"I'd appreciate it." Fritch backed toward the door a bit. "I need to sell them some way. And soon." Clevinger knelt by weary stages next to his projector. His nearly hairless legs jutted from the robe, momentarily taut over his narrow buttocks. An alcoholic's spindle legs holding up the slack, toneless flab of his core. "Them is some good flicks though, ain't they? That ol' boy Johnny Wadd… He can do some damage." He took a spool of film off the projector then scrabbled around in the clutter, looking for the right tin. He found the matching carton with its teaser label of graphic photos. "They are pretty good. "But you woulda gotten tired of 'em before long." "Not me, son." The old man grinned. "But looka here. What ah said 'bout things not bein' how they look…" There were six cartons in the stack when Preacher finished and eased himself up. Fritch wasn't going to look into each one until he had gotten clear. "What things?" "Yeah, that's the way. Them ol' boys on that line… They got a cruel streak 'bout anybody elst's short-comin's 'cept their own…drinkin' an' the like." "Yeah, I hear ya." "So you never seen me in a bad way?" He handed the films to Fritch. "Hell, no. But, can I get a grocery bag or something? My little boy is out in the car, too. I'm gonna try to sneak these into the back." 'Never saw him in a bad way?' Most of South Trim Area had seen Clevinger heaving into a trash barrel at some point. "Yep. Ah'll be right back." Clevinger went into the kitchen. He opened and slammed three cupboards. The torrent of the shower stopped. He eyed the bathroom door nervously as he slouched into the front room. "Well, I'll see you whenever," Fritch said as the old man placed the bag in his hands. "I heard we could be off 'til model change in July." "We'll come back and build them little death-trap compact cars. Fuckin' A-rabs, anyways. Japs too."
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