Swing State Read Online Free PDF Page A

place. But bills andall. Moving van. Deposit. Didn’t have one now. Or last. Weekly. Schaferville had places like that. Had to. Would the garage be hot like the desert? Hoped not. It would suck in the winter. Freeze. Plastic over the windows. He’d need a hairdryer. Still cold anyway. Oil heat. Everything he did overseas and too expensive to heat a house. Maybe four good months.
    There was a bar. Irish place. Did they have a pool table? Couldn’t remember. Maybe. He’d go. Check it out. See how he felt.
    Talk to Artie. Duh. That was it. Stop by his place. Tell him the plan. No contracting work. No security. No landscaping, janitor. Cars. Artie knew he could do it. Work hard. Study. Learn.
    He could get more books. Cars. Engines. He saw that stuff. Knew it. Recognized it. The names faded. Didn’t know what things were called. But he could get it back. Easy. Thinking about it made him feel good. Didn’t give him a headache. Like when he thought about the contracting. Thought the whole time he had work. Got back, there was none. Just a little check. Thought he’d have it made. A porch, cable. Watch the Sox. iPhone. Grill. Instead, a check. And headaches.
    Cars, though. He could do that.
    Rather be outside. In the sun. But garage doors opened. Cold in the winter. Probably better than his apartment.
    Hoped Schaferville had pool. If not he’d have to walk in for games. Just for fun instead of money. But he could get a bike. That would work. Exercise. Stay in shape. Look good. Start a real profile. With pictures. Wait for them to come. Could it be that easy? Frick was full of shit. Had to be. But the way he talked. There was something in it. Wasn’t all lies.
    Or maybe get a car. Boston was a one-time thing. It would be okay. Get a job, settle in. Not worry so much. Move away from it,no headaches. News on the radio. Lose himself in his new thing. Be okay to drive.
    He walked behind the L’il Bee to the woods entrance. School day. Didn’t like to go in after. Kids. He remembered cutting school. Going out there. The hearse. The quarry. Crushed cans. Rick Robards worked at the grocery store. For twenty bucks he’d leave a twelver on the loading dock. Expensive. But beer. Artie wanted to save the cans. Return them. Sixty fuckin’ cents. Where were you supposed to return beer cans? Small town. Crush them. Keep drinking.
    Beginning of the summer. Couldn’t remember the exact year. The quarry. Artie brought his girl out there. Heat lightning. Thought they’d get electrocuted. A sign or something. Carrying the twelve-pack so Artie could hold hands with his girl. They were okay. Not too cute. Thank God. He saw dudes and their girls at school. Tough dudes, like voc, cars, mushy. Wearing Slayer shirts, being pussies. Artie never did that. His girl Christa was okay. She could drink. Finished her four quick. Before him. Before Artie. Belched like a man.
    Heat lightning flickered. Granite peaks named in spray-paint. Tall one was “Tits.” Made no sense. Should have been “Dick,” maybe. Two peaks? Tits. But no pairs. Just singles. Granite. Sharp on the edges. People wore shoes in. Too sharp not to. Hurt less when you hit.
    Artie couldn’t swim. And girls didn’t jump. One did once. What was her name? Got fucked up. Rocks. Hit her head. Wore all black now. Walked every day. Like him.
    He jumped. That night. Heat lightning, four beers. Never did it before. Could swim okay. Learned when he was little. Didn’t know he was going to. Just stood up, pulled off his shirt, jeans.Socks, shoes. I’m doing it, he said. Christa said no, Roy, wait. Wait a minute. It’s dark. They heard splashes. People jumping. Don’t. You’ll get hurt.
    He walked toward Tits. Artie said wait, man, do a small one first. Do Cunt. But it was like he wasn’t in his head. Like in the tent. Someone else. His body moving and he could see it even though it was dark. Watching.