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Terry was barely neck-deep into his High Life when he saw Reinhardt stumble up off the street. They made eye contact and Terry immediately regretted it. The younger man was going to talk to him. That was it. Signed and sealed. He sighed. It was getting to be that you couldn’t drink at lunch anymore without somebody bugging you.
Reinhardt limped over and sat down at the table across from Terry with a squelch across from him and scratched his torn up Iggy Pop shirt.
“Hey, Terry.”
“Hey, Reinhardt.”
“How’s the cat?”
“He’s at home.”
“Right on. You got a smoke?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Terry replied. He slid over a pack of Fujis and the younger man took one and then did a Macarena-level of pocket checking before he finally found a matchbook for a local discount porn warehouse and lit up. A nude dominatrix winked at Terry “It doesn’t come cheaper than us!”
Reinhardt took a long pull.
“You okay, Terry?” Reinhardt asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine. But, uh, what happened to you? You look like warmed over dog shit.”
Reinhardt looked up and down at himself, as if struck by the novelty, and then back at Terry. He figured he was probably referring to how he was covered in sugar concentrate and leaves and also ants and also what looked like corn chips.
“Oh. This. Yeah. I drove into the Shuck N’ Drive”
“Again?”
“Yeah, again.”
“How many times is that?”
“I don’t know. Six?”
It was five, but who was counting?1 The first time Reinhardt drove through the Shuck N’ Drive he was sixteen years old. He just got his license and access to his brother’s Toyota Tercel and decided to drag race against what was then the world’s fastest Geo Metro. Reinhardt and his borrowed Tercel won (in no small fact due to the Geo throwing a rod throw the dashboard into its driver’s throat. He’s fine now, after several reconstructive surgeries, the only sign that he ever drove a Geo Metro is in his slight lisp). Unfortunately for Reinhardt’s parents’ insurance policy (and the Tercel), his brakes failed. He sailed through the plate glass window, wiping out an entire generation of Funions, and making the Sinhalese clerk behind the counter wonder if the Tigers had finally tracked him down. They hadn’t. A shelf of Frutopia finally stopped the car.
The next two times he drove into the store, it was not in Tercels. The fourth time was. That time it involved geese. Everybody who saw the photos of the aftermath agreed they wouldn’t have done much better if it had happened to them on account of all the geese. Even the clerk agreed that it was just one of those things.
By the third time people were starting to ask questions. Why the Shuck N’ Drive? Why not the 25/8 (which proudly advertised itself as the only store owned, run, and manned by a radical sect of clock revisionists and also study abroad students who were willing to work under the table for straight cash)? Why not Arby’s or the VFW? Reinhardt was as forthcoming as everyone else, including the insurance agents, many of whom retired as much more broken and sad than insurance agents usually retire as. No answers came. It was just a fact of life.
Of course, the most direly effected people in all of this (besides Reinhardt’s brother, who was forced into a third-hand Yugo) were the owners of the Shuck N’ Drive. According to their very poorly sourced Wikipedia page, Shuck N’ Drive was a Lawrence, Kansas based franchise that once dreamed of being the first and only national brand to come out of Kansas [citation needed]. Their pilot store—dreamed to be one of hundreds that would dot the nation—was placed in Reno, Nevada, directly on the route between Reinhardt’s high school and his favorite mall, the so-called “Dumbass Alley” [citation needed]. The first crash was a setback, the third was regarded as a sign from God, the fourth, a reminder, and the fifth. . . well, the jury was still out.
The plans were shuttered and Cornelius R.R. Shuck died, alone and angry, surrounded by his wife and children. As a stipulation in his will, the Reno store was kept open as a reminder to his inheritors of the folly ever leaving Kansas, as well as the terrible power of economy Japanese sedans.
“Why?” Terry asked.
“I don’t know, it’s not like I plan it.”
“I don’t mean philosophically, I mean why this time?”
“Oh. Yeah. I saw my ex crossing the road.”
“Jesus.”
“No, Mary. I saw her crossing the road on—”
“Dumbass Alley.”
“—Drag Alley there, and my brakes went out.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. That’s Afghan engineering for you. Say what you want about the Taliban’s ability to fight a war, they’ve still got some kinks to work out when it comes to a good car. Anyways, all four tires came loose and I took all I could to dodge her and her new boyfriends, thank goodness, and biff bam boom, right into that Shuck N’ Drive. The squeeziee machine took most of the damage. Real unhappy Indian guy yelling at me, though. I forget his name.”
“Sri Lankan.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. It’s Jagath or something like that. Nice guy. I actually ran into him at the card shop couple of times. Real friendly, all things considered. Bit jumpy, though. Anyways, I gotta go take a shower afore the fire ants find me. Got enough trouble with the expired license and also, I think owning that car is technically supporting terrorism.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty reasonable.”
“She’s poly, you know. My ex.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m fine with it. We’re on good terms. I just want you to know in case anybody asks.”
“Like the cops.”
“Yeah, or whoever, but mostly the cops.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.” Reinhardt stubbed the cigarette out and then tried to get it unglued from his hand. “You think Reggie’s got the hose still rigged up out back.”
“You know he does.”
It was one of the main attractions of the bar. It saw more action than the condom machine. Without another word, Reinhardt got up from the fiberglass seat and sauntered around the corner to the alley, leaving behind a long streak of confectionery goo. Terry watched him go, thankful that of all the cars and all the Toyotas he ever had to drive, he never had to be in a Tercel.
The police were counting.