Love & Darts (9781937316075) Read Online Free PDF

Saturday? Bizarre.”
    “Yeah, the lineup’s fucked this year. I used to know
more of the smaller bands. Now I barely care.”
    We’re silent for a little while. It gets later. More
people start coming in. They fill up the bar around me and the
bartender gets busy. I read an article about zoning regulations. I
read another article about various parking tribulations for
Summerfest. I read part two in a three-part series about the zebra
mussel infestation in the Great Lakes and its damaging effects on
the ecosystem. I say to Judson, “Have you ever heard of an invasive
species?” But he doesn’t answer. I keep reading. The mussels come
from the Caspian Sea and other foreign ballast waters of oceangoing
ships that come to port in Chicago, Detroit, and Green Bay. They
make a hell of a mess of pipes apparently. I drink the High Life.
The wet bottle makes rings on the newspaper. The bikers settle up
and get on their way to wherever.
    I move a coaster with two fingers like it’s part of
an air hockey game. I say to Judson, “Whatever happened with
Lacy?”
    He rubs the back of his hand across his nose.
    I’m hitting the coaster against the bottom of my
beer bottle wondering if he’s going to respond when he says, “She
decided to keep it.”
    I look back at the red sand shovel left in the ice
maker. “You gonna marry her?”
    “Who? Lacy? Fuck no. I’m not marrying Lacy. Why
would I want to deal with her shit for the rest of my life?”
    “So what’re you gonna do?”
    “Get a fucking lawyer, I guess.”
    An hour goes by. Judson cuts the air conditioning
and has me open up the windows since he’s busy mixing mojitos for
some out-of-towners who had heard of them on “Sex and the City.”
They probably aren’t great mojitos, but the girls seemed content to
pretend. “They’re dirty with the satisfaction,” he mouths to me
while the girls giggle together.
    I tilt my head back and smile in recognition.
    “When you get a chance, bring me a little more of
this High Life, and those green beans. They’re great.”
    He comes back my way, “I know. I grow the beans in
an empty lot next to my house then I pickle them here. I use white
wine vinegar, onion, garlic, about ten red chilies, some jalapenos,
rock salt, and pickling spice. Boil it up. Two weeks in the cellar
and they’re ready. My grandma used to make a pickle similar to it
with all sorts of vegetables but not quite as hot. But I love these
with a vodka or Bloody Mary. Nice offset for the flavors.”
    “You should sell them to all these type of fucks,
folks you know. They’d give you a fortune for ‘em.”
    “Not my style. I like the Ball Mason jars. The lids
especially. And I like the quiet morning making them couple times a
year. I want a tradition, not another job out of it.”
    Someone puts some money in the old juke box. Jimmy
Cliff. Outside, a couple of guys tie a German shepherd to the stop
sign and come in for a game of darts. I drink two more beers and
watch the dog from the window as the evening moves on. The dog
turns his head watching people walk by on the sidewalk. Then he
settles down and falls asleep.
    Conan has Emilio Estevez on as a guest. The TV’s
muted so I have no idea what brought Emilio onto a talk show. But
his chat washes by with the rest of it.
    Then it is just me and Judson.
    He says, “You think I’ll be a good dad?”
    “You know you’re gonna be better than mine.”
    He laughs.
    I get off the stool, put the chairs up on the
tables, shut the windows, turn off the neon signs, and check the
bathrooms for anything vile while Judson cleans up the bar. He lays
the stainless steel tools out on a clean towel to dry.
    He sets a shot up on the bar, “For your troubles,
man. Thanks.”
    I drink the shot. “No trouble.”
    He wipes the bar down. He wipes the tables down,
wipes the metal work down, tosses the old white towels into the
little stainless steel bar sink, fills the sink with cold water,
and adds a splash of bleach. He