"You have shit for music."
"Turn on the radio".
"Radio sucks, let me see that."
Boots McCormack handed his phone across to the grumbling man sitting in the passenger seat of his Chevy pick-up truck, went right back to talking about an upcoming court battle with his ex-wife. It was the latest installment in a long series of court battles with a woman slightly more evil than Darth Vader, just shy of Satan- on her good days.
Ethan Blue fingered the device awkwardly sent the information on the touch screen flying up and down at dizzying speeds then finally finding a sort of folksy cover of Jay Z's 99 Problems that he liked. He turned up his bottle guzzling the last of his beer, and dripping a little down the front of the pearl button "cowboy shirt" he liked to wear to feel cool when he had readings.
"Not yet - aaand now", Boots said looking in the rear view mirror for the most opportune moment for Blue to sling the glass bottle by the neck out the truck window without getting in trouble. Blue waited a second more then threw it with enthusiasm and sent it smacking, breaking against a roadside sign. He had been drinking since noon, had imbibed in a dime bag, was well past the nod and felt more than a little drunk.
"Listen you can't be all talking like Rush Limbaugh tonight, this chick is way freakin' liberal, like tree huggin' Obama lovin'- you know, most of my writer friends- you gotta be cool."
" Oh I know about them. I don't get it most of the time. That's why I hate stuff like this. I mean I like your shit because it's real. I loved that one you wrote about that bitch, the fat black jailer bitch- you should read that one."
" I will send it to you, I can't read that at the hipster bar.'
"Oh I know but I like it. That shit is real."1
The residual feelings left from the smack along with the copious amounts of beer he had drank that day had Ethan Blue feeling melancholy, he was already regretting his attempt at getting to know April Montgomery. She seemed cool, he liked the things she posted on Facebook, he was pretty sure they had read together before but he tended to be very drunk when he shared his work in public. The nakedness of his words often uncomfortable for him as well as those that would come to hear him. Never did he feel good enough, not as a writer- not as a man. Regular people freaked him out. Riding down the freeway Boots went on a tirade about politics but Ethan was fixated on the wa wa effect of light and shadow created by the breaks in trees along side the interstate in the little big town of Little Rock, Arkansas.
Light, dark, light, dark.
Wa, wa, wa, wa, inside his head. He thought back to the first time he'd met Boots in Pulaski County jail.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was generally fairly late, around the call for lights out, that new guys would come into B unit, an "honor" unit there were no doors, but a rule called for inmates to be three of the tile squares back from the opening. On the occasion someone new showed up, action packer in hand, the rule was sorely abused. McCormack walked in, with a show of confidence he didn't necessarily feel. The jailer, angry already with her menial existence, clipboard in hand walked him to the upper tier and made sure the rack she assigned him was empty. Ethan watched him and sized him up in his head.
"Never been in jail before", he thought, and probably pretty solid, then he rolled a cigarette and slipped down to the toilets to smoke it. He was half finished with the "rollie' when a dark haired guy
with a child-like look and the kind of clenched jaw you get after being a dope cook for too long came in.
"Well?', he asked and handed over the last of the smoke.
"He get's the paper, he's got family and money on his books?" Oberling stood there like a dummy and waited for what came next.
"Whats his charge?"
"Attempted murder."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was still a couple of hours before the gig so the two of them went through the brew pub and out the back to the patio where they could smoke. They got lucky and the server that came back was the cool one, not the guy with skinny pants and a ponytail, having seen them as they passed through he already had a Bud Light and a Rolling Rock, and asked them if they wanted a menu.
"No, but I want some ice."
"Like a cup of ice?"
"No like a bucket of ice." , Boots answered.
"You know they do craft beers here, Boots, craft beer guys don't like their beers ice cold."
"Well I like mine ice cold."
The waiter just watched like it was a tennis match, turning his head back and forth as they talked with each other seeming to forget him. Finally Ethan turned his attention back to the poor soul just trying to make a living.
"Listen, you know how some bars sell like a six pack in a bucket of ice? That's what we want- three Rolling Rocks, three Bud Lights on ice."
"I'll pay for 'em now ", chimed in Boots. Ethan Blue never paid for anything, it was part of his charm.
"Uh, okay, I'll see what I can do."
In a moment or two he was back.
"Okay this is what I've got, I put club soda in there so it will be colder than with water."
He sat six beers and two pitchers filled with ice and soda on the table.
"I can't get three beers in there,'" McCormack complained.
"We'll just switch 'em out as we go," a much more impressed Blue consoled.
And they began to drink in earnest.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Attempted murder, why the fuck would he be in B unit if his charge was attempted murder?"
"Something about a wife that was fucking the siding guy he was paying to re-do his house."
"So he killed the wife or the dude?, tried to I mean. Which one?"
"The wife", Oberling said and slung the tiny nub of burning tobacco and bible paper from his fingertips then licked them, " he choked her then called 911 on himself."
Ethan Blue's face split into a smile, then went hard just as quickly.
"Tell him I'm coming down there after lights out. Tell him who I am."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half way through the second six pack and pitchers of ice, Boots and Ethan had settled into an
old familiar behavior; a mode of drunkenness shared between them that seemed very much like the relationship between an old late night comic, and his amiable second banana. The shtick changed from drunk to drunk, but was consistent in theme and had many running jokes. Both men found comfort in the sameness, and a challenge in the improvisation. An odd couple to be sure, they were very different in many ways, on a few important ones though they were firmly the same. It was not a Lone Ranger and Tonto thing, not Batman and Robin. Neither man was the clear Alpha , one day to the next ,one could never guess on whose strength they would leaning. Butch and Sundance might be closer or Pancho and Lefty- partners in the way that it was before the word was borrowed and changed by society, like it was when men like these roamed the world on horseback seeking adventure for its own sake. They were old school, and looked it, Ethan more concerned about his classic look not becoming outdated, both looking and dressing the same for twenty or thirty years.
Boots drove a truck and delivered gasoline, the best he could get after the reduced (but still felony) charge he eventually plead out to. It was a pretty good job for a guy in his shoes. He had owned his own trucking company before the unpleasantness but now he was just trying to rebuild. His son, Michael, was the single most important thing in his life and spent most of his money on the red headed boy, and the lawyers he hoped would win him custody. Once a week or so, he and Blue would get together and drink too much and pretend to be happy and care free, on these occasions Boots would be dressed in a khaki work shirt with his name and company above the pocket, jeans tucked into camouflaged, round-toed work boots, and a slightly dirty ball cap crowning his crimson Irish mane, buzzed low. Cut himself with clippers, outside so as not to make a mess.
Ethan Blue fingered the device awkwardly sent the information on the touch screen flying up and down at dizzying speeds then finally finding a sort of folksy cover of Jay Z's 99 Problems that he liked. He turned up his bottle guzzling the last of his beer, and dripping a little down the front of the pearl button "cowboy shirt" he liked to wear to feel cool when he had readings.
"Not yet - aaand now", Boots said looking in the rear view mirror for the most opportune moment for Blue to sling the glass bottle by the neck out the truck window without getting in trouble. Blue waited a second more then threw it with enthusiasm and sent it smacking, breaking against a roadside sign. He had been drinking since noon, had imbibed in a dime bag, was well past the nod and felt more than a little drunk.
"Listen you can't be all talking like Rush Limbaugh tonight, this chick is way freakin' liberal, like tree huggin' Obama lovin'- you know, most of my writer friends- you gotta be cool."
" Oh I know about them. I don't get it most of the time. That's why I hate stuff like this. I mean I like your shit because it's real. I loved that one you wrote about that bitch, the fat black jailer bitch- you should read that one."
" I will send it to you, I can't read that at the hipster bar.'
"Oh I know but I like it. That shit is real."1
The residual feelings left from the smack along with the copious amounts of beer he had drank that day had Ethan Blue feeling melancholy, he was already regretting his attempt at getting to know April Montgomery. She seemed cool, he liked the things she posted on Facebook, he was pretty sure they had read together before but he tended to be very drunk when he shared his work in public. The nakedness of his words often uncomfortable for him as well as those that would come to hear him. Never did he feel good enough, not as a writer- not as a man. Regular people freaked him out. Riding down the freeway Boots went on a tirade about politics but Ethan was fixated on the wa wa effect of light and shadow created by the breaks in trees along side the interstate in the little big town of Little Rock, Arkansas.
Light, dark, light, dark.
Wa, wa, wa, wa, inside his head. He thought back to the first time he'd met Boots in Pulaski County jail.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was generally fairly late, around the call for lights out, that new guys would come into B unit, an "honor" unit there were no doors, but a rule called for inmates to be three of the tile squares back from the opening. On the occasion someone new showed up, action packer in hand, the rule was sorely abused. McCormack walked in, with a show of confidence he didn't necessarily feel. The jailer, angry already with her menial existence, clipboard in hand walked him to the upper tier and made sure the rack she assigned him was empty. Ethan watched him and sized him up in his head.
"Never been in jail before", he thought, and probably pretty solid, then he rolled a cigarette and slipped down to the toilets to smoke it. He was half finished with the "rollie' when a dark haired guy
with a child-like look and the kind of clenched jaw you get after being a dope cook for too long came in.
"Well?', he asked and handed over the last of the smoke.
"He get's the paper, he's got family and money on his books?" Oberling stood there like a dummy and waited for what came next.
"Whats his charge?"
"Attempted murder."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was still a couple of hours before the gig so the two of them went through the brew pub and out the back to the patio where they could smoke. They got lucky and the server that came back was the cool one, not the guy with skinny pants and a ponytail, having seen them as they passed through he already had a Bud Light and a Rolling Rock, and asked them if they wanted a menu.
"No, but I want some ice."
"Like a cup of ice?"
"No like a bucket of ice." , Boots answered.
"You know they do craft beers here, Boots, craft beer guys don't like their beers ice cold."
"Well I like mine ice cold."
The waiter just watched like it was a tennis match, turning his head back and forth as they talked with each other seeming to forget him. Finally Ethan turned his attention back to the poor soul just trying to make a living.
"Listen, you know how some bars sell like a six pack in a bucket of ice? That's what we want- three Rolling Rocks, three Bud Lights on ice."
"I'll pay for 'em now ", chimed in Boots. Ethan Blue never paid for anything, it was part of his charm.
"Uh, okay, I'll see what I can do."
In a moment or two he was back.
"Okay this is what I've got, I put club soda in there so it will be colder than with water."
He sat six beers and two pitchers filled with ice and soda on the table.
"I can't get three beers in there,'" McCormack complained.
"We'll just switch 'em out as we go," a much more impressed Blue consoled.
And they began to drink in earnest.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Attempted murder, why the fuck would he be in B unit if his charge was attempted murder?"
"Something about a wife that was fucking the siding guy he was paying to re-do his house."
"So he killed the wife or the dude?, tried to I mean. Which one?"
"The wife", Oberling said and slung the tiny nub of burning tobacco and bible paper from his fingertips then licked them, " he choked her then called 911 on himself."
Ethan Blue's face split into a smile, then went hard just as quickly.
"Tell him I'm coming down there after lights out. Tell him who I am."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Half way through the second six pack and pitchers of ice, Boots and Ethan had settled into an
old familiar behavior; a mode of drunkenness shared between them that seemed very much like the relationship between an old late night comic, and his amiable second banana. The shtick changed from drunk to drunk, but was consistent in theme and had many running jokes. Both men found comfort in the sameness, and a challenge in the improvisation. An odd couple to be sure, they were very different in many ways, on a few important ones though they were firmly the same. It was not a Lone Ranger and Tonto thing, not Batman and Robin. Neither man was the clear Alpha , one day to the next ,one could never guess on whose strength they would leaning. Butch and Sundance might be closer or Pancho and Lefty- partners in the way that it was before the word was borrowed and changed by society, like it was when men like these roamed the world on horseback seeking adventure for its own sake. They were old school, and looked it, Ethan more concerned about his classic look not becoming outdated, both looking and dressing the same for twenty or thirty years.
Boots drove a truck and delivered gasoline, the best he could get after the reduced (but still felony) charge he eventually plead out to. It was a pretty good job for a guy in his shoes. He had owned his own trucking company before the unpleasantness but now he was just trying to rebuild. His son, Michael, was the single most important thing in his life and spent most of his money on the red headed boy, and the lawyers he hoped would win him custody. Once a week or so, he and Blue would get together and drink too much and pretend to be happy and care free, on these occasions Boots would be dressed in a khaki work shirt with his name and company above the pocket, jeans tucked into camouflaged, round-toed work boots, and a slightly dirty ball cap crowning his crimson Irish mane, buzzed low. Cut himself with clippers, outside so as not to make a mess.
