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Stephen King - Big Wheels - A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
Big Wheels: A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
by Stephen King
Rocky and Leo, both drunk as the last lords of creation, cruised slowly down Culver
Street and then out along Balfour Avenue toward Crescent. They were ensconced in
Rocky's 1957 Chrysler. Between them, balanced with drunken care on the monstrous
hump of the Chrysler's drive shaft, sat a case of Iron City beer. It was their
second case of the evening -- the evening had actually begun at four in the
afternoon, which was punch-out time at the laundry.
"Shit on a shingle!" Rocky said, stopping at the red blinker-light above the
intersection of Balfour Avenue and Highway 99. He did not look for traffic in either
direction, but did cast a sly glance behind them. A half-full can of I.C.,
emblazoned with a colorful picture of Terry Bradshaw, rested against his crotch. He
took a swig and then turned left on 99. The universal joint made a thick grunting
sound as they started chuggingly off in second gear. The Chrysler had lost its first
gear some two months ago.
"Gimme a shingle and I'll shit on it," Leo said obligingly.
"What time is it?"
Leo held his watch up until it was almost touching the tip of his cigarette and then
puffed madly until he could get a reading. "Almost eight."
"Shit on a shingle!" They passed a sign, which read PITTSBURGH 44.
"Nobody is going to inspect this here Detroit honey," Leo said. "Nobody in his right
mind, at least."
Rocky fetched third gear. The universal moaned to itself, and the Chrysler began to
have the automotive equivalent of a petit mal epileptic seizure. The spasm
eventually passed, and the speedometer climbed tiredly to forty. It hung there
precariously.
When they reached the intersection of Highway 99 and Devon Stream Road (Devon Stream
formed the border between the townships of Crescent and Devon for some eight miles),
Rocky turned onto the latter almost upon a whim -- although perhaps even then some
memory of ole Stiff Socks had begun to stir deep down in what passed for Rocky's
subconscious.
He and Leo had been driving more or less at random since leaving work. It was the
last day of June, and the inspection sticker on Rocky's Chrysler would become
invalid at exactly 12:01 AM tomorrow. Four hours from right now. Less than four
hours from right now. Rocky found this eventuality almost too painful to
contemplate, and Leo didn't care. It was not his car. Also, he had drunk enough Iron
City beer to reach a state of deep cerebral paralysis.
Devon Road wound through the only heavily wooded area of Crescent. Great bunches of
elms and oaks crowded in on both sides, lush and alive and full of moving shadows as
night began to close over southwestern Pennsylvania. The area was known, in fact, as
The Devon Woods. It had attained capital-letter status after the torture-murder of a
young girl and her boyfriend in 1968. The couple had been parking out here and were
found in the boyfriend's 1959 Mercury. The Merc had real leather seats and a large
chrome hood ornament. The occupants had been found in the back seat. Also in the
front seat, the trunk, and the glove compartment. The killer had never been found.
"Jughumper better not stall out here," Rocky said. "We're ninety miles from no
place."
"Bunk." This interesting word had risen lately to the top forty of Leo's vocabulary.
"There's town, right over there."
Rocky sighed and sipped from his can of beer. The glow was not really town, but the
kid was close enough to make argument worthless. It was the new shopping center.
Those high-intensity arc sodium lights really threw a glare. While looking in that
direction, Rocky drove the car over to the left side of the road, looped back,
almost went into the right-hand ditch, and finally got back in his lane again.
"Whoops," he said.
Leo burped and gurgled.
They had been working together at the New Adams Laundry since September, when Leo
had been hired as Rocky's washroom helper. Leo was a rodent-featured young man of
twenty-two who looked as if he might have quite a lot of jail-time in his future. He
claimed he was saving twenty dollars a week from his pay to buy a used Kawasaki
motorcycle. He said he was going west on this bike when cold weather came. Leo had
held a grand total of twelve jobs since he and the world of academics had parted
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Stephen King - Big Wheels - A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
company at the minimum age of sixteen. He liked the laundry fine. Rocky was teaching
him the various wash cycles, and Leo believed he was finally Learning a Skill, which
would come in handy when he reached Flagstaff.
Rocky, an older hand, had been at New Adams for fourteen years. His hands, ghostlike
and bleached as he handled the steering wheel, proved it. He had done a four-month
bit for carrying a concealed weapon in 1970. His wife, then puffily pregnant with
their third child, announced 1) that it was not his, Rocky's, child but the
milkman's child; and 2) that she wanted a divorce, on grounds of mental cruelty.
Two things about this situation had driven Rocky to carry a concealed weapon: 1) he
had been cuckolded; and 2) he had been cuckolded by the fa chrissakes milkman, a
trout-eyed long-haired piece of work named Spike Milligan. Spike drove for Cramer's
Dairy.
The milkman, for God's sweet sake! The milkman, and could you die? Could you just
fucking flop down into the gutter and die? Even to Rocky, who had never progressed
much beyond reading the Fleer's Funnies that came wrapped around the bubble gum he
chewed indefatigably at work, the situation had sonorous classical overtones.
As a result, he had duly informed his wife of two facts: 1) no divorce; and 2) he
was going to let a large amount of daylight into Spike Milligan. He had purchased
a.32-caliber pistol some ten years ago, which he used occasionally to shoot at
bottles, tin cans, and small dogs. He left his house on Oak Street that morning and
headed for the dairy, hoping to catch Spike when he finished his morning deliveries.
Rocky stopped at the Four Corners Tavern on the way to have a few beers -- six,
eight, maybe twenty. It was hard to remember. While he was drinking, his wife called
the cops. They were waiting for him on the corner of Oak and Balfour. Rocky was
searched, and one of the cops plucked the.32 from his waistband.
"I think you are going away for a while, my friend," the cop who found the gun told
him, and that was just what Rocky did. He spent the next four months washing sheets
and pillowcases for the State of Pennsylvania. During this period his wife got a
Nevada divorce, and when Rocky got out of the slam she was living with Spike
Milligan in a Dakin Street apartment house with a pink flamingo on the front lawn.
In addition to his two older children (Rocky still more or less assumed they were
his), the couple were now possessed of an infant who was every bit as trout-eyed as
his daddy. They were also possessed of fifteen dollars a week in alimony.
"Rocky, I think I'm gettin carsick," Leo said. "Couldn't we just pull over and
drink?"
"I gotta get a sticker on my wheels," Rocky said. "This is important. A man's no
good without his wheels."
"Nobody in his right mind is gonna inspect this -- I told you that. It ain't got no
turn signals."
"They blink if I step on the brake at the same time, and anybody who don't step on
his brakes when he's makin a turn is lookin to do a rollover."
"Window on this side's cracked."
"I'll roll it down."
"What if the inspectionist asks you to roll it up so he can check it?"
"I'll burn that bridge when I come to it," Rocky said coolly. He tossed his beer can
out and got a refill. This new one had Franco Harris on it. Apparently the Iron City
company was playing the Steelers' Greatest Hits this summer. He popped the top. Beer
splurted.
"Wish I had a woman," Leo said, looking into the dark. He smiled strangely.
"If you had a woman, you'd never get out west. What a woman does is keep a man from
getting any further west. That's how they operate. That is their mission. Dint you
tell me you wanted to go out west?"
"Yeah, and I'm going, too."
"You'll never go," Rocky said. "Pretty soon you'll have a woman. Next you'll have
abalone. Alimony. You know. Women always lead up to alimony. Cars are better. Stick
to cars."
"Pretty hard to screw a car."
"You'd be surprised," Rocky said, and giggled.
The woods had begun to straggle away into new dwellings. Lights twinkled up on the
left and Rocky suddenly slammed on the brakes. The brake lights and turn signals
both went on at once; it was a home wiring job. Leo lurched forward, spilling beer
on the seat. "What? What?"
"Look," Rocky said. "I think I know that fella."
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Stephen King - Big Wheels - A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
There was a tumorous, ramshackle garage and Citgo filling station on the left side
of the road. The sign in front said:
BOB'S GAS & SERVICE
BOB DRISCOLL, PROP.
FRONT END ALIGNMENT OUR SPECIALTY
DEFEND YOUR GOD-GIVEN RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS!
And, at the very bottom:
STATE INSPECTION STATION #72
"Nobody in his right mind -- " Leo began again.
"It's Bobby Driscoll!" Rocky cried. "Me an Bobby Driscoll went to school together!
We got it knocked! Bet your fur!"
He pulled in unevenly, headlights illuminating the open door of the garage bay. He
popped the clutch and roared toward it. A stoop-shouldered man in a green coverall
ran out, making frantic stopping gestures.
"ThassBob!" Rocky yelled exultantly. "Heyyy, StiffSocks!"
They ran into the side of the garage. The Chrysler had another seizure, grand mat
this time. A small yellow flame appeared at the end of the sagging tailpipe,
followed by a puff of blue smoke. The car stalled gratefully. Leo lurched forward,
spilling more beer. Rocky keyed the engine and backed off for another try.
Bob Driscoll ran over, profanity spilling out of his mouth in colorful streamers. He
was waving his arms. " -- the hell you think you're doing, you goddam sonofa -- "
"Bobby!" Rocky yelled, his delight nearly orgasmic. "Hey Stiff Socks! Whatchoo say,
buddy?"
Bob peered in through Rocky's window. He had a twisted, tired face that was mostly
hidden in the shadow thrown by the bill of his cap. "Who called me Stiff Socks?"
"Me!" Rocky fairly screamed. "It's me, you ole finger-diddler! It's your old buddy!"
"Who in the hell -- "
"Johnny Rockwell! You gone blind as well as foolish?"
Cautiously: "Rocky?"
"Yeah, you sombitch!"
"Christ Jesus." Slow, unwilling pleasure seeped across Bob's face. "I ain't seen you
since... well... since the Catamounts game, anyway -- "
"Shoosh! Wa'n't that some hot ticket?" Rocky slapped his thigh, sending up a gusher
of Iron City. Leo burped.
"Sure it was. Only time we ever won our class. Even then we couldn't seem to win the
championship. Say, you beat hell out of the side of my garage, Rocky. You -- "
"Yeah, same ole Stiff Socks. Same old guy. You ain't changed even a hair." Rocky
belatedly peeked as far under the visor of the baseball cap as he could see, hoping
this was true. It appeared, however, that ole Stiff Socks had gone either partially
or completely bald. "Jesus! Ain't it somethin, runnin into you like this! Did you
finally marry Marcy Drew?"
"Hell, yeah. Back in '70. Where were you?"
"Jail, most probably. Lissen, muhfuh, can you inspect this baby?"
Caution again: "You mean your car?"
Rocky cackled. "No -- my ole hogleg! Sure, my car! Canya?"
Bob opened his mouth to say no.
"This here's an old friend of mine. Leo Edwards. Leo, wantcha to meet the only
basketball player from Crescent High who dint change his sweatsocks for four years."
"Pleesdameetcha," Leo said, doing his duty just as his mother had instructed on one
of the occasions when that lady was sober.
Rocky cackled. "Want a beer, Stiffy?"
Bob opened his mouth to say no.
"Here's the little crab-catcher!" Rocky exclaimed. He popped the top. The beer,
crazied up by the headlong run into the side of Bob Driscoll's garage, boiled over
the top and down Rocky's wrist. Rocky shoved it into Bob's hand. Bob sipped quickly,
to keep his own hand from being flooded.
"Rocky, we close at -- "
"Just a second, just a second, lemme back up. I got somethin crazy here."
Rocky dragged the gearshift lever up into reverse, popped the clutch, skinned a gas
pump, and then drove the Chrysler jerkily inside. He was out in a minute, shaking
Bob's free hand like a politician. Bob looked dazed. Leo sat in the car, tipping a
fresh beer. He was also farting. A lot of beer always made him fart.
"Hey!" Rocky said, staggering around a pile of rusty hubcaps. "You member Diana
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Stephen King - Big Wheels - A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
Rucklehouse?"
"Sure do," Bob said. An unwilling grin came to his mouth. "She was the one with the
-- " He cupped his hands in front of his chest.
Rocky howled. "Thass her! You got it, muhfuh! She still in town?"
"I think she moved to -- "
"Figures," Rocky said. "The ones who don't stay always move. You can put a sticker
on this pig, cantcha?"
"Well, my wife said she'd wait supper and we close at -- "
"Jesus, it'd sure put a help on me if you could. I'd sure predate it. I could do
some personal laundry for your wife. Thass what I do. Wash. At New Adams."
"And I am learning," Leo said, and farted again.
"Wash her dainties, whatever you want. Whatchoo say, Bobby?"
"Well, I s'pose I could look her over."
"Sure," Rocky said, clapping Bob on the back and winking at Leo. "Same ole Stiff
Socks. What a guy!"
"Yeah," Bob said, sighing. He pulled on his beer, his oily fingers mostly obscuring
Mean Joe Green's face. "You beat hell out of your bumper, Rocky."
"Give it some class. Goddam car needs some class. But it's one big motherfuckin set
of wheels, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I guess -- "
"Hey! Wantcha to meet the guy I work with! Leo, this is the only basketball player
from -- "
"You introduced us already," Bob said with a soft, despairing smile.
"Howdy doody," Leo said. He fumbled for another can of Iron City. Silvery lines like
railroad tracks glimpsed at high noon on a hot clear day were beginning to trace
their way across his field of vision.
" -- Crescent High who dint change his --"
"Want to show me your headlights, Rocky?" Bob asked.
"Sure. Great lights. Halogen or nitrogen or some fucking gen. They got class. Pop
those little crab-catchers right the fuck on, Leo."
Leo turned on the windshield wipers.
"That's good," Bob said patiently. He took a big swallow of beer. "Now how about the
lights?"
Leo popped on the headlights.
"High beam?"
Leo tapped for the dimmer switch with his left foot. He was pretty sure it was down
there someplace, and finally he happened upon it. The high beams threw Rocky and Bob
into sharp relief, like exhibits in a police lineup.
"Fucking nitrogen headlights, what'd I tell you?" Rocky cried, and then cackled.
"Goddam, Bobby! Seein you is better than gettin a check in the mail!"
"How about the turn signals?" Bob asked.
Leo smiled vaguely at Bob and did nothing.
"Better let me do it," Rocky said. He bumped his head a good one as he got in behind
the wheel. "The kid don't feel too good, I don't think." He cramped down on the
brake at the same time he flicked up the turn-blinker
"Okay," Bob said, "but does it work without the brake?"
"Does it say anyplace in the motor-vehicle-inspection manual that it hasta?" Rocky
asked craftily.
Bob sighed. His wife was waiting dinner. His wife had large floppy breasts and blond
hair that was black at the roots. His wife was partial to Donuts by the Dozen, a
product sold at the local Giant Eagle store. When his wife came to the garage on
Thursday nights for her bingo money her hair was usually done up in large green
rollers under a green chiffon scarf. This made her head look like a futuristic AM/FM
radio. Once, near three in the morning, he had wakened and looked at her slack paper
face in the soulless graveyard glare of the streetlight outside their bedroom
window. He had thought how easy it could be -- just jackknife over on top of her,
just drive a knee into her gut so she would lose her air and be unable to scream,
just screw both hands around her neck. Then just put her in the tub and whack her
into prime cuts and mail her away someplace to Robert Driscoll, c/o General
Delivery. Any old place. Lima, Indiana. North Pole, New Hampshire. Intercourse,
Pennsylvania. Kunkle, Iowa. Any old place. It could be done. God knew it had been
done in the past.
"No," he told Rocky, "I guess it doesn't say anyplace in the regs that they have to
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Stephen King - Big Wheels - A Tale of The Laundry Game (Milkman #2)
work on their own. Exactly. In so many words." He upended the can and the rest of
the beer gurgled down his throat. It was warm in the garage and he had had no
supper. He could feel the beer rise immediately into his mind.
"Hey, Stiff Socks just came up empty!" Rocky said. "Hand up a brew, Leo."
"No, Rocky, I really..."
Leo, who was seeing none too well, finally happened on a can. "Want a wide
receiver?" he asked, and passed the can to Rocky. Rocky handed it to Bob, whose
demurrals petered out as he held the can's cold actuality in his hand. It bore the
smiling face of Lynn Swann. He opened it. Leo farted homily to close the
transaction.
All of them drank from football-player cans for a moment.
"Horn work?" Bob finally asked, breaking the silence apologetically.
"Sure." Rocky hit the ring with his elbow. It emitted a feeble squeak. "Battery's a
little low, though."
They drank in silence.
"That goddam rat was as big as a cocker spaniel!" Leo exclaimed.
"Kid's carrying quite a load," Rocky explained.
Bob thought about it. "Yuh," he said.
This struck Rocky's funnybone and he cackled through a mouthful of beer. A little
trickled out of his nose, and this made Bob laugh. It did Rocky good to hear him,
because Bob had looked like one sad sack when they had rolled in.
They drank in silence awhile more.
"Diana Rucklehouse," Bob said meditatively.
Rocky sniggered.
Bob chuckled and held his hands out in front of his chest.
Rocky laughed and held his own out even further.
Bob guffawed. "You member that picture of Ursula Andress that Tinker Johnson pasted
on ole lady Freemantle's bulletin board?"
Rocky howled. "And he drawed on those two big old jaheobies -- ''
" -- and she just about had a heart-attack -"
"You two can laugh," Leo said morosely, and farted.
Bob blinked at him. "Huh?"
"Laugh," Leo said. "I said you two can laugh. Neither of you has got a hole in your
back."
"Don't lissen to him," Rocky said (a trifle uneasily). "Kid's got a skinful."
"You got a hole in your back?" Bob asked Leo.
"The laundry," Leo said, smiling. "We got these big washers, see? Only we call 'em
wheels. They're laundry wheels. That's why we call 'em wheels. I load 'em, I pull
'em, I load'em again. Put the shit in dirty, take the shit out clean. That's what I
do, and I do it with class." He looked at Bob with insane confidence. "Got a hole in
my back from doing it, though."
"Yeah?" Bob was looking at Leo with fascination. Rocky shifted uneasily.
"There's a hole in the roof," Leo said. "Right over the third wheel. They're round,
see, so we call 'em wheels. When it rains, the water comes down. Drop drop drop.
Each drop hits me -- whap! -- in the back. Now I got a hole there. Like this." He
made a shallow curve with one hand. "Wanna see?"
"He don't want to see any such deformity!" Rocky shouted. "We're talkin about old
times here and there ain't no effing hole in your back anyway!''
"I wanna see it," Bob said.
"They're round so we call it the laundry," Leo said.
Rocky smiled and clapped Leo on the shoulder. "No more of this talk or you could be
walking home, my good little buddy. Now why don't you hand me up my namesake if
there's one left?"
Leo peered down into the carton of beer, and after a while he handed up a can with
Rocky Blier on it.
"Atta way to go!" Rocky said, cheerful again.
The entire case was gone an hour later, and Rocky sent Leo stumbling up the road to
Pauline's Superette for more. Leo's eyes were ferret-red by this time, and his shirt
had come untucked. He was trying with myopic concentration to get his Camels out of
his rolled-up shirt sleeve. Bob was in the bathroom, urinating and singing the
school song.
"Doan wanna walk up there," Leo muttered.
"Yeah, but you're too fucking drunk to drive."
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