Free Pyro by Earl Emerson Page B

Period.
    I thought somebody was playing a goddern joke on me. Here I was playing a joke on Jackie, and these idiot firemen with their fire bitch come in and all of a sudden the joke is on yours truly.
    I recognize the name of course. Any retard can see the tag on his coat.
    Wollf. W-O-L-L-F.
    WOLLF!
    Maybe it’s his son. Or his grandson. Man, I was in the slammer for a long time. I come out and people are driving these trucks where the bumpers come right up against the driver’s window of my mother’s car, and talking on little phones they carry around, talking in the grocery line, walking down the street, driving, it’s nuts—who are they talking to? And everybody’s got one, even the kids, and I think everything’s different, and then
he
shows up and now everything’s the same.
    This guy’s jumped right out of my nightmares.
    He’s bigger than the original. Same face but bigger. And meaner-looking. You been in prison awhile, you can figure out who the tough ones are just by looking. I never been more scared of a man in my life, not even in the joint when Nelson first told me how it was going to be. In fact, this guy had been inside with us in Salem, Nelson would have been
his
bitch.
    And then J is walking over to him and flirting and touching him and he’s doing the aw shucks thing like he doesn’t need her, but that only makes her more determined, and now she won’t stop and she’s following him around the store, following all four of them actually, and I’m following them with a cart, but all I got in it is my drink, and J is making a fool of herself and it’s all I can do to keep from running over and slapping her silly.
    She’s so tiny next to him.
    And now
he’s
flirting. He’s flirting with my girl. Damn, I’m in hell. I’m going to punch him out. I’m going to knock him down and kick him senseless. I’m going to kick his eyeballs clean out of his head. God, how I hate him. I tell you, I’m in hell.
    We were going to be actors together. Like Tom Cruise and what’s-her-face. We’re going to be famous together. Mrs. P is going to hook us up with some of her connections. Me and J were going to be rich.
    ’Course, I don’t have the looks. Okay, so I’ll be one of those character actors like Kevin what’s-his-name or John you-know-who. One of those guys who never gets the girl but has the chicks crawling all over him in real life. We’ll be on the covers of the best magazines in the world.
Star. Globe. National Enquirer.
    He’s lucky I don’t go over and hit him in the head with a can of asparagus. That’s what Nelson would do. Cave in his skull.
    Him bleeding all over. Me standing over him.
    Instead, I get in line.
    Quite by accident they get in line behind me, and now I am standing not two feet from the man with devil eyes.
    He don’t know it, of course, how nervous I am. Nobody knows but me. That’s what you learn in the slammer. How to hide your feelings. Period.
    I know it can’t be the same guy. Not unless there’s such a thing as time travel.

17. THE NIGHT SOME OF US POSED FOR PICTURES
    Cynthia Rideout
    D ECEMBER 8, S UNDAY, 2010 HOURS
             
The caterers showed up with steak and lobster, potatoes that were whipped and then fried with herbs and a butter sauce. They served us at the beanery table as if we were royalty.
    Vanessa Pennington was the picture of grace and civility even though you could tell she was nervous. “I’m sorry my grandmother can’t be here,” she said. “She’s still under a doctor’s care and won’t be up and around for a week or so. She asked me to give her sincere thanks to each of you.”
    “It was good of you to take the time to do this,” said Slaughter. The food was elegant, but as usual we were eating off our mismatched plates and drinking out of an assortment of jugs and canning jars that looked as if they’d been scrounged from the city dump.
    “You were all so wonderful,” Pennington said. “We’re very grateful.”
    We