right there, right then, he saw exactly what Dillard was showing him. I am a loser. Don’t have the guts to shoot myself. Don’t have the guts to shoot the man screwing my wife. Don’t even have the guts to send my music off to some jackass DJ.
Jesse let out a long breath, fell back a step, and just stood there staring at that gun.
Dillard flicked his cigarette butt into the snow, walked up to the hood of the cruiser, and retrieved his gun. He shoved it back into its holster. “Believe it or not, son, I ain’t trying to be a dick. I’m trying to do you a favor, trying to save you years of heartbreak. A man needs to know himself. And now that you can see just the sort of man you truly are, maybe you’ll quit trying so hard to be something you ain’t. Go home, Jesse. Go home to that piece-of-shit trailer of yours and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear .”
Jesse barely heard him; he just kept staring at the spot where the gun had been.
“Okay, Jesse. I’m done with you. Done talking, done wasting my time. I’m going in, and when I look out that window in a few, you and that rig of yours best be gone. And just so we’re clear, just so there ain’t a lick of confusion between us: if you ever set foot on my property again, ever . . . I’ll break every one of your fingers. I mean that. You won’t be playing that guitar of yours ever again.”
Dillard turned and walked away, leaving Jesse staring at the car hood.
Chapter Three
The General
J esse pulled up in front of his trailer, killed the engine, and once again found himself confronted by his front door. “My piece-of-shit trailer,” he said, his voice laden with scorn. He barely even remembered driving back; the incident with Dillard played out over and over in his head, all the way home. Only each time when he came to the part where Dillard challenged him to pick up that gun, he actually did pick up the gun, actually did shoot Dillard, emptied every round right into the son-of-a-bitch’s face.
Jesse spied the bottle of whiskey still lying in the snow and heard Dillard’s voice in his head, Go home and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear.
“No. That ain’t gonna happen.” He glanced at the Santa sack. Because this loser’s got a plan. A damn good plan. A plan that’s gonna fix everything. He tugged the Santa sack up onto the seat next to him, gave it a pat. “Time to get busy.”
He got out, walked down the road to the line of mailboxes, checked the newspaper bins until he found one that still had a paper in it and took it. He plucked the sack from the truck on his way back and went inside.
He dropped the sack and newspaper on the floor, walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge searching for something to eat. Found only two dried-up slices of pizza wrapped in foil and rolled them into a pizza burrito. He took a seat on the floor, eating as he dug through the newspaper. He pulled out the Walmart circular and tossed the rest of the paper aside. He flipped to the toy section, found a pen, and began thumbing through the pages, circling pictures here and there as he went.
“Yes. Umm . . . no. Hmm . . . maybe.” He tapped his teeth with the pen. “Most certainly. That one would certainly work.” He nodded. “Has to work.”
He pulled the crimson sack over. “Okay, baby. Do it for me.” He clinched his eyes shut, concentrated, wished, and prayed as hard as he could, then stuck his hand into the sack. His hand hit a box. It felt the right size, the right weight. “C’mon.” He pulled it out. There, still in the box, was a brand-new PlayStation.
“Yes!” he cried. “Yes! Now we’ll see who the real loser is.”
A N HOUR LATER, Jesse headed back up Route 3 with four black garbage bags of video game consoles and handhelds piled into the back of his camper. He’d stashed the Santa sack back down into the passenger foot well. It was his golden ticket and he intended
Jesse let out a long breath, fell back a step, and just stood there staring at that gun.
Dillard flicked his cigarette butt into the snow, walked up to the hood of the cruiser, and retrieved his gun. He shoved it back into its holster. “Believe it or not, son, I ain’t trying to be a dick. I’m trying to do you a favor, trying to save you years of heartbreak. A man needs to know himself. And now that you can see just the sort of man you truly are, maybe you’ll quit trying so hard to be something you ain’t. Go home, Jesse. Go home to that piece-of-shit trailer of yours and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear .”
Jesse barely heard him; he just kept staring at the spot where the gun had been.
“Okay, Jesse. I’m done with you. Done talking, done wasting my time. I’m going in, and when I look out that window in a few, you and that rig of yours best be gone. And just so we’re clear, just so there ain’t a lick of confusion between us: if you ever set foot on my property again, ever . . . I’ll break every one of your fingers. I mean that. You won’t be playing that guitar of yours ever again.”
Dillard turned and walked away, leaving Jesse staring at the car hood.
Chapter Three
The General
J esse pulled up in front of his trailer, killed the engine, and once again found himself confronted by his front door. “My piece-of-shit trailer,” he said, his voice laden with scorn. He barely even remembered driving back; the incident with Dillard played out over and over in his head, all the way home. Only each time when he came to the part where Dillard challenged him to pick up that gun, he actually did pick up the gun, actually did shoot Dillard, emptied every round right into the son-of-a-bitch’s face.
Jesse spied the bottle of whiskey still lying in the snow and heard Dillard’s voice in his head, Go home and get drunk . . . then do us all a favor and just disappear.
“No. That ain’t gonna happen.” He glanced at the Santa sack. Because this loser’s got a plan. A damn good plan. A plan that’s gonna fix everything. He tugged the Santa sack up onto the seat next to him, gave it a pat. “Time to get busy.”
He got out, walked down the road to the line of mailboxes, checked the newspaper bins until he found one that still had a paper in it and took it. He plucked the sack from the truck on his way back and went inside.
He dropped the sack and newspaper on the floor, walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge searching for something to eat. Found only two dried-up slices of pizza wrapped in foil and rolled them into a pizza burrito. He took a seat on the floor, eating as he dug through the newspaper. He pulled out the Walmart circular and tossed the rest of the paper aside. He flipped to the toy section, found a pen, and began thumbing through the pages, circling pictures here and there as he went.
“Yes. Umm . . . no. Hmm . . . maybe.” He tapped his teeth with the pen. “Most certainly. That one would certainly work.” He nodded. “Has to work.”
He pulled the crimson sack over. “Okay, baby. Do it for me.” He clinched his eyes shut, concentrated, wished, and prayed as hard as he could, then stuck his hand into the sack. His hand hit a box. It felt the right size, the right weight. “C’mon.” He pulled it out. There, still in the box, was a brand-new PlayStation.
“Yes!” he cried. “Yes! Now we’ll see who the real loser is.”
A N HOUR LATER, Jesse headed back up Route 3 with four black garbage bags of video game consoles and handhelds piled into the back of his camper. He’d stashed the Santa sack back down into the passenger foot well. It was his golden ticket and he intended
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