Page 107 of Tito

“I heard that,” Hap said.

Braxton sat down. “One of these days, someone’s going to slap the shit out of that old man. Then, I’m going to have to slap the shit out of them.”

“Are those kids bad?” I asked. “The ones he’s talking about?”

“They’re not good, that’s for sure.”

“Have you had run-ins with them before?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never met the little fuckers.”

I took exception to his remark. For him to categorize the neighbors without ever meeting them was wrong. “How can you say they’re bad kids if you’ve never met them?”

“I’ve seen how they carry themselves. The way they walk, their hand gestures, their eye movements. Those things tell me everything about them.”

“Interesting,” I said.

Braxton gestured toward Hap. “Here we go.”

Hap sauntered across the street like he didn’t have a worry in the world. He hopped onto the porch and hammered the backside of his fist against the door.

In a moment, a woman answered. Dressed in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a stain-covered tee shirt, her pale arms were peppered with tattoos. Her hair looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

Although we couldn’t hear what was being said, we really didn’t need to. The gestures from both parties was enough for us to get the gist of what was going on.

Hap waved his hand toward us. Then, he held his flattened hand parallel to the ground, even with his chest.

She shook her head.

Hap pointed toward the woman’s carport. What looked like empty beer bottles littered the area.

With her mouth going a mile a minute, she nudged her way onto the porch, forcing Hap to take a few steps back. Wild-eyed, and apparently convicted in her beliefs, she let him have it.

Hap gestured to us, and then pointed to the carport.

She flipped Hap the bird.

Hap returned the gesture.

Apparently done with the argument, she stomped into the house and slammed the door.

Hap stared at the door for a moment, and then retrieved one of the empty bottles from the carport. He looked it over, then raised it for us to see.

I didn’t know about Braxton or Tito, but Hap would only drink one kind of beer, Michelob Ultra. He claimed its low-carb content allowed him to maintain his “awesome physique.” The bottle he held, at least from what I could see, looked like one of Hap’s.

Clutching the beer bottle in hand, he checked for traffic and then bolted across the street. Upon reaching the porch, he tossed Braxton the bottle. “Have a look at that.”

“Not surprised,” Braxton said. “They’re a couple of little turds.”

“Well, the little pricks aren’t home,” Hap snarled. “According to her, they’re church-going saints who don’t drink beer, steal, or even fart. Sounds like the sperm donor’s gone, too.”

“He’s not any better than the kids,” Braxton said.

Hap picked up his half-empty beer bottle and looked it over. “What the fuck are we going to do? We’ll be out of beer in ten minutes.”

“What do you have in the house?” Tito asked.

“Wine. Been in there for a long while, too.”