Free South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool Page B

grimaced and then leaned back further in his seat, putting his feet up on the stern.
    â€œOh man, this is gonna be a long day.”
    â€œCheer up, Pee Wee! Want a beer?” Donny pulled a Coors Lite from the cooler.
    Ed looked at the bottle. “Ah, no thanks, man. I’m not down with the Coors.” He got up to look into the cooler for a beverage a little more to his liking. As he rooted around in the ice, the alarm on his wristwatch sounded off and reverberated out of the plastic cooler, which amplified the beeping. He pulled his hand from the chest and pushed the button, turning off the watch.
    â€œWhat the hell kind of watch is that?” asked Donny. “Looks like a damned spaceship.”
    â€œIt’s a running watch.”
    â€œRunning watch? What the hell is that?”
    â€œIt tells you how long you’ve been running, how far, shit like that. It keeps going off every couple hours for no reason, though. I haven’t got it quite figured out yet.” Ed returned to digging in the ice chest.
    â€œWell, fuck me. That’s the damnedest thing I’ve seen in a long while. Sure got that piece of shit watch of yours beat, Earl,” said Donny with a smirk.
    Earl looked at his wrist. “Yeah, it does the trick, though.”
    â€œLet me see that,” said Ed.
    He eyed the watch as Earl held it up to him. The chrome of the timepiece shined brightly. For Ed, in his mental state, the effect was almost blinding. The digital red numbers beamed into his pupils with such intensity that, when he closed his eyelids momentarily, he could see the image of 10:47 a.m. still glowing as if it had been burned into his retina. As the image faded from behind his lids, it was replaced by a vision of his late father.
    Ed opened his eyes and asked, “Isn’t that Pop’s old watch?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWhere the hell did you find that?”
    â€œIt was in an old Folgers can. I found it when we was cleanin’ out his garage. Put a new battery in it. Works fine. Remember? We got it for him for his birthday.”
    â€œHis fortieth birthday,” acknowledged Ed.
    â€œYep. That’s right. That was a big deal back then, havin’ a digital watch.”
    â€œYep.”
    Donny was less impressed. He snorted, “Well, it don’t mean shit now. It’s just a big ol’ ugly hunka metal.”
    â€œI don’t know. I think it’s kinda happening,” said Ed, still admiring the watch.
    â€œThis sucker wasn’t cheap, neither. We pitched in all our aluminum can money, and Ma still had to kick in another twenty bucks.”
    Ed chuckled. “I forgot about them cans.”
    â€œHell yeah, that was big business back in them days. Shee-it. Between Pops and Uncle Pete, we’d get enough beer cans to fill a pickup truck in no time,” Earl laughed.
    â€œYep, all Coors cans too.” Ed reached back into the ice chest.
    â€œWell, at least your Pops had taste,” blurted Donny, before taking a swig from his beer. “Hey, Ed, you say that watch of yours tells you how far you run?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œI always just run till I throw up. That tells me how far I ran.” Donny grinned before he delivered the punch line: “Too fuckin’ far.”
    Donny was the only one to laugh. He looked at the other two men. “Well, they can’t all be zingers.”
    â€œWhere the hell’s my … ? Ah, here we go …” Ed pulled out a large can of Fosters lager and tapped the top. He opened it and took a big swig.
    Donny watched Ed for a moment and then commented, “Fosters, huh? We used to drink those in high school. Remember, Earl?” He poked Earl in the side with his elbow.
    Earl, who was intently watching the poles, acknowledged flatly, “Yep.”
    â€œActually, I always liked them Mickey’s Big Mouths. We could hella slam those. ’Member that,