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Sure, there hadn’t been any new women, either, but I’d sworn off that whole business years back. Women are great, don’t get me wrong, they’re just not great for me. It’s better for everyone, but especially Henry, if I steer clear of the opposite sex. The thought of him once again getting embroiled in my romantic mess… it makes every muscle in my body clench. I’d lay down before a four-wheeler and let it drive over my naked flesh before I’d put Henry in harm’s way once more.
So, no girls, unless you count the old ladies who have ranches near town, and the ones who work at or run the few shops around. There aren’t many guys, neither — me, Henry, my boss Big Bob and a couple other stragglers. Nothing much to write home about. It’s quiet, sure. But I like the quiet. Quiet ain’t so bad when you’ve had plenty of loud.
“I can’t remember, Dad. Who’s next?” Henry asked, hand tugging at my sleeve and pulling me out of my reverie. Kids are good at that — keeping you grounded when all you wanna do is float away.
I smiled. “So after Madison and Monroe, next is John Quincy Adams.”
Henry nodded. “John Wince Adams.”
“Quincy.”
“Kw-incy.”
“Yup. He was the son of John Adams. And then there’s Andrew Jackson.”
My son mouthed the name, as if each syllable were precious. He drank in knowledge like a hummingbird on the tip of a purple orchid. He was ever thirsty for more.
“Which ones were girls?” he asked.
“There ain’t any presidents who have been women, yet,” I explained. “But we’re working on it. And when you turn eighteen, you can help pick as many women presidents as you like.”
He scrunched up his face, not happy with this discovery, but he set it aside.
“Okay, now who?” he asked, and I was about to tell him about the disastrous Martin Van Buren when my boss strode across the dirt parking lot.
“It’s the cowboys!” Big Bob hollered across the empty vastness. “Howdy, hicks!”
Frustration bubbled within me, but I kept my temper. Big Bob always called me a cowboy, hick, redneck… you get the gist. Sure, I was from Texas, with an accent thicker than molasses and the boots to match, but I was no hick. And I was certainly more open-minded than Big Bob, who himself was the picture of small-town values, which is to say that he was an absolute prick. He quite literally walked tall and carried a big stick, though in his case, it was an ivory-topped cane carved in the shape of a bald eagle. Yeah, he was that kind of patriot.
Big Bob also had a handlebar so thick it could catch butter drops, and cheeks that puffed out whenever he got upset, which was far too often. He wasn’t much of a boss, and he wasn’t much of a man, but auto repair was the only job I knew and Rough and Ready was built on car repair because the only thing people did ‘round here was drive on through. Every now and then, as so happens, they’d break down. And thus existed Rough and Ready’s sole industry, if you will.
“What are you two knuckleheads eating today?” he panted as he hobbled over to our table, his beer belly hanging over the brass belt buckle that clipped in his rotund waist.
“Salami,” I replied. Henry crossed his arms over his chest. I hadn’t told him as much, but I think he sensed that Big Bob wasn’t worth the price of spit. Kids are intuitive like that.
Big Bob made a face. “You that poor?”
I bristled at this, but only replied, “I’m as poor as you pay me, Bob.”
He snickered, “Oh, right.”
Like I said, a prick.
“Did you need something?” I asked, the patience feathering at the edges of my tone, my irritability obvious. I tried to keep a basic modicum of inner peace, but some days, I was just pushed to my breaking point.
“Yup,” he replied lazily, twirling a finger through his suspenders. “Car broke down.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Well, I was just comin’ back from Miss Keller’s — picking up some of those chickens, y’know, because Mrs. Big Bob is making chicken wings tonight — and I saw some girls, some gorgeous things, all legs and tits, leaning over their steaming car just a-ways away from the town sign.”
“And you stopped and offered them help?”
He shook his head. “Nah. It was a shitty old car, didn’t look like there’d be much money in the repair. But you can go help ‘em out if you feel like it.”
My lips pulled into a thin line. “So you’re saying two young women are alone in the desert with a broken car, and you didn’t help them?”
He shrugged. “We can’t all be saints, Carter Conlin.”
“That’s a low bar,” I muttered.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing,” I replied, stiffening up, standing from my chair. “I’ll go pick the girls up. You think they need a tow?”
