CHAPTER 3 #3
“Don’t,” Johnny grumbled as he swayed upright, adjusting his hat and wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. “Don’t you dare, Daisy.”
“Don’t I what? I’m being nice. It ain’t my fault you’re jealous.”
“I didn’t bring him for you to flirt with.”
“I ain’t flirtin’.” At this, Daisy threw a wink at Victor, who felt himself go red.
It was a very strange experience to go from a life of being invisible to women to now being the subject of their flirtatious attention.
Even if he weren’t gay, he wouldn’t know how to deal with it.
Years of being catcalled by men in their cars had not prepared him for this much more subtle adventure in being perceived.
“Anyway, I got a two-year-old that needs starting soon, so maybe I’ll bring her to you, hmm?”
“Goddamn it, Daisy, I am standin’ right fuckin’ here.”
Daisy had no reaction, just stared at him like she was bored. “What are you gonna do about it, hmm? ‘Cept vomit all over my boots, that is. Sober up and stop embarassin’ yourself, Johnny.”
Daisy then walked off. Johnny’s bleary-eyed gaze followed her until Victor cleared his throat.
“Uh, I’m going to go find Sarah.”
Without Johnny’s acknowledgement or approval, Victor slipped off to find Sarah.
Eventually he spotted her leaning up against the tailgate of some guy’s truck, smoking a cigarette.
When Victor asked her if she needed a ride home, she gestured toward the hefty, bearded man wearing a baseball cap leaning against the truck.
“My friend’s taking me home. It was nice meeting you, Victor. Take care of Johnny.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for tonight. It was a lot of fun.”
“Next time you’re getting drunk with us,” Sarah said with a laugh, then waved Victor off.
When Victor headed back to the corrals, Johnny was nowhere to be found. Great. Now he’d lost the other one. Victor went on a search with his phone through the darkness until he spotted Johnny sprawled out on the grass at the end of the row where his truck was parked.
“Christ, are you alright?” Victor asked, kneeling at Johnny’s side.
“I hate her so much,” Johnny said, voice wrought. “So why do I love her?”
“Okay, let’s get you up and to the truck.”
“No, lemme lie here, I wanna die.”
Victor rolled his eyes and grabbed Johnny’s arm, hauling him to a sit. “Come on. Up.”
Suddenly Johnny grabbed a fistful of Victor’s shirt, drawing him in so close they nearly knocked foreheads. “You can’t have her! You can’t do that to me!”
“I’m not going to date your ex-girlfriend.”
“You say that now.” Johnny moaned and threw himself back upon the grass like a child tossed themself onto a bed after an argument over bedtime. “No one can resist her. She’s like the fuckin’ sun. It all revolves ‘round her. She owns the got-damn sky.”
“Listen. Give me the keys and I will drive the truck over here to pick you up.”
“I ain’t givin’ you shit! You flirted with my girl. I should fuckin’ punch you in the got-damn fuckin’ mouth.”
Victor was tired of this shit. He saw the bulge of Johnny’s keys in his breast pocket, so he decided to go for it. Johnny swatted him away with a what are you doin’, boy? but after the second attempt, Victor was able to snatch up the keys. Johnny wailed about the indignity, but Victor ignored him.
Victor hadn’t driven stick shift in a while, but it was like riding a bike—or a horse, for that matter.
The body remembered even when the mind didn’t.
He put the truck into gear and slowly rolled across the grass until he spotted Johnny, still spread-eagle in the dirt.
With a sigh, Victor dismounted from the truck and began the process of hauling Johnny’s ungrateful ass up into the passenger seat.
Johnny protested and let loose a string of slurred swearwords, but his fight was short and half-hearted.
By the time Victor got him into the truck, Johnny started rambling about how much he missed Daisy, along with a bunch of other things Victor couldn’t understand at all.
Victor didn’t know where Johnny lived, and even if he did, he was driving Johnny’s truck, so he decided it was best to just take Johnny back to his house and let him sober up on his couch.
Victor plugged his address into his phone and braced himself for a fifty-minute drive with someone who could barely string more than a few words together.
They had to stop once for Johnny to throw up on the side of the road, but after that Johnny drifted off into sleep, which made everything easier.
Victor considered leaving Johnny in the truck overnight, but he figured that wasn’t very nice, so he shook Johnny awake once they were parked outside Victor’s house.
“Come on. You’re sleeping this off on my couch.”
“On wha?” Johnny mumbled.
“Outta the truck,” Victor insisted. The dogs had burst out the door and now swarmed them, trying to find some skin to lick in greeting.
Johnny slowly threw one leg over the seat, then the other.
When he tried to drop down from the truck to the driveway, his knees buckled and down he went.
If it weren’t for Victor catching him around the waist, he might have faceplanted onto gravel.
Victor struggled under Johnny’s weight, because while Johnny was skinny, there was also six feet and then some inches of him, and Victor was no weightlifter.
He might have dropped Johnny if Johnny didn’t then slide an arm around Victor’s shoulders for support.
This proximity meant that Victor could smell Johnny’s sweat and a hint of whatever laundry detergent he used for his shirt.
It sparked something in Victor’s gut. But that was no shock; he’d been alone for a while.
“Hmm,” Johnny groaned, still hanging onto the back of Victor’s neck like a lifeline. “You smell good.”
Wow. Okay.
“You’re drunk,” Victor muttered, shifting Johnny’s weight in hopes of gaining some advantage. “Try your best to walk.”
“I’m walkin’,” Johnny replied, which was hardly a good descriptor for his pathetic limp-ankled shuffle, but it was something. Thankfully there were only two steps to reach the front door and only three strides from there to the couch, which was where Victor dumped Johnny’s body.
“If you need to throw up, do me the favor of finding the bathroom,” Victor said, but Johnny only moaned in response, already half asleep.
Victor back outside, the dogs following him.
He found Johnny’s hat and tossed it into the driver’s side of the truck.
He couldn’t control his curiosity, so he peeked into the storage box in the front of the truck bed.
There were still two six-packs of beer in there, but also two shotguns.
Everyone around here was packing, so Victor didn’t know why it shocked him.
“Alright, bedtime,” he told the dogs, and they rushed back onto the porch, tails wagging.
Before heading to his bedroom, Victor stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Johnny sprawled out on top of his aunt’s afghan like a starfish.
With a sigh, Victor went to the hall closet, removed one of the many throws he’d collected over the years, and returned to Johnny.
“Johnny,” Victor whispered as he dropped the throw on top of Johnny.
Johnny said nothing, so Victor went to work rearranging him just so that he wouldn’t slide off the couch in the middle of the night.
He also pulled off Johnny’s boots, because if he got horse manure or mud on his aunt’s rug, her ghost might come back and haunt him.
He dumped the boots by his own by the front door, then thought better of it.
Johnny’s feet were twice the size of his; would Johnny notice something like that?
Would he question why Victor’s feet were small?
Victor’s shoe size had gone up a few sizes over the past few years, but that didn’t mean they still weren’t unusually—
Victor cut off his own thoughts, realizing how fucking paranoid he sounded.
Johnny was the last person to notice Victor’s fucking boot size.
Plenty of men had small feet. Victor had lost years of his life feeling like he didn’t measure up—literally and figuratively— and he’d decided never to indulge that shit anymore. It was brain poison.
Victor looked down at Johnny’s boots next to his own, feeling another kind of sadness.
It’d been a long time since anyone had spent the night at his house.
It reminded Victor of his little apartment back in Banning, California, his first home away from home, a place with such fond memories that even the roaches and smelly water couldn’t have ruined it.
Back then he’d liked the size difference in the boots by the door, liked their dirt and their wear, liked the idea of them being there forever.
No tennis shoes for my men, Victor had thought. It’s boots or nothing.
Victor shook his head and the mist of memory and took off his own boots. Exhaustion was making him nostalgic. There was no point of dwelling on the past when those who remained had to be dealt with in the morning.