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DIESEL

M errick and I stand in the middle of the craziest mess the Leaky Skull has ever seen.

The side wall has been knocked out to accommodate the new bathrooms plus a bigger stage for bands. Heavy duty plastic flaps cover the opening as workers stack two-by-fours on the ground to frame out the addition.

“This is going to be a mess for a while,” Merrick says.

“At least it’s happening.”

Two-Shit shoves aside a flap to peer in. “You got any beer in there?”

Merrick shakes his head. “Won’t be reopening for a couple of months at least.”

Two-Shit slaps a hard hat on with a grin. “I guess I better get to it, then.”

“Hey!” I say. “You’re on the crew?”

“Hell yeah. You think I got nothin’ to do but drink beer and bang my ol’ lady?” He straps on a tool belt. “I been a crew leader longer than you two have been pissin’ in a toilet.”

“Nice,” Merrick says. “Then we’re in good hands.”

“I reckon,” Two-Shit says. “Boss man wants your schematic, though. You got it?”

“It’s on my desk,” I say. “I can get it.”

Two-Shit steps inside the flap. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’ll stay out here,” Merrick says. “It’s fun to watch.”

Two-Shit smacks him on the shoulder. “Learn a real trade, kid. Get your hands dirty.”

“I got them dirty enough in the desert,” he says.

Two-Shit nods at that. “I believe it. Glad you two didn’t re-enlist. The beer at Spanky’s is overpriced pisswater. Everybody’s ready to come back.”

“Good to know,” Merrick says.

I lead Two-Shit through the swinging doors. He looks around the kitchen. “Didn’t even know you had a grill back here.”

“We’ve made burgers since we opened,” I say.

“Well, fuck me sideways. Maybe you ought to have a goddamn menu.”

I grin at him. “It’s in the works.”

When we step into the office, I spot a patch on his vest that reads, “Arnold.”

“That your name? Arnold?” I ask.

“What my mama gave me, God rest her soul. But don’t call me that off the clock, or I’ll box your ears.”

I laugh. “Understood.” I rummage around the papers strewn on the desk.

When I pick up the binder with the building plans, the corner of my sketchbook peeks out.

Two-Shit spots it right off and pulls it out. “You a drawing man?”

“Used to be.”

He flips it open, revealing the very naked portrait of Symphony. “Whooee, I remember that gal. Shit, you got that one under you, didn’t you?”

I take the book and open a drawer to stuff it inside. “For a time.”

“You’re pretty good. I’d pay money for that.”

I bet he would. “Just a hobby.”

“I used to have a hobby, an obsession really.” He picks up the binder of plans. “Guitar.”

“Were you any good?”

“I could play sweet, sweet tunes all day long. Put together a group. Got some gigs. We cut a little record once. Didn’t go nowhere.”

“A record? Really?”

“Yeah, some shitty outfit out of Memphis. But the road was hard. The band couldn’t hold it together, and I was drunk all the time.” He kicks at the leg of the desk. “Gave it up. Got a real job. Joined Wild Hair. That’s a job right there.”

I haven’t sketched since Merrick and I took off with Greta. I sometimes get the urge, but I shove it down. “You regret quitting?”

“Only every day.” Two-Shit sniffs. “Nothin’ else dulls the pain.” He laughs. “But I sure make a go of it with beer and a woman.”

“You know, you could pick it up again,” I say.

“Nah. That part of my soul done gone dry. A gift like that is like a flower in a pot. If you don’t water it, give it some love, it turns to dirt.”

He moves toward the door, holding up the binder. “Thanks for these.” He tilts his head toward the desk. “Hope your balls don’t shrivel after giving up that one.” He chuckles to himself as he leaves.

I drop onto the chair. Who knew Two-Shit was a philosopher?

I haven’t written Symphony since we got back. I don’t know what to say. She’s got a big life ahead, and a two-bit bar owner is a liability, not an asset.

I pull out the sketchbook. My throat tightens as I look at each image of her. Are they any good? How would I know? Symphony liked them.

Maybe I could find out.

Luckily, I know where to find an art class.