But now he was back. And, havin’ no place ta go — whiles he were in stir, the huse that his daddy’d left him were hit by lightning’ and burnt down — so’s he tromped straight ta Grandpap Martin’s neat little clapboard cottage out in the woods.
“Travis Clyde Tuckton!” Grandpap had about fuckin’ rejoiced upon seein’ Travis’ big shuck-an’ jive grinning’ mug.
“Hey Grandpap.” Travis’ eyes, though, held to the rotting wood floor. “I got’s ta admit, I feel like a right horse’s bee-hind coming straight here right after I get outs the county detent.” Travis felt ashamed. “Got no job, no green, nothin’ goin’ fer me. Shee-it, Grandpap, I’se a loser.”
Grandpap’s old whiskey face turned stern. Same way his daddy’s face turned that time he’d caught Travis stickin’ his bone into one’a the sheep. Dammit, Travis! Daddy had yelled. Ya poop out yer brains the last time ya took a shit!? Chrast, boy! Ya wanna hump a sheep, ya nevah hump yer own sheep, dumbass! Ya sneak over ta Caudill’s field and hump his sheep! And then Daddy’d given him a whuppin’ like he’d never forgot, but Travis figured he deserved it. And, anyways, that’s what Grandpap’s face looked like right now.
“Travis, I don’t wants ta hear no talk like that evah! Yore blood, boy, from my only daughter’s loins, and yous are always welcome in my house. An’ don’t cha be down-talkin’ yerself fer not havin’ a job. Times are tough, ‘specially ‘round these parts since Union Carbide packed up, and then they closed the mine on account of the blamed Japs sellin’ coal cheaper than we kin dig it. I make enough green sewing boots so don’t ‘cha worry none.”
“Thanks, Grandpap,” Travis gushed, his eyes still gazed at the rotten floor. “But—” Travis’ pea-brain thoughts stopped stock still when Grandpap had come ‘round the sewin’ table. Grandpap, see, didn’t walk, he wheeled. That’s right, he wheeled hisself ‘round that big cherry wood table, inna wheelchair. And that’s when Travis spied that his fine old grandpap had no legs much past his knees.
“Grandpap!” he wailed. “What happened ta yer legs!”
“Aw, don’t cha worry ‘bout that, son.” Grandpap sluffed it off. “I’se old, an’ couldn’t get around much no ways. Got some blamed fancified disease called dyerbeetees, so the doc down the state health clinic lopped off my legs. Fucker had the balls ta send me a bill too, kin ya believe it? But it ain’t no big deal.” Grandpap’s skinny arm extended behind him, to the rows of wood shelves full of his fine hand-sewn boots. “I kin do my’s work, an’ figure I should be grateful.”
Travis was impressed by his grandpap’s resolve. But then the old man went on: “So how’d ya do in the poky?”
“Well, not too good, Grandpap. I hadda beat up on some fellas pretty bad, fer tryin’ ta cornhole me, and there was this one fella tried ta make me suck his bone, so I stucks his prison shank in his eyeball and this stuff came out that looked just like cranberry marmalade they sell down at Hull’s.”
Grandpap’s creekbed face lit up. “D’ja kill him?”
“No, Grandpap, but I heard I stucks that shank in so far it got ta his brain and made him retart.”
Granpap clapped his liver-spotted hands. “Good fer you, boy! Yer daddy’d be proud, God rest his soul!”
“Anyways,” Travis went on. He didn’t like ta think about the slam, and he shouldn’t have ta now, should he? There was still some ticks and tucks about it anyways, like something ‘bout havin’ ta report to a roll officer or some shit, but Travis didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout that, and he didn’t wanna worry ‘bout it neither. It was just fine and dandy ta be outa that county cage full of shack bucks an’ crackers and kiddie-diddlers. “I’ll tries ta get me a job fast as I kin, an’ in the meantimes, Grandpap, I kin do stuff ‘round the house to help ya out.”
Grandpap smiled proud. “Travis, you’re a fine young man, gracious, respectful, just like yer daddy raised, and I kin shore use a help ‘round here, seein’ that I ain’t got no legs no more. Like you kin bring in the fire wood an’ such, and haul the water up fer the squirrel stew and possum pie. Ya kin see—” Grandpap pointed to the floor just below the edge of his cherry wood work table. Travis noticed a strange darkness there, stained inta the wood, an’ he remembert that from when he was little too. “Ya kin see.” Grandpap rambled on, “that the floor’s goin’ all ta rot, so ya’s kin help fix it, otherwise yer old Grandpappy’ll be wheelin’ across the blamed floor one day and — Kuh-RACK — that floor’ll break right under my wheels an’ drop yer poor grandpap right smack dab inta the fruit cellar.”
“Oh, no, Grandpap.” Travis exclaimed, “I wouldn’t never want that ta happen! I’ll’se be happy ta help ya fix the floor.”
Grandpap wheeled closer, then, his smile turning dark. "An' there's somethin'else ya kin do fer the me, son. Ya kin help give yer bone grandpap a thrill now an' agin."
"Shore, Grandpap, but...how?"
Grandpap snickered. "A'corse, I cain't do it myself no more, not with no legs, an', Chrast, take an old feller like me a coon's age ta even git his bone hard. But I'se still get a kick outa, well, you know...watchin'."
Watchin'. Travis thought. He didn't quite get it.
"Headers is what I mean, son."
Headers, Travis thought. And that was somethin' —
"Grandpap," he said rather meekly, "that's sometin' I been thinkin' about since, well, since the day 'fore I got locked up." Yeah, it was true. Headers. “I ‘member when I was little I’d hear you an’ daddy sitting out on the porch talkin’ ‘bout it lotta times, an’ right ‘fore I wrecked Cage George’s ‘74 Cuda and broked Kari Ann Wells’ back, I asked ya ‘bout it. “Member?”
“Shore I ‘member, boy.” Grandpap fired back keen-eyed. “An I ‘member I didn’t tell ya squat on account ya were too young.”
“Yeah, Grandpap, but I gots ta tell ya now, it’s somethin’ I been thinkin’ ‘bout fer the whole time I was in stir. I gots ta know. “What’s a header?”
Grandpap’s face, then, took on a look of something that some citified queer-lovin’, pussy-wine-cooler-drinkin’, banlon-wearin’-shirt-type might describe as ethereal. He wheeled a few inches closer in his rickety chair. “Ya know what, son, I reckon ya are old enough ta hear now…so’s I’ll tell ya.”
Travis exploded in delight.
And Grandpap nodded. “Yeah, boy, I’ll’se tell ya all about headers ‘cos it’s time you learnt. First thing ya need is ta snatch a split tail, son, and the second thing ya need is this…”
And then Grandpap’s shriveled hand reached out onto the table and picked up a power drill.
……..
“A hundred bucks doesn’t cut it anymore.” Cummings said in his best bad guy impersonation.
Spaz, long hair hanging in strings like greased yarn, shot him the funkiest of expressions. He grinned through his bad teeth. “Shee-it, Stew, let me tell ya — “
Cummings’ hand shot out, caught Spaz in a visegrips just under the throat. “First off, it ain’t Stew. It’s Agent Cummings. Understand?”
A little more squeeze, and Spaz nodded, puff-faced.
“Second, I ain’t covering your hooch runs to the Kentucky line for a pissant hundred bucks a month. From now on, it’s two-fifty.”