Free The Complete Drive-In by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

need to get you some focus. Quit looking at them movies, you’re starting to drift.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder and went away. I fell into the well of film for a time and came out when I heard voices, some laughter.
    “What did you think about that?” Willard’s voice. I was too weak to turn and look at him.
    “Great.” Randy’s voice. “I hit him right where you said, the way you showed me, right on the button. Did it kill him?”
    “Naw,” Willard said. “You just decked him. You get a guy on the chin like that, especially when he’s not expecting it, and most of the time he’ll go down.”
    The camaraderie in their voices was strange. Like Siamese twins rediscovering each other after a lengthy separation at birth. Maybe meeting at a dogfight, or something bloody.
    Randy had gone from quiet and shy to swaggering, and Willard had become content, like an empty cup that had been filled.
    And me, I was out in Bozo Land, flying about in a lawn chair, watching stars and planets and hamburgers fly by. Something about that bothered me, but I couldn’t nail down exactly what it was. I watched Leatherface for a time, then heard:
    “Let’s look for trouble,” Randy said.
    Willard laughed. “We are trouble.”
    “Maybe you boys are getting a mite out of hand.” It was Bob’s voice. Calm and in control. “You’re not eating good, none of us are, and it’s changing us. We’re not thinking right. We’ve got to—”
    “Mind your own business.” It was Willard’s voice, and it was a snarl. “You just take care of the basket case over there and leave us alone.”
    “Have it your way,” Bob said.
    I think I flew away in my lawn chair then. I don’t know how long I was gone, but when I came back to earth, my chair had been turned around so that I was facing the truck. I think Bob had done that, to keep me from watching the movies.
    Randy and Willard were on the hood of the truck. Willard was stripped down to his underwear. Randy had a gallon-sized popcorn tub on his head for a hat. He had poked holes in either side of it and run a piece of leather (probably from his belt) through it so he could fasten it under his chin. He was leaning over Willard, who was lying on his stomach, and he had Willard’s knife, and he was using it to cut designs in his back. He’d cut, then use a popcorn bag to sop up the blood. He’d put the bag in his mouth and suck on it while he used the black asphalt from the lot (he had it collected in a large Coke cup) to rub into the wounds he was making. From where I sat I could make out animal designs, words, a bandolier of bullets even. All of the tattoos had the slick look of crude oil by moonlight.
    Bob floated into view. “Ya’ll ought to quit that. End up getting an infection and ain’t a thing can be done about it here.”
    “I’ve told you to mind your own business,” Willard snapped.
    “Yeah,” Bob said, “and I said I’d mind it too. So carve away, Randy. It’s his skin. But don’t screw up the hood of my truck. Blood’ll rust it.”
    Willard, who had raised up on his elbows, relaxed again. Randy looked at Bob for a moment, then looked at me, smiled like a cannibal watching the pot, then bent to his work.
    And so it went.
    Movies and tattoos.
    I got so weak that Bob would have to help me to the concession for my meals. The Candy Girl had lost her smile and a lot of flesh, the sharp bones in her face were like tent poles pushing at old canvas, her hair was as listless as a dead horse’s tail. She didn’t put the candy in your hand now; she slapped it down on the counter and let you pick it up. She seldom stood anymore, preferred to roost in a chair behind the counter, just the top of her head showing. I quit saying hi. She didn’t miss it.
    The manager and the counter boy argued with patrons and with each other. Bob still asked the manager about the National Guard, but now the manager would cry. Finally, even Bob felt sorry for him and didn’t mention it