r-kv-r-y quarterly
fall 2006 fiction
A Couple of Runs
by Chris Dungey
fall 2006 fiction
A Couple of Runs
by Chris Dungey
I was hanging out with my sister-in-law because my wife was stuck on the night shift. Usually, I entertained
myself on Friday nights—a coffee house or a hockey game. But if Merrill called to whine about the heebie-
jeebies, we’d figure out something to do.
It was snowing again at the end of a grey day of slush, at the end of a greyer than normal February. After I’d
taken Merrill to cancel her car insurance then to apply the refund to her phone bill, we’d been arguing about
where to eat.
I was ready for chili in a bread bowl at Border’s. They usually have free entertainment on Friday night. Merrill
wanted the endless breadsticks or bottomless minestrone at Olive Garden. Her appetite was coming back. I
had to make sure she could pay for her own meal if we went there. I reminded her that I wasn’t made out of
money. So then her mind drifted to Acropolis Coney.
Merrill had been in recovery for awhile, herself, so she just rolled her eyes when I told her it was Richie O’
Malley on my lame, pre-paid cell phone. He said he was holed up in his dinky house with all the doors locked.
I hadn’t seen Richie but once or twice since I retired and left him behind, chasing the line at the auto plant. He
came to my stepson’s wedding last October. He didn’t look like he was using again—he has a skinny build to
begin with.
“Listen, man,” he whispered. “Whataya doing? Is this a bad time?”
“Richie, speak up! This phone sucks.”
“Are you in town? I needja do me a favor.” He was still whispering. He sounded like he might begin to weep.
“We don’t know what we’re doing yet. Taking Merrill around on some errands first. Her car crapped out. What
can I do for ya?”
The mention that my sister-in-law was along seemed to throw him for a moment.. “You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Shit, man. Merrill’s with you?” He wasn’t whispering now. He sniffled. “She can’t see me
like this, man. Can’t let her see me.”
“Fine. She’ll stay in the car,” I said. “What do you need from me?”
“Dude, I’m still kinda sick and I’m outta cigarettes,” he coughed. “No way can I leave the house. I’m avoidin’
some people. Bring me a coupla packs a Winstons and I’ll pay ya back.”
“O.K. We’ll be right there. We’re on Bristol now.”
“Uhh, Cliff?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get them in the box. Not the pack?”
I holstered the cell phone and whipped into the first place I saw, a 7-ll. “What’s his problem?” Merrill asked.
“We’ve gotta make a run for him,” I told her. “He’s flipping out over at his place.”
“Woah, man. I can’t be around him if he’s fucked up,” she said. But then she started brushing her hair in the
visor mirror.
“Guess what. He feels the same way about you,” I said. “You’d think you people would try to help each other.”
Merrill cracked the passenger-side window and lit a cigarette while I tried to park close to the entrance.
“Sometimes. Or you end up stealing from each other.” She pursed her mouth an inch from the opening to
exhale. “He’s called me twice since the wedding.”
“So? At least you two have something in common.”
“I’m just not attracted. He’s a nice guy but he hypers around like a Chihuahua or something. When we danced
at the reception? He was, like, shaking.”
I knew the irony of this was probably lost on bony Merrill, who was still trying to fill in the junky shadows on her
own face.
Big, wet flakes splatted on the windshield when I came out of the store. I got back on Bristol Road and headed
west. “You know what I think it is?” I said. “It’s the nice guy part that doesn’t appeal to you. Richie isn’t
dangerous enough. And you can’t sit still five minutes either.”
“Yeah, well. When I do sit, I’m not rocking back and forth like a meth freak.”
It was almost dark for the rush hour. We waited through two long traffic lights. So many cars hauling ass, then
creeping, trying to get to the banks. A line of vehicles backed out onto the street at the Credit Union by Holy
Redeemer Church. Get the money on a Friday night and take the wife and kids for franchise burgers. Take
them all to Wal-Mart afterward for entertainment. Cheap shoes and video games for everybody. Someone
must still be working.
I turned north onto Fenton Road, headed back across the unguarded frontier into Flint. The neighborhoods
deteriorated with each block. Past South Flint Plaza, it was all check-cashing- 40 ouncer stores and used tire
places that had once been gas stations. The Plaza used to be one of the first shopping malls ever. Now they
were down to a few nail salons, a video warehouse, and one huge showroom full of mobile home furniture.
“Lincoln Street, I think,” I said.
“Don’t ask me.”
The side street was narrowed by unplowed snow and derelict cars stuck in grimy drifts.
“This area is really going down. He should have sold the place after his last divorce.”
“Welcome to my world,” Merrill said. “But guess where the money would’ve gone. He’s lucky he still has a
place.”
“We’ll see.” I had been to Richie’s house only a few times. There were lots of unpainted drywall repairs and
carpet remnants. I didn’t know the address and there were hundreds of one-story-frame places cloned in the
fifties for auto workers with VA loans. I crept the car down the middle of the street, looking for his S10 truck
with the capper, or his beat-up Cavalier. The back of his truck was always packed with camping and fishing
gear. He’d always have that stuff, at least. There wasn’t much hock value in any of it. Maybe the Coleman
stove or the fly casting reels.
I found the Cavalier, which I remembered was red. I could see enough red under a week’s worth of
undisturbed snow. The truck was not in the drive or by the curb. Merrill had had cars stolen by friends and
associates and had stolen cars in turn.
“Be right back,” I told her.
“I’m about starving, ya know.”
The front walk hadn’t been shoveled but was trampled passable. Same situation with the porch. I scuffed at
the thick, icy build-up. A sizeable chunk broke loose and ricocheted off the aluminum storm-door frame. I
followed that up with some hefty pounding. There was no glass in the frame. It clattered on its hinges. There
were no lights on inside, that I could see.
“Richie! C’mon, man,” I called. The Good Samaritan business was going to wear thin if he didn’t meet me half
way. “Winter out here!”
I heard footsteps then, stopping short of the door. I knew he must be in the vestibule. You’d think someone
with his history would have one of those peep-hole gizmos in a heavy, steel door. But this was a peely,
painted wood job, delaminating at the bottom. Richie would be trying to take a peek out the drapes of his front
window. Then the dead-bolt clanked back and the door opened about the width of his nose, still secured on
the sort of chain you’d use for a cat leash.
“I ain’t got anything. Go the fuck away.”
“It’s me, numbnuts! Geez-us! Did you or did you not put in an order for smokes?” I tried to peer into the
gloom. Richie wasn’t backlighted by so much as a stove light, candle, or even his aquarium.
“Cliff? You got a new car?”
“No. Same car. Holy shit! What’s going on in there?”
The chain slipped from its track and rattled against the door. “Well, guess,” Richie said. He turned on a tiny
table lamp which sat on the floor of the vestibule. It gave off the glow of a child’s night light.
The door parted enough for me to angle in. Sure enough, the aquarium which had been his pride and joy in
sobriety was shut down and devoid of life. On a pedestal in one corner, a portable TV had replaced his big
flat-screen.
“Tell me you didn’t eat your fish,” I said, handing him the Winstons.
Richie stared at the tank for a moment. He ran his fingers through nearly white hair slicked back into a thin
queue. “I guess I did, in a way,’ he said. “The shop gave me a sick-leave after Christmas, but I only just got a
check yesterday.” He dug in his pockets and pulled out a wad of bills. He handed me a ten. “I needa get rid of
this fast, while I’ve got it.”
“Oh, that makes sense. How come you’re not in rehab, anyway?”
He scratched his neck and shoved the money deep. “No need now, pardner. This run has just about petered
out. I meant I needa get out an’ pay up my bills before I get tempted.”
When Richie turned to find a lighter on the dinette table, I saw the grip of a gun in his back pocket. It was a
small piece, a chick’s purse weapon, maybe a .25 automatic, but huge on his faded buttocks in the dim front
room; big enough to defend a narrow doorway, I supposed; accurate enough across his warped porch. “I’ll be
alright now,” he said. “If these assholes’ll quit draggin’ me back in. I gotta go back to work next week.”
“So you better pull it together,” I said. I stood in the arch between the front room and kitchen.
“I’m gettin’ there.” Richie shrugged. “I may leave the house tomorrow if no one else visits.”
“Is the bathroom still through here?”
“Straight on back. The kitchen switch is behind you. Don’t mind the mess.”
myself on Friday nights—a coffee house or a hockey game. But if Merrill called to whine about the heebie-
jeebies, we’d figure out something to do.
It was snowing again at the end of a grey day of slush, at the end of a greyer than normal February. After I’d
taken Merrill to cancel her car insurance then to apply the refund to her phone bill, we’d been arguing about
where to eat.
I was ready for chili in a bread bowl at Border’s. They usually have free entertainment on Friday night. Merrill
wanted the endless breadsticks or bottomless minestrone at Olive Garden. Her appetite was coming back. I
had to make sure she could pay for her own meal if we went there. I reminded her that I wasn’t made out of
money. So then her mind drifted to Acropolis Coney.
Merrill had been in recovery for awhile, herself, so she just rolled her eyes when I told her it was Richie O’
Malley on my lame, pre-paid cell phone. He said he was holed up in his dinky house with all the doors locked.
I hadn’t seen Richie but once or twice since I retired and left him behind, chasing the line at the auto plant. He
came to my stepson’s wedding last October. He didn’t look like he was using again—he has a skinny build to
begin with.
“Listen, man,” he whispered. “Whataya doing? Is this a bad time?”
“Richie, speak up! This phone sucks.”
“Are you in town? I needja do me a favor.” He was still whispering. He sounded like he might begin to weep.
“We don’t know what we’re doing yet. Taking Merrill around on some errands first. Her car crapped out. What
can I do for ya?”
The mention that my sister-in-law was along seemed to throw him for a moment.. “You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Shit, man. Merrill’s with you?” He wasn’t whispering now. He sniffled. “She can’t see me
like this, man. Can’t let her see me.”
“Fine. She’ll stay in the car,” I said. “What do you need from me?”
“Dude, I’m still kinda sick and I’m outta cigarettes,” he coughed. “No way can I leave the house. I’m avoidin’
some people. Bring me a coupla packs a Winstons and I’ll pay ya back.”
“O.K. We’ll be right there. We’re on Bristol now.”
“Uhh, Cliff?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get them in the box. Not the pack?”
I holstered the cell phone and whipped into the first place I saw, a 7-ll. “What’s his problem?” Merrill asked.
“We’ve gotta make a run for him,” I told her. “He’s flipping out over at his place.”
“Woah, man. I can’t be around him if he’s fucked up,” she said. But then she started brushing her hair in the
visor mirror.
“Guess what. He feels the same way about you,” I said. “You’d think you people would try to help each other.”
Merrill cracked the passenger-side window and lit a cigarette while I tried to park close to the entrance.
“Sometimes. Or you end up stealing from each other.” She pursed her mouth an inch from the opening to
exhale. “He’s called me twice since the wedding.”
“So? At least you two have something in common.”
“I’m just not attracted. He’s a nice guy but he hypers around like a Chihuahua or something. When we danced
at the reception? He was, like, shaking.”
I knew the irony of this was probably lost on bony Merrill, who was still trying to fill in the junky shadows on her
own face.
Big, wet flakes splatted on the windshield when I came out of the store. I got back on Bristol Road and headed
west. “You know what I think it is?” I said. “It’s the nice guy part that doesn’t appeal to you. Richie isn’t
dangerous enough. And you can’t sit still five minutes either.”
“Yeah, well. When I do sit, I’m not rocking back and forth like a meth freak.”
It was almost dark for the rush hour. We waited through two long traffic lights. So many cars hauling ass, then
creeping, trying to get to the banks. A line of vehicles backed out onto the street at the Credit Union by Holy
Redeemer Church. Get the money on a Friday night and take the wife and kids for franchise burgers. Take
them all to Wal-Mart afterward for entertainment. Cheap shoes and video games for everybody. Someone
must still be working.
I turned north onto Fenton Road, headed back across the unguarded frontier into Flint. The neighborhoods
deteriorated with each block. Past South Flint Plaza, it was all check-cashing- 40 ouncer stores and used tire
places that had once been gas stations. The Plaza used to be one of the first shopping malls ever. Now they
were down to a few nail salons, a video warehouse, and one huge showroom full of mobile home furniture.
“Lincoln Street, I think,” I said.
“Don’t ask me.”
The side street was narrowed by unplowed snow and derelict cars stuck in grimy drifts.
“This area is really going down. He should have sold the place after his last divorce.”
“Welcome to my world,” Merrill said. “But guess where the money would’ve gone. He’s lucky he still has a
place.”
“We’ll see.” I had been to Richie’s house only a few times. There were lots of unpainted drywall repairs and
carpet remnants. I didn’t know the address and there were hundreds of one-story-frame places cloned in the
fifties for auto workers with VA loans. I crept the car down the middle of the street, looking for his S10 truck
with the capper, or his beat-up Cavalier. The back of his truck was always packed with camping and fishing
gear. He’d always have that stuff, at least. There wasn’t much hock value in any of it. Maybe the Coleman
stove or the fly casting reels.
I found the Cavalier, which I remembered was red. I could see enough red under a week’s worth of
undisturbed snow. The truck was not in the drive or by the curb. Merrill had had cars stolen by friends and
associates and had stolen cars in turn.
“Be right back,” I told her.
“I’m about starving, ya know.”
The front walk hadn’t been shoveled but was trampled passable. Same situation with the porch. I scuffed at
the thick, icy build-up. A sizeable chunk broke loose and ricocheted off the aluminum storm-door frame. I
followed that up with some hefty pounding. There was no glass in the frame. It clattered on its hinges. There
were no lights on inside, that I could see.
“Richie! C’mon, man,” I called. The Good Samaritan business was going to wear thin if he didn’t meet me half
way. “Winter out here!”
I heard footsteps then, stopping short of the door. I knew he must be in the vestibule. You’d think someone
with his history would have one of those peep-hole gizmos in a heavy, steel door. But this was a peely,
painted wood job, delaminating at the bottom. Richie would be trying to take a peek out the drapes of his front
window. Then the dead-bolt clanked back and the door opened about the width of his nose, still secured on
the sort of chain you’d use for a cat leash.
“I ain’t got anything. Go the fuck away.”
“It’s me, numbnuts! Geez-us! Did you or did you not put in an order for smokes?” I tried to peer into the
gloom. Richie wasn’t backlighted by so much as a stove light, candle, or even his aquarium.
“Cliff? You got a new car?”
“No. Same car. Holy shit! What’s going on in there?”
The chain slipped from its track and rattled against the door. “Well, guess,” Richie said. He turned on a tiny
table lamp which sat on the floor of the vestibule. It gave off the glow of a child’s night light.
The door parted enough for me to angle in. Sure enough, the aquarium which had been his pride and joy in
sobriety was shut down and devoid of life. On a pedestal in one corner, a portable TV had replaced his big
flat-screen.
“Tell me you didn’t eat your fish,” I said, handing him the Winstons.
Richie stared at the tank for a moment. He ran his fingers through nearly white hair slicked back into a thin
queue. “I guess I did, in a way,’ he said. “The shop gave me a sick-leave after Christmas, but I only just got a
check yesterday.” He dug in his pockets and pulled out a wad of bills. He handed me a ten. “I needa get rid of
this fast, while I’ve got it.”
“Oh, that makes sense. How come you’re not in rehab, anyway?”
He scratched his neck and shoved the money deep. “No need now, pardner. This run has just about petered
out. I meant I needa get out an’ pay up my bills before I get tempted.”
When Richie turned to find a lighter on the dinette table, I saw the grip of a gun in his back pocket. It was a
small piece, a chick’s purse weapon, maybe a .25 automatic, but huge on his faded buttocks in the dim front
room; big enough to defend a narrow doorway, I supposed; accurate enough across his warped porch. “I’ll be
alright now,” he said. “If these assholes’ll quit draggin’ me back in. I gotta go back to work next week.”
“So you better pull it together,” I said. I stood in the arch between the front room and kitchen.
“I’m gettin’ there.” Richie shrugged. “I may leave the house tomorrow if no one else visits.”
“Is the bathroom still through here?”
“Straight on back. The kitchen switch is behind you. Don’t mind the mess.”
