growing on my legs.
He continued: “I mean, beer, wine, same thing really. I just wish I knew how it was helping.”
If ever there was a man trying to justify his vices, Tooth’s dad was him. I don’t believe in God; I guess because my parents never made me go to church, but I do like to think there are things out there, out beyond space and time, that have a better understanding of life. Not in a religious way; I don’t think we should worship them, but it’s nice to think we’re not alone. And perhaps someday we’ll meet up with them, whatever they are, and learn from them. But I sure as shit didn’t think Jesus, even if He did exist, would make an appearance just to get a man drinking. First time I heard this story, I figured someone in their bathrobe must have stopped to get a drink from the fountain, saw that it was flowing with rust, and walked away. The blue cross? Who knows? Reflection from overhead lights most likely. I just figured the old man’s brain was pickled.
“Could be, Mr. Elliott. But I gotta help Merv.”
“Help him with what?”
Tooth’s father didn’t complain much about what Tooth did, but guns were something else. He might be a drunk, but he was still a good man.
“We’re gonna grab some tools and go work on my mom’s car,” I lied.
He took another swig of his beer and looked out toward the road. “Want me to help?” he asked. “I’m good with cars.”
Like the cavalry, Tooth popped his head out the door and said, “Roger, c’mon, before the Second Coming. We got shit to do.”
I left Mr. Elliot on the porch with his beer and followed Tooth to his room. It was as messy as it had been the last time I was there. A mattress on the floor covered with a sleeping bag, a small television on an old footlocker with a Playstation beside it. The floor seemed to be made of used clothes so rank with stink they’d fused together like a giant quilt. Several beer bottles sat atop the furniture, reeking of week-old Budweiser. Not to mention it was so hot inside you could spit and it would evaporate before it hit the floor.
In the corner was a dresser with every drawer pulled out so that it looked like poorly-constructed steps. Tooth slid it out from the wall and pulled out another black case like the one we’d just brought in. He opened it up. Inside, a black 9mm lay like a sleeping adder. He took it out and handed it to me.
“Feel how light it is.”
I hefted it and aimed it at the wall. It was far lighter than the.44, maybe about two pounds tops, and smaller as well. It fit in my hand like it had been built only for me.
“Make sure you check the chamber before you go pulling the trigger,” he told me. “Never too sure when I’m drunk whether I clear it out or not. More than once I found a bullet in there.”
I used both hands and cocked it like I’d seen in so many movies, sliding the chamber back and letting it snap forward again.
“It’s empty,” I told him.
He was smiling at me, like Dr. Frankenstein marveling at his monster. I must have looked hypnotized because he poked me. “Go ahead, pull the trigger, see how little tension there is.”
I pulled the trigger with ease and the gun went
“How much did these cost you?” I asked.
“Got ’em both used, which is why the targeting is slightly off. Four hundred for the 9mm and six hundred for the.44.”
“That’s a lot of dough. If you’re making that kind of money why don’t you move out and get an apartment or something?”
He took two small bags out from behind the dresser. The first was a bag of marijuana, which he squeezed and then stuck in his back pocket. The second was small and black, and from it he removed some cleaning materials, including a little wire brush, some oil and a few rags, and began cleaning the.44. “Remember when I said I was gonna go to California?”
“Yeah, you say it all the time.”
“No, you remember when we were in jail and I said it?”
I remembered. That was the first time he told me he wanted to get away from everything.
“Well, that was the night I told myself I was really going to do it,” he said. “I started putting some money away every week since then. Nickels and dimes at first, then about twenty dollars a week since I got the job at Dataview. I’ve got myself a nice little stash. Three grand right now, and I still got some bills to pay, and I owe Dad a few months’ rent, but as soon as I hit five I’m leaving.”
“If you hadn’t bought the guns you’d have four grand.”
“And if I hadn’t fixed up that Camaro I could have left long ago, but I’d have had to walk there. These guns, they’re a bit of insurance. Besides, it’s not like it’s a bad thing to know how to shoot straight.” He stopped cleaning the gun, took off his hat and wiped the sweat from above his eyes. He looked at me with one of those looks that make people feel uncomfortable, like he was going to tell me how I’d die. “Quit that college shit and come out with me.”
“I can’t quit college, you know that.”
“No, I don’t. And yes, you can. You said you want to draw comics. Having a degree isn’t going to accomplish that. All it’s gonna do is get you nice little cubicle next to someone else’s nice little cubicle, where the two of you will swap family photos and talk about how cute your kids’ poopie is. You don’t need to study economics to get a job drawing Batman. You just need a pencil and paper and the know-how to draw a fucking cape and horns and-
The sad thing was, he had a point. I wasn’t sure why I was going to college, other than it was what you were supposed to do, and my dad would rip my asshole out through my mouth if I quit. Also, I’d been conditioned to believe that a college diploma was like a skeleton key to the world. I was banking on that somewhat.
California would be great. I could see us now, surfing, drinking, just soaking in the sun. Probably be the only two idiots rooting for the Red Sox when they came to town. But, for now, it wasn’t in the cards for me. Would Tooth wait? No, he’d go, and he’d move on without me. I could feel it happening already, the slow separation of our lives. We’d survived this first year of college, but we hadn’t seen each other much. Adulthood was coming in like a wedge to our friendship. Was this summer our last one together, the final hoorah for the road?
I heard Mr. Elliot come in the house and open the refrigerator, clank beer bottles together, and saw Tooth scrub a little bit harder at the.44’s barrel. The fridge door closing was followed by some serious coughs and a loogie being hacked up from so far down it probably had “Made in China” stamped on it.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“Who knows. I ain’t seen him sober in a while but he don’t bug me either so. . He says God will take care of him, and then he starts preaching to me about faith and I have to run out of the house. He quit working at the mill a few months ago and filed for workman’s comp when a log fell on his leg. You don’t need to be Kreskin to know he was drunk and caused the thing to fall on himself.”
I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live with his father, watching the man seep down through the floorboards of degradation before your eyes. But that was the life Tooth chose and, thus far, he hadn’t seemed to mind it let alone try to fix the problem. I guess some problems were too big to fix and you just hoped they would take care of themselves. I felt uncomfortable for having brought it up so I changed the subject. “Batman doesn’t have horns, he has ears.”
“What?”
“Batman has ears, not horns. You said I had to know how to draw horns.”
“Man, you’re a geek sometimes. C’mon, this is clean enough. Grab the 9mm and let’s go.”
Tooth put the case with the.44 in it back behind the dresser, slid the dresser back in place, then went into the kitchen and grabbed some beers. We walked out of the stifling house into equally stifling afternoon dust. A cloud of gnats trying to fly through the screen door turned their attention to our eyes and mouths and Tooth swatted them with his cap. Mr. Elliot was back sitting in his place on the porch. As we walked by, I kept my head down, pretending to be wrapped up in my sneakers so he wouldn’t talk to me.
