Sawbones: A Novella by MacBride Stuart

Author:MacBride, Stuart [MacBride, Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2011-10-24T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

It’s nearly midnight and we’re driving along the Interstate, listening to some bullshit talk radio station, because that’s all this God-damned car will pick up. Henry’s sitting in the passenger seat, arguing with the callers – even though they can’t hear him – and drinking from a fresh bottle of Old Kentucky.

I can’t decide if the smell of bourbon’s making me feel hungry or sick.

‘I just wanna say,’ says some cracker on the radio, ‘that this isn’t about gun control, it’s about not treating women with the respect they deserve!’

“Course it’s about gun control, you stupid bitch!” says Henry, “How can it not be about gun control? How stupid are these people? Hello! Wake the fuck up. Isn’t about gun control my ass.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, “what do you expect from people who got nothing better to do on a Friday night than call some lame-ass radio show?”

Jack’s in the back, trying to sleep as the counties slowly drift by outside: McLean, Woodford, Tazewell, Peoria, Knox . . . We get a small laugh on the way out of Knox – the next county’s called ‘Henry’. “Hey, look,” I say, “you’re five miles away!”

Henry toasts the big sign with his name on it as we cross the county line.

Then twenty-five miles later we’re driving through the last chunk of Illinois, Rock Island. It’s not even eleven miles wide, but it takes us nearly half an hour to cross the border into Iowa. God-damned car steers like a boat, brakes like an oil tanker, and accelerates like . . . You know what? I can’t think of anything that accelerates this slowly. My fucking apartment moves faster than this.

The radio fizzes and crackles as the signal fades, so Henry fiddles with the dial. Back and forth, looking for something to listen to. We almost get a country and western station, but Henry says he’d rather listen to a fat guy farting. And then it’s more late night talk radio.

‘. . . in three weeks,’ says a man’s voice. ‘OK, you’re listening to KFBM – Scott County Radio, all talk, all of the time. We’ll be back after these messages . . .’ Then it’s ads for tractor dealerships and farming shit. ‘Right, we’re on the air with a regular caller – Jason. What’s on your mind, Jason?’

‘Yeah, you see that America’s Most Wanted tonight? That Sawbones guy? Travellin’ all over the country and snatching girls?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What I want to know is how come the Feds can’t catch this guy?’

“’Cause they’re assholes, that’s why,” says Henry, back into his bourbon again. “Tell you, half the people who call these programmes need locking up. The other half should be taken outside and shot. Back of the head. BAM!”

Then some woman calls in and proves Henry right. ‘You know what,’ she says, her voice all nasal, like she’s got a cold, or a finger jammed up there, hunting for her brain, ‘I saw that Jones guy on the TV going on about his daughter. You know what I heard? I heard he was a mobster.

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