volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

Ever since they were little boys, he and Rick the Asshole have
lived in Seattle. Their parents claimed they moved here to open
a bar. But, like everything else they tried, that plan, if it ever
actually existed, fell through. Everything always fell through for
Roy’s parents. Except making babies. They were good at that.
Roy has been assured that he has many brothers and sisters
scattered across America, but he only knows Rick the Asshole,
who is younger by eight years. Still, knowing his parents, he feels
sure there must be others. Perhaps dozens. It’s hard to know for
sure, since he hasn’t seen his parents in such a long time. Years
and years. They up and left one bright April morn. Left him
and his little brother to fend for themselves. Before they left they
said all sorts of nice things, like—: We love you! Be back soon,
sweeties! We’ll send money, honnies! See you later, ’gators!
Good luck, schmucks!
Roy and Rick had been thirteen and five, respectively.
Roy, as the older brother, should have taken the lead and
been the boss—but Rick had taken after his pa, and was a freak.
He was smoking at six and fucking at eight. He was banging
his head and tattooed by nine. At ten he was pretty much fullgrown.
And, since he knew more about how the world worked
than Roy, it just seemed natural he should take charge of their
affairs. And it was probably a good thing, too. If it had been left
up to Roy, God knows where they would be now.
Probably milk truck drivers.
No—Rick was a hustler, wasn’t about to sit still for anybody’s
shit, especially his brother’s. He wasn’t going to toe lines, pay
dues, suck up to The Man. To Rick, Roy was a dweasel—a
dweeb. Passive motherfuckinpansy.
So, it was a good thing Rick took charge.
But it was Roy who got them into window washing.
Roy, who stumbled through life looking at his feet, also
occasionally looked up.
Oftentimes, while sitting cross-legged on street corners waiting
for someone to drop coins into his Starbucks cup, he would stare
up at little dots hanging off sides of tall buildings, little dots that
were, in actuality, window washers. And he would think, as he
1 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY