Free One Shot Away by T. Glen Coughlin Page B

her brothers. They reduced their front lawn to bare earth from circling the house. He considers sneaking out of the gym with her. He watches the wrestlers, waiting for the right moment.

Diggy
    I N THE SUMMER, CUSTOMERS LINE THE PARKING LOT FOR M R. Freeze’s ice cream and Italian ices. Tonight the outdoor ice cream window is shuttered and locked. Diggy follows Jane’s firm little butt through the side door under a plywood cutout of a giant French fry with a long nose and a stupid grin. The restaurant has no customers, which is fine with him. He should take her home now, before he spends any more time and effort, but he has to admit, he wants a girlfriend. He’s tired of beating off to his brother’s porn stash and more tired of beating off to his father’s vintage Penthouse mags in the basement. He even crashed his laptop looking for porn.
    Everyone in school thinks he’s the master of poon, the Molly Pitcher babe magnet. He’s got the face. He’s got the attitude. No one would believe he only did it one time with a chubby girl on a pile of coats in an upstairs bedroom at his cousin’s engagement party. By the time he lifted her dress and pulled down her panties, he was already half over. He rolled off her and wiped himself on a mink coat. A few weeks later, at his cousin’s wedding, the girl approached him on the church’s walk and said, “Scope out your aunt Dotty.” His aunt was wearing the mink.
    Diggy chooses a corner table. A waitress with vampire eyes and poufy hair falling to the side like a ruined soufflé appears from behind the counter. Her turquoise uniform is splattered with mustard. “We’re closing soon.” She slides menus on the table and fills their water glasses. “You know what you want?”
    â€œA turkey burger, no roll, and a diet Sprite,” he says.
    â€œSo just the patty?” she asks, squinting.
    â€œRight.”
    The waitress writes on a small pad. “It comes with fries, you want fries?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOnion rings?”
    He shakes his head. He hasn’t had an onion ring in this century.
    â€œI’ll have his French fries and a vanilla soda,” says Jane.
    The waitress collects the menus. “Be right back.”
    â€œThis is cool,” says Jane. “I like it when it’s quiet.”
    â€œYou eat here a lot?”
    â€œSometimes with my sister. They have specials.”
    â€œI never come here,” he says. “I can’t eat anything greasy, so what’s the point?” In the stark light, her birthmark reminds him of a violet-colored balloon floating across her face.
    â€œI think you’re a good wrestler.” She places her elbows on the table and folds her fists under her chin.
    â€œMy brother was a lot better than me.”
    â€œHow’s he doing?”
    â€œHe hurt his back. He had to quit.”
    â€œI know that—the whole town knows that.”
    â€œHe left Iowa State and transferred to Springfield College in Massachusetts. He’s a computer science major. He never opened a book and now he’s always in the library studying. It’s got Randy crazy. He had plans for Nick to go to the Nationals, and then the Olympics.” Diggy closes his eyes and sees his father in the dark family room drinking scotch, playing Nick’s wrestling tapes over and over. They have stacks of them, marked and categorized. Every match ends the same way: Nick’s arm raised in victory.
    â€œI remember Nick’s one-hundredth win,” says Jane. “There had to be two thousand people in the gym.”
    The match was moved to Rutgers University. The high school provided bus transportation. “Sometimes I think my brother’s better off now. At Iowa State, he was majoring in basket weaving and bowling.”
    â€œNone of my brothers were into sports. Frank plays guitar. He’s in a hillbilly rock band. They call themselves Whiskey