by Jimy Valenti
I bonded before shift change. Stevie was there when the sally port rolled open. He stood outside his idling truck — a new GMC with a great flat grill that stands almost as tall as he is. Stevie smiled. The sky roiling.
“Get in, champ,” he said.
I pulled my cell phone and wallet, eight bucks and change, from a clear plastic bag and tossed the bag in the parking lot. It blew in the wind and caught in some chain link. It smelled like mud out there, like it just rained. It never rains here.
“I hear that girl went four rounds with Tyson on Netflix,” Stevie smirked. “Surprised you made it out of there alive.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said and smacked him in the balls with the back of my hand and climbed in shotgun. He joined me and slammed his door shut. Willie’s Roadhouse on the radio so low you could hardly hear it.
When Stevie backed out of the lot, he said, “Dude, that hurt. You are a killer.”
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