Old Shelley’s going to do you pretty soon, he thought, watching her move. Going to lend you a hand in the All Hands van. But taking her back to Rivera’s was out, you couldn’t be sure with him. The shit with the watch proved it. Crazy fucking Mexican making you eat jewelry, Stuckey thought. No, if he took her to Immokalee, Rivera would come over and want to know how it had gone at Burlson’s.
What’s to tell, he thought now, looking at the girl’s legs stretched out in front of her, feet wagging. Silent at first, the old woman had started talking about fucking Cleveland, right when he was trying to watch his shows. Burlson had lots of cable subscription channels, including the one with 24/7 sci fi. It was frustrating to keep an eye on her, using the mute button to hear, having to go out every few minutes to search the huge penthouse for her. That’s why he’d burned his brown rice. Always she was looking for something, opening drawers and cabinets, roaming in different rooms. Hey Grandma, give me a clue, Stuckey kept saying. What do you need? How’s about some more squeezy cheesy? He had forgotten to put the restraining canvas Posey in his bag, but he would remember next time. In a place as big as Burlson’s, you could strap them in the Posey for an hour or two, take them to the toilet and back. Everything ran more smoothly that way. When you heard the elevator, you took off the Posey and everything was cool.
He reached around the screw table to rub Shelley’s back. She eased against his hand, head back, eyes closed. “A little Shiatsu,” he said.
“Nice. Don’t stop.”
He had taken Miller’s Bran before leaving in the morning, mixing it with Rice Dream milk. The idea was to take in more fiber and pass the watch quickly. The old lady had been a lot of trouble, and it had bound him up. But now, stroking the girl’s back and seeing for sure in the setting sun that the tattoo on her inner thigh was a dragon, he felt the Miller’s Bran kick in.
“Back in a flash,” he said, standing.
“Going to drain the dragon?” Shelley got her beer and winked at him.
“Dragon’s in heat,” he said. “Hold that thought.”
He didn’t have time to put on his sandals, and now kicked through the sand. Bran would do that, but he remembered how much Rivera had said the watch was worth.
Inside, the no-necks were watching ESPN, cheering at something. When he stepped up onto the cement floor, Stuckey realized that if he shit in the can here, he would be fishing around in the bowl, looking for the watch. No-necks would come in and see.
Fuck. He moved quickly around the crowded circular bar and out the beaded-curtain entrance. On the left ran a strip mall. People on his right were dicking around with a boat on a trailer. No shrubbery or alley—fuck. The only thing with bran, when it cut in you had very little time. The watch was probably too far up to pass this soon. He turned to go back in, but wasn’t sure. How could you tell about something like that, where a fucking piece of jewelry would be?
Squeezing his sphincter, Stuckey waddled toward the All Hands on Deck van and got out his keys. He reached the back, knowing for certain that in seconds peristalsis would take over. He unlocked the back deck, crawled in and faced forward as it started, fumbling with the button on his white duck pants. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He shoved them down with his briefs, almost in time but not quite, seeing the first of the stool trailing away from the pants, visible in harsh light coming from the open tailgate. Stuckey, now evacuating freely, kicked the soiled pants away and squatted under the van’s low ceiling. He felt it coming fast, bunching up, so much of it that he had to raise up for clearance, squatting with his head bent at an angle against the roof as someone singing passed outside the open tailgate. The singing stopped. The no-neck stepped back.
“You have to be kidding.”
“Don’t you have any fucking thing better to do?” Stuckey asked. Helpless, he stared back at the no-neck, the process unstoppable.
“Better than you, dude.”
Cap on backward, the no-neck drew back and shook his head. He made a face before walking away. It was almost over. Stuckey squeezed out the last, grabbed the pants and gingerly shook them to free the piece of turd. But still it clung and he shook harder. Now it dropped off and he duck-walked his way backward, seeing the coiled mound like a novelty item. The stool smelled bad but not like a meat eater’s. For this, Stuckey felt a small vindication. You could have an accident like this, but your shit as a vegetarian would never have that really lethal stench that came from animal protein.
He reached forward and slammed the tailgate as people and voices now came from the bar’s entry. Stuckey quickly folded the pants with the smear inside. The laughing was just outside now. Hands slapped the van as he climbed over the back seats. “Where you from, Uganda?” More laughter and pounding. “Do it for mommy, please—” Laughter exploded and the van was rocking. He tossed the folded pants on the driver’s seat and dropped down, fumbling with the keys. He found the ignition, the van rocking harder as the engine caught. He put it in Drive and jerked from the lot, accelerating, looking in the rearview and smelling it again, not so bad, vaguely remembering some movie about rednecks or bikers, where they followed and terrorized harmless people. He kept checking the rearview. No headlights swung onto Bonita Beach Road behind him.
Stuckey felt better. Drive like an old lady, he thought, and slowed down. Be cool. His tee shirt made him look okay to
