Nobody's Angel

20

HEADING HOME, PATRICK NEARLY HAD TO GO THROUGH DEADROCK or around it; and despite that he wanted to avoid stopping in a place renowned for its money-grubbing, bad-tempered inhabitants, a place whose principal virtue was its declining population, he needed an economy-size box of soap powder for the floors. So he went through Deadrock. He pulled off into a grocery store where he and its only other customer, Deke Patwell, ran into each other in aisle three.

“I see I’m in the papers.”

“Yup. Real nice type of fellow heading for Yellowstone. Little Kodak is all it took.”

“You write the caption?”

“Sure did.”

“Very imaginative.”

“Thank you. How’s the head?”

“Not at all good, Deke. You know those pool cues.”

“Only by reputation. They say one end is much worse than the other.”

“Thicker.”

“That’s it, thicker.”

Patrick pulled down a large box of soap.

“Floors?” asked Patwell. Patrick studied the contents.

“Exactly.”

“Comet’s a mile better.”

Patrick got a can of Comet.

“And you’ll want a little protection for the knees,” Patwell said, and went to the cash register with his impregnated dish pads.

Patrick followed him. “I’d use rubber gloves with those hands of yours, Deke. Dish pads are full of irritating metal stuff.”

“God, I wouldn’t think of forgetting the gloves. My hands just aren’t tough enough with the job I’ve got.”

Outside:

“That been a good truck, Patrick?”

“Fair. Had the heads off first ten thousand miles.”

“Tell me about it. This thing’s been a vale of tears. I’m going Jap.”

Waves. Bye-byes. Patrick noticed, though, from two blocks away, Patwell giving him the finger. He considered it extremely childish.