would be completed: Rusty.
Uh, can I give you a hand
Back at their stools, silenced and bowed in disgrace: the others.
Grabbing his arm, helping him recover, looking across at the other eyes looking up in
sideways glances in hidden stares as she says through gritted teeth: the writers wife.
Yea he needs help alright
Shuffling toward the coat rack, bowed and shivering, lifting his eyes towards the darkness
of the womans wrath and despite that wrath in daring, in whispered tone, in stupidity, in the
bungled drawl of the permanently defeated: the writer.
I owe him three bucks
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 No hes fine.
No, hes not. Get dressed.
First his scarf, then his coat, then one glove, then another, then the earmuffs, then a
beanie, buttoned, zipped, wrapped and bundled, he shuffles out first, back out the door, into the
night, disappearing into the cold: the writer.
Replacing the removed glove, tightening the woolen hat on her head, dark as the night, a
plane of deepest shadow, filling the doorway, melting into the cold of winter, the black of night,
leaving behind a look of unfathomable loss, a glimpse of profound disappointment, of something
forever lost, pulling the door closed behind her, gently: the writers wife.

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