Sunday, May 9, 2010

Blanked Check

May 8th, 2010. The first time I met Darger, he was buried up to his stomach, digging a deep hole in my backyard. He said he was burying a lawnmower with the motor still running; feeding it gasoline through a hose with the intent of breaking some recordI told him that there was no such record and called him a liar. He yelled, "There ain't no lawnmower, neither!" and threw a rock at me. 
    That was more than four years ago. Nobody knows exactly how old Darger is. He might be fifteen. He might not be fifteen. I've asked him. He doesn't know. Darger doesn't know how old I am, and I've told him at least a hundred times how old I am. I'm forty-three. My wife, Karen, is forty-five. And she tells me at least that many times a day not to talk to Darger.
    Darger looked at me, grabbed at his front pockets, and spoke. "I need to go to the..." He stopped himself in mid-sentence, then quickly put his hands in his pockets.
    "Stop holding your yourself! What are you? Five years old? Go to the bathroom, Darger." I told him. Darger looked at me. He put his hands in his back pockets. He blinked. I blinked.
    "Blank." he said.
    "Go!" I said.
Darger stuffed his hands into his front pockets again. Then he winked, and said, "Will you take me?"
I was not in the mood for his slow motion charade. He was old enough to go to the bathroom by himself and I told him so. "No." I answered.
    Darger was getting frustrated. He looked at me again and pleaded, "Please, take me. I'll give you some money." He emptied his pockets. Nothing. I took a deep breath. 
    "Listen up, dumbass." I started. "I don't know what in the hell you think you're thinking about doing, but if you think I'm going to be some kind of pee-for-hire..." Darger cut me off.
    "Yesss!" he said. He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "I need to clash this check." he spoke slowly. "Can you give me a ride to the blank?"
L is for Glass Knuckles

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