Transition: Chapter 29 (Sturdivant)

Billy Barton is in the process of setting a personal record: He is literally getting thrown out of yet another bar, his third this evening.

“And I don’t want to see you in here again, Billy,” says Wendell Barton, the enormous and incongruously bespectacled owner of the Blind Ox, as Billy picks himself gingerly up off the gravel. “Cousin or no cousin, you got no business picking a fight in my club. You’re not welcome here no more.”

“Oh, shit, Wendell, you busted my hand all to hell. Look at it.” He holds up his left hand, the hand with which he had tried to break his fall as cousin Wendell had tossed him unceremoniously into the parking lot; it’s covered with a fresh coating of sticky, dirty-red blood. Without the anesthetic benefit of the alcohol that courses through his veins, Billy might actually be in some pain.

“I oughta wipe it all over your fucking face, Wendell. That’s what I oughta do.” But what Billy actually does is to wipe the blood off on his jeans, where the fresh, crimson stains add a hint of color to the massive accumulations of dirt and grease. Even though Billy’s impressive beer-belly ensures that he’s not lacking in weight, cousin Wendell has close to a foot and nearly a hundred pounds on him. Billy would have to be a lot drunker then he is now to pick a fight with somebody that much bigger than he is.

“Why don’t you just up and try it, Billy?” Wendell suggests amiably. He’s standing at the top of the three steps that lead to the back door of the Blind Ox, looking down at the gravel parking lot into which he had tossed Billy just a minute ago. “Come on,” he taunts, folding his arms and leaning back on the door frame. “Why don’t you and both of your asshole buddies all try it at the same time? Give it your best shot.”

Billy doesn’t even have to look around to know that his friends won’t be of any help at all. He knows that, although Eddie Sweeney and Stevie Hutchinson are always eager to join in when he picks a fight with someone smaller than himself, there’s no way in hell they’re even going to think about getting into a fight with Wendell Barton.

“I don’t need any help, shithead.” Billy swaggers with bravado, but with not quite enough bravado to actually advance on his cousin, so he swaggers carefully in place. “I’ll cram your fucking balls down your fat face all by myself. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.”

“Billy,” Eddie Sweeney whispers, as he backs off to a safe distance. “Maybe we better go.”

But it’s too late. Wendell is already climbing down the stairs and walking heavily toward Billy – who, to Wendell’s apparent surprise, does not retreat an inch. Billy stiffens for the blow he knows he’s about to receive, but Wendell surprises him by grabbing him by the collar of his denim jacket, lifting him clean off the ground, and slamming him noisily and painfully into the side of a conveniently located pickup truck.

“Ooomph,” says Billy. But he is, at least, smart enough not to make it worse on himself by struggling.

“You ain’t got the best of me in a fight since we was six years old,” Wendell says, softly, his face an inch from Billy’s. “And you was cheating then. You’re just a good-for-nothing, loud-mouth drunk, Billy Barton, and I don’t want to see your ugly face in the Ox again. Ever.” He flips Billy to the ground as casually as another man might discard a cigarette butt. Billy screams as he tries to break his fall with his injured left hand. “And that goes for your two scumbag friends, too,” Wendell adds; then, he turns and lumbers back toward the stairs.

“Hey, Wendell,” Stevie Hutchinson calls after his retreating bulk, “that’s not fair. Me’n Eddie didn’t do nothing.” Wendell climbs the stairs and disappears into the Blind Ox; the door swings shut behind him. “It’s not fair,” Stevie whines again.

“Shut your fucking face, Stevie.” Billy lurches to his feet. “Why the fuck would anyone want to come to this piss-hole, anyhow?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Eddie echoes, “why’d you wanna come here, anyway?” He giggles. “Me’n Billy ain’t gonna come here no more, are we Billy?”

“You can shut your face too, asshole,” Billy says dispassionately, unmoved by Eddie’s attempt to get back in his good graces. “Where were you when that go-rilla was messing me up, huh? What were you doing, peeing in your pants?”

“Gee, Billy,” Eddie says, stung by the rebuke. “I didn’t think you needed any help.” He giggles. “You looked like you was taking care of him pretty good all by your lonesome.”

“Don’t wise off to me, you little turd,” Billy says, but without much vehemence. He looks himself over, takes stock of his situation. “What the fuck am I gonna do now?” he asks, to no one in particular. “I can’t go home looking like this.”

“Why don’t we head on over to the Federal?” Stevie suggests, helpfully. “Get us a cup of coffee, get you cleaned up?”

Billy responds with a grunt of assent, and begins to stumble off into the darkness. “Where’s your fucking car, Stevie?”

“It’s the other way, Billy,” Stevie says, grabbing Billy’s arm and guiding him across the parking lot. Eddie grabs Billy’s other arm; the three musketeers stumble and weave their way across the lot to where Stevie Hutchinson’s ragged 1967 Chevrolet Biscayne stands waiting.

When they reach the car, Stevie tries to maneuver Billy around to the passenger side, but Billy shakes him off, opens the driver’s door, slides in behind the steering wheel, and slams the door shut behind him. “Gimme the keys,” he demands, thickly, holding his bloody hand out through the open window.

“I dunno, Billy,” Stevie says, uncertainly. “I don’t think you oughta drive. You’re in pretty rough shape.”

Without even looking around, Billy grabs Stevie by the collar of his jacket, and yanks, hard; Stevie yelps as the top of his head slams into the door frame. “Just gimme the fuckin’ keys, Stevie,” Billy says, tiredly.

“Okay, okay, leggo, Billy,” Stevie whines. Billy releases his hold. Stevie fumbles through his pockets, finally locates the keys, and hands them reluctantly to Billy. He runs around to the other side of the car and climbs in, glancing worriedly at Eddie, who has already ensconced himself safely in the back seat.

“Be careful, Billy,” Stevie begs, as Billy tries to start the protesting engine. “Don’t wreck it.”

“I can’t wreck this fucking heap if it don’t start, asshole,” Billy observes.

“Yeah, Stevie,” Eddie concurs, giggling. “He can’t wreck it if it don’t start.”

Finally, after about a dozen tries, the old car wheezes to life with a weak but satisfying roar. And with a squeal of rubber and a shower of flying gravel, the battered Chevy begins to weave its way out of the parking lot and down Cohonsett Avenue toward three blocks of tired shops, two lanes of crumbling blacktop, and a solitary traffic light, all of which passes for the business district of the town of Sturdivant.