cell phones and not paying attention, jumping lights, cutting you off to save one car length and five seconds of time.”
“You got that right,” Stivic said. “Seems there’s more assholes on the road every day.”
“Not just the roads,” Ramsey said. “Everywhere you go. It’s like some sort of disease, you know? An epidemic of assholes.”
Everybody laughed but Balfour. He didn’t see what was so funny.
Stivic said, “Christ, you don’t suppose they’re organized? I mean, a union and everything?”
That got some more laughs. So did what Lucchesi said next: “We ought to put up a sign outside town. Big bare buns in a circle with a line through it. No Assholes Allowed.”
Subject might’ve been finished then if it hadn’t been for Verriker. Wiseass had to stick his oar in, had to make the kind of joke out of it that cut right to the bone. Just had to do it.
Said, “I got a better idea. What we should do, we should round up all the assholes in the state, maybe even the whole country, and stick ’em together some place in the middle of nowhere. Valley like this one, say, only bigger. Have armed guards on duty full time, make sure they all stay put. Call the place Asshole Valley, so there wouldn’t be any mistake about who lived there.”
“I like it,” Stivic said. “By God, I do.”
“Well, I don’t.” Balfour knew he should’ve kept his lip buttoned, but he was half in the bag himself and couldn’t help it. “I think it’s a stupid idea, that’s what I think.”
“Sure you do, Pete,” Verriker said, grinning. “I figured you would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like I said before. You’re an asshole.”
The words come out loud and they brought down the house. Fifteen or twenty other drinkers in there, every one flapping an ear, and they all busted out laughing, too. At what Verriker’d said, but it was Pete Balfour they were looking and howling at.
He wanted to smash the bastard’s face in. If he’d had a bottle in his hand, he might’ve done it. But he just stood there with the blood coming hot up his neck and said, “I’m not an asshole,” in a voice as loud as Verriker’s.
“Bet if we took a vote on that, you’d lose.”
“I’m not an asshole!”
“So you say. I say you’re the biggest one I know, maybe even the biggest one in the county.”
“You shut up, Verriker. You shut up-”
But Verriker didn’t shut up. He was on his feet, moving around, grinning all over his face, playing it up to the crowd. Said, “Matter of fact, if we rounded up all the assholes in the state and put ’em in that valley I was talking about, I bet somebody’d nominate you for mayor. And I bet you’d win, hands down. Pete Balfour, the first mayor of Asshole Valley.”
Brought the house down again. It made Balfour want to puke, the way they all hooted and high-fived and hooted some more. Looking at him and laughing at him the whole time. Made him so hot, he was afraid he’d pop a blood vessel if he didn’t get out of there quick.
Must’ve looked to Verriker and the rest like he was running away, tail between his legs like a kicked dog. He could hear them laughing even after he was out the door. All the way home, he heard the laughter and Verriker calling him an asshole, hanging that mayor tag on him.
He didn’t sleep much that night. Still felt lousy in the morning. But he had work to do, a repair job on the restrooms and concession booths at the fairgrounds-a good deal because he’d factored a gimmick into his bid to the county where he’d buy some cheap-grade lumber that’d pass for high-grade, make himself another couple of grand. So he went out on the job, and the half-wit kid he’d hired to help out on this one, and Tarboe, the faggot fairgrounds director, were both standing there grinning. The faggot said, “Good morning, Your Honor,” and the kid laughed fit to be tied. That was how fast word got around in a small town like Six Pines. He snapped at them to knock that crap off, it wasn’t funny, and they saw he meant business and left him alone. So did Eladio Perez, his regular helper. The old Mex did his work and kept his mouth shut, about the only one Balfour knew who did. But all day long, he caught the kid hiding a smirk and knew just what he was thinking. He could almost hear it going round and round inside the half-wit’s head like it was going round and round inside his own.
Pete Balfour, mayor of Asshole Valley.
He knew he was in for a bad time for a while, but he didn’t figure on how bad. It was like a wildfire, the way the bad joke spread around town, the valley, probably the whole damn county. Everybody out there getting their funny bones tickled at his expense. The fat slob at the store where he did his grocery shopping. Harry Logan at Harry’s House of Guns, a guy who’d always been decent to him. Luke Penny at the Shell station. Others who’d been in the Buckhorn that night. First thing Tony Lucchesi said to him was, “Well, if it isn’t Hizzoner.” And Frank Ramsey, all smirk and smart-ass with “You got your political platform worked out yet, Pete?” And one more that was even harder to take. Charlotte, his cow of an ex-wife, so fat now her ass looked like the back end of a bus, standing in front of City Hall where she worked and making ha-ha noises with all her chins jiggling.
He did all he could to avoid Verriker, but that didn’t stop the bugger from telling and retelling the story to anybody who’d listen. Keeping it alive. Keeping the knife stuck in him right up to the hilt, so the hoo-ha didn’t go away after a few days the way he expected it would. No, it got worse. Seemed like everywhere he went, everybody he come in contact with-grins, giggles, stares, pointing fingers. Kids, even. Some snotnose couldn’t of been more than ten, giving him a look that said plain as day, “Hey, there’s the dude got elected mayor of the assholes.”
Goddamn people! Didn’t they know how much a name like that could hurt? Calling somebody an asshole to his face was bad enough, but saying he was the biggest asshole around, leader of the pack, making a big joke out of him and never letting him have any peace, that was the worst you could do to anybody. It sliced deep into a man, carved out chunks of his insides. Made him half crazy.
It got so bad he couldn’t stand to go out of the house. Just holed up except when he was working, and some days, he could hardly make himself drive over to the job site. The half-wit kid kept looking at him smarmy all the time, hiding a grin and laughing with his eyes. He’d of fired the dumb-ass quick if he hadn’t needed him to get the work done. Tarboe was just as bad. Started ragging on him about not getting the grandstand and concession repairs finished in time for the big Independence Day celebration, yap, yap, yap. Dressing him down with half his mouth, laughing at him out the other half.
Balfour had plenty of time to think, holed up in his house, nothing to do but drink too much whiskey and stare at the TV. He didn’t even have any interest in looking at the porn sites on his computer anymore. More he thought, the madder he got. He shouldn’t have to take this kind of crap. What’d he do to deserve it? Nothing. Bad enough he had one cross to bear, his butt-ugly looks, but this new one weighed twice as heavy, and hurt a lot more because it wasn’t true, he wasn’t what they were all saying he was. No way. He was just a guy trying to get along the best he could, same as everybody else. None of this was his fault.
He couldn’t keep on taking the abuse. He had to do something about it, pay Verriker back for making him a laughingstock.
Yeah-payback.
Question was, what kind?
1
Kerry was sitting at the table on the long front porch, drinking coffee and taking in the view, when I came out in my robe and slippers. It was only a little after nine Sunday morning, another cloudless, end-of-June day; the temperature was already in the seventies, though it would probably get up near ninety by midafternoon. Usually I don’t deal well with heat, but somehow hot days in the mountains don’t seem quite as bothersome.
“’Morning,” she said as I sat down. “I wondered how long you were going to stay in bed. Sleep well?”
“Yup. Must be the mountain air.” I snuffled up a deep breath of it, yawned, and sniffed in some more. The resinous pine smell was sharp and clean; you could smell the gathering heat, too, a pleasantly dusty summer odor. I grinned at her and added, “Among other things.”
“Uh-huh.”
