'Til Death Do Us Part (48 page)

He was appr
oaching a small blue d
umpster about midway along the wall. He turned with his back to me so that he could urinate on the trash collector. It was twenty feet from me to him,
t
hen what? He hadn
’
t done anything that necessitated me killing him
.

“
Act first
, think later,
”
I said as I started running towards him.
He either had a sixth sense
,
or I
wasn
’
t as stealthy as I had hoped. H
e turned when I was no more than a few feet away,
as he turned
warm urine traveled up my leg it was almost enough to stop me in my tracks.

“
What the fuck
,
man?
”
h
e said, one hand still holding his penis, the other coming up in a defensive gesture.

I caught him with a right cross that I
’
m
fairly certain cracked his jaw.
His
eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed. I swear I would have caught him as he was going down
,
but he was still pissing. Luckily he crumbled more than falling forward or backward so the impact as his head hit the ground wasn
’
t quite as traumatic. At this point I still felt like shit, the man hadn
’
t done anything more than need to relieve himself at an inopportune time. Who knew I might have just smacked the shit out of a sainted brain surgeon. Odds were that I hadn
’
t
,
but still.

He had one leg bent back behind him
,
but for the most part he was
lying
on his back
. H
is penis was still doing what he had been in the act of before I so rudely interrupted
. I
t looked like one of those old bubblers from my youth in school, the ones that were always running before we figured out that wasting a precious commodity like water wasn
’
t such a good idea. Although
,
even way back then
,
before the germ-a-phobia truly set in
,
I would never have drank anything that rusty looking. I wasn
’
t thrilled that he was getting all his clothes, which I needed, wet.

“
Fuck
,
dude
,
when
’
s the last time you took a pit stop?
”
I asked him as he just kept going and going. It was looking like he had downed two huge Slurpees and a carafe of coffee. I couldn
’
t wait any longer or he would completely soak his clothes. I quickly pulled his shirt over his head, undid his boots
,
and pulled his pants down, thankful that he had already done the majority of the work.

I took a couple of deep breaths as I ass
essed just how sopped his clothes were. And still he was going, I was wondering if he had somehow sprung a leak. I knew I was stalling, how much of a rush would you be in to put on someone else
’
s piss soaked clothes? Yeah didn
’
t think so
. I still had to get moving, a d
umpster pretty much screamed, PEE HERE, to a man. Soon
,
someone else would come, and for a second that sounded like a good idea, but this time I would knock his ass out
before
he started to go.

“
Shit,
”
I mumbled.
I could hear voices, I couldn
’
t tell if they were getting closer but I couldn
’
t risk it. My snake-
draining buddy seemed to finally be closing in on empty
.
I waited a few seconds more as the normally shaken drople
ts made their way down his side,
then I unceremoniously picked him up under his shoulders and dumped him into the trash. I was happy there were at
least a few bags at the bottom;
somewhat so he wouldn
’
t get hurt
further,
but mostly so his body wouldn
’
t make a large
‘
bonging
’
sound as he hit bottom.

The man
’
s shirt was the traditional gas station attendant blue button down, it even
had his name embroidered on it—
that was actually not a good thing for me. What were the odds that there were two
‘
Horatios’
in this
convoy?
And I
’
m sorry
,
but who the fuck names their kid Horatio? His childhood must have been a blast.
I put his shirt on, not buttoni
ng it for exactly three reasons. F
irst
,
because I hoped that leaving
it open would obscure his name;
second
,
because the bottom front of it was soaked and this way I coul
d
keep it mostly off myself
;
and third
,
but far from least
,
I was betting that Horatio
’
s
nickname was
‘
Stretch
.’
I couldn
’
t have buttoned the thing up if I had wanted to.

There was a good four inches of gap between button hole and button. I loo
ked down at the
pants;
my guess
was they were going to be as equally ill-fitting. It was sort of a blessing
,
because
as long as they stayed unbuttoned
it kept the majority of wet material off of me, but what were the fucking odds that I would waylay a
six-foot-two
man that had the waist and chest of a
twelve-year-
old girl? I though
t about pulling him out of the
d
umpster so
I could smack him one more time.
He
was actually making me regret giving up my jean shorts. I was as low on body fat as I had ever been in my life
,
yet
this man
’
s pants
still
made me feel like I needed to join Jenny Craig. I knew I wa
s in for a world class struggle
when I felt them tugging on my calves.

By the time I pulled them up over my ass, I had lost enough circulation in my lower extremities to be of concern. I could only take air in small
,
measured doses. The zipper moved maybe one or two teeth up and that was it, the gap between the button and button hole for the pants could not be bridged. I had a couple of things going for me, apparently
‘
Stretch
’
had also been losing weight and these pants were
‘
pre
’
zombie invasion. He had
,
at some point
,
needed to get a belt and luckily it was more my sized as opposed to his. The belt would hide a fair amount of my skin showing
,
plus
,
his shirt had that front part that hangs down so you can tuck them in. I have no idea what that
’
s called b
ut as long as no Marilyn Monroe-
type breezes
started,
I might be alright. Although running was out of the question, I felt like Morticia from the Ad
dams F
amily.

Y
ou want to know what the kicker was? This was how I figured out that God has a sense of humor. The guy had a baseball cap which was great, I didn
’
t dare take off my Eliza-
screening tin foil hat
,
but I couldn
’
t imagine walking out in the midst of all those truckers wearing it either. I grabbed the guy
’
s cap
,
even more reluctant to put it on t
ha
n
the urine-infused clothes—
the familiar, dreaded, loathed, hated
‘
NY
’
logo of the New York Yankees stared back at me with contempt. This was about the last
straw;
I almost said
‘
fuck it
.’ T
here ain
’
t nothing worth donning that thing. The only thing that wasn
’
t small on Stretch was his damn hat, the guy had a head the size of a watermelon, and of course he had a non-adjustable
,
fitted hat, why wouldn
’
t he? At least it would safely cover the foil, and the foil would act as a
barrier to whatever diseases a Y
ankee fan was apt to carry.

“
Forgive me
, Ted,
”
I said
, alluding to the Great O
ne
,
Ted Williams
,
as I pulled the damn thing over my head. Odds were
,
if I looked hard enough, Bucky
‘
Fucking
’
Dent probably signed it.
The only thing that saved the whole thing was his b
oots; I
could
finally rid myself of Stephanie-the-Amazonian woma
n
’
s shoes. He had boots that
,
while a lit
tle bigger than I needed at ten-and-a-
half
,
would still suit me nicely.

“
Here goes nothing,
”
I said as
I stepped out from behind the
d
umpster.
A big
man easily double my size was heading my way, his
clothes would have made it look
like I was swimming in them. It still would have been preferable. He did not look at me as he walked past, that
’
s a traditional male custom, if we are within a few moments of grasping our members we do not make eye contact with
males of our
species. Not entirely sure why;
maybe it has something to do with a small dose of homophobia or
,
more than likely
,
it
’
s just an intimate moment of sweet release that we do not wish to share with others.

I rounded the corner of the ga
s station and realized that I’d never had need to worry.
There
were so many truckers
that
it was easy to get lost in the crowd.
Now what genius?
I berated myse
lf. I was there for some reason.
I just had no clue what for. I circled around
,
catching snippets of conversations
,
but never really joining any of them.

“
...then she said that it smelled like shit on
Astroturf
and I....
”

“
...hauling nuclear waste and dumping it on the south side of the Grand C...
”

“
...some eyeliner and panty hose it feels great...
”

What?
The guy looked like a professional wrestler and he was te
lling a group of five other men.
I must have missed a fair amount of that conversation. I was glad I had slowed down enough to listen a little bit to th
e Randy Savage lookalike.
I had changed direction just enough until I came upon what had to be Horatio
’
s rig. I
’
d love to say that it was because of my extraordinary detective skills, but the giant
,
red rig had Horatio
’
s Highway Haulers emblazoned in
two-
foot high lette
ring across the entire trailer—
even I couldn
’
t have missed it.
I walked up to it as if I owned it, which according to the keys that were jabbing me through my front pocket only confirmed that suspicion.

“
What are the odds his last name, MY last name is Hornblower?
”
I asked.
It was worse:
Heimerdinger.
“
You
’
re kidding right?
”
I asked as I ran my hand over the pin striping. Horatio
‘
Slight
’
Heimerdinger.
How
many times can a kid get beat up? I hoped he didn
’
t have a riding partner as
I stepped up on to the running board and opened the door. Well
,
I had to give it to
‘
Slight
’
,
he ran a tidy ship. I looked around the entire cab
. I
t was gorgeous
,
then it dawned on m
e that I really should take it…
Horatio would want me to.