You Have Reached...

I called the person who processes payroll today. I got her voice mail. One of my peeves is when a voice mail message says "You have reached so-and-so", because that's a bald faced lie! If I had reached so-and-so, I would be speaking to her and not listening to her canned voice.

Great, I had "reached" her. The rest of her message went like this. "At the tone, please leave a brief message and a number and I will call you back." So, I shouted "Potato!" followed equally as vehemently by, "Eight!". That's all. I feel as though I followed the instructions to the letter. I left a brief message and a number.

I wonder if she'll call me back. In fact, I am sure she will, because in a company of 1000 people, I am the only one who would do something like that. And she will appreciate it. She won't necessarily show me that she appreciates it, but someone in the office will tell me how she played it for everyone and they all laughed. Or, she'll save it, like other funny messages I have sent, to listen to at a later date when things aren't going so well.

My outgoing voice mail used to be long and elaborate. I spoke slowly, carefully, saying who I was, what my title was, how they could reach me, when I would reach them back what the lunch specials were, my horoscope for the day and a tip on dressing for success. It went on and on. I thought it professional.

The owner of the company left me a voice mail saying something to the effect of "Shorten that blankety-blank message... I forgot what I wanted halfway through it!" Good point. I eventually did change it, but I did so reluctantly. I reasoned that my long message would deter all but the most committed people from calling. "Oh, I should call Bill about that stupid unnecessary thing that he is powerless to control... Ugh, I forgot he has that long message. Forget it. I'll just call him when there's something more important going on."

Now it is brief, my outgoing message. Shakespeare said, and many scholars agree, Brevity is the soul of wit. Of course, most people who believe that adage likely think it applies to everybody but themselves. Have you ever heard an English Lit professor prattle on and on (apologies to you, Regina)? Where's your brevity now, Billy?

So now, because we are fixated on speed and efficiency, you don't get the "thank you for calling" or the "have a nice day." You get "You have reached the voice mail of Bill, Operations Manager. Leave a message, I'll get back with you when I can." It took you longer to read it than it did for you to hear it if you called me. It sounds brusque and ineffectual, but that is what plays in Peoria these days. At least it offers no pretense and cannot be confused with anything it is not. There is no reading between the lines when there aren't any to read between.

I used to work with a guy who was a spendthrift. He hadn't spent a dime without a long thought about it since the Carter Administration. He had an old two cassette answering machine. The outgoing message tape was likely the original. It had all the tonality and quality of an old-timey film strip. His voice recorded voice warbled and changed speed and pitch. When I had to call him, I would screw with him and talk all slow and low. "Hiiiiiiiiiii, Riiiiiiiich, Thhhhhiiiiisss isssss Bbbbiiiiilllll" and then I would speed up and raise the pitch of my voice "Iwascallingtoaskifyoucouldcometoworktomorrow!"

My hope of course was he would think his "Answering Service 2000 by Emerson" was on the blink and he would part with the $50.00 to go buy a machine with a chip, or just subscribe to the service through the phone company for a nominal fee. It didn't work. In my imagination, I was in his house, listening to the message... It sounded perfect, my vocal manipulations matching the flaws of the tape inch for inch. Drat.

Old people, who grew up before machines are hilarious. It is clear they are not comfortable with the whole concept. My Dad speaks into his machine like everyone who calls had suffered a debilitating closed head injury. The best part is the "have a nice day" at the end which sounds as sincere as pillow talk on prom night. It makes me want to reflexively respond, "Oh,yeah? You have a nice day too, pal!"

Then there's the Steven Hawking outgoing message so popular today. I hate that robotic monotone that only says "please leave a message after the tone." Yeah, but who is this? It is unnerving if you are calling someone for the first time. What if you misdialed? I need assurances here, people! I need the message to say, "It's o.k., newby... you got the guy you want."

I had one guy who is not known for his social graces whose message said exactly this: "You have reached the number you've dialed, please leave me a message." No kidding? What are you, Ernestine from Laugh-In? He is from Barbados, so his Caribbean so his accent makes it even more improbable sounding like you called the guy from the Bacardi commercials and he's screwing with you.

About the only thing worse than getting someone's voice mail is actually getting someone. I can't tell you how many times I call someone at a strategic hour, knowing I will get that recording. I will leave my information and hang up, happy I avoided the real-time interaction. It is such a terrible disappointment when they actually pick up.

This goes both ways, though. People have called me and I pick up and they sound crestfallen... "Oh, I thought I would just leave a voice mail." Well, sorry. I picked up. Now since I know you don't want to talk to me, get on with it!

My wife calls me while I am in important meetings and sales presentations. Happens pretty much every time. I go to great pains to let her know when I am in said meetings, and there it is... buzz buzz. "I just was leaving a voice mail!" Yes, but I am trying to sound impressive while my pocket is vibrating and it is a distraction. Usually, she is calling to tell me of the gigantic poisonous spider she just slew in the bathroom, or ask me whether I want okra or zucchini from the store, or some other little tidbit that could wait, like forever.

I kid. It is nice to hear from people. My parents never call me and when they do the first thing out of their mouth is "Everything's ok." This is another way of saying nobody's dead. It is rare I get a social call from them. The big excuse being they don't know when I'm working and what my schedule is. Yes, but I have a cell phone that is on 24/7 and a voice mail box that efficiently asks you to leave a message. "Hi Bill, it's Mom. Everything's ok..."

Sometimes when we do talk, we play the "remember Uncle Howard's third wife's cousin's roommate you sat next to at the black jack table that one time and didn't know it? Well, she's dead", game. My Mother never says "remember so and so" unless they are dead. And she gets pissed when in the middle of her long explanation of how I met this person once when I was four while coming out of anesthesia and I just bust in with "How'd he die?" How did I know?

Some news you don't leave on voice mail. Break ups, News of birth and death, funny stories, the winning Keno numbers, long and drawn out technical details. Those are best left to text messages and facebook posts.
You should leave a brief message. Why have the discussion with the people again after you sat through their 3 act message? When people detail me to death on voice mail, I call them back and without any salutation I just launch into the answers of their recorded diatribe, in order. Show them what it feels like.

In short, the best inventions of humanity also become its biggest blights. Strip malls, housing projects, mass transit systems, cell phones and voice mail. I didn't even get into the hell of trying to reach a real person at the utility company, or anywhere else for that matter. Call the doctor and the auto nurse is like "If you suffer from vertigo hold on to something and dial 1, if you have spastic colon, please sit down and press 2, if you have embarrassing rash in a place where your roommate won't look at it, use a pencil and press 3, if you are having a bad day, mash the keyboard with your hand, or throw the receiver across the room and you will be connected with the psych ward, If listening to this message has caused you to have a stroke, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.

I Know Your Type

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What's In A (Nick) Name?

My friends and I seem to have a penchant for referring to people by nickname. These nicknames have been bestowed upon them, by us, surreptitiously and pejoratively. They have no idea we have given them nicknames.

Some examples I can share that won't make my Mother blush are:

Hairy Scary (Scary Hairy/Hairum Scarum) Neecy
Mamma Poopy (ok, that's a cat)
Big Colon
The Johnfather Drinky McPukesalot
Opie T Mc R
Gingifer Dink


I confess, I always wanted a nickname. A cool one. I was never given a cool one, and you can't give one to yourself. That kind of self-aggrandizement usually begets a mean nickname, like the ones I tend to give people. My name never lent itself to being shortened, or changed in such a way that was evocative and cool. The closest I have come is Youbee (which is spelled inexplicably UBE), which is what many of my coworkers call me. I'll accept it, but it isn't the best case scenario.

I envy the "Sullys", the"Micks", the "Irish" the "Skis" and the "Smittys". These are names that are inherently cool. Why would you want to go through life as John Smith when you could be "Smitty"? Who will remember the hero pilot we know as "Sully" is named Chesley Sullenberger? Chesley? This guy is my hero and if I knew him as Chesley in school, I'd have given him a swirly. Come to think of it, he could have gone as "Chess" which in an of itself is cool, too. Some people are destined for greatness.

I don't watch Jersey Shore. I don't think I ever will, but hand on heart, "The Situation" is about the greatest nickname ever. This guy pulled down $5 million last year and I think it is due in large part to his nickname. It is cool beyond explanation. Mysterious and meaningful, simple and unique. It has everything a nickname needs.

"The King of..." and "The Queen of..." also make the cut, but none sound quite so menacing as "Godfather..." Elvis rocked as the "King of Pop", but James Brown is still sizzling from the grave as the "Godfather of Soul". Other great nicknames include

Of course, Mob nicknames aside from Godfather (which really in that case is more a title don't you think?) are the baddest. Knuckles, The Nose, The Fish, The Turk, The Gun, The Mook, Ice Pick, Scarface, The Jew. And they go on endlessly, like this very post!

Come to think of it, lots of royal sounding things make good nicknames. Former Congressman (and current convict as if those two aren't precisely the same thing) Randall Cunningham sure is cooler when you refer to him as "Duke", his Vietnam flying call sign. Which brings us to "Maverick" and "Goose" and "Iceman" and "Slider" and "Jester", all names that made Top Gun a great movie in spite of terrible acting, horrible continuity issues, wooden dialogue and a sappy plot that could only have been conceived by Jerry Bruckheimer.

A person can make a name cool. John Wayne is a cool name only because of the person who owned it. Any other guy named John Wayne is probably an accountant or an actuary or something like that. So John Wayne is cool because of his persona, but call him "The Duke" watch him careen over the edge of cool and put him right in the meat locker. Yep. "The Duke" as a nickname is ice cold.

GM tried to make a four cylinder engine sound cool when they put it into their cars in 1982. It came to be known as the "Iron Duke", or by those who owned a car so equipped, the "Iron Dump".

Further bolstering my argument, (as if I hadn't beaten it into the ground already), are the examples of Prince (the Purple One), Queen Lahtifa, Nat 'King' Cole and countless other musical examples which will rush into my head the moment I hit the publish button on this blentry.

Mel Torme was "The Velvet Fog", Sinatra was "The Voice", Willy Nelson "The Red Headed Stranger" and Johnny Cash "The Man in Black". When we do something good, our friends will say "You're The Man!" 'The' is a simple word that seems to be of seminal importance in a good nom-du-nick. It adds credence and weight to a name as if to say THE one and only. You have transcended every other of your ilk. Congratulations... here is your nickname.

People seem to think that Madonna is a nickname. Nope, she was born and baptized Madonna Ciccone. The aforementioned Elvis went by the name his mama gave him, too.

We revere strong politicians such as "The Gipper" and "The Governator". For eight years, the mere letter 'W' took on a wide variety meanings depending on who you are. We honor politicians with nicknames that are more like plaques of honor. "The Gipper" was also "The Great Communicator". How cool do you have to be to have two nicknames?

I don't really know where I am going with all this, except to say that for Christmas, maybe you could all get together (again I assume more than one person is reading this) and get me a cool nickname. One that makes it to my Obituary. You see that all the time... Norbert "Bud" Altman aged 89 met his Lord and Savior Friday...

It's Monday Morning

It is Monday morning. It's cold. It's dark. We are only a few weeks removed from the dog days of summer, yet we are in a whole other world. The house thermostat that was struggling to stay in the middle 70's as the air conditioning chugged now tells me it is 69 and I accuse it of lying.

It is Monday morning. I am cold. It is 7:30 and the sun is just now coming up. No longer is it my willing friend, getting to my house before I even get out of bed to greet me like a big slobbering dog. "Let's go... you're wasting time!"

It is Monday morning. It is still and motionless. Silent, but for the groans of the waking citizens as their bones creak like the floorboards they walk upon while they get out of their warm beds. The stubs of toes and the shivers of naked bodies waiting for the hot water to reach their shower spigots punctuate the weekend past with cold grim finality.

It is Monday morning. Today I have to go back to work and pretend again. Today I have to see people and do things and engage and emote and involve and coach and train and understand. Today I have to be William-not-Bill.

It is Monday morning. I have a headache from my allergies. I am nearly out of tissues and my nose hurts from constant blowing and wiping. My right eye is twitching violently and burning. I have to go put in drops. I hate drops. After that, my eye will still hurt.

It is Monday morning. My coffee sure tastes good. The warmth and the richness is magnified on this cold morning. Coffee doesn't taste like this in the summer. It doesn't hit the same spots. Yes, the coffee is good this morning as it chases way my headache and shakes the cobwebs from my brain.

It's Monday morning. That means there is a week ahead. A week to practice being better, stronger, faster, more honest, more Christian. A better husband, friend, co-worker and boss. I get another chance to make my wrongs right, and if I fail, at least I tried. I have a week, a page unwritten laid out in front of me that will chronicle my wins and losses.

It is Monday morning. I am awake now. It's not so bad. My headache will go away and after a shower my eye will calm down. The house will warm with the rise of the sun and the sky is a crystal shade of blue. Sure, it's cold outside, but it smells so fresh. The leaves are just beginning to pop. Winter is coming, yes, but in life a bit of rain (or snow) must fall. Right now is where we are and it is good.

It is Monday morning! I thank God! I rolled out of a warm bed, with my wonderful wife, in my beautiful house. I was greeted happily by my cats who were so glad to see me. I had coffee, I got to sit and write. The weekend was good and the week ahead full of possibilities! It is Monday morning! My grass is green and looks so full with trademark angled stripes showing I mowed it the fancy way, just to treat my neighbors to something different. I am going to do it today, whatever it is. I will do it the best. I will do it better than last week and keep finding a way to do it better each time.

IT IS MONDAY MORNING! I can rule the world today! I was chosen to be where I am because I can make the most of it! Only I can contribute my share today. Nobody can be me and I shouldn't try to be anybody else! My words will make someone's day! My actions will show care and concern for others! I will lead by example!

It. Is. Monday. Morning. Amen!

Remember When...

What did we do without microwaves? To tell the truth, I was four when we got our first one so I don't know. My mother cooked for me up to that point, at least until the day I could reach the stove knobs on my tippie-toes. I believe I was six. Our nuclear box was not an Amana "Radar Range", it was a Magic Chef. It had all the bell and whistle. A large rotary dial that had so many numbers in various colors and fonts crammed into such a small area that you could be cooking something for 30 seconds or 4 hours. It required you stay in the room with it to monitor the food you were cooking, but admonished you to do so only while wearing a lead apron.

I recall it did have a feature allowing you to select the output level. the dial seemed connected to little other than the light bulb. 100% was bright, 50% half as bright. The food itself remained a tasty mix of solidly frozen and numbingly hot. If you averaged it out, it was perfect.

My mother was very excited about the microwave. She will admit cooking was never her favorite thing. She even bought microwave cooking cookbooks. These were all the rave. Betty Crocker jumped on the bandwagon so fast her apron flew into the air exposing all he naughty bits. It was amazing how quickly they abandoned the whole idea of good food to make a buck.
Mom wasn't bad at cooking, but that whole idea of the secret ingredient being love was lost on her. Her secret ingredient was salt.

Or, "No-Salt" for that matter. Those of you old enough to remember the heady early days of the faux sugar movement and the mass hysteria those products caused (Mmmmmm, Tab), may also remember the faux salt (faux-diom?) sensation that swept the nation for five minutes in 1983.

Even then, Americans were fat and lazy people pumped so full of white bread and beef tallow that we had massive high blood pressure and obesity. This was way before Arnold Schwarzenneger became the President's Fitness Czar. Fake food was going to help us claw our way out of our slump. Fake food was the only "real" solution.

Enter fake salt. Even as the purveyors of boxed food-like products were jacking up the salt levels in our foods, we were being encouraged to eat fake salt. Well, o.k., not fake salt, but a salt that did not have sodium. It was a salt to be sure, like lithium is a salt, but its edibility quickly came into question.

Just as today's advanced sugar substitutes are lethally sweet in quantities similar to that which we would use the natural product, pseudo salt was saltier than the tears of a French clown. Saltier than the language of a th0usand sailors.

It burned. It ruined your food. But it was "good" for you. So we used it. We bought one cylindrical drum of "No-Salt". The 'O' in 'No' even had the little line through the circle like a No Smoking sign, which interestingly enough had not yet been invented. A house Frau could stand in the grocery aisle, pondering the nutritional panel on a drum of fake salt while chugging on a Vantage, Pall Mall or Viceroy. The grocery carts had two features... a seat for your child, and a butt can. To the point, we bought exactly one drum of this product. Never a second drum. No one in the country ever bought a second one. To have it in the house was enough.

We put it in a special salt shaker on the table that got touched about as much as a syphilitic nun. It may as well have had a red 'X' on it. When guests came, we would dive for their hands if they went for the faker-shaker. "No, no... you don't want that. It's 'No Salt'", and they would reel back in horror, so thankful you saved their lives.

What a marvelous age it was. Of course, though it survived (thrived, even), the microwave also ruined your food. The device that my mother thought would be her deliverance turned out to be a killer of all foods. Chicken turned rubber. Pizza became something that resembled the La Brea tar pits. I used to make eggs in the microwave. Terrible. All I could taste is the burning of the roof of my mouth.

They must have optimized food for the microwave. Hot Pockets come to mind. How do they get that crust so crispy crunchy tender flaky? I don't know, but it is probably the same thing that makes them delicious and diarrhea-inducing.

I guess it is likely advances in the packaging more so than the food itself. I was always told never to put metal in a microwave. Now microwaves have metal racks and nukeable foods have metal-like reflective coatings. This of course has not solved the issue of the issue of alternating hot and cold. Mostly your Hot Pockets are nucleonically hot on the ends and arctically frozen in the middle. No matter what. It's God's law.

Boxed food companies still pour too much salt and preservatives in your food. Microwaves still do not make a good quiche and synthesized foods and additives continue unabated. At least most of us have gotten on that no smoking bandwagon.

Falling Back

Hello, blog! Remember me? Well, it has been a solid week since I have been able to post anything for a variety of reasons. Among them are some great things like football season and the kick-off of youth group, and some not so good things like all the normal minutiae of life that takes your time and puts it in the land of lost socks.

I bet you didn't know that time and lost socks both got lost to the same place. When someone asks you, where has the time gone? Just say, it went to the same magic land that your socks go to when you've lost one in the dryer. Em still has a missing sock. I can't believe it's been missing for 6 months... I hope the sock and the six months are enjoying each other in the land of things lost, squandered and forgotten. Perhaps they are on a cruise.

We spent all day Sunday outdoors in the yard, cutting back chaos and removing bad elements. When you stand back after a day like this of hard work and owies, and feel a real sense of accomplishment. The house looks great. I wish I had pictures. The weather was perfect and we even communed for a bit with some of the neighbors.

After we cleaned up from yard work, we went to youth group. Seeing my youth group kids again after 2 months of summer is always quite amazing. The older kids are gone from our protectorate and the younger kids are older and the really young kids are freshmen which is to say they are confused and hardly even in the same species. The boys become more like men, their features filling out rapidly and sharpening in a short time. I tried to write a sentence about the girls about 7 times, but each one sounded creepy, so suffice it to say they grow up, too.

I get nostalgic around these kids. I see them come in as barely adolescents and leave as young adults in 4 years. Those of you who are parents are saying, duh, dumb-ass, where have you been? But I am not a parent so to me it is still marvelous.

I wonder what they will be when they grow up. I wonder if they will make the mistakes I made in spite of my admonishments to the contrary. I wonder if they will remember me when they are my age.

Whether they do or don't, I will keep them close to me. I would like to think I am helping them through the storm of their teens. You couldn't pay me all the money in the world to send me back.

The Grand Rapids chapter of Quota International is having a walk to raise awareness of hearing disorders Sunday, Sept. 26th. We will be hosting friends this weekend who are generous enough to take part. If you are reading this and live in the area, come out and walk, we'll have fun. If you don't live in the area but would like to support Emily and the cause, send a check. Make it out to Quota Grand Rapids.

And so it goes. Things will be very busy all autumn until winter blankets us and it is too cold and snowy to think, let alone do anything. Until then, I will enjoy the fair weather and the sprigs of color just beginning to bloom on some of the weaker pansy trees that can't handle a shorter day. Perhaps my enmity for those wussy trees will be a subject for a later blog post.

Until then, peace.

Revision of chapters 1 - 4 and addition of chapters 5 -7

OK. Writing is a process. At first, I thought it would be a good idea to share my process on this journey. I am realizing it doesn't necessarily fit with the blog format, but I am going to keep at it. If you're interested, great, if you're over it, cool. If you want to me let you know when it's done, wilco.

I am learning that this process is not so linear. As such, in order to make new ideas work, I have revised the early chapters to tighten the writing (since I didn't do much editing) and add some plot points for reasons that will become clear as the story unfolds.

Hear goes!

Chapter 1

Rigo Parrish sat on his porch, doing a whole lot of something that was a lot like nothing. This was the only thing he was good at come to think of it. He once walked into his high school guidance counselor's office and found the man begging his colleague to "...take Rigo Parrish of my hands, please! I'll even take those delinquent Asher twins you are always bitching about..."

Had Rigo applied for any work he would have been turned down for every job he applied. This was not so much a sign of the times in the town of Flat Iron, Michigan as it was an indictment of Rigo’s general lack of ability, presence, tact and personal hygiene. The town itself was so bereft of goodness and opportunity that people from nearby Flint congratulated themselves that at least they weren't from Flat Iron . The dismal town and her 2,500 citizens were a mere speed bump in the thumb of Michigan. It being neither one of the resort towns tourists flocked to to part with their hard earned money, nor one of the formerly glorious manufacturing hubs of the rust belt which dashed any hopes of Flat Iron, Michigan being a recipient of some boatload of Superfund money to change its fortunes.

No, this town wasn’t even good enough to be haunted by disaster. It was as worthless now as it was when it was founded by drunken Native Americans some 257 years ago. It actually could have been more than 257 years, It could have been last Tuesday. No one in the town bothered to give enough of a damn to find out. The more there was to learn about Flat Iron, Michigan, the more there was to loathe. The Drunken Indians didn’t even have the courtesy to stay around long enough to open a casino. They left the same way everyone leaves Flat Iron. They died.

Rigo was here in Flat Iron and he would never leave. His family, except his dead father wouldn’t leave and his eventual offspring, for surely there was one thing the people of Flat Iron were good at and that was reproduction, would also never leave.

He was a washout before he was out of his teens. Even his dreams were worthless. He hoped one day to sleep with a woman, any woman, and fix up his late father's Camaro which sat moldering on blocks in the side yard as though it were some sort of Jeff Foxworthy joke.

He almost had it running once, after some tinkering and nearly an entire can of starting fluid. Though he wasn't a mechanic, hell he wasn't anything, he was on the right track to getting the thing running. But he and his buddy Randal TenHaar, who was known as Jimmy on account his three brothers and his father and every other man in his entire line as far back as it could be traced was also named Randal TerHaar, got more interested in sniffing the ether from the can rather than using it to squirt down the carburetor of the stationary lump of 1987 Camaro on the front lawn. They woke up, heads pounding, retching, on the ground, they had forgotten how they even got there. They found the nearly empty can of ether, looked at the car, shrugged their shoulders and went about finishing off the can. It was Tuesday in Flat Iron. Same as Monday, Same as Wednesday, same today as every day.

If worthlessness were graded on a continuum, Jimmy TerHaar would be somewhere down near bedbugs, having no discernible use to this world, but never-the-less maximally annoying. And like begd bugs, there was no getting rid of him.

Rigo's mother Ann Parrish was a gigantic fat woman with cankles wandering vaguely below the hem of her moo-moo. Rigo's name was inspired by her favorite jar of spaghetti sauce (pronounced pescketti in this refined house), such was her love of food. Legend has it she was eating Spaghetti with Ragu while she was pushing her son out. She didn’t really even know she had been pregnant on account of her weight problem.

Ann was rendered basically incapacitated by her weight about a year after her husband, Buck died. If she was fat before his death, she was now huge enough that Godzilla would think twice before taking her girth for a meal. Had people ever been invited to the Parrish house for dinner, they surely would decline for fear they would be consumed in the ensuing melee.

Buck Parrish, Rigo’s father was a skinny little man with a spotty mullet and faded tattoos who was seldom seen sans a Winston and a Keystone Light in close proximity. He made his family’s money in the meth trade, being a major player in the town manufacturing syndicate. He had some property outside of town on which sat a tin shack where the cooking took place. He stayed away from the day to day business, instead allowing the allure of money and danger to recruit new people. If the place was gonna blow, or someone was going to get arrested, it wasn’t going to be Buck Parrish. Now, a normal person might assume heart attack, or stroke or something prosaic like that as the cause of death. Nope, despite the meth addiction and the constant smoking and drinking, it was Buck’s chubby chasing ways that finally did him in. You see, he died while having sexual congress with Ann.

She thought he had been on the quiet side, but continued on about her business anyway. She was, after all, enjoying herself. In fact, Ann was apparently so enthralled during her lovemaking that she literally broke the skinny little man in half, shattering his pelvis leading to massive internal bleeding and slow, agonizing death.

Still, he escaped Flat Iron, so as the song said, there really was a sunny side to every situation.

Ann and Rigo lived in a rusty trailer in a lot between two other rusty trailers. In this town, it qualified as The Ritz. It was just Rigo and her… and of course the omnipresent Jimmy. She hated Jimmy. In fact, she had nothing good to say about anyone excepting the Reverend Jimmy Swaggart, the televangelist to whom she sent the family's entire savings in 1987 in a moment of rapture while watching his ministry one Sunday morning. It is said there was a roast

"Who's that wothless no-good chunk of barn vermin is to call himself 'Jimmy'"? Degrades all that the wonderful reverend has lived and worked for all these years..." Ann could be heard to say through the omnipresent wad of Hot Pocket sandwiches in her mouth being chewed like so much cud, "Motherfucker has no right..."

If Ann hated everyone, she held a special contempt for Jimm. Nobody but Ann and Jimmy knew why. It stayed between them that after the death of Buck six years ago, Ann, in a moment of weakness may have made a misbegotten sexual overture to a barely 15 year-old Jimmy, who for this town was not entirely unattractive, at least his eyes were the proper width apart and both pointed in roughly the same direction. Even his mullet was understated and flattered his high cheekbones. The only time Ann thought Jimmy unattractive was when his face betrayed the utter horror when he realized what Ann, his best friend's mother many years his senior and gigantically fat was trying to do. He puked heartily on her that day, which was the only thing he could think to do. All things considered, the vomit all over Ann's moo-moo didn't make her less desirable than she was pre-puke.

There was a lot of dirty water under than bridge and it was still and deep.

Rigo had no clue of any of this, though admittedly it would be hard for most people to grasp the complexities of the conversations between Ann and Jimmy.

"Fuck you you fat fucking whore, you stink like a pig barn in July!" Jimmy said as he slammed the broken old screen door on the side of the trailer Rigo and his mother called home.

"Get the fuck out of my house you worthless chunk of shit before I call the cops!"

"How could you?! You can't even spell 9-1-1 let alone dial it with those fat fucking fingers!"

Such was the level of discourse in this little house of rust and heat and body odor in the worthless town of Flat Iron, Michigan, where nothing good or bad ever happened. Just about nothing happened at all.
Nothing that is until the day Jenny Boggs was found floating face down in the brown ribbon of water at the southeastern border of the city that was the Flat River which everyone in town charmingly referred to as "Shit Creek".

Chapter 2

In life, Jenny Boggs had been an attractive 18 year-old. She was a year ahead of Rigo and Jimmy in school. She graduated just three weeks ago. Now, she was a floating corpse. In life, she was the prettiest girl in town, a lovely rose growing from the middle of a pile of shit. She was a true blonde with perfectly straight hair like so much gossamer atop her round head, smooth fair skin, pale blue eyes, a slight build and disarming smile. Hers was a true beauty, not the Hooters waitress sort of ersatz pretty that the rest of the local girls were. She needed no paint on her face or highlights in her hair. She was practically perfect right out of the box.

Now she was floating desultory in shit creek with the slow current. Chemistry had taken over and erased Jenny’s exceptional good looks. She was an utterly normal corpse smelling the way any corpse would, it’s skin hanging off her bones same as if she had been some dead hobo found in a cesspool.

Art Franz was the one who found her and it was all too much for him. He saw something floating while he was down at the creek catching his daily bread as was his way. For Art, fishing was a necessity. No one but the starving would dare eat a fish from Shit Creek.

When Rigo and Jimmy rode up on their bikes to join the throng of onlookers gawking from behind the police tape, they saw Art blubbering softly under a tree with a deputy standing over him shifting his weight impatiently on his feet, looking down at him.

Their attention quickly shifted to the crowd and the speculative conversations going on. All sorts of wild theories were being posited by the slack jawed gentry about the circumstances leading to the unfortunate end of Jenny Boggs.

There was nothing like a local tragedy to allow the citizens of Flat Iron to flex their mental muscles. Everyone had an answer to the mystery and the conversations were quickly degrading to shouting matches and small scuffles as was the way disagreements took shape in Flat Iron.

Knowing instinctively there was nothing to be gained from being part of the crowd, Rigo and Jimmy skirted the established perimeter and headed into the wooded area behind the main scene. They knew these woods like they knew their own dicks having spent much of their formative years harassing Art Franz and torturing and killing small animals there. They were able to slowly negotiate the muddy banks without being heard or seen by the deputies who were dutifully monitoring the perimeter as they had been told to do.

“Fuck, that girl was hot” said Jimmy out of the blue, “I’d have fucked her good.”

“You couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper sack, Jimmy.” Rigo said smiling a little as he said it knowing Jimmy used a paper bottle sleeves filled with lotion to jack off with sometimes.

“Like you could do any better, Rigo!” was was the best Jimmy could manage as his ears and face turned scarlet.

Rigo thought back two summers when he was just 15, rolling into town and seeing Jenny Boggs working behind the ice cream counter. It wasn’t really an ice cream store, it was just an unkempt counter in the front of Danielson’s general store. In any other town, Danielson’s may have seemed like a kitschy throwback to olden times. In Flat Iron, it was social commentary; the sum of all things wrong in this worthless little city.

But there she was in the front windows leaning slightly over the freezers with a smile on her face talking to a short boy of maybe seven who was trying to make up his mind on what flavor he wanted as if the three choices were too much for his brain to handle.

She was beautiful. Not just beautiful, otherworldly, indescribably, unremittingly beautiful. Rigo felt that flutter in his chest and the familiar tingle along his belt, for Jenny was his singular masterbatory fantasy. He would have nailed anything he could hold down long enough, but when it came to fantasizing, nobody but Jenny would do. It was that way for each and every man in the area.

The thought of multiple men, engaged in the one handed tango while thinking of Jenny’s visage was enough to shake Rigo from his short fantasy. Embarrassed and looking guilty he dismounted his trusty bike and sauntered in to the store, sucking in his budding pot belly and correcting his posture in an attempt to look as good as he could. He tried not to look over at her when he walked in the door, but couldn’t help stealing a glance. Up close, the magnitude of her comeliness was amplified. Rigo’s heart couldn’t help but stop for a moment and he had to look away or he was going to die right there in the center aisle of Danielson’s General Store.

He did his shopping, and checked out, tucking the paper sack of small sundries carefully under his armpit.

“Hi Rigo” he heard softly from the general direction of Jenny Boggs.

He Stopped.

A giggle and then again “Rigo, over here, it’s me!”

“Oh, hey, Jenny” Rigo said in reedy voice which was precisely how he was trying not to sound, but he found it impossible to speak and not breath at the same time.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked simply enough.

“Oh, picking up some beef jerky and malox for Ma” he said shrugging a little. “What are you up to?”

“Working silly,” she said smiling and sighing at the same time. “same as yesterday, same as tomorrow.” The words flowed from her like crystal clear water rushing at Rigo. He never had such an extensive conversation with Jenny before. She was a year his senior and the most beautiful girl in the universe. “You ok, Rigo?”

“Yeah. It’s hot today.” He said to his feet more than anything else not wanting her to see the flush red of his face.

“Yeah, it is. Been a hot summer. I guess that’s one good thing about working at the ice cream counter. All I can eat!” Her smile beamed and Rigo was suddenly disarmed.

They talked awhile, Jenny providing sample spoons of ice cream to Rigo when old man Danielson wasn’t looking. Of course they had to be quick about it because when Jenny Boggs was involved, everyone was always looking.

The sun was going low on the horizon which in this town was as good as any clock. The store would be closing soon. Old man Danielson was clearly becoming annoyed by Rigo’s loitering and was making it known in that subtle small-town way the taciturn citizens of Flat Iron, Michigan communicated.

“Rigo Parrish if you are done spending money, you need to get the fuck out of my store!” To an outsider, this might have seemed a bit harsh, but this was just the way people said goodnight in Flat Iron, Michigan.

“I’m going, I’m going”, he said, playing it cool trying not to sound startled and. He looked back at Jenny. “Bye” he said. “Nice talking to you.”

“I get off in half hour” Jenny returned. “Hang out outside I’ll meet you. Unless you’ve got to deliver that stuff to your ma right away.”

“No!” Rigo said too hastily and too energetically which made Jenny smile. “No, it’s cool, I’ll wait.” This time forcefully subdued. “See you outside.”

He stole another glance while walking out, Jenny busying herself with closing up the counter. He couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He wondered what else would happen.

Chapter 3

“We gotta find out what happened” Rigo said softly looking upon the spot where Jenny had been found floating.

“That ain’t my job.” Jimmy said sharply. “What do you care? Bitch never gave us the time of day anyways.”

Rigo thought but did not say, “you don’t know shit”, and he was tempted to get into a verbal spar with Jimmy but it just wasn’t worth trying to explain. He had known Jenny Boggs and while nobody else in the world knew it, he knew her well enough to fall in love with her, a love different from the sexual fantasies that he had all his pubescent life. Up until that moment, he didn’t know what love was. He did now and it was gone.

It was like the tide within him came in and went out at the same time. He felt like puking because the one good thing about his life and most would say the one good thing about the whole godforsaken town was gone. He spent that summer with Jenny, walking and talking, well listening mostly, about her life and her family and about her terrible secret.

They were never romantic. One time, sitting in a low thick tree branch at Palmer Park which overlooked the river, when the conversation went quiet, Rigo couldn’t help but lean in and try to kiss Jenny. The time seemed right. They had been spending a lot of time together and really enjoying each other. But Jenny drew back without even thinking about it. If she had been prepared for it, she would not have pulled away as she wanted nothing more than to share herself with Rigo. Poor Rigo was too nervous to push her for sexual things or leer at her like every other man in the world including her own father. Sweet Rigo, who placed Jenny on an alabaster pedestal and regarded her like art.

But she wasn’t ready and she did pull back for she could not climb down from that pedestal and meet her suitor on fair terms. Not yet, anyway. she was stunned to see the terrible pain in Rigo’s face. She was ashamed of herself and felt guilty and wanted to run. But she just put her hand up and touched Rigo’s face and smiled her sweet smile. He saw the tears in her eyes shining in the yawning light of the low full moon and his pain and hurt fell away. All his concern transferred to Jenny as he saw for the first time the pain beneath her fragile beauty.

“Rigo, I, I wish you knew how much I liked you.”

“I like you too –“ Rigo went to say but was cut short.

“I. Um things are complicated,” the tears came now full force and she buried her head in her hands “things are just so confusing!” she said through the sobs.

Rigo surveyed the situation briefly and decided it was ok to put his arm around Jenny’s shoulder. She accepted the gesture and sunk, defeated into his waiting arms. It would be a few more weeks before Rigo understood what was behind these tears, these terrible tears now teeming off her lovely fair cheeks, reddening the whites of her bright eyes.

Now, standing on the banks of shit creek looking over the place where Jenny’s wasted life was discovered, he wished he never new her secrets, for it gave him a terrible responsibility. He knew something about Jenny that no one else did and now she was dead. He had promised not to tell her secret, he swore it to her. Now he didn’t know what choice he had.

Rigo Parrish felt a rush of energy and brightness that he felt only when he was with Jenny. It rose in him like a wave but did not subside. He looked at Jimmy a hard look on his face, an edge in his eyes. “I am going to find out who did this,” after which he turned sharply on his heels and began to move back the way he came.

“The fuck you are, Columbo” said Jimmy with his characteristic vacuous sarcasm. “You’re so dumb you’d fuck up a wet dream. Besides, you ain’t no cop!”

Rigo continued to walk not acknowledging Jimmy or spending any time on formulating any snappy rejoinders. As they came out of the woods, they were careful to avoid detection by the cop on the perimeter which was not too hard given that he was far too busy removing, inspecting and eating the contents of his nose.

It was then the radio crackled with life immediately which snapped the officer into action. They couldn’t understand what was said, but the tone of the voice was unmistakable. Something big was going on. The officer ran in the direction of the main crime scene and Rigo and Jimmy followed close behind.

Chapter 4

They broke through the back of the crowd, finding the smallest people, mostly women and children to push and elbow out of the way until they reached the police tape cordon where they could have a view. It was then they saw old Art Franz being cuffed and more-or-less bounced to a waiting police car.

Much of the crowd was satisfied by this development. Art lived in a shack of a trailer right down by the river and rumor had it Jenny was seen around here three or four nights ago. It was clear to most people that Art got into his homemade hooch and got it in his mind he would steal some of Jenny’s delights as she passed by.

Especially pleased at the unfolding development was Chief of Police Bert Humberg who was known in the town as “Bat”, a nickname he gave himself as an homage to Bat Masterson. Now he stood on the highest point of the bank of the creek a little behind, but above the crowd and the cars and the reporters. He smiled a cockeyed smile and squinted his eyes malevolently behind his mirrored aviator shades imagining he looked to the gathered crowd like Stonewall Jackson, or at least a new fangled Hollywood version of him. He saw Tom Cruise wear those aviator shades in Top Gun decided they looked cool, adopted them as his own and never looked back. The irony of course was that he looked exactly like Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit, a slovenly looking fat cop in a hat and mirrored glasses. That irony, and much else in this world for that matter, was completely lost on Chief Humberg.

He made his reputation on speedy resolution of issues and felt that Flat Iron and its surrounding districts had not fallen into total chaos precisely because of his expedience. At least he would have thought that had he known the meaning of the word expedience. To the simple black and white mind of the Chief, swift action was more important than thorough investigation. This less-than-nuanced approach to law enforcement was clear in his department’s spending habits. He had a force of nearly 100 police officers, full and part time to police a population base of only 2,500 residents. Fully 27 of those full and part time officers were relatives of some sort to the Chief. Cops and robbers was a big game in Flat Iron. The department operated three stealthy Dodge Charger pursuit vehicles blacked out with all the low profile lights and antennae. It took a very attentive driver to recognize these fast cars as police vehicles and the department counted on that. Sitting by the side of the road coming into and going out of town, their Hemi engines usually caught the speeding out-of-towners unaware before they even got a few car lengths past the waiting predators. Some were issued expensive tickets for even one mile per hour over the ridiculously low 25 mile per hour limit. God help the unsuspecting passer-through who was nabbed leaving on the north side of town near the elementary school. Most people in this predicament weren’t issued a ticket or a summons, they were strongly encouraged to simply empty their wallets, slow down and proceed with caution out of town. Have a nice day.

Traffic tickets and shake downs, not solving murders, put the pig in the pot.

The Chargers had every law enforcement toy but for cameras to monitor the officers’ activities. The state required the cameras in all traffic enforcement units, but the Chargers had been donated by the local Dodge dealer and had never been registered. They were still on their original manufacturer’s statement of origin and so effectively did not exist. Since they were not procured using departmental or state funds, they were easy to keep under wraps. None of the outside agencies who were charged with auditing these types of things had reason to believe there was anything askew. No one in town had the stones to ask why the cars didn’t have license plates. Doing so would mean a beating, or a drug bust, or a favorite prostitute being arrested and testifying to certain liaisons that could be damaging to a man’s family and church life. The Dodge dealership was owned and operated by Chief Humberg’s brother-in-law and a town commissioner, Grady Babson.

The Chief surely had his house in order and ruled his roost capably.

This well styled façade took money and influence to maintain, for surely the Chief could not rely on wit and intelligence. He surrounded himself with a cadre of easily intimidated but intelligent yes-men. Each was rewarded their price be it money, whores, jobs, drugs and one particularly important operative, underage girls to serve quietly and dutifully the cause.

There were no computer data bases and information sharing arrangements with local departments. There was no goodwill between Flat Iron cops and the Genessee County Sheriff’s office or the Michigan State Police. Many times the Flat Iron department was taken to court by a County Prosecutor and once even by the Attorney General, each for violations of budget laws forbidding too much income to a department through traffic tickets. Each time, the books entered into evidence were so thoroughly cooked, the judge had to use oven mitts to open them and tongs to turn the pages.

Bat Humberg stood on his perch very pleased indeed. The whole town was in attendance, pushing, gawking at the unfolding action. Yes, action. That was the thing that kept the peace. Bully cops and billy clubs wielded with authority and alacrity is what assured order and discipline in this shit town, right or wrong was a matter of opinion and only the opinion of the Chief mattered.

“This is bullshit,” Rigo murmured.

“I always knew that guy was fucked up,” piped in Jimmy, echoing the sentiments of the rest of the crowd. “Weirdo.” he added as if to punctuate his previous epitaph. “You remember when we used to go rock that shit shack he lives in and make ghost noises after he got all lit up on the juice? I bet the old man shit himself.”

“You don’t even know him!” said Rigo ashamed of the memory of his actions with Jimmy which happened before he got to know Art.

“ I don’t have to. Guy lives in a jalopy of a shack over here. Never worked a day in his life, can’t string along three words to make a sentence and he stinks worse than the dump on a hot night. What else is there to know?”

“Jimmy, I wish you would keep your fool mouth shut, always talkin’ about things that you know nothing about. Which is everything!” Rigo added as Jimmy gave him a warning shove in the shoulder. Jimmy was bigger and stronger than Rigo and while they had never fought, he knew Jimmy would best him. When they got in fights at school, it was always assumed Jimmy would take the biggest opponent and leave the smaller guy for Rigo.

“You think you’re so fucking smart all-a-sudden! You ain’t been knowin’ shit since I known you!” said Jimmy lapsing into his characteristic slang and cussing that meant he was getting real mad. It was though the small part of his brain responsible for speech was shut down and the power diverted to the large part that was responsible for fighting. “Just shut up! Like I said, you ain’t no cop, you ain’t shit and… and, aw fuck you!” Jimmy finished with another hard shot to Rigo’s shoulder.

He tried to stand firm, but Rigo twisted in response to the shots and Jimmy knew he had the upper hand. Rigo backed off, turning back toward the scene unfolding before them and pondered, this time silently, how anyone could think that Art was responsible for this.

The voices in the crowd around him drifted off into unintelligible murmurs as his mind wandered back again to that summer when he and Jenny spent most of their time together. Like clockwork, Rigo would ride his bike into town around 8:30 and wait for Jenny to get off work. They never made a big deal going through town together. In fact the casual observer might never have thought they were actually with each other.

Jenny would often have a bag of food from the store that was about to be thrown out, or some milk that expired. Rigo would coast along behind her a few paces on his bike. They didn’t make eye contact or speak to each other. Unless you were downtown every night to see this procession, heading in the same direction at the same time you would be unaware that anything noteworthy was taking place.

In Flat Iron, Rigo Parrish spending time with Jenny Boggs was definitely noteworthy and they silently chose to avoid the press. Rigo never did take it personally. Jenny was a secret treasure to him and he didn’t want to share.

Most nights, they headed to the creek and over to Art’s for a little bit. This was not the way Rigo would have liked to spend his time with Jenny, but he never complained since Art swapped out empty Mason Jars of moonshine for full ones whenever it was necessary, ostensibly in return for the food. It was a good arrangement for everyone, though Jenny would have brought the food anyway out of the goodness of her heart. Art was so thankful that sometimes he cried a little as they left. He looked at Jenny with such pure emotion that it struck Rigo as odd. He like everyone else in town regarded Art as something less than human. He stunk badly and his teeth were rotting. He had mangy hair and yellow skin which all coalesced into a visage not unlike a zombie from one of those George Romero movies.

But he was a nice man, Rigo thought. Though his kindness paled in comparison to Jenny’s bringing food and spending time with him. Most times they would only pass through, but sometimes they would stay until well after the late summer sun fell. Those nights they would all drink and watch the moon glimmer over them on this especially hot and clear summer, alternating between animated conversations and silence as the liquor made its way through them.

Art was not a hidden gem or some secret sage who was misunderstood. Art did not get messed up fighting heroically in a war, nor was he a successful entrepreneur who cracked under the pressure. He didn’t speak of family or of love, he did not espouse any philosophy or share any wisdom.

No, Art simply was what Art was and that wasn’t much. Rigo thought maybe he just crawled out from the banks of the Flat River ooze and set up camp on the nearest reasonable piece of ground, built a still, lit a fire and wiled away the intervening days doing as little as possible not directly related to the making and consumption of white lightning.

They met with Art three times a week that summer, maybe more. Then they would go off to the big tree in Palmer Park and sit on the low thick branches and talk. At first, it was awkward, but as their friendship grew, it became easy and wonderful to talk. They would talk routinely deep into the night and sometimes even clear into dawn. The length of time they sat in the tree was often determined not by the vehemence or content of the conversations so much as the amount of ‘shine they’d had. Rigo couldn’t walk back through the thick woods and find his bike and ride home drunk. Given Jenny’s home life, it was best for her to stay out all night than to show up at home smelling of moonshine.

“My dad hits me, Rigo. I mean he would if he could catch me. Irascible old bastard probably try to screw me if he could get me to stand still long enough…”

“God, don’t say that Jenny,” Rigo said shuddering, “It creeps me out…” After a long pause he added “I may hafta go and speak with your dad.” He tried for all the world to make it sound like he had rehearsed it in his head. It was clear it did not.

“And say what? Please don’t leer at your daughter, lay off the alcohol, pick up a bible and fly right?”
Jenny was laughing now to mask the pain in her voice. “Rigo, this is Flat Iron Michigan. This is how the men are here.”

“I’m not.” Said Rigo meekly looking at his swinging feet.

“No, you’re not and that is why I choose to spend my time with you”, Jenny smiled and poked Rigo playfully on the tip of his nose.

“I wondered why,” Rigo came back.

“why what?” asked Jenny confused.

“Why you spent time with me. You could be with anyone any time. Everyone loves you, Jenny. Everyone in town wants to be with you, the girls want to be you! The men all…” Rigo tailed off

“Rigo, everyone in town hates me.” Jenny cut in not wanting to hear the last part of Rigo’s sentence. “ I don’t know why, they always have. I hear them talking and calling me a priss and little miss perfect. I try not to act conceited or mean.”

“You don’t. They’re jealous because nobody is a pretty or smart as you.” Rigo said sweetly, almost breathlessly.

“Oh, Rigo… Look over there!”

Jenny was glad for the distraction which came in the form of a large snake crawling slowly toward them trying to find a warm spot to rest for the night. What distracted Rigo even more was the fact he was terrified at this moment and Jenny was simply amused. She was really something he thought. There was no way he would ever have her, let alone hold on to her. He didn’t even feel as if he had the right to be so close to her now. Like he was ruining her by his mere proximity or stealing her from the world to the detriment of all mankind.

They pondered the snake for a long while, Jenny out of fascination, Rigo out of fear, until it slithered off out of their view. In silence Jenny placed her head on Rigo’s shoulder and that is how they finished out the night.

Rigo surveyed his yard and wondered how he got home. His last conscious thought was at the scrum of people down by the creek. His head was spinning in the events of the day and he felt disconnected and sad and couldn’t dare tell anyone why. Hell, if people knew he and Jenny had been friends and spent all that time together down by the creek, they may even accuse Rigo of killing her. And speaking of her death, why was everyone assuming it was murder and not an accident? He knew only questions and longed for answers.

For as kind as Rigo was to Jenny and for as much as he cared he was still a poorly educated 17 year-old with only a 60 watt bulb burning in his head. He reeled now, knowing something needed to be done, but not having the pieces in the right places to see the puzzle picture solved in front of him. He didn’t know where to start, only that he had to start somewhere and do something,. Without thinking why, he went over to the Camaro. He turned his baseball cap backward, slid underneath and got to work.

Chapter 5

Valiant though he tried to be, Rigo was still Rigo. Still limited by the genes he carried and the school that failed him and the big life that passed right by the small town of Flat Iron. The energy he felt down at the crime scene, the same energy that carried him home and under his Camaro had left him.

He napped now, legs sticking out under the car. He awoke in the dark with a sharp pain in his left shin.

“Owww!, What the…”

“Don’t you even think about cussin’ you no good piece of shit, you wanna start actin’ grown, you best start bringin’ in some money to this house.”

It was the unmistakeable rasp of Anne Parish, punctuating her vehemence with another rap of her walking stick on Rigo’s left shin.

“Mama! Stop doing that, it hurts!” cried Rigo as he crawled from under the car. “What the hell?”

“Don’t you what the hell me, where you been all day? You were supposed to give me my sponge bath!”

Rigo shuddered at his grim monthly task. What his father saw in this monster of a woman, he will never know, but it was clear that she was the answer to the question of why Buck stayed intoxicated on anything he could find all the days of his worthless life.

“What are you doing underneath that old car anyway?” asked Anne, softening now only thinking about fond memories of years ago when she and Buck used to drive around town looking for trouble. She couldn’t remember whether she stopped riding in the car because it stopped working or she stopped fitting into it.

“Mama, I want to get this car working again. I have some stuff I have to do and my bike ain’t gonna cut it.”

“You don’t know how. You’re daddy didn’t know how either, that’s why the thing ended up where it is.”

“How did he fix it when it broke?”

“Your father had, um, business associates to help him. They would work out a trade.” Anne said, trying lamely not to address the whole issue of manufacturing and distributing controlled substances vis a vis Rigo’s father.

“You mean meth runners.” Rigo added glibly.

“I oughtta just whoop you right here where you stand you no-good-“

“Please Mamma. I know, everyone knows. Santa Clause knows what Daddy did! Now, I need your help, Mamma. This is real important. Does anyone still owe Daddy any favors?”

“Oh, Rigo. It’s been such a long time. I don’t know any of those people anymore.”

“What about Uncle Pete” asked Rigo, referring to a man not his uncle, but who was around a lot when Rigo was growing up. Rigo assumed Uncle Pete had been one of his father’s business associates.

“Uncle Pete just finished a nickel at Jackson. Got let out early when they shuttered Jackson Prison. But I don’t know how to get hold of him.”

“Mamma, think. Hard. Do you have an old number or address? Mamma, it’s important.”

“Oh, Rigo. I’ll look. But first, I need a bath. You best get to gettin’. My ass ain’t gonna sponge itself off!”

Rigo puked a little in his mouth. It’s only 12 times a year he said to himself as he walked like a condemned man behind his hugely fat Mother. The next hour of his life would be easy to forget. He would simply think about Jenny.

The next morning, Rigo awoke on his messy bed to the sound of rapping on his window. Jimmy, he thought, trying to avoid Anne’s radar by avoiding the front door. Rigo peeked out and sure enough found Jimmy kicking a small rock around.

He slid on his dusty jeans and smelled around for a clean shirt. It was his favorite, a black Megadeath T-shirt featuring one of those skeletal figures driving a demonic fire spitting hot rod. He chained his empty wallet to his belt loop and slid it into his back pocket. In the bathroom, he peed, flushed the toilet by dumping a bucket of water down and brushed teeth by putting toothpaste on his forefinger and rubbing vigorously.

He joined Jimmy outside. He had not bored of the rock and was still chasing it around like a cat with a toy mouse.

“Where’d you go yesterday?” asked Jimmy with a tone that passed for incredulousness.

“I had to get out of there I guess. Like you said, nothing I can do anyway.”

“That’s right!” Jimmy agreed. “So, what do you want to do today?”

“I need to find my Uncle Pete.”

“I remember him, he was cool. Where’d he go?”

“Jackson.” Said Rigo matter of factly. It was a common answer in these parts.

“He out now?

“Ma says so.”

“Why you need him?” asked Jimmy, more conversational than usual.

“Wanna get the car goin’.”

“Sweet. I’m in.”

“You’re in what?”, asked Rigo.

“I want to help. Dude, it would be sweet to get that car going.” Jimmy said displaying something that looked suspiciously like motivation. “Where to we start?”

“Ma gave me an old picture of her and Dad and Pete. On the back is a note and a phone number. That’s where I’m gonna start.”

The phone number answered to a woman with a smoker’s voice who was not keen to be receiving a phone call at the crack of 11.

Rigo introduced himself and the woman perked up immediately. She did not know where Pete was, but she knew who he was. She gave Rigo her address and told him to give her a half hour to “cool her cooch a bit” and then come calling.

They did just that. Jimmy rolled a pinner and lit it. Precisely three hours later, they were at the woman’s address.

“Where have you been?” said the faded woman opening the door. She not bothering to check their credentials or to introduce herself. She was slender and Rigo supposed pretty, or at least had been pretty at one time. It was hard to tell around here because the living was hard, but he guessed she was in her middle 40’s.

“We got tied up.” Was the best Jimmy could manage.

“You the one I talked to on the phone? You’re kinda cuter than you sounded” said the woman playing with her hair a little in a vain attempt to hide her age.

“No, I am.” Piped in Rigo hiding pensively behind Jimmy.

“Oh.” Was all she said as the hair twisting came to an abrupt end. “You say Pete’s your Uncle?”

“Not really, he was a busin… a friend of my Dad’s.”

“Pete didn’t have no friends, so that means your dad was a bookie or a pimp or a dealer. Which one was it honey?”

“The last one.” Said Rigo, for the first time being ashamed at the way his father made a living. He knew everyone knew, but most people had the decency not to put it out there. It was the one social grace you could count on in this town.

“Well, I don’t know where he is, but I know he can’t resist the smell of fast money and I think I know where we can find him.”

“I know why we want to find him, why do you want to find him” asked Jimmy rather more intuitively that even he expected.

“And you, are?”

“Rand- Jimmy, ma’am, Jimmy TenHaar.”

“Well, Jimmy, I think I’ll just call you handsome. Was Uncle Pete your Uncle, too?”

“No. I’m just here to help.” Said Jimmy sensing he was over matched and gaining more bravado.

“You need help?” she asked with her eyes squarely on Jimmy but clearly asking Rigo.

“Hell yeah he needs help! We’ve been here 10 minutes and the dumb-ass hasn’t even asked you your name!” Jimmy responded. He was on a roll.

With that they all laughed a little. She was Gladys Jones she said, but they could call her Jewel. That was what she was known by in her profession.

“And what profession is that?” asked Jimmy, now displaying his normal level of stupidity.

“Baby, I fuck for money. You got any?”

“No m’am” said Jimmy in awe. But I sure wish I did.” In its own way, it was the kindest and most charming thing Jimmy said to anyone in his whole life so far.

Chapter 6

Jewel was somewhat more motivated than Rigo imagined most ladies of the night were. Before he knew what they were doing or why, he was in the back seat of a dusty faded yellow Chevy Impala of a vintage not celebrated as the zenith of American quality. It had the requisite leaky exhaust and sagging rear springs that gave it an “eyes up” appearance. When seen from straight on, it looked like it was begging to be put out of its misery.

The inside had brown tweedy bench seats and an ashtray not emptied since the ‘70’s. Besides the aroma of stale smoke was a mélange of cheap perfume and ass. Rigo tried not to imagine the back seat being used as office space for Jewel’s evening enterprise. He kept his hands in his lap so as not to touch anything and stayed quiet while Jewel talked incessantly about nothing of significance, pausing only to light another cigarette off the one she just finished.

She drove in a manner that suited her seemingly haphazard existence. Traffic signs and signals were clearly meant for others, she was apparently governed by a higher power. The act of driving itself was not even in the top five things she was doing at any given time. She crushed out a cigarette in the impossibly full ashtray as a number of used butts tumbled unnoticed to the floorboards and reached into the glove box.

After some rummaging, a pill bottle emerged. She handed it to Jimmy I the front seat.

“Open it sugar, dump a couple out for me.”

“What kind? There’s like, 10 different kinds of pills in here!”

“Oh, honey, they’re all good. Surprise me!” she said as her right hand slowly brushed up the inside of Jimmy’s inner thigh. Rigo caught this and thought he would see Jimmy explode. He was already squirming nearly uncontrollably.

“Here.” He said handing her the pills, now totally without the confidence in his voice that he expressed earlier.

Jewel began her story like she was telling a ghost story around a campfire with a “once upon a time” tone in her voice. The boys listened intently.

“You, see it all started back in the summer of 1990. I met your Uncle Pete one night at a bar over to the other side of Flint. I was working the karaoke circuit back then, looking for the drunk rich boys who were out slummin’ it with the country folks. I was young and pretty then so I played it cool. I had a little problem with the sniff sniff. At first, I fooled myself into thinking I would go back to school. But I needed the money as much as I needed the coke. Truth is, I can’t imagine doin’ or being anthing else.

“Anyway, I’d pick on the drunkest stupidest most lonely one in the herd, take him to my room and pour him a drink with a little extra somethin’ if you know what I mean. I would toy with ‘em, do a little strip tease until he passed out. Then I’d steal his shit and take off. Early on, I’d pay for the room, but it got so as later I left them stiffed with that, too.

“So I was a thief long before I was a whore. I made my whole living for months just rollin’ guys… never spread my legs. That’s until I met your Uncle Pete. He was wise to me. He had been around, I’d seen him and made the mistake of not thinkin’ much of him. Well the whole time he was watchin’ me.

“One night he made me a proposal. He’d keep his mouth shut about what I was doin’ so I could keep doin’ it and I would give him a cut. He would even do some work for me and slip the mickey into the poor shlub’s drink so I could speed things up and make multiple, uh, customers in a night. It went good like that for a long time. All the guys when they woke up were too embarrassed to say anything so it never caused the club owner any issues. He turned a blind eye. Meanwhile, the girls who were hookin’ he had arrested over and over again.

“One night, I was operating and everything seemed normal. I got this guy looped up and was doing my thing. We got back to my room and he brightened right up. Oh, he had my number. He’d been fuckin’ with me the whole time.

“He wasn’t in no way incapacitated and I wasn’t in no shape to handle a full functioning man. I knew that finally I was gonna have to give it up for a paying customer. I was so immature. It was ignorant, to think I would just go on this way makin’ my living without having to fuck no one. I was so stupid. I screamed like a little girl, screamed like bloody murder.

“I don’t know what I expected by screaming, but Pete came pounding through that door like it was made of graham cracker. He was on that guy faster than stink on shit. He grabbed him and punched him and the guy went down, but he wasn’t out. He grabbed Pete’s ankles and took him down to the floor. I watched the two of them roll around forever. It looked like Pete was losing and I didn’t know what would happen after that.

“There was this heavy vase with a bad silk flower arrangement on the desk by the door. I grabbed it and when the John rolled to the top… I smashed it on his head.”

The boys were staring intently and not making a sound. It was in this moment they realized how much like kids they really were. Pubes did not make you an adult after-all.

“What happened?” asked Jimmy reflexively after the pause.

“He was dead,” whispered Jewel. “We gathered my things and Pete and me took off. We drove and drove until we hit Flat Iron. There was a guy there we went to see. He was a local dealer named Buck. Pete said he would help.

“Buck was my Daddy!” said Rigo not believing what he was hearing.

“I know, silly” said Jewel in a playful tone that belied the seriousness of the recent minutes.’

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rigo hadn’t noticed the car was coasting into a parking spot.

Jewel turned the key and the car dieseled and sputtered to a stop. “Because, I like to keep things interesting.”

Chapter 7

They walked past the throng of smokers who were clogging the entry to Nick’s Saloon, a bar that looked like it had never seen better days and couldn’t possible see any worse. They entered into a small main room with the bar on the right and pool tables on the left. The T.V. hanging in the corner beyond the bar was covered in so much haze the soap opera playing on it looked like it was out of focus. No sound came from the set. There were almost no sounds at all save for the breaking of balls on the pool tables.

“Well, this was easier than I thought.” Whispered Jewel leaning into the boys so they could hear. There’s your Uncle Pete right there!” She pointed to a smallish man, wirey, about the same age as Rigo’s dead dad. He wore a faded brown bomber jacket and a longshoreman’s cap. Odd outfit, Rigo thought for the dead of summer. He leaned over the bar, using a cigarette as a baton, slipping and flinging it through his fingers.

There was Uncle Pete, pounding a pilsner, a professional pusher of pot and one-time producer of porn and purveyor of… women. He didn’t look like much. He didn’t look up, he didn’t look concerned. He just sat, leaning over the bar cupping his beer.

Jewel had advanced, leaving Rigo and Jimmy standing back near the door. She sat to Pete’s left. Again, he did not look. “How ya doin’, babe?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you call me, sugar.” Asked Jewel with genuine hurt in her voice.

“Thought I would give you an opportunity to live a normal life for awhile. I Got out early. S’pose I thought you needed more time.”

“Well, that’s the shittiest answer I ever heard” Jewel responded, “How could I not want to see the man who saved my life?”

“Oh, babe,” said Pete finally acknowledging her by looking up “You never figured it out that that was a setup? That guy was like, 10 times bigger’n me! You really thought I would charge in on you two if I didn’t know the guy was gonna take a fall?”

“You, you motherfucker! I spent 15 years with you, taking care of you, hookin’ for you because you saved my life, and it was fuckin’ fake? Who was that guy?”

“He was some guy who owed me a favor. I didn’t know you were gonna beam him with that vase. He got hurt pretty bad, but I made it right with him. We laughed about it later on.”

“Why would you do that?”

“ I didn’t think you would stay with me if unless you didn’t have a choice. I knew what was best for you, baby… you’d have gone nowhere without me. You needed me. You know it.” Pete finished his beer and set the mug down, still holding it with his two hands.

“I needed you to call me when you got out!” She said now, making a full-blown scene.

“Well, I knew you would be along ‘fore too long. I’ve been sittin’ here for three weeks drinkin’ beer. I got no money, nowhere to go. I can’t leave this bar because I can’t pay my tab. Turns out my pool sharkin’ skills was a little rusty when I got out of the joint. Fuckin’ college kid cleaned me out first game.”

“Aww, sugar… I guess you need me as much as I need you!” said Jewel who was now choking back her humanity so only the hard hooker shell showed. It was then a bar patron tapped her on the shoulder and indicated he wanted to dance. There was no music on the juke box.

“Sorry, sugar, I ain’t workin’ right now” said Jewel as genially as she could muster. The man was persistent and yanked her shoulder a little harder this time. “Baby, I said I ain’t dancin’ right now, now git!”

The man, still without using a word didn’t want to take “go to hell” for an answer. As he went to grab her by the back of her neck, Pete reeled around on his barstool and crashed his beer mug into the man’s face, whereupon it shattered causing an immediate gush of blood. The man involuntarily grabbed at his face and Pete finished him with a swift kick to the crotch.

The man was rolling and moaning on the floor, one hand covering his face and one hand squeezing his balls. Pete and Jewel moved to make a quick exit when the hurt man’s associates closed in. Rigo and Jimmy could not believe their eyes as they stood dumb and motionless in the barroom. It never occurred to them to run, or jump in to the fray. They just stood in shock of the whole scene as it unfolded.

But the room was pretty small and it became apparent that it was going to require fists to get out of this alive. Jimmy looked at Rigo with an expression that was a curious mix of terror and excitement, like the snapshots they take of you when you are going down the big drop of a roller coaster. His face seemed to say “Let’s do this thing.”

Before Rigo could dissuade him, Jimmy bonsai screamed while jumping through the air and landing on someone’s back. The man tumbled underneath him and Rigo lost sight of them as they descended to the floor.

His eyes snapped up just in time to see a man rushing at him, in an apparent show of retaliation for Jimmy’s jump tackle. This was how it worked in bars like these, in towns like this, an eye for an eye, a fist for almost anything else.

Thinking fast, Rigo grabbed a pool cue from the rack on the wall. He took a wide stance and simply extended it in from of him, knocking the wind out of his would-be attacker. He spun the cue around so the tip was now in his two hands and as the man went to straighten up, Rigo whacked him with all the force he could scrounge. The cue hit home on top of the man’s bald head and made a sickening sound, like a ripe melon being hitting pavement after being dropped from 20 feet, thus ending the man’s involvement in the brawl.

Jimmy was still screaming like a loon as he emerged from the crowd. He had Pete by the jacket and was pushing ahead of him like a shield and dragging Jewel behind him.

“Go go go go go go go go go!” Jimmy was shouting as he passed the awed Rigo by headed toward the door. “Rigoooooooo!”

Rigo turned and followed close behind, pushing Jewel as Jimmy pulled her. They headed to the waiting car. Jimmy stopped pulling Jewel as they got near the driver door so she could get in, but he kept pushing Pete over to the passenger side. Rigo pushed past Jewel and jumped into the back without even tilting the seat, twisting his body in a bad way doing so. He opened his eyes to see Pete, laughing hysterically, upside down in the seat next to him, his head jammed down where he feet should go. Jewel started the car and gunned it as the crowd, now clear of the bottleneck created by them all trying to rush out the bar door advanced ever closer.

Jimmy held to the car door which was swinging in reaction to the moving car, alternately slamming on Jimmy and then opening wide again all the while his feet dragged perilously close to the spinning rear tires.

“Stop!!!” Jimmy screamed in a tone of terror mixed with elation. “You’re gonna kill me!”

Jewel slammed on the brakes as Jimmy took a header into the now wide open door. He got his bearings and managed to get one foot into the car before Jewel mashed the gas again sending the car spinning in the dirt parking lot and kicking up a vortex of dust. Jimmy hopped along for a beat before he finally got all the way in the car and shut the door.

They had escaped.

The engine raced as Jewel kept her foot solidly on the floor as the back end of the car got squirrely. She wasn’t paying so much attention to where she was going as she was to the rear view mirror to see if they were being followed. She made quick changes of direction which were designed to keep any pursuers from knowing exactly which way they were headed. It was clear she knew the roads well. It was clear this was not her first getaway.

She started to realize they weren’t being followed. Hell, a scene like that probably happened every week at that shithole bar. No reason to call the cops for something like this. The law of the barroom dictated if you make it out alive, you get to go. End of story.

Jewel laughed. Slowly at first, then gathering steam until she finally let out a great high-pitched yelp like a coyote howling at the moon. They all erupted into laughter. All the energy worked up in the brawl needed a place to go and a laughing fit seemed as good a place as any.

Pete finally managed to get himself upright, a task made much more difficult by his convulsive laughing. For a minute it was clear he was only laughing out and not breathing in, his solar plexus unable to move in his crouched reverse fetal position.

The laughter died down and he looked at Jewel through the rear view mirror. “Thanks, Babe.” He said, “I needed that. Now, would you mind tellin’ me who the hell these two are?”