Peckerwood by Jedidiah Ayres

crazy about. When the man spoke, his gums rubbed together and made Terry want to plead with him to stop. “I said you talk too much. You think anybody likes to hear you talk? You think anybody likes you period? You think you got a reason to live? Shut the hell up.”
    Cinnamon gave a grunt, the beginning and end of a short-lived bout of indignation, as she was ejected from Terry’s lap. Terry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gave the old-timer his full attention.
    “Do you know me? Think you dish out the wisdom of the ages?”
    Cal had put his important decision aside for a moment, watching the exchange with great interest.
    “What’s a shriveled up piece like you do here other than burn trash and scare off the young girls?” Terry stood before the old man who leaned his head sharply to his right in order to look around Terry’s legs at the demise of a plastic bottle he’d pitched atop the fire. “Hey, old-timer, ain’t you got kids or descendents or something to spend your money on?”
    “Nah, fuck that.” The geezer was trying to see the fire that Terry was crouched in front of. “Move out the way. I can’t see.”
    Terry moved as best he could to block whatever the old-timer was staring at and received a sharp knock on the side of his knee from a stick the elder held in his fist. Terry yelped and hopped out of range of the stick. He came down clutching his knee.
    Cal guffawed and Cinnamon covered her mouth, chuckling. Terry stood firmly on one foot and extended the other, kicking the old man’s chair over backward. Cal laughed harder, but Cinnamon gasped and rushed over to the old man’s aid. The old-timer was like a turtle on its back, unable to roll onto his side because of the chair’s arms.
    When he was back on his feet, there was fire in the man’s eyes.
    “Anything more to add?” asked Terry, fairly certain there wasn’t.
    This time, the old man’s stick jutted straight into Terry’s stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He clutched his midsection and doubled over without any breath to curse the geezer with.
    The old man turned and ran, which was more like a shuffle, and disappeared into the nearest covering of trees. Terry stumbled after him a couple of steps before stopping to rest his hands on his knees and pant.
    Cal decided on red.
     
    CHOWDER
     
    From inside the trailer that served as Darlin’s office, Chowder watched the circle of regulars sitting around the bonfire outside. He was going over the receipts with Tate Dill. The skinny little shitheel was the closest thing to a manager he had to leave in charge if he ever left town. He was supposed to be training Irm to run all the businesses, but outside of muscle work, she’d shown little aptitude for it.
    Behind him, Tate sat at the desk completing a customer transaction. “Can I get a copy of the receipt?” asked the man. Chowder turned around and watched Tate print one up, tear it off and hand it to him. Ed Castro was a harmless guy. Fifty years old, six foot one, two-forty-five, grey where there was any left up top. He wore glasses and plaid shirts beneath pressed coveralls and a ball cap creased in the middle, which recommended Chowder’s Bait ’N More.
    Chowder leaned against the wall and asked him, “What’s that for?”
    Ed shrugged. “Always get receipts. Just a habit, I guess.”
    Chowder held out his hand, “Lemme see it.”
    Ed looked at Tate, then fished it out of his pocket, which was littered with crumpled souvenirs of the day’s transactions. He dropped a reminder he’d spent twenty-three dollars on gasoline and a keepsake from the Come Back Again with a personal note from the waitress, Jackie, telling him to ‘have a good day’ and signed with a heart in place of the dot above the “i” in her name.
    Chowder looked at the receipt just issued for fifty dollars worth of live bait and Coors Light from Chowder’s Bait ’N More. “What’s your business, Ed?”
    “Pardon?” asked Ed, a little