The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [8]
In the car, surrounded on all sides by ex-soldiers, Buster resisted the idea that he was being kidnapped. He reached into his jacket, too thin for this weather, and produced a notepad and a pen. “What’s that for?” one of the men asked. “Notes,” said Buster. “For the article. I thought I’d get your names and maybe ask a few questions.” “They’re easy names to remember,” said the driver, “I doubt you’ll need to write it down.” Buster put his notepad back in his pocket.
“I’m Kenny,” said the driver and then gestured to the man in the passenger seat, “and that’s David,” and finally waved his hand over his head as if to indicate the backseat, “and on either side of you is Joseph and Arden.” Joseph held out his hand and Buster shook it. “So,” Joseph said, “you like guns?” Buster shook his head. “Oh, no, not really,” he said and he could feel the air in the van become heavier, “I mean I’ve never fired a gun before. I don’t really care much for violence.” Arden sighed and looked at the window. “I don’t know many people who care for it,” he said. “What about potato guns?” Joseph asked. “You ever make one when you were a kid, fill it with hairspray and shoot at the neighbor’s dog?” “Nope,” Buster said, “sorry.” He could feel the article slipping away from him, imagined going on the Internet and fabricating the entire thing. “And the war?” asked David. “I’m not a fan,” Buster replied. He looked down at his shoes, black leather sneakers with complicated stitching, his toes already slightly numb inside of them. He thought about reaching over Joseph, pushing open the door, and jumping out. “Well, you ever been to Nebraska before?” asked Arden. “I’ve flown over it a few times,” Buster said, “I would imagine.” For the rest of the ride to Buster’s hotel, there was the all-encompassing sound of five men not talking, the radio broken and filled with static, the car’s engine going just a little faster than it had before.
While the other three waited in the still-running car, Joseph helped Buster carry his suitcase to his room. “Don’t worry about them,” Joseph said. “They’re just a little nervous. We’re unemployed and we build spud guns and we just don’t want to look like a bunch of losers when you write the article. I keep telling them, it’s your job to make us look cool, isn’t that right?” Buster realized he was putting the key card into the lock upside down, but once he had rectified the problem, the door still would not open. “Isn’t that right?” Joseph asked again. “Yeah, of course,” said Buster. He imagined the three other men downstairs, restless and regretting their decision to allow some outsider to witness the bizarre thing that everyone would soon know existed.
After nearly a dozen tries to gain entry into his room using the key card, Buster finally pushed inside and went straight to the minibar. He retrieved a tiny bottle of gin and killed it in one swallow. He grabbed another bottle and downed its contents as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Buster saw Joseph unpacking his suitcase for him, placing his shirts and pants and underwear in various drawers of the dresser. “You didn’t pack enough warm clothes,” Joseph said. “There’s some long underwear in there, I think,” replied Buster, working hard to get drunk. “Jesus Christ, Buster,” Joseph said, almost shouting, “you’ll freeze your ass off.” Buster was about to suggest that he forgo the potato-gun demonstration. He would order a hamburger from room service and watch soft-core cable TV and empty the contents of the minibar. He would go back to Florida long enough to get kicked out of his apartment and then he would move in with his parents. And then he thought about a year with his mother and father, sitting at the dinner table while they devised more and more elaborate