Chapter 15

Riley felt his face burn with anger. He knew that a red mask was creeping up from his neck to engulf his face. This was just another indication of what he hated so much about being in a small community. When two of his cousins had gone to Juvenile for busting out car windows down in Irving, people assumed that he was involved for no other reason than he was the same age and his last name was Pranger.

The same thing happened whenever a Pranger got caught up in something questionable. He wasn‘t any good because he was one of them Pranger boys that shoot each other, slash tires, and spray painted racial slurs—the sheer definition of poor white trash.

His eyes narrowed as they took in Mr. Epstein through the mirror.

"I don‘t have any beef with you—yet." Riley said in a voice that was low and menacing. He saw Mr. Epstein‘s bushy white brows lift. The old man immediately closed his mouth.

Bear cleared his throat. "Well…did anybody watch that tennis match last evening? That Williams gal sure can hit a ball. More athletic than most men I know."

"Sarena?" Dale said while applying the clippers lightly to Riley‘s head. "I don‘t think you seen her playing this year. She just had a baby."

"Yeah," Bear said while scratching his perpetual red stubble. "Might have been her sister. But anybody built like that could drop a child and be right back up in Wimbledon."

Riley tuned their forced conversation out as he caught sight of his expression in the mirror. It surprised him enough that it felt like a bucket of water had doused out his flaming anger. He looked like the epitome of what most people thought he was.

He was instantly ashamed of the veiled threat that he‘d given to old Mr. Epstein. Why had he done that? Ultimately who cared what the old fart thought? But he didn‘t have to sound like he might do something to him.

Riley allowed his jaw to unclench and he took a deep breath.

"I didn‘t have anything to do with Pete being deported. But I got fired all the same." He met Mr. Epstein‘s eyes. The older man quickly averted them and Riley didn‘t try again to explain the facts.

~*~

"What did you expect from Epstein, that old Jew?" Brady asked while spitting tobacco juice into an empty beer bottle. Sully grunted, they were brothers, Brady older by two years. If Sully was mean then Brady was mean and scary. He‘d taken over running moonshine for their father who was currently in prison for life after committing crimes that were best not mentioned aloud.

They were cooling their heels at Stubby‘s along with a few other good ol‘ boys.

Riley had his elbows propped on the table while he held his bottle of bootleg brew by his fingertips. He took a swig.

"I went in for a haircut. Didn‘t want any conversation about it."

"Trying to pretty up for that lady that‘s coming to rent the cottage?" Sully grinned.

Riley grimaced. He didn‘t want people to start speculating about that on top of everything else. "Nah. I‘ve been sending out resumes." He was hoping for a true to life job interview and not just someone asking him a few random questions about whether or not he‘d ever flipped burgers.

Brady interrupted. "Boy, you got that knee injury. That‘s a perfect opportunity to get SSI disability. You‘d have it made in the shade." He finished his brew and then scooted from the table to get another round.

"It ain‘t much to live off of but there‘s plenty of ways to supplement your income." Sully said when his brother was gone. "Don‘t worry cousin. Relax yourself and just take it easy for a while, you know?"

Riley grunted, the beer suddenly feeling like swamp water in his gut. Was this now his life, sitting in a bootleg joint drinking homebrews and listening to Merle Haggard over a jukebox?

When Brady came back he placed a bucket of beer on the table. Frank was the first to grab a fresh bottle. "You peckerwoods are already in for round two." Brady said good-naturedly. "This is the last round so pitch in a few bucks." Typically, each person in the group would buy a round and once that was gone, then the evening of drinking was over. Sometimes when the group was smaller it went into a two rounder, but not when it was after the first of the month, which meant that the government checks were mostly spent.

Brady returned to the previous conversation. "Riley, my boy, the problem with society today is that the bleeding-heart liberals need to make someone pay for the fact that there‘s a white man in the White House again. You were just a scapegoat. They can‘t touch President Donald J. Trump so screwing you is the closest thing they got." Riley listened intently. "They want to send a big ol‘ fuck you to Donald but they can‘t, so they got you instead."

Riley made a hmphing sound in agreement. On this Brady was most certainly correct.

"Keep America great!" Sully cheered. Everyone clinked beer bottles and cheers of making America great again could be heard throughout the backwoods bar.

~*~

Riley was in a dead sleep when he heard the crunch of gravel as a car pulled up into the driveway. It wasn‘t as if he got many guests so the sound was unmistakable.

He jumped up out of bed like a shot out of hell, his eyes settling on the clock on his bedside table, which indicated that it was 8:04 am. What the hell? He never slept in like this. Oh right…those homebrews last night.

He hurried to the bedroom window, which overlooked the drive-way where he saw a cream-colored SUV just coming to park.

He cursed and then pulled on jeans over his baggy boxer shorts. He sniffed the armpits of the t-shirt that he‘d worn the day before and then tossed it into the laundry basket. Quickly he applied deodorant and pulled on a fresh t-shirt and then pulled on the socks that he‘d worn the day before.

He was just heading down the stairs when he heard a tentative knock on the door. He ran his hands through his hair, momentarily surprised that it was mostly gone before remembering his visit to the barbershop. He then stroked his beard reassured that there were no crumbs buried in it. He reached the front door before the second set of knocking began.