In the Course of Human Events. Mike Harvkey

black belt so worn it was gray. He elbowed Tina out of the way and said, “Hai,” then somersaulted over his arm and came to standing right in front of Clyde with both hands out. Clyde took Jay’s right hand and Jay gripped, covering their clasped hands with his other. “Osu-oo, Cryde-san,” he said slowly, his eyes crossed. “Belly belly pleased-uh to see-oo you.”

      “Good to see you again, sir.” Clyde laughed. It was impossible not to.

      “Bullshit,” Jay said, letting go and slapping Clyde on his arm. It hurt. “Call me Jay.”

      “Nice car you sold us,” Jan said. The Firebird was in the driveway. Clyde hoped she wasn’t kidding.

      “Well, I was just the driver.”

      Tina hurried over and grabbed Clyde’s arm. “I’m glad you came. We’re just about to get started.” She led him over.

      “I could just take my wallet and get out of your hair,” he said.

      “Silly,” Tina said. She stood behind Clyde and pointed at people. “That’s my Aunt Missy, Jimmy-Don,” she said, pointing to an enormous mass of a man, “and his brother Dale, they’re my cousins. And those are some dudes my dad knows, I don’t really know them.”

      Jimmy-Don was the size and the shape of a deep freezer. Dale, half as big, was tanned the color of Skoal spit and draped with a ratty poncho, white sport socks up to his knees. Both of Tina’s cousins were covered in tattoos, lightning bolts, Celtic crosses, eagles, handguns, the number 88, almost all of them dull-edged and green. But Jimmy-Don had Frankenstein bolts on both sides of his neck done by a pro. Dale had a widow’s peak of deep green ink creeping from his hairline. And both were wearing a weapon. Dale’s couldn’t be missed: a bolt-action rifle around his shoulder. J.D.’s was a bulge beneath his shirt. Before Clyde knew it, J.D. was standing in front of him, and Tina giggled. “Jimmy-Don,” she said, “this is Clyde.”

      “Clyde,” J.D. said, wrapping an arm around Clyde’s shoulders and walking him across the yard. Clyde had no choice but to let him. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole heavy life, my friend.” The rest of the family stayed where they were, watching. Clyde didn’t even try to alter his course, the man was like a destroyer, not easily or quickly turned. “Remember when we used to ride our bikes out to the lake and skinny-dip with the Sprull twins? You used to say, ‘I’d drag my cock through a mile of broken glass just to get a look at one of her fat titties.’ Remember that?”

      “Jimmy,” Jan said.

      “Hey, I’m just repeating information here, Aunt Jan. It’s all coming back to me now, Clyde. The times we used to have. Some of the best times of my life. Real Kodak moments is what I’m saying. Oh, Clyde. Clyde Clyde Clyde. Or should I call you mister . . . ?”

      “Uh, Twitty,” Clyde said.

      “Uhtwitty,” J.D. said. “That’s a peculiar name, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

      “Just Twitty.”

      “Justwitty? That’s even worse, Clyde, even worse.”

      “Twitty,” Clyde said. “It’s Clyde Twitty.”

      “Twitty then. I think I got it. Now it’s coming back to me. Twitty’s an interesting name, you know. A long, distinguished pedigree. Derived from the Latin twitus, meaning dim-witted or dull. Slow, if you will, though not, I’m told by my sources in the Academy, to the point of retardation. On the road to retarded? Mayhaps. Halfway up retard hill? I dare say so, dare I do. But not, for instance, not at the high high peak of gork mountain. Not where the flag flies, if you get what I’m saying, and I think you do.”

      J.D. turned him and they began heading back.

      “Good,” Jimmy-Don said. “Bueno. Am I right? Clyde gets what it is that Jimmy-Don says. He understands. Mucho intiendo, maybe even todo intiendo, who’s to say? Me? Doubtful. You? Don’t be ridiculous. Clyde gets the intiendo combo platter, eats it up, and orders one more.” Jimmy-Don let Clyde free and Clyde’s eyes skipped to the bulge under his arm. “I see you took note of my sidearm,” Jimmy-Don said.

      “Oh,” Clyde said, wanting to step back but forcing himself not to. J.D. was practically standing on top of him. “I, uh . . . I was just curious. I’ve got a Colt .45.”

      Jimmy-Don reached inside his jacket and pulled it out. It was a Smith & Wesson like Clyde’s, but a .357 Magnum, and in J.D.’s hand it looked like grandma’s pop gun. He flipped it around and held the barrel. “Care to try it on for size?” Clyde took the gun. It was heavier than two of Clyde’s pistols. He’d never fired a bigger handgun than his .45 and wondered about the explosive kick. “Never accept the offer of another man’s gun, Clyde Twitty, silly wabbit.”

      Clyde handed it back.

      J.D. slipped it into his holster. “Now you’ll be the one riding the lightning for Jimmy-Don’s three-state killing spree. I sure do appreciate it.” J.D. went to his chair, waving his fingertips.

      Dale lit a rolled cigarette and blew tan smoke that Jan waved away with a sour expression. Missy said, “You smoking a goddamn monkey turd, Dale?”

      He grinned, smacked his lips, attempted a smoke ring. “Drying my own tobacco now,” he said.

      Tina hurried around to the other side of the picnic table behind a bunch of bottles, labels all facing out, and said, “Wow, thanks for coming, everybody.” Clyde found a chair. “First off, I’d like to tell you about Amway’s Artistry line of facial care products.” For the next ten minutes, Tina talked about how her Time Defiance line stopped aging where it started. The whole time she barely took her eyes off her Aunt Missy. From what Clyde could see, Missy was no stranger to hard living, so he guessed it made sense, though he could see the woman squirming. Later, Tina would tell Clyde that she’d used techniques during the presentation that she’d been taught at an Amway conference in Joplin: engage the customer, make eye contact, create a connection, build a bond. When Tina finished the first part of her pitch, Missy actually clapped, her cigarette standing at attention.

      Jimmy-Don stood up and his chair seemed to explode from his hips, tumbling in the grass. “Forget Marx and Engels and Ché and all those other faggots in their fancy hats,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, the revolution will be brought to you by the People for the American Way. It’s actually brilliant, cousin. I want in on the ground floor.” Jan said something to try to get him to stop, but Jimmy-Don was unstoppable. “I’ll clean,” he said, “sweep, if the Mexicans haven’t taken all the available spots. I’ll do anything.”

      “Anything?” Jay said, two chairs down.

      “Anything, Uncle Jay.”

      “How about you shut up then?”

      Jimmy-Don ran two fingers across his paper-thin lips and crossed his arms. After a moment of quiet, Tina said, “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have about my skin-care products.”

      Missy said, “You’re a professional fucker, ain’t ya?” and went to Tina, pulling money from her pockets. Clyde could see that this wasn’t the way the presentation was supposed to go; he could see Tina trying to hide her frustration. Missy went back to her chair cradling three bottles. “Shit’s so expensive I better look like goddamn Madonna!”

      “Remember,” Jay said, “it was like a virgin.” Missy flipped him off and Jay jumped up laughing and ran around knocking down chairs.

      Jimmy-Don took a shampoo bottle off the table. It rested in his palm like the travel size. “I’m sorry, cousin, I wish you that big big success, know what I mean?” he said. “But I’m afraid I won’t be a cog in your capitalist machinery today, not this day, not Jimmy-Don. I make my own shampoo from tree bark and lard.” He ran a hand through his long blonde mess and shook his head like a model on TV. “I ever tell you about the time in Russia where they felt the need to shoot all the poets?” As Jimmy-Don talked, Tina started throwing her bottles in a box and Clyde felt bad for her.