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not.”
    We continued toward the bleachers. Interrupted again.
    â€œBeer?” Vaughn Atkins’s mom was selling longneck bottles from a cooler in the back of her pickup. I said no, thanks.
    She said, “Shame about Unabelle.” She was wearing her judgmental face.
    â€œSure is.”
    â€œSomething happen to Unabelle?” said Dad.
    â€œHow’s Vaughn?” I said.
    â€œHe’s in the basement.”
    We continued toward the bleachers.
    D.J. Beckman saw us as we approached and held his hands out like a pair of giant tits. He yelled, “Hey, McFailure! Shakespeare said he wants to have your babies!”
    My name isn’t Shakespeare. My name is Stacey, but nobody ever calls me that. No one has ever called me Stacey. I am thankful for this. From the time I was a baby, Mom and Dad called me Shakes, which is almost as stupid as Stacey. Whenever I asked them why they called me Shakes, they’d say it’s because I shook a lot. Then they’d smirk at each other. Growing up, I was Shakes, Shakesy, Milkshake, whatever. In seventh grade, D.J. Beckman made the connection between Shakes Williams and William Shakespeare. Yippee verily shit. A new nickname.
    I veered us away from the bleachers and toward the pickup.
    â€œYou had enough softball, Pa?”
    â€œSomewhat.”
    I said, “Let’s go see Vaughn Atkins.”

CHAPTER 3
    PARAPLEGIC
    We rolled down the driveway to Vaughn’s mom’s house. The place was dark, with cats creeping in the shadows. We stepped out of the car. I pounded on the front door. No answer.
    â€œYou trying to wake somebody up?” said Pa.
    â€œVaughn Atkins. We went to school together.”
    â€œVaughn Atkins.”
    â€œHe flipped a car when we were juniors. Busted his back. Rides a wheelchair now. You know him. Before the accident, he used to help us harvest wheat.”
    Dad snapped his fingers. “He spent more time backing over fences than hauling grain.”
    â€œNever was much of a driver.”
    I opened the front door and we walked in. The house was a museum of liquor propaganda. Buzzing neon signs, a team of plastic Clydesdales, clocks with beer bottle hands. Posters. A stuffed dog. It hadn’t changed in twenty years. The same spider plant was hanging from the ceiling. The same rotary phone sat on the same table.
    Dad whispered, “Are we supposed to be here?”
    â€œWe’re fine.”
    A pounding shook the floor beneath our feet.
    â€œMom!” A voice from below. “The toilet’s clogged!”
    We climbed down the stairs into a paneled basement. The carpet was shiny brown, like the wings of a miller moth. The place looked like it was smelly. There were cups and cola cans scattered about. At the far end of the basement was a bed. On that bed was a fat, naked paraplegic pounding a broom against the ceiling.
    When Vaughn saw us, he threw the broom. It bounced to the carpet at our feet. “You sons of bitches can start by finding the remote control.”
    ----
    While Vaughn flopped himself into a pair of pajama bottoms, Dad and I looked for the remote. It was hard to concentrate for all the crap. Shelves of books and record albums. Broncos’ pennants from 1977, 1987, 1989. A liquor cabinet, chained and padlocked. A stereo with a phonograph, cassette, and eight-track. A console TV attached to an Atari 2600. Magazines:
Life
,
Sports Illustrated
,
High Plains Journal
. A twenty-inch-tall plastic Godzilla. Stacks of Lego boxes. A basement den from twenty years ago, preserved like a museum dedicated to failure.
    I found myself squatting in the corner next to the stairs, flipping thru the 1989
SI
Swimsuit Edition. All that sand stuck to all those thighs.
    Dad tapped me on the shoulder and said, “What are we looking for?”
    â€œThe remote.”
    He was holding it in his hand.
    I shouted to Vaughn, “We got it!”
    ----
    Vaughn turned on the TV. Snow across all six channels.