Close is Fine by Eliot Treichel

Close is Fine by Eliot Treichel

Author:Eliot Treichel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ooligan Press
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00


Stargazer

Autumn, 1957

As the pickup truck approached, Walters raised his free hand and motioned for the vehicle to stop. In his other hand he clutched the stock of a lever-action Winchester, the gun barrel angled over his shoulder. Behind him stood two sawhorses, one in each lane of the highway.

Mike had known Walters for thirty years, so he was both surprised, and not, by the roadblock.

“There's a toll now,” Walters said.

“Toll?” Mike asked. “Just move them sawhorses.”

“It's a quarter per person,” he said. “Or animal,” he added, noting Copper, Mike's dog.

Mike pointed to the edge of the road. “There's enough space I can just drive around.”

Walters shrugged. “Maybe.”

Across the highway, a layer of fog still clung to the river. The night had been cold, and the sun had yet to crest the tree line. A patch of October frost bisected the roof of Walters's tavern, the Stargazer. A large neon sign—a green comet with a trail of orange sparks—hummed on the façade. Next to the tavern, Walters had a little store where he sold a few things like kerosene and fishing line and fresh eggs. He still sold jars of maple syrup bottled by Mike's wife.

“You're going to shoot me over fifty cents?” Mike asked.

Though Mike had turned his radio down, Walters could still hear Kitty Wells singing about the lonely side of town. “You come in, buy a cup of coffee, order some breakfast,” Walters said, “I'll forget the toll.”

“That deal apply just to me, or is that how it works for everyone?”

“It's an off-season tax. You don't have to eat if you don't want to.”

“Walters, get out of the way.”

Walters shifted his rifle and held out a hand for the money. He looked Mike straight in the eyes, and Mike studied him, searching for some clue as to whether or not Walters knew how ridiculous he was being.

Walters wore his blue-and-black flannel coat buttoned up to the collar. He had plump, red cheeks scribbled with spider veins. His eyes looked overinflated. The Brylcreem in his hair made it seem darker than it was, but his sideburns, flecked with gray, told the truth. For a moment he considered discounting the rate for Copper, but then just as quickly reversed himself and thought about charging more. Mike hadn't been to the Stargazer in over a decade, and the way Walters saw it, that made Mike one part prudent, two parts piece of shit.

“Fifty cents now,” Walters said, “or a dollar when you come back through.” He took his receipt booklet from his breast pocket, ready to start a balance sheet. “You can even pay ahead, if you want credit.”

Mike slipped his truck into gear, and the transmission engaged with a hard thunk. “This isn't your best idea,” he said to Walters. “I can't think anyone's going to let this skate very long.”

It was an idea, though. Summer had passed, and the river was low and warm. The land had emptied itself of tourists, and hunting season was still a month away.



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