Banjo Grease by Dennis Must

Author:Dennis Must
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Hen Press
Published: 2019-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

By now night had penetrated the cellar. Only the streetlight cast an ochre blade across our old man’s face. He seemed proud he’d driven his story home. Westley and me stayed seated while Father went outside and rolled his 1936 Dodge sedan out of the driveway. In the blackness we dreamed of a banshee convict roller skating under the chassis of ours.

POPEYE’S DEAD

I

THE BAZAAR. INSIDE there it will all make sense. And my brother and I waited until both parents had fallen asleep, and drifted the car out of the driveway and down the street until it swung around the block, then I shoved it in gear and it kicked on; it began to hum, and we drove it deep into the night toward the lights we saw in the sky, the reflections, the illumination of the bazaar outside of town.

“Do you have any money?” I asked.

No. He had no money. And he sat sort of stiff but wide-eyed with one hand on the chromium door handle.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. We don’t need any money. If you get hungry, I’ll get you something to eat. Just don’t worry, OK? I see you sitting over there worrying. Well, don’t worry. Do you hear? Don’t worry.”

I had grown tired of waiting. Waiting. And I had also grown tired of listening to him asking for me to take him for a ride. Hanging around. Waiting for me. But I was waiting. And not a goddamned thing seemed to ever move in that house. Was somebody going to take us on this trip? Or weren’t they? And it didn’t seem to be going to happen.

Well, I would. And in a ball field way outside town, they were parking the cars. Beyond the cars were the tents and the hundred lights. And he and I pulled the old man’s car over by second base and walked toward the tents. He was about a foot smaller than me, but I had loaned him my leather jacket. It made him look older. But his fucking pants were too short. You could see if you looked down at his legs and shoes that he was still a kid. I mean a real kid. But he wasn’t acting like a kid this night. And the two of us silently, no talking between us, continued walking, and at the gate we were greeted by a woman.

“Good evening, men,” she said.

My brother nodded seriously, as if he had been here before.

“Where is your money?” she inquired.

“We haven’t any,” I said.

“Well, you have to have money to come in here. Gentlemen.

“Did you leave your wallets at home?”

My brother nodded seriously again.

She laughed out loud. “I can’t imagine such gentlemen being without their wallets.

“Where do you keep your rubber jimmys? And the Popeye and Olive dirty pictures?

“You,” she said, “the little one. I’m speaking to you.”

And my brother looked straight ahead seriously. “Popeye’s dead,” he said.

“Popeye’s dead!” And she laughed even more animatedly. Then reached down and cupped her hand at my brother’s crotch, then squeezed.

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