Jack sits on the stoop, bleeding from his eye and cheekbone. swelling has commenced and his vision is blurred. it wasn't the tumble in Buck's woodpile that hurt his pride, it was when he puked in the truck on the way home that carried the dent. The night was dark and the old Ford's headlights had given up. There was a half moon out, but it didn't shine. It was cold and Jack knew there would be frost on the roof in the morning. Good thing he hadn't scheduled work for the following day because he knew that along with the black eye he would be supporting one hell of a hang over.
The old Ford ran smooth on the way home, but the door panel would have to be cleaned of the vomit. Jack knew in time it would be humourous. Here he was driving down the dirt backroads of the West Koot's, pitch black, puking out the open driver's door. It was a scene from some fucked up independent film.
There was for each of them, a six pack plus Buck always had whiskey but H.D.D. was certain that was not enough. H.D.D. was a trouble maker when drunk, loud and obnoxious. You'd say "black" and he'd say "white". It was like a switch, triggered by alcohol that you couldn't shut off. Jack had ejected him once from the door of his cabin and he couldn't help to wonder if H.D.D. had something to do with the cuts on his face. H.D.D. would never fess up on account of Jack's rages. H.D.D. claimed that Jack had grabbed and squeezed his balls so hard while falling for the pile of wood that they were blue the next day. And Buck couldn't remember a thing, so H.D.D. and Jack would be friends again in a day.
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