c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-24)
T.C. Lincoln was a professional drinker. One who had trained his body on a diet of strong spirits, and other assorted forms of beverage alcohol, since the early days of childhood. Once, around the age of nine, he and friends discovered a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that had somehow been dropped by the curb in their suburban neighborhood. This prize had rolled, still fully intact, to a spot nestled in a fold of the concrete apron. He and friends were riding their Schwinn bicycles, all customized with chopper stylings adapted from adult machines. One of the greenhorn crew named Petey boldly retrieved this tall can, and worked the pull-tab until it opened. He was showered with a spray of beer and foam. The aroma disgusted him enough to hand it off without taking a swig. Another member of their gang named Tim tried sampling the clandestine drink, and gagged with surprise. He had expected a taste more akin to Sprite or Mountain Dew. The lack of sweet flavor notes rattled him to his core. Finally, young Townie grabbed the steel cylinder and downed its contents in a single gulp. He snorted like a bull after tossing the emptied container into a hedge.
“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT! I’VE SEEN MY DAD DRINK A DOZEN LIKE THAT, WITH HIS STEAK DINNER! YEEHAW!”
Many years later, the reclusive loner still managed to get drunk almost every day.
On a Thursday afternoon in February, the temperature had risen to 44 degrees. An amazingly comfortable reality for that time in the year. So, he decided to celebrate having Ohio blessed with such a mild winter. Instead of taking his Jack Daniel’s bottle to an end table by the couch, he went outside to the porch. There, the ritual libation began in earnest.
By two o’clock, he was already very drunk.
A familiar parade of vehicles passed as he sank deeper and deeper into the tide of liquor. First came a ratty, Chevrolet work truck loaded with pallets, and metal scraps. Then, a Dodge Ram from two decades before, jacked up on big tires and booming with a loud, diesel exhaust. After that, a Geo Metro wobbled along the narrow boulevard. Something so ancient and obscure that it made Lincoln snap to attention. It had been repainted at some point, in such a careless manner that he guessed a broom must have been used as a brush.
He was nearly unconscious when footsteps echoed from his lengthy, access ramp. A construction intended to aid him in disability, as canes were necessary just to stay in motion. He tilted sideways in his seat, to look around the corner, and down a vinyl-sided wall that fronted the trailer. But this move only darkened his mood. Seething with rage, his neighbor on the corner was approaching.
Linn Speck, a rotund powder-keg of a man, had seemingly chosen the same calendar day to become blitzed on booze. He had both fists clenched. Huffing, wet breaths left a trail of phlegm down his chin.
“LINK, YOU BASTARD! WHAT’S THIS SHIT ABOUT MY WIFE? I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN DROOLING OVER HER, DAMMIT! ANY MAN WOULD, SHE’S A TREASURE! BUT I WON’T TOLERATE THE INSULT! I’M HERE TO SETTLE THE SCORE BETWEEN US!”
The shaggy hermit opened a bottle of Miller High Life, to clear his palate.
“Whaaat? Dude, I figure you’ve popped a cork over nothing. As a matter of fact, I’ve never given a thought to your ol’ lady, for any reason...”
Linn stopped in his tracks and howled with anger.
“ARE YOU SAYING SHE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR A SECOND LOOK? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF TALK IS THAT, YOU IDIOT? SHE’S DAMNED SEXY, AND A REAL KEEPER!”
Lincoln chortled and spit a mouthful of brew.
“Huh? You came storming up the street to just debate her wifely qualities? That’s a hoot, brother. Like I said, she’s never been on my radar. That’s no slam at her, or you. I’m running solo for a reason. Two divorces are enough. I don’t need the drama of shacking up with a female...”
The pudgy piggie stroked his bald head and growled. He was wearing a white undershirt, and cargo shorts. Both were soaked with sweat.
“YOU PUT SOMETHING ON FACEBOOK ABOUT GETTING YOUR LIPS ON HER! THAT CHEESED ME RIGHT OFF! I WON’T STAND FOR THAT KIND OF LEERING OVER A GOOD WOMAN! YOU’RE A PIECE OF CRAP, OLD FART! A FRIGGING PIECE OF DOG CRAP!”
The contrarian hobo rubbed his eyes. A burn of Tennessee whiskey lingered in his throat.
“That comment was about game-day nachos. You posted a photo, remember? Right then, I was jonesing for something to fill my belly. Call it an appetite outbreak. Sorry if it got your panties in a bunch...”
Linn swung his hardened knuckles forcefully. The wild punch missed, and caused him to teeter over the wooden railing. He hung limply, panting for his breath.
“ASSHOLE! LIAR! STAND UP AND LET ME SEE WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, COMMANDO!”
Lincoln struggled to his feet. He had unzipped his camouflage hoodie. Both canes were at the ready.
“This is my drinking time, neighbor. That’s important to me, maybe you’ll understand? I don’t get many pleasures in life these days. Having a sip out here in the fresh air brings me peace. If you wanted to pass the time of day and share a drink, that’d be okay. Don’t take that as an invite, because you’ve never been one of my favorite people in this trailer park. But I don’t refuse company. I’m not unsociable, just used to living life on my own. I go along to get along...”
His opponent from the corner slouched against the rough-hewn banister.
“NACHOS? YOU EXPECT ME TO ACCEPT AN EXCUSE THAT YOU LIKED MY WIFE’S NACHOS? NOT HER BOOBS OR BUTT?”
His intended victim laughed out loud. Gray highlights in his beard twinkled in the sunshine.
“Pizza, wings, tacos, ribs, or nachos. Any of that sounds good when I’m raising my glass. Getting bombed always makes me hungry. I reckon that’s how I stay fat, otherwise, I don’t eat too many meals. That’s the honest truth, my right hand to God!”
Linn was unconvinced.
“NACHOS? WHAT KIND OF BULL POOP IS THAT? NACHOS? REALLY?”
He lunged forward to strike a fatal blow. But the cantankerous drunk lifted one of his canes, and swiped it in a sideways motion. The brass tip smacked his assailant with a loud crack of immediacy. This made his mouth gush a fountain of crimson and bile.
Lincoln stomped his motorcycle boot on the floorboards.
“Had enough? I’m not in a mood to fight. I did plenty of that in Vietnam. Against better foes than a fatass with skinny legs, no job, bad breath, and a longbox hovel even more ugly than mine! Say this is settled and go home to your lady! She can kiss your wounds. And you, buddy, can kiss my saggy ass! Vaya con Dios!”
The courage of this unexpected visitor had evaporated at last. His head drooped like a broken branch, flailing in a thunderstorm. He muttered to himself while stumbling down the long ramp.
“Nachos... that’s what it was all about... nothing but a craving for nachos!”
No comments:
Post a Comment