\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 –<\/em> For Shel Silverstein<\/em><\/p>\n My momma always told me, \u201cSon,\u201d\u2014that\u2019s how I knew she was talkin\u2019 to me. She\u2019d say, \u201cSon, you ain\u2019t no good.\u201d Just like that. No sugar, no salt\u2014but somehow, it was almost as sweet as warm honey apple pie, fresh from the oven. She\u2019d tell me, \u201cNow, it ain\u2019t your fault. See, your daddy was no good either.\u201d<\/p>\n Now, that part, I ain\u2019t never quite understood. So I\u2019d ask her, \u201cMomma, why\u2019ja be with daddy if he ain\u2019t no good?\u201d<\/p>\n You know what she\u2019d do?<\/p>\n She\u2019d reach right on over and slap me\u2014hard as a thunderclap, sure as the sky\u2019s blue and you can buy a sweet sugar lemon tea from Mrs. Penny down the road.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be askin\u2019 me none of \u2019em questions. That man was no good, and neither are you. Ain\u2019t no sense between them ears.\u201d She rocked back and forth on the creaky porch swing, the wood groanin\u2019 beneath her like it shared her stubborn weight. The summer air was thick and heavy, smelling faintly of cut grass and sweet jasmine. After a long pause\u2014like she\u2019d just cracked the code to life itself\u2014she\u2019d say, \u201cNow, there ain\u2019t no fixin\u2019 a light that don\u2019t work. But what you gotta do is find what you can do. And do it. Do it good, and do it well.\u201d<\/p>\n Me? I ain\u2019t never been good at much. Tried bein\u2019 a lawyer once, but I don\u2019t know no laws\u2014felt like tryin\u2019 to catch smoke with my bare hands. Had a decent shot at bein\u2019 a doctor too\u2014until I found out you need some fancy license and a pile of degrees that smelled like old books and stale coffee. What I was good at? Fightin\u2019. Not the kind that\u2019s fun or games. No, I grew up mean\u2014had to. I was the kid always gettin\u2019 picked on, shoved around, knocked down like a rag doll. So I became the one doin\u2019 the pickin\u2019 instead. Had to get tough, had to get fast.<\/p>\n See, I wasn\u2019t born strong, but I learned quick. I learned that sometimes, the only way to stand tall was to throw the first punch. And I learned that ain\u2019t no accident.<\/p>\n They named me Amy.<\/p>\n There was this one fight\u2014the fight to see who\u2019d be chap. I was out, takin\u2019 in the locals, laughin\u2019 and jawin\u2019 with my fans, when I spotted a man. Strange-lookin\u2019 fella\u2014looked like me, only older, his face weathered by time and trouble like cracked leather. Something stirred deep inside me, so I walked right up to him and tipped my hat.<\/p>\n \u201cExcuse me, sir,\u201d I said, careful not to add any salt to my voice. \u201cWould you by chance be my daddy?\u201d<\/p>\n His face froze\u2014pure horror spreading like a shadow across his features. But then, after takin\u2019 me in, his expression softened, a slow smile creeping up his lips, tears pooling in his eyes. With a heavy pride he said, \u201cWhy, I think I am.\u201d<\/p>\n We stood there, both eyes glassy. Then he stepped forward\u2014and I punched him square in the jaw. The sharp crack echoed in the air. He staggered back, but threw a punch right after. My nose exploded with heat as his fist connected, but I drove a kick into his groin.<\/p>\n \u201cYou son of a\u2014\u201d he started, but I cut him off with a sharp slap across the ear.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, you are,\u201d I said, spitting salt right in his face. The sting made his eyes water. He swayed, then lunged at me with a knife.<\/p>\n We tussled, fussed, and wrestled on the floor. The knife was dull, but it still left a sting\u2014like biting into a lemon that\u2019s just a little too sour. The owner didn\u2019t wait around; he called in two big guys who looked like they bench-pressed tractors. Their boots thudded heavy against the floor, and the air thickened with sweat and menace. They roughed us up good before tossing us out like yesterday\u2019s trash.<\/p>\n He spat thick and slow on the ground, then looked me dead in the eye and grinned.<\/p>\n \u201cYou my boy alright.\u201d<\/p>\n I wiped the dust off my shirt, tasted the grit in my mouth, and said, \u201cI got one question for ya\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy\u2019d you leave? I know you needed a pa, but I was no good for ya.\u201d His voice was syrupy, like honey soaked in lemon\u2014sweet, but sharp.<\/p>\n \u201cNah, don\u2019t care \u2018bout dat. But I gotta know\u2014why\u2019d you name me Amy? That ain\u2019t no tough name.\u201d<\/p>\n He paused, like he was thinking real hard, maybe trying to figure out if he should\u2019ve gone with \u201cSpike\u201d or \u201cCrusher.\u201d Then he said, \u201cSon,\u201d\u2014that\u2019s how I knew he was talkin\u2019 to me\u2014\u201cSon, I ain\u2019t no good. Left my seed in a thousand places. I knew I wouldn\u2019t be \u2018round to raise you. So I named you Amy. Figured you\u2019d have to grow up fast, tough as nails, and maybe, just maybe, surprise me.\u201d<\/p>\n That part, I got. I looked him dead in the eye, licked my lips, and said, \u201cWell, you just ain\u2019t no damn good.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Put it on the record: I hate this place. I\u2019m here five days a week and still don\u2019t know why. Something in the air\u2014stale like old bread, tinged with mildew and regret\u2014keeps calling me back. And like a fool, I answer.<\/p>\n This place makes people talk. Makes them friendly. Something in the wood paneling or the flickering lights loosens their tongues. And for whatever reason, they always bring their problems to me.<\/p>\n \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t believe the week I had,\u201d one of them will sigh, all melodrama and stage tears.<\/p>\n \u201cMy cat just died,\u201d another moans\u2014like I\u2019m supposed to light a candle.<\/p>\n As if I cared. But Mama raised me to be a gentleman. So I smile, nod, pretend to give a damn. We share a drink\u2014doctor\u2019s medicine. Liquid courage to forget, to laugh, to cry. To make the woman you\u2019d never ask seem like maybe she\u2019d say yes.<\/p>\n I digress.<\/p>\n Here comes another lost soul into this stale little dive, dragging the weight of the world behind him. He\u2019s got that look\u2014woe wrapped in weariness\u2014as he shuffles to the bar.<\/p>\n \u201cGive me a whiskey,\u201d he says. Voice dry, rough. Gravel on pavement.<\/p>\n I feign disinterest as I size him up. Ha. He\u2019ll be putty in my hands soon enough.<\/p>\n \u201cWhiskey? No problem, bud. Everything okay?\u201d Just small talk. I don\u2019t care how his day\u2019s going\u2014but they tip better when you fake it.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay? Okay?\u201d he laughs. \u201cYeah, sure. Me and my wife are about to get a divorce, but yeah\u2014everything\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n He slumps, unraveling right there on the stool.<\/p>\n I missed half of what he said. The look on his face makes me wish I\u2019d been listening more closely. But hey, that\u2019s not in the job description.<\/p>\n So I give him the smile. The one that says, Everything\u2019s gonna be alright, pal. I think he bought it.<\/p>\n I reach down smooth as always, aiming for the bottle of Jack\u2014but come up with a cold carton of milk instead.<\/p>\n Crap.<\/p>\n He\u2019s staring. I\u2019m staring back. That special kind of awkward where something\u2019s wrong and we both know it.<\/p>\n His stare says, Did you just mess up? Mine says, Maybe I did. Or maybe this is part of the show. I grab a shot glass without breaking eye contact. Real slow. Then pour him a neat, steady shot of milk.<\/p>\n \u201cHere you go, bud.\u201d<\/p>\n He blinks. \u201cThe\u2026 what\u2019s this?\u201d Suspicion creeps in. \u201cLook, if this is some kind of joke, I\u2019m not in the mood. I just told you\u2014me and my wife had a huge fight. I just want to get drunk and forget as much as I can before I go back.\u201d<\/p>\n I give him my best used-car-salesman smile\u2014plastic, and gleaming.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, here\u2019s the deal,\u201d I say. \u201cThe milk? Five bucks. But the advice I\u2019m about to give you? That\u2019s free. I\u2019m going to tell you how to fix your marriage.\u201d<\/p>\n He blinks, stunned\u2014then downs the shot.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, what happened? You cheat on her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo!\u201d His face twists\u2014was it the milk?<\/p>\n \u201cShe cheat on you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo!\u201d I didn\u2019t know a face could get that red without bursting.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, you kill her cat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d Getting warmer.<\/p>\n \u201cForget the kid at school again? Tenth time\u2019s the charm?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat? No. We don\u2019t have kids.\u201d<\/p>\n Bingo. Cracking this case wide open.<\/p>\n \u201cAlright, alright\u2014no need to get testy.\u201d I pour him another. Maybe too generous. Hell, I make it a double.<\/p>\n \u201cSo in other words, you had a disagreement.\u201d<\/p>\n He exhales. \u201cYeah\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLife or death?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNeither.\u201d He downs the shot. No flinch. Guess the milk\u2019s fresh.<\/p>\n \u201cThen why are you here?\u201d<\/p>\n He leans in. \u201cWhat do you mean, why am I here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m no expert,\u201d I say, \u201cbut here\u2019s the fix. Get in your car, go to the store, buy some roses. Then go home\u2014and apologize.\u201d<\/p>\n I pour him another. He looks like he needs it.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have to mean it\u2026 or, well, you don\u2019t. As long as she thinks you do\u2014that\u2019s what counts.\u201d<\/p>\n He slams it. \u201cWhy am I apologizing if it\u2019s not my fault?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t matter.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat? Wait\u2014when does it start mattering whose fault it is?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s the trick,\u201d I say, sliding the glass just out of reach. \u201cIt never does. You\u2019re always at fault. Comes with the territory. Didn\u2019t you read the contract?\u201d<\/p>\n He falters. \u201cI\u2026 okay\u2026 then why? What\u2019s the point?\u201d<\/p>\n I lean in. \u201cAsk yourself\u2014five years from now, what matters more? Take that whiskey, storm out\u2014you\u2019ll be single, chasing girls who don\u2019t care.\u201d<\/p>\n I reach for the milk again.<\/p>\n \u201cOr you take another shot of this, go home, apologize. Five years from now, maybe you wake up next to your wife. Maybe there\u2019s a cat. Maybe some squirmy kids. Either way\u2014it\u2019s warm. And it\u2019s yours.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHa\u2026 okay. But five bucks for a shot of milk?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d I cough. \u201cThe milk\u2019s free. Five bucks for saving your marriage.\u201d<\/p>\n He looks at me\u2014and finally smiles. Not polite. Not forced. One of those real ones, like something just got lighter.<\/p>\n \u201cAlright. Thanks. I should go buy some flowers.\u201d<\/p>\n He gets up, places a five on the counter, and nods. No tip. Cheap bastard.<\/p>\n He walks out. Someone else slides into his place like nothing happened. I\u2019m here five days a week. Maybe it\u2019s the stale air. Maybe the musty smell. Maybe something else.<\/p>\n Either way, I want it on record: I love this place.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My momma always told me, “Son,”\u2014that\u2019s how I knew she was talkin\u2019 to me. She\u2019d say, “Son, you ain\u2019t no good.” No sugar, no salt\u2014but somehow almost sweet as warm honey apple pie, fresh from the oven. \u201cNow, it ain\u2019t your fault. See, your daddy was no good either.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":24166,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3530],"tags":[3707,779,263,1147],"class_list":["post-23221","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-flash-fiction","tag-absurdism","tag-dark-comedy","tag-humor","tag-short-story","writer-adrian-weston"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23221","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23221"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23221\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":24165,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23221\/revisions\/24165"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24166"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23221"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23221"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23221"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}The Good Stuff<\/h5>\n