it, turned to him to do so, and saw a shadow of the earlier sadness and hurt still on his face. A better idea came to me. One that made me feel less shitty as a person and a friend.
“You like comics?” I asked.
Fat Bobby looked at me like I’d spoken some alien language.
“I’ve never really read them.”
“My dad runs a bookstore,” I said. “Come on, I’ll show you some things.”
Down the hill, north, we started out, the world stretched out before us in shades of bleached desert-white and earthen browns. Walking along the highway, a dog and two boys, friends, taking the road to where it took us.
1.
Dad was making his rounds about the store when we pushed through the glass doors. Bandit walked into the store with us, and some old lady with thick makeup like cake batter gave me a dirty look. I looked right back at her and said: “Service dog, ma’am. I’m borderline retarded.” She harrumphed and walked away, and I felt proud of myself.
Dad saw us and walked over, gave me a hug. I liked his hugs and never felt embarrassed when he gave me one in public. They were manly hugs, like ballplayers or boxers showing their respect after a long game or twelve rounds of exchanging punches.
He gave Bandit a glance, looked towards me like he was about to say something, and then he noticed Fat Bobby. Dad saw the cut on his forehead almost scabbed over and dry with some help from the summer sun, and turned to me.
“What happened?” he asked.
It was like he had some sort of radar that sounded when something had happened that needed to be told. He called it his Bullshit Detector, and it was backed by a lifetime warranty with an Ass Whooping Clause. For emphasis, he held up his hand and pointed at my butt whenever he said this. My dad never actually hit me when he said this, but the intention was clear: be honest with him or pay the consequences. The consequences were usually his disappointment and displeasure and that was always enough for me. A stern, disapproving look from him and I felt like a worm caught in the sights of a bird.
So I told him what happened and, as I did, he walked us back to his office, motioned us both to sit in the swivel chairs in front of the desk. Pulling out a first aid kit from a file drawer, Dad put some disinfectant on Fat Bobby’s cut and two Band Aids in the shape of an X on his forehead.
The office door open, I had a view of the adjacent break room and an employee, a girl about my sister’s age, eating her lunch there at a table. She was tall, thin, and her brown hair hung in spirals like little galaxies. Her dress, a flower print affair, clung to her like a second skin, and then there was her skin itself, golden and tanned like she took precise measurements to get it that way. Just so much sun; just the right amount of lotion; a dollop of genetic luck or God’s favor; and it equaled something I wanted to run my hands over.
She saw me looking and smiled warmly.
I smiled back, but quickly broke eye contact.
“Pay attention, Joey,” Dad said, bringing me back from where I wanted to be, to the real world and the situation at hand, which was far less appealing for my young boy’s brain.
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning the swivel chair so it faced him.
“I think we ought to call the police,” he said. “Throwing rocks isn’t fun and games. Those boys could have really hurt you.”
He said this last while looking at Fat Bobby, but I knew he included me in that equation also.
“I can take care of myself, Dad,” I said, a little louder than necessary for the benefit of the girl in the room behind me. “Plus Bandit was with me,” I added and leaned over to pet my dog, saw he wasn’t there, spun the swivel chair some more, saw he was out in the break room with the girl.
He had his head in her lap, gazing lovingly up at her as she shook his head from side to side, massaged his ears, and cooed at him.
I prayed fervently for God to let me swap bodies with Bandit just for a few minutes. God didn’t oblige, and I had some choice words for Him spoken in my head.
Dad saw where my attention had gone again, and he wheeled his chair so he was leaning past me and looking out into the break room.
“Tara?” he called out, and the girl looked up.
“Yes, sir?”
“Isn’t lunch just about over?” Dad said, not harshly or mean-like at all, but not overly friendly either. He was irritated at me, and taking it out on her. An image of me dueling my dad for her honor sprang to mind and, in the daydream, I skewered him with my sword, and Tara leapt joyfully into my arms.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I just had to pet this cool dog, though.”
She rebelled against my dad by lingering a few moments longer, ruffling Bandit’s coat and cooing at him some more with baby talk. Then she was up, throwing her trash into a bin and walking out of sight, but remaining in my heart.
Bandit stared after her for a time before walking despondently into the office where the three of us sat. He settled on the ground beside me with a sigh, as if he were settling for second best. I tried to beam him a mental message.
Traitor.
His eyes rolled up at me as if he heard and was bored.
“She’s too old for you, son,” Dad said, and after a moment to register the words I turned back to face him.
“What? Who?”
“She’s fifteen and a half,” he said. “It’s some sort of work experience thing through her school. She’s only here a few days a week.”
But I heard none of that, save the first part. Fifteen and a half. Round down to the nearest whole number and that left fifteen. I was thirteen, with fourteen only a few weeks away. When you thought of it that way, you may as well just say we were the same age.
Dad saw my thoughts had trailed off again. Sighing, he brought us back to the subject at hand.
“These boys. Do you know their names?” he asked, facing Bobby again.
Bobby nodded hesitantly, but I interjected before he could say anything.
“I told you, Dad,” I said, knowing I was walking on thin ice by objecting to him when he was in a mood like this. Someone had threatened his family, and he wasn’t too keen on that. My dad liked books; obviously, he managed a bookstore. But he also had a punching bag in the garage, and he liked chopping wood, and seeing him shirtless like he often was in the summertime to do yard work, you’d think God had run out of flesh and bone and made my dad out of stone.
Once, a drunk man had accosted Mom when we were out for a family dinner. The drunk man had had two not-so-drunk friends with him, egging him on. Dad ended up accosting all three of
