Dicknose

He was outside on the patio on this cool, crisp night wearing his leisure house clothes. This was his usual summer routine when the day has progressed to his satisfaction, evening time to read and unwind after contending with the bothersome necessities of the day. The phone rang and cut through the ambient noise of the television from the other room. His wife answered and became flustered with the caller.

“There’s nobody here by that name,” she said. Pause.

“No. I’m hanging up now,” without hanging up. Pause.

“No.“ Pause.

“No,” sounding more irritated. Pause.

“Dicknose,” she said in a questioning tone into the telephone embarrassed at herself for having spoken the harsh word out loud.

Having overheard the phone call from the patio through the open rear sliding glass door, he turned around to see his wife as she continued her confused battle of wits with an unknown opponent. “Certainly not. There’s nobody here by such a name. I’m hanging up now,” again without hanging up.

They made eye contact, Dicknose and his wife. He raised his hand as if hailing a cab.

“What? Are you Dicknose,” speaking to her husband surprising herself at having again been flustered into speaking the vulgarity. She handed the phone past the sliding rear screen door. He received the phone and she immediately went back to what she’d been doing as if the annoying caller had already been forgotten. For him, her husband, the call had been a very long time coming. Years. Somehow it finally arrived on this otherwise unextraordinary night. In so arriving his evening read had been terminally ruined. There’d be no going back now. His entire existence was possibly to be upturned, but he would engage and try to beat back the unwanted, though entirely expected, intrusion.

“What,” he entered the fray gruffly.

“Hello and thanks for taking my call. I don’t think your wife was excited to hear from me. Haven’t you told her,” asked the caller.

“Why are you calling? It’s been a long time. It’s done. Over,” hoping to attain a forcible closure yet expecting it to be a fruitless effort.

“I want it,” was the response.

“You cannot,” he returned.

“I do. I will,” returning the volley.

“You won’t,” was the volley returned.

“I need it, I must,” continued the caller.

“Don’t be daft, it’s no more,” juked Dicknose.

“Dicknose,” sternly.

“What."

“You know how it’s always pleased me when you respond to that name.”

“Hang up the phone and disappear,” he wished.

“I’ll hang up the phone and be at your house in five minutes. Make sure it’s in your hand when I arrive. Let’s make this quick. You’ve never been good at holding my attention.” They both hung up and went into action.

“Who was that,” asked his wife with more curiosity than concern.

“Smokey,” walking through the kitchen to hang up the phone and not stopping to explain further. He didn’t want to be rude, but there was no explaining this without wearing a heavy dose of crudity forever forward.

14 years. That’s how long it’d been since they’d crossed paths. There had been five of them for that occasion, or skirmish, if you will. They got together in the woods, the general vicinity of the initial incident two summers prior that brought them together. They all knew each other. Or, more precisely, knew of each other. Nobody had another’s phone number, address or been to each other’s home, but they had enough acquaintances in common that they’d be able to track each other down if such a need arose. That’s what happened here, the calling to the woods.

He was contacted by a friend of a friend, “Hey, do you know [so and so]? I saw him running full court hoops last weekend at the high school basketball courts. You know, there’s pick up games Saturday afternoons. Anyway, he said to hand this to you. I think he knows we shoot pool Thursday nights.”

Dicknose thought it curious, but also thought it’d be a kind of celebratory get together. Some festivities after apparently getting over that highly dramatic first venture. Heck, he arrived in tennis shoes, a Hawaiian shirt, a hibachi barbecue, a six-pack of craft beers and sausages, for the hibachi. It wasn’t long before two guys got in a knife fight, another fired off a few rounds from a concealed pistol. In the confusion that ensued Dicknose made away with the envelope and an opened package of sausages. He assumed he’d eventually be tracked by someone. He didn’t know for what reason, but he knew it wasn’t over. Then came the phone call this evening. The hairs on the back of his neck knew. And they were correct.

Smokey did not lie. It was five minutes almost exactly. The envelope was, at this point, on the desk, retrieved only minutes before.

The doorbell rang. The porch lights were purposely not on. He opened the door.

“Dicknose,” said one.

“Smokey,” said the other.

No further greetings were exchanged. An awkward pause ensued, eye contact was not broken. A bulging envelope was handed out the door, door closed. And it was over. For now. Dicknose heard the car engine start and drove away with the radio blaring.

He had a hunch it would one day come to this, so he had kept the envelope always handy, though hidden. But what happens next?