Leroy 1997

The store was one of those increasingly obsolete things — part grocery store, part bait shop and part tavern, complete with pool table, pinball machines and an assortment of teenagers and other hangers on from the neighboring campground, upon which, the establishment thrived, leeched , preyed, depended.
A hungry fisherman could get himself a hamburger and a beer, pick up a bottle of outboard motor oil, shoot some stick and then settle down to watch Wheel of Fortune with the proprietor, who considered himself a real entrepreneur, and was.
The trouble, this night, as it had been in the past, was between a big, odd, grown-up kid wearing an Earl Campbell football jersey and his rotund, tired looking mother.
The kid was about thirty five years old, with shuffling feet, outward eyes and a fascination with his belly button which he fingered, incessantly.
His mother worked fiercely to get her boy to leave with her, slapping at his hand as he poked at his navel, lifting his jersey to get at it, exposing his pendulous, hairy, surprisingly taught stomach. She spoke directly and impatiently, as if the discussion was an old one, as if the outcome had been already determined and her chattering and his belly-jabbing were simply a matter of choreography.
“We’re out of quarters, Leroy,” she said, over and over. “It’s time to go now, Leroy. Listen to me.”
The boy pulled away from her, away from her groping hand that only temporarily interrupted his belly button play, grunting defiantly, nodding at the pinball machine with the Roller Derby Queen motif.
She pulled his head around, as if talking to a horse. “No, Leroy,” she…