drunk and in jail for arson
Drunk and In Jail For Arson (Indestructible)
Ryan Adams/Buck 65, 5800~
Contains members of Cold War Kids, The Academy Is, Gym Class Heroes, as well as cameos by Sage Francis, Feist, CR Avery, and a couple of others. For dreamofthem. This existed in wishful thinking and mixcds before I wrote it down. Very, very self-indulgent.
"I got chalk line and I got locked wine," says Ryan, "but the best part is, I know you're mine."
"Needs work," says Buck.
"Dammit," says Ryan, “that was my masterpiece.”
Some giggling girls walk in and buy tiny packets of cotton twine. They are the second group to do so today. They buy their cotton twine and giggle, hands covering mouths, as Buck rings up their purchase.
"Rich, Rich," says Ryan. He's making a list on the back of a leftover receipt, sitting on the back counter and kicking his heels against the cabinets. "What rhymes with chalk line?"
"Mock time," says Buck, "talk kind, locked wine."
Ryan lost the key to their wine cupboard last night. Buck doesn't know why they locked their wine cupboard - they were drunk the night when they took a lock and key out of the store and just never bothered to take it all back down and they were drunk when Ryan lost the key - and now it's all inaccessible.
"Locked wine!" says Ryan, lighting up. The tragedy of the lost key weighs on his mind as well. Or Buck hopes it does. It's all Ryan's fault that the key is missing.
"Would you like a bag?" Buck asks the young ladies.
"Yes, please," they chorus. Buck tucks the packets of twine into separate paper bags and hands them each a receipt. He smiles.
They fold the receipts and tuck them into the bags. They walk out, arm in arm, giggling. Their dresses are layers and layers of white cotton, reflecting the sun.
Buck sort of wonders what the shit is going on with the youth in this town, and when cotton twine became a hot commodity. They're going to have to order more at the end of the week.
"I got chalk line and I got locked wine," says Ryan, "but the best part is, I know you're mine."
"Needs work," says Buck.
"Dammit," says Ryan, “that was my masterpiece.”
Ryan comes back from his three o'clock break. He breathes hot air into Buck's mouth. It tastes like tiny planets crushed up and rolled in paper, then set on fire.
"Fuck whine," says Ryan.
"That's doesn't rhyme," says Buck. "Unless you have a British accident."
“H’ain’t got no Brit-tish act-cent,” grumbles Ryan.
Bucks hides a grin.
"I see you grinning," says Ryan. He says it again with a British accent. Buck doesn't bother to hide his grin this time.
A boy walks in, red-faced and stoic. He circles the store without pausing before coming to the front counter and placing a pack of cotton twine on the counter.
“Want a bag?” asks Buck.
“Yes,” says the boy, and then he laughs a little, just a few decibels too low to be a giggle.
Buck puts the twine in the bag and hands it to him, with the receipt. The boy takes the time to fold the receipt carefully and tuck it into the bag before exiting the store.
“Have a nice day,” says Buck, and wonders why all these kids can’t buy something more expensive, why it had to be the cheapest item in the store, except for the nails. But then what the hell would they do with nails?
“What the hell,” says Ryan. He kicks his heels against the cupboard. “What the hell, kids today, what the hell.”
“We’re going to run out,” says Buck. “I didn’t order more last week, did you?”
“I dunno. Did we sell a lot of twine last week?”
“Why twine,” says Buck. He turns around, leaning his elbows against the front counter to stare at Ryan. Ryan kicks him in the thigh. “What do kids do with twine?”
“I dunno,” says Ryan. “Sew?”
“Four o’clock,” says Ryan. “Go take your break.”
Buck hangs up a sign on the front door - back in twenty minutes. “Come here.”
They fuck slowly, upstairs, twenty minutes longer than the twenty minutes on the sign, and they don’t talk except for Ryan to say, “fucking goddamn,” in Buck’s ear, breathless and lower than the boy in the store.
Buck doesn’t want to get up from the sheets afterwards, except he needs to, except he doesn’t want to at all. It's a shout that rouses him. He pulls on his own trousers and Ryan’s shirt and opens in the window. It’s just Nathan, brawling in the street again, outside in front of the bar. It’s funnier than usual, though, because the man he’s fighting is tall, blonde, beautiful, with no control over his limbs.
“What?” demands Ryan.
“Willett’s punching some kid who can’t defend himself,” says Buck.
Ryan laughs.
“Looks like a piano player,” says Buck.
“Poor bastard,” says Ryan. Buck laughs. “They hired a new piano player. I bet that’s him.”
Ryan crawls down to the end of the bed. “What now?”
Nathan knocks the guy on to the ground, right into the dust. There’s a cheer from the crowd around them. Nathan picks the man up off the ground and hugs him. Buck leans forward. Nathan might be whispering something in the man’s ear, he can’t tell. The man is bleeding all over Nathan’s shirt.
“Did he hug him?” asks Ryan.
Buck turns around, smiles. “Yeah.” Nathan always was a lover, not a fighter.
When Buck makes it back downstairs, hat covering untidy hair and his shirt buttoned in the right holes, Sage is waiting, looking lost on the porch. Sage is fearsome. Sage is about five times the size of Buck and Ryan together and Buck loves the son of a bitch. He slaps Sage’s hand. “Sage.”
“Buck.”
Sage follows him inside. Buck and Ryan see Sage once a week or so, usually to sell him a hammer. Sage buys a lot of hammers and they don’t know why. Ryan wrote a song about it once, Why Sage Buys A Hammer, but he got distracted in the middle by a big spider in the kitchen and never returned to the song. It was funny as all hell too, so it for the best that he’d seen the spider before he’d written the end. As it was, Buck always had to remind himself not to grin so wide at Sage.
Ryan’s sitting on the back counter again, redrawing the chalk board from the morning. He’d drawn a flying buggy that morning, above the prices of saws. Now he’s drawing the outline of a huge blue rose.
“Buck, I got lady troubles,” says Sage, leaning up on the counter while Buck fetches him a hammer.
“Love her in the ways you want to be loved,” says Ryan immediately.
“I knew you two wouldn’t be no help,” says Sage sadly.
“Hey,” says Buck, coming around to the counter. He’s had lady troubles in his life. He’s had a lot of lady troubles in his life. Now he’s just got Ryan, who is a whole different kind of troubles.
“Just because we're rip-roaring bachelors having a good time without you,” says Ryan, “now really, Paulie,” he continues, “it works every time.”
“I don’t believe that shit,” says Sage. “How come you ain’t got a lady then?”
“All a-them got Ryan troubles.”
Buck marvels at the simplicity and truth of the answer and the way Ryan answers without a hint of discomfort. Even Buck, safe working the register, always feels a bit hot when people ask why such a fine gentleman such as Ryan isn't courting anyone.
“Shit,” says Sage. He sighs. “I got lady troubles.”
“You want a bag, Sage?” asks Buck.
“Nah,” says Sage. He tucks the hammer into the inside of his pocket.
“Love her in the ways you want to be loved,” hums Ryan, waving at him.
Sage walks out of the store with a sigh. Buck grins. Buck loves the son of a bitch, he does.
Buck is all alone, a minute away from closing up when a young girl walks in by herself. He frowns and takes a cautionary couple of steps away from her. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, taking his hat off.
She eyes his untidy hair and shakes her head, looking down. She makes her way to the back, and comes back with a packet of cotton twine.
“You need this at the school?” says Buck, opening the register.
She looks up from the floor, startled. “What?”
“The twine?”
“No.”
Buck smiles so he doesn’t frown in confusion. “Do you want a bag, miss?”
“Yes, please.”
Buck tucks in a bag for her, and folds the receipt and places that in the bag as well. Just to save her time. He smiles his hugest at her. “Have a good evening, ma’am.”
She walks out, petticoats whispering against the unpolished floor. Buck stares after her.
“I got a gee-tar,” sings Ryan. “I got a lucky star. But I ain’t got no bar. . .key.”
“Needs work,” says Buck, up to his elbows in soapy water.
Ryan stares at the locked cabinet. “Do you think I could kick the door in?” he says.
“Might break a bottle if you do that,” says Buck. “If you even could. That door took us so long to make anyway, don't you remember?”
“I do,” says Ryan. He sets the guitar down and starts to put dishes back in the kitchen cabinets. “Do you remember when we could get into the wine cabinet before some asshole lost the key?”
“I do,” says Buck, “asshole.”
Ryan throws a mournful look at the locked cabinet.
“I got Ryan troubles,” says Buck, “like flyin’ rubbles but I ain’t got no wine. . .cupboard key.”
Ryan snorts as he turns away to put a pot away. His shoulders shake.
Ryan lays on Buck's lap and they watch the stars and the street through his bedroom window.
“Three words,” says Ryan; his favorite game.
“I found it,” says Buck.
“I wish that was so,” says Ryan.
Nathan’s leaning on a pillar outside the bar. He’s smoking. Buck is disappointed in him. He takes Ryan’s cigarette and inhales.
“Willett’s gonna die,” says Buck.
“Not yet,” says Ryan.
Nathan gets dragged back inside by two of his spiny, sinewy friends.
“Stop fucking up,” says Buck.
“Never,” says Ryan. He takes his cigarette back and blows smoke out the window. “Give up?”
“No,” says Buck. This game’ll last for days if he plays it right. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Coffee and eggs. Aw, shit.” Ryan punches him in the knee. Buck grins. “No, that's not it.”
Ryan settles back and stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray on the windowsill. Buck waits. It’s a clear night out and they can see silhouettes in the street, walking on uneasy legs back home. It's probably late, he doesn't know. The church bells haven't rung in a long time.
Ryan pinches Buck’s thigh. “I feel like shit,” he says. Buck looks down. Ryan looks exhausted, eyes dark and grey.
“That was four words,” says Buck. “I got three for you.”
“Time for bed?”
Ryan knows Buck too well.
Monday is Ryan’s day off. Tuesday is Buck’s day off. Buck sleeps in until Ryan climbs on top of the covers and puts coffee in front of his face.
“I’m opening up,” says Ryan.
“Okay,” says Buck, eyes half-open.
“Train comes in at twelve past.”
“Yep,” says Buck, and then he opens his eyes all the way. “Twelve past what?”
“Ten,” says Ryan. “I gotta open up now.” He hands Buck the mug and slips off the covers. Buck listens to him thump down the stairs to the back of the storeroom. He sits up and sips at the coffee. Ryan opens the doors and windows and Buck can feel it through the bed frame and into the mattress. He sits back against the headboard.
There are a few moments of silence, and then there’s the sound of a shotgun. Ryan screeches.
“CR!” he hears Ryan bellow as the bells above the door ring. “Get the fuck outta my shop! You don’t need no fuckin’ tools, you need a fuckin’ asylum!”
Buck gets out of bed, laughing, and gets dressed.
“But I need tools.” CR is pleading with Ryan. Ryan brandishes a rake at him. “I got a need for tools.” He nods as Buck enters from the back. “Buck.”
“CR.”
“You should be glad some asshole lost the key to our wine cabinet,” says Ryan, “because if I was drunk, I would rake you through the heart.”
“Asshole,” says CR, looking around.
Ryan grins. “You don’t need any tools, get the fuck out.”
CR wanders away from Ryan towards the wood polish. Buck takes the rake out of Ryan’s hands and sets it down behind the counter. “Miss Williams wants that rake,” he says. “She’s counting on us for that rake. Don’t go raking CR through the heart with Miss Williams’ rake.”
Ryan takes the coffee mug away from him and drinks like a parched man. “I thought I’d been shot, and you’re only worried about Miss Williams rake.”
Buck grins at him and jumps up to sit on the back counter. Ryan turns around, smiling to himself. “What do you want, CR?” he yells.
“I need a tool!” CR shouts back.
“You don’t need one, you are one!”
“Guess you’d know, toolman!”
“I trade tools,” says Ryan. “I own your ass.”
Buck knocks his heels against the cupboard and thinks of rhymes for toolman. Cool hand, fool ran, mule tan, school sand. He doesn’t realise he’s got a beat going until CR starts up, spitting everywhere, and then Ryan follows, knocking the heads of screwdrivers against the counter top.
“Dammit Buck,” says CR, stopping in the middle of Ryan's first rhyme, toolman got a cool hand in the nightland where it's bright, man. “I need a tool.”
Ryan shakes his head and leans against the back counter next to Buck, grinning. He touches Buck’s ankle, just above his shoe. Buck looks down at him, smiles.
“What do you need, CR?” says Ryan, again.
“Peace of mind, a lady line to treat so fine, and,” says CR, “I need a tool.”
Buck yawns.
“Okay,” says CR. “I get it. I get you two.”
“Uh huh,” says Ryan, but he drops his hand from Buck’s ankle to his own back pocket. Buck sits back against the wall.
“You just want me to buy an anvil and go,” says CR sadly. “My company doesn't mean one single thing to you.”
“Aw, CR,” says Ryan. “You know you mean more to us than an anvil.”
CR picks up a pick axe and examines it. Then he picks up a regular axe and brings it the counter.
“Want.”
“Pay,” says Ryan, unfazed.
“Trade.”
“Hell no.”
They go like this until CR relents and sticks his hands into his pockets and starts counting out nickels and dimes. It takes him a couple of minutes but he finally gets it.
“I love you Ryan Adams,” says CR as Ryan wraps up his axe in brown paper.
“Get the fuck out of my shop,” says Ryan.
CR pouts and then he nods at Buck and Buck grins and CR grins and Ryan says, “out” in a very loud voice and CR makes a sound like a shotgun and then he runs away.
“It’s a good thing some asshole lost the key to our wine cupboard,” says Ryan, “or else I might rake him through his heart.”
“Asshole,” says Buck, nudging a heel against Ryan's pocket.
The bells above the door ring and two young boys walk in. Ryan rolls his eyes and turns back to the register.
Buck misses Ryan’s ten o’clock break because he’s at the train station, watching the anxious mailman. The train is untidy and the mailman is always anxious about the state of his mail. The mailman fidgets as the steam engine pulls in, tugging on his messy hair and biting his lip.
The train slows into the station and Buck makes his away to the end of the platform where there aren’t any passengers, where a single worker is unloading crates.
“Buck and Ryan’s,” says the worker. “That you?”
“Yes,” says Buck. “What do you have?”
“Crates,” says the worker. “Two. You got someone to take them with you?”
“No,” says Buck. “I’ll be fine. What’s in the crates?”
The workman looks down at his clipboard. “Uh. Twine and chalk and oil in that one, shovel heads in that one.”
“Thank you,” says Buck. “Alright.”
The workman looks back at the train. “I’ll help you carry ‘em in, we’ll be here a while.”
“Sure,” says Buck, “that'd be great, thanks.” He still wondering who ordered the twine though, him or Ryan.
“We ran out of twine,” says Ryan, watching Buck set down a crate in the storeroom. The workman drops his crate as well and the shovel heads clang together. Ryan and Buck wince.
“Good thing we got more,” says Buck. “And chalk.”
“Chalk,” say Ryan, lighting up. But then he frowns, because he’s not allowed to use chalk when he’s working.
“What did you run out of twine for?” asks the work man.
“The kids in this town are all crazy,” explains Ryan.
“Ahh,” says the workman like that makes any sense at all. “Well. Be seein’ you.” He sticks his hands in his pockets.
“I got a lollipop,” offers Ryan.
Buck hands him a nickel. The man tips his work hat and leaves.
“I would have taken the lollipop,” says Ryan. “That man is a fool.”
Buck does not miss lunch because he makes lunch, upstairs in the kitchen. Sandwiches, warmed up over the stove. The stove was a bitch of a thing to get up to the second floor, but it was worth it for the sandwiches. And the coffee.
Ryan drags Buck back to his room before either of them are finished with their sandwiches. Ryan isn’t very hungry today anyway, too much energy from having to work without Buck.
“Fucking goddamn,” says Buck in Ryan's ear and Ryan smiles.
Ryan doesn’t smoke afterwards either, he just curls up into Buck’s side and pokes at him to keep him awake to keep himself awake.
“I gotta go downstairs,” says Ryan. He pokes at Buck's ribcage.
“Yes, you do,” says Buck. “You’re working today.”
“I hate Tuesdays,” says Ryan. “I like Sundays and Mondays best.”
“The bar’s not open on Sunday,” Buck points out.
“I like Mondays best,” says Ryan and he pokes Buck's liver once more, with feeling, and then touches his chest, palm flat, briefly, and slips out of bed. He gets dressed and stands for a minute, watching Buck debate whether or not to get out of bed with him.
“Hair,” says Buck, sleepy. “Fix your hair before you go down.”
Ryan looks over at himself in the mirror above the washbasin. “Aw, I think I look cute.”
“You don’t look fit to run a shop for tools,” says Buck, “little boy.”
Ryan makes a horrible face at him and runs down the stairs.
“Travis McCoy,” says Ryan, face filled with disbelief.
“Travis McCoy,” says Buck, shocked.
“Yeah, man,” says Travis McCoy and he tips his ridiculous top hat at them. Buck will never understand European fashion.
“I thought you were dead,” says Ryan. “I thought - I told you Rich, didn't I tell you, I thought he was dead.”
“And I told you he was out East,” says Buck, staring at Travis. “But I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to come back.”
“Travis McCoy,” says Ryan again.
“Back from the dead, baby.”
Ryan slaps his hand, hard, and Buck does too. He’s twice as tall as both of them. Buck’s missed him being around.
“What happened back East?” says Ryan. Buck climbs on the back counter to listen and Ryan leans next to him. Travis shrugs. “They couldn’t handle me.”
“Prostitution not as lucrative as you thought?” says Ryan, nodding.
“Nah,” says Travis. He leans in. “Not as much fun.”
“You’re a saint,” says Buck, who knows Travis is full of shit. Travis laughs, teeth bright white. He looks so happy to be home, even if he is wearing a full black suit in the middle of April.
“What’d’you come back for?” demands Ryan. “You said you weren’t never coming back anyway.”
“We’re gonna open a dancehall.”
Travis says this and suddenly everyone’s attention swings to the man standing next to him. He’s a beautiful man - unsurprising as Travis tends to associate with beautiful people, through no preference of his own - but it still startles Buck sometimes. The man is sharp and pointed, and he has cool hair. Buck likes his hair. It’s long and he doesn’t look at all uncomfortable, though he is wearing a top hat like Travis. He pulls it off markedly better than Travis though.
“William Beckett,” says Travis, waving a hand. “My associate.”
“Buck,” says Ryan, hand out. William shakes it. “Charmed.”
“Ryan,” says Buck, nodding at William. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You two are assholes,” says Travis, shaking his head with a grin.
“I lost our wine cabinet key,” explains Ryan to Travis. Travis nods with understanding. “Damn shame for you, Adams.”
“Pleasure,” says William. “Travis speaks of you both fondly.”
“Aw,” says Ryan. “Y’old softie.”
“So, dancehall,” says Buck. “You came back to open a dancehall? We got a bar.”
“You can’t even dance,” says Ryan.
“Bars is for men,” says Travis. “Me’n’William, we want something respectable for the ladies.”
Ryan laughs so hard that he falls back against Buck’s knees. “No,” he gasps, “really, no, dancehall.” And Buck is grinning pretty widely too, and he can feel Ryan's vertebrae on his knees.
“Shut up,” says Travis. “Ladies like a man in a top hat.”
“You look like a tool,” says Ryan. Buck toes him in the back and Ryan stands on his own. “Not you, Beckett, but Travie. You look like a tool.”
“You’d know, toolman. Good thing I got Billy then, huh.” Travis winks at them, but it’s blown by the small, quick smile that William throws him. Buck smiles, and kicks Ryan in the butt just because he can.
“We’re not here for pleasure though,” says Travis. “We got business.”
“We need someone to polish the floor of the hall we’re going to buy,” says William.
“Where’re you going to buy?”
“Masters’ old pool hall,” says Travis. “He’s gone, right? That’s what Bailey told me.”
“Yeah, he went out west,” Buck tells him. “Finally lost his mind and told us all he was going to make his fortune in gold and come back to replace our heads with balloons.”
“Man, I miss having him around.”
“Travis says you two can polish the floor,” William presses. “Once a month or so, we’d need it done.”
“We can,” says Ryan, nose wrinkling. “We don’t really want to.”
“But you can.”
“We can.”
“We’ll pay you.”
“Of course you will,” says Ryan. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Travis makes a face. Buck shakes his head. Travis rolls his eyes and Buck kicks Ryan again, obvious to both Travis and William. Everyone smiles except Ryan, who rubs his hip.
“Okay,” says Ryan reluctantly. “We’ll think about it.”
A trio of boys stomp into the store, stomp all around, and eventually buy a packet of twine each.
“Twine,” sings Ryan, “‘cos I got twine, I know you’re mine.”
“Mine in twine,” says Buck suddenly. “We need twine.”
“Nope, all wrong,” says Ryan. “Hey, draw me something?”
“But I like your roses,” protests Buck. He does. They’ve grown past the first chalkboard and across onto most of the rest of them, but he does like them. They’re blue and white roses with green thorns.
“Draw me something.”
Buck takes the back of some scrap paper and draws a church on fire with many cats fleeing the building.
“Poor kitties,” says Ryan.
“They survive the fire and go on to all find homes in cupboards and storerooms and barns. And they eat rats for dinner each night and birds in the morning for breakfast.”
“Poor rats,” says Ryan.
“The roses will protect them,” Buck assures him. “Those roses have powers we will never understand.”
“I’m taking my break early,” Ryan announces. Buck meets him upstairs.
“You two don’t work,” says Nathan, when Ryan comes down a full fifty minutes after he hangs up the sign. He’s sitting on the steps and drinking something out of a paper bag, of course. “How the hell do you keep in business if you don’t work.”
Buck listens from the window as he dresses.
“We’re the only tool shop in town,” says Ryan proudly. “Now get the hell off my porch, Willett.”
“No,” says Nathan, climbing to his feet. “Barkeep sent me over.”
“Finally working off your tab?” asks Ryan, taking his arm and escorting the man inside. Nathan leans on the front counter and hands the paper bag to Ryan who hands it to Buck who hands it back to Nathan, shaking his head. Nathan takes it and drinks from it, famished.
“No,” says Nathan when he sets the bag down. “I broke the piano leg. Do you sell piano legs?”
“We’re a tool shop,” says Ryan.
“Piano leg’s a tool,” says Nathan. “Keeps my music standing.”
“We saw you punch the new piano player. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t remember,” says Nathan. He looks sad. “Do you have a piano leg?”
“We have some crates we could make into a leg,”offers Ryan. “Want us to try?”
“Yes,” says Nathan. And then he says, “you know I can’t pay.”
Buck and Ryan sigh.
“Put it on my tab,” says Nathan.
“You ain’t got a tab,” says Ryan.
“I got one now,” says Nathan. “Barkeep says come around tonight, otherwise piano player’s gonna be angry.”
They watch him leave. Nathan could be sober if he ever wanted to be. He never does though. Buck can’t understand it.
“Goin’ to the bar with my lucky star but I still ain’t got no key,” warbles Ryan and he picks up a broom and starts to sweep the front stoop outside. Buck adds bushes of roses to the bottom of his drawing of a church on fire with the fleeing cats.
Leslie walks in like a hurricane and says, “Rich.”
Ryan says, “no.” He’s angry at the sound of Buck's name from any other mouth, fingers tapping against the counter top. Buck turns his palm up and starts to trace one of Ryan's roses onto his skin.
“What do you need, Miss Feist?” asks Buck. Buck’s worst lady trouble was always Leslie. And she’s gonna love the dancehall, he knows it already.
“I need a hammer,” she says. “The chalkboard won’t hang right in the school anymore. Crooked. The children are getting curved necks.”
“You and Sage,” mutters Ryan, though the two of them are linked in no way except that they’ve both bought hammers in the past two days. Leslie doesn’t come to the store very often, more fond of sending her students in if she needs erasers or chalk or buckets. She doesn't like Ryan very much.
“I need some chalk too,” she says. “I’m hoping you haven’t used it all, Ryan.”
“Not yet,” says Ryan, and he fetches her hammer and her chalk without a single dark look, except one, at his shoes, when he trips. He wraps her chalk and her hammer and hands it to her with the receipt.
“Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan smiles without grace or joy. “Come back soon now, you hear?”
Buck touches Ryan's collar, the top of his shirt, when she leaves and Ryan looks back him, annoyed until he sees the rose on the palm of Buck's hand.
“Hey, we can close in an hour,” says Buck. “Nobody buys tools on Tuesdays anyway.”
They nail together boards from the crates. Ryan sands them down and Buck polishes them and they eat their unfinished sandwiches in the storeroom, watching the polish dry.
“Looks terrible,” remarks Ryan.
“Barkeep won’t care,” replies Buck. “He just likes music.”
“Piano player might,” says Ryan. “Guess he should’ve made friends with Willett before he took his job.”
“Poor man,” says Buck.
It’s a Tuesday evening, slow and steady, and the beautiful piano player looks depressed.
“My piano,” he says.
“Drink another gin,” says Nathan, handing him a glass. The beautiful piano player takes it and drinks it all.
“I got dust in my eye,” grumps Ryan. “Ah, shit. I can’t see.”
“Move over,” says Buck. “You don’t know how to nail straight anyway.”
Ryan moves over, but then they’re just squished under the piano, looking up Ryan’s nail job.
“They ain’t handymen for a good reason,” says Nathan, sitting next to the beautiful piano player. “But they’re cheap.”
“Makes sense,” says the beautiful piano player.
Ryan gives them both the finger.
“Ryan. Ryan,” says Buck. “I think we can’t do anymore. What is that, right there? Is that glue?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Okay,” says Buck. “We’re done. I want a beer.”
“Cider,” demands Ryan.
“I don’t know what the hell we’re doing out here tonight,” says Nathan to the piano player. “You wanna get out of here? There’s a bonfire on the back of Masters’ old property. This kid told me about it, he says they’ve tied all the dead trees with twine and they’re going to light the strings.”
“Sounds dangerous,” says the piano player.
Nathan shrugs.
“Huh,” says Buck. Ryan looks at him, frowning.
“What the hell,” says Ryan. “What the hell Rich, is that our key.”
“What the hell,” says Buck. “Our wine cupboard key, what the hell.”
The whole of Masters’ property is ablaze, trees, overgrown field, house and all. A group of teenagers stand to the side, struck silent by the destruction they’ve created. Buck and Ryan puzzle over the key hanging by a piece of twine from Masters’ front porch.
Ryan shakes his head. “Shit, no, it can't be, let’s go home.”
Buck stares the key as the flame leap closer to it. “How did-”
“Let’s go home,” says Ryan, punching him. There’s a call from the other end of town - “fire, fire!” - and the teens scatter. Buck and Ryan rush home.
It only takes Ryan four tries to kick the door of the wine cabinet in and he only tips a couple of bottles in the process. He takes four bottles of cider out and they make those bottles last, sitting at the kitchen table, asking each other how their key got on Masters’ property, kids these days, what the hell. At first they can see the flames from the window in Ryan’s room, but then they go back to the kitchen as it dims and the shouts of “put out the fire, boys!” grow less frantic, and they continue asking each other, what the hell, what the fucking hell, kids these days.
Then they decide it couldn't possibly be their key, and they toast each other, arms hooked.
Buck leans his chair back on two legs, staring at the ceiling.
Ryan downs the last of the four bottles. “Rich,” he says, voice wet and low. He sweeps the bottles off the table. They shatter on the ground. He stands.
Buck looks at him, opens his mouth to speak and realises he has nothing to say. He stands as well and grabs Ryan’s hand. He drags him close and Ryan pushes him back into Buck's bedroom.
They only get as far as shirts off when they hear banging on the door of the ground floor. “Terfry!” bellows the deep voice of the sheriff. “Adams!”
“Shit,” hisses Ryan, toppling off him sideways on to the bed. “Shit, put on your shirt.”
“Where is my shirt,” whispers Buck. Ryan slips off the bed to the doorway and Buck turns on a light. They cast about for Buck’s shirt and find it on the floor under the chair. Buck pulls it on and tries to place the buttons in the right holes.
“Boys,” the sheriff shouts from the ground floor. “This is the sheriff and you all are in big trouble.”
“Shit,” hisses Ryan. He looks at Buck. He looks afraid and tormented in the doorway of Buck’s room. “Shit, Rich.”
“Three words,” whispers Buck, looking down at his buttons and then looking up again him. “Three words, I give up.”
“No,” says Ryan. “No, that wasn’t it, of course that wasn’t it.”
“No, tell me,” whispers Buck. He picks up Ryan’s shirt and tosses it at him. Ryan shrugs into it, not bothering with buttons.
“You-” begins Ryan, but the sheriff shouts at them again. “I’m coming up if you don’t come down and be trusting me when I say you boys don’t want me coming up.”
Buck jumps out of bed, touches Ryan’s hand as he squeezes past him through the doorway. He walks down the stairs, Ryan right behind.
“I was hopin' you boys could explain this to me,” says the sheriff, holding up the charred and blackened key to their wine cupboard emblazoned with a “B&R.”
“Shit!” exclaims Ryan. “It's the key to our wine cupboard.”
“You asshole,” says Buck, grinning. “You are such an asshole.” He holds out an arm. Ryan laughs and hugs him, arms around his waist.
The sheriff raises an eyebrow. “Are you boys drunk?”
“Yes,” they tell him.
“Travis,” says Buck. “Me and Ryan are in jail. We need you to come get us.”
Travis yawns. “You’re in jail?”
“Yes.”
“The fuck did you do?” asks Travis.
“In jail for arson,” says Buck, “and we’re drunk.”
“Huh,” says Travis. He pauses and then says, “you two are going to be polishing a lot of floors for us, you know that?”
Buck can hear Ryan singing in the drunk tank, kicking his heels against the cement floor and warbling a song all his own about going home. Buck looks down at the faint outline of a rose on his palm, blue lines blurred.
“Yeah, sure,” says Buck.
Ryan Adams/Buck 65, 5800~
Contains members of Cold War Kids, The Academy Is, Gym Class Heroes, as well as cameos by Sage Francis, Feist, CR Avery, and a couple of others. For dreamofthem. This existed in wishful thinking and mixcds before I wrote it down. Very, very self-indulgent.
"I got chalk line and I got locked wine," says Ryan, "but the best part is, I know you're mine."
"Needs work," says Buck.
"Dammit," says Ryan, “that was my masterpiece.”
Some giggling girls walk in and buy tiny packets of cotton twine. They are the second group to do so today. They buy their cotton twine and giggle, hands covering mouths, as Buck rings up their purchase.
"Rich, Rich," says Ryan. He's making a list on the back of a leftover receipt, sitting on the back counter and kicking his heels against the cabinets. "What rhymes with chalk line?"
"Mock time," says Buck, "talk kind, locked wine."
Ryan lost the key to their wine cupboard last night. Buck doesn't know why they locked their wine cupboard - they were drunk the night when they took a lock and key out of the store and just never bothered to take it all back down and they were drunk when Ryan lost the key - and now it's all inaccessible.
"Locked wine!" says Ryan, lighting up. The tragedy of the lost key weighs on his mind as well. Or Buck hopes it does. It's all Ryan's fault that the key is missing.
"Would you like a bag?" Buck asks the young ladies.
"Yes, please," they chorus. Buck tucks the packets of twine into separate paper bags and hands them each a receipt. He smiles.
They fold the receipts and tuck them into the bags. They walk out, arm in arm, giggling. Their dresses are layers and layers of white cotton, reflecting the sun.
Buck sort of wonders what the shit is going on with the youth in this town, and when cotton twine became a hot commodity. They're going to have to order more at the end of the week.
"I got chalk line and I got locked wine," says Ryan, "but the best part is, I know you're mine."
"Needs work," says Buck.
"Dammit," says Ryan, “that was my masterpiece.”
Ryan comes back from his three o'clock break. He breathes hot air into Buck's mouth. It tastes like tiny planets crushed up and rolled in paper, then set on fire.
"Fuck whine," says Ryan.
"That's doesn't rhyme," says Buck. "Unless you have a British accident."
“H’ain’t got no Brit-tish act-cent,” grumbles Ryan.
Bucks hides a grin.
"I see you grinning," says Ryan. He says it again with a British accent. Buck doesn't bother to hide his grin this time.
A boy walks in, red-faced and stoic. He circles the store without pausing before coming to the front counter and placing a pack of cotton twine on the counter.
“Want a bag?” asks Buck.
“Yes,” says the boy, and then he laughs a little, just a few decibels too low to be a giggle.
Buck puts the twine in the bag and hands it to him, with the receipt. The boy takes the time to fold the receipt carefully and tuck it into the bag before exiting the store.
“Have a nice day,” says Buck, and wonders why all these kids can’t buy something more expensive, why it had to be the cheapest item in the store, except for the nails. But then what the hell would they do with nails?
“What the hell,” says Ryan. He kicks his heels against the cupboard. “What the hell, kids today, what the hell.”
“We’re going to run out,” says Buck. “I didn’t order more last week, did you?”
“I dunno. Did we sell a lot of twine last week?”
“Why twine,” says Buck. He turns around, leaning his elbows against the front counter to stare at Ryan. Ryan kicks him in the thigh. “What do kids do with twine?”
“I dunno,” says Ryan. “Sew?”
“Four o’clock,” says Ryan. “Go take your break.”
Buck hangs up a sign on the front door - back in twenty minutes. “Come here.”
They fuck slowly, upstairs, twenty minutes longer than the twenty minutes on the sign, and they don’t talk except for Ryan to say, “fucking goddamn,” in Buck’s ear, breathless and lower than the boy in the store.
Buck doesn’t want to get up from the sheets afterwards, except he needs to, except he doesn’t want to at all. It's a shout that rouses him. He pulls on his own trousers and Ryan’s shirt and opens in the window. It’s just Nathan, brawling in the street again, outside in front of the bar. It’s funnier than usual, though, because the man he’s fighting is tall, blonde, beautiful, with no control over his limbs.
“What?” demands Ryan.
“Willett’s punching some kid who can’t defend himself,” says Buck.
Ryan laughs.
“Looks like a piano player,” says Buck.
“Poor bastard,” says Ryan. Buck laughs. “They hired a new piano player. I bet that’s him.”
Ryan crawls down to the end of the bed. “What now?”
Nathan knocks the guy on to the ground, right into the dust. There’s a cheer from the crowd around them. Nathan picks the man up off the ground and hugs him. Buck leans forward. Nathan might be whispering something in the man’s ear, he can’t tell. The man is bleeding all over Nathan’s shirt.
“Did he hug him?” asks Ryan.
Buck turns around, smiles. “Yeah.” Nathan always was a lover, not a fighter.
When Buck makes it back downstairs, hat covering untidy hair and his shirt buttoned in the right holes, Sage is waiting, looking lost on the porch. Sage is fearsome. Sage is about five times the size of Buck and Ryan together and Buck loves the son of a bitch. He slaps Sage’s hand. “Sage.”
“Buck.”
Sage follows him inside. Buck and Ryan see Sage once a week or so, usually to sell him a hammer. Sage buys a lot of hammers and they don’t know why. Ryan wrote a song about it once, Why Sage Buys A Hammer, but he got distracted in the middle by a big spider in the kitchen and never returned to the song. It was funny as all hell too, so it for the best that he’d seen the spider before he’d written the end. As it was, Buck always had to remind himself not to grin so wide at Sage.
Ryan’s sitting on the back counter again, redrawing the chalk board from the morning. He’d drawn a flying buggy that morning, above the prices of saws. Now he’s drawing the outline of a huge blue rose.
“Buck, I got lady troubles,” says Sage, leaning up on the counter while Buck fetches him a hammer.
“Love her in the ways you want to be loved,” says Ryan immediately.
“I knew you two wouldn’t be no help,” says Sage sadly.
“Hey,” says Buck, coming around to the counter. He’s had lady troubles in his life. He’s had a lot of lady troubles in his life. Now he’s just got Ryan, who is a whole different kind of troubles.
“Just because we're rip-roaring bachelors having a good time without you,” says Ryan, “now really, Paulie,” he continues, “it works every time.”
“I don’t believe that shit,” says Sage. “How come you ain’t got a lady then?”
“All a-them got Ryan troubles.”
Buck marvels at the simplicity and truth of the answer and the way Ryan answers without a hint of discomfort. Even Buck, safe working the register, always feels a bit hot when people ask why such a fine gentleman such as Ryan isn't courting anyone.
“Shit,” says Sage. He sighs. “I got lady troubles.”
“You want a bag, Sage?” asks Buck.
“Nah,” says Sage. He tucks the hammer into the inside of his pocket.
“Love her in the ways you want to be loved,” hums Ryan, waving at him.
Sage walks out of the store with a sigh. Buck grins. Buck loves the son of a bitch, he does.
Buck is all alone, a minute away from closing up when a young girl walks in by herself. He frowns and takes a cautionary couple of steps away from her. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks, taking his hat off.
She eyes his untidy hair and shakes her head, looking down. She makes her way to the back, and comes back with a packet of cotton twine.
“You need this at the school?” says Buck, opening the register.
She looks up from the floor, startled. “What?”
“The twine?”
“No.”
Buck smiles so he doesn’t frown in confusion. “Do you want a bag, miss?”
“Yes, please.”
Buck tucks in a bag for her, and folds the receipt and places that in the bag as well. Just to save her time. He smiles his hugest at her. “Have a good evening, ma’am.”
She walks out, petticoats whispering against the unpolished floor. Buck stares after her.
“I got a gee-tar,” sings Ryan. “I got a lucky star. But I ain’t got no bar. . .key.”
“Needs work,” says Buck, up to his elbows in soapy water.
Ryan stares at the locked cabinet. “Do you think I could kick the door in?” he says.
“Might break a bottle if you do that,” says Buck. “If you even could. That door took us so long to make anyway, don't you remember?”
“I do,” says Ryan. He sets the guitar down and starts to put dishes back in the kitchen cabinets. “Do you remember when we could get into the wine cabinet before some asshole lost the key?”
“I do,” says Buck, “asshole.”
Ryan throws a mournful look at the locked cabinet.
“I got Ryan troubles,” says Buck, “like flyin’ rubbles but I ain’t got no wine. . .cupboard key.”
Ryan snorts as he turns away to put a pot away. His shoulders shake.
Ryan lays on Buck's lap and they watch the stars and the street through his bedroom window.
“Three words,” says Ryan; his favorite game.
“I found it,” says Buck.
“I wish that was so,” says Ryan.
Nathan’s leaning on a pillar outside the bar. He’s smoking. Buck is disappointed in him. He takes Ryan’s cigarette and inhales.
“Willett’s gonna die,” says Buck.
“Not yet,” says Ryan.
Nathan gets dragged back inside by two of his spiny, sinewy friends.
“Stop fucking up,” says Buck.
“Never,” says Ryan. He takes his cigarette back and blows smoke out the window. “Give up?”
“No,” says Buck. This game’ll last for days if he plays it right. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Coffee and eggs. Aw, shit.” Ryan punches him in the knee. Buck grins. “No, that's not it.”
Ryan settles back and stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray on the windowsill. Buck waits. It’s a clear night out and they can see silhouettes in the street, walking on uneasy legs back home. It's probably late, he doesn't know. The church bells haven't rung in a long time.
Ryan pinches Buck’s thigh. “I feel like shit,” he says. Buck looks down. Ryan looks exhausted, eyes dark and grey.
“That was four words,” says Buck. “I got three for you.”
“Time for bed?”
Ryan knows Buck too well.
Monday is Ryan’s day off. Tuesday is Buck’s day off. Buck sleeps in until Ryan climbs on top of the covers and puts coffee in front of his face.
“I’m opening up,” says Ryan.
“Okay,” says Buck, eyes half-open.
“Train comes in at twelve past.”
“Yep,” says Buck, and then he opens his eyes all the way. “Twelve past what?”
“Ten,” says Ryan. “I gotta open up now.” He hands Buck the mug and slips off the covers. Buck listens to him thump down the stairs to the back of the storeroom. He sits up and sips at the coffee. Ryan opens the doors and windows and Buck can feel it through the bed frame and into the mattress. He sits back against the headboard.
There are a few moments of silence, and then there’s the sound of a shotgun. Ryan screeches.
“CR!” he hears Ryan bellow as the bells above the door ring. “Get the fuck outta my shop! You don’t need no fuckin’ tools, you need a fuckin’ asylum!”
Buck gets out of bed, laughing, and gets dressed.
“But I need tools.” CR is pleading with Ryan. Ryan brandishes a rake at him. “I got a need for tools.” He nods as Buck enters from the back. “Buck.”
“CR.”
“You should be glad some asshole lost the key to our wine cabinet,” says Ryan, “because if I was drunk, I would rake you through the heart.”
“Asshole,” says CR, looking around.
Ryan grins. “You don’t need any tools, get the fuck out.”
CR wanders away from Ryan towards the wood polish. Buck takes the rake out of Ryan’s hands and sets it down behind the counter. “Miss Williams wants that rake,” he says. “She’s counting on us for that rake. Don’t go raking CR through the heart with Miss Williams’ rake.”
Ryan takes the coffee mug away from him and drinks like a parched man. “I thought I’d been shot, and you’re only worried about Miss Williams rake.”
Buck grins at him and jumps up to sit on the back counter. Ryan turns around, smiling to himself. “What do you want, CR?” he yells.
“I need a tool!” CR shouts back.
“You don’t need one, you are one!”
“Guess you’d know, toolman!”
“I trade tools,” says Ryan. “I own your ass.”
Buck knocks his heels against the cupboard and thinks of rhymes for toolman. Cool hand, fool ran, mule tan, school sand. He doesn’t realise he’s got a beat going until CR starts up, spitting everywhere, and then Ryan follows, knocking the heads of screwdrivers against the counter top.
“Dammit Buck,” says CR, stopping in the middle of Ryan's first rhyme, toolman got a cool hand in the nightland where it's bright, man. “I need a tool.”
Ryan shakes his head and leans against the back counter next to Buck, grinning. He touches Buck’s ankle, just above his shoe. Buck looks down at him, smiles.
“What do you need, CR?” says Ryan, again.
“Peace of mind, a lady line to treat so fine, and,” says CR, “I need a tool.”
Buck yawns.
“Okay,” says CR. “I get it. I get you two.”
“Uh huh,” says Ryan, but he drops his hand from Buck’s ankle to his own back pocket. Buck sits back against the wall.
“You just want me to buy an anvil and go,” says CR sadly. “My company doesn't mean one single thing to you.”
“Aw, CR,” says Ryan. “You know you mean more to us than an anvil.”
CR picks up a pick axe and examines it. Then he picks up a regular axe and brings it the counter.
“Want.”
“Pay,” says Ryan, unfazed.
“Trade.”
“Hell no.”
They go like this until CR relents and sticks his hands into his pockets and starts counting out nickels and dimes. It takes him a couple of minutes but he finally gets it.
“I love you Ryan Adams,” says CR as Ryan wraps up his axe in brown paper.
“Get the fuck out of my shop,” says Ryan.
CR pouts and then he nods at Buck and Buck grins and CR grins and Ryan says, “out” in a very loud voice and CR makes a sound like a shotgun and then he runs away.
“It’s a good thing some asshole lost the key to our wine cupboard,” says Ryan, “or else I might rake him through his heart.”
“Asshole,” says Buck, nudging a heel against Ryan's pocket.
The bells above the door ring and two young boys walk in. Ryan rolls his eyes and turns back to the register.
Buck misses Ryan’s ten o’clock break because he’s at the train station, watching the anxious mailman. The train is untidy and the mailman is always anxious about the state of his mail. The mailman fidgets as the steam engine pulls in, tugging on his messy hair and biting his lip.
The train slows into the station and Buck makes his away to the end of the platform where there aren’t any passengers, where a single worker is unloading crates.
“Buck and Ryan’s,” says the worker. “That you?”
“Yes,” says Buck. “What do you have?”
“Crates,” says the worker. “Two. You got someone to take them with you?”
“No,” says Buck. “I’ll be fine. What’s in the crates?”
The workman looks down at his clipboard. “Uh. Twine and chalk and oil in that one, shovel heads in that one.”
“Thank you,” says Buck. “Alright.”
The workman looks back at the train. “I’ll help you carry ‘em in, we’ll be here a while.”
“Sure,” says Buck, “that'd be great, thanks.” He still wondering who ordered the twine though, him or Ryan.
“We ran out of twine,” says Ryan, watching Buck set down a crate in the storeroom. The workman drops his crate as well and the shovel heads clang together. Ryan and Buck wince.
“Good thing we got more,” says Buck. “And chalk.”
“Chalk,” say Ryan, lighting up. But then he frowns, because he’s not allowed to use chalk when he’s working.
“What did you run out of twine for?” asks the work man.
“The kids in this town are all crazy,” explains Ryan.
“Ahh,” says the workman like that makes any sense at all. “Well. Be seein’ you.” He sticks his hands in his pockets.
“I got a lollipop,” offers Ryan.
Buck hands him a nickel. The man tips his work hat and leaves.
“I would have taken the lollipop,” says Ryan. “That man is a fool.”
Buck does not miss lunch because he makes lunch, upstairs in the kitchen. Sandwiches, warmed up over the stove. The stove was a bitch of a thing to get up to the second floor, but it was worth it for the sandwiches. And the coffee.
Ryan drags Buck back to his room before either of them are finished with their sandwiches. Ryan isn’t very hungry today anyway, too much energy from having to work without Buck.
“Fucking goddamn,” says Buck in Ryan's ear and Ryan smiles.
Ryan doesn’t smoke afterwards either, he just curls up into Buck’s side and pokes at him to keep him awake to keep himself awake.
“I gotta go downstairs,” says Ryan. He pokes at Buck's ribcage.
“Yes, you do,” says Buck. “You’re working today.”
“I hate Tuesdays,” says Ryan. “I like Sundays and Mondays best.”
“The bar’s not open on Sunday,” Buck points out.
“I like Mondays best,” says Ryan and he pokes Buck's liver once more, with feeling, and then touches his chest, palm flat, briefly, and slips out of bed. He gets dressed and stands for a minute, watching Buck debate whether or not to get out of bed with him.
“Hair,” says Buck, sleepy. “Fix your hair before you go down.”
Ryan looks over at himself in the mirror above the washbasin. “Aw, I think I look cute.”
“You don’t look fit to run a shop for tools,” says Buck, “little boy.”
Ryan makes a horrible face at him and runs down the stairs.
“Travis McCoy,” says Ryan, face filled with disbelief.
“Travis McCoy,” says Buck, shocked.
“Yeah, man,” says Travis McCoy and he tips his ridiculous top hat at them. Buck will never understand European fashion.
“I thought you were dead,” says Ryan. “I thought - I told you Rich, didn't I tell you, I thought he was dead.”
“And I told you he was out East,” says Buck, staring at Travis. “But I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to come back.”
“Travis McCoy,” says Ryan again.
“Back from the dead, baby.”
Ryan slaps his hand, hard, and Buck does too. He’s twice as tall as both of them. Buck’s missed him being around.
“What happened back East?” says Ryan. Buck climbs on the back counter to listen and Ryan leans next to him. Travis shrugs. “They couldn’t handle me.”
“Prostitution not as lucrative as you thought?” says Ryan, nodding.
“Nah,” says Travis. He leans in. “Not as much fun.”
“You’re a saint,” says Buck, who knows Travis is full of shit. Travis laughs, teeth bright white. He looks so happy to be home, even if he is wearing a full black suit in the middle of April.
“What’d’you come back for?” demands Ryan. “You said you weren’t never coming back anyway.”
“We’re gonna open a dancehall.”
Travis says this and suddenly everyone’s attention swings to the man standing next to him. He’s a beautiful man - unsurprising as Travis tends to associate with beautiful people, through no preference of his own - but it still startles Buck sometimes. The man is sharp and pointed, and he has cool hair. Buck likes his hair. It’s long and he doesn’t look at all uncomfortable, though he is wearing a top hat like Travis. He pulls it off markedly better than Travis though.
“William Beckett,” says Travis, waving a hand. “My associate.”
“Buck,” says Ryan, hand out. William shakes it. “Charmed.”
“Ryan,” says Buck, nodding at William. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You two are assholes,” says Travis, shaking his head with a grin.
“I lost our wine cabinet key,” explains Ryan to Travis. Travis nods with understanding. “Damn shame for you, Adams.”
“Pleasure,” says William. “Travis speaks of you both fondly.”
“Aw,” says Ryan. “Y’old softie.”
“So, dancehall,” says Buck. “You came back to open a dancehall? We got a bar.”
“You can’t even dance,” says Ryan.
“Bars is for men,” says Travis. “Me’n’William, we want something respectable for the ladies.”
Ryan laughs so hard that he falls back against Buck’s knees. “No,” he gasps, “really, no, dancehall.” And Buck is grinning pretty widely too, and he can feel Ryan's vertebrae on his knees.
“Shut up,” says Travis. “Ladies like a man in a top hat.”
“You look like a tool,” says Ryan. Buck toes him in the back and Ryan stands on his own. “Not you, Beckett, but Travie. You look like a tool.”
“You’d know, toolman. Good thing I got Billy then, huh.” Travis winks at them, but it’s blown by the small, quick smile that William throws him. Buck smiles, and kicks Ryan in the butt just because he can.
“We’re not here for pleasure though,” says Travis. “We got business.”
“We need someone to polish the floor of the hall we’re going to buy,” says William.
“Where’re you going to buy?”
“Masters’ old pool hall,” says Travis. “He’s gone, right? That’s what Bailey told me.”
“Yeah, he went out west,” Buck tells him. “Finally lost his mind and told us all he was going to make his fortune in gold and come back to replace our heads with balloons.”
“Man, I miss having him around.”
“Travis says you two can polish the floor,” William presses. “Once a month or so, we’d need it done.”
“We can,” says Ryan, nose wrinkling. “We don’t really want to.”
“But you can.”
“We can.”
“We’ll pay you.”
“Of course you will,” says Ryan. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Travis makes a face. Buck shakes his head. Travis rolls his eyes and Buck kicks Ryan again, obvious to both Travis and William. Everyone smiles except Ryan, who rubs his hip.
“Okay,” says Ryan reluctantly. “We’ll think about it.”
A trio of boys stomp into the store, stomp all around, and eventually buy a packet of twine each.
“Twine,” sings Ryan, “‘cos I got twine, I know you’re mine.”
“Mine in twine,” says Buck suddenly. “We need twine.”
“Nope, all wrong,” says Ryan. “Hey, draw me something?”
“But I like your roses,” protests Buck. He does. They’ve grown past the first chalkboard and across onto most of the rest of them, but he does like them. They’re blue and white roses with green thorns.
“Draw me something.”
Buck takes the back of some scrap paper and draws a church on fire with many cats fleeing the building.
“Poor kitties,” says Ryan.
“They survive the fire and go on to all find homes in cupboards and storerooms and barns. And they eat rats for dinner each night and birds in the morning for breakfast.”
“Poor rats,” says Ryan.
“The roses will protect them,” Buck assures him. “Those roses have powers we will never understand.”
“I’m taking my break early,” Ryan announces. Buck meets him upstairs.
“You two don’t work,” says Nathan, when Ryan comes down a full fifty minutes after he hangs up the sign. He’s sitting on the steps and drinking something out of a paper bag, of course. “How the hell do you keep in business if you don’t work.”
Buck listens from the window as he dresses.
“We’re the only tool shop in town,” says Ryan proudly. “Now get the hell off my porch, Willett.”
“No,” says Nathan, climbing to his feet. “Barkeep sent me over.”
“Finally working off your tab?” asks Ryan, taking his arm and escorting the man inside. Nathan leans on the front counter and hands the paper bag to Ryan who hands it to Buck who hands it back to Nathan, shaking his head. Nathan takes it and drinks from it, famished.
“No,” says Nathan when he sets the bag down. “I broke the piano leg. Do you sell piano legs?”
“We’re a tool shop,” says Ryan.
“Piano leg’s a tool,” says Nathan. “Keeps my music standing.”
“We saw you punch the new piano player. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t remember,” says Nathan. He looks sad. “Do you have a piano leg?”
“We have some crates we could make into a leg,”offers Ryan. “Want us to try?”
“Yes,” says Nathan. And then he says, “you know I can’t pay.”
Buck and Ryan sigh.
“Put it on my tab,” says Nathan.
“You ain’t got a tab,” says Ryan.
“I got one now,” says Nathan. “Barkeep says come around tonight, otherwise piano player’s gonna be angry.”
They watch him leave. Nathan could be sober if he ever wanted to be. He never does though. Buck can’t understand it.
“Goin’ to the bar with my lucky star but I still ain’t got no key,” warbles Ryan and he picks up a broom and starts to sweep the front stoop outside. Buck adds bushes of roses to the bottom of his drawing of a church on fire with the fleeing cats.
Leslie walks in like a hurricane and says, “Rich.”
Ryan says, “no.” He’s angry at the sound of Buck's name from any other mouth, fingers tapping against the counter top. Buck turns his palm up and starts to trace one of Ryan's roses onto his skin.
“What do you need, Miss Feist?” asks Buck. Buck’s worst lady trouble was always Leslie. And she’s gonna love the dancehall, he knows it already.
“I need a hammer,” she says. “The chalkboard won’t hang right in the school anymore. Crooked. The children are getting curved necks.”
“You and Sage,” mutters Ryan, though the two of them are linked in no way except that they’ve both bought hammers in the past two days. Leslie doesn’t come to the store very often, more fond of sending her students in if she needs erasers or chalk or buckets. She doesn't like Ryan very much.
“I need some chalk too,” she says. “I’m hoping you haven’t used it all, Ryan.”
“Not yet,” says Ryan, and he fetches her hammer and her chalk without a single dark look, except one, at his shoes, when he trips. He wraps her chalk and her hammer and hands it to her with the receipt.
“Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan smiles without grace or joy. “Come back soon now, you hear?”
Buck touches Ryan's collar, the top of his shirt, when she leaves and Ryan looks back him, annoyed until he sees the rose on the palm of Buck's hand.
“Hey, we can close in an hour,” says Buck. “Nobody buys tools on Tuesdays anyway.”
They nail together boards from the crates. Ryan sands them down and Buck polishes them and they eat their unfinished sandwiches in the storeroom, watching the polish dry.
“Looks terrible,” remarks Ryan.
“Barkeep won’t care,” replies Buck. “He just likes music.”
“Piano player might,” says Ryan. “Guess he should’ve made friends with Willett before he took his job.”
“Poor man,” says Buck.
It’s a Tuesday evening, slow and steady, and the beautiful piano player looks depressed.
“My piano,” he says.
“Drink another gin,” says Nathan, handing him a glass. The beautiful piano player takes it and drinks it all.
“I got dust in my eye,” grumps Ryan. “Ah, shit. I can’t see.”
“Move over,” says Buck. “You don’t know how to nail straight anyway.”
Ryan moves over, but then they’re just squished under the piano, looking up Ryan’s nail job.
“They ain’t handymen for a good reason,” says Nathan, sitting next to the beautiful piano player. “But they’re cheap.”
“Makes sense,” says the beautiful piano player.
Ryan gives them both the finger.
“Ryan. Ryan,” says Buck. “I think we can’t do anymore. What is that, right there? Is that glue?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Okay,” says Buck. “We’re done. I want a beer.”
“Cider,” demands Ryan.
“I don’t know what the hell we’re doing out here tonight,” says Nathan to the piano player. “You wanna get out of here? There’s a bonfire on the back of Masters’ old property. This kid told me about it, he says they’ve tied all the dead trees with twine and they’re going to light the strings.”
“Sounds dangerous,” says the piano player.
Nathan shrugs.
“Huh,” says Buck. Ryan looks at him, frowning.
“What the hell,” says Ryan. “What the hell Rich, is that our key.”
“What the hell,” says Buck. “Our wine cupboard key, what the hell.”
The whole of Masters’ property is ablaze, trees, overgrown field, house and all. A group of teenagers stand to the side, struck silent by the destruction they’ve created. Buck and Ryan puzzle over the key hanging by a piece of twine from Masters’ front porch.
Ryan shakes his head. “Shit, no, it can't be, let’s go home.”
Buck stares the key as the flame leap closer to it. “How did-”
“Let’s go home,” says Ryan, punching him. There’s a call from the other end of town - “fire, fire!” - and the teens scatter. Buck and Ryan rush home.
It only takes Ryan four tries to kick the door of the wine cabinet in and he only tips a couple of bottles in the process. He takes four bottles of cider out and they make those bottles last, sitting at the kitchen table, asking each other how their key got on Masters’ property, kids these days, what the hell. At first they can see the flames from the window in Ryan’s room, but then they go back to the kitchen as it dims and the shouts of “put out the fire, boys!” grow less frantic, and they continue asking each other, what the hell, what the fucking hell, kids these days.
Then they decide it couldn't possibly be their key, and they toast each other, arms hooked.
Buck leans his chair back on two legs, staring at the ceiling.
Ryan downs the last of the four bottles. “Rich,” he says, voice wet and low. He sweeps the bottles off the table. They shatter on the ground. He stands.
Buck looks at him, opens his mouth to speak and realises he has nothing to say. He stands as well and grabs Ryan’s hand. He drags him close and Ryan pushes him back into Buck's bedroom.
They only get as far as shirts off when they hear banging on the door of the ground floor. “Terfry!” bellows the deep voice of the sheriff. “Adams!”
“Shit,” hisses Ryan, toppling off him sideways on to the bed. “Shit, put on your shirt.”
“Where is my shirt,” whispers Buck. Ryan slips off the bed to the doorway and Buck turns on a light. They cast about for Buck’s shirt and find it on the floor under the chair. Buck pulls it on and tries to place the buttons in the right holes.
“Boys,” the sheriff shouts from the ground floor. “This is the sheriff and you all are in big trouble.”
“Shit,” hisses Ryan. He looks at Buck. He looks afraid and tormented in the doorway of Buck’s room. “Shit, Rich.”
“Three words,” whispers Buck, looking down at his buttons and then looking up again him. “Three words, I give up.”
“No,” says Ryan. “No, that wasn’t it, of course that wasn’t it.”
“No, tell me,” whispers Buck. He picks up Ryan’s shirt and tosses it at him. Ryan shrugs into it, not bothering with buttons.
“You-” begins Ryan, but the sheriff shouts at them again. “I’m coming up if you don’t come down and be trusting me when I say you boys don’t want me coming up.”
Buck jumps out of bed, touches Ryan’s hand as he squeezes past him through the doorway. He walks down the stairs, Ryan right behind.
“I was hopin' you boys could explain this to me,” says the sheriff, holding up the charred and blackened key to their wine cupboard emblazoned with a “B&R.”
“Shit!” exclaims Ryan. “It's the key to our wine cupboard.”
“You asshole,” says Buck, grinning. “You are such an asshole.” He holds out an arm. Ryan laughs and hugs him, arms around his waist.
The sheriff raises an eyebrow. “Are you boys drunk?”
“Yes,” they tell him.
“Travis,” says Buck. “Me and Ryan are in jail. We need you to come get us.”
Travis yawns. “You’re in jail?”
“Yes.”
“The fuck did you do?” asks Travis.
“In jail for arson,” says Buck, “and we’re drunk.”
“Huh,” says Travis. He pauses and then says, “you two are going to be polishing a lot of floors for us, you know that?”
Buck can hear Ryan singing in the drunk tank, kicking his heels against the cement floor and warbling a song all his own about going home. Buck looks down at the faint outline of a rose on his palm, blue lines blurred.
“Yeah, sure,” says Buck.