<\/p>\n
Schticktickticktickticktick<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019 know, Charlie Boy, it sounds kinda confusin\u2019 to me.\u201d<\/p>\n Schticktickticktickticktick<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI mean, I don\u2019 wanna put ya down or anythin\u2019. I jus\u2019 feel like this doesn\u2019 really make sense<\/em>, ya know? Like, why are the clouds \u2018blue as Van Gogh\u2019 and the sky \u2018ivory in swaths\u2019? I jus\u2019 don\u2019 get that. The sky\u2019s<\/em> the blue one, Charlie Boy. And clouds are white<\/em>. I jus\u2019 feel like ya got it all backwards.\u201d<\/p>\n Schticktickticktickticktick<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWouldja stop doin\u2019 that! Why do ya carry those damn sugar packets around anyway? Ya hate every beverage they\u2019d be useful in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve told you a million times, Bud, they fuel my creativity. The unconventional utilization of commonplace items can stimulate the mind to think innovatively.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd how do ya figure tha\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI read it in a scholarly magazine.\u201d<\/p>\n Bud scrunches up his forehead. \u201cWell, even if tha\u2019s true, I don\u2019 think bangin\u2019 Splendid packets \u2018cross your hand counts as \u2018unconventional utilization.\u2019 I mean, most people do that \u2018fore they pour \u2018em in their drinks, so really, you\u2019re jus\u2019 skipping the second half o\u2019 the process.\u201d<\/p>\n Charlie\u2019s eyes simmer. \u201cWhatever. And as for my novel, those are some extraordinary metaphors; you just don\u2019t understand them, and it\u2019s not my job to get you to do so.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCharlie, I didn\u2019 mean to upset ya. I jus\u2019\u00a0meant maybe you oughta bring it down a little, jus\u2019 with the small things, like perhaps start with bleachin\u2019 your clouds the right color, and then go from there.\u201d Bud\u2019s eyes glitter, quickly fading when he chances on Charlie\u2019s expression. Abandoning the sugar packets, Charlie starts to pick at the ramshackle table, shearing small splinters of wood from the dilapidated top. His hand refuses to stray from the selected area, sifting through layers of grainy timber. \u201cYou\u2019re too wound up, Charlie Boy. Take a break from this,\u201d Bud says, waving the manuscript in the air, wrinkling his nose. \u201cWhy don\u2019 we go off somewhere, jus\u2019 for a couple o\u2019 days? We could even go somewhere with them museums you keep rantin\u2019 on about.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to go to a museum unless I live in the city where it\u2019s located.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut how are ya gonna do that? You don\u2019 have enough money to live in a city: none of us do; tha\u2019s why we live out here in the middle o\u2019 nowhere.\u201d Bud laughs uproariously at that, dimples creasing his wide smile.<\/p>\n \u201cObviously<\/em> I don\u2019t have enough at this very minute, but I will soon. With that book there, I\u2019m about to strike it big. You can be so short-sided sometimes, honestly Bud.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCharlie, this is the first novel you\u2019ve ever finished and ya did it in a week.\u201d<\/p>\n Charlie glares irritably at Bud\u2019s strained expression. \u201cYeah, so? What\u2019s your point?\u201d<\/p>\n Bud continues to stare at him. He hates saying anything that might crush Charlie\u2019s hopes, but they always stretch too far. He takes the thinnest grain of chance and places every bit of strength he\u2019s got on it. This spurred great fun as kids, especially for Bud, whose own mind couldn\u2019t extend far past what was dropped in front of it. Now, though, Bud can see a problem festering, but not knowing what to do about it, he sighs, and resigns with a halfhearted, \u201cNevermind, Charlie Boy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, let\u2019s, let\u2019s just move on from the topic altogether. I don\u2019t think either of us are getting anywhere discussing my novel.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll righ\u2019, Charlie Boy. I still got an hour \u2018fore I gotta go back to work so whaddaya wanna talk abou\u2019? Anything new with ya?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know, you\u2019re the one that usually comes up with that. With the conver-conversation starters, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n His eyes drop and he starts to fidget again, ink fresh on his fingers; he\u2019d only finished the book a half hour before he came to lunch. Bud turns to a topic he\u2019s always willing to discuss: women. \u201cLas\u2019 week I saw that Margo Bridges walkin\u2019 down the road. I was sittin\u2019 on the side and the way she walked, well damn, I couldn\u2019 look away.\u201d<\/p>\n Charlie drops his eyes again, a feverish rouge painting his cheeks. \u201cWhy not? I never understood what you saw in a woman walking. You\u2019re always talking about women walking\u2014<\/p>\n don\u2019t you have anything better to stare at?\u201d<\/p>\n Bud laughs, but Charlie\u2019s inquisitive expression refuses to waver. \u201cI don\u2019 know Charlie Boy. I guess I can\u2019 explain it to someone who doesn\u2019 already know what it is to look at a woman walkin\u2019. They jus\u2019 got a way about \u2018em when they get on it, and I don\u2019 know how to explain it because I don\u2019 have the words for it. To be honest, I\u2019m sure you would be able to describe it better than me if you could jus\u2019 see it yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGive it your best shot.\u201d<\/p>\n He sighs. \u201cI don\u2019 know,<\/em> Charlie Boy. I don\u2019 know<\/em> how to explain it. They jus\u2019 got a way a walkin\u2019. A girl\u2019s jus\u2019 got a way a walkin\u2019 where you\u2019re bound to look at her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, is it different when you look away? Does she walk different when you look away?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNow, how would I know, Charlie Boy? I\u2019m not looking at her then, now am I? But maybe you\u2019re righ\u2019. Maybe they walk different \u2018cause I\u2019m looking at \u2018em.\u201d<\/p>\n Charlie settles into the silence, seemingly content with the response, but then Bud starts up again. \u201cNo, no I don\u2019 think so. I think women just got a different kinda thing, and it\u2019s just one that men don\u2019 have. I don\u2019 really know what it is, but you can see it when they\u2019re walkin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan you see if they\u2019re walking with groups? Or with a man? Is it there every time they walk?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019 think so. I think, well, I think women are different when they\u2019re alone. I think they are different when they\u2019re alone. They just don\u2019 get to tell anyone about it like us men do, and maybe, er, maybe tha\u2019s why they walk different when they\u2019re walkin\u2019. Maybe they\u2019re jus\u2019 less nervous. I mean I know it\u2019s no fun to be a woman walkin\u2019 by mos\u2019 men. It\u2019s why I don\u2019 call to them, ya know? Best to leave \u2018em alone, I think; Lord knows they\u2019re better off that way.\u201d He rubs a hand sheepishly across the back of his neck.\u00a0 \u201cThere\u2019s jus\u2019 a way about \u2018em when they walk and I keep watchin\u2019 because the way they got about \u2018em makes me keep my eyes on \u2018em. And it\u2019s not a sexed up kinda way, really. I jus\u2019 think they look, they look like, um, art. Yeah, tha\u2019s right, they look like art. All on their own, when they\u2019re not bein\u2019 bummed down by anyone else, they look like breathin\u2019 art, if that makes sense.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTo be quite frank, it doesn\u2019t, and I resent it. You\u2019re coming up with all these kinds of extravagant phrases, kinds that I think could be similar to mine if you fashioned up your English a bit, and that means that you just proved yourself a hypocrite right there, Bud Roth, because you rained all over my sentences that in actuality are rather similar to yours, just with proper grammar.\u201d<\/p>\n Bud sighs and goes quiet. \u201cI was jus\u2019 tryin\u2019 to explain what I saw. I thought maybe I could bring my words up to yours so that my explanation made sense to ya. I guess I\u2019m jus\u2019 not real good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n Charlie grimaces and looks away. He didn\u2019t mean to make Bud feel bad. It\u2019s never something he means to do, sometimes the words just slip out on their own. He remembers one time a long while ago when it happened:\u00a0 he was in grade school, talking to a slug of a boy named Robert Oliver. Robert had been laughing about Charlie\u2019s choice of dress: he had chosen to wear a wool sweater to school in the middle of June. Robert found this exceptionally amusing, and let Charlie know it. Usually, Charlie paid no mind to Rob\u2019s continuous teasing, but this was the first day his mother let him pick out his own clothing, and he resented the insinuation of an error in his selection. In response, Charlie quietly commented on the burn mark snaking up Rob\u2019s exposed arm, breezily implying that a sweater might do him some good, too. A couple kids laughed. Rob never mentioned the sweater again. Bud had fallen over himself apologizing for Charlie\u2019s mistake. It didn\u2019t do much good. Rob grew quieter and meaner with each year of school, and by the time he reached his twenty third birthday he became so much like his father, he started hitting his own kids. Rob died on his twenty fifth birthday, drowning away his torment. Bud went to his funeral. Charlie didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Charlie, I hate to break up that internal conversation you\u2019re runnin\u2019 around with, but I gotta go back to work. I\u2019ll see ya later okay?\u201d He starts to shoulder his way out of the booth.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Bud, I\u2026 I\u2019ll see you later.\u201d<\/p>\n Disappointment glosses across Bud\u2019s face, but he quickly packs it away, and throws his half of the bill down on the table. Charlie sits resolute in the booth; his shredding of the table takes up a rapid rhythm until his fingers go clear through it. Bud rolls his eyes as Charlie scrambles to cover the breach with a grimy plate, too cheap to admit to his destruction. At that, both men saunter towards the exit, nodding in response to Shelly, their waitress, calling out, \u201cSee you tomorrow boys!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
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