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FICTION Rooster_____________________________ Corvin Thomas ROOSTER REACHED INTO THE UNCONSIOUS MAN'S PANTS folded on the chair and emptied it, two fifties and a fin. He put the wallet back, dropped the keys out the window. Rooster thought about hitting the man one more time. But the whiskey was doing its job. The man was snoring off the blood. Rooster took a belt from the bottle and combed his hair in the mirror above the sink. Rooster's name came from his hair. It stuck up like a cockspur. That's what he told people. Folks back home said it was because of his failed 4-H project. Rooster tried to raise chickens, but the chickens all died. Rooster was held back from his graduating class, so he hit the road, humiliated. Rooster caught up with his half-brother Bill in Red Bank. Bill worked at the tire plant. He lost four fingers at the middle knuckle to a rubber cutter. Bill sent Rooster to Mr. Spivey. Mr. Spivey owned a socks factory with an underwear division. Rooster took the socks job, packaging, safe and simple. Mr. Spivey told the boys to come by anytime. He was from their hometown in Tennessee. "Monkey town," he laughed around his cigar when he shook Rooster's hand. "Dear old Dayton." Rooster hated the rub. He was only six when the Scopes trial hit. He remembered the crowds around the courthouse. He climbed a tree to see. But it had nothing to do with him. Genesis, verse one of book one. Aunt Ella read it out loud every night. The hill people knew the truth. "Except them Hickmans," Aunt Ella said, closing the Bible. "Those rabbit trap thieves look a little kin to apes when they run through the holler." The feud went way back. Even Mr. Spivey remembered. "Classic hillbilly crap," he said, blowing rings from his red leather chair. "A property line dispute, as I recall." Rooster still suspected 4-H sabotage and played with a vision of vengeance. "But you're in razorback country now, son," Mr. Spivey slobbered on his tobacco roll. "Time to make a little money for some honey." Mr. Spivey introduced his son. 30 "Warren, Jr.," he said without smiling. Bill told Rooster about him. He was a playboy who burned money and rubber on fast women and faster cars. Rooster envied him before they shook hands. They were the same age, different styles. Junior had it. Rooster didn't. Junior's clothes fit tight and tailored, his black hair shined like his two-tone shoes, sharp. Rooster saw bare ankles beneath the tweed trouser cuffs and wondered why. "Don't wear socks," Junior said, staring at his old man. "Don't like socks." "And socks," Mr. Spivey said, "don't like him." Rooster boxed the socks, all kinds. He worked the pile with old women. They showed him how to stack and drop, keeping the wholesale piles separate. Rooster liked the routine. It was easy. And he could cuff a few pair when the old women weren't watching. He modeled them inhis room, crossing and uncrossing his legs, pretending. When Rooster picked up his firstpaycheck, Junior waved fromhis car in the plant parking lot. It was a '39 Ford, brand new. Rooster ran over. "Let's get liquored up," Junior smiled like a movie star. Rooster slid in smooth, touched the leather. "Smells nice," he said. "Not for long," Junior laughed. The speedometer hit seventy when they hit the Cherry Street hump. Rooster's bowels floated with the car. There was a quiet whistling of air. Rooster tried to whistle with it but he couldn't breathe to blow. He looked at Junior. Junior's eyes were devil red and wet. He pulled on a pint, swallowed and screamed. The car crashed, the chassis sparked but the tires buffered some of the blow. Rooster thought he saw socks. Junior braked at a bank and stopped the car, squealing sideways. He tossed the bottle and it busted. "Oh," Junior said. "Take some if you want." Dozens of socks from a busted up box decorated the car's interior. ? forgot about those," he said. "You'd be...

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