Page 70 - WTP VOl.VII#5

The Couch (continued from preceding page)
“You’re fucking going if I have to make you,” Russ said.
“That’s not helpful,” his father said. “We’re expected here today, Lucien. You watch how smooth this goes.” They had pulled onto the Togus campus, and were moments from the main entrance.
Lucien shook his head no. “Fuck that,” he said. “Fuck that, Uncle Dom. You watch. You fucking watch. I’ll watch from right here.”
The Toyota eased to a stop out front. Albie put the transmission into park and looked warily to his best friend for guidance. Dominic said, “I spoke to the intake guy, who expects us. He was really nice and understanding. You ain’t the first vet to....”
“The first veteran to fucking what, Uncle Dom?” Luc- ien shouted, finally ready to fight.
“To live in a shitty Skylark, Lucien,” Russ said. “Now get out of the car.”
“I’d like to see you try and make me.”
“Why would god give us two fists if not to occasion- ally coerce?” Russ replied, smiling.
Dominic said, “You two...”
“I used to beat your ass mercilessly when we were kids,” Lucien correctly pointed out.
“You see a kid sitting beside you, telling you to get out of the car and into the hospital, to give your pathetic ass one last chance that you doesn’t deserve anyway?”
“Look here, Russ...” Albie coughed.
“Y’all two agree that he needs out of the car, right, Albie?” Russ sneered. Then his eyes flashed back to his cousin. “Earlier today you learned that one friend wanted you out of his car, which you were crashing, sleeping, and just fucking deteriorating in, and you went. You came with us. Now Albie wants you out, too. Show him the same damn courtesy.”
“Why should I, or anyone else, listen to what Russ Walker has to say about anything, right?” Lucien finally said. “Hey Uncle Dom, how much money you think you’ve lent him over the years, your super smart, Ivy League, superstar son?”
“We’re not here for Russ,” Dominic replied.
“Do you even have a rough mental tally of what he owes you in accumulation, Uncle Dom, or is the num-
ber just too...”
Before Lucien could get the last words out, Russ punched him in the eye.
Lucien’s earlier claim was true. In their childhood fights, which almost always happened during family outings, especially the annual camping trip to Acadia National Park, the older Lucien invariably prevailed. However, the combat in Albie’s Toyota was not a fight; it was a beating. Russ shifted to face his cousin and rained down haymaker rights, each of which landed on Lucien’s face with thudding impunity. His cousin cried out in surprise and pain. Each impact sent beer flying from the can in Lucien’s right hand as he tried to move his arm into a defensive position, but that did nothing to stop Russ’ assault. His father and Albie were shouting and reaching in from the front, trying to stop the fracas, a flailing curtain of ineffectual limbs, all save for Russ’ right hand, its fist a rock, the elbow a piston. It kept threading through the interference, finding Lucien’s face five, six,
seven times. Each landed punch sounded like a ripe eggplant that, having rolled off a counter, plopped onto a hard floor. Russ, or, at least, the human part of him that would have normally found such behav- ior abhorrent, was gone, and the depressed, angry automation that he had devolved into during their drive was very happy to smash up the right side of his cousin’s face. He wanted to crush Lucien’s profile the same way that convicts used to smash boulders in prison yards.
Lucien finally managed one decent swing, a backhand right, but Russ was too dedicated to his project to really notice the flash that went off in his left eye, or slow down his own punches. Lucien, the can still in his hand, although he was wearing most of the beer, was cry-
ing. The Toyota was full of screaming, as Albie and his father scrambled out of their seats to intervene through the back doors. His father’s hands came around, clasp- ing in front of Russ’ chest and awkwardly dragging him out of, first his seat, and then the vehicle.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Dominic cried. “You don’t even look like you. Your face is the devil’s face right now.”
Russ looked over his enraged, heartbroken father’s shoulder and saw two men hurrying their way out from the hospital, one of them wore a blue uniform and a badge, but carried no gun on his belt. Security, Russ surmised; the other guy looked like an orderly. Then he heard Lucien’s continued wail, like a small, broken ani- mal. Dominic’s face contorted; he seemed on the verge of throwing a punch of his own.
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