The Public Works

air dangerously close to Eaves’ window before it fell harmlessly back to
earth. Eaves emitted a choked sound from his throat and grabbed the levers again. 
    Simpson laughed. “Don’t worry about it. That’s only some loose pavement along the shoulder. Relax! Here . . .” 
    Simpson produced a pint bottle from under his coat on the seat and thrust
it at Eaves. “Here, you like scotch? Take a good slug of this.” 
    Eaves just stared at the bottle. 
    “Christ, take it! In your case its strictly medicinal. And don’t spill any!” 
    Eaves took the bottle as ordered, carefully unscrewed the cap, and took
a couple good swallows. No sooner had he gotten the cap back on than he
started to cough violently. 
    Simpson grabbed the bottle. “How’s that? Better? Ha, haaaa . . . , old
Doctor Dunbar here. Another dose in fifteen minutes. Hell, you’ll be fine
in no time.” Simpson stuck the bottle back under his coat. “Pints are always
better than fifths, you know,” he added. “They don’t roll around in the truck
as much.” 
    Truck twenty-two pulled out of Willow Avenue and onto Landaw Street.
A stop sign momentarily seen behind the right side of the truck on the corner suddenly disappeared. 
    “That was a stop sign back there for your information, Richard Wright
announced. “Now it’s just another piece of garbage.” 
    Roland Powell reached forward out his open window, grabbed the
windshield wiper at its farthest travel to the left, lifted it, and let it snap back
onto the glass. “I can’t see shit out of this windshield. These fucking wipers
aren’t worth a fuck!” 
    There was a slight thud to the right of the truck. 
    “Christ, I think you got that mailbox,” remarked Richard, twisting his
head quickly to the right against the closed window. 
    “I didn’t see it! Why the hell didn’t you pick up the Goddamned
wing?” 
    “And leave a pile of snow behind? I think the way it works is we’re supposed
to just miss these things and plow the road at the same time.” 
    “You drunk cocksucker!” Roland roared. You better wake the fuck up
and soon!” 
    “The trouble is we’re going too slow! I can’t gauge distances at fifteen
fucking miles an hour. Hey . . . watch out for this pole!” 
    “Fucking Goddamn!”

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