State of Pennsylvania. During this period his wife got a Nevada divorce, and when Rocky got out of the slam she was living with Spike Milligan in a Dakin Street apartment house with a pink flamingo on the front lawn. In addition to his two older children (Rocky still more or less assumed they were his), the couple were now possessed of an infant who was every bit as trout-eyed as his daddy. They were also possessed of fifteen dollars a week in alimony.
“Rocky, I think I’m gettin carsick,” Leo said. “Couldn’t we just pull over and drink?”
“I gotta get a sticker on my wheels,” Rocky said. “This is important. A man’s no good without his wheels.”
“Nobody in his right mind is gonna inspect this—I told you that. It ain’t got no turn signals.”
“They blink if I step on the brake at the same time, and anybody who don’t step on his brakes when he’s makin a turn is lookin to do a rollover.”
“Window on this side’s cracked.”
“I’ll roll it down.”
“What if the inspectionist asks you to roll it up so he can check it?”
“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it,” Rocky said coolly. He tossed his beer can out and got a refill. This new one had Franco Harris on it. Apparently the Iron City company was playing the Steelers’ Greatest Hits this summer. He popped the top. Beer splurted.
“Wish I had a woman,” Leo said, looking into the dark. He smiled strangely.
“If you had a woman, you’d never get out west. What a woman does is keep a man from getting any further west. That’s how they operate. That is their mission. Dint you tell me you wanted to go out west?”
“Yeah, and I’m going, too.”
“You’ll never go,” Rocky said. “Pretty soon you’ll have a woman. Next you’ll have abalone. Alimony. You know. Women always lead up to alimony. Cars are better. Stick to cars.”
“Pretty hard to screw a car.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rocky said, and giggled.
The woods had begun to straggle away into new dwellings. Lights twinkled up on the left and Rocky suddenly slammed on the brakes. The brake lights and turn signals both went on at once; it was a home wiring job. Leo lurched forward, spilling beer on the seat. “What? What?”
“Look,” Rocky said. “I think I know that fella.”
There was a tumorous, ramshackle garage and Citgo filling station on the left side of the road. The sign in front said:BOB’S GAS & SERVICE
BOB DRISCOLL, PROP.
FRONT END ALIGNMENT OUR SPECIALTY
DEFEND YOUR GOD-GIVEN RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS!
And, at the very bottom:STATE INSPECTION STATION #72
“Nobody in his right mind—” Leo began again.
“It’s Bobby Driscoll!” Rocky cried. “Me an Bobby Driscoll went to school together! We got it knocked! Bet your fur!”
He pulled in unevenly, headlights illuminating the open door of the garage bay. He popped the clutch and roared toward it. A stoop-shouldered man in a green coverall ran out, making frantic stopping gestures.
“Thass Bob!” Rocky yelled exultantly. “Heyyy, Stiff Socks!” They ran into the side of the garage. The Chrysler had another seizure, grand mal this time. A small yellow flame appeared at the end of the sagging tailpipe, followed by a puff of blue smoke. The car stalled gratefully. Leo lurched forward, spilling more beer. Rocky keyed the engine and backed off for another try.
Bob Driscoll ran over, profanity spilling out of his mouth in colorful streamers. He was waving his arms. “—the hell you think you’re doing, you goddam sonofa—”
Bob peered in through Rocky’s window. He had a twisted, tired face that was mostly hidden in the shadow thrown by the bill of his cap. “Who called me Stiff Socks?”
“Me!” Rocky fairly screamed. “It’s me, you ole fingerdiddler! It’s your old buddy!”
“Who in the hell—”
“Johnny Rockwell! You gone blind as well as foolish?”
Cautiously: “Rocky?”
“Yeah, you sombitch!”
“Christ Jesus.” Slow, unwilling pleasure seeped across Bob’s face. “I ain’t seen you since... well . . . since the Catamounts game, anyway—”
“Shoosh! Wa’n’t that some hot ticket?” Rocky slapped his thigh, sending up a gusher of Iron City. Leo burped.
“Sure it was. Only time we ever won our class. Even then we couldn’t seem to win the championship. Say, you beat hell out of the side of my garage, Rocky. You—”
“Yeah, same ole Stiff Socks. Same old guy. You ain’t changed even a hair.” Rocky belatedly peeked as far under the visor of the baseball cap as he could see, hoping this was true.