Knucklehead & Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

anything you’ll regret.”
    Terri jumped up, knocked the chair over. Grabbed the handset, screamed into the mouthpiece. “Shut up, Bob. He’s dead, Bob. Shut the fuck up.” Slammed the phone down, stormed out. She took her cigarette—my cigarette—with her. Technically, she could have been fired for that. Smoking in the warehouse outside the coffee room.
    Bob’s voice came out of the speaker. “Good-bye.” A click.
    We had to go back to work. We couldn’t stop working because Danny was dead. There were orders to fill, stock to be inventoried, deliveries to be dispatched. Cars and trucks kept breaking down out there, mechanics in garages phoned for parts, and we shipped ’em out. I spent the morning unloading trailers with Tattoo Terri. It was a job that I would usually do with Danny, or that Danny would do with Stinky Bob. Danny always drove the forklift. The forklift was Danny’s baby. He had even installed an 8-track. Liked to play Led Zep tapes or BTO. Strung a row of dingle balls along the roll cage, stuck a chipped plaster statue of the Virgin Mary to the dashboard with a knot of duct tape. That was Danny. He wasn’t even Catholic.
    I let Tattoo Terri take the forklift. She just got on and started off-loading pallets and I didn’t try to stop her. She was a good lift operator. We kept working right through coffee, Terri driving and me swamping, breaking down the loads, stacking loose crates on skids, arranging the stock by zone, double-checking the counts the receiver had signed for. Hardly said six words to each other, except maybe “This one,” or “Move that there.” No tunes.
    I was busting a nut and sweating hard, even though it was cool in the trailers, November and all. I snuck a quick sniff under my arm for B.O. thinking Terri was out on the dock. But she had got down from the lift and was right behind me. “He’s got some kind of problem with his glands,” she said.
    Startled, embarrassed, I spun around. “Huh? No, I was just—” What was I just doing? How do you say that?
    â€œBob,” Terri said. “He’s got something with his glands or organs. It’s natural, he can’t help it.”
    â€œOh.” I didn’t know what else to say. I was thinking I didn’t smell too bad.
    We knocked off at five minutes to noon, made for the time clock. Most times at lunch, Danny and I would head across the street to the Dairy Queen. He’d grab a burger, fries and a shake. I’d eat the sandwiches my mom packed for me in waxed paper. We’d talk hockey, cars, music, girls. Maybe I’d pick up a banana split for dessert. Other times I’d just stay in the warehouse at lunch, read westerns or do crosswords. I liked the ones where you solved puzzles. Acrostics.
    Stinky Bob and Tattoo Terri went up the road to the Ti-Jaune Tavern lunchtime every day and I asked if I could go along. I didn’t much feel like going across the street by myself and didn’t want to hang around the warehouse either. The noon buzzer sounded and Terri clocked both her and Bob’s cards. “Hustle your ass, Walter,” she said, “we only got a half an hour.” I punched out and chased after her. Bob had ducked out early to fire up his rusted Datsun and was waiting at the door. Terri dove in the front and pulled the bucket forward and I scrambled in. Stinky Bob popped the clutch and we were moving before the door was closed. I got a noseful of the inside of the car and tried to hold my breath. It was like being inside a hockey sock that had never been washed.
    Terri hit the On button for the radio. A Bee Gees song. Over the music she called “Fag!” and stuck her hand between the front seats. At first I thought she meant Andy Gibb, then it registered. I figured what the hell and dished a cigarette out, stuck it between her fingers. It was the rose hand. Maybe the smoke would cut through