wearing a sleeveless denim jacket with hand sewn patches. One cool patch I recall from an earlier visit reads THRUSH MUFFLERS scrawled across a cartoon bird that resembles Woody Woodpecker. A cigarette dangles from one corner of his mouth as he continues to stare at me. Dickey has to think on what he wants to say awhile before actually saying it. Whatever fell on his head down at the cement plant was just heavy enough to slow down his thought process, without actually killing the poor guy.
“Yuh, yuh, you seen Jarrod around?” he finally blurts, pointing at me with his smoke.
“Nope.”
“Po, po, Police were down at the plant asking questions today.”
This is interesting. I wonder what mess Jarrod is into now. Dickey had previously revealed that he never came back to work after being shown the door by Graham. Nothing like a good beat down to keep away the riff raff.
“Maybe he robbed a bank or something,” I suggest, watching Dickey flick ash on the roof of his car without noticing.
“Wuh, wuh well they,” he starts, pausing with a hand to his forehead. “Wanted to know if I seen him around here.”
“Here?”
“Yuh, yuh, your place, this street, with your mom,” he explains in choppy starts and stops. “Probably be here asking after him soon.”
“We haven’t seen him.”
“Aye, aye, I hope they find him,” Dickey grins, hitting his smoke and blowing it out one side of his mouth. “Take him downtown and fry his nuts with a car battery.”
Jarrod gave him a really hard time, but this statement seems a bit harsh to me. I do chuckle to myself at the visual. Jarrod probably deserves it. Will the cops really ask me questions? My mother’s jaw is no longer wired shut, but since the incident she rarely speaks. It feels like she’s not here anymore . She talks only in whispers and mostly to Izzy, whom she adores. The poor woman seems changed by the experience. I’m unsure if she would speak to the cops if they came.
“Thuh, thuh, these, weirdos still paying you to mow lawns?”
I nod.
“Lah, lah, lucked into,” he suggests, then takes a long pause. “Lucked into the money with that one.”
“Agreed,” I bob my head and search for something to say. “They won’t take me at the plant till I’m seventeen.”
“Piss, piss,” he spits, flicking his butt on to the pavement. “Piss on that. Do something, anything else.”
I nod, unwilling to argue that point. No one really wants to work there. He slips back behind the wheel and starts the engine. Blue smoke blows out of one exhaust pipe, but not the other. The door still open and with one foot on the ground, he cocks his head around to look at the cloud. I walk forward and lean in the passenger window.
“Smoke’s bad,” I suggest, having watched it get progressively worse over the summer.
“Yeah, yeah,” he chokes out and then coughs a loogie on the ground. “Gonna put an engine in it this weekend.”
“New one?”
“Nah, nah, no, found a rebuilt 289 out of a sixty-seven.”
“What year is this?”
“Nine, nine, ninety-seven,” he nods his head and frowns.
Dickey has a reputation for being a bit of a butcher with cars. He helped Jerry’s brother install a radio in his truck and there were wires hanging down on the floor. It’s hard to imagine him playing with engines.
“Well, good luck with that.”
Dickey nods and slams his car door. He has to slam it three times to get it to stay shut. Turning sharply, he narrowly misses Graham’s mailbox, before rambling down the street and turning into his driveway. I’m watching him try to slam the door again so he can go inside when I am startled by a hand on my shoulder.
“What did Sling Blade want?” T-Buck asks.
Turning, I find Graham also standing there drinking a cup of coffee. I frown as T-Buck and his crew have dubbed Dickey Sling Blade , after a movie character they find amusing. Seeing my displeasure T-Buck holds up both hands in an, I’m sorry gesture.
“His
“Yuh, yuh, you seen Jarrod around?” he finally blurts, pointing at me with his smoke.
“Nope.”
“Po, po, Police were down at the plant asking questions today.”
This is interesting. I wonder what mess Jarrod is into now. Dickey had previously revealed that he never came back to work after being shown the door by Graham. Nothing like a good beat down to keep away the riff raff.
“Maybe he robbed a bank or something,” I suggest, watching Dickey flick ash on the roof of his car without noticing.
“Wuh, wuh well they,” he starts, pausing with a hand to his forehead. “Wanted to know if I seen him around here.”
“Here?”
“Yuh, yuh, your place, this street, with your mom,” he explains in choppy starts and stops. “Probably be here asking after him soon.”
“We haven’t seen him.”
“Aye, aye, I hope they find him,” Dickey grins, hitting his smoke and blowing it out one side of his mouth. “Take him downtown and fry his nuts with a car battery.”
Jarrod gave him a really hard time, but this statement seems a bit harsh to me. I do chuckle to myself at the visual. Jarrod probably deserves it. Will the cops really ask me questions? My mother’s jaw is no longer wired shut, but since the incident she rarely speaks. It feels like she’s not here anymore . She talks only in whispers and mostly to Izzy, whom she adores. The poor woman seems changed by the experience. I’m unsure if she would speak to the cops if they came.
“Thuh, thuh, these, weirdos still paying you to mow lawns?”
I nod.
“Lah, lah, lucked into,” he suggests, then takes a long pause. “Lucked into the money with that one.”
“Agreed,” I bob my head and search for something to say. “They won’t take me at the plant till I’m seventeen.”
“Piss, piss,” he spits, flicking his butt on to the pavement. “Piss on that. Do something, anything else.”
I nod, unwilling to argue that point. No one really wants to work there. He slips back behind the wheel and starts the engine. Blue smoke blows out of one exhaust pipe, but not the other. The door still open and with one foot on the ground, he cocks his head around to look at the cloud. I walk forward and lean in the passenger window.
“Smoke’s bad,” I suggest, having watched it get progressively worse over the summer.
“Yeah, yeah,” he chokes out and then coughs a loogie on the ground. “Gonna put an engine in it this weekend.”
“New one?”
“Nah, nah, no, found a rebuilt 289 out of a sixty-seven.”
“What year is this?”
“Nine, nine, ninety-seven,” he nods his head and frowns.
Dickey has a reputation for being a bit of a butcher with cars. He helped Jerry’s brother install a radio in his truck and there were wires hanging down on the floor. It’s hard to imagine him playing with engines.
“Well, good luck with that.”
Dickey nods and slams his car door. He has to slam it three times to get it to stay shut. Turning sharply, he narrowly misses Graham’s mailbox, before rambling down the street and turning into his driveway. I’m watching him try to slam the door again so he can go inside when I am startled by a hand on my shoulder.
“What did Sling Blade want?” T-Buck asks.
Turning, I find Graham also standing there drinking a cup of coffee. I frown as T-Buck and his crew have dubbed Dickey Sling Blade , after a movie character they find amusing. Seeing my displeasure T-Buck holds up both hands in an, I’m sorry gesture.
“His
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