Nothing to Lose

Chapter 8

64 NINE Idrove into the monstrosity of a city that Austin had become with no clear notion of what I wanted to do. Out of nostalgia or my sense of being a Texan,I drove down Congress Avenue for a view of the Capitol. I got stuck in the left lane trying to turn left against the damn-near-touching bumpers and drivers’rage next to my fender. The rush hour traffic was not going to let me turn. There was no left turning lane in what used to be a wide avenue. Several cars going opposite ran the yellow and then even the red light, and I got caught in midintersection with a red light in front of me and honking cars on either side and behind. I put my truck into reverse and backed up just enough to keep from jamming into the front end of a honking BMW.Then after turning to shoot a finger at the driver of the BMW, I heard a thump on the hood of my Toyota truck. I straightened to see a kid with a blue Mohawk and with metal studs poked into all the loose flesh or cartilage on his face pounding on my hood and screaming about pedestrian rights. “You fucking redneck,” he screamed. I wanted to get out of the truck and take a tire tool to him. I guess he was right. In this new Austin, I was a redneck. Austin had jerked itself out from under me again.So I got on with my initial mission, to find some more support, to find Buck Cronin. Buck Cronin was maybe fifteen years older than me. He had become a barometer of sorts for me,warning me of the indignities and infirmities of age and vices waiting ahead, the antithesis of my parents. He had remained married to a knockout, but with the kids gone, though she didn’t divorce him, Buck’s wife just left him.Then he lost his health. His emphysema demanded a constant supply of oxygen. A stroke left him with a shake in his left hand and foot. So with his absent wife’s hearty 9 NINE 65 approval, Buck checked himself into a nursing facility. I waited on the veranda of the large restored building under an outdoor fan churning up enough breeze to cool me off. Buck clumped out, his walker leading his one good foot, while he dragged his bad one. His oxygen tank was strapped around his waist and a tube leading from it forked into each of his nostrils. But he was dressed in sharply pressed khakis and a plaid shirt, wore a straw beach-style hat, and managed, somehow, to smile. As he got closer, he kept nodding, whether he wanted to or not. He slumped into a wicker chair, and I sat next to him. Turning to me, with some effort, he slurred, “God, I wish I had a cigarette and a shot of scotch.” “I wish I had brought you one of each.” “Together, at one time, they’d probably kill me. My wife and I would both be grateful.” I couldn’t help myself, so I patted his knee, and he looked down at my hand. We were both embarrassed, and I quickly removed my hand, and I got even more embarrassed when a couple of tears formed in my eye, and I had to rub at my eye with the back of my hand. “Goddamn it, Buck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You aren’t supposed to be . . . well, like this.” “This is probably where we are all headed. I won’t be one of those old prissy women and warn about your vices, but I’ll tell you to be prepared for their results.” He looked at me with this great look of appreciation in his eyes. “Penance,” I said. “Ain’t nothing free. But just to feel that rough liquid sliding down my throat. I’d be ready to die.” “Not sex?” “Not sex, love, or honor, but a drink of scotch, or a cigarette.” “Is it all right in here?”I looked out at the grounds and back over my shoulder at the home. “Sometimes, if I was more dexterous, I’d like to flop it out and wave what was left of it at the old ladies. Just for kicks. But other than the just-smelled-a-turd looks when I talk to any of them, this place is...