Author : Geoffrey Cashmore

“See? Look, I said already. It don’ hurt.”

Herb watched again as the bump on Tommy’s hand faded from pink to grey then back to pink each time he clenched his fist.

“Well it’s up to you, buddy,” Herb sounded sceptical. “but it sure looks bad to me. You need get that sucker see’d to.”

Tommy lifted his heavy-booted feet from the linoleum, allowing a party of cockroaches make their way towards the trash-can unimpeded, then got up from the table, shaking his head and puffing out frustrated air. “Crap…” He pulled open the refrigerator with his bump-free hand, “I had me ten times worse than this…you wanna beer?”

“Sure do…but don’t go givin’ me none o’ that there European shit.” Herb set light to the end of a Marlboro then flicked the smouldering match in the direction of the faucet. “I’m keepin’ it real now on – all American…”

“Hey!” Tommy yelled, snagging a pair of long necks from the bottom shelf. “You can’t be sayin’ them things no more, Herby, that’s racialist.” He spun a chair backways and straddled it next to the small table.

“Bull-shit!” Herb twisted the cap off his beer and watched the froth poke its head out “A jigaboo’s a jigaboo, Tommy, an’ I don’t give a shit whether it’s black, white, pink, yeller, green or some micro-fucking-scopic bacterial infection. They shoul’n’t never gone changing the God-damned constitution.”

Tommy got up from his chair again and pushed open the door of the trailer to look out into the dessert night, stepping aside to allow a half dozen moths flutter in and up to the smoke-clouded fluorescent “Jesus, Herb! Your old man’s a God damned Mexican for Christ’s sake! Don’t see how that makes you so all American.“

Herb showed Tommy the middle finger of his drinking hand and burped the words “Ass-hole!”

Tommy waited for the roaches to return across the lino before sitting back at the table.

Herb took a long swig of beer. “So, do you know what it is? D’ya know if it’s on the list?” At least he sounded a little more sympathetic this time.

“Yeh.” Tommy rubbed his eyes “Bacterial. Fucking staphylococci… It don’t need a permit, it’s on the God-damned list.”

“Shit.”

Both men swigged at their respective beers and sat in silence for a few moments before Herb spoke again “You know…I know a guy who knows a guy…can get stuff…”

Tommy cocked his head at his friend. “What sorta stuff?”

“You know…” Herb glanced around the trailer as if to check for spies “Anti-biotics.”

“Jesus, man!” Tommy banged his beer bottle onto the table, sending a plume of froth to splatter on the abandoned poker deck. He was starting to wonder whether he should be hanging out with Herb. “That shit’s fucking racialist too, you racialist bastard!”