A dozen crime stories from a big box, retail, discount chain

This was first printed in December of 2007, and included the following twelve stories:

Apple of her mother's eye (10-07)
Jack (9-07)
Inventory (8-07)
The Juggler (7-07)
Drop Off (6-07)
Pass the Syrup (6-07)
Customer Service (6-07)
Have a Good Day (4-07)
Road Atlas (4-07)
Wee Hours (4-07)
Lord of the Ringers (4-07)
Free Parking (1-07)

There were various problems with the printing, but dozens of copies were sent out and given away to family and friends.
It is being reprinted and will be available again, in its second printing, with a new logo, soon.

Pile of Leaves

Carl Abel was an odd combination of obsessive and disorganized. He didn’t want to call the city to pick up the leaves until he had raked and blown them all into the pile; therefore, he often forgot to call them at all until it was too late, and the large pile of leaves would sit out in front of their house for months into the winter. This aggravated the neighbor across the street, Emil Jones, and some other people, but what could they do, call the city themselves? The pile just sat there stinking and inviting neighbor kids to try jumping in.

They learned their lesson in the winter of 2002, when they finally had the pile hauled away, and there was a body found in it. It turned out to be an old man, Luther Frank, well known in the community; he was even a friend of Emil Jones, was known to go on hunting trips with him. The body was wrapped in a couple of garbage bags and was badly decomposed but when they took it to the coroner there hadn’t been a severe trauma of any kind; the best the coroner could figure, Luther Frank had died a natural death around October sometime. Luther’s house, across town on Pearl Street, was in fairly good condition, but empty; nobody had seen his wife since around October sometime. This raised some suspicion, but the widow Frank was a small woman; how could she drag this body into a pile of leaves, over here at the Abel place? It didn’t make sense. Nevertheless, she couldn’t be found; police set about trying to locate her while they pursued other leads.

Carl Abel blamed himself for the problem; he had promised his wife to have the leaves hauled away, and simply hadn’t done it. Now he lost sleep at night. Who could have put a body in his pile of leaves? His wife stormed around the house, angry, wondering if perhaps Carl himself had done it. Carl worked with the police to get to the bottom of the matter, explaining repeatedly that he had meant to have the pile removed, for months now, and simply hadn’t got around to it. Hadn’t touched it either. No, he hadn’t seen any suspicious activity related to the pile of leaves, nobody coming or going. It had been there from October to about now, early January. No, he had never met this Luther Frank guy, though he’d heard he was a friend of old Emil Jones, across the street. Emil, it turned out, was also gone; he also hadn’t been seen since October.

After some digging, the police came up with some information. The widow Frank, Ruby, had been located in Florida. She said that Luther had gone on a hunting trip with Emil Jones and Rory Baxter in early October, and she was so mad at him she had moved right out of the house, got a condo in Florida, and wanted to be good and rid of him, long gone before he came back from the hunting trip. The trip was to Canada, she thought, but wasn’t sure. She said they left in early October, maybe the 2nd, and were due back around the 14th, but she couldn’t swear to it, and didn’t care anyway; she considered herself rid of Luther, didn’t want to be there when he returned, and didn’t especially want to ever see him again, dead or alive. Sure, she was sorry he had died, but she hadn’t known that; didn’t know how it happened, where, or why. All she knew was that he’d left on this trip, and that was enough for her; she’d left him, started a new life in Florida, and didn’t especially care to return.

The police were startled at her story, but it seemed sincere; she was genuinely surprised that Luther had died; she explained how she’d come to move to Florida, and even showed documents related to her moving that probably proved that she had indeed moved as soon as he left for that trip; if they could show that he actually went on the trip at all, she was probably in the clear. They had a little harder time convincing her that she was still married, thus responsible for the house, the body, and the funeral, but eventually she came around on that, and came back to town, reluctantly, to deal with all three.

Emil Jones was still missing, but Rory Baxter, upon being questioned intently, told an interesting story. Yes, in fact the three of them had set out on a hunting trip to Canada. While in Canada, Luther Frank had died of a heart attack, naturally. The two remaining friends, Emil and Rory, had put him in bags, threw him in the back of Emil’s covered pickup and driven him back to the states together, but were stopped at the border. You can’t bring a dead body through this border, they were told. OK, we’ll leave it here, then, they said. No, you can’t do that either, they said. The two friends really didn’t know what to do. Eventually, after much wrangling, they were allowed to bring the body through. It was more aggravation than either man had bargained for; Rory maintained that his wife also was not crazy about the trip to begin with, and he himself had to go to work almost immediately upon their return. He realized now that he had been selfish, but they arrived in town Sunday morning in the middle of the night; he had to work in a few hours; he was hung over as was Emil, and he finally got Emil to agree to just deal with the body himself. Yet he didn’t know what Emil had done with the body, nor did he have any clue where Emil had gone. He had not been involved in putting the body in the leaves, he claimed; he knew nothing about it.

Emil, a retired firefighter, was finally found with a glazed look in his eyes, at a Las Vegas slot machine, running through his retirement fund. He was arrested and brought back to town, but eventually released with very little punishment. He verified the stories of both Ruth and Rory, but added another detail; he was fairly confident that that pile of leaves would stay there for another month or two, giving him time to simply flee; he knew they’d catch him, but just didn’t want to face the music at that moment, in the middle of the night on Sunday. The three of them had gone on many hunting trips together; had shot and skinned various animals, yet when death parked at their doorstep, neither Emil nor Rory had been very well prepared for it. Emil, however, was able to move back into his house and live another fifteen years or so there; people whispered behind his back, but he didn’t feel so badly about it, having owned up to his crime, and paid a modest price for it. From that fall on, Carl Abel was very prompt about his leaves; he didn’t let them sit for months on the curb, or even for a week, ever, and relations were actually much better between him and Emil as a result. Across town, Rory Baxter really needed a good hunting trip, but could no longer do it, and fell into heavy drinking and self pity. Eventually, his marriage also fell apart, and he too left town.

12-08

Freedom of speech

Freedom of speech

Jimmy was a bill collector in Chicago; he had a rough voice which he used to his advantage over the phone, and which he had mastered as a kid growing up in a rough middle-class south side neighborhood. He was of mixed race, and had a family, and a stable middle-class kind of life, car, house, and the whole thing, but his rough upbringing seemed to always be peeking over his shoulder. When he heard about a major gang, a huge gang, taking on the Star of David as its symbol, back down on the south side, he recoiled in the sudden intensity of his memories, remembering his days in that neighborhood, as a teenager, when he'd had that idea himself.

His group of kids, about half a dozen of them, had a rival group that consistently wore black Sox paraphernalia and got away with it. They were marked; everyone knew who they were; that identification was important, and Jimmy and his group strongly felt the need to have a similar marking. Cubs baby blue was out for obvious reasons, and Bears also wouldn't work, but they settled on Packers, as they had an affinity for the green and it was common enough, even on the south side; there was more than one Packers fan in the neighborhood. But they were figured out by a school principal who made one of them, Robo, name a single Packer, and he couldn't do it, not even Vince Lombardi or one of the famous ones, and the school administration figured that people were wearing gang colors and marking turf, and outlawed the colors. It was a sensitive issue; it made the principal and his people hot, and they weren't going to allow any group of kids, Jimmy especially, to go around marking themselves as members of a group that could be considered a gang, and was a gang, for all intents and purposes. What about that rival gang, Jimmy felt like saying; he felt like pointing out Pablo in his Sox jacket and all Pablo's buddies, but knew that would lead to more trouble, so he kept his mouth shut with the principal. No Packers stuff, that was the rule.

Jimmy was supposed to be studying the usual stuff, English, Phys Ed, Biology, and History, that kind of stuff. He got into an argument with Mr. Crims, his History teacher, over the topic of freedom of speech and freedom of association. To Jimmy it was beginning to be an issue of principle. Was there freedom of speech or not? Not that he cared about the Packers; why should he? But the right, or lack of it, to wear a color, or a hat, or any hat, was important to him.

So he got the idea one day, walking along in an old Jewish neighborhood, and stepped into a store and bought half a dozen Stars of David. The lady gave him a weird look but Jimmy just gave her the money and got out of there quickly. He gave one to each of his friends and told a couple more where to get them; they were cheap. Solid metal, but cheap. The friends started wearing them around their necks immediately. Kick us out now, you b-'s, he muttered under his breath, and waited for the principal to do something. He got mostly dirty looks; of course they were onto him and his friends; they saw the stars around their necks; they were undoubtedly checking the rule books to see what they could do.

Jimmy himself was singularly insensitive to the different meanings people could put onto that metal six-pointed star. He'd lived among Jews and the different racial hostilities of his neighborhood for many years; he didn't have any particular feeling for or against the Jews that he'd known in his neighborhood; in the same way he didn't mind using them or their symbol for his gang if he thought they could now get away with something they couldn't before. He despised Pablo in his Sox jacket and wanted to show Pablo he had a gang and wasn't budging an inch, wasn't afraid of Pablo and his gang, wasn't going to back down at all. That's all he felt. At the time, he felt nothing about Judaism, not good, not bad. It was just a symbol.

Other members of his gang had a little different take, of course; one guy, Little Steve, mouthed off a lot because he thought they should have another kind of symbol. Another, Maxie, was actually part Jewish, and he was seen by his uncle one day wearing the thing and then had to explain it away; his uncle, thinking he was now into Judaism, started suggesting local temples, and he had to actively resist so that he could still have his Friday nights free. Jimmy held firm and said the gang needed a common symbol and this was the best one because the school couldn't kick them out or ban it. One day, though, he got out of school and was on the el when an old lady got on, sat next to him, and lit into him upon seeing the star and finding out he wasn't Jewish, saying that six million people had died that would love to be wearing that star; who did he think he was, wearing it when he wasn't even Jewish? He had actually offered this lady his seat, but she'd asked him if he was Jewish right away. She turned out to be a nice lady, he got along ok with her in the end, but the star had obviously stirred her up and made her unable to just enjoy an el ride in peace sitting with a young guy with a piece of metal around his neck. It was a little uncomfortable; he felt like hiding it maybe, but it was a little too late; at this point that might be even worse.

Another night he was with Little Steve and another guy, Robo, on the same el going downtown on an errand for Robo's sister. Suddenly Pablo and four other guys got on the train and saw them; they were outnumbered, and poorly armed, though they were wearing their stars, having just come from school. Robo said something under his breath to them, which they heard, and somewhere near Comiskey Park they bolted off the train and ran, Pablo and his gang following them. They were faster than Pablo and his gang, and had the jump on them, through the turnstiles and out onto the street, but Little Steve was wearing out after a couple of blocks, and when they came around one corner they saw an open store door where they could duck in away from the street, and they did. The old Jewish storekeeper's eyes got wide in horror seeing three young disheveled guys charge into his store; he saw the fear in their eyes, surely, but he also saw the stars, and seemed to know immediately that they needed to hide; he pointed to a counter over to the side, and the three boys ducked behind it. Jimmy could see the old man, but couldn't see the street or the door clearly; still, he knew when Pablo and his friends came by, and he saw the old man stare with steely resolve, out the door, saying with his look, not in here boys, don't mess with me. A clock ticked loudly and broke the silence; Jimmy, Little Steve and Robo stayed ducked, breathless, hearts pounding, behind the counter, for what seemed like an eternity; the old guy went about his business, dusting the counters, closing the store, puttering around. Eventually he kind of ran them out, didn't want to wait all night, but was still friendly, and never asked them about the stars, didn't seem to want to find out that maybe they weren't actually Jewish. They and the old man had an alliance, Jimmy thought, against random, senseless violence, and this was lucky, because it allowed Jimmy and his friends to escape, take the bus, which was the long way home, and then to live through high school; Pablo himself was pushed in front of an el about two months later, in an unrelated incident, and hostilities between the two gangs kind of died down after that. In fact, even the stars disappeared; the friends stopped wearing them, gradually. They weren't really necessary after a while; each guy had more or less moved on to bigger problems.

Now, years later, his family in a brick bungalow, his neighbor took to wearing a Packer hat in winter; Jimmy, of course, wasn't going to say a thing. Don't dredge up old times, don't even mention the gangs of today or the gangs of his childhood. What's the point? The star was buried somewhere, in an old chest that he hadn't gotten out for years. And he didn't intend to.
(10-08)

The sun sets on the western horizon

Seung had strong feelings about his art; he did well on his final exam, so afterwards, as on many Friday afternoons, he walked over to Mario's, a popular pizza and drinking establishment nearby, to have a beer and relax before the long trip home. He had again managed to leave class without saying hello to Rosa, a young woman in the class who he knew was interested in him; and again, he had seen Jamal, an African-American guy who looked very familiar to him and who he had become friends with in the short time the class had been in session.

It took him a while to process the busy events of the class, as usual, and he sipped his beer slowly. Why exactly had he avoided Rosa? For one thing, he would never be able to explain a person like Rosa to his parents; it would bring so much trouble, it gave him a headache just to think about it, and he still relied on his parents quite a bit and would not be able to just shrug them off and go his own way. It wasn't so much a racial thing – Rosa was mixed, maybe Mexican and American, he wasn't sure – as just the thought of having everyone at the same table, he trying to explain Rosa's forward nature and aggressive friendliness to his parents. Impossible. There were a million things he could never explain to his parents, and he'd stopped trying. Or the other possibility: pursue Rosa temporarily, and flee before it became complicated- but that also seemed fraught with problems best avoided with the strong taste of beer. At times he felt like he was on a cliff, looking out at the ocean, barely feeling the earth beneath his feet; on the one hand, he loved and was attracted to the style and expressiveness of American friends like Rosa and Jamal; on the other, he was so bound up in his family's traditional ways, that he would find it difficult letting go of them, even if he could. Seung lost himself in thought, watching the afternoon sun reflect through the window on the lively Friday crowd at Mario's.

At that moment Jamal himself walked in, and, finding few seats in the place, motioned politely to ask Seung if he could join him; Seung agreed. He liked Jamal a lot, and Jamal liked him; there also was a deeper recognition, as if he'd known him somehow from long ago. But how could that be? Jamal made him tug at his early memories; his parents had owned a store in East LA when Seung was a child, but that was before the riots; after the riots, and before Seung started school, they'd moved up into the valley where they now lived. Seung remembered virtually nothing from those early days, except sitting on the floor of his parents' store, doing art; he'd bug them for supplies, and they consented.

Jamal shared Seung's passion for art, though his art was nothing like Seung's; it was bold and wild, with broad strokes and rich color, a little angry, but in a subtle way. They each admired each other's art, opposite as it was, and Jamal often looked at him in the same way, as if to say: I've met you before, somewhere. Seung bought Jamal a beer and they drank together for a few minutes, talking about the class and the teacher, watching the day lose its brightness outside, watching people come and go busily, as Friday afternoon turned into evening, and the place got more crowded.

When the topic came around to the evening's plans, Seung didn't have any, really, though he'd planned, in a general way, to go home before too late, help out at his parents' new store, and say hello to some relatives who would probably be around, since it was Friday night. He considered making a night of it with Jamal; the possibility seemed to hang over the table, as Jamal himself seemed to be without special plans, without a date, without even a crowd to join. He mumbled something about taking care of a sick mother, getting something for her, from one of many places around his East LA neighborhood…

That's when something caught Seung's ear. It was a reference to East LA geography, something that would mean very little to anyone who didn't know the place, but Seung knew it; he'd been back to the store his parents had when he was a kid, to the neighborhood where he was born, more than once, and knew his way around. In shock he looked at Jamal again. He had a dim memory, of a time when he was three or four, and a little black kid would come into his parents' store, and he'd share his paints; they sat on the floor together, and painted, more than once. His parents later confirmed the story; yes, there was a little boy; his mother brought him to the store, because he loved art, and the little boy lived for those moments on the floor with Seung, who, to him, had every paint, had a fantastic variety. The boy's mother, knowing how important it was to him, would linger in the store, buy as much as possible, and try to talk to the parents. Communication was not easy; there was a gulf, a gulf that became all too apparent later, during the riots, when rioters attacked the store with a passion, a passion Seung's father couldn't have predicted or even imagined. Later, Seung's family tried to figure out where they had gone wrong with the neighborhood: why did people think they should be attacked? Some cultural problem, maybe, not looking people in the eye, appearing to be too careful with money, or too cheap with credit; Seung had heard hundreds of possibilities. The boy's mother, it turned out, was one of their few sources of information, as she had actually shared what she knew, and spoke freely of her neighbors.

The riots had been defining points for both boys. Seung had moved to the valley with his family, where life was easier for him, and kept up his interest in art. For Jamal, though, times got rougher after the riots; he had to get sports scholarships to even attend college, and could take art only after having finished other necessary classes, and even that, on top of working, supporting his mother, who was now sick from rough living and poor health care; Seung already knew this, from having met him earlier. But if he was bitter, he rarely showed it; he remained upbeat, positive, genuinely interested in Seung, and friendly. Seung studied Jamal, trying to reconcile his early memories, wondering if he should push Jamal, and ask him exactly where he'd grown up in East LA, where he'd spent his earliest years. He and Jamal chatted innocently about the exam and how to answer certain parts of it, but as Jamal talked he became more and more sure that he was in fact that little boy that had spent those days on the floor of his parents' store, drawing colorful pictures.

Before he could ask Jamal, he was jolted out of his daydreams by Rosa herself, who came right through the front door of Mario's, and sat at the booth with Jamal and Seung. Seung was shocked, but tried not to show it; Jamal, however, didn't miss a beat, welcomed her, even moved over to make room, and prepared to order a pizza or perhaps another round of beers.

Rosa, friendly and outgoing as usual, had a certain antagonism toward the class that bothered Seung, perhaps because he himself was genuinely interested in the art, and offended by a callous and quick minimal effort for a grade and nothing else. Maybe he was misreading Rosa, but she really had very little feeling for art itself, and that b9thered Seung, as if it was a basic incompatibility; also, she had clearly not done as well on the exam as Seung and Jamal. Nevertheless, she was friendly as usual, and genuinely liked him, as far as he could tell. She had no particular story for why she was in Mario's at this particular moment, alone. As they talked, the feeling of love triangle began to hang over the table; Jamal too clearly liked Rosa, a lot, and had no problems with incompatibility whatsoever. Rosa liked Seung. Seung remained distant, and withdrew into his beer and the familiar feeling it brought to him, all the while still trying to place Jamal in his parents' store, trying to figure out if he was the same kid; Rosa, he tried to block out of his mind. Her bubbly enthusiasm, and all the feelings it awoke in him, gave him a headache, so he shrank from his attraction to her; he tried not to lead her on.

Eventually they ordered a small pizza, and it came; they devoured it, but all three were slightly dissatisfied, and inclined to move along as it got darker outside. Seung declared a need to go home, which was now getting stronger; his headache had gotten worse. He was aware that he was leaving Jamal with the girl; he was forfeiting, folding, denying himself a good time, a life even, some fun at least with a good and lively person. Deep down, he didn't mind; he had only himself to blame. Jamal too was a little uncomfortable, but Seung basically said to them, go ahead, you two go on and go out somewhere; I need to head home. And he did, turning his collar up and walking to the bus station; the sounds of the city took over, and he thought about his art, as usual, on the long trip back to the valley.

9-08

Lion's Tale

Mansfield Slaughter was a Shakespearean actor who had risen to the top of the acting profession by virtue of his impassioned performances of lead characters who raged and vented about God and other subjects. He didn't really believe in God much, though he was an excellent actor, and on this particular stint in London, in which he played a character who harangued God, night after night, it began to wear on him and he found himself almost wondering why he was stuck in this role, at this moment, night after night haranguing God as if he really believed.

But he got a welcome break, and returned to New York where his wife and young son Adam lived, and his elderly mother, who lived way out on the edge of the Bronx, in a neighborhood that was slowly decaying. While visiting his mother he found himself in her local church, accompanying her to a service, where the smell of perfume was strong and the pastor, a woman, was, in Mansfield's mind, treating him as if he were the only person in the audience. In fact there were about thirty people there; they were interested in the sermon, but also interested in the social community that they had and shared; all knew Mansfield's mother quite well, and by extension, knew who he was also. He squirmed in his seat as his palms sweated and he felt as if he were on stage, but with no lines, nothing prepared, not quite knowing what to say, though in fact he didn't have to say much, only smile and be polite.

The sermon, however, was about Abraham taking his young son up to the mountain, to be sacrificed, upon order of God himself, who demanded that Abraham not only obey, but also surrender, entirely, to God. The pastor's first and main point was that these were quite different, and that we, in our daily lives, might think that obeying was enough. But imagine the plight of Abraham, and what he might think, upon being asked to serve up his son as a sacrifice? And where was Sarah, his wife, when he decided to do as God had commanded? Mansfield was also impressed that, as Isaac, his son asked him where was the animal which they were to sacrifice on the mountain, Abraham told him that God himself would provide it; in other words, he lied to Isaac. For a moment Mansfield was lost in thought, comparing idly the suspension of disbelief practiced by this audience of thirty, to that of his vast audiences in London, listening to him and his harangues, his acting performances, so well and carefully rehearsed. Did people expect these stories to be actually true?

Mansfield had to actually contain himself, act as if he were calm and unaffected, when in actuality, he was somewhat angry. What kind of story was this? He knew that it was one of the classic stories of the Bible, yet he could scarcely believe that any group of thirty people, including his mother, could listen and not become angry- that God would demand that someone sacrifice his son? That God would instruct him where to go and how to do it? Silently he harangued God, only this time sincerely: what's up with this? Is this real?

It occurred to him, later, that God never answered him, at least not directly, not in a voice that he could hear or understand. Again this time, he was met with silence, or rather, the usual noises of life around him: the over-friendly pastor, wishing him well and wishing him save travels; his mother, quietly and slowly being led back to her apartment; the subway, past Yankee Stadium and into Manhattan; the welcoming embrace of his own son, and his wife, waiting for him back in the city.

The answer, if he could call it that, if it was even related, came about a week later, and happened quite quickly, though he replayed it in his mind the rest of his life, sometimes many times in a given day. He had taken his young son to the zoo, and was at the lion area, where a lion had actually come quite close to the fence separating the people, being only about twenty feet down some rocks, and about twenty feet back toward a kind of moat area which the lion had somehow crossed. The lion sat, impassively looking at the crowds of people who surely stood at this very fence day after day, watching him. A fierce, regal animal, golden hair surrounding his face, the lion had no expression, no expression at all.

Distracted for a moment, thinking about his own acting again, Mansfield looked back in horror to notice that his young son had slipped through or over the fence, and was now on the rocks on the other side of the fence, and, as he watched, actually tumbled down the rocks, all twenty feet, hitting himself repeatedly, and yelling out. In horror the people around shouted out, and called 911 and the zoo officials. The boy had landed twenty feet down, not mortally injured, but within easy reach of the lion, who still had not moved, hadn't budged an inch, but was still, apparently, watching impassively. In moments Mansfield himself had jumped the fence and was struggling on the rocks, trying to get down to the boy without falling.

But, unfortunately, his own concentration was not up to the task, and he himself slipped and tumbled down to the landing now shared by the boy and the lion. His own momentum was such that just as he landed, he hit the boy, who then fell another ten or fifteen feet, down toward the moat, this time falling not quite as far but injuring himself much worse. Rather than catch or save the boy, or even protect him from the lion, as he had intended, he actually pushed him, accidentally, into more harm. And still, throughout this incident, the lion remained unmoving, impassive, as if it were no concern of his or hers whatever.

The boy ended up in a coma, and survived, though injured and permanently impaired. Mansfield's marriage, however, along with his career, did not survive. He was a broken man; he had lost everything. His wife actually forgave him; there were many hours and days at the boy's bedside, waiting, talking to him; but Mansfield could never forgive himself. He also, deeply, bitterly, blamed God: unable to give him orders, to tell him to sacrifice his son, God had merely tricked him, got him to do it himself, without even being told. Was that the trick? Was God actually the lion, watching impassively as he struck his son and pushed him to his fate?

Again, the sounds of the city were the only reply he was to get.

Freshly Doug

People think of Kansas City as a big city, but if you're a street musician, there are really only a few good places in it, and, when I was playing in one, and heard that Freshly Doug, best guitar blues-player I knew, was playing in another, I went to find him immediately. It was mostly because of the music; I'm a fiddler; it's hard and boring to play alone, but I get one good blues player like Freshly Doug, and I can do better, even after I split with him and whoever else is around, than I would in double the time alone. He was one hot blues picker, and it was always fun when we played together- tips went flying into his guitar case, or wherever, and time flew right by. But the other reason was, he owed me a steak dinner, and this came from a wild night we spent together in Key West maybe about a year ago, when we made a bet and parted with that agreement. Kansas City, I thought, good place to collect on a steak dinner. And I set about to do it.

Sure enough, I found him down near the Plaza, not a great place to play, but good enough, and he had a harmonica player with him, and a small crowd around. The harmonica player was a guy, had light, curly hair, kind of feminine-looking, but played a mean harmonica, and was dressed in a print shirt, very classy, light cotton, from someplace abroad. The guy was interesting, and I watched him for a while, then they split the tips roughly so I could join them, which I did. We played a while, the three of us, and this guy, Maxwell, as Freshly called him, was pretty good about letting me have a run once in a while; we had to go back and forth taking the lead. But it worked out pretty well, and after a while, it was late evening, maybe eight o'clock or so, and we split the money, which as I said was considerable for that particular town and situation, and I reminded Freshly of the dinner. Of course, he said, we should go get that now.

Now there was a woman, or at least I was pretty sure she was a woman, who came out from the crowd at about that time, and appeared to be connected to Maxwell, maybe his partner or lover. She had been there, in the crowd, for a while, but quiet; she had short hair and a brooding face, quite inward and dark, not so much in color as in general composure. And when she spoke, she was impatient, and somewhat controlling toward Maxwell. I was sure they were lovers, or else how could she get away with this? But what did I know; I'd never met either of them. As for Freshly, he appeared to know them both, at least casually; he invited them along, as if maybe he owed them a steak dinner too, each. He implied that the whole thing was on him, the only problem was, he had somewhere to be at ten, so he might be leaving a little early, but he would make sure he'd pay for everyone's dinner. I had absolutely no doubt about him, as I'd known him off and on, besides that time in Key West; I'd actually met him out in California. And I'd known he had a few unusual things about him, for example, nobody knew his full name, though we called him Freshly Doug Graves, I'm sure Graves wasn't it. Freshly, we just called him. And we knew he went from place to place, and he had people in Denver, in almost every town, and he was one hot blues player. Like I said, I really looked up to the guy, I couldn't imagine him doing anyone any harm.

We started walking up the street, and came to my car first. That's the best explanation I have, for why we put Maxwell's small day-pack in there. Freshly recognized the car, from Key West days, and pointed out that since he'd be leaving early, we should put Maxwell's day-pack, and my fiddle, and my little bag, all in my car. When we got to his car he'd dress up a little as it was a pretty nice place. Why you'd dress up to eat out in the Midwest, and then dress down to play music on the street, that's another story, but that's what Freshly did. When he got to his car, which was an old van, but one I didn't recognize, he spent some time combing his hair, putting on a fresh shirt, combing his hair. The woman scowled as if he was a big bother and brought up vegetarian entrees as if this restaurant was not likely to have them. Freshly assured her that she could get what she wanted and it would be on him. Meanwhile I noticed another thing: Maxwell, sweet, easy-going and gentle, seemed to have a thing for Freshly. He adored the ground Freshly walked on. Now I don't know if he was gay- could have been, I'm sure, and like I say, I don't know much about Freshly either; it was clear that maybe Freshly had stayed with these people, and had known them for more than one afternoon. But I got a sense there, standing at that van, that there was some ménage-a-trois going on there, like maybe Maxwell had fallen for Freshly, and the woman, who they were calling Naomi, was onto them, and wasn't happy about it at all. It seemed that maybe she saw herself losing Maxwell, whatever he meant to her, and she didn't like it at all. And, as I said, she seemed to be the controlling type. She expected him to jump when she said jump. She didn't like seeing him jump to Freshly's steps.

Finally we got organized and headed over to the steak house, which was only about five blocks from Freshly's van. We sat at a nice table, me across from Freshly, Maxwell and Naomi across from each other, and Freshly recounted for us the story of that night in Key West; how we dared each other to live off the land; got some young tourists to watch, and provide the pina coladas; how Freshly took a spear and killed and cooked some goldfish from a decorative pond outside some fancy hotel in the middle of the night, and I went and grabbed some limes, and some vegetables from around, some potatoes from basket outside an old grocery store, and on we went like that until we had a huge feast with pina coladas, drank until the tourists fell asleep on the beach, and entirely drunk, watching the sunrise, we made a huge bet, which I won, because, believe it or not, I knew who was more likely to win the Super Bowl, and it wasn't the Broncos. And I'd waited for this steak dinner for a little over a year, as that would have been late January, and this now was late March of the following year, I know that because I'm on my way to Chicago, coming all the way from the mountains of southeast Oklahoma, but Chicago is a bit cold yet for another week or two, and that's why I want to stall for time, play a bit in Kansas City and see if I can't wait until it at least thaws a little out on the lake up there.

So Freshly orders a bottle of wine, but really, Maxwell and I were the heaviest drinkers, me because it's not often I run into Freshly, once in a blue moon maybe, and Maxwell, because, as I said, I think he had joy in his heart, deep inside, he was both overjoyed, and a little desperate, knowing that a guy like Freshly could be here today, gone tomorrow. And then, what would happen- he'd be stuck with this Naomi, a thin wisp, with an attitude, unpleasant, couldn't even relax and enjoy a guy like Freshly. I looked around the table, and my eyes began to fog over a little- I was drunk already, it must have been the hunger, the smell of steak in the air, the slight edge everyone brought to the table. Only Freshly, well-dressed, calm, was totally in control.

I saw, in a brief second, that Naomi, who was handling her wine glass more than she was actually drinking out of it, was also wearing long sleeves, and that, in fact, she had a scar or two on her wrist. A cutter, I thought. A shiver went up my spine, remembering people I'd known. She was brooding, kind of glaring at Maxwell occasionally. She was onto him. Right around then, when the steaks were about to arrive, three steaks and one vegetarian entrée, anyway, there was a lightning-quick incident, when Maxwell reached over and touched Freshly on the arm. I'm not sure what the meaning was, wasn't even sure he intended it; don't know how Freshly felt about it either. But I did notice that Naomi saw it, and just about choked on the spot, and I did notice that Freshly saw that. It may have been nothing to Maxwell, he was just talking, laughing, relating something that had happened when they were playing music, just a day or two ago. He, I think, was kind of drunk, like me. But I saw this look, just that second, and I didn't like it. I remember thinking, something is not right here. But the steaks arrived, and that kind of changed the atmosphere.

I dug into mine, starving, a big appetite, fiddling does that to me, and also I'd been living out of a peanut butter jar for a few days. I had about half my steak down when I noticed that Freshly had barely touched his, and had just backed off, mentally, and was watching Maxwell and Naomi, on either side of him, as they started in and began eating. Freshly was a really sensitive guy, a complete musician, and there were times when it seemed he was more interested in the sound of knife on fork, the clinking glasses, the little chiming sounds, than anything else. But when the waiter came back, he complained about his steak. It wasn't done enough, he said. The waiter offered to take it back, have the cook do it just a little more. That wouldn't be the same, Freshly said. Well, we'll make you another, said the waiter; in my mind, the waiter was being perfectly polite, he was in a tough position, of course, but he was at least offering to make amends. No, I'd like to talk to the manager, said Freshly, as if something the waiter had said, had irritated him, or led him to feel like going over this waiter's head. Now the waiter was flustered, and a little angry. But Freshly wasn't backing down. He wanted to see the manager. Immediately.

Well, pretty soon the manager was out there, and the waiter, and they were both trying to calm Freshly down, and Freshly, without raising his voice or betraying any kind of strong feeling, was just insisting that he'd been wronged, as if they'd told him one thing and brought him another, and he refused to be pacified, in any way, he wasn't going to settle for just another steak. And eventually they decided to give him the entire meal, all four people and all our steaks, and the vegetarian entrée, for free. Wine too. When that happened, he was quiet for a second; he stopped. And then, there was nothing left but for him to leave. I accept, he said, but no thanks, I don't want another steak. Maxwell, J.B., Naomi, I bid you farewell, I'll see you anon. With a slight bow, and a flourish, he walked out of the restaurant.

We were stunned. And, on top of it, I was now at the table with these two people, who I barely knew, and they started snipping at each other. Naomi insisted on paying for at least her share. Her entree was fine, she said, and she didn't need Freshly paying for it in the first place. No, said Maxwell, the dinner was on Freshly, and they gave him the dinner. On and on it went. I was done with mine though; I was ready to go. And I did; it was getting uncomfortable in there. It was only later, at a camping place outside of town, that I realized that I still had Maxwell's day-pack.
Even then, I didn't open it, though.

The police caught up with me in the morning, and went straight for the day-pack. Maxwell, they said, was dead, died of an overdose, took sedatives and alcohol, apparently, but they weren't saying much more than that. They'd seen us playing out on the corner; they wanted to know all about Freshly; but, the more they talked, the more I realized they thought I'd done it, that I was somehow involved. The day-pack, I'm sure, played a role in this; I had to admit it was in my possession. They were quite curious about the stuff in the day-pack, and asked me all kinds of questions, but here my pure ignorance worked in my favor. I knew absolutely nothing about the day-pack or what was in it. I hadn't even opened it. They held me a while, and questioned me, over and over, but I couldn't help them much. Given what I knew, and I told them almost all of it, except how Kansas City was a good place to play music; I left out some details about Freshly's van, too, as I really didn't see much point in letting them track him down. In my mind, suicide was probably the best explanation, though she could have pushed the pills on him, I could see that also. But they weren't interested in my explanation, and knew nothing of the woman, who she was, or where they could find her. They acted like I was making up the part about the woman; something led them to believe a man was involved, and at first anyway, they were pretty sure that was me. And occasionally I made them mad, like when I said that I knew Freshly well enough to know he wouldn't have done it, or when I said I thought maybe Maxwell had a kind of thing for Freshly. You don't know a thing, they said. And maybe they're right. But I knew what I saw; Freshly was somewhere down the road already, and he didn't owe me a steak dinner anymore.

-May 2008

Big macs and fries

When Bailey was a young child, his parents often took him to McDonald's for lunch, and what seemed like an eternity of bliss in the playground that was attached to the restaurant; often this was when they were traveling, and it would be in some distant town. It was in one of these McDonald's that he had one of his earliest memories: seeing a policeman, and being terrified that he would be arrested for not wearing socks as the law required. At the time, his mother reassured him that he would not go to jail, but the memory stuck in his mind and haunted him for virtually a lifetime.

In high school the McDonald's was only four blocks away from the school cafeteria, and once he found a way to sneak out of that cafeteria and go there four or five times a week for almost an entire term. He'd sit by the statue of the clown, looking at the playground, and remember the simpler days of his childhood when he could actually fit in the playground equipment. A small fear of being caught in his truancy gnawed at him, as policemen frequented this McDonald's, on a prominent corner near the center of his small town, but he never got caught; he'd slide into the red and yellow booth, and make himself invisible while they'd eat sometimes, and they weren't especially interested in hauling in refugees from the high-school cafeteria. The big macs and fries would sit and curdle at the bottom of his stomach when he went back for his afternoon classes, but he didn't mind; high school was full of stress anyway, and he had all kinds of general anxiety over classes, exams, gym and girl relationships there; his twenty minutes with the clown, near the indoor playground, sometimes seemed like the only peace and quiet he had all day, and certainly was a good break in his routine.

When he got his first job, he also got his first car, and he went on another McDonald's binge, this time using the drive-through, and eating in the front seat as he parked in a spot under a huge tree not far away. This job didn't actually last too long, and shortly after it ended, he was pulled over by the police, while driving just outside of town. When the patrolman approached his window, he rolled it down slowly, and said, as the policeman looked down at him, "a big mac and some fries, please," which didn't go over too well with the officer. He wasn't really punished too severely on that occasion, but in a later incident he sensed that he now had a reputation with the police, maybe for his insolence at that first occasion, and it seemed like they had it out for him for many years afterward. Perhaps this was just an illusion, he thought, but then, sometimes when you're paranoid, it's probably because everyone really is out to get you.

His life, in fact, was going downhill, and eventually, out of work, not going anywhere, he went to that same McDonald's, near the center of town, and got work. This was not the most pleasant month of his life, but he learned a lot, working there, in a short time. He was especially upset that he was often hungry, even as he mopped and cleaned the grease pits, and was forced to pay for his own food, which he couldn't do; yet the very policemen who despised him would stroll into the place, like kings, and be given a free meal, big macs, large fries, whatever they wanted. This may have had more to do with the owner, and his prominent role in the community, than with any particular McDonald's policy, but nevertheless, Bailey's hunger now gnawed at his insides, and the food that he did eat churned inside him with the anxiety of his position and the general disrespect that customers, some of whom he'd known all his life, would show him, as a lowly worker in a silly uniform, sitting near the clown, if they saw him anywhere besides working or mopping. He struck up a friendship with a co-worker, Archer Longwood, an old black guy who had been there forever but who he'd barely spoken to in his first twenty years, when he actually had some break time to sit around and get to know him. Old Archer had worked the mop buckets and the grease filters for years, until they finally promoted him to cash register, maybe because they were desperate, or because he'd just worn them out, and they couldn't argue that he was anything but pleasant, hard-working, trustworthy and next in line. Bailey, of course, never had that chance; he was only there for a month. The owner and manager, Freemont, was active in town politics and gone a lot, but Bailey did notice that the place ran itself better when he was gone, and actually had its moments of calm and peace, often moments when they were about to close, or when he was talking with Archer, at the back doorway.

Upon leaving, and getting a better job at a computer lab, Bailey resolved to clean up his diet and learn to cook, which he did; now he walked by the McDonald's every day without needing the French fries, not even stopping to say hello to Archer or Freemont, though he'd occasionally see them in the parking lot or in passing, and wave. Years passed by, and it seemed like things were going better for him; his memories of the place now spanned his entire life, and included both the times when he worked there, full of stress, and the carefree years of childhood shrieking at the top of the playground, sliding down the plastic slides and into the colored balls. His walking route took him close enough to the front window to see his own reflection, but he couldn't see inside the place unless it was late night and the lights were on, and even then he couldn't see much; he didn't even worry about it much, but generally kept on walking right by.

But one Halloween night, he was pressured to go to a party, and didn't have a costume; his friend, however, had a policeman's uniform, pressed and hanging in his closet, which Bailey was able and even encouraged to borrow. He shaved completely, in such a way that he was virtually unrecognizable to his friends, as he'd had a pretty complete beard before that night, and he found a pair of very shiny black shoes that fit. It took him a long time to get the costume just right, but he did, and even had a fine black stick to top it all off. But when he arrived at the party, down in the middle of the student neighborhood, it was in full swing, and people were alarmed to see a policeman arrive at it. The resident and the host of the party came out to argue that the party was under control, and became angry when he found out that the person he was talking to was merely Bailey, and not a real policeman. The costume, in other words, was too well made. Drugs had apparently been flushed down the toilet, back in the house, as they spoke out in front of the house. And the host of the party was so angry he was close to hitting Bailey, who had begun to wonder if he was going to need his stick or not.

Things got worse on the way home, although he was walking, as usual. One person was glad to see him and tried to report a crime; unfortunately, Bailey was in no mood to hear this, and could barely tell them to go find the real police. This person also became quite angry. A couple of blocks later were more people alarmed to see a policeman walking on their street; those people hurled verbal abuse at him from the shadows of their house, challenging him to find an excuse to enter.

Exasperated, he was glad to get back toward the center of town, and finally, at the corner with the McDonald's. Late at night, in the cold and crisp fall air, the place looked welcoming, and he stepped in. Only Archer was there, about ready to close, besides a couple dressed like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, sitting over by the clown. Archer sat Bailey down by the front window and immediately brought him food. He had an impulse to tell Archer what had happened, but Archer wasn't talking much, wasn't inclined to hear the story. He seemed to know, anyway, how foolish it was, just in general, to dress up in a costume like that. Some mayonnaise spilled on the uniform, but Bailey left it there, hoping it would give away the fact that he wasn't a real policeman; he still had four or five blocks to go, but they were short blocks. The night was, for all intents and purposes, over. It occurred to him that he hadn't paid for his big macs and fries, and he offered, but Archer refused; policemen, he said, eat for free. He waved him on his way, and he stumbled out into the starry night, wishing he were just about anywhere else, in any other costume. Was it his imagination, he thought, or was that clown, back in the corner by the playground, actually winking at him? His stomach churned, and he stumbled home.
1-31-08