Knucklehead & Other Stories Read Online Free PDF

Stinky Bob’s smell. The back window wouldn’t open. About ten pine trees dangled from the rearview.
    A five-minute ride—one light up 49th and across the tracks — Stinky Bob drove in less than three. Pulled up in the fire lane right outside the tavern entrance, just under the sign that said “No Parking—Towaway 24 Hours.” Tattoo Terri had the door open before the car lurched to a stop and so did Stinky Bob. I fiddled to find the lever that moved the seat forward. “Hey, I forgot my lunch,” I said. “Too bad,” Terri said. “Barley sandwiches for Walter,” Bob said. “Don’t bother to lock it.”
    At that time, I hadn’t been in too many beer parlours, and the Ti-Jaune looked like all the rest. Round tables with terry-cloth covers, battered chrome and vinyl chairs, jukebox, cigarette machine, pool table. Just as we sat down, a waitress plunked twelve glasses of draft beer on the table. “I think we’ll be needing another dozen, Mitzi,” Stinky Bob said, and drank one down in a gulp.
    â€œWork up a thirst, eh,” Mitzi said. She balanced her empty tray on her hip.
    â€œRemembering the dead,” Bob answered, picking up another. Tattoo Terri raised a glass and tilted it towards Bob. “To Danny,” she said. She glanced sideways at me and gave a little nod. I grabbed a beer too and sipped.
    Mitzi shifted her weight again. “Five-forty.” Tattoo Terri and Stinky Bob drank. I fumbled in my pocket. Pulled out two twos, two fives. “Your round,” Terri said. I gave Mitzi seven. She shuffled four quarters from the change dispenser at her waist and slapped them on the table. Kept the other sixty cents for a tip without me telling her to. Terri and Bob were into their third beers and I was barely finished my first when Mitzi brought the next round. Terri opened her bag, counted out five ones, picked up a couple of quarters from the table. “Keep the change,” she said.
    â€œYeah right,” Mitzi said. Folded the bills in half along the long edge, added them to a bunch already woven through her fingers. I looked at the clock. Already ten after twelve. “How we gonna drink all these?” I asked.
    â€œWith great haste,” Stinky Bob said, and drained another glass. “Hurry up,” he said.
    â€œI gotta go talk to Steve,” Tattoo Terri said. She got up and took two fresh beers with her. Walked over to the pool table, talked to some guy. Biker type, black leather vest, black T , big wallet chained to his jeans dragging halfway down his ass. He gave Terri a cigarette, she gave him a beer.
    â€œHere’s to Danny,” I said. Toasted with Bob and drank the beer down in a swallow. Bob did the same. Mine backwashed a bit into my nose. Terri came and took the last quarters from the table. “Any requests?” she said. She went to the jukebox. The Stones, “Dead Flowers.”
    We’d never really had a conversation in the year I’d worked at the warehouse, so Stinky Bob and I sat without saying much. We watched guys shoot pool. Watched the television where a soap opera played without sound. Watched the hand on the clock sweep through the seconds over the cooler behind the bar. The clock’s face plastered with the logo of a beer that they didn’t make anymore. Watched Tattoo Terri move through the room. Talking to one, then another of the regulars. For about the thousandth time I wondered how many different tattoos she had, where they might be. I’d seen a half a dozen—the roses, the parrot, the butterfly, a mushroom on her shoulder, a vine around her ankle. What designs were on her breasts? Her back? Her butt? What might be engraved on the inside of her thighs, in the well of her navel?
    Stinky Bob hunched forward and drew me into the thick of his smell. He belched and the release of recently-consumed beer gases was refreshing. “Twenty-seven,” he