JD Stockinger has done nothing noteworthy. He lives near Chicago. Contact him at horsethiefemail@gmail.com.

Images for Josh Stockinger by David Metcalfe, 2009, http://davidmetcalfe.wordpress.com

Two Stories (May 20, 2009. Issue 5.)

Brothers

Stinky and his retarded brother come in here every night. They come for burgers to feed their mutant dog. Everyone knows this.

Seven days a week, Stinky wears a dark blue V-neck sweater-vest pulled snug over a light pink, short-sleeve dress shirt with massive yellow pit stains under each arm. His retarded brother has a boil the size of a golf ball on the back of his scraggly bald head, and he likes to rub it when he's nervous and even when he isn't.

They are old and haggard and feminine, an especially twisted brand of centenarian child molester. No one notices anything else.

Stinky comes to the counter while his retarded brother snags a table by the window and gets back to rubbing his boil. No one ever takes their order because it isn't necessary. Three stale burgers from the trash -- discounted of course -- in a to-go box. Nothing fancy. Stinky pays with smelly coins.

As we dig the meat from the garbage, I tell the story I heard about how, one time, Stinky and his retarded brother were arrested for putting pantyhose on all the parking meters downtown. I also remind everyone that Stinky does come in here drunk and all riled up occasionally, and we almost had to call the cops on Election Day.

None of this affects the food preparation.

"And we thank you," Stinky lisps when we give him the grub.

We always know how long Stinky and his retarded brother stay on restaurant property. They keep their incontinent one-eyed mutt lassoed to the bicycle rack outside until they get their shopping carts together. Everyone hears the dog's pitiful squelching over the drive-up speaker system in the "back line," which means kitchen.

The dog sounds like he's hungry, and longing for his masters.

+++

Waving Man

The waving man's wave is swift and rhythmic, paw flopping side to side in time with his hyper-panting. His teeth are tiny piano keys and he shows them to me by stretching his flimsy lips back past his gum lines. It's either a smile or he is seizing.

We are standing two feet apart.

I switch the umbrella over to my left hand, remove the mitten from my right and return the waving man's wave. His fake eyebrows arch and the waving man waves so hard the sleeve of his raincoat makes a breeze on my face. I close my eyes and wave back as furiously as I can and then we both stop at the same time.

Now we are just two men. Two men sharing a soda.