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Runk
Mickey Runkel kicked back in a lawn chair on a hot Thursday afternoon, eating a frozen margarita with
a plastic spoon. A brace of thick T-bones spattered fat onto glowing charcoals, filling his yard with an aromatic haze.
Runk, he mused, it don't get no better than this.
His lawn was mowed, his pickup washed. The roof had no leaks,
the gutters were straight and clean. Golfing filled half his Friday schedule.
He was fully vested in his pension
plan. In three years he planned to burn his mortgage; in six more he could take early retirement.
Still, a kernel
of guilt from his first and only affair, consummated with startling swiftness that afternoon, dulled the edge of his contentment.
It had happened in a remote corner of the warehouse. One minute he was showing the new technician how to track down parts
by using the catalog numbers; the next she was pressing her backside against his belly and lightly dragging her fingertips
alongside his hips. Disbelieving, he slid her pantyhose to her knees and lifted her skirt above her waist. As she grasped
a footstool and struggled to steady herself, he bit his lip and studied the winged tattoo perched atop her quivering buttocks.
"The wings of an angel," he mumbled as he swooned and his knees threatened to buckle.
If she hadn't smiled
coyly as she drove past him in the parking lot that evening, he could have believed he had only imagined the episode. But
he shuddered at the trouble it could lead to, if it led anywhere at all. He pondered a payoff, a confession, an apology to
his spouse.
The creak of the screen door startled him. His wife, Debbie, loomed over him, menacing in a sleeveless
striped top and a pair of shorts that would have been at home in the NBA. She propped her fists on the broad shelf of her
hips, her flapping triceps dislodging a blizzard of deodorant flakes.
"Oh, I suppose you really needed that,
didn't you?" she asked, aiming a painted nail at his margarita. Runkel, alarmed, nearly dropped his drink. "And
couldn't you cut the fat off those steaks? It really doesn't matter to you if you kill yourself, does it?"
"Look,
can't you just ..."
"What? Can't I just what, Mickey? Give it a rest? Get off your back? Get the fuck
out of your face?"
He thought better of his answer and shrugged his shoulders.
"You're not the
only one who works, you know. I wash, I clean. Who do you think keeps this place together while you're out hitting a little
white ball around? Do you see any weeds in that garden?"
"Shit! You used the roto-tiller. It took you
10 minutes."
"Oh, I get it. Doing laundry and vacuuming isn't work. If I'm not on all fours with my ass
in the air it doesn't count. Is that it?"
He smirked. "You're asking me? How the hell would I know?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she said, her nostrils flaring, tendrils springing loose from
her bun. "Is that supposed to be FUNNY?"
She wheeled and stomped back into the house. The screen door
slammed like a rifle shot.
Runkel sighed. He stirred his drink, then scooped a spoonful of ice and flipped it into
the air. It traced a high arc and dropped through the grill, raising a puff of steam. A tiny cloud billowed, then dissipated
into the evening air. A smile dimpled his cheeks.
"Two points for the big guy," he said. "Nothing
but net."
Steve Frederick
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