Free Travelling Light by Peter Behrens Page A

stand by our table, her hip cocked, balancing a tray and a plastic coffee pot.
    â€œRefill?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Please.”
    â€œFuck you, toots,” Olsen said, crumpling the napkin and throwing it at her feet.
    â€œShut your mouth,” said Timothy.
    â€œWhat did he say?” she asked.
    â€œDon’t tell me to shut up, big brother,” said Olsen, clutching his mug. I noticed the star-shaped earring in his left ear.
    â€œI’d be happy to shut it for you,” said Timothy.
    They had been working in the oilfields of Wyoming and were headed home to California, they said. I could imagine the brawls Timothy had fought and won in the oilfields over the writing of poetry. His writing, he said, was all about young women. He wrote at night and made Olsen sleep in a tent outside their trailer.
    Timothy suddenly broke the pencil in half and dropped both halves into his brother’s coffee mug. Olsen shoved the mug across the table and it slid off the edge and broke on the floor. I could see the manager coming around from behind the cash. Timothy reached over and wrapped his hands around his brother’s throat. The manager pushed the green-eyed waitress out of the way and pointed a pistol at my heart.
    â€œGet out of my place,” he said. “Get out right now.”
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” I told the brothers. “I’ll pay for the coffee.”
    I laid money on the table and followed them towards the door. The manager trailed me, occasionally poking my shoulder with the pistol. Looking back, I saw the waitress starting to clear off the table. I was about to wave to her but knew the gesture might be misread, so I just followed the brothers out into the colourless daylight. As soon as we were outside Olsen kicked over the USA Today vending machine. The manager rapped on the plate-glass window with his pistol. Olsen whirled around and ripped open his shirt. The buttons went skittering. “Do it to me then, big man!” he screamed, thrusting out his bare white chest.
    From the other side of the glass the manager just stared.
    Olsen cackled. “What a chickenshit, what a big fat slice of bird pie!”
    A lot of the desert was military test range. As we walked towards the brothers’ white Falcon, a flock of fighters came in quickly, dropping from the sky like stones. “F-16s!” Timothy shouted. The brothers began shouting and waving as the jets swept overhead. Timothy aimed both index fingers and made machine-gunning noises and Olsen whooped like an epileptic Comanche, pulling pins from imaginary hand grenades and lobbing them skywards. The jets swiftly disappeared, leaving contrails like white claw marks on the sky. The noise faded until it was lost in the pell of traffic from the interstate.
    Timothy held open the driver’s-side door and I scrambled into the back seat. Timothy got behind the wheel. Olsen stood on the passenger side, drumming his fingers on the roof.
    â€œYou want to walk to California?” Timothy said.
    Olsen leaned down to address his brother through the open window. “Your wife’s a whore. The only home you’ll ever have is a trailer at Rock Springs.”
    Timothy hardened as if a piece of wire had been inserted into his body. His neck became stiff and his head cocked aggressively, like a large fist.
    â€œYour mind’s a slave,” Olsen said.
    Timothy jumped out, walked around quickly, and threw open the trunk. He lifted something out and slammed the lid. I saw him holding a canvas seabag. Olsen stopped his drumming on the roof. Timothy whirled the bag around his head a few times, then flung it as far as he could. It landed on the asphalt twenty yards away. Jingling keys, Timothy got behind the wheel, slammed his door, and fired up the engine. Olsen reached in through the window and pulled an automatic pistol from under the passenger seat. I saw his earring sparkle. Timothy reached