Thanks for letting me move in, Big Bob.

Vic reached for a hug.

Get away from me, Big Bob said.

Social distancing?

No, heterosexuality.

Gina said she wants a divorce.

Give her one, Big Bob said.

Walking out was one thing, making a living and supporting myself is another, Vic said.

Me, too, Buck said, because Amazon’s fighting my unemployment.

Matter of fact, I just got pink slipped at the landfill, Big Bob said.

Turning his palms upward, Vic shrugged.

So now what?

Buck cocked his head in a gesture Big Bob’s dog, Clancy, matched. The dog’s inquisitive expression showed far more intellect than Buck’s. Still, Buck made sense when he made his point.

Yeah, he said, who in their right mind would hire us?

Vic and Buck watched their hulking and normally morose friend for guidance. In turn, Big Bob grinned like a flirting hyena showing his teeth to the opposite sex during mating season. 

I have a solution to all our problems, he said.

Pointing to the two-car garage at the back of the house, he beckoned.

Follow me, he said.

Throwing up the door, Big Bob flipped the light switch. Inside, eight rusted bar stools with red plastic seats lined up against a makeshift bar Big Bob created from cinder blocks and wooden planks he stole from a nearby construction site. Five card tables with just enough room to walk between them and 20 wooden folding chairs with the name of a defunct funeral parlor stenciled on the backs crowded the center of the garage. A 16-quart stainless steel stock pot bubbled on a gas grill in the corner. The strong smell of red kidney beans and Bermuda onions wafted in the air.

Big Bob raised his arms like a maestro at the philharmonic.

Tada!

Vic walked silently through the room.

Is this what I think it is?

Looks like a dive bar, Buck said.

Give the man a cigar, Big Bob said.

An overly enthused Big Bob explained.

All the bars are closed, right? People can’t get a bite to eat they don’t have to carry out and eat like raccoons running away from garbage cans. Nobody can hang out after church or freedom rallies to congratulate each other on being patriots. You boys get my drift?

Vic hit himself in the forehead and let fly a dirty Italian slang expression with multiple vulgar meanings.

Mighia, he said.

We’re opening an illegal pop-up pub.

Welcome to Big Bob’s Booze and Burgers, Big Bob said. We’ll make a killing with all the cheap hard stuff I’m hauling from Maryland and marking up to sell because the governor closed all our deep state monopoly liquor stores. I finally made a connection in Binghamton, New York at a discount. And with even Wendy’s running out of burgers, we got all the meat we can handle.

Not horse meat again, Buck said.

I sat in the woods hunting all weekend, Big Bob said.

Vic got excited.

You finally got a deer?

Sort of, Big Bob said.

Vic went pale.

Sort of what?

Coyote, Big Bob said.

Buck’s knees went weak.

Like shooting fish a barrel, Big Bob said. Never saw so many mangy coyotes in my life. Now, who wants the first bowl of chili?

Clancy walked hesitantly to the grill, sniffed and backed up. Confused, the poor pooch sat back on his haunches and howled. The pungent scent seemed too familiar for the mutt’s own good.

Now Vic had a question.

You got any hot sauce?