“Damn it Chuck, are you listening? I need you to stop at Walmart and pick up some Christmas gifts for the kids. Christmas is in three weeks; in case you forgot. Get them each a few toys from the list…And it would be nice if you get me something this year and not from the
damn Walmart. I think I’ve earned it putting up with your shit,” she said.
Chuck stood in the vestibule of the old family house, pulling on his Carhartt field coat.
As his wife chirped at him, he rummaged in the pockets for his gloves. He grabbed his knit watchman cab and pulled it over his ears, muffling her shrill voice.
“Yep. Got it,” he said as he opened the storm door.
A cold burst of wind hit him in the face as he opened the glass storm door and stepped out into the gray, Sandusky afternoon. Fucking hell. He walked over to his F150, took off his wool beanie, used it to brush the fine layer of lake effect snow from the windshield. He opened
the door and climbed in, put the key in the ignition, pumped the gas pedal, and started the truck.
As the heat and defroster went to work warm, he opened the center console, looked at his unopened pack of Camels, but reached for the can of Zyn pouches instead. Fuck I miss it, he thought as he popped two wintergreen flavored Zyn pouches into his mouth, using his tongue to
push them into the space between his gum and upper lip. Damn buzz takes too long.
Chuck pulled out of his driveway onto Columbus Avenue and headed toward the Walmart. I’ll get them kids a good Christmas this year. Her…As he drove, he half listened to the sports talk radio show, uninterested in the myriad reasons for the Brown’s latest loss or the need
for Ohio State to fire their coach. It’s the same old shit every day, every goddamn December.
Never seem to get a win. Halfway to Walmart, he passed Sportsman Taven on Old Station Road.

He recognized most of the trucks parked in the gravel lot—all the people he worked with, grew up, friends, and enemies…old lovers. Fuck it. Just one. He flipped a fast U-turn, the rare end of the truck sliding out just enough to give him a start and splashed through a slush puddle as he
rolled into the lot.
What the hell am I doing? He parked and turned off the truck. Fuck it. Come on man…Don’t do it. He sat silent for a moment, his mind running through the reasons, pro and con.
After a few minutes, as the truck temperature fell to near the fridged outside air, he turned the key and started the engine. Then he saw Sandy and Annie Miller pull into the parking lot. He took a breath and turned shut the engine down. Shit. Chuc sat for a minute, his mind replaying it
all Sandy and Annie… the only two sister’s he’d ever banged. Annie, the one he fucked up by screwing her best friend…his now wife, 35 pounds heavier and a real bitch. He thought about Annie walking in on them at the cottage. The girl fight that ensued.
Fuck my life. Just one quick one, she’ll kill me if I come home drunk again. Chuck turned off his phone, opened the console and tossed it in. He grabbed his Camels and a book of matches
put them into his jacket pocket.
“Fuck it. Can’t drink without a smoke,” he said aloud.

#

The bar was full, the Steel Driver’s Where Rainbows Never Die, added to the din of the town drunks, chattering about their glory days, gossiping about who was fucking who, who was divorced, whose kid was the football star down at Perkins High. The same goddamn people,
never anyone new. These were the people he grew up with, the old timers who went to high school with his parents. He knew his own kids would drink here in the not far off future. It depressed the fuck out him. Chuck had always wanted to get out of Sandusky, never managed.
Nobody did. Alright, time to get the fuck going.
He took the last sip of his second boiler maker, stub out his second grit, and was signaling to Sammy, the barkeep to pay his tab, when he caught Annie’s gaze. Shit, she’s lookin’ at me. She
smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. He checked his wallet—three crisp $100 bills, two twenties, and a few ones sat neatly inside. Shit. That paycheck went goddamn fast. Gonna be a long fucking month. Just one more… He caught Sammy’s eye and spun his finger in a circle.
Sammy grinned and nodded and poured another Miller Lite draft and shot of Canadian Club. As he took the first sip of his fresh whiskey, he felt her hand squeeze his shoulder.
“Been a minute Chuck,” Annie said.
He turned, looked into her blue eyes, her cheeks flush from drink and the warmth of the bar. Goddamn she’s still so fucking beautiful. The same old regret welled up in his gut, traveled on the ethanol stream flowing through him, warming his body and dulling his judgment.
“Life keeps me busy…working a lot, deer season’s winding down…”
“And that wife of yours and your two kids probably keep you running…how is Tracy and the little ones anyway?” Annie asked.
Bitchy thing to say… but I guess I deserve that.
Chuck took a beat before he answered, knowing his response would set whatever trajectory the night held. He took a gulp of his beer and motioned to the barkeep for another
round.
“They are a pain in my ass,” he finally said.
“You want a drink?”
“You know I do,” she said.

He pulled the fresh pack of smokes from his coat pocket and opened it. He offered her a smoke.
“I quit,” she said.
“Yeah, me too. You care if I burn one?”
“Your lungs, not mine,” she said with a wink.
He pulled the book of matches from his pocket, tapped the pack on the bar top and pulled out a fresh smoke. He struck a match and lit the grit, took a deep drag and held it in. He exhaled blowing the smoke up into the thick air. He sighed. Fuck I missed that.
Annie grinned at him, shook her head, reached over and pulled the cigarette from his callused fingers and took a drag. She handed back the grit with red lipstick on the unfiltered butt.
“Well fuck it. I guess we are both ending up on Santa’s naughty list this year,” she said.
She handed the smoke back, her red lipstick imprinted on the butt. She rested her hand on just north of his knee. He felt a shiver run through him and took a sip of whiskey. Trouble. Fuck me. This one is always trouble.

#

Chuck woke just before well before dawn, a panic building in his throbbing head, doing its damn best to break through and shake him from the whiskey fog. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, then he felt her warmth against his back, her breasts pushed into him, her hair on his
neck. Shit. His mind reeled. What happened? Snippets of images came, super-eight fuzzy– them drinking, him buying rounds, her dancing…the disapproving looks. Fuck. Fuck.
She groaned and stirred behind him, her hands moving slowly to his ass beneath the heavy blankets. He sighed. No going back now. He rolled over and pulled her atop him. When they finished, Annie rolled over and went back to sleep.

Chuck got up, his bare feet on the cold wood floor. The streetlight gave him just enough light to see his clothes in a pile on a chair in the corner of her small apartment, a little loft in what was supposed to be downtown, built before the Ford plant closed and developers still had
big hopes and dreams. He pulled through the pile of his clothes in the chill air, found his pants,
and searched his pockets for his phone, knowing what he’d find when he turned it on. Then it hit him. Shit, it’s in the truck. He walked to the window and pulled the shades open. Christmas lights twinkled through the fresh snow on the old brick building across the street, his truck wasn’t out front. She drove us here. Fucking hell. He checked his pants pockets and found his keys. At least I got them. He grabbed his wallet from his pants and looked inside—three twenties and some ones remained. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He pulled the half-pack of Camels from his coat pocket and lit one. He returned to the window and smoked, looking at the lights, listening to Annie’s soft sleeping breaths.

#

Annie dropped him at his truck sometime after 6:30 a.m. They had said little on the ride from her apartment back to the bar. When she pulled into the Sportsman’s parking lot, she finally
asked him.
“So, now what?” she asked.
Through the wipers pushing a wet snow to the sides of the windshield, he looked at the worn hand painted sign above the door, the light over the door still on and providing illumination in the dismal gray light. He cleared his throat.
“Well, I been wondering that myself all morning. I’m guessing I don’t have a home to go back to at this point…I think word probably already got back to Jenny,” he said.
She sighed, reached over and held his hand.

“We never were good for each other where we?” she said, a statement more than a question.
He didn’t say anything at first. He sat on the thought for a few seconds before he summed the courage to say it.
“Maybe we could learn to be.”
She looked at him, made a snorting sound.
“We sure click in bed. Always did. Other than that…I don’t know. That ship sailed a while ago,” she said.
He winced.
She looked at him and shrugged, a tiny smug smile forming on her lips.
“Good luck Chuck. Tell her you slept one off in the truck.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.
He opened the passenger door, stepped into the fridged morning.
He heard her call out, “Thanks though. I had a good time,” as he shut the door behind him. He walked to his truck.
Somebody had puked next to his driver side door. Is that mine? Maybe…no, I don’t think so. Fuck. He stepped over the pukesicle, opened the door and climbed in the cab. He started the
truck, cranked the heat, opened the center console and grabbed his phone. As it powered up, he lit a smoke, trying to calm himself before the inevitable. He couldn’t bring himself to look and
tossed the phone on the passenger seat, put the truck in drive and wondered, Now what?

JD Clapp is a writer based in San Diego, CA. His creative work has appeared in over 70 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, trampset, and Revolution John. His work has been nominated for several awards including the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions. He is the author of two story collections—Poachers and Pills (2025), and A Good Man Goes South (2024).