Chapter 13

So far, I have painted a picture of Squiggy that is fairly accurate, I believe. He is his own person. Personal hygiene has never been a priority. Squiggy says what he wants to, when he wants and could care less if somebody is offended.

After the game, he walked out to my truck with me. I am going to follow him to see what he wants to show me. I approach my truck and unlock the door.

He laughs and I turn around to see what is funny.

“That your truck?” he asks.

I would hope he could have figured that out on his own since I unlocked the door and started putting my stuff inside.

“Yep.”

“It ain’t nothin but a toy truck,”

“It gets me where I’m going,” I argue, upset with the reference to my truck as a “toy”.

“How come ya don’t got a real truck?”

“This is a real truck, Squiggy. It’s better on gas.”

I should never have mentioned that word.

“Speakin of gas,” he says, hiked his leg and forced one out.

Several members of Vian’s band are walking by at the wrong time. They scatter like somebody threw a grenade at them.

“Ah!” Squiggy says.

“Smells like something died inside you, Squiggy,” a man points out. He’s a monster of a person, standing well over six-foot-five. He’s wearing a cheap cowboy hat with the sides pushed in too far. The man has on a light blue, button shirt that has only been buttoned halfway. Both sleeves have been removed with what looks to be the same knife Squiggy used to cut his sleeves away.

He wears a baggy pair of jean shorts that have been cut off way too short, along with a pair of cowboy boots that are so worn the big toe on his right foot is sticking out. There are a couple of inches of dirty socks showing above the top of the boots. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved or trimmed his beard since winter.

His arms are the approximate size of my legs. Each leg is almost as big as my waist. It does not look like there is an ounce of fat on him.

“That’d be your breath, Mule,” Squiggy responds.

“Who’s that?” Mule asks.

“My buddy, Lenny.”

Mule nods, sizing me up.

“You the writer guy?” he asks.

“I try to be,” I answer, walk over and stick out my hand. This is a man I do not want to offend. He looks like the type that thrives on violence. “Michael Hunt.”

He grunts and shakes my hand, using the fish technique where the shakee barely touches the shakers hand. His hand is huge and like sandpaper, so rough it almost scratches my skin.

“Bobby Joe Jack,” he responds. Dang, the guy has three first names, I think, but do not mention. “You can call me ‘Mule’. Don’t call me ‘B.J.’, I don’t like that.”

Mule works for me. This is a man I do not want to offend in any way.

“How come they call you ‘Mule’?” I foolishly ask.

“Show him, Mule,” Squiggy suggests then laughs like one of those hyenas in The Lion King.

“You wanna see?” he asks.

I realize how he probably got his nickname and do not want this to go any farther.

“Naw, that’s okay,” I answer, retreating back to my truck as fast as possible.

“Y’all goin to the bar?” Mule asks, not showing any displeasure in not getting to display how he got his nickname.

“Does a bear crap in the woods?” Squiggy asked.

Mule had to think about this for way longer than should have been necessary.

“It’d depend on where the bear lives,” he replied. "If’s it one of them bears that lives in the woods, he wouldn’t have any choice but to do his bidness in the woods. But if’n it was a bear zoo, he’d have to do it right there, in front of the people.”

“I think Squiggy wants to go to the bar,” I suggested, bringing an end to Mule’s scenarios.

“Ain’t you comin?” Squiggy asked.

I would rather have a terrible dose of hemorrhoids than go to any bar with either of these fine gentlemen. They might as well have had “I'm gonna kick someone's butt tonight” written on their forehead. That’s one of the many things they like to do that I do not have the same passion for doing.

“I’ll have to pass,” I suggested.

“You too good to drink with us?” Mule asked.

“He don’t drink no more,” Squiggy interjected.

“You don’t drink beer?”

He asked that with the same passion of a district attorney asking a suspect if he did the crime.

“No.”

Mule eyed me like there was something wrong with me.

“You queer?”

“No, I’ve got this medical condition and I can’t drink.”

“You lyin?” Squiggy asked.

“Afraid not,” I lied again.

“Man, that stinks,” Mule suggested. “Ain’t there no cure?”

“The doctors are working on it.”

“What do they call it?” Squiggy asked, eyeing me with a little skepticism.

“They really haven’t named it yet. They’re waiting for somebody famous to die from the disease so they can name it after them.”

That seemed to satisfy Squiggy.

“Git in,” he ordered. “Y’all can ride with me.”

I knew this was a bad idea, but followed his command.

“Shotgun!” Mule hollered, then ran to Squiggy’s truck.

“Why’d ya want a shotgun?” Squiggy asks. “I got my rifle in case we see anything that needs shot.”

“I think Mule meant he wants to sit by the door,” I said.

“How come he didn’t just say that?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” I replied, hoping that conversation would take place when I was somewhere else.

We pile in Squiggy’s truck. The smell was even worse than it was before, with the addition of Mule. Squiggy’s stomach was upset and he kept unleashing some horrid farts, the silent kind that you never know are coming until your nose hairs are burning.

Mule thought it was funny until Squiggy released one that would make it into the Hall of Fame, if there was one for flatulence.

I throw my hand over my nose and cough. Mule was practically hanging out his window, desperately trying to get fresh air. We were driving down the highway. Cars in the other lane were pulling as far to the side as possible without wrecking.

Squiggy had to slam on his brakes, almost throwing Mule and me into the window.

“What the crap?” Squiggy screamed.

He almost ran over the object in front of us. It was a man driving what had to be a souped-up motorized wheelchair down the highway. He had a U.S. flag flying high in the back from what looked like a cane pole.

Now I don’t think the man should have been riding down the highway at any time, but especially when Squiggy was driving a vehicle. Plus, Squiggy was in need of beer and heading to the nearest convenience store.

The man was waving at the cars as they passed. There was a semi to the side so Squiggy could not pass. Squiggy started getting on the horn and hollering at the man.

“Git outta the way, ya dang crip!” Squiggy hollered.

The man in the wheelchair held up a little pocket mirror and looked to see who was behind him. He waved and kept motoring on.

“Move it!” Mule chimed in.

I slowly sunk in the seat, hoping nobody could see me.

Squiggy pulled up to within inches of the wheelchair, so close that the next time the man held up his pocket mirror, all he could see was Squiggy’s grill.

“Tee hee!” Mule exclaimed. “I bet he’s gonna go in his pants.”

The semi finally got out of the way and Squiggy changed lanes, cutting off some lady in a Cadillac. She honked, not the best idea when the driver of the offending vehicle is Squiggy. He flew over in front of the wheelchair and waited for the Caddy to get even.

“Steer!” he said.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Steer the truck and keep us next to that car.”

“Why?” I asked.

By that time, Squiggy was practically standing up in the truck, unbuttoning his pants.

“I’ll teach that old hag to honk at the Squigster,” he said.

“Don’t do that, Squiggy,” I pleaded, knowing what was going to happen.

“Git her a good one, Squigs!” Mule hollered.

Squiggy let his pants down and stuck his bare rear out the window. I had slowed down, trying to spare the old woman the sight of Squiggy’s rear.

“Speed up!” Squiggy screamed.

I did as requested, pulling even with the car.

“Honk the horn!” Squiggy hollered. I did, twice, while wondering how many laws we were breaking.

The woman driving the caddy looked like she was at least in her 70s. At some time in her life, some redneck driving a monster truck might have shown her his bare butt before, but she certainly acted like this was a first.

Her mouth flew open and she almost lost control. She steadied herself and the passenger window started down.

“Hey, you idiot!” she hollered. “I’ve seen better butts on a cigarette!.”

That seemed to deflate Squiggy and he wiggled back into his pants and resumed driving.

“That wasn’t a real nice thing to say,” Mule mentioned.

“Old biddy!” Squiggy exclaimed. “She just don’t know a good butt when she sees one. Probably wasn't wrinkley enough for her.”

Mule nodded in agreement. Squiggy almost drove past the store, had to slam on his brakes then squeal his tires to get out of the way of an approaching semi.

“Go git us some beer,” Squiggy suggested, looking at me.

“Why don’t you go get your beer?” I replied.

“I ain’t got no money.”

“He cain’t go in there either,” Mule added. “Last time he did, Squiggy popped open a beer and had one drunk by the time he got to the cash register. The manager barned him.”

“He banned me, stupid, not ‘barned’.”

Mule looked like he had his feelings hurt and clammed up.

I took the orders for much more beer than two humans should be able to drink in one night and went to buy it, using my own money, I might add.

After getting back in the truck, Squiggy and Mule attacked the beer like they had just gotten out of a desert and not had anything to drink in days.

“Dang, that’s even cold!” Mule says.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” Squiggy responded.

“How far away is it?”

“Probably two or three,” Mule said, looking at Squiggy for confirmation. Squiggy considered it for a few seconds then nodded in agreement.

“Two or three what?”

“Beers.”

“You measure the distance to a place by how many beers you can drink by the time it takes to get there?”

“Lots better than usin miles,” Squiggy replied.

I let it pass, wishing I was at my Mom’s house or my apartment.

We ride in silence out of town. Squiggy turned on his stereo and probably woke up anybody in Langford trying to sleep. I didn’t know they made amplifiers this strong. The songs are old rock. Mule tries to join in, singing a few words then humming when he can’t remember the words.

We approach a speed limit sign as we leave town. Mule throws his beer bottle out the window and scores a direct hit.

He tries to high five somebody but has no takers.

“I write poetry,” Mule mentions softly.

Squiggy has heard and snorts.

“Homo,” he says.

“That’s good, Mule,” I stated. “Maybe I can read some of it.”

Mule nods, upset with what Squiggy called him.

Squiggy turns off on a dirt road and flies down it, going much faster than he should. There is a cloud of dirt behind the truck so thick nobody could follow. He doesn’t slow for the bumps and we bounce high every few seconds. My head is taking a terrible beating.

He almost misses his turn, barely getting through it with the tires still on the truck. I notice it has taken more than three beers for both of them, but would probably only take a normal person one beer to make this trip.

Squiggy turns to the right and stops. We are at our destination. All I can see are trees surrounding us. I hope no banjoes start playing or they’ll see an old white guy run the mile in record time.

“Git out,” Squiggy commands. I follow Mule out the side door. He knows where we are going and I follow. I wonder how I always get stuck in situations like this. Squiggy has always been my friend and I don’t think he would do anything to me, but I also know his brain does not function properly.

Squiggy carries the sack of beer and downs another one as we walk down the dirt path.

“Here it is,” Squiggy says and I can’t believe my eyes.

Chapter 14