At Wright’s Bowling & Billiards, a round of pool used to cost 75 cents. Mister Stuman, which was how he would call himself from now on, though he had never been called Mister anything before, would not pay the $1.25 those thieves were charging. For Stuman, pool was a game he would pay any amount to play, but to Mister Stuman he would no longer pay anything above a dollar a game. So, if it were that some shitty pool hall would start charging $1.25 for a game like it was some big city pool hall, he would not play there. Mister Stuman had found, back when he was just plain Stuman, that people took advantage of you, did things like charge over a dollar for pool. Teenagers came over and stole your Keystone Light and huffed butane from your daddy’s Zippo collection you inherited when he died of a blood clot in his leg. He thought maybe he’d change his name to something with more dignity, something with force. He had seen guys on TV with those names. A name like Dirk he always thought showed dignity. But his Mom named him that for a reason and he’d stick with it. So, maybe Sir Stuman, or Stuman Stamper III. Those sounded like royalty and he didn’t want that. So he just decided on a simple Mister Stuman, and with that simple addition to his name life would be different, he would be in control, never to do things against his will again.

There were a lot of things he would never do again. One of them was fuck Deanna, the pudgy blonde girl from Vinny’s Liquor & Wine, and afterwards have Vinny himself come by his trailer and bust his kneecaps with a 4"x6" for laying it to her. Another would be to no longer let those teenagers come around and get silly off his spare butane. Now, with his life changing, he wouldn’t fuck Deanna, who only thought she was hot shit, but didn’t really look like the girls on TV. Because Mister Stuman was running the show from here on out, and if they didn’t like it they could shove off.

The Italian who broke his kneecaps was in for it, but he didn’t know it. As soon as Mister Stuman could walk again, he was going to get it. He was the kind of big city Italian who moves to the country from some place like Pittsburgh and builds a liquor store in the middle of nowhere so the folks that live here are forced to buy from him. Then he takes all that big money and buys a shiny Dodge diesel truck and a vanity plate that says Vinny 1 and hauls around a horse trailer with his two horses and mows down a field on his property for pasture calling his place a ranch. Last time Mister Stuman checked, two horses did not equal a ranch. As well, Italians could not have ranches, nor could they own liquor stores that hire pudgy blonde girls. Nor should they drive around these parts like they own it and bust the kneecaps of the people who from here.

Mister Stuman was on the floor of his trailer in Marion, Pennsylvania. It was 11:00 am. and hot, hot. But his wheelchair was in the yard, under the tree getting all sticky with pinesap drippings or something. The trailer was a mess from those teenagers coming around, tearing the place up, drinking all his Keystone Light and huffing his butane, ignoring his pleas as they dumped him from his wheelchair and used it to pop wheelies in the yard. So he lay there with two broken kneecaps and a wheelchair out of arms’ reach. In the silence of the early morning and late evening, he swears he can hear things rumbling, like something rolling up the driveway, gravel snapping under truck tires. Before, he wouldn’t have worried over this sound in his head. He would have simply shrugged it off, but now, at any minute, it could be Vinny, or one of his goons. He wondered if he was imagining the sound, if his fear had created this auditory delusion. The only person he knew to ask was the girl at Vinny’s because she was always reading books while she sat behind the counter snapping gum wildly. Drunkenness was the only way he could forget the sound and Vinny’s was the only place to buy booze.

The carpet was littered with Crispix cereal he had tried to eat before the teenagers grabbed it from him and threw it all over the room. He couldn’t sweep and he didn’t know if cereal grew mold or not, because he didn’t want the carpet to get wet or smelly.

He looked at the wheelchair and he thought maybe he could call the girl up and have her come out here and lift him into it. Maybe she could even bring him a case of beer so he could drink before his Mom came tomorrow after church. In his head he wanted to be drunk now because there was nothing else to do to pass the time away besides watching T.V. He thought of beer and he thought of beer, a whole case of it. That and a brick of cheese and he’d squirt mustard on the bread and slap cheese in the middle and then it’d be sandwich.

He wondered where the phone was. He looked around the room. Those kids probably ran up a bunch of long distance calls or whatever and then threw the phone in the damn garbage. They’d do something like that, he knew it.

He took a big breath and pushed himself along the floor, shoving the scattered Zippos and butane cans out of his way. His sweatpants rode down on him as he pushed and every pinch in his legs reminded him of Vinny Tatorelli and how Deanna felt, all soft in his arms. He had to stop every few inches to catch his breath and let the pain die down, but he made it to the kitchen where the linoleum made for easier sliding. He pulled the garbage can closer to him and dug through it. It smelled like the rest of the trailer smelled, except more so. When his mother was over last she cleaned out the fridge and threw out a bunch of stuff from the fridge. Old vegetables, coffee grounds and a pack of moldy Oscar Meyer bologna, all sorts of stuff. She put it all the garbage, but didn’t bother to set it at the end of the road for collection. So now the whole house smelled like the garbage can and he was digging through it with his hands, looking for the phone.

He couldn’t find it, so he set the garbage can back and propped his back against the cupboards. He ran his fat hand over his balding head and looked at himself, shirt un-tucked and yellowed in the armpits, sweatpants bound up around his crotch. He hadn’t washed himself in a while because he couldn’t, but it didn’t matter anyways since nobody had come around but them kids.

He spotted the phone on the table above his head. He scooted a bit and reached for it. He grabbed it and dialed the state store, hoping Vinny himself wasn’t there, or Deanna .

"Vinny’s Liquor & Wine," she said.

Shit, he thought to himself.

"Hello?" he said.

"Yes?" she said, real sassy-like.

"Listen, I know things ain’t been easy between us," he said. "But I’m in a real situation."

"Who’s this?"

"What?"

"What’re you trying to say?"

"Just…Christ, just…ain’t you listenin’?"

"What’s this all about?"

He sighed. "I’ll pay you extra for making a trip out here and bringing me some beer."

"Why would I do that?"

"Why the hell not?"

"I ain’t comin’ out there," she said.

"I ain’t askin’ you to fuck me," he told her. "Just bring me a goddamn case of beer!"

"You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about."

"What the hell’s s’hard about that, just drive out here after work and bring me it," he said. "I’ll pay you extra."

"You don’t have no money," she fired back.

"Things is different now," he said, thinking of his new name. "You’ll be wantin’ me as soon as you how people treat me."

"I’m hangin’ up now," she said. "Thanks for callin’."

Thanks for calling? What the hell was that all about? Like he was just some customer or something, he thought. He yanked open the refrigerator door, hoping some beer would appear. It was empty save for a thing of dill pickles and an open can of Keystone Light. He pulled out the can, half-empty, but he couldn’t remember if it was him that drank it or one of those kids. He sniffed at it and it smelled okay. He shut his eyes and slugged it down his throat. He recoiled at the aftertaste, all flat and stale tasting and decided he had to get some that was fresh.

He scooted over to the screen door and looked out at his wheelchair. It looked pathetic and useless covered in orange pine needles. He wondered how he could get down the front steps without hurting his legs even more.

He opened the latch to the screen door with his one hand and inched out the top half of his body. He flopped down onto the top step and the screen door banged into his legs. He yelped out. Pulling himself down onto the next step, his legs bent and he screamed again. Furiously, he flung himself off the steps completely and into the dirt yard with a sudden and fierce jolt of pain.

He took a minute before dragging the rest of the way to the wheelchair. Gripping the handles with his chubby fists, he pulled himself up, straining, grunting, gritting his small teeth. The pain was damn near intolerable, but he pushed himself back onto the seat and positioned his legs so his bare feet could be on the footrests. He wiped at his forehead. The humidity.

He wheeled himself down the path through the woods that lead to the main road. It felt good to feel the air in his face, like he was actually moving. The dirt round was uneven, but he wheeled cautiously and did not tip over.

When he hit the main road, he turned onto it and wheeled smoothly. He coasted on the smooth, sun-baked blacktop trying to keep his right wheel on the white line, like all those drunk nights driving home. A camper van flew past him blowing its horn. He threw his arm up in a wave and struggled to keep the wheelchair aligned within the van’s blustery wake. Dust was in his face and he wiped his teeth with his tongue, removing the grit. He wheeled on but couldn’t seem to wheel fast enough. He had a pressing feeling in his throat that Vinny Tatorelli would drive by in his shiny truck, but he never did.

The air-conditioning of the liquor store smacked him in the face. He faced slick with sweat and layered in road-dust. Deanna was behind he counter, but he didn’t look at her. Instead he made a dramatic swing to the beer cooler, grabbed a case of Keystone Light and placed it on his lap.

Deanna was chewing gum loudly, her face in a paperback.

"I’m here and I’m buying this," Stuman told her matter-of-factly.

She rolled her eyes, which he probably wasn’t supposed to see, but did and he called her on it.

"Don’t go thinkin’ you’re cat’s meow, honey!" he said. "Your boyfriend might have busted-up my legs, but what’s between ‘em still works and that’s what counts."

"And how you plannin’ on payin’ for that?" she asked with a hint of sass.

"Put it on my tab," he said.

"Vinny won’t let you buy on credit no more," she said.

"Just…Christ….Why’ncha…just, put it on my goddamned tab!" he pleaded.

"Can’t do ‘er," she said, shaking her frizzy head back and forth.

He reached deep into his sweatpants pockets, searching for something, any spare change or crumpled bills he could offer as down payment or something.

"Trust me," she said. "You ain’t got enough."

He turned abruptly and beat it to the door, the beer still on his lap.

"I’m callin’ Vinny!" she called after him.

The bell chimed above his head as he opened the glass door. "Go ahead!" he said. "See if I care, you spoiled brat!"

He came around the bend in the path leading to his trailer, feeling a sort of pride in having made it back with the beer. The name was working. Things would be different from now. He had shown her the way things would be and if she didn’t like it, she could shove off. This would mark the new beginning. No more loose women, no strung-out kids and no more damned Italians.

A set of low voices caught his attention. He pricked his ears to the sound. First thought was Vinny, but he saw no gleam of truck bumper. It couldn’t be him. He wheeled closer. It was those damn teenagers.

"Left my chair in the rain," he scolded them in his new commanding voice.

"Dude, he brought beer," the one said to the other two, speaking as if Stuman wasn’t there.

He wheeled closer and they stood there, glazed look on their faces, butane-soaked rag on the steps between them.

"Pretty soon, you ain’t gone be able to come on this property," he said.

"Hey, man," the dark-haired one said. "You’re gonna have to pick up some more butane next time your out."

"You goddamn kids," he grumbled. "Ain’t got no business comin’ round here."

He watched as the one lifted the butane rag to his face and took in a deep breath. Stuman shook his head at him. He tore open the beer case and pulled out a can, snapping it open and taking a long and (what he thought to be) deserved drink.

"Hey, Grandpa," the one with the crew-cut said. "Whatcha askin’ for a beer these days?"

"Feh," he waved them off. "Mayhap if you was of age."

The boys all exchanged heavy-lidded looks and moved slowly from the front steps toward Stuman. As they got closer, he noticed the gray half-moons under their eyes.

"I guess if Grandpa ain’t chargin’ for ‘em, they must be for free," the tallest one said.

Stuman shook his head worriedly. No, no, he said to himself. "You kids shouldn’t be treatin’ me this way. I’m your elder."

He took another drink, trying to maintain confidence. Before he could swallow, two of the boys gripped his arms and held them behind the back of the wheelchair. He wiggled and spit and grunted. He was helpless, immobile, couldn’t even kick with his legs. "Don’t tip me over! Please, just don’t tip me over!"

The tallest one took the case of beer from his lap and ordered the other two to let him go. He reached in and pulled three cans out, tossing two to the others. "Thanks, Grandpa," he winked a watery eye at him.

Stuman sat with his head in his hands. He thought maybe he was gonna cry, but knew he couldn’t, not in front of those kids. He had spit beer all down his shirt. He looked at the kids, they were now seated back on the steps, drinking beer and passing the butane rag between them. He wheeled over to them.

"C’mon, just let me have a couple," he begged. "I ain’t askin’ for the whole thing back, just give me a couple."

They ignored him, kept on drinking, talking to each other.

"Just a couple, c’mon," he asked again.

Nothing.

"Goddammit, then just one! Just give me one goddamn can of beer!" He banged his fists into the armrest of the wheelchair in a fit.

The kids looked at him like he was sideshow feature, eyes wide with disbelief. They snickered into their shirtsleeves. He slumped down in the chair with defeat.

"C’mon, let’s get outta here," the crew-cut one said.

"Yeah, Grandpa’s kind of a drag," said the tall one.

They stood up and walked past him, the tall one cradling the beer in his arms. Stuman didn’t look up. He smelled their cologne as they brushed against him confidently. Their voices faded into the trees as they disappeared behind the woods and closer to the main road.

The silence that followed crept up on him. At first there was no noise and then there was all noise, slow, like rolling thunder, gravel snapping under truck tires. He tried to make himself believe it was quiet. He couldn’t stand the noise and didn’t know where it was coming from. He set his mind to the girl, Deanna, and her warm body next to his, feeling her breath against his neck, the way her body felt underneath the bed sheets. He didn’t want to make another run to the state store, didn’t have the strength. He sat and sighed. Inside his chest, he could feel he was getting all sulled up.

On the wooden steps, the butane rag was lying there, yellowed and dirty looking. He picked it up and held its oiliness in his hands. It smelled like his dad’s old Zippo, but more so, like how the garbage can smelled like the trailer, but more, whaddyacallit—pungent. Curiously, he held the rag to his mouth and nose the way he’d seen those kids do it. He took in a deep breath and dropped the rag, feeling his head grow light and his muscles relax, the noise falling away. He didn’t think of it right away, didn’t think of much at all, but later thought the feeling was akin to the nights when he got real drunk, but without the heaviness in the belly, or the sloshiness in the head. Instead, his brain felt like soppy ground, a marsh maybe, or some other thing that’s soft and pliable, yet solid.

He sat there, sniffing and sniffing at the rag, feeling his head grow airy. Everything around him was blurred and he thought maybe he’d puke. He looked at his legs and thought that if he sniffed enough of this stuff, it might not hurt when he walked. Another deep breath. He cupped the bottom of his right leg with his hand and tried lifting it. It hurt, but not as much as usual. He lifted again, a sharp, but somehow dulled pinch of pain. Busted kneecaps. Like a movie. Just like on T.V. And Vinny Tatorelli was that guy who wears his black hair greased back and comes around at strange hours, busting down the door to the trailer and smashing up a guy’s kneecaps because he fucked his woman. It was all seriously funny now, with his lungs and brain full of butane.

He looked up at the sky, the calligraphic pattern the trees against the darkening sky made him laugh.

Heeah…" he laughed painfully. "Heeeeeeaaahhhh, heeee….heeeeeaaahh, ohrrhr," he groaned. He coughed and sputtered.

Everything went black on him and he passed out.

He came to at the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. He lifted his head, felt the cool shoelace of drool stretched from the corner of his mouth to his shirt. He slurped it back into his mouth. A yellow-headed figure was coming up the path to the trailer. He cut his eyes in the figure’s direction. It had curves and long hair, a woman, but thinner than his mother.

"You sleepin’?" the figure called. It was Deanna.

Shit, he thought again.

"Nome," he mumbled.

She got closer and he saw she was cradling a case of beer in her arms.

"You brung’d beer?" he said. He couldn’t form words.

"I guess I was feelin’ bad," she said. She ripped open the case, snapped one open and handed it to him. He pawed at the can before gripping it fully in his hand. He took a long drink, some of it dripped down his face.

"You’s feelin’ bad."

"Yech!" she said, making a face. "Smells like garbage and lighter fluid around here."

He extended the butane rag to her. She waved it off. He couldn’t believe she was being this nice to him now.

"Them’s kids’s here urler s’evenin’" he said, trying to explain.

"That Vinny," she sighed. "Sometimes he just takes things too far. Gotta real temper, y’know?"

Stuman slapped his busted legs with his hands, reminding her. She rolled her eyes.

"I know, I know," she said.

"Lesgo inside," he said.

"Alright," she said. She stood and grabbed the wheelchair and pulled him up each step. He was heavier than she thought. They got inside and she wheeled him to the middle of the room.

"Wan’ watch T.V.?" he asked.

"I guess," she said. She grabbed the remote and turned it on. Wheel of Fortune was on.

"Les Make A Deal!" he shouted at the T.V.

"This is Wheel of Fortune," she corrected.

"I know," he said. He felt that feeling going away. He lifted the rag to his face again, breathed.

"Jesus," she said, watching him.

"You ain’ never tried it ‘fore," he said. "Don’ knock it till y’try it!"

She sat back on the couch and cracked open a beer. He looked at her face, awash in the blue light of the television.

"You wan’ fuck agin?" he asked. "Or go to Wright’s, mebbe, shoot pool?

"What? Shoot pool from a wheelchair?"

"C’mon, fuck, man, let’s just fuck it on right here now."

She laughed at him.

"C’mone over hya," he said, slapping his busted knee. "C’mone over hya an’ hump me. I’m Misser Stuman Stamper now."

"That sounds awful."

"You donnit ‘fore. Les do it agin."

"Ain’t you afraid of Vinny catchin’ us?" she asked him.

"Vinny Shminny I ain’t ‘fraid a no Vinny,"

She stood up and walked over to him. His head wobbled on his neck. She walked behind him and his head lobbed back so he was staring at her chest. Her face was white and puffy.

"You don’t smell so good," she said.

"I canna wash maself, what y’expect?"

She leaned over him and the round of her breasts pressed against his head. He was excited. She ran her hands down the front of his stained shirt and he moaned. Her fingertips reached the elastic band of his sweatpants and she shoved her hand down, grabbing his member sternly.

"Ouch!"

"What?"

"Nuffin’"

She fondled him some more, rubbing slowly, then violently.

"It ain’t workin’" she said with a sigh.

"Aah, shid, I dunno, it mebbe needs a lil warm-up," he said.

She rubbed it again with force.

"Hey!" he hollered.

"You fuck!"

"What?"

"I’m goin’" she said pulling her hand away.

"Aah, no, don’t do at, don’t," he whined. "I’ve hadda rough day."

"Too rough your dick don’t work no more," she rolled her eyes.

"Firs’ it’s this," he said, wrapping his gimp legs with his knuckles. "Then it’s ‘em damn kids comin’ roun’ here. Place a smellin’ like traish. I can allus make love to ya witout you grabbin at me. I jes want sumbuddy to hold an be close wit. I’ll do whuddever you want, if you’d jes dance a little for me."

She hesitated, then got up from the couch.

"Ohhrrhhr," he said. He lifted the rag to his face again while she removed her shirt. She was just as white and puffy underneath, flesh folding out over her red bra. He looked at her and at the space between her teeth and thought of how now she didn’t look as good as what he once thought she did. Now, with her clothes off, she didn’t look so much like the girls on the T.V. And he thought of his crumbly, useless kneecaps and of whether it was all worth it with her.

She danced awkwardly and drank from the can of beer while she did so. She removed her jeans and her legs were pale, spindly, but her ass was wide and full. And she danced and he laughed and moaned and touched her and promised her everything. And he swore he heard Pat Sajak say "Survey Says!"

He woke to the sound of a diesel engine. It chugged and guzzled and gargled fuel. He sat up and looked at Deanna. She was on the couch, still naked and white, holding a small glass pipe to her mouth. The room smelled brown and green. Her eyes were glassy, like those kids.

He held up one finger and said, "You hear that?"

She blew smoke from her mouth. "Huh-uh."

He listened. "That’s a diesel engine, ain’t it?"

"I dunno," she shrugged.

"If it ain’t a diesel engine, I dunno what is!"

"Whatsa big deal?"

"Just listen."

He listened and looked out the window. It was now dark and he thought that if someone, anyone was out there, they would be able to see him and her in the trailer because of the television light. It was all dark out there, but in the trailer there was light, dim, flickering.

He wheeled closer to the screen door, looking out, pressing his hand against the cool aluminum frame. Hydraulics. Rubber squeezing against lime rock. Snapping of gravel, grinding of gears.

"You told him, you did!" he cried to her.

"Huh?" she said. She took another hit.

"You set me up, like a trap, like a goddamn movie or something!"

He saw the truck lights dancing like shafts of sunlight through the black woods, slowly.

He wheeled around furiously. "That’s a diesel engine and that’s him comin’ rightn now!"

As he moved throughout the room, his wheels rolled over and bent the scattered Zippos and butane cans. He slapped the top of the television. His forehead dripped sweat. He could smell himself.

"Mister Stuman Stamper doesn’t like this!" he said, his voice cracking nervously.

"What?" she said, holding her breath.

"Mister!" he yelled. "Mister Stuman Goddamn Stamper!"

"You’re funny."

"Funny!" he flung his arm around in a grand sweep. "Shit! This is all funny to you, huh!"

She laughed. Her face was red.

"And you think this is all so goddamn funny! Like it’s some kinda goddamn joke. Well, I ain’t laughin’! Cause I’m a serious man, now, y’understand! And I’ll never pay over a buck for a round of pool!"

He started moaning, was unsure if he was crying. He wiped at his face. It could have been sweat.

The truck was pulling around the bend. Why’s it going so slowly? The chugging of the engine grew louder. He swore it was rattling the trailer walls. When the windstorms came in the fall, the wind blew so hard it shook the acorns from the white oak outside the back bedroom window. If the wind was hard enough the acorns would pelt the aluminum roof like a series of amplified tin-type hammerings. The truck sounded just like that! Just like it, but louder!

Out the window he caught the glint off the chrome bumper and the headlights washed the trailer in a sea of white light. He shook his head back and forth, back and forth. Never shoulda done it. Never shoulda. Shoulda just kept it in my pants.

He wheeled to the door once again, saw the Dodge symbol on the dash as the driver sidled the truck to the trailer and cut the engine. Silence. Noise. Growing.

"It’s a Dodge," he whispered to her. "It’s a goddamn Dodge diesel truck with a goddamn trailer hitch on back!"

"Well, I don’t know anybody else that drives a Dodge diesel," she said.

"Well somebody by God does!" he yelled. "Somebody does and he’s out there right now!"