yeah, just plodding along, doing my thing,” Ed muttered as he gazed around the garage at a collection of posters featuring semi-clad, full-figured women holding miscellaneous tools, mufflers, and whatnot.
“Well, you look like a hundred bucks.”
“Thanks, bro,” Ed said, slapping Earl’s belly. “Looks like you been putting away them Budweisers pretty hard.”
“Shit. Silver Bullet, buddy,” Earl retorted, holding up a can of light beer. “Had to. You should have seen me a month ago. Donny started callin’ me Ol’ Johnny Gut.”
Ed pondered for a moment. “Donny? Not Don Vowdy …”
“Yep.”
Stepping up to the dispenser on the workbench, Earl pumped some hand cleaner into his greasy palms.
“You still hanging out with that fucking guy?”
“He’s just a good ol’ boy.”
“Good ol’ dipshit’s more like it,” Ed muttered.
“He ain’t that bad. Ya gotta know him,” Earl said, rubbing his hands together as the abrasive cream squirted between his fingers, making wet farty sounds.
“Shit. I knew him well enough. He was such a dick to me when I was a kid. Man, you don’t even know.”
Ed remembered Don Vowdy clearly, though he hadn’t thought of him in years. Donny had been Earl’s best friend as long as Ed could remember. He had also been a source of considerable torment to Ed throughout his childhood.
“He’d flick his lit cigarettes at me when you guys used to sneak them from Dad out in the tree fort.”
“Eh … it builds character,” Earl answered with a shrug.
The brothers walked from the garage into the kitchen. Earl peeled a handful of paper towels from the hanging roll.
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