Skeleton Crew

"Rocky, we close at—"

"Just a second, just a second, lemme back up. I got somethin crazy here." Rocky dragged the gearshift lever up into reverse, popped the clutch, skinned a gas pump, and then drove the Chrysler jerkily inside. He was out in a minute, shaking Bob's free hand like a politician. Bob looked dazed. Leo sat in the car, tipping a fresh beer. He was also farting. A lot of beer always made him fart.

"Hey!" Rocky said, staggering around a pile of rusty hubcaps. "You member Diana Rucklehouse?"

"Sure do," Bob said. An unwilling grin came to his mouth. "She was the one with the—" He cupped his hands in front of his chest.

Rocky howled. "Thass her! You got it, muhfuh! She still in town?"

"I think she moved to—"

"Figures," Rocky said. "The ones who don't stay always move. You can put a sticker on this pig, cantcha?"

"Well, my wife said she'd wait supper and we close at—"

"Jesus, it'd sure put a help on me if you could. I'd sure predate it. I could do some personal laundry for your wife. Thass what I do. Wash. At New Adams."

"And I am learning," Leo said, and farted again.

"Wash her dainties, whatever you want. Whatchoo say, Bobby?"

"Well, I s'pose I could look her over."

"Sure," Rocky said, clapping Bob on the back and winking at Leo. "Same ole Stiff Socks. What a guy!"

"Yeah," Bob said, sighing. He pulled on his beer, his oily fingers mostly obscuring Mean Joe Green's face.

"You beat hell out of your bumper, Rocky."

"Give it some class. Goddam car needs some class. But it's one big motherfuckin set of wheels, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I guess—"

"Hey! Wantcha to meet the guy I work with! Leo, this is the only basketball player from—"

"You introduced us already," Bob said with a soft, despairing smile.

"Howdy doody," Leo said. He fumbled for another can of Iron City. Silvery lines like railroad tracks glimpsed at high noon on a hot clear day were beginning to trace their way across his field of vision.

"—Crescent High who dint change his—"

"Want to show me your headlights, Rocky?" Bob asked.

"Sure. Great lights. Halogen or nitrogen or some fucking gen. They got class. Pop those little crab-catchers right the fuck on, Leo." Leo turned on the windshield wipers.

"That's good," Bob said patiently. He took a big swallow of beer. "Now how about the lights?" Leo popped on the headlights.

"High beam?" Leo tapped for the dimmer switch with his left foot. He was pretty sure it was down there someplace, and finally he happened upon it. The high beams threw Rocky and Bob into sharp relief, like exhibits in a police lineup.

"Fucking nitrogen headlights, what'd I tell you?" Rocky cried, and then cackled. "Goddam, Bobby! Seein you is better than gettin a check in the mail!"

"How about the turn signals?" Bob asked.

Leo smiled vaguely at Bob and did nothing.

"Better let me do it," Rocky said. He bumped his head a good one as he got in behind the wheel. "The kid don't feel too good, I don't think." He cramped down on the brake at the same time he flicked up the turn-blinker

"Okay," Bob said, "but does it work without the brake?"

"Does it say anyplace in the motor-vehicle-inspection manual that it hasta?" Rocky asked craftily.

Bob sighed. His wife was waiting dinner. His wife had large floppy breasts and blond hair that was black at the roots. His wife was partial to Donuts by the Dozen, a product sold at the local Giant Eagle store. When his wife came to the garage on Thursday nights for her bingo money her hair was usually done up in large green rollers under a green chiffon scarf. This made her head look like a futuristic AM/FM radio. Once, near three in the morning, he had wakened and looked at her slack paper face in the soulless graveyard glare of the streetlight outside their bedroom window. He had thought how easy it could be—just jackknife over on top of her, just drive a knee into her gut so she would lose her air and be unable to scream, just screw both hands around her neck. Then just put her in the tub and whack her into prime cuts and mail her away someplace to Robert Driscoll, c/o General Delivery.

Any old place. Lima, Indiana. North Pole, New Hampshire. Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Kunkle, Iowa. Any old place. It could be done. God knew it had been done in the past.

"No," he told Rocky, "I guess it doesn't say anyplace in the regs that they have to work on their own.

Exactly. In so many words." He upended the can and the rest of the beer gurgled down his throat. It was warm in the garage and he had had no supper. He could feel the beer rise immediately into his mind.

"Hey, Stiff Socks just came up empty!" Rocky said. "Hand up a brew, Leo."

"No, Rocky, I really..." Leo, who was seeing none too well, finally happened on a can. "Want a wide receiver?" he asked, and passed the can to Rocky. Rocky handed it to Bob, whose demurrals petered out as he held the can's cold actuality in his hand. It bore the smiling face of Lynn Swann. He opened it. Leo farted homily to close the transaction.