The sign that the plane had been dragging behind it had disappeared.
Terry laughed. “Where’d you hear it?”
“I just heard it,” Wiggy repeated. “Jesus, who got your shorts tied in a knot?”
Terry spat on the sidewalk. There was no sizzle. He took another drink. “You don’t know shit, Wiggy.”
Wiggy fidgeted. His cigarette fell out of his mouth onto the ground.
For a brief moment he considered not picking it up. Terry watched Wiggy pick up his cigarette and place it back in his mouth.
“Jesus!” Terry said, his face squirming. “I just spat there.”
“It was my last cigarette,” Wiggy replied peevishly. “Besides, we’re buds.” Why you all over my case? “I was just talking. How’s my talking harm you? Okay, wrestling is fixed. I’ll grant you that. And maybe there is a God, maybe there isn’t. But don’t tell me we haven’t been visited by aliens. They’ve got proof. And don’t tell me that they don’t have drunken orgies at college. It’s a rite of passage. I’ve seen movies. And they don’t go making up stuff like that.”
Wiggy moved away from the wall and flicked the cigarette he’d just picked up off the ground back into the street. He looked up and watched the plane begin to descend. Shit! It’s going to strafe the street with machine gun fire. Wiggy flinched. The plane pulled up and climbed toward the midday sun.
“What the hell!” Wiggy cried.
Terry grinned.
“When did you say Johnny was coming back?” Wiggy kept one eye on the sky.
Terry emptied his drink onto the ground and flipped the can into the street. A passing car flattened it. Terry smiled with satisfaction and looked up into the sky. If only that plane would crash.
“He’s back. Arrived in town on the weekend.” Wiggy jumped up and gestured with his arms, crying out, “The weekend! This is Wednesday. Where’s he at? We’re supposed to be tight. Why hasn’t he called me?”
“What are you, his girlfriend?” Terry said with a smirk.
George, a balding middle-aged man of small stature stepped out of his barbershop. He pointed to the crushed soda can on the street.
“Is that yours?”
“Ain’t mine. I’m allergic to sugar,” Wiggy cried.
George turned to Terry. Terry shrugged his shoulders. Looking both ways, George stepped out into the street and picking up the can, tossed it into a nearby bin.
“Why do you want to make the place look like a dump? Why don’t you fellows move on, eh?”
“Free country,” Wiggy cried. “Besides, you’re interrupting a very important conversation I’m having with my friend.”
“Hey, you’re scaring off my business!” George snapped. “It’s slow enough without you two hanging around the entrance. You’re discour-aging people from entering the shop.”
Wiggy laughed. “Look, man, either they want a haircut or they don’t.
It ain’t like we’re out here mugging folks.” George examined Wiggy. “You look like you could use a trim.”
“Ah hell, George, I’m letting it grow long,” Wiggy said, brushing the short stubble on his head with his hand. “I want to look like one of The Beatles.”
“Why do you always have to be a smart-ass?” George asked. “I remember you. Your father used to bring you into my shop. You were a nice boy then. Very polite. Your dad used to boast about your hockey.
Said you were the next Big M. He must be disappointed you turned out to be such a bum.”
“He’s disappointed with a lot of things,” Wiggy replied. “He’s dead.” George lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him in a while and…”
“Airplane crash,” Wiggy said and winked at Terry. “Outside Chicago.
One of those prop planes. He was dusting crops. Hit a hydro line.”
“That’s terrible,” George said, his voice turning contrite and sad.
“There wasn’t enough of his body left,” Wiggy continued, “so we buried his barf bag.”
George looked at Terry then back at Wiggy. The two boys began to laugh. George’s face turned red as he realized that the boys had been toying with him.
“Get away from my shop!” he barked, waving his arms. “Young punks! You got no respect for anything. Talking about your father like that! It’s a sin.”
Still laughing, the two boys wandered off, crossed the street, and headed for Terry’s apartment.
“Sucker,” Wiggy muttered.
The boys walked across the hydro field. The airplane appeared again, flying low over the towers. Wiggy looked up. That asshole is going to hit the hydro lines!
“Jesus!” Terry laughed.
Once again the plane turned and disappeared over the horizon.
“My old man never bragged about me,” Wiggy said. “He must have been talking about your dad.”
Terry shrugged. Terry didn’t like to talk about his father, especially with Wiggy. There was always a joke attached to any comment Wiggy made.
“Sometimes… I can’t remember what my old man looked like,” Terry said. It’s like his face disappeared into a hole in my head.
“Shit! I wish I could forget what my old man’s puss looked like. It’s always in my face like some indelible ink. I can’t remember when that bastard hasn’t been on my case.”
The boys stopped in front of Duke’s Sporting Goods and looked in the window.
“How can Duke charge these prices?” Wiggy asked. “There should be some kind of law. It should be criminal to sell things that expensive.”
“Don’t buy them,” Terry responded.
“That’s not the point, Terry,” Wiggy moaned. “Look at those skates!
Two hundred bucks! If I had a pair of those I could have made the school team.”
“You can’t skate,” Terry said.
“My equipment was too heavy. Okay, I wasn’t the fastest guy out there. But those guys were such pussies.”
“The coach kicked you out of the first practice,” Terry said, shaking his head. “At least I made the first round of cuts.”
“The guy hooked me. So I hit him on the head. He had a helmet on.
Fucking broke my stick. It was practically new.”
“He was the coach’s son,” Terry reminded Wiggy. “What did you expect?”
Wiggy shrugged. He bummed a cigarette off Terry and leaned against the shop window, tapping on the glass with his elbow and wondered how much of a blow it would take to break it.
“How come you quit the team?” Wiggy asked. “Did you quit because they gave me the boot?”
“Why not?” Terry responded.
“I knew it. Told Frank that you quit on account of me and he said I was nuts. But we’re buds, right? One for all and all for one. But I gotta be honest, I don’t know if I would have quit if the positions had been re-versed. I mean, my old man would have killed me. He was pissed that I got cut until I told him what happened. Called the coach a pussy. Right on the phone. I heard it myself. My old man may be an asshole but he’s my asshole.”
“Very touching,” Terry responded.
“Ah, don’t worry about old George there,” Wiggy began, pointing back at the barbershop where the barber remained in front. “George ain’t such a bad guy. He’s just pissed off because he doesn’t have any customers. Being a barber-that’s one thing I would not want to be. Can you imagine all the filthy disgusting things you’d find in people’s hair?
Grease, lice, scabs. Disgusting! Frank Nitty, Al Capone’s right hand man, 54 was a barber. Did you know that? He slit a few necks in his time. How can someone do that? Maybe you get used to it after the first few times.
Like working down at Canada Packer’s. My uncle kills the cows down there. Did I tell you that? Pops them in the forehead with this gun.
Doesn’t fire bullets, just knocks them senseless. Has to carry a hammer with him at all times in case the animal doesn’t go down right away.
