American Salvage by Bonnie Jo Campbell

Author:Bonnie Jo Campbell [Campbell, Bonnie Jo]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Literary, Fiction, Family Life, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9780814334126
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2009-09-14T12:00:00+00:00

A man who trusted himself to own a gun could walk into this place and shoot these guys, one after another, watch the glass fly: Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Yukon Jack, Johnny Walker Red. The bartender pocketed a dollar-fifty tip and smiled. Thomssen grinned and saluted, but he felt the grin pull tight across his face like a scar, and he might have been saluting the liquor army. He could resist coming here most days of the week, and he rarely came when his son was visiting, but on nights like tonight when he dropped Billy off at his ex-wife’s, when he couldn’t face his own empty house, he allowed himself a few hours. He was tall enough to see everyone in the place, and he told himself he was glad Belle wasn’t there to complicate things.

The barroom chairs, like most chairs, were too small. His size made him powerful, got him instant respect, but he hated that he couldn’t walk into a place without being noticed. Tonight he hunkered in his usual corner and tried to look smaller than he was. Billy might end up as big as Thomssen, seeing as his ma was tall, too. That was part of why Thomssen had married Elaine, because she seemed big and strong enough to stand up to him, but after ten years of standing up to him, she’d stood down. She was now married to a probation officer, a man who eyed Thomssen as though assuming he was always on the verge of committing a crime. Thomssen didn’t blame his ex-wife, and he had no complaints about the way she was raising Billy—she didn’t badmouth Thomssen, as far as he knew. The kid was certainly healthy—he already towered over the other guys on his basketball team. At age fourteen, he was still skinny, though, and nervous and awkward, especially with girls.

The old Dewar’s scotch wall clock ran on bar time, twenty minutes fast, but it moved too slowly all the same. Caterpillar hats and John Deere hats dotted the place with yellow and green.

Those feed caps wouldn’t fit on Thomssen’s head, although one year his pipefitting shop had ordered a few oversized union local 669 caps for him, and he’d felt so grateful, he had to slip away to the toilet to compose himself. Tonight he wore a wool stocking cap against the cold. Although the place was warm enough, Thomssen didn’t feel like taking off his hat or sheepskin-lined vest or his insulated flannel shirt. Keeping his body covered made him feel less noticeable, less a permanent fixture—he might not spend the whole evening in here, anyhow; there was no rule that said he couldn’t go home and sit alone in front of the TV, fall asleep at a reasonable hour, be rested for work tomorrow morning.

The door opened and some other men walked in, regular sized, younger than him, kicking snow off their boots in a way that seemed athletic and fun loving. They closed the door behind them, shutting out the cold.

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