Love & Darts (9781937316075) Read Online Free PDF Page A

go in my work clothes. The bar on the corner is brick, has a
cracked set of curved cement steps that no one’s ever gonna fix,
and has too many neon signs for the size of the windows. There are
two small Harleys parked on the sidewalk. Who the hell parks on the
sidewalk?
    I open the door and camel bells slap the back side.
A few other regular patrons look up from listening to the bartender
read out loud. He does that sometimes. Seems to get a kick out of
it on slow nights. He holds a book and says, “And I am dirty with
its satisfaction.” I rattle the door, like applause maybe, like I’m
sort of making fun of him, too. Nothing crazy. Nothing out of
control. Just enough to bring him down a peg. The camel bells smack
the wall once and Judson shuts the book. He doesn’t look pissed and
sure enough, my drink’s waiting in front of my seat at the short
end of the bar.
    He looks me in the eye, “‘And I am dirty with its
satisfaction.’ Isn’t that great? So much in it. All the guilt. All
the pleasure. All the social constructs and guises and norms and
repression. I love it.”
    I drink slowly. “I’ll love it when you get off the
literary kick.”
    “Just waiting for Monday Night Football so the
library card can go back in the closet. I can’t stand baseball.
Won’t have it in this bar.”
    The Brewers suck anyway. “You got anything to eat
back there?”
    He starts to dig through a little fridge and
produces half an egg salad sandwich, three jalapeno-pickled green
beans that go in the Bloody Marys, and a fistful of pretzels stale
from the humidity. He plops everything onto a paper plate that
bends with the weight and shoves it over to me. “A little gold,
frankincense, and myrrh for you, right there. How’s that?”
    Better than that crappy pizza. “I’m dirty with its
satisfaction.”
    He turns his back, picks up a bucket, and heads for
the ice maker. I watch him digging down into the chest of fused ice
cubes. What the fuck is he using? Some kind of red plastic thing.
“Is that a sand shovel for kids at the beach?”
    “Yeah. It is.”
    I don’t want to ask. But. I can’t let it go. “Why
the fuck are you using a sand shovel?”
    “I don’t know. I bought it last week. Thought it’d
work pretty good. I hate those stainless steel scoops. The handles
get too cold. And I don’t like cutting ketchup jugs to make scoops
either. Too much trouble. They bend and crack. This is sturdy.”
    “But it’s a kid’s toy.”
    “So.”
    There are two women playing pool. They don’t talk
too much but enjoy the game. One wears black leather pants. The
other’s in a black leather vest. They must account for the two
Harleys outside. Nebraska plates. Nice bikes. But I don’t know too
much about bikes. I look at the woman in the vest a little too
long. She smiles. She cocks her hips. She leans on the pool cue.
She opens her mouth and touches her tongue to the tapering length
of the wood.
    Jesus. Who wants to deal with all that? I’ve gotta
work in the morning. I swivel on my stool, put both elbows on the
bar, and watch Judson dump ice over the beers. “Those girls in for
Summerfest, you think? I’m not going this year. Too many people.
Too much traffic.”
    “It’s Harley’s
100 th though too. That could be it. Or just traveling.”
    “The 100 th was last year.”
    “Right.” I can’t eat egg salad sandwiches. Shit’s
nasty. “How’s their game?”
    “Better than yours. What do you think about my egg
salad? Never made it before, but I had a craving.”
    “Not bad. Needs to be on toast though.”
    “Toast? I’ve never had egg salad on toast. I’ll try
it.”
    He gets summoned to the other end of the bar. I pick
up a paper and suck on a green bean. I flip slowly through the
Journal Sentinel. After a while Judson wanders back and starts
washing glasses.
    I hold up the paper, turn an article toward him so
he can see the headline and photo. “Did you see this about Kenny
Chesney and Uncle Kracker on