Free Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny

cut out fried food. I’d been eating non-potato vegetables. (I put chard in my mouth for the first time days earlier. Chard!)
    I didn’t buy any Bimbos. Fuck it.
    “And two packs of Winstons. And one of these NASCAR lighters.”
    The counter guy tossed the smokes onto the twelve. He rang me up.
    “You get mugged or something?” the guy asked, more curious than concerned.
    “No, got one of those faces people like to punch.”
    As soon as I stepped outside, I set the beer and Jack down and lit a smoke, inhaling deeply. The first drag made me light-headed, nauseous, and pukey. It was glorious. In a slow suicide kind of way. I missed you, old friend.
    As I enjoyed the shit out of my first cigarette in ten days, I looked into Julie’s poster eyes. I wish that I could say that I saw something in them, the windows to the soul and all that. But I didn’t. Little more than the face of a stranger.
    “You better be okay.”

    Back at the Date Palm, Bobby and I drank like we had received federal funding to study the impact of beer and Tennessee whiskey on the human body. We talked a little, but mostly we drank. The talk would come, after the booze got us slippery. Drinking was what we knew. The simplest and most effective way to avoid our grown-up problems. I’m not saying it was healthy. I’m saying it was.
    I flipped through the channels, but since there were only the two Mexican stations to flip between, that got old quick. After the greatest movie ever made was over, Canal Tres showed the highlights of some politician’s speech. And on Canal Cinco, there were music videos. Mexican music was too happy for the occasion. The lyrics might have been the saddest in the world, telling the story of a mother’s grief for her baby in a well. But once you throw in a tuba and an accordion, it’s got all the seriousness of a circus.
    “I got to do better, man.” Bobby said after I turned off the TV and cracked a fresh beer.
    “Sure, we all can.”
    “Julie’s my daughter. She’s an hour away. And I didn’t make an effort. None.”
    “It’s more complicated than that,” I said. “And it’s more like an hour and a half.”
    “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not saying her going missing is on me. We don’t even know what happened yet. I’m saying that me being a shitty father is. I messed up. With Julie. With Griselda.”
    “You talk to Griselda?”
    “No. I told you, Gris and me are over.”
    “You brought her up. I was thinking in terms of Julie. Griselda is a cop. She might be able to help is all.”
    “If I thought she could, I’d call her. I ain’t got that much pride. But all she’ll tell me is that the cops here got nothing and until there’s evidence of otherwise, they’ll treat her like a runaway. I call Gris, I’ll dig up old shit. I’ve hurt her enough.”
    “You want to talk about what happened between you two?”
    “No.”
    Bobby shook his head and poured himself another splash of Jack. “You got one kid,” he said. “Hell, he’s not even really yours. And I see you being ten times the father I’ve been to my flesh and blood. I got two kids I don’t never see. And I don’t barely care that I don’t.”
    “With Julie, it was always a weird deal.”
    “Quit making excuses for me. Call me a piece of shit. That’s what you’re thinking. I can see how fed up you’ve been with me.”
    “Knock it off. Pity don’t suit you. So you’re a piece of shit,” I said. “You can’t change what you’ve done. You can change shit from this point on. Say from here, things are going to be different.”
    “People don’t change like that.”
    “Not if they don’t try. It’s like quitting smoking. Maybe I stop for two weeks and then I’m back at it. But for those two weeks, it’s healthier, better. Not much, but a little. Maybe you try and for a couple months you’re solid, then you slack. Better than nothing. Fix it as you go.”
    “Don’t know if quitting being a fuckup is the same