Jersey always left the side door open so I just walked on in.
He was there on the couch, slumped back and ugly as he was every time you saw him, just butt ugly, with a long face full of bad teeth and hair that sprouted everywhere from him, like bristly weeds. He smelled like a combination of beer and stale piss. He was drinking a big bottle of something cheap, beer, yes. He didn’t smile or say anything. So I smashed the beer out of his fist with the baseball bat. The beer exploded and then there was blood on his hand. The couch was soaked in beer and there was glass all over. Jersey howled, Fuck you, fuck your mother, fuck that, fuck this. But he didn’t move or get up. He knew why. Or not. That actually really wasn’t all that important to me.
In any case, I whacked him this time in the shoulder. The one one the other side from his bleeding hand. I didn’t have the best grip on the bat, wearing gardening gloves like I was, and it didn’t change the shape of his shoulder. He yelled more, but he was really drunk, and couldn’t manage to get up. So I hit him again, harder, and this time there was a crack, and his side punched in a ways. Blood started soaking his shirt near the divot. That was what I’d wanted, so I stopped hitting him.
“You should get to the hospital,” I told him. “You’re broken.”
“Fuck you fucking fuck I can’t drive!”
“Well, I’m not taking you. Call an ambulance. It’ll be free. You don’t have a job, you worthless punk.”
It dawned on him that I was right. He had a lot of those moments of someone else being right.
He reached for his phone with his bloody hand. The other arm wouldn’t move. One of those track phones. Prepaid. Jersey couldn’t get it, so I handed it to him.
“I’m calling the fucking cops, you cyclone asshole!” He sputtered that between screaming and sobbing, with snot starting to fly everywhere. I had already made a step back. He’d meant to say “psycho,” I’m pretty sure, but he was not only drunk off his ass, like always, but he’s stupid as a goddamn fencepost.
“Sure,” I said to him. “Whatever.” I mean, why not?
He said into the phone: “Yeah, this crazy asshole” — he paused to glare at me. There was snot blowing in and out of his nose — just came in my house and broke my shoulder with a baseball bat. There’s blood all over, and I hurt like fucking hell.” There was a pause. “Yeah, I’ve been drinking. So the fuck what?” They must have asked him his address then. “Wait, what? I’m not sure.” He looked at me. “Hey, asshole, can you go check the house number? I can’t remember it.”
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