I didn’t call Joe. He just showed up on his own. I always thought of him in one word. Fat. When he entered the trailer it groaned, and I realized the right word was weight not fat, immense weight, like he was 400 pounds or so. I’d met him before. He lifted a car off a log it had run over.
“You’re Joe,” I said. “Johnny said I should call if I needed anything. I didn’t call.”
“You didn’t know you needed anything,” he said. He pulled out Johnny’s bar stool and perched on it. I was sure it would break. I didn’t know what tack to take. So I guess I took all of them.
“Let me guess,” I said. “I’m supposed to feel reassured that some old thug friend of The Snakeman stops by to call me girlie and say don’t worry. Sorry. You’re fresh outa luck. I worry about him. I worry about me. And now I’m worrying about you. Who the f**k are you to show up here in the middle of the night when I’m alone with one small dog? Let me guess. You mean well, but you and words aren’t close friends, which is why you don’t have any, not even Johnny, who as far as I know has never even invited you to dinner.” I paused, gasping.
“You done?” he asked. He sighed. It felt like he had let all the air out of the trailer in one heave of lungs.
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