Chapter Fifteen
Letter to the Editor of The Serena Daily Banner:
A young man bolted from the crowd at the Founders Day Parade this past Saturday in an attempt to throw himself in front of his own automobile, which, incidentally, had been seized and was being driven by the same Police Officer, who recently attained glory on these pages for his arrest of an alleged child molester from Toledo. He was promptly subdued by his own friends and no arrest resulted. The entire scene was captured by News-Chopper Seven and the footage was played and replayed all weekend, portraying the young man as Public Enemy Number One and rousing community support for more seizures of vehicles which have allegedly been used in the commission of a crime. Talk about a slow news day!
The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States reads as follows:
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
The automobile in question and the manner in which it is frequently displayed around town as a so-called deterrent, is an affront to every citizen of this city. The sign in the windshield implies that it was seized as a tool of the drug trade. As most of us know through the grape vine, that was not the case.
To the young man in question: Running out in front of the car was a foolish act that certainly could never have resulted in the return of your automobile. The way I see it, the statute of limitations on a lawsuit for the return of your automobile, more commonly referred to in the legal profession as a replevin action, has not run out. My advice to you - get a good lawyer and sue the bastards!
Sincerely,
Harry Kresge
***
There was a knock on Kresge's door. He got up from the computer where he had been working on a story and pulled back the curtain on the front window. There was a young man at the door. He was holding a newspaper. It was Snake's brother. Harry thought a moment about whether he should open the door. Finally he decided to do it.
"Are you Mr. Kresge?" Frankie asked.
"The same."
"Huh?"
"Yeah, I'm Harry Kresge. What can I do for you?"
"I read your letter in the paper about my situation."
"You're kidding. They finally published one of my letters? Holy Christ!"
Frankie smiled. "I wanted to know if you could help me."
"Sorry, I'm not licensed to practice in this state."
"I thought maybe you could give me some advice."
"My advice to you is to get a lawyer from Dayton. Someone from outside of Serena who's not connected with the local politicians."
"I tried that. They all want money up front. No one will take this on a contingent fee arrangement."
"Why doesn't that surprise me..? You mind if I look at that?" Harry pointed to the newspaper.
"Come in. Sit down."
As Harry scanned his own letter to the editor, Frankie continued to talk. "I was thinking I might sue them myself. Whatcha call it, pro se? I thought you might help me as a matter of principle. I hear you ain't got no use for Orel Paige, yourself."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"My old lady..."
Harry blushed. "I don't think I mentioned anything about that to her."
"Word travels around here. She's been asking around about you, since you let her in here that time and called 911."
"Oh, you know about that..."
"Don't matter. I probably would have done the same."
"Sounds like your pretty rough on her."
"I suppose so. I been tryin'."
"Your brother ever say anything about me?"
Frankie smiled. "He says you're an asshole."
"Well, fuck him!" Harry's face was red, then redder. "He's the asshole."
"I know, I know. But he ain't had it so easy, living with my mom and all. I think he likes to make noise just to draw attention to himself. He's been largely ignored all his life."
"I tell you what. Don't hit your wife, don't abuse her in any way, including verbally, and get your brother to keep that fucking stereo down, and I'll do all the paper work for you in your name and tell you exactly what to do with it. We got a deal?"
"Hell, I've been thinking about moving my brother in with me, anyway, now that my house is repaired. As for my wife, after she moved in with her mother, I promised her things would be different. She's back and I've been doing a lot better. Deal!"
"I'll need copies of all the papers you have, papers from the cops, papers from the court and the papers for the car."
"I have them back at the house. I've got to go to work, now, but I'll have Audrey drop them, later."
"Fine. I'll be here."
"One other thing..." The smile suddenly faded from Frankie's face as it occurred to him.
"What's that?"
"No funny stuff with my old lady."
***
The layout editor stood at attention in front of Gar Findlay's desk. Gar was waiving a copy of the current edition in his hand and practically pirouetting as he pace behind his chair.
"I swear, Mr. Findlay, it wasn't there when I laid it out. There was a different letter in that column, something about an incident that happened when the Girl Scouts were camping out over to the fairgrounds. Some guy came outta the woods and exposed himself. I'm sure of it."
"Well then, who the hell could have replaced it with this? This wacko's been writing me letters ever since he moved to town and I've shit-canned every one of them." He looked down at the waste basket labelled "Letters To The Editor". It was empty.
"The only one who could have done it is the linotype operator."
"Louie? Louie never even reads what he's typing."
"Louie didn't come in yesterday. He had the flu."
"Louie didn't work? How the hell did we get the paper out on time?"
"House did it. He did everything, wheeled the skids over, cleaned up the place and got the paper out, too."
"You tryin' to tell me that Marvin Payne replaced that Girl Scout letter with a rant from that Kresge nut?"
"I'm not saying that. All's I'm saying is that he put the paper out. Done the whole thing himself."
"Well..." Gar closed his eyes and put the fingertips of both hands to his temples as if he were trying to conjure up the image of House of Pain doing all that work and making editorial substitutions, as well.
"You got a headache Mr. Findlay? I got some aspirins in my desk."
"No, I don't, thanks." He was mellowing. "Listen, don't say anything about this to anyone. We'll let it go for now. Just try to keep any eye on things, will ya?"
"Sure thing."
"One other thing. Is Louie in today?"
"No, he's not."
As the layout editor was leaving, Gar's intercom came on. "It's the Chief of Police," his secretary announced.
"Tell him I'll get back to him! You haven't seen that letter from the Girl Scout Leader, have you?"
Silence from the intercom.
"You know, the letter to the editor we were going to publish yesterday..."
"Oh, that one... No, I haven't."
Gar took the fire stairs to the linotype room. There was a fresh skid of lead ingots next to Louie's machine and a second one right next to it. House was at the far end of the room sweeping.
"How ya doin', House?" Gar had snuck up on him, unnoticed.
House looked up from his sweeping. "Hi, Mr. Findlay. I'm doin' just fine, thank you."
"We keepin' you busy enough up here?"
"Oh yes, sir. Been mighty busy, what with Louie out and all."
"Yes, I hear you did a terrific job for us, yesterday. I didn't know you knew how to work the linotype, just yet. You picked it up pretty fast."
"Thank you, sir."
"We're going to have to give you a raise. We can't have you doing linotype operator's work for janitor's wages."
"Thank you, sir. I can't wait to tell Mamma."
"Just one thing, though..."
"Sir?"
"I don't want you editorializing. You get what I mean?"
At first House looked confused, then a look of cognition crossed his face. "Yes, sir."
"You've got to work as a reporter, before you can be an editor, right? The way you're going, you'll have my job, before I know it."
"Reporter? Yes, sir. Thank you." House put his hand in his trousers pocket to reassure himself that the piece of paper was still there.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
It was supposed to be a warning to anyone who would use his motor vehicle in the commission of a crime, especially a drug related crime. The first time Harry saw it was in the parking lot of police headquarters, which is right next to the Serena branch of the Greene County Public Library. It was a late model Camaro painted up in patriotic red, white and blue like a NASCAR racer, only the lettering spelled out POLICE. In the shaded area at the top portion of the windshield there was this message: This vehicle seized in drug arrest! Around Serena that's pronounced vee-hick-ell, with equal emphasis given to each syllable.
To Harry's way of thinking this was a warning to all Americans that the government of the People, by the People and for the People could walk off with their private property without any prior notice and the burden of proof would be on the citizen to prove that he was entitled to get it back. Next to the proliferation of capital punishment, this was the most disheartening legal development of the '90s.
The moment he set eyes on that vehicle, with its supercharger air scoop and its adjustable rear spoiler, he recalled the story of the client whose two-week-old five liter Mustang was seized when her daughter's boyfriend was arrested for smoking a joint in the front passenger seat. In New York they didn't paint them up and advertise them like this. The liberal citizenry would have been up in arms. Instead, they used them in undercover operations Around here, in the land of the Tafts, this was a trophy of the triumph of good over evil.
Not only that, it was displayed in public at every opportunity, including fairs and parades. So Harry wasn't surprised to see it creeping down the street behind the Four-H float and just ahead of the antique tractors as he stood on the sidelines with Billy at the Founders Day Parade. He was surprised, however, to see who was behind the wheel. It was none other than the infamous Orel Paige, waiving as if he were running for public office.
Harry followed the official police hot-rod with his eyes. When it was about a quarter mile down Main Street, too far for him to make out the details, there was some kind of disturbance. It looked like a man had tried to run out into the road in front of the car and was tackled by people from the crowd. As this was going on, the news helicopter from Channel Seven in Dayton happened to be passing over. It swooped down over the incident. News at eleven, Harry thought to himself. He made a mental note to be sure to watch it.
***
Monday afternoons in the Blue Moon were busier than one might expect. After a morning of writing, Harry liked to drop in for a little camaraderie before the kids came home from school. A couple of cool ones would keep him from blowing his stack when the ritalin started to wear off Jenny's ten-year-old.
This afternoon, Harry found Phil, Hank and Morely down at the end of the bar opposite the television. The midday news was on and they were re-running some of the coverage from Saturday's parade. Around here a fender bender was considered big news. Harry joined them and ordered a draft and a tuna sandwich from Freddie Edwards.
"They show the part where the guy tried to run out in the street?" Harry addressed no one in particular.
"Frankie Adderholdt, Snake's brother..." Morely laughed.
Harry thought he was pulling his leg. "Get outta here!"
"He's not kidding." Phil chimed in.
"It's been almost a year since they took his car and he still ain't over it." Morely was shaking his head.
Maybe there's some justice in the seizure laws after all, Harry thought. "What happened?"
Frankie Adderholdt, his kid brother and a couple of their friends had been to the Saturday night drag races at the Serena Speedway. They'd had a couple beers, but they weren't really drunk. When they piled into Frankie's souped up car out in the parking lot, after having seen all those fast cars, they were pretty fired up. Frankie was in the mood to strut his stuff and the other three were urging him on. When they got to Fairgrounds Road it looked pretty deserted, so Frankie put it to the floor on a straight stretch just to show the boys what it could do. Officer Paige was setting in the Fairgrounds parking lot with his lights out when he spotted headlights coming down the road, changing from a pair of dimes to quarters to silver dollars, faster than he could switch his own on and fire up the siren.
Frankie pulled over as soon as he saw the blue light flashing in his rear view mirror, didn't give Paige any trouble at all. But Paige smelled the beer on his breath and took him in for a breathalyzer. The kid blew a point one-one, barely over the legal limit. Paige drew up the seizure papers and took the car on the spot.
They'd been laying for that car since the first time the Police Chief set eyes on it, even though Frankie'd never run one light or gone one mile over the speed limit. The rumble of the racing cam, the headers, the dual exhaust, though all legal, had gotten the chief's blood boiling. Now the car was his. Paige's reward was to pick his own assignment. He chose to cruise the internet instead of the back roads.
Harry told them the story of how he had run into Audrey Adderholdt and how Paige had been the responding officer.
"It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Frankie beats his old lady," Morely said. "He's a piece of shit, there's no doubt about that. But he still didn't deserve what they done to him. And it's just made him meaner. It's a shame about his wife. She's a purty little thing. I remember when she was a cheerleader over to the high school. Doesn't seem that long ago."
Kresge was thinking: First I write a letter to the editor and mention this Officer Paige by name; a few weeks later, he writes Jenny a speeding ticket; then this Adderholdt woman needs my help and it's Paige who responds to the 911 call; then I see him driving that police hot rod in the parade and now this.
Harry muttered something.
"What's that Ole Hoss?" Phil asked.
"Oh I was just talking to myself... You go your whole life thinking there is no plan, then you see how things work out and you have to wonder."
It was supposed to be a warning to anyone who would use his motor vehicle in the commission of a crime, especially a drug related crime. The first time Harry saw it was in the parking lot of police headquarters, which is right next to the Serena branch of the Greene County Public Library. It was a late model Camaro painted up in patriotic red, white and blue like a NASCAR racer, only the lettering spelled out POLICE. In the shaded area at the top portion of the windshield there was this message: This vehicle seized in drug arrest! Around Serena that's pronounced vee-hick-ell, with equal emphasis given to each syllable.
To Harry's way of thinking this was a warning to all Americans that the government of the People, by the People and for the People could walk off with their private property without any prior notice and the burden of proof would be on the citizen to prove that he was entitled to get it back. Next to the proliferation of capital punishment, this was the most disheartening legal development of the '90s.
The moment he set eyes on that vehicle, with its supercharger air scoop and its adjustable rear spoiler, he recalled the story of the client whose two-week-old five liter Mustang was seized when her daughter's boyfriend was arrested for smoking a joint in the front passenger seat. In New York they didn't paint them up and advertise them like this. The liberal citizenry would have been up in arms. Instead, they used them in undercover operations Around here, in the land of the Tafts, this was a trophy of the triumph of good over evil.
Not only that, it was displayed in public at every opportunity, including fairs and parades. So Harry wasn't surprised to see it creeping down the street behind the Four-H float and just ahead of the antique tractors as he stood on the sidelines with Billy at the Founders Day Parade. He was surprised, however, to see who was behind the wheel. It was none other than the infamous Orel Paige, waiving as if he were running for public office.
Harry followed the official police hot-rod with his eyes. When it was about a quarter mile down Main Street, too far for him to make out the details, there was some kind of disturbance. It looked like a man had tried to run out into the road in front of the car and was tackled by people from the crowd. As this was going on, the news helicopter from Channel Seven in Dayton happened to be passing over. It swooped down over the incident. News at eleven, Harry thought to himself. He made a mental note to be sure to watch it.
***
Monday afternoons in the Blue Moon were busier than one might expect. After a morning of writing, Harry liked to drop in for a little camaraderie before the kids came home from school. A couple of cool ones would keep him from blowing his stack when the ritalin started to wear off Jenny's ten-year-old.
This afternoon, Harry found Phil, Hank and Morely down at the end of the bar opposite the television. The midday news was on and they were re-running some of the coverage from Saturday's parade. Around here a fender bender was considered big news. Harry joined them and ordered a draft and a tuna sandwich from Freddie Edwards.
"They show the part where the guy tried to run out in the street?" Harry addressed no one in particular.
"Frankie Adderholdt, Snake's brother..." Morely laughed.
Harry thought he was pulling his leg. "Get outta here!"
"He's not kidding." Phil chimed in.
"It's been almost a year since they took his car and he still ain't over it." Morely was shaking his head.
Maybe there's some justice in the seizure laws after all, Harry thought. "What happened?"
Frankie Adderholdt, his kid brother and a couple of their friends had been to the Saturday night drag races at the Serena Speedway. They'd had a couple beers, but they weren't really drunk. When they piled into Frankie's souped up car out in the parking lot, after having seen all those fast cars, they were pretty fired up. Frankie was in the mood to strut his stuff and the other three were urging him on. When they got to Fairgrounds Road it looked pretty deserted, so Frankie put it to the floor on a straight stretch just to show the boys what it could do. Officer Paige was setting in the Fairgrounds parking lot with his lights out when he spotted headlights coming down the road, changing from a pair of dimes to quarters to silver dollars, faster than he could switch his own on and fire up the siren.
Frankie pulled over as soon as he saw the blue light flashing in his rear view mirror, didn't give Paige any trouble at all. But Paige smelled the beer on his breath and took him in for a breathalyzer. The kid blew a point one-one, barely over the legal limit. Paige drew up the seizure papers and took the car on the spot.
They'd been laying for that car since the first time the Police Chief set eyes on it, even though Frankie'd never run one light or gone one mile over the speed limit. The rumble of the racing cam, the headers, the dual exhaust, though all legal, had gotten the chief's blood boiling. Now the car was his. Paige's reward was to pick his own assignment. He chose to cruise the internet instead of the back roads.
Harry told them the story of how he had run into Audrey Adderholdt and how Paige had been the responding officer.
"It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Frankie beats his old lady," Morely said. "He's a piece of shit, there's no doubt about that. But he still didn't deserve what they done to him. And it's just made him meaner. It's a shame about his wife. She's a purty little thing. I remember when she was a cheerleader over to the high school. Doesn't seem that long ago."
Kresge was thinking: First I write a letter to the editor and mention this Officer Paige by name; a few weeks later, he writes Jenny a speeding ticket; then this Adderholdt woman needs my help and it's Paige who responds to the 911 call; then I see him driving that police hot rod in the parade and now this.
Harry muttered something.
"What's that Ole Hoss?" Phil asked.
"Oh I was just talking to myself... You go your whole life thinking there is no plan, then you see how things work out and you have to wonder."
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
House of Pain was doing so well on his new job at the Serena Daily Banner that orders came down from high command to offer him some overtime. Norm broached the subject at the end of work on the Friday of his third week on the job. "You're a good worker, Bunky. Ya done so good we're gonna give you a chance to earn a little extra money."
The plum Norm had in mind was the dirtiest job at the paper, something that had to be done once-a-month, clean the printer's ink that had accumulated on the various flat horizontal surfaces about the mammoth room that housed the printing presses.
The Banner was one of the last newspaper operations of its kind. Most papers had been using computers and offset printing for twenty-five years. The Banner had replaced its antiquated equipment with insurance money for water damage their machinery suffered when the paper lost its roof in the '75 tornado. Management had lacked the foresight to go high-tech and had simply purchased updated versions of the same linotype machines and printing presses that they had been using all along. So the equipment, although now itself antiquated, was in reasonably good operating condition. Therefore, the Luddites, who currently over-saw operations, lacked any impetus to go modern. That would remain the case until some time in the not-too-distant future, when the last of the linotype operators would either die off, or retire to Florida. Meanwhile, once-a-month, someone would have to go in there and clean up the mess.
Printer's ink has the consistency of a thick, gelatinous grease. It sticks to any surface with which it comes into contact, and, while it wipes off easily enough, it is usually so thick that it requires more wipes than a baby's butt. None of the janitors from the day crew wanted the extra money bad enough to volunteer for the job, and, since they all had seniority over Norm, it usually fell on him. Now he was off the hook. Volunteering wasn't really an option, but he wouldn't tell that to House, unless he declined it. For now, he would make it seem like a reward. Next month, no doubt, would be different.
House reported to work on Saturday night. Norm was there to supervise. The presses were silent because the Banner didn't publish a Sunday edition.
"Cover yourself with these!" Norm pointed to a pile of recently laundered, large-size industrial rags. He showed House how to tie them around his neck, over his head and around his waist. Then he sent him up a thirty foot high wooden folding-ladder to remove the grease from atop the florescent light fixtures which hung on long rods from the ceiling. "You don't have to get them perfectly clean. The object is to get the heavy. Tomorrow, when they run the presses, they'll just start accumulating the gunk all over again."
At first, House was afraid to climb the shaky ladder. The higher he got, the more nervous he became. "Hold it good!" he called down to Norm when he was about a third of the way up. Once he got to the top, he became so engrossed in the cleaning, that he forgot to be scared.
The black goo was about three inches thick on the white enamel tops of the light fixtures. When House was done with the first one, it shone like new.
"What's takin' so long up there?" Norm was looking at his watch. At this rate, House would only half-finish the job, unless Norm helped. "C'mon down! Let me take a look!"
House climbed down and held the ladder while Norm went up to see what had been done. "Damn, House," he called down, "I told you not to do too good a job. It ain't like Findaly's gonna climb up here and inspect!"
They moved on to the next fixture and it was the same thing. House just couldn't get it into his head to do a less-than-perfect job. Norm wrapped himself in rags and started to clean the fixtures he could reach from the cat-walk that ran around the outer wall of the room. That left House to climb the shaky ladder without anyone securing the bottom. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Soon it was House holding the ladder and Norm atop it, wiping away at the stubborn black glop.
On Monday afternoon, Norm came to the paper early to complain to his immediate superior, the day foreman, about House's performance on Saturday night. "He just ain't cut out for this kind of work."
"I thought you told me he was doing a good job." The day foreman had been wise to Norm for some time.
"Well he was, but he's afraid of heights."
"Can he sweep?"
"Hell yes, he can sweep. He's a sweeping fool."
"Does he have any strength to him."
"Hah, I've been of a mind to enter him in the oxen-pull at the county fair."
"I'm going to put him on days. I need a man can haul the lead over to the linotype machines. He can sweep up when he's not doing that. I'm going to give you Jerome. He's been staying out late, getting drunk an awful lot lately. Hasn't been worth a shit around here in the morning. Nights will do him some good."
"But..."
"No buts. It's done. Let Marvin go home early tonight. Tell him to see me at eight tomorrow morning. Jerome starts with you tomorrow night."
***
House's Mama was proud. Of course her boy was never going to make reporter, but, in just a few weeks, he had been offered overtime and put on days. In her mind this was a promotion. And there was something different about House. Not only was his intelligence increasing, he seemed to be getting smarter, if you could separate the two. It was like he was more worldly-wise. There was no doubt about it, the work was doing him good. That business about the beer being responsible was just a rumor. She stopped giving him beer after the first week. All he'd ever needed was a little social interaction and a little respect. She felt bad that she hadn't tried to put him to work sooner, had babied him too much. He had a lot of catching up to do, but he seemed to be doing it by leaps and bounds.
***
House carefully maneuvered the skid, stacked high with lead ingots, across the special vinyl tiled floor. It was a long trip and he had to weave around a number of obstacles. When he got close to the linotype machine, he started to let it down with the hydraulic jack-lift handle.
"Not there! If you leave it all the way over there, I'll walk right-the-fuck outta here."
House was startled. He looked over at the shrunken old man with the green visor who was seated at the keyboard.
"Do you expect me to lift those heavy bars and carry them all the way over here. You ever hear about the linotype operator strikes that shut down all the New York papers in the 50's?" A cigar wagged in his mouth as he talked.
House didn't speak. He looked at the old man in wonderment. He'd never seen such an old man who was still working.
"Move it closer or I'm outta here! Findlay will have your ass, not mine."
House rolled the skid as close as he could get it. Once again, he started to lower it with the handle.
"No good, dummy!" Louie the linotype operator shouted at him. "More forward."
House complied. This time, when he set the skid down onto the floor, there was no complaint.
House turned and looked at the old man. "House," he said.
"What?"
"You can call me House, like most folks do, or you can call me Marvin. Don't call me dummy."
"You that House of Pain fellow I've heard about? I'm Louie. Just put all the skids right there, where you put that one, and you and I won't have any problems."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, Marvin. Now get them empty skids outta here and go get us a couple of Cokes." He handed him two singles.
***
House had hoped to become a reporter, but he liked working with Louie. The linotype operator had taken him under his wing. Every day Louie showed House something new, stuff he never shared with anyone else at the paper. And he treated House with respect. Besides Phil Rowley, Louie was the only one who ever called him Marvin.
"C'mere Marvin, I wanna show you something." It would be some fine point of the trade, a tip, a shortcut, invariably something House would never have thought of on his own. Slowly, but surely, House was learning this dying trade. He even took adult ed typing classes during the evenings over at the high school. In House, Louie saw a way to keep the craft alive. He had never had a son.
***
Gar Findlay called the day foreman into his office. "I want you to take Marvin Payne off sweeping and any other jobs you might have him do and let him work exclusively with Louie. There ain't enough work with Louie to keep a janitor busy all day."
"I know that, but Louie has threatened to quit if we don't let him have House as his apprentice. He'll continue to move the lead and he can sweep up the area around the linotype machines. We just can't let him out of Louie's sight."
Actually, Gar didn't think this was such a bad idea. Louie was really getting up there in years and the other linotype operator was slow and sloppy. Whenever Louie had been out sick, which, fortunately, hadn't been often, they'd run into real problems getting the paper out on time. Having a back-up, even one who could only help out a little, would be a good thing. And House was proving to be surprisingly competent.
House of Pain was doing so well on his new job at the Serena Daily Banner that orders came down from high command to offer him some overtime. Norm broached the subject at the end of work on the Friday of his third week on the job. "You're a good worker, Bunky. Ya done so good we're gonna give you a chance to earn a little extra money."
The plum Norm had in mind was the dirtiest job at the paper, something that had to be done once-a-month, clean the printer's ink that had accumulated on the various flat horizontal surfaces about the mammoth room that housed the printing presses.
The Banner was one of the last newspaper operations of its kind. Most papers had been using computers and offset printing for twenty-five years. The Banner had replaced its antiquated equipment with insurance money for water damage their machinery suffered when the paper lost its roof in the '75 tornado. Management had lacked the foresight to go high-tech and had simply purchased updated versions of the same linotype machines and printing presses that they had been using all along. So the equipment, although now itself antiquated, was in reasonably good operating condition. Therefore, the Luddites, who currently over-saw operations, lacked any impetus to go modern. That would remain the case until some time in the not-too-distant future, when the last of the linotype operators would either die off, or retire to Florida. Meanwhile, once-a-month, someone would have to go in there and clean up the mess.
Printer's ink has the consistency of a thick, gelatinous grease. It sticks to any surface with which it comes into contact, and, while it wipes off easily enough, it is usually so thick that it requires more wipes than a baby's butt. None of the janitors from the day crew wanted the extra money bad enough to volunteer for the job, and, since they all had seniority over Norm, it usually fell on him. Now he was off the hook. Volunteering wasn't really an option, but he wouldn't tell that to House, unless he declined it. For now, he would make it seem like a reward. Next month, no doubt, would be different.
House reported to work on Saturday night. Norm was there to supervise. The presses were silent because the Banner didn't publish a Sunday edition.
"Cover yourself with these!" Norm pointed to a pile of recently laundered, large-size industrial rags. He showed House how to tie them around his neck, over his head and around his waist. Then he sent him up a thirty foot high wooden folding-ladder to remove the grease from atop the florescent light fixtures which hung on long rods from the ceiling. "You don't have to get them perfectly clean. The object is to get the heavy. Tomorrow, when they run the presses, they'll just start accumulating the gunk all over again."
At first, House was afraid to climb the shaky ladder. The higher he got, the more nervous he became. "Hold it good!" he called down to Norm when he was about a third of the way up. Once he got to the top, he became so engrossed in the cleaning, that he forgot to be scared.
The black goo was about three inches thick on the white enamel tops of the light fixtures. When House was done with the first one, it shone like new.
"What's takin' so long up there?" Norm was looking at his watch. At this rate, House would only half-finish the job, unless Norm helped. "C'mon down! Let me take a look!"
House climbed down and held the ladder while Norm went up to see what had been done. "Damn, House," he called down, "I told you not to do too good a job. It ain't like Findaly's gonna climb up here and inspect!"
They moved on to the next fixture and it was the same thing. House just couldn't get it into his head to do a less-than-perfect job. Norm wrapped himself in rags and started to clean the fixtures he could reach from the cat-walk that ran around the outer wall of the room. That left House to climb the shaky ladder without anyone securing the bottom. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Soon it was House holding the ladder and Norm atop it, wiping away at the stubborn black glop.
On Monday afternoon, Norm came to the paper early to complain to his immediate superior, the day foreman, about House's performance on Saturday night. "He just ain't cut out for this kind of work."
"I thought you told me he was doing a good job." The day foreman had been wise to Norm for some time.
"Well he was, but he's afraid of heights."
"Can he sweep?"
"Hell yes, he can sweep. He's a sweeping fool."
"Does he have any strength to him."
"Hah, I've been of a mind to enter him in the oxen-pull at the county fair."
"I'm going to put him on days. I need a man can haul the lead over to the linotype machines. He can sweep up when he's not doing that. I'm going to give you Jerome. He's been staying out late, getting drunk an awful lot lately. Hasn't been worth a shit around here in the morning. Nights will do him some good."
"But..."
"No buts. It's done. Let Marvin go home early tonight. Tell him to see me at eight tomorrow morning. Jerome starts with you tomorrow night."
***
House's Mama was proud. Of course her boy was never going to make reporter, but, in just a few weeks, he had been offered overtime and put on days. In her mind this was a promotion. And there was something different about House. Not only was his intelligence increasing, he seemed to be getting smarter, if you could separate the two. It was like he was more worldly-wise. There was no doubt about it, the work was doing him good. That business about the beer being responsible was just a rumor. She stopped giving him beer after the first week. All he'd ever needed was a little social interaction and a little respect. She felt bad that she hadn't tried to put him to work sooner, had babied him too much. He had a lot of catching up to do, but he seemed to be doing it by leaps and bounds.
***
House carefully maneuvered the skid, stacked high with lead ingots, across the special vinyl tiled floor. It was a long trip and he had to weave around a number of obstacles. When he got close to the linotype machine, he started to let it down with the hydraulic jack-lift handle.
"Not there! If you leave it all the way over there, I'll walk right-the-fuck outta here."
House was startled. He looked over at the shrunken old man with the green visor who was seated at the keyboard.
"Do you expect me to lift those heavy bars and carry them all the way over here. You ever hear about the linotype operator strikes that shut down all the New York papers in the 50's?" A cigar wagged in his mouth as he talked.
House didn't speak. He looked at the old man in wonderment. He'd never seen such an old man who was still working.
"Move it closer or I'm outta here! Findlay will have your ass, not mine."
House rolled the skid as close as he could get it. Once again, he started to lower it with the handle.
"No good, dummy!" Louie the linotype operator shouted at him. "More forward."
House complied. This time, when he set the skid down onto the floor, there was no complaint.
House turned and looked at the old man. "House," he said.
"What?"
"You can call me House, like most folks do, or you can call me Marvin. Don't call me dummy."
"You that House of Pain fellow I've heard about? I'm Louie. Just put all the skids right there, where you put that one, and you and I won't have any problems."
"Yes sir."
"Okay, Marvin. Now get them empty skids outta here and go get us a couple of Cokes." He handed him two singles.
***
House had hoped to become a reporter, but he liked working with Louie. The linotype operator had taken him under his wing. Every day Louie showed House something new, stuff he never shared with anyone else at the paper. And he treated House with respect. Besides Phil Rowley, Louie was the only one who ever called him Marvin.
"C'mere Marvin, I wanna show you something." It would be some fine point of the trade, a tip, a shortcut, invariably something House would never have thought of on his own. Slowly, but surely, House was learning this dying trade. He even took adult ed typing classes during the evenings over at the high school. In House, Louie saw a way to keep the craft alive. He had never had a son.
***
Gar Findlay called the day foreman into his office. "I want you to take Marvin Payne off sweeping and any other jobs you might have him do and let him work exclusively with Louie. There ain't enough work with Louie to keep a janitor busy all day."
"I know that, but Louie has threatened to quit if we don't let him have House as his apprentice. He'll continue to move the lead and he can sweep up the area around the linotype machines. We just can't let him out of Louie's sight."
Actually, Gar didn't think this was such a bad idea. Louie was really getting up there in years and the other linotype operator was slow and sloppy. Whenever Louie had been out sick, which, fortunately, hadn't been often, they'd run into real problems getting the paper out on time. Having a back-up, even one who could only help out a little, would be a good thing. And House was proving to be surprisingly competent.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
When he first noticed it, the blue car was behind the house next door. It had suddenly appeared there as if it was being hidden from the road. Harry wondered how they had managed to park it there. They would have had to remove a section of fence on the other side of the house, then replace it.
The car remained there for three days, during which Harry occasionally noticed a strange young man in the backyard. But for a thick black moustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Snake. On one occasion, he and Snake were in the yard together, using an old paint can for target practice with a crossbow. Silent and deadly, crossbows had always given Harry the shivers. The last thing he needed was for Snake to have access to one of those things.
On the morning of the fourth day, Harry looked out his bedroom window and was surprised to find that the blue car had been moved to the side of the house closest to his. He could see now that it was some sort of sporty model of Chevrolet, a few years old. It was parked nose in, next to the garage, as if to leave room for the other cars of the household to move in and out. It was almost in Harry's side yard.
The kids were in school and Jenny was at work. Harry was home alone. He hadn't been to his P. O. Box for a couple days and he needed some exercise, so he got his bike out of the garage and headed into town. The car was still there when he returned from the Post Office. As he coasted past the house, he could hear the sound of a woman, talking in a loud voice. He imagined an argument. He decided to keep an eye on things.
Later, when he looked out the window to check on it, he found that the car had been turned around and was now facing out as if for a fast getaway. A woman in a red coat with long brown hair was walking away from the car and into the backyard.
Harry made himself a ham sandwich and opened a can of beer to celebrate the acceptance of one of his stories by a small literary magazine. The phone rang. It was an old poet friend, calling from Oregon.
While he was on the phone, loud music started to emanate from the house next door. Harry bet himself that the next time he looked out the window the car and, perhaps, the woman would be gone. But when he hung up, the car was still there.
After talking writing with his friend, Harry felt that he wanted to write something, but it was too noisy to concentrate. He took his horn case down from the shelf in the bedroom closet and began to practice a Mozart rondo for the community band. He was just starting to go through the piece for the fourth time, when there was a loud knocking on the door. If that's the people next door come to complain about my practicing, Harry thought, someone's going to get hurt. He pulled aside the curtains on the picture window next to the front door and peeked out. It was the woman in the red coat. She pounded again and shouted. "Please open up, I need help!"
Harry opened the door and she rushed inside. He closed it behind her and looked her over. He hadn't really seen her before, not enough to take note of the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips, the firm body under her open coat. She must have been in her mid-twenties. He waited for her to gather her composure enough to speak. "Please, whatever you do, don't let him in." She was sobbing.
"I'll call 911."
"No, don't! It'll be alright in a few minutes. He'll calm down."
Just then, the music next door got louder.
"Are we talking about your husband?"
"Yes. He's on something right now. I don't want to involve the police."
"Did he see you come over here?"
"I'm not sure. He might have."
"Does your husband have a thick black moustache?"
"Yes."
"...and a crossbow?"
"Yeah, but he'd never use it against anyone."
Harry turned and went for the phone on one of the end tables. He dialed 911.
"911 operator. What's your emergency?"
"This is Harry Kresge, 25 Tecumseh Drive. There's a domestic dispute going on next door at 27. The wife just ran over here for protection. I believe her husband is armed and dangerous. Please send a car over here, right away."
"What kind of weapon does he have?"
"A crossbow."
"You're kidding..."
"No I'm not. And I've got reason to believe he's high on something."
"Okay, I'll send a car."
"I wish you hadn't done that," the woman in the red coat said. She had sat on the sofa.
Suddenly it dawned on Harry. "Are you related to that crazy Snake that lives over there?"
"He's my husband's brother - and crazy is right. Sometimes I think they're both loony. Correct that, they're both loony."
"We're new in the neighborhood. I've been trying to figure out what goes on over there. You wouldn't mind filling me in, would you?"
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"How about with your mother-in-law?"
The husband must not have seen his wife go to Harry's house, because he never did come to the door. It was a solid ten minutes before the police cruiser arrived. During that time, the woman eagerly gave Harry the low-down on her mother-in-law, with whom she and her husband had just moved in, because the house they were renting had been damaged in the tornado.
The woman was deaf from birth. Snake's father had met her in Germany while serving there in the Army. She could lip-read German, and since he spoke German, they had been able to communicate. They married and he brought her back to the U.S. like any other soldier who married overseas, only with that one additional problem. She went to school and learned American Sign Language, which enabled her to get a job at the local newspaper in her husband's hometown. The newspaper preferred to hire deaf-mute workers to work near the printing presses, because the machinery was so noisy. Workers who weren't bothered by the noise and who could communicate with each other in sign language had a definite advantage.
While working at The Serena Daily Banner, Snake's mother met other deaf people. Over the years she formed a circle of friends who were closely bound together by their uniqueness. She and her husband had four children, Snake being the youngest. Eventually, she grew apart from her husband, who had little in common with her friends. Then she had an affair with one of her co-workers. When her husband found out, he ran off to Cincinnati, leaving her to hold down a job and raise the four children by herself.
As often happens in such situations, the older children raised the younger ones. The oldest was a daughter, who eventually married and moved out. Next was a son, who did the same, married to the woman in the red coat, who was imparting all this information. Audrey was her name. Currently, Snake, age 16 and a sister who was two years older than he, were the only ones left. Snake had essentially been unsupervised for the past two years.
The mother had taken a number of different lovers and the children never knew when she was going to sleep at home or, if she did, with whom she would be sleeping in their own house. Although Cincinnati was only an hour away, the children had little contact with their father. In recent years, Snake had gone to stay with him for two weeks during the summer. Sometimes, the two weeks would be foreshortened by his misbehavior, and the father would put him on the bus and send him back home.
"Where did he get the name, Snake?" Harry asked.
"The family name is Adderholdt. The kids in school picked up on the adder part of it in the fourth grade from some pirate story they were reading. After that no one ever called him by his real name."
"What is his real name?"
"Wolfgang."
With that, Harry spotted a black and gold police cruiser pulling up in front of his house. The door opened and a tall gangly officer in a uniform, which resembled that of a State Trooper stepped out, then reached back into the car and retrieved his trooper-style hat and placed it on his head. As he started for Harry's front door, Harry opened it and greeted him.
"Come on in, officer. This is Audrey Adderholdt, the victim. I'm Harry Kresge, the next door neighbor who called 911."
When Harry spoke his name, the officer's face contorted as if in painful recognition. When he spoke, he spoke only to the woman. "Howdy Ma'am. I'm officer Paige."
Now it was Harry's turn to search his recollection for the familiar sounding name. Then it came to him. Wasn't he the one who had arrested the so-called child molester from Toledo, the one who had given Jenny the speeding ticket? Oy... So he really was back on patrol. Harry wondered if his letter to the editor, although unpublished, had had anything to do with it. From the look on Paige's face when he heard Harry's name, he guessed that it had. Small town... The editor of the paper, no doubt, bowls or fishes, or drinks beer with the Chief of Police.
Harry looked out the window. The noise had stopped and the blue car was gone. "I think he took off."
Audrey managed to convince Officer Paige that the situation was over and that no further action would be necessary. There had been no mention of her husband being high on anything, so Paige was satisfied and left, but not before giving Harry an evil stare that sent chills down his spine. In that instant, there had been an understanding between the two men. They would meet again, and when they did, there would be no witnesses.
Harry watched the cruiser pull away from the curb. "Listen, if you're scared, you're welcome to stay awhile."
"Thanks, but it's over for today. I've been through this with him before. I'll go back over there now. He won't be back until late tonight. My mother-in-law will be home by then."
"Okay, but if you ever need help, just knock."
"Thanks, you're so sweet." She leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was out the door.
Harry watched her cross the lawn and go back into the house next door. He slumped onto the couch and let out a deep sigh. As he waited for his heart to stop pounding, he thought he detected something stirring inside his shorts.
When he first noticed it, the blue car was behind the house next door. It had suddenly appeared there as if it was being hidden from the road. Harry wondered how they had managed to park it there. They would have had to remove a section of fence on the other side of the house, then replace it.
The car remained there for three days, during which Harry occasionally noticed a strange young man in the backyard. But for a thick black moustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Snake. On one occasion, he and Snake were in the yard together, using an old paint can for target practice with a crossbow. Silent and deadly, crossbows had always given Harry the shivers. The last thing he needed was for Snake to have access to one of those things.
On the morning of the fourth day, Harry looked out his bedroom window and was surprised to find that the blue car had been moved to the side of the house closest to his. He could see now that it was some sort of sporty model of Chevrolet, a few years old. It was parked nose in, next to the garage, as if to leave room for the other cars of the household to move in and out. It was almost in Harry's side yard.
The kids were in school and Jenny was at work. Harry was home alone. He hadn't been to his P. O. Box for a couple days and he needed some exercise, so he got his bike out of the garage and headed into town. The car was still there when he returned from the Post Office. As he coasted past the house, he could hear the sound of a woman, talking in a loud voice. He imagined an argument. He decided to keep an eye on things.
Later, when he looked out the window to check on it, he found that the car had been turned around and was now facing out as if for a fast getaway. A woman in a red coat with long brown hair was walking away from the car and into the backyard.
Harry made himself a ham sandwich and opened a can of beer to celebrate the acceptance of one of his stories by a small literary magazine. The phone rang. It was an old poet friend, calling from Oregon.
While he was on the phone, loud music started to emanate from the house next door. Harry bet himself that the next time he looked out the window the car and, perhaps, the woman would be gone. But when he hung up, the car was still there.
After talking writing with his friend, Harry felt that he wanted to write something, but it was too noisy to concentrate. He took his horn case down from the shelf in the bedroom closet and began to practice a Mozart rondo for the community band. He was just starting to go through the piece for the fourth time, when there was a loud knocking on the door. If that's the people next door come to complain about my practicing, Harry thought, someone's going to get hurt. He pulled aside the curtains on the picture window next to the front door and peeked out. It was the woman in the red coat. She pounded again and shouted. "Please open up, I need help!"
Harry opened the door and she rushed inside. He closed it behind her and looked her over. He hadn't really seen her before, not enough to take note of the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips, the firm body under her open coat. She must have been in her mid-twenties. He waited for her to gather her composure enough to speak. "Please, whatever you do, don't let him in." She was sobbing.
"I'll call 911."
"No, don't! It'll be alright in a few minutes. He'll calm down."
Just then, the music next door got louder.
"Are we talking about your husband?"
"Yes. He's on something right now. I don't want to involve the police."
"Did he see you come over here?"
"I'm not sure. He might have."
"Does your husband have a thick black moustache?"
"Yes."
"...and a crossbow?"
"Yeah, but he'd never use it against anyone."
Harry turned and went for the phone on one of the end tables. He dialed 911.
"911 operator. What's your emergency?"
"This is Harry Kresge, 25 Tecumseh Drive. There's a domestic dispute going on next door at 27. The wife just ran over here for protection. I believe her husband is armed and dangerous. Please send a car over here, right away."
"What kind of weapon does he have?"
"A crossbow."
"You're kidding..."
"No I'm not. And I've got reason to believe he's high on something."
"Okay, I'll send a car."
"I wish you hadn't done that," the woman in the red coat said. She had sat on the sofa.
Suddenly it dawned on Harry. "Are you related to that crazy Snake that lives over there?"
"He's my husband's brother - and crazy is right. Sometimes I think they're both loony. Correct that, they're both loony."
"We're new in the neighborhood. I've been trying to figure out what goes on over there. You wouldn't mind filling me in, would you?"
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"How about with your mother-in-law?"
The husband must not have seen his wife go to Harry's house, because he never did come to the door. It was a solid ten minutes before the police cruiser arrived. During that time, the woman eagerly gave Harry the low-down on her mother-in-law, with whom she and her husband had just moved in, because the house they were renting had been damaged in the tornado.
The woman was deaf from birth. Snake's father had met her in Germany while serving there in the Army. She could lip-read German, and since he spoke German, they had been able to communicate. They married and he brought her back to the U.S. like any other soldier who married overseas, only with that one additional problem. She went to school and learned American Sign Language, which enabled her to get a job at the local newspaper in her husband's hometown. The newspaper preferred to hire deaf-mute workers to work near the printing presses, because the machinery was so noisy. Workers who weren't bothered by the noise and who could communicate with each other in sign language had a definite advantage.
While working at The Serena Daily Banner, Snake's mother met other deaf people. Over the years she formed a circle of friends who were closely bound together by their uniqueness. She and her husband had four children, Snake being the youngest. Eventually, she grew apart from her husband, who had little in common with her friends. Then she had an affair with one of her co-workers. When her husband found out, he ran off to Cincinnati, leaving her to hold down a job and raise the four children by herself.
As often happens in such situations, the older children raised the younger ones. The oldest was a daughter, who eventually married and moved out. Next was a son, who did the same, married to the woman in the red coat, who was imparting all this information. Audrey was her name. Currently, Snake, age 16 and a sister who was two years older than he, were the only ones left. Snake had essentially been unsupervised for the past two years.
The mother had taken a number of different lovers and the children never knew when she was going to sleep at home or, if she did, with whom she would be sleeping in their own house. Although Cincinnati was only an hour away, the children had little contact with their father. In recent years, Snake had gone to stay with him for two weeks during the summer. Sometimes, the two weeks would be foreshortened by his misbehavior, and the father would put him on the bus and send him back home.
"Where did he get the name, Snake?" Harry asked.
"The family name is Adderholdt. The kids in school picked up on the adder part of it in the fourth grade from some pirate story they were reading. After that no one ever called him by his real name."
"What is his real name?"
"Wolfgang."
With that, Harry spotted a black and gold police cruiser pulling up in front of his house. The door opened and a tall gangly officer in a uniform, which resembled that of a State Trooper stepped out, then reached back into the car and retrieved his trooper-style hat and placed it on his head. As he started for Harry's front door, Harry opened it and greeted him.
"Come on in, officer. This is Audrey Adderholdt, the victim. I'm Harry Kresge, the next door neighbor who called 911."
When Harry spoke his name, the officer's face contorted as if in painful recognition. When he spoke, he spoke only to the woman. "Howdy Ma'am. I'm officer Paige."
Now it was Harry's turn to search his recollection for the familiar sounding name. Then it came to him. Wasn't he the one who had arrested the so-called child molester from Toledo, the one who had given Jenny the speeding ticket? Oy... So he really was back on patrol. Harry wondered if his letter to the editor, although unpublished, had had anything to do with it. From the look on Paige's face when he heard Harry's name, he guessed that it had. Small town... The editor of the paper, no doubt, bowls or fishes, or drinks beer with the Chief of Police.
Harry looked out the window. The noise had stopped and the blue car was gone. "I think he took off."
Audrey managed to convince Officer Paige that the situation was over and that no further action would be necessary. There had been no mention of her husband being high on anything, so Paige was satisfied and left, but not before giving Harry an evil stare that sent chills down his spine. In that instant, there had been an understanding between the two men. They would meet again, and when they did, there would be no witnesses.
Harry watched the cruiser pull away from the curb. "Listen, if you're scared, you're welcome to stay awhile."
"Thanks, but it's over for today. I've been through this with him before. I'll go back over there now. He won't be back until late tonight. My mother-in-law will be home by then."
"Okay, but if you ever need help, just knock."
"Thanks, you're so sweet." She leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was out the door.
Harry watched her cross the lawn and go back into the house next door. He slumped onto the couch and let out a deep sigh. As he waited for his heart to stop pounding, he thought he detected something stirring inside his shorts.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Spring rain is sweet, like spoiled milk, but autumn rain is acrid, tainted with the tannic acid of dry leaves, angry red over the season of their demise. In early fall, cold dry fronts slide down from Canada, bumping up against the blistering humid heat of the heartland. The conflict takes place over the middle states. The people of Serena, Ohio consider themselves lucky at such a time, if all that results is thunder and rain. But sometimes they are not so lucky and the outcome is a tornado, or two, or three. In the spring of 1975, three twisters crossed paths and linked up, forming one large unusual tornado with winds that behaved with more than the ordinary fury. It leveled much of Serena. Twenty-five years later, a single funnel, which at times measured force four on a scale of five, followed almost the same path as its ancestor, reminding the folks of Serena, once again, of their mortality. This one was of the autumn variety.
The past night, and again in the morning, there was long rolling thunder, the bowling alley kind, in true stereophonic sound. Thunder had never particularly bothered Harry Kresge before. He figured his chances of getting struck by lightning were about the same as his chances of winning the lottery. But ever since the tornado which touched down about a quarter mile from his house, then tore a straight line path, diagonally from Southwest to Northeast Serena, taking out a Walmart, a Chinese restaurant, four churches, about a hundred houses, an IGA supermarket and dozens of barns and silos, any thunder which moved from point A to point B was potentially that freight train of which he had been warned. Kresge was nervous, not that the experience had touched him in a personal way, much more than if he and Jenny and the kids had still been living in New York.
It had been early in the evening on a Wednesday, two weeks before. They had just returned from shopping. The weather reports had warned of thunder showers, but that was nothing unusual for Southwestern Ohio. A cold front was moving in, but it hadn't been particularly hot. Harry remembered thinking that this didn't seem like tornado conditions, not that anyone had brought up the idea of tornados. It was something that had occurred to him on his own. But there was something weird about the sky. The clouds were grayer than usual.
On the drive home, there had been distant thunder and an occasional flash in the far-off clouds. Drops started to appear on the windshield just before they got to their driveway. "Get the perishables into the house first," Harry told Jenny and the kids. We can leave the other stuff until it stops raining."
They had brought home fresh salmon for their dinner. Jenny immediately started it in the electric oven, hoping to finish it before they lost power. Outages during thunder storms had been a common occurrence in three months since they had moved to Serena.
The thunder and lightening moved closer. The lights flickered briefly. A few minutes later they flickered again, only this time it felt like they almost lost them. Harry went for the computer. He was trying to power down when nature finished the job for him. "Shit!" he muttered. "I hope the computer wasn't damaged."
It was the start of dusk, but with the heavy cloud cover it was getting dark early. Harry found some candles and lit them.
"How long will the power be off?" asked Amy, Jenny's teenage daughter.
"How would I know?" Harry was annoyed. All this kid could think about was television and signing on to AOL to chat with her friends from New York. "It could be a few minutes or it could be a few days."
"Oh, that's just great. And what am I supposed to do without electricity?" As usual, she acted as if it were Harry's fault.
"In the past these power failures have lasted for a couple hours. One of the transformers was probably struck by lightening. That's what usually happens. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything."
Jenny's little boy looked out into the back yard. He was looking up at the utility pole by the back fence. "Why don't you call them to come and fix it?"
"No, Bill, it's not that one. It's probably another one, somewhere in the neighborhood." Harry looked out the front window to see if there were any lights in other houses on the street. There weren't.
The salmon had only been in the oven for about five minutes before the power went off. Harry ventured out into the rain and moved the charcoal grill under the eaves. He removed the cover and squirted lighter fluid on the dead coals that were left-over from the last time they grilled. He lit them with a wooden match and covered them again. He came back into the house. "It'll take about twenty minutes for them to heat up enough. Then we can move the salmon onto the grill and I'll put the cover on it. That should do it."
"Oh Harry, don't even bother! It will come out lousy." Jenny was skeptical any time Harry fired up the barbecue.
"I'm not going to waste fifteen dollars worth of salmon."
"Don't be so cheap."
Harry thought about that for a minute. He had never been a cheapskate. No one would ever have accused him of that, back in New York. That was partly what got him in trouble. But when he bolted with only a moderate grub-stake, he had made up his mind to mend his spending ways - to watch his money. In the short time he had lived alone in a cheap one-room apartment in the north end of town, he had cultivated the habit of conserving, especially food. Then Jenny tracked him down and insisted on joining him. By then, she had figured out that he didn't have much money. Now that she was supporting him, he felt a responsibility to conserve her assets as well. He was ever mindful that she had the two kids to look out for.
The salmon seemed to take forever. Using the old coals wasn't such a hot idea, but Harry wasn't about to admit it. By the time he adjudged the fish to be done, they were all hungry. They ate by candle light. Even Jenny had to admit it was good, but only grudgingly. "When you're hungry, anything tastes good."
"What are we going to do now, Harry?" the girl demanded. "This sucks!"
"I don't know. I think it's kind of fun. Hey, at least Snake can't bother us with his stereo."
Harry took a flashlight into the bedroom and located a small transistor radio. He turned it on and set it on the coffee table in the living room.
"Put on Z-93!" the girl demanded.
Harry was having trouble settling on any station with the tiny dial, much less locating a particular station.
"Let me try!" She grabbed the radio and played with the dial.
Finally she located a strong signal. They were running a commercial so it was hard to tell which station it was. Then the announcer came on. "We are taking you back to our reporter in Serena, where one person has been killed and another one hundred have been hospitalized in a scene reminiscent of the big one of 1975.
That was the first they had heard that they had just been missed by a tornado. It had been about two hours since the lights had gone out. They had consumed a candle-lit meal of salmon stuffed with crab meat, washed down with white wine, while ambulances and rescue workers were working frantically to save lives. The reports from scenes around town were being phoned in from cells phones. Each horror the callers reported was worse than the last.
"This is boring," the girl complained. "Put on Z-93!"
***
The thunder stopped about the time Harry got out of bed and started the coffee. What was it Hank Pitts had told him..? He tried to remember. It had something to do with Indian folklore - something about the weather.
Spring rain is sweet, like spoiled milk, but autumn rain is acrid, tainted with the tannic acid of dry leaves, angry red over the season of their demise. In early fall, cold dry fronts slide down from Canada, bumping up against the blistering humid heat of the heartland. The conflict takes place over the middle states. The people of Serena, Ohio consider themselves lucky at such a time, if all that results is thunder and rain. But sometimes they are not so lucky and the outcome is a tornado, or two, or three. In the spring of 1975, three twisters crossed paths and linked up, forming one large unusual tornado with winds that behaved with more than the ordinary fury. It leveled much of Serena. Twenty-five years later, a single funnel, which at times measured force four on a scale of five, followed almost the same path as its ancestor, reminding the folks of Serena, once again, of their mortality. This one was of the autumn variety.
The past night, and again in the morning, there was long rolling thunder, the bowling alley kind, in true stereophonic sound. Thunder had never particularly bothered Harry Kresge before. He figured his chances of getting struck by lightning were about the same as his chances of winning the lottery. But ever since the tornado which touched down about a quarter mile from his house, then tore a straight line path, diagonally from Southwest to Northeast Serena, taking out a Walmart, a Chinese restaurant, four churches, about a hundred houses, an IGA supermarket and dozens of barns and silos, any thunder which moved from point A to point B was potentially that freight train of which he had been warned. Kresge was nervous, not that the experience had touched him in a personal way, much more than if he and Jenny and the kids had still been living in New York.
It had been early in the evening on a Wednesday, two weeks before. They had just returned from shopping. The weather reports had warned of thunder showers, but that was nothing unusual for Southwestern Ohio. A cold front was moving in, but it hadn't been particularly hot. Harry remembered thinking that this didn't seem like tornado conditions, not that anyone had brought up the idea of tornados. It was something that had occurred to him on his own. But there was something weird about the sky. The clouds were grayer than usual.
On the drive home, there had been distant thunder and an occasional flash in the far-off clouds. Drops started to appear on the windshield just before they got to their driveway. "Get the perishables into the house first," Harry told Jenny and the kids. We can leave the other stuff until it stops raining."
They had brought home fresh salmon for their dinner. Jenny immediately started it in the electric oven, hoping to finish it before they lost power. Outages during thunder storms had been a common occurrence in three months since they had moved to Serena.
The thunder and lightening moved closer. The lights flickered briefly. A few minutes later they flickered again, only this time it felt like they almost lost them. Harry went for the computer. He was trying to power down when nature finished the job for him. "Shit!" he muttered. "I hope the computer wasn't damaged."
It was the start of dusk, but with the heavy cloud cover it was getting dark early. Harry found some candles and lit them.
"How long will the power be off?" asked Amy, Jenny's teenage daughter.
"How would I know?" Harry was annoyed. All this kid could think about was television and signing on to AOL to chat with her friends from New York. "It could be a few minutes or it could be a few days."
"Oh, that's just great. And what am I supposed to do without electricity?" As usual, she acted as if it were Harry's fault.
"In the past these power failures have lasted for a couple hours. One of the transformers was probably struck by lightening. That's what usually happens. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything."
Jenny's little boy looked out into the back yard. He was looking up at the utility pole by the back fence. "Why don't you call them to come and fix it?"
"No, Bill, it's not that one. It's probably another one, somewhere in the neighborhood." Harry looked out the front window to see if there were any lights in other houses on the street. There weren't.
The salmon had only been in the oven for about five minutes before the power went off. Harry ventured out into the rain and moved the charcoal grill under the eaves. He removed the cover and squirted lighter fluid on the dead coals that were left-over from the last time they grilled. He lit them with a wooden match and covered them again. He came back into the house. "It'll take about twenty minutes for them to heat up enough. Then we can move the salmon onto the grill and I'll put the cover on it. That should do it."
"Oh Harry, don't even bother! It will come out lousy." Jenny was skeptical any time Harry fired up the barbecue.
"I'm not going to waste fifteen dollars worth of salmon."
"Don't be so cheap."
Harry thought about that for a minute. He had never been a cheapskate. No one would ever have accused him of that, back in New York. That was partly what got him in trouble. But when he bolted with only a moderate grub-stake, he had made up his mind to mend his spending ways - to watch his money. In the short time he had lived alone in a cheap one-room apartment in the north end of town, he had cultivated the habit of conserving, especially food. Then Jenny tracked him down and insisted on joining him. By then, she had figured out that he didn't have much money. Now that she was supporting him, he felt a responsibility to conserve her assets as well. He was ever mindful that she had the two kids to look out for.
The salmon seemed to take forever. Using the old coals wasn't such a hot idea, but Harry wasn't about to admit it. By the time he adjudged the fish to be done, they were all hungry. They ate by candle light. Even Jenny had to admit it was good, but only grudgingly. "When you're hungry, anything tastes good."
"What are we going to do now, Harry?" the girl demanded. "This sucks!"
"I don't know. I think it's kind of fun. Hey, at least Snake can't bother us with his stereo."
Harry took a flashlight into the bedroom and located a small transistor radio. He turned it on and set it on the coffee table in the living room.
"Put on Z-93!" the girl demanded.
Harry was having trouble settling on any station with the tiny dial, much less locating a particular station.
"Let me try!" She grabbed the radio and played with the dial.
Finally she located a strong signal. They were running a commercial so it was hard to tell which station it was. Then the announcer came on. "We are taking you back to our reporter in Serena, where one person has been killed and another one hundred have been hospitalized in a scene reminiscent of the big one of 1975.
That was the first they had heard that they had just been missed by a tornado. It had been about two hours since the lights had gone out. They had consumed a candle-lit meal of salmon stuffed with crab meat, washed down with white wine, while ambulances and rescue workers were working frantically to save lives. The reports from scenes around town were being phoned in from cells phones. Each horror the callers reported was worse than the last.
"This is boring," the girl complained. "Put on Z-93!"
***
The thunder stopped about the time Harry got out of bed and started the coffee. What was it Hank Pitts had told him..? He tried to remember. It had something to do with Indian folklore - something about the weather.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
It was raining. That's why Harry chose that unlikely spot where the by-pass crosses the Little Miami River. It didn't look, even to Harry's untrained eye, like an ideal place to catch fish. But he had sought the shelter of the over-pass as he fished for the first time as an adult.
The Little Miami winds its way back and forth across the bike paths and back roads of Serena on its way to join its meandering bigger brother in Dayton. It was summer and the river was densely populated with suckers, perch, bluegills, large and small mouth bass and the occasional pickerel. But what did Harry know..?
One day he had gone shopping in the Wal-mart in town. As he entered, he noticed that there was some kind of special promotion going on in the front of the store. A small crowd had gathered around a salesman from the Zebco Company, who was demonstrating fishing equipment. Harry joined the group and quietly watched for a few minutes, before wandering about, looking for whatever it was that he had come there for.
When Harry passed again, on his way to check out, the crowd had dispersed and the salesman was standing there alone by his display, probably hoping that someone like Harry would come along. Harry stopped and picked up one of the clear plastic packages and began to examine it. It seemed to have everything one would need to get started fishing right away, everything but the license, that is. There was a two piece fiberglass rod, a spin-casting reel with 8 lb. test line and an assortment of hooks, bobbers and lures.
Harry remarked on the completeness of the package and inquired about the price. They were giving a two dollar discount as part of their promotion. The whole thing came to about twelve bucks. He was hooked.
"I suppose I'll need a license. How do I go about getting one?"
"Oh they sell them just about everywhere. I think you can get one down Main Street at the bait shop. Here, take one of these," the salesman said as he handed Harry something that seemed like a large rolled up poster. "It's a complementary fish chart."
It was a Saturday afternoon. Harry put the fishing equipment into the wagon and walked down Main to get a license. He figured he'd go fishing first thing in the morning. He'd heard somewhere that shortly after sunrise and shortly before sunset were the best times.
When Harry got up early the next morning, it was raining lightly. Maybe the rain will make the fish hungry, he hoped, his enthusiasm not dampened one bit as he parked in a lot near the bike path. He knew the trail came very close to the river just at the point where it passed under the by-pass. The river flowed fast in that stretch, and there were no weeds for the fish to hide in, but he figured it would have to do for the time being. Perhaps some fish would pass by and see his lure and decide to give it a bite. At least he would get to practice his casting. When he had tried it in the back yard, he'd kept getting snagged various obstacles such as the tree, the fence, the barbecue, the lawn chairs. Jenny had a fit.
He chose a lure which was an imitation of the popular "Red Devil" which even Harry had heard of. It was red with a curved white stripe on one side and silver colored on the other. Harry had seen people fishing with these many years before. The word was that when all else failed, the Red Devil would come through for you. Based on the conditions at hand, he decided to go right to it.
Harry fished for about an hour without even one strike. He was pretty sure that he wasn't going to catch a thing. He could just picture himself coming back to the house empty handed and having to face Jenny, who had been less than enthusiastic about this project from the moment he walked in with my newly acquired equipment and hung his fish poster in the living room. But the rain seemed to be letting up, so he decided to stick it out awhile longer.
A few casts later, he felt something hit his lure just as he started to reel in. It didn't put up much of a fight, but he was pretty sure that it was a living creature, as opposed to an old boot or a tire. He was pretty excited. He could hardly wait to get it out of the water to see what it was.
Well, what it was was pretty darn scary. It was long and slender with shiny green scales. It had a long snout and sharp teeth. It was one of the most vicious looking creatures Harry had ever seen. Whatever it was, he couldn't wait to get it home and show it to Jenny and the kids.
When he got back, they were all still asleep. Jenny awoke and came into the living room to find Harry holding the fish up to the chart, trying to figure out what to call it. The closest thing on the chart was called a Great Northern Pike. The colors weren't exactly right, but the shape was the same.
"Why don't you call your friend Morely and ask him?" my wife said. "I seem to recall Sue telling me that Morely used to fish."
"Right! That's right, he does fish." Harry looked at his watch. "They'll be in church right now. I'll have to wait."
Morely Stevens always had a different way of looking at things. He had grown up on a farm outside of town. Harry had been aware that he fished, but he had decided to try his hand at it before mentioning it to him, because he knew Morely would kid him about being from the city and all the usual stuff that would go along with that. But since Harry had caught this prize of a fish, he figured it would be safe to let him know that he had become a fisherman. Harry waited until he figured they were back from church, then he called. Morely answered.
"Morely, it's Harry. Guess what, I went fishing this morning and I caught a Great Northern Pike." Harry's excitement was obvious.
"A Great Northern? Around here? How big is it?"
"Fourteen inches," Harry told him, rounding up from thirteen and a quarter.
"If that's a Great Northern, it must be a baby. I've never heard of anyone catching one around here. I thought they only had them in places like Minnesota. I'll be right over to take a look at it."
While they were waiting, Harry had Jenny take a Polaroid of him in the back yard, holding up his catch. It was starting to feel smaller since he had talked to Morely.
Morely laughed when he saw the fish. "That's a pickerel."
"Oh, they don't have pickerel on my chart," Harry explained. "Can you eat pickerel?"
"Yeah, they're edible, but most folks don't bother because they have so many tiny bones."
Despite his amusement at Harry's novice behavior, Morely's interest was now aroused. "Let me know the next time you're going to go fishing, I'll go with you. There's some pretty good bass fishing around here, if you know where to go. I'll show you."
The next Saturday night Jenny and Harry were visiting over at Morely and Sue's. Harry asked Morely if he wanted to go fishing in the morning.
"Morely can't go fishing," Sue said. "He hasn't renewed his license."
Sue was probably a tad under five feet tall and Morely was about six-two, yet she could snap the whip and make him dance like a trained bear. But every once in awhile, Morely would get ornery and insist on having his own way. Usually, it would cost him in the end.
"That ain't no big deal. In all my years of hunting and fishing, I ain't never once run into a game warden," he said.
"With your luck, the first time you go fishing without a license will be the first time you see one," she whined.
Then Morely hatched this hair-brained scheme. He would dress in the kind of clothing you would not normally wear to go fishing, "My Sunday goin' to church clothes," he said. "If I hear a game warden approaching through the woods, I'll toss my gear into the water and pretend that I'm just standing there, enjoying the view."
"Oh brother, Morely. I'm warning you, if you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out," Sue said.
The next morning Morely showed Harry where to fish. He took him to a spot up river from where he had first gone. The river was wider and slower and very weedy along the banks.
Morely was an old hand at it. First he showed Harry how to use a surface plug, how to cast it out, stop and wait then jerk, reel and stop, jerk, reel and stop, making it look as if the plug is some kind of wounded animal that fell into the water.
They caught about a half-dozen good-size large mouth bass apiece. Each time, a fish would take the plug, it would break water, jumping into the air about two or three feet, then put up a hell of a fight while being reeled in. After that, they agreed to fish together on a regular basis.
When they got back to Morely's house, Sue was still mad. She made Morely promise to get a license the next day.
A few days later, Morely called Harry. It was early evening. Sue was at work. She worked the evening shift as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. "You want to go fishing?"
"Sure." After that last experience, Harry didn't think he'd ever get enough of fishing.
"Pick me up! Sue's got the car and the battery in my truck has been giving me trouble."
When Harry got to Morely's place, he was waiting outside, dressed in his slacks and raincoat, again.
"What's with the outfit? Didn't you get a license?"
"Never got around to it."
"What are you going to tell Sue, when she comes home and finds the refrigerator full of fish?"
"Oh, I told her I already got a license. I'll pick one up, tomorrow."
They went back to the same place where they had had such good luck the first time. This time, they spread out a bit. Morely was a couple hundred feet off to Harry's left in a wooded section, fishing from the river bank. Harry had waded into the weeds in a more open area. Every now and then they would call out to each other.
After awhile, Harry thought he heard two voices in conversation coming from the direction where Morely was fishing. He stopped casting and listened.
He could hear Morely's voice. "You mean this license is expired?" he said to someone.
"I'm going to have to write you a summons," the other voice said.
After a few minutes, Harry heard someone coming in his direction. It was a game warden, in uniform. He was very polite, even though Harry was sure he suspected that he didn't have a license, either. Harry showed him his license, then packed up his gear and went over to where Morely was.
"What are you going to tell Sue?"
"Hell, I ain't gonna tell her about it. I'm sure I can talk my way out of this when I get before the judge," he said, smiling and obviously confident that he would be able to do just that.
Morely looked at the ticket to see when he had to go to court. "Orem Paige," he said.
"What did you say?"
"Would you believe it? The game warden's name is Orem Paige. Must be Orel Paige's brother." Morely was shaking his head.
"What happened to your plan? I thought you were going to throw you rod into the river."
"He was so quiet sneakin' through the woods, he crept up right behind me, before I even knew he was there."
When Morely went to court, his plea of being a poor retired farmer and a veteran of the Korean Conflict did not impress the judge. He was fined twenty-five dollars.
Morely had been so confident that he would beat the case, that he had not brought any money with him. He told the judge he had to go back to his house and get his ATM card, then go to a cash machine and get the money and return.
"Until such time as you return to this court to pay the fine, I am remanding you to the custody of Game Warden Paige. He will accompany you to your house and to the bank and back here."
Orem Paige waited politely on the porch of Morely's house, but insisted that he leave the front door ajar while he was inside getting his bank card.
"Morely, who is that man?" Sue asked.
"Game Warden Orem Paige, ma'am," he introduced himself.
"Oh no, Morely. You lied to me about the license didn't you?"
"Where's my ATM card at?" he asked.
"How much, Morely?"
"Twenty-five dollars," he said, meekly.
Sue was furious. "How much does a fishing license cost?"
Orem Paige answered for him, "Ten dollars, ma'am."
"I would say I hope you've learned your lesson, but I know you haven't. Take an extra ten dollars out of the bank while you're at it and get a license as soon as you leave the courthouse."
Morely got his license. After that he was well behaved as a trained bear.
Sue eventually cooled down and Harry and Morely had a few laughs over at the Blue Moon, recalling how Morely got caught by Orem Paige and then again by Sue. They would come to learn from Hank and Phil that Orem Paige was legendary around Greene County. Rumor had it that he once wrote up his own brother for jacking a deer.
Harry got to be quite the fisherman. As summer wore on, he acquired all the trappings that go along with the sport, the acumen, the equipment, and the stories.
One day he was fishing by himself. He had decided to try a new spot. He was standing on a bridge casting out into the open water of Caesar Creek Lake. He was using a surface plug called a Jitterbug. It had been his most productive bass lure, but on this day, he wasn't having any luck at all. He decided to try some long casts over toward the shore of the lake, where the trees were hanging over the weeds. He was leery of doing this, because he was afraid of getting tangled in the weeds and losing his expensive lure.
He tried a couple casts, but he didn't quite reach the spot he had in mind. He tried again, harder this time. The lure went over a tree branch and the line got tangled, stopping the lure short, about three feet above the water. Just as the lure came to an abrupt stop, the biggest bass Harry ever saw, leaped out of the water and took it in his mouth.
He tried to reel in, but the line was hopelessly tangled. He stood there, helpless, as the fish fought furiously to free itself. Finally, it got loose, leaving his Jitterbug dangling in the tree.
The next day, in the Blue Moon, when Harry told Morely, Phil and Hank what had happened, they all hooted.
"Morely's got him telling fish stories like an old-timer," Hank laughed. "Next thing you know, he'll be giving us his recipe for steamed bass and cheese grits.
"I can't stand grits," Kresge protested.
It was raining. That's why Harry chose that unlikely spot where the by-pass crosses the Little Miami River. It didn't look, even to Harry's untrained eye, like an ideal place to catch fish. But he had sought the shelter of the over-pass as he fished for the first time as an adult.
The Little Miami winds its way back and forth across the bike paths and back roads of Serena on its way to join its meandering bigger brother in Dayton. It was summer and the river was densely populated with suckers, perch, bluegills, large and small mouth bass and the occasional pickerel. But what did Harry know..?
One day he had gone shopping in the Wal-mart in town. As he entered, he noticed that there was some kind of special promotion going on in the front of the store. A small crowd had gathered around a salesman from the Zebco Company, who was demonstrating fishing equipment. Harry joined the group and quietly watched for a few minutes, before wandering about, looking for whatever it was that he had come there for.
When Harry passed again, on his way to check out, the crowd had dispersed and the salesman was standing there alone by his display, probably hoping that someone like Harry would come along. Harry stopped and picked up one of the clear plastic packages and began to examine it. It seemed to have everything one would need to get started fishing right away, everything but the license, that is. There was a two piece fiberglass rod, a spin-casting reel with 8 lb. test line and an assortment of hooks, bobbers and lures.
Harry remarked on the completeness of the package and inquired about the price. They were giving a two dollar discount as part of their promotion. The whole thing came to about twelve bucks. He was hooked.
"I suppose I'll need a license. How do I go about getting one?"
"Oh they sell them just about everywhere. I think you can get one down Main Street at the bait shop. Here, take one of these," the salesman said as he handed Harry something that seemed like a large rolled up poster. "It's a complementary fish chart."
It was a Saturday afternoon. Harry put the fishing equipment into the wagon and walked down Main to get a license. He figured he'd go fishing first thing in the morning. He'd heard somewhere that shortly after sunrise and shortly before sunset were the best times.
When Harry got up early the next morning, it was raining lightly. Maybe the rain will make the fish hungry, he hoped, his enthusiasm not dampened one bit as he parked in a lot near the bike path. He knew the trail came very close to the river just at the point where it passed under the by-pass. The river flowed fast in that stretch, and there were no weeds for the fish to hide in, but he figured it would have to do for the time being. Perhaps some fish would pass by and see his lure and decide to give it a bite. At least he would get to practice his casting. When he had tried it in the back yard, he'd kept getting snagged various obstacles such as the tree, the fence, the barbecue, the lawn chairs. Jenny had a fit.
He chose a lure which was an imitation of the popular "Red Devil" which even Harry had heard of. It was red with a curved white stripe on one side and silver colored on the other. Harry had seen people fishing with these many years before. The word was that when all else failed, the Red Devil would come through for you. Based on the conditions at hand, he decided to go right to it.
Harry fished for about an hour without even one strike. He was pretty sure that he wasn't going to catch a thing. He could just picture himself coming back to the house empty handed and having to face Jenny, who had been less than enthusiastic about this project from the moment he walked in with my newly acquired equipment and hung his fish poster in the living room. But the rain seemed to be letting up, so he decided to stick it out awhile longer.
A few casts later, he felt something hit his lure just as he started to reel in. It didn't put up much of a fight, but he was pretty sure that it was a living creature, as opposed to an old boot or a tire. He was pretty excited. He could hardly wait to get it out of the water to see what it was.
Well, what it was was pretty darn scary. It was long and slender with shiny green scales. It had a long snout and sharp teeth. It was one of the most vicious looking creatures Harry had ever seen. Whatever it was, he couldn't wait to get it home and show it to Jenny and the kids.
When he got back, they were all still asleep. Jenny awoke and came into the living room to find Harry holding the fish up to the chart, trying to figure out what to call it. The closest thing on the chart was called a Great Northern Pike. The colors weren't exactly right, but the shape was the same.
"Why don't you call your friend Morely and ask him?" my wife said. "I seem to recall Sue telling me that Morely used to fish."
"Right! That's right, he does fish." Harry looked at his watch. "They'll be in church right now. I'll have to wait."
Morely Stevens always had a different way of looking at things. He had grown up on a farm outside of town. Harry had been aware that he fished, but he had decided to try his hand at it before mentioning it to him, because he knew Morely would kid him about being from the city and all the usual stuff that would go along with that. But since Harry had caught this prize of a fish, he figured it would be safe to let him know that he had become a fisherman. Harry waited until he figured they were back from church, then he called. Morely answered.
"Morely, it's Harry. Guess what, I went fishing this morning and I caught a Great Northern Pike." Harry's excitement was obvious.
"A Great Northern? Around here? How big is it?"
"Fourteen inches," Harry told him, rounding up from thirteen and a quarter.
"If that's a Great Northern, it must be a baby. I've never heard of anyone catching one around here. I thought they only had them in places like Minnesota. I'll be right over to take a look at it."
While they were waiting, Harry had Jenny take a Polaroid of him in the back yard, holding up his catch. It was starting to feel smaller since he had talked to Morely.
Morely laughed when he saw the fish. "That's a pickerel."
"Oh, they don't have pickerel on my chart," Harry explained. "Can you eat pickerel?"
"Yeah, they're edible, but most folks don't bother because they have so many tiny bones."
Despite his amusement at Harry's novice behavior, Morely's interest was now aroused. "Let me know the next time you're going to go fishing, I'll go with you. There's some pretty good bass fishing around here, if you know where to go. I'll show you."
The next Saturday night Jenny and Harry were visiting over at Morely and Sue's. Harry asked Morely if he wanted to go fishing in the morning.
"Morely can't go fishing," Sue said. "He hasn't renewed his license."
Sue was probably a tad under five feet tall and Morely was about six-two, yet she could snap the whip and make him dance like a trained bear. But every once in awhile, Morely would get ornery and insist on having his own way. Usually, it would cost him in the end.
"That ain't no big deal. In all my years of hunting and fishing, I ain't never once run into a game warden," he said.
"With your luck, the first time you go fishing without a license will be the first time you see one," she whined.
Then Morely hatched this hair-brained scheme. He would dress in the kind of clothing you would not normally wear to go fishing, "My Sunday goin' to church clothes," he said. "If I hear a game warden approaching through the woods, I'll toss my gear into the water and pretend that I'm just standing there, enjoying the view."
"Oh brother, Morely. I'm warning you, if you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out," Sue said.
The next morning Morely showed Harry where to fish. He took him to a spot up river from where he had first gone. The river was wider and slower and very weedy along the banks.
Morely was an old hand at it. First he showed Harry how to use a surface plug, how to cast it out, stop and wait then jerk, reel and stop, jerk, reel and stop, making it look as if the plug is some kind of wounded animal that fell into the water.
They caught about a half-dozen good-size large mouth bass apiece. Each time, a fish would take the plug, it would break water, jumping into the air about two or three feet, then put up a hell of a fight while being reeled in. After that, they agreed to fish together on a regular basis.
When they got back to Morely's house, Sue was still mad. She made Morely promise to get a license the next day.
A few days later, Morely called Harry. It was early evening. Sue was at work. She worked the evening shift as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. "You want to go fishing?"
"Sure." After that last experience, Harry didn't think he'd ever get enough of fishing.
"Pick me up! Sue's got the car and the battery in my truck has been giving me trouble."
When Harry got to Morely's place, he was waiting outside, dressed in his slacks and raincoat, again.
"What's with the outfit? Didn't you get a license?"
"Never got around to it."
"What are you going to tell Sue, when she comes home and finds the refrigerator full of fish?"
"Oh, I told her I already got a license. I'll pick one up, tomorrow."
They went back to the same place where they had had such good luck the first time. This time, they spread out a bit. Morely was a couple hundred feet off to Harry's left in a wooded section, fishing from the river bank. Harry had waded into the weeds in a more open area. Every now and then they would call out to each other.
After awhile, Harry thought he heard two voices in conversation coming from the direction where Morely was fishing. He stopped casting and listened.
He could hear Morely's voice. "You mean this license is expired?" he said to someone.
"I'm going to have to write you a summons," the other voice said.
After a few minutes, Harry heard someone coming in his direction. It was a game warden, in uniform. He was very polite, even though Harry was sure he suspected that he didn't have a license, either. Harry showed him his license, then packed up his gear and went over to where Morely was.
"What are you going to tell Sue?"
"Hell, I ain't gonna tell her about it. I'm sure I can talk my way out of this when I get before the judge," he said, smiling and obviously confident that he would be able to do just that.
Morely looked at the ticket to see when he had to go to court. "Orem Paige," he said.
"What did you say?"
"Would you believe it? The game warden's name is Orem Paige. Must be Orel Paige's brother." Morely was shaking his head.
"What happened to your plan? I thought you were going to throw you rod into the river."
"He was so quiet sneakin' through the woods, he crept up right behind me, before I even knew he was there."
When Morely went to court, his plea of being a poor retired farmer and a veteran of the Korean Conflict did not impress the judge. He was fined twenty-five dollars.
Morely had been so confident that he would beat the case, that he had not brought any money with him. He told the judge he had to go back to his house and get his ATM card, then go to a cash machine and get the money and return.
"Until such time as you return to this court to pay the fine, I am remanding you to the custody of Game Warden Paige. He will accompany you to your house and to the bank and back here."
Orem Paige waited politely on the porch of Morely's house, but insisted that he leave the front door ajar while he was inside getting his bank card.
"Morely, who is that man?" Sue asked.
"Game Warden Orem Paige, ma'am," he introduced himself.
"Oh no, Morely. You lied to me about the license didn't you?"
"Where's my ATM card at?" he asked.
"How much, Morely?"
"Twenty-five dollars," he said, meekly.
Sue was furious. "How much does a fishing license cost?"
Orem Paige answered for him, "Ten dollars, ma'am."
"I would say I hope you've learned your lesson, but I know you haven't. Take an extra ten dollars out of the bank while you're at it and get a license as soon as you leave the courthouse."
Morely got his license. After that he was well behaved as a trained bear.
Sue eventually cooled down and Harry and Morely had a few laughs over at the Blue Moon, recalling how Morely got caught by Orem Paige and then again by Sue. They would come to learn from Hank and Phil that Orem Paige was legendary around Greene County. Rumor had it that he once wrote up his own brother for jacking a deer.
Harry got to be quite the fisherman. As summer wore on, he acquired all the trappings that go along with the sport, the acumen, the equipment, and the stories.
One day he was fishing by himself. He had decided to try a new spot. He was standing on a bridge casting out into the open water of Caesar Creek Lake. He was using a surface plug called a Jitterbug. It had been his most productive bass lure, but on this day, he wasn't having any luck at all. He decided to try some long casts over toward the shore of the lake, where the trees were hanging over the weeds. He was leery of doing this, because he was afraid of getting tangled in the weeds and losing his expensive lure.
He tried a couple casts, but he didn't quite reach the spot he had in mind. He tried again, harder this time. The lure went over a tree branch and the line got tangled, stopping the lure short, about three feet above the water. Just as the lure came to an abrupt stop, the biggest bass Harry ever saw, leaped out of the water and took it in his mouth.
He tried to reel in, but the line was hopelessly tangled. He stood there, helpless, as the fish fought furiously to free itself. Finally, it got loose, leaving his Jitterbug dangling in the tree.
The next day, in the Blue Moon, when Harry told Morely, Phil and Hank what had happened, they all hooted.
"Morely's got him telling fish stories like an old-timer," Hank laughed. "Next thing you know, he'll be giving us his recipe for steamed bass and cheese grits.
"I can't stand grits," Kresge protested.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
It seemed that time was passing him by. In any event, something was passing him by, the music, morality, technology? Modern culture, in general, had suddenly gotten beyond him. Dot com. Dot com. Everything was a damn dot com. Television, radio, even billboards; dot com this, dot com that. Or, perhaps, he should say this dot com, that dot com. That was the order of it, wasn't it? Hell he wasn't even sure about something apparently as simple and common place as that. He knew it had something to do with the internet, whatever that was. Should he go on the way he was and let all this new-fangled computer stuff pass him by, or should he try to catch up? That was the question of the day for Hank Pitts.
One day he was driving over to Dayton in his pick-up when he spied a new store that had moved into one of those strip malls that had died of too much competition. "Comp U.S.A." was what the sign said. Hank figured it must have something to do with computers. It was a big place and there were lots of cars parked out front. He felt as if he could go in and wander around without being noticed, without makin' a fool out of himself. Hell, why not? Everything was an experience, and you can almost always learn from experience.
Hank felt like a groundhog who'd sprung bear trap. He'd asked a simple question of a salesman and ended up buying a desk top computer with a zillion gigabytes of somethinerother, which he was assured was "user friendly" and came with lots of free software and free internet service for a year.
He was so excited, he forgot what he had been going to Dayton for in the first place. He turned the truck around and headed right home. He was goin' on-line.
He soon discovered that "user friendly" is one of those relative terms. Hank was getting a headache trying to figure out what went where. He wasn't even sure what did what. But he got through it and, by nightfall, the colored lights of the computer screen were reflecting in his eyes and he heard those magic words for the very first time, "Welcome. You've got mail." The mail was from some fellow named Steve Case, who said he was the C.E.O. of America On Line and hoped that Hank would have a good time using his service. "That's nice," Hank mumbled to himself.
Hank thought this was pretty damn hot stuff. He was amazed by all the things his new computer could do. The only problem was, he didn't seem to need any of them. Oh, sure, he could write a letter, but he had no one to write to. He could email his kids, he supposed, but he didn't really have anything to say to them. He'd always been a man of few words. They knew he loved them. He didn't have to email that to them. What about this internet stuff, he wondered, the so called World Wide Web.
He surfed the web, as they say, night after night, until he finally decided that he had no practical use for it. One night his son called, said he'd been having trouble getting through. The line was always busy. So Hank told him about his new computer.
"You've got email, Dad?" his son had sounded amazed. "Wow, Hank Pitts has opened the 21st century with a bang."
So his son gave him his email address and that of his daughter, and Hank tried that out, but he was still a man of few words. The computer would sit there for days, sometimes weeks, before Hank would turn it on out of boredom. When he did, he would check his mail. Once in awhile, he would get a message from one of his children, but mostly there were advertisements, the junk mail of the internet. He heard they called it "spam". Hell, he liked spam, especially with grits and eggs. But he didn't like this stuff. He would delete it all without reading it.
One day he went online to check his mail and found that he had a message from someone named Debbie. Debbie was a window clerk at Post Office where Hank had been Postmaster before he retired. She'd be retiring, herself, in less than a year. He knew she had America On Line, because they had discussed it. She thought it was the bee's knees. She liked to do something called chat. It seemed to Hank that "chat" was all she did at the Post Office all day long anyway. Why she had to go home and chat some more was beyond him.
He wondered what Debbie could want. He hadn't been over to the Post Office for a few days. Perhaps he had a package. He opened the message. It said, "Click here for a good time." It was underlined, which Hank had learned meant to move the cursor onto it and click, and you'd get something else.
She must want to tell me about the Saturday Night Bean Supper over at the Legion Hall, he thought. Hell, I already know about that. He clicked anyway.
What he saw next changed old Hank Pitt's life forever. The screen filled with naked bodies doing all kinds of things to each other that they shouldn't be doin' in public, at least to Hank's way of thinking. The internet is public, isn't it? Hank asked himself.
Since his wife died, Hank hadn't been much for going to church, except for funerals and weddings. And when he was young, before he got married and settled down, he had been a randy son-of-a-gun. Of course, these days, his life was more sedentary. Maybe once a week, he'd drive over Hollowbrook to see the Widow Hutchinson.
So Hank was curious. He'd heard about this pornography on the internet, but he'd never seen it, himself. After awhile, he figured out what all this surfin' the web must really be about. No wonder so many folks were staying up all night playing with their computers.
Night after night, Hank surfed the web. There were thousands, no millions of pictures, mostly of women, letting men do horrible things to them. Some of them were teens. Some of them were grandmothers. Some of them were heavy-set and beyond. Some of them were even men that liked to dress up like women. But mostly they were beautiful young women with perfect bodies, what you might call models. Hank wondered where they got all these women, so many women who were willing to humiliate themselves in public. That's what it was wasn't it? Weren't they worried that someone they knew might see their picture? Weren't they afraid that they might be recognized?
He began to examine their eyes. He no longer cared to look at their breasts or their vaginas. He cared about their motivation. Maybe he even cared about them. He looked deep into their eyes and, mostly, he saw nothing. Especially with the model-types, there was nothing behind that shiny veneer of what he preferred to think was feigned enjoyment. These were the ones he called the professionals.
But, every once in awhile, he would come across a photograph that would strike him differently. There would be something in the face that would get his attention. He couldn't call it emotion. In these pictures, even indifference might pass for an emotion in comparison to the posed expressions of the professionals. It was sadness. Yup, he decided, that was what it was. Sometimes the sadness would show through, and that was what Hank set out to look for.
Every night on this new-fangled gadget with a zillion gigabytes of whatever, Hank would look for sadness. And when he found it, he would save it with the click of a mouse. He must have saved a hundred photographs of the deep sadness of humiliated women.
Sometimes, instead of going on the internet, Hank would spend the evening looking at the pictures he had saved, thinking of ways to make them less obscene; thinking, as an artist would, how he could paint these women, capturing their sadness, the sadness alone.
There was one photograph which he kept returning to. It was a photograph of a woman sitting on a toilet. It left nothing to the imagination, nothing, that is, unless you focussed on the sadness in her eyes. He had found it on a site called, "Women with hairy bushes," located at http://www.hairy_bushes.com/.
One night he decided to do something with the photograph. He had a program which could be used to do all kinds of manipulations. He could enlarge. He could sharpen, change the brightness and contrast, alter the colors, all kinds of things. And he could crop.
Hank started by cropping the photograph so that only about a quarter of it was left. All the obscene stuff was gone. What was left was this sad-eyed woman with her hair in disarray, head tilted to her right, resting on one hand. Her blouse was open revealing her small right breast. But it was the eyes that were the important part, eyes which, although they were downcast to the right, seemed to be looking at nothing, as if she were lost in thought.
He tried several crops before settling on one. Then he started using enhancements to take the picture out of the realm of photography and into his world, the world of the painting. He softened, posterized, balanced tone... He experimented over and over until he got it just right.
When he was done, he printed it out on the color printer, for which, up until this point, he'd never had a use. The end result was a painting worthy of Paris museum. "Woman, seated," he called it. Hank taped it on his refrigerator, where he would look at it while he ate his supper every night.
Hank did similar things to dozens of the other hundred-or-so photographs which he had saved, and he often went on the internet looking for more photographs to fix, but nothing came close to his first effort. There was something different about this woman. She looked like a foreigner. He imagined an exotic accent. He wondered about her, more than was, perhaps, healthy. He wished he could make her sadness go away.
As time passed, the Widow Hutchinson began to notice a certain indifference in her lover. He came around less; talked less, if that were possible; and seemed less enthusiastic in bed. She had been thinking that they ought to get married, make one household out of two, keep that rascal away from the Blue Moon. That would make more sense than the two of them carrying on this way, but now the prospect seemed about as remote as the man himself. After awhile, he hardly came around at all.
As for Hank, he stopped going on the internet altogether. He even considered selling the computer, or, perhaps, donating it to the middle school. He'd lost interest in fixing what was wrong with pornographic pictures. Putting brush to paint, to paper was more to his liking. He preferred landscapes, cornfields and farmhouses, woods and streams. Women were a bother.
***
One afternoon, Phil Rowley paid a social call to Mona Payne. It had been weeks since she had made him dinner and he had something he wanted to tell her about her son, another development in his amazing progress; that and the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again. There'd been this gnawing feeling in his chest in the intervening weeks. He needed to do something about it.
They swayed gently on her porch swing as he told her the story:
One Saturday, a couple weeks ago, Hank Pitts and I decided to take a ride down to Keeneland in Kentucky. That's something we do every now and then. It's not like we're gamblers or anything. It's just a day out. For twenty bucks, we have an afternoon's entertainment. I don't know if he mentioned it to you, but, this time, we brought House along with us to kinda give him a change of scenery.
We like to get to the track early to catch the daily double. I bet on a couple numbers I culled from the license plate on the car in front of us as we pulled into the parking lot. That's just something I always do. Hank bet his own plate. He was driving. As you can see, the two of us don't know much about improving the breed. House still had the twenty Freddie Edwards gave him, but he was holding onto it, it being the first money he had ever earned and all.
There were ten races on the card, mostly claiming races, usually about eight or ten horses in a race, so the odds weren't too bad. By the last race, neither one of us had lost much, so we decided to bet ten bucks apiece.
Hank was in front of me in the line at the ten dollar window. House had wandered off to get a hot dog, his third of the afternoon. In front of us in the line, a man and a woman were arguing. It started out soft, then got louder to the point where I thought something might happen. The man was obviously a farmer, dirty and bearded and in overalls. He talked like a man from Paintersville. Hank and I probably looked like a couple of hicks to some of the yuppies in the crowd, but there are hicks and then there are hicks. This guy looked like one of those in-bred types who rarely ventures off the farm. The woman was different. She had what sounded like a Russian accent.
The next thing I knew, the man hauled off and smacked her hard against the side of her head. She went down on her knees sobbing. It must have been a reflex reaction, but Hank knelt down next to her as if he were trying to comfort her. I guess it was a foolish thing to do, because that big hay seed was on a rampage. He kicked ole Hank right in the side of the head. Knocked him unconscious.
Well, I tried the grab a hold of the guy, but he tossed me off him like a bale of hay. Then he started after Hank, again. Suddenly, House was there as if he had just appeared out of thin air. He dropped his hot dog and his drink. Without a word, he grabbed the guy by the straps of his overalls and spun him around in a move that looked something like a pair of figure skaters. Then he shoved the guy to the ground and sat on the his chest. That farmer was big, but he looked puny in comparison to your son. After awhile, the man gave up struggling. House sat on him until the security force arrived. They cuffed him and held him for the city police.
An ambulance was called and the crew tended to Hank and the woman. They said she was okay, but they thought Hank needed x-rays at the hospital. They wanted to be sure he didn't have a concussion. The ambulance took Hank and I drove House and the woman to the hospital in Hank's car.
It wasn't any of our business, but the woman must have felt obliged to explain to us what the ruckus had been all about. She told us that was some kind of mail-order bride from Russia. I guess she would have done just about anything to come to America. She thought she would stay married to the farmer long enough to get a green card, then if she didn't like her situation, she would get a divorce. But she didn't liked her situation from the very start. The farm wasn't all it had been cracked up to be and the man was abusive on just about every level that a man can figure out how to abuse a woman. According to her, what we saw at the track was only a small part of her daily routine.
We waited while they ran some tests on Hank. When they were done with him, he found us in the waiting room. The woman, Irena, kissed Hank on the cheek. Well, he stared at her as if she had risen from the dead. In fact, she did look as if she had just climbed out of a grave. Her hair was a mess. Her skin tone was kinda grayish. And those eyes, those sad eyes. Hank just kept staring into them as if he had been hypnotized.
When I offered her a ride, she told us she had no place to go to.
Hank was acting awfully strange. "You can stay at my place," he told her. "You can stay as long as you want. I'm sort of an amateur painter. Maybe you can pose for me." Then he paused a minute while his face turned red. "With your clothes on, of course. Out on my back porch with my cornfield as a backdrop."
I almost dropped my teeth.
She stayed with him up until a couple days ago. Hank told me, the other day, she got a phone call from a Russian immigrant friend in New York. She promised her a place to stay and a couple of job opportunities. The next day, he drove her to the bus terminal in Dayton.
I don't know what's gotten into Hank, lately. He's been acting strange ever since he bought that darned computer. But there's one thing I do know. If House hadn't been along for the ride, we'd a been in a world of trouble.
It seemed that time was passing him by. In any event, something was passing him by, the music, morality, technology? Modern culture, in general, had suddenly gotten beyond him. Dot com. Dot com. Everything was a damn dot com. Television, radio, even billboards; dot com this, dot com that. Or, perhaps, he should say this dot com, that dot com. That was the order of it, wasn't it? Hell he wasn't even sure about something apparently as simple and common place as that. He knew it had something to do with the internet, whatever that was. Should he go on the way he was and let all this new-fangled computer stuff pass him by, or should he try to catch up? That was the question of the day for Hank Pitts.
One day he was driving over to Dayton in his pick-up when he spied a new store that had moved into one of those strip malls that had died of too much competition. "Comp U.S.A." was what the sign said. Hank figured it must have something to do with computers. It was a big place and there were lots of cars parked out front. He felt as if he could go in and wander around without being noticed, without makin' a fool out of himself. Hell, why not? Everything was an experience, and you can almost always learn from experience.
Hank felt like a groundhog who'd sprung bear trap. He'd asked a simple question of a salesman and ended up buying a desk top computer with a zillion gigabytes of somethinerother, which he was assured was "user friendly" and came with lots of free software and free internet service for a year.
He was so excited, he forgot what he had been going to Dayton for in the first place. He turned the truck around and headed right home. He was goin' on-line.
He soon discovered that "user friendly" is one of those relative terms. Hank was getting a headache trying to figure out what went where. He wasn't even sure what did what. But he got through it and, by nightfall, the colored lights of the computer screen were reflecting in his eyes and he heard those magic words for the very first time, "Welcome. You've got mail." The mail was from some fellow named Steve Case, who said he was the C.E.O. of America On Line and hoped that Hank would have a good time using his service. "That's nice," Hank mumbled to himself.
Hank thought this was pretty damn hot stuff. He was amazed by all the things his new computer could do. The only problem was, he didn't seem to need any of them. Oh, sure, he could write a letter, but he had no one to write to. He could email his kids, he supposed, but he didn't really have anything to say to them. He'd always been a man of few words. They knew he loved them. He didn't have to email that to them. What about this internet stuff, he wondered, the so called World Wide Web.
He surfed the web, as they say, night after night, until he finally decided that he had no practical use for it. One night his son called, said he'd been having trouble getting through. The line was always busy. So Hank told him about his new computer.
"You've got email, Dad?" his son had sounded amazed. "Wow, Hank Pitts has opened the 21st century with a bang."
So his son gave him his email address and that of his daughter, and Hank tried that out, but he was still a man of few words. The computer would sit there for days, sometimes weeks, before Hank would turn it on out of boredom. When he did, he would check his mail. Once in awhile, he would get a message from one of his children, but mostly there were advertisements, the junk mail of the internet. He heard they called it "spam". Hell, he liked spam, especially with grits and eggs. But he didn't like this stuff. He would delete it all without reading it.
One day he went online to check his mail and found that he had a message from someone named Debbie. Debbie was a window clerk at Post Office where Hank had been Postmaster before he retired. She'd be retiring, herself, in less than a year. He knew she had America On Line, because they had discussed it. She thought it was the bee's knees. She liked to do something called chat. It seemed to Hank that "chat" was all she did at the Post Office all day long anyway. Why she had to go home and chat some more was beyond him.
He wondered what Debbie could want. He hadn't been over to the Post Office for a few days. Perhaps he had a package. He opened the message. It said, "Click here for a good time." It was underlined, which Hank had learned meant to move the cursor onto it and click, and you'd get something else.
She must want to tell me about the Saturday Night Bean Supper over at the Legion Hall, he thought. Hell, I already know about that. He clicked anyway.
What he saw next changed old Hank Pitt's life forever. The screen filled with naked bodies doing all kinds of things to each other that they shouldn't be doin' in public, at least to Hank's way of thinking. The internet is public, isn't it? Hank asked himself.
Since his wife died, Hank hadn't been much for going to church, except for funerals and weddings. And when he was young, before he got married and settled down, he had been a randy son-of-a-gun. Of course, these days, his life was more sedentary. Maybe once a week, he'd drive over Hollowbrook to see the Widow Hutchinson.
So Hank was curious. He'd heard about this pornography on the internet, but he'd never seen it, himself. After awhile, he figured out what all this surfin' the web must really be about. No wonder so many folks were staying up all night playing with their computers.
Night after night, Hank surfed the web. There were thousands, no millions of pictures, mostly of women, letting men do horrible things to them. Some of them were teens. Some of them were grandmothers. Some of them were heavy-set and beyond. Some of them were even men that liked to dress up like women. But mostly they were beautiful young women with perfect bodies, what you might call models. Hank wondered where they got all these women, so many women who were willing to humiliate themselves in public. That's what it was wasn't it? Weren't they worried that someone they knew might see their picture? Weren't they afraid that they might be recognized?
He began to examine their eyes. He no longer cared to look at their breasts or their vaginas. He cared about their motivation. Maybe he even cared about them. He looked deep into their eyes and, mostly, he saw nothing. Especially with the model-types, there was nothing behind that shiny veneer of what he preferred to think was feigned enjoyment. These were the ones he called the professionals.
But, every once in awhile, he would come across a photograph that would strike him differently. There would be something in the face that would get his attention. He couldn't call it emotion. In these pictures, even indifference might pass for an emotion in comparison to the posed expressions of the professionals. It was sadness. Yup, he decided, that was what it was. Sometimes the sadness would show through, and that was what Hank set out to look for.
Every night on this new-fangled gadget with a zillion gigabytes of whatever, Hank would look for sadness. And when he found it, he would save it with the click of a mouse. He must have saved a hundred photographs of the deep sadness of humiliated women.
Sometimes, instead of going on the internet, Hank would spend the evening looking at the pictures he had saved, thinking of ways to make them less obscene; thinking, as an artist would, how he could paint these women, capturing their sadness, the sadness alone.
There was one photograph which he kept returning to. It was a photograph of a woman sitting on a toilet. It left nothing to the imagination, nothing, that is, unless you focussed on the sadness in her eyes. He had found it on a site called, "Women with hairy bushes," located at http://www.hairy_bushes.com/.
One night he decided to do something with the photograph. He had a program which could be used to do all kinds of manipulations. He could enlarge. He could sharpen, change the brightness and contrast, alter the colors, all kinds of things. And he could crop.
Hank started by cropping the photograph so that only about a quarter of it was left. All the obscene stuff was gone. What was left was this sad-eyed woman with her hair in disarray, head tilted to her right, resting on one hand. Her blouse was open revealing her small right breast. But it was the eyes that were the important part, eyes which, although they were downcast to the right, seemed to be looking at nothing, as if she were lost in thought.
He tried several crops before settling on one. Then he started using enhancements to take the picture out of the realm of photography and into his world, the world of the painting. He softened, posterized, balanced tone... He experimented over and over until he got it just right.
When he was done, he printed it out on the color printer, for which, up until this point, he'd never had a use. The end result was a painting worthy of Paris museum. "Woman, seated," he called it. Hank taped it on his refrigerator, where he would look at it while he ate his supper every night.
Hank did similar things to dozens of the other hundred-or-so photographs which he had saved, and he often went on the internet looking for more photographs to fix, but nothing came close to his first effort. There was something different about this woman. She looked like a foreigner. He imagined an exotic accent. He wondered about her, more than was, perhaps, healthy. He wished he could make her sadness go away.
As time passed, the Widow Hutchinson began to notice a certain indifference in her lover. He came around less; talked less, if that were possible; and seemed less enthusiastic in bed. She had been thinking that they ought to get married, make one household out of two, keep that rascal away from the Blue Moon. That would make more sense than the two of them carrying on this way, but now the prospect seemed about as remote as the man himself. After awhile, he hardly came around at all.
As for Hank, he stopped going on the internet altogether. He even considered selling the computer, or, perhaps, donating it to the middle school. He'd lost interest in fixing what was wrong with pornographic pictures. Putting brush to paint, to paper was more to his liking. He preferred landscapes, cornfields and farmhouses, woods and streams. Women were a bother.
***
One afternoon, Phil Rowley paid a social call to Mona Payne. It had been weeks since she had made him dinner and he had something he wanted to tell her about her son, another development in his amazing progress; that and the fact that he just plain wanted to see her again. There'd been this gnawing feeling in his chest in the intervening weeks. He needed to do something about it.
They swayed gently on her porch swing as he told her the story:
One Saturday, a couple weeks ago, Hank Pitts and I decided to take a ride down to Keeneland in Kentucky. That's something we do every now and then. It's not like we're gamblers or anything. It's just a day out. For twenty bucks, we have an afternoon's entertainment. I don't know if he mentioned it to you, but, this time, we brought House along with us to kinda give him a change of scenery.
We like to get to the track early to catch the daily double. I bet on a couple numbers I culled from the license plate on the car in front of us as we pulled into the parking lot. That's just something I always do. Hank bet his own plate. He was driving. As you can see, the two of us don't know much about improving the breed. House still had the twenty Freddie Edwards gave him, but he was holding onto it, it being the first money he had ever earned and all.
There were ten races on the card, mostly claiming races, usually about eight or ten horses in a race, so the odds weren't too bad. By the last race, neither one of us had lost much, so we decided to bet ten bucks apiece.
Hank was in front of me in the line at the ten dollar window. House had wandered off to get a hot dog, his third of the afternoon. In front of us in the line, a man and a woman were arguing. It started out soft, then got louder to the point where I thought something might happen. The man was obviously a farmer, dirty and bearded and in overalls. He talked like a man from Paintersville. Hank and I probably looked like a couple of hicks to some of the yuppies in the crowd, but there are hicks and then there are hicks. This guy looked like one of those in-bred types who rarely ventures off the farm. The woman was different. She had what sounded like a Russian accent.
The next thing I knew, the man hauled off and smacked her hard against the side of her head. She went down on her knees sobbing. It must have been a reflex reaction, but Hank knelt down next to her as if he were trying to comfort her. I guess it was a foolish thing to do, because that big hay seed was on a rampage. He kicked ole Hank right in the side of the head. Knocked him unconscious.
Well, I tried the grab a hold of the guy, but he tossed me off him like a bale of hay. Then he started after Hank, again. Suddenly, House was there as if he had just appeared out of thin air. He dropped his hot dog and his drink. Without a word, he grabbed the guy by the straps of his overalls and spun him around in a move that looked something like a pair of figure skaters. Then he shoved the guy to the ground and sat on the his chest. That farmer was big, but he looked puny in comparison to your son. After awhile, the man gave up struggling. House sat on him until the security force arrived. They cuffed him and held him for the city police.
An ambulance was called and the crew tended to Hank and the woman. They said she was okay, but they thought Hank needed x-rays at the hospital. They wanted to be sure he didn't have a concussion. The ambulance took Hank and I drove House and the woman to the hospital in Hank's car.
It wasn't any of our business, but the woman must have felt obliged to explain to us what the ruckus had been all about. She told us that was some kind of mail-order bride from Russia. I guess she would have done just about anything to come to America. She thought she would stay married to the farmer long enough to get a green card, then if she didn't like her situation, she would get a divorce. But she didn't liked her situation from the very start. The farm wasn't all it had been cracked up to be and the man was abusive on just about every level that a man can figure out how to abuse a woman. According to her, what we saw at the track was only a small part of her daily routine.
We waited while they ran some tests on Hank. When they were done with him, he found us in the waiting room. The woman, Irena, kissed Hank on the cheek. Well, he stared at her as if she had risen from the dead. In fact, she did look as if she had just climbed out of a grave. Her hair was a mess. Her skin tone was kinda grayish. And those eyes, those sad eyes. Hank just kept staring into them as if he had been hypnotized.
When I offered her a ride, she told us she had no place to go to.
Hank was acting awfully strange. "You can stay at my place," he told her. "You can stay as long as you want. I'm sort of an amateur painter. Maybe you can pose for me." Then he paused a minute while his face turned red. "With your clothes on, of course. Out on my back porch with my cornfield as a backdrop."
I almost dropped my teeth.
She stayed with him up until a couple days ago. Hank told me, the other day, she got a phone call from a Russian immigrant friend in New York. She promised her a place to stay and a couple of job opportunities. The next day, he drove her to the bus terminal in Dayton.
I don't know what's gotten into Hank, lately. He's been acting strange ever since he bought that darned computer. But there's one thing I do know. If House hadn't been along for the ride, we'd a been in a world of trouble.
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Harry Kresge picked up the phone. There were few seconds of dead air before someone would finally speak. Harry figured it was probably a sales call. He knew the drill: A computer dialed their number, now he would have to hold the line until the salesperson came on. Doesn't that just beat the band, he thought, I'm waiting for them to try to sell me something I don't want.
"Hello, may I speak to Jenny Chiu?" It was a woman's voice.
"She's not home."
"Is this Mr. Chiu?" Her voice sounded mechanical, almost computerized, as if she was reading from a script, reading with false enthusiasm, her bogus cheerfulness, a turn-off.
"Yes, this is Mr. Chiu," Harry lied for no particular reason, except it was probably easier than explaining, easier to say "no" with finality, when saying it with the imputed authority to speak on behalf of Jenny P. Chiu. He figured he could hang up when he finally tired of playing her and maybe she wouldn't call back. The man of the house would have spoken on the matter.
"Hello, Mr. Chiu. This is Betty, calling on behalf of Ameritech. How are you today?"
Harry wondered why they always started off this way. It provided him with the perfect opportunity to throw them off their script. "Not too good," He told the woman. "I just learned that my mother has been kidnapped by Albanian rebels in the Nicaraguan rain forest."
There was a moment of confused silence, then, "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Then more silence as the woman fumbled, trying to find her place on the script. "Mr. Chiu, the reason why we're calling today is to introduce you to a wonderful new feature that will enhance the performance of your Caller-ID service."
"We don't have Caller-ID - and we don't want it. I told the same thing to the guy who called yesterday. Thank you. Goodbye." Harry hung up before she could find that paragraph in the script that deals with customers who haven't already signed up for Caller-ID.
Harry was pleased with himself. Mr. Chiu, hah! He smiled for a moment before a dark cloud crossed his moon of a face. Could it be the joke was on him?
He looked out the big picture window in the living room to see where Jenny's ten-year-old has wandered off. He had heard him getting his bike out of the garage, earlier, now he wasn't anywhere in sight. He hoped the little shit didn't get hit by a car, but he wasn't worried enough to go out and look for him. He had other things to do.
The washing machine had just stopped. Once again, he had forgotten to add fabric softener during the rinse cycle. Damn that phone call... He toyed with the idea of running the machine through the rinse cycle a second time, just so he could add softener. Jenny had a knack for catching him when he forgot. He decided to risk it. He unloaded the wet laundry into a wicker basket and took it to the clothesline in the backyard.
He looked around to see if Snake was in his yard. Do I give a shit if anyone sees me out here...? I've got more important fish to fry. Fish to fry... Literally, he thought. He had forgotten to take the chicken out of the freezer. It looked like Mrs. Paul's fish-sticks for the second time this week. Jenny was going to have a bird.
"Can I have a drink?" a small voice hollered out the back door.
"Be careful, don't spill!" Harry was glad to have a handle on the boy again.
The laundry hung, he came back into the kitchen to find an open container of milk on the table, a half-empty glass next to it. He had returned just in time to hear the front screen door slam behind the boy.
"Where you going?" Harry called after him, but there was no reply. So he was back where he started. He put the milk carton in the refrigerator, but left the glass where it was, in case the kid returned. Only two more weeks until school's back in session, Harry comforted himself. He couldn't wait to have the house to himself again. Summer is torture.
The glass on the table reminded him of something he'd forgotten to do. He went to the sink and started to load the dishwasher. The phone rang. He dried his hands on a dish-towel and picked up the receiver from the wall phone in the kitchen.
"Did you remember to vacuum?"
"Jeez, Jenny... Gimme a chance. I've been working like a slave all morning."
"Just reminding you," she said, her skepticism barely disguised.
"How's work?" he asked, hoping to sidetrack her.
As he talked, a movement caught his eye. He turned to see Jenny's daughter, trying to get his attention. She was cradling a half dozen pairs of jeans in her arms.
"Hold on a second," he told Jenny. "What is it?" he asked the girl. "I'm on the phone with your mother."
"Don't forget my jeans, when you do the laundry!" the girl said, dropping them in a heap at Harry's feet. She turned and stalked off to the self-imposed isolation of her room.
"What was that?" Jenny asked.
"Oh, nothing. Just the bitch giving me orders, again."
"Harry!"
"Yeah, yeah... I know..." He rolled his eyes. "But... Does she have to wear a clean pair of jeans everyday?"
"Make sure Billy practices the piano. And no video games. You got that? Where is he now?"
"He's in the bathroom," Harry lied. If Jenny knew he didn't have a clue where the brat was at that very moment, he'd have to endure the other lecture, the one about it not being good for the boy to be out gallivanting around all day.
The phone call finished, he went to the girl's room and listened at the door for a moment. The radio was playing softly. He knocked.
"What is it?" She sounded annoyed.
"I've already done the laundry. If you want those jeans washed today, do it yourself!"
The door flew open. The girl pushed past him, stomping emphatically all the way to the kitchen. She picked up the jeans and brought them back to her bedroom, where she dropped them in a pile in the middle of the floor. She slammed the door in Harry's face and turned up her radio.
"Bitch!" he tried to out-shout the radio. He went back to the dishes.
***
Now it was three o'clock. Harry heard the screen door. "Billy?"
"Yeah."
"Don't go anywhere. What do you want for lunch?"
"Cocoa Puffs," the boy responded without any hesitation, despite the fact that Harry had told him a hundred times that he can't have Cocoa Puffs for lunch.
"Grilled cheese, soup, or a hot dog?" Harry asked.
"French toast," the kid said, ignoring his menu.
"Deal." Harry was happy with the compromise. "While I've got you here, don't leave without practicing the piano."
"Later."
"Not later, either now, while I make your French toast, or right after you finish eating."
The boy turned on the television. Harry could hear him flipping channels until he got to the Jerry Springer show. There were the sounds of expletives being bleeped out, people shouting, furniture being smashed. Billy was laughing. He started to give Harry a play-by-play, calling it out all the way to the kitchen.
"Turn that shit off!" Harry moaned.
"Not yet. It's not over."
"Your lunch is ready."
"Bring it in here!"
***
It was six o'clock. Harry heard Jenny's car pull into the driveway.
"Your mother's here," he told the boy. "You better turn off that video game."
Billy jumped up from where he'd been manipulating the game controller on the couch. He unplugged the game and turned the television to the news. He barely scampered back to his seat by the time Jenny opened the door.
She stopped at the threshold and surveyed the room.
"What a shit-hole!"
"And a good evening to you, too. How was your day?"
"Don't try to be funny, Harry. My day sucked and the trip home was worse. I got a speeding ticket, 41 miles per hour in a 25 zone." She handed Harry the yellow summons.
Harry glanced at it idly, not really taking in any of the writing.
"I told the cop, 'I was only doing 35, you fat ass, and that was on a down-hill.'"
"Are you nuts?"
"Well not really, but I wanted to. And he wasn't really fat. In fact he was tall and skinny."
Harry glanced at the ticket, again. He was trying to locate the officer's signature. When he found it, he lets out a low whistle.
"What now?" Jenny asked.
"Orel Paige. You got a ticket from the notorious internet cop. I didn't know he was assigned to traffic."
She ignored Harry and looked around the living room, again. "Why is the video game on the floor? You call this room vacuumed? Did you feed my kids, Harry?"
The phone rang.
"I'll get it," Harry said, happy for the chance to escape. He picked up the receiver in the kitchen.
"Mr. Chiu?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"Yes, this is Mr. Chiu."
Harry Kresge picked up the phone. There were few seconds of dead air before someone would finally speak. Harry figured it was probably a sales call. He knew the drill: A computer dialed their number, now he would have to hold the line until the salesperson came on. Doesn't that just beat the band, he thought, I'm waiting for them to try to sell me something I don't want.
"Hello, may I speak to Jenny Chiu?" It was a woman's voice.
"She's not home."
"Is this Mr. Chiu?" Her voice sounded mechanical, almost computerized, as if she was reading from a script, reading with false enthusiasm, her bogus cheerfulness, a turn-off.
"Yes, this is Mr. Chiu," Harry lied for no particular reason, except it was probably easier than explaining, easier to say "no" with finality, when saying it with the imputed authority to speak on behalf of Jenny P. Chiu. He figured he could hang up when he finally tired of playing her and maybe she wouldn't call back. The man of the house would have spoken on the matter.
"Hello, Mr. Chiu. This is Betty, calling on behalf of Ameritech. How are you today?"
Harry wondered why they always started off this way. It provided him with the perfect opportunity to throw them off their script. "Not too good," He told the woman. "I just learned that my mother has been kidnapped by Albanian rebels in the Nicaraguan rain forest."
There was a moment of confused silence, then, "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Then more silence as the woman fumbled, trying to find her place on the script. "Mr. Chiu, the reason why we're calling today is to introduce you to a wonderful new feature that will enhance the performance of your Caller-ID service."
"We don't have Caller-ID - and we don't want it. I told the same thing to the guy who called yesterday. Thank you. Goodbye." Harry hung up before she could find that paragraph in the script that deals with customers who haven't already signed up for Caller-ID.
Harry was pleased with himself. Mr. Chiu, hah! He smiled for a moment before a dark cloud crossed his moon of a face. Could it be the joke was on him?
He looked out the big picture window in the living room to see where Jenny's ten-year-old has wandered off. He had heard him getting his bike out of the garage, earlier, now he wasn't anywhere in sight. He hoped the little shit didn't get hit by a car, but he wasn't worried enough to go out and look for him. He had other things to do.
The washing machine had just stopped. Once again, he had forgotten to add fabric softener during the rinse cycle. Damn that phone call... He toyed with the idea of running the machine through the rinse cycle a second time, just so he could add softener. Jenny had a knack for catching him when he forgot. He decided to risk it. He unloaded the wet laundry into a wicker basket and took it to the clothesline in the backyard.
He looked around to see if Snake was in his yard. Do I give a shit if anyone sees me out here...? I've got more important fish to fry. Fish to fry... Literally, he thought. He had forgotten to take the chicken out of the freezer. It looked like Mrs. Paul's fish-sticks for the second time this week. Jenny was going to have a bird.
"Can I have a drink?" a small voice hollered out the back door.
"Be careful, don't spill!" Harry was glad to have a handle on the boy again.
The laundry hung, he came back into the kitchen to find an open container of milk on the table, a half-empty glass next to it. He had returned just in time to hear the front screen door slam behind the boy.
"Where you going?" Harry called after him, but there was no reply. So he was back where he started. He put the milk carton in the refrigerator, but left the glass where it was, in case the kid returned. Only two more weeks until school's back in session, Harry comforted himself. He couldn't wait to have the house to himself again. Summer is torture.
The glass on the table reminded him of something he'd forgotten to do. He went to the sink and started to load the dishwasher. The phone rang. He dried his hands on a dish-towel and picked up the receiver from the wall phone in the kitchen.
"Did you remember to vacuum?"
"Jeez, Jenny... Gimme a chance. I've been working like a slave all morning."
"Just reminding you," she said, her skepticism barely disguised.
"How's work?" he asked, hoping to sidetrack her.
As he talked, a movement caught his eye. He turned to see Jenny's daughter, trying to get his attention. She was cradling a half dozen pairs of jeans in her arms.
"Hold on a second," he told Jenny. "What is it?" he asked the girl. "I'm on the phone with your mother."
"Don't forget my jeans, when you do the laundry!" the girl said, dropping them in a heap at Harry's feet. She turned and stalked off to the self-imposed isolation of her room.
"What was that?" Jenny asked.
"Oh, nothing. Just the bitch giving me orders, again."
"Harry!"
"Yeah, yeah... I know..." He rolled his eyes. "But... Does she have to wear a clean pair of jeans everyday?"
"Make sure Billy practices the piano. And no video games. You got that? Where is he now?"
"He's in the bathroom," Harry lied. If Jenny knew he didn't have a clue where the brat was at that very moment, he'd have to endure the other lecture, the one about it not being good for the boy to be out gallivanting around all day.
The phone call finished, he went to the girl's room and listened at the door for a moment. The radio was playing softly. He knocked.
"What is it?" She sounded annoyed.
"I've already done the laundry. If you want those jeans washed today, do it yourself!"
The door flew open. The girl pushed past him, stomping emphatically all the way to the kitchen. She picked up the jeans and brought them back to her bedroom, where she dropped them in a pile in the middle of the floor. She slammed the door in Harry's face and turned up her radio.
"Bitch!" he tried to out-shout the radio. He went back to the dishes.
***
Now it was three o'clock. Harry heard the screen door. "Billy?"
"Yeah."
"Don't go anywhere. What do you want for lunch?"
"Cocoa Puffs," the boy responded without any hesitation, despite the fact that Harry had told him a hundred times that he can't have Cocoa Puffs for lunch.
"Grilled cheese, soup, or a hot dog?" Harry asked.
"French toast," the kid said, ignoring his menu.
"Deal." Harry was happy with the compromise. "While I've got you here, don't leave without practicing the piano."
"Later."
"Not later, either now, while I make your French toast, or right after you finish eating."
The boy turned on the television. Harry could hear him flipping channels until he got to the Jerry Springer show. There were the sounds of expletives being bleeped out, people shouting, furniture being smashed. Billy was laughing. He started to give Harry a play-by-play, calling it out all the way to the kitchen.
"Turn that shit off!" Harry moaned.
"Not yet. It's not over."
"Your lunch is ready."
"Bring it in here!"
***
It was six o'clock. Harry heard Jenny's car pull into the driveway.
"Your mother's here," he told the boy. "You better turn off that video game."
Billy jumped up from where he'd been manipulating the game controller on the couch. He unplugged the game and turned the television to the news. He barely scampered back to his seat by the time Jenny opened the door.
She stopped at the threshold and surveyed the room.
"What a shit-hole!"
"And a good evening to you, too. How was your day?"
"Don't try to be funny, Harry. My day sucked and the trip home was worse. I got a speeding ticket, 41 miles per hour in a 25 zone." She handed Harry the yellow summons.
Harry glanced at it idly, not really taking in any of the writing.
"I told the cop, 'I was only doing 35, you fat ass, and that was on a down-hill.'"
"Are you nuts?"
"Well not really, but I wanted to. And he wasn't really fat. In fact he was tall and skinny."
Harry glanced at the ticket, again. He was trying to locate the officer's signature. When he found it, he lets out a low whistle.
"What now?" Jenny asked.
"Orel Paige. You got a ticket from the notorious internet cop. I didn't know he was assigned to traffic."
She ignored Harry and looked around the living room, again. "Why is the video game on the floor? You call this room vacuumed? Did you feed my kids, Harry?"
The phone rang.
"I'll get it," Harry said, happy for the chance to escape. He picked up the receiver in the kitchen.
"Mr. Chiu?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"Yes, this is Mr. Chiu."
Nothing Better To Do - a novel in stories - Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Somewhere in his thirty-third year, Marvin Payne suddenly, and without any logical explanation, achieved a new level of intelligence. Brain-damaged at birth and virtually uneducated, folks around Serena never figured Marvin, or House of Pain, as they called him, would ever be meaningfully employed. They wondered what would become of him after his mother passed on. But one hot summer day, so the story goes, he walked into the house carrying a copy of the Serena Daily Banner and started reading the financial pages to his mama. Mona Payne supposedly told a neighbor that he had had the smell of beer on his breath that day and that prior to that he had never imbibed. There had been rumors that he had been seen in the Blue Moon Tavern that afternoon with Phil Rowley and Hank Pitts. House of Pain, himself, denied these reports, probably out of a sense of loyalty to the two old culprits.
Whatever the source of his new found abilities, House felt he was ready to go to work. For the next two weeks, he hounded his mother incessantly to help him find a job. This she would gladly have done, but for his insistence that she first try The Daily Banner. He wanted to be a reporter. She knew that was out of the question. And so, they were at an impasse. Finally, one morning, House took matters into his own hands and walked downtown to the offices of the newspaper.
On this special day, he wore a black child's cowboy hat perched atop his large pumpkin of a head, a gray tee shirt that didn't quite cover his considerable belly and black sweat pants that didn't quite reach down to his red Converse canvas high-tops. This cowboy hat, which would have blown off his head, were it not secured under his chin with a red draw-string, was a significant departure from his usual dirty white and green Oakland As baseball cap. You might say that he had dressed for the occasion.
When he returned home that afternoon, House was the proud holder of his first job, not as a reporter, but as night janitor. Gar Findlay, the Managing Editor of the newspaper, had told him he would give him the opportunity to work his way up. House was content with that compromise, figuring that it would only be a matter weeks before the folks at the Banner recognized his true worth. He would start sweeping up on Monday evening.
A few days earlier, Gar had received a phone call from Phil Rowley, apprising him of House's ambitions and asking him if there was any kind of job they could give him. He assured him that House had somehow become more intelligent and could probably hold down some kind of position. He had actually helped Phil on a plumbing job. Gar had already heard the rumors emanating from the Blue Moon, and, having always felt sorry for House, agreed to take him on.
On Monday afternoon, Mona Payne packed Marvin a lunch consisting of three bologna sandwiches on white bread with mustard, two slices of pound cake and a can of Genesee Cream Ale. She hadn't packed him a lunch in twenty years, since he had been a twelve-year-old in the third grade, but she still remembered what he liked. The beer was her own idea. She figured that his intelligence might need a little boost to get him through his first night on the job, so she inquired about the brand of choice at The Blue Moon and purchased a six pack at Dot's Market. That having been done, she convinced him to dress the way he had, the day he had worked with Phil, and sent him on his way.
House arrived at the offices of the Banner five minutes before his starting time of 4:00 p.m. He was met at the loading docks by the night foreman and handed the biggest push-broom he had ever seen. The brush portion was six feet long. Once they entered the area behind the docks, it was easy for him to understand the necessity for such a broom. The room was the size of the gym over at the grade-school, but darker and dingier. The cement floor was knee-deep in crumpled newspaper.
"This is easier than it looks," the foreman explained. "You start at the edges and sweep everything toward the middle. Come 'ere, I want to show you. You see this hole?" In the middle of the room was a rectangular hole about four feet by six feet. "You sweep everything into this hole. Underneath it, in the basement, is a baler. You don't have to worry about that. I'll run it. You sweep the paper into the hole and when the baler is filled, I'll run it - bale it all up. You see all this paper? We should be able to compress it all into one bale."
"You mean like hay?" House's eyes were wide in disbelief.
"You got it Bunky."
"House."
"What?"
"Just call me House. Everyone else does."
"You got it Bunky. You should be able to finish this job by the lunch break. After that, I'll take you up to the offices and show you what to do." The foreman left and House walked to one corner of the large room and started sweeping toward the middle.
As the foreman had said, the work was easier than it looked and House began to enjoy it, especially about half-way into the job, when he started to see some results. Whenever he reached the hole and swept papers down into it, the foreman would call up to him, "You're doin' fine Bunky. Keep up the good work!" House felt good about the job he was doing, although he suspected that the foreman was supposed to be up in the big room with him, helping him to sweep. After a couple hours, when the foreman came up to see how House was doing, House thought he smelled the odor of whiskey on his breath.
"You're a good worker, Bunky," he had said, as he looked around the room at the almost cleared floor. "The sooner you finish up, the sooner you can take lunch."
House liked the idea of that. He had already started thinking about those bologna sandwiches that were sitting in the brown bag which he had left by the door. He had even considered sneaking over and getting one to eat as he swept. Now, that bit of connivance wouldn't be necessary.
After he swept the last of the paper into the hole, he called down to the foreman and told him he was done.
"Get your lunch and come on down here, then." The foreman told him.
House found his brown bag then looked around, confused as to which door the foreman had gone through when he left him. He went over to the hole and started to climb into it.
"Jesus Christ, you don't want to do that Bunky! Use the door directly opposite the hole."
House found the door and went down the stairs which opened into the baling room. House looked around. In the middle of the room was a large piece of heavy machinery directly under the hole from upstairs. Along one wall was a steel table with pipe legs bolted to the floor. In a corner was an old recliner which looked like it had been salvaged from someone's trash. Next to it was a copy of the current edition of the Banner, opened to the sports section.
"Put your lunch over there!" The foreman indicated the steel table. "Then come over here and I'll show you how to thread the baling wire and I'll run the compressor."
When they finished, the foreman declared that it was lunch time and that since they had finished early, they would be able to take an extra fifteen minutes over the normal half-hour. He slumped into his recliner, reached under it and pulled out a flask.
"Lunch," he said, pointing to the whiskey. "What you got, Bunky?"
"House," Marvin corrected him. "Bologna."
"Now that I've seen that you can work, you can call me Norm," the foreman said.
House found a steel folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it and sat. When he pulled the can of beer from his bag and opened it, Norm nodded in approval and gave him the thumbs up.
Norm dozed for awhile, then awoke with a start. He looked at his watch. "We'll give her another five minutes, then we'll go upstairs. They should all be gone by now."
***
The upstairs offices were a combination of cubby-holes in the center of a room about the size of the one House had just swept, surrounded along the walls by small offices with windows and doors that looked in upon the maze in the center. Norm handed him a smaller broom this time and gave him a canvas mail wagon to push around with him. "First you go around to all the rooms and cubicles and dump all the waste baskets into the wagon. Then you go back around and sweep every floor. I'll be down in the bailing room, tidying up. Come down and get me when you're done."
House had the place to himself. All the reporters and secretaries and whoever else worked here had long-since gone home. He felt good after the beer. So this was where he would be working when he got promoted to reporter, he thought. He smiled, trying to imagine which of the desks would be his.
He started in the outer offices. Most of the waste baskets were overflowing with paper waste. He began dumping them, stopping occasionally to read something that would slip to the floor.
The offices belonged to the different editors of the paper. Gar Findlay's office was clearly marked "Managing Editor" in gold leaf lettering on the glass pane in its door. It was in the corner and bigger than the others. House had been here before, the day he was hired. He had saved it for last. All the other baskets had been dumped, all the other floors swept. House looked at the clock on Gar's desk. Once again, he appeared to be ahead of schedule. He sat in Gar's large leather upholstered swivel chair and began handling the nick-knacks on his desk, fingering them as carefully as if they were rare treasured items. He opened and closed drawers.
To his right, on the floor was a wire waste-basket. House thought this was odd. He had already emptied a large brass one that had been quite full. This one had a label taped to the side that read "Letters to the Editor". House began to leaf through the pile. Every one of the letters was from someone named Harry Kresge. House had heard of this Kresge fellow. Freddie the bartender at The Blue Moon had been telling Phil and Hank about him. He was a lawyer from New York. He wasn't sure if he should dump this one. He went downstairs to find the foreman.
Down in the bailing room, Norm was laid out on the recliner, snoring loudly. House had to shake him to rouse him. "What? What? Geeze, don't ever do that! You done already?"
"Almost..." House went on to explain his dilemma.
"Yeah, you can dump it. It's like the Editor's private joke or something. When I first came on the job, I wasn't sure if I should dump it or not, so I asked, too. Go ahead. It's just more rubbish."
House went back upstairs. He dumped the can on top of the pile of trash which almost filled his wagon. He wondered what kind of special trash would get its own basket, labelled "Letters to the Editor." He pulled one off the top of the pile and began to read it:
Dear Editor:
It may not seem like much, but I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that I am no longer tailgated by tiny peroxide blondes in over-sized pickup trucks. This I attribute to having recently registered our car with the Ohio BMV and consequently having removed our telltale New York number plates. That first step toward immersion in Buckeyedom notwithstanding, we continue to be harassed, if not on the road, then at home.
The new neighbor's kid sets off firecrackers on our front lawn at all times of day and night in an apparent effort to get a second look at our teenage daughter. Just once, she came to the front door and excoriated him when he attached several bottle rockets to one of the small oaks in our front yard and sent them whistling onto our roof like a battery of Patriot Missiles in pursuit of an enemy Scud. Last night I had to go over there and remind him that it was 11:00 p.m. When I asked him to stop, he replied, "Oh, okay," staring at me as is if I had two heads.
I migrated to southwestern Ohio in an attempt to get away from the everyday noise of living in New York, the honking horns, garbage trucks, police and fire sirens, three-Concordes-a-day landing at JFK. I chose this place because I was somewhat familiar with the area, my son from my first marriage having attended college in nearby Hollowbrook. It looked like a nice quiet place to pursue a career as full-time writer.
There is an object lesson in what I am about to tell you, and it is this: Before you buy or rent a house, ask the owner if you can sleep in it for a couple nights.
The woman who lives next door to the little house we have rented here in Serena is deaf-mute, a fact that would be of no consequence to me but for certain aggravating factors. She is a pleasant woman who smiles and waves when she sees us. The problem is that she has a barking dog. Barking dogs are probably something Serenans don't even notice, much in the way that New Yorkers don't notice the yellow cabs which constantly have them in their cross-hairs. But a New Yorker will be acutely aware of a barking dog, tuning in to its every menacing growl, frightened yelp, off-pitch howl, and full-throated woof.
Imagine complaining to someone who can't conceive of that which is the very sum and substance of your complaint against them. If complaints to the non-hearing-impaired owners of barking dogs usually fall on deaf ears, try complaining when the owner really is deaf. So I haven't. I continue to smile and waive whenever I see her and she smiles and waives back, content in the silent world which I so long to attain. Ignorance is bliss.
A little about the four-legged offender himself: It looks like a ten-year-old miniature poodle that hasn't had a trim or a bath in a decade. As there is no logic to its barking, I have come to suspect that the dog itself may very well be deaf and/or blind. The usual things that will set a dog off, such as our ten-year-old son gliding his model airplane in the backyard or a boy setting off firecrackers, do nothing for this mutt. But when all is quiet and not another creature is about, he will suddenly let out with a string of barking that will continue, uninterrupted, for fifteen minutes, then, just as suddenly, stop. We might not hear from him again for an entire day. "Not bad," you say? You might be convinced to retract that, if you were subjected to the barking which occurs at unpredictable, random times, such as 4:30 a.m. and outside our bedroom window, while his owner sleeps soundly through it.
But there's more. Remember our young demolitions expert? He happens to be the son of the lady who can't hear and, therefore, operates with equal impunity to his furry sibling. If complaints to the non-hearing-impaired parents of unruly children usually fall on deaf ears, try complaining when the owner really is deaf. But you've heard all this before.
Ignorance truly is bliss. So is silence.
As I write this, I hear something that sounds like a dog whimpering in the yard of the house on the other side. We have lived here for all of two weeks. There has never been a dog there before. I look out the window and see something that looks like the mutt from the "Our Gang" comedies, right down to the black spot over one eye. Please tell me he's just visiting!
I guess I won't truly be a Serenan until barking dogs are as ordinary as the medallion cabs of my former life.
Very truly yours,
Harry Kresge
***
House liked the letter. It made him laugh. Freddie had said that this Harry Kresge was a funny fellow. House wondered if he knew that his letters to the Editor had all been thrown in the trash. Without knowing why, House decided to retrieve all the letters and take them home. There were about a dozen of them. He found a large envelope that had been in one of the waste baskets. He emptied it and used it to hold the letters. He filled it and stuffed it under his shirt. He decided it would be best not to mention this to Norm.
It was midnight, time to go home. The foreman was pleased with the job House had done. He promised to put in a good word for him. House knew that Norm liked him, because he worked hard and kept his mouth shut. If he could avoid waking him in the future, they would get along just fine.
That night House slept soundly atop the envelope full of letters which he had stuffed under his mattress. In the morning he would read them all.
***
Harry Kresge stopped to check his Post Office Box on his way to the Blue Moon. There was one letter, addressed to him in what he would later describe as a psychotic scrawl. The return address, also scrawled, purported to be that of the Serena Daily Banner. Harry opened it in the car, before pulling out of the Post Office parking lot. The letter was in the same hand:
Dear Mr. Kresge:
I regret that, due to space limitations, we are unable to publish your letter. I am, however, sympathetic to your plight and would like to offer you some advice.
My solution to your problem of the barking dog is to fight fire with fire. Get a dog of your own, a large vicious one. If you do not wish to own such an animal, borrow one. I have reason to believe that such a mongrel might be available. If you are interested I suggest that you speak to Morely Stevens. The dog's name is Godzilla. Need I say anything more?
The Editor
Kresge was both amused and a little bit frightened. He was certain that it had not been authored by the Editor of The Banner. But by whom? He would seek counsel at The Blue Moon over a cold one.
***
"Godzilla?" Freddie Edwards set the letter back down on the bar. He smiled wickedly. "Godzilla could swallow that mutt in one gulp."
"Well then, I'd have to say this letter contains nothing but sound advice," Kresge quipped. "But who could have written it?"
"Beats me. Morely should be in later. Maybe he'll know."
But Morely Stevens did not know. Neither did any of the other denizens of The Blue Moon. Phil Rowley, however, acted rather strangely when the letter was shown to him. Harry had the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. Had he recognized the handwriting? If he had, he wasn't saying.
"So, you want to borrow Godzilla for a week or so?" Morely asked Harry.
"Christ Almighty!" Hank chimed in. "Talk about the cure being worse than the disease... I was scared to feed that son-of-a-bitch over at Morely's place. I'd be damned if I'd take him home with me."
"All you got to do is chain him up in the yard," Phil said.
"Yeah, and push his food bowl over to him with a long stick," Hank added.
"Must be some dog," Harry said. "If it's alright with you, Morely, I'm game."
"Hell yes, it's alright with me," Morely said. "Just keep your girlfriend's kids out of the yard.
***
Morely Stevens arrived with Godzilla in a big wire cage in the back of his pick-up. The dog looked like a cross between a Doberman Pincer and a German Shepherd. Before he removed the dog from its cage, he carried a large pipe and a heavy galvanized chain into Harry's backyard. He pounded the pipe into the ground with a sledge hammer, having chosen a spot where the length of the chain would allow the dog to roam along the fence between Harry's yard and the yard next door.
"That should do her," he said when he finished rigging the chain. "Let's get the dog."
Harry's girlfriend and her two children watched wide-eyed out the windows as Morely removed the large snarling dog from the cage. Godzilla was on a short leash and Morely was having all he could do to control him as he led him into Harry's yard. When he finally managed to get the dog chained to the pipe and had set out bowls of food and water, he shook Harry's hand and turned to leave.
"I never liked that goddam dog."
"You are going to take him back, next weekend, aren't you?"
"We'll see..." Morely smiled wickedly.
***
"You got video?" Freddie asked, expectantly.
"Not this time, pal," Harry said. "It must have happened in the middle of the night."
"What exactly did happen?"
"All there is is circumstantial evidence. A hole chewed through my chain-link fence, bits of gray fur scattered about my yard, and a hole in the ground where Morely had pounded in the pipe."
"What did your neighbors say?"
"Not a peep. Who knows..? With that stereo thumping away all the time, they might not have noticed their dog is missing. Of course, I did clean up the fur. But there wasn't much I could do about the fence. Hey, both dogs are gone. Who's to say their dog didn't chew the hole and attack my, er..., Morely's dog?"
"Does Morely know yet?"
"Sure. I called him right away. Says he hopes no one ever finds Godzilla. He's glad to be rid of the dog."
The phone rang. Freddie answered it at the back bar, by the cash register. "It's Morely, for you." Freddie stretched the long chord and handed Harry the receiver.
"Harry?" Morely's voice was grave.
"Yeah?"
"You'll never guess who just showed up at my place, carrying the mangiest carcass I've ever seen."
"Godzilla?"
"You got it. Animal Control pulled in the driveway, right after he got home. Seems they've been following him for an hour or so, afraid to go after him."
"What'd they say?"
"They gave me a summons for not having a dog license. It's a fifty dollar fine."
"I thought Godzilla had a license."
"He does. The other mutt didn't have one. I told them he was mine, too. I figured it would be easier that way - less questions. I got a fifteen dollar fine for Godzilla being loose without a leash. They figured that since the other dog was dead, they'd let me go on that one."
"Har. Come on down here, I'll buy you a beer and give you the money for the fines."
"You know what the worst part of it is?"
"No, what?"
"I wanted them to take Godzilla and put him away, but they wouldn't do it. I told them, look what he did! He killed my other dog! You know what they said?"
"No, what?"
"They said, how'd they know the other dog didn't die of natural causes? They was just afraid to deal with the son-of-a-bitch."
"Where's Godzilla, now?"
"Chained up out by the barn, again. You want him?"
"Hell, no. Get your ass down here. I'll buy you a beer."
"Make that a shot and a beer."
"You got it."
Somewhere in his thirty-third year, Marvin Payne suddenly, and without any logical explanation, achieved a new level of intelligence. Brain-damaged at birth and virtually uneducated, folks around Serena never figured Marvin, or House of Pain, as they called him, would ever be meaningfully employed. They wondered what would become of him after his mother passed on. But one hot summer day, so the story goes, he walked into the house carrying a copy of the Serena Daily Banner and started reading the financial pages to his mama. Mona Payne supposedly told a neighbor that he had had the smell of beer on his breath that day and that prior to that he had never imbibed. There had been rumors that he had been seen in the Blue Moon Tavern that afternoon with Phil Rowley and Hank Pitts. House of Pain, himself, denied these reports, probably out of a sense of loyalty to the two old culprits.
Whatever the source of his new found abilities, House felt he was ready to go to work. For the next two weeks, he hounded his mother incessantly to help him find a job. This she would gladly have done, but for his insistence that she first try The Daily Banner. He wanted to be a reporter. She knew that was out of the question. And so, they were at an impasse. Finally, one morning, House took matters into his own hands and walked downtown to the offices of the newspaper.
On this special day, he wore a black child's cowboy hat perched atop his large pumpkin of a head, a gray tee shirt that didn't quite cover his considerable belly and black sweat pants that didn't quite reach down to his red Converse canvas high-tops. This cowboy hat, which would have blown off his head, were it not secured under his chin with a red draw-string, was a significant departure from his usual dirty white and green Oakland As baseball cap. You might say that he had dressed for the occasion.
When he returned home that afternoon, House was the proud holder of his first job, not as a reporter, but as night janitor. Gar Findlay, the Managing Editor of the newspaper, had told him he would give him the opportunity to work his way up. House was content with that compromise, figuring that it would only be a matter weeks before the folks at the Banner recognized his true worth. He would start sweeping up on Monday evening.
A few days earlier, Gar had received a phone call from Phil Rowley, apprising him of House's ambitions and asking him if there was any kind of job they could give him. He assured him that House had somehow become more intelligent and could probably hold down some kind of position. He had actually helped Phil on a plumbing job. Gar had already heard the rumors emanating from the Blue Moon, and, having always felt sorry for House, agreed to take him on.
On Monday afternoon, Mona Payne packed Marvin a lunch consisting of three bologna sandwiches on white bread with mustard, two slices of pound cake and a can of Genesee Cream Ale. She hadn't packed him a lunch in twenty years, since he had been a twelve-year-old in the third grade, but she still remembered what he liked. The beer was her own idea. She figured that his intelligence might need a little boost to get him through his first night on the job, so she inquired about the brand of choice at The Blue Moon and purchased a six pack at Dot's Market. That having been done, she convinced him to dress the way he had, the day he had worked with Phil, and sent him on his way.
House arrived at the offices of the Banner five minutes before his starting time of 4:00 p.m. He was met at the loading docks by the night foreman and handed the biggest push-broom he had ever seen. The brush portion was six feet long. Once they entered the area behind the docks, it was easy for him to understand the necessity for such a broom. The room was the size of the gym over at the grade-school, but darker and dingier. The cement floor was knee-deep in crumpled newspaper.
"This is easier than it looks," the foreman explained. "You start at the edges and sweep everything toward the middle. Come 'ere, I want to show you. You see this hole?" In the middle of the room was a rectangular hole about four feet by six feet. "You sweep everything into this hole. Underneath it, in the basement, is a baler. You don't have to worry about that. I'll run it. You sweep the paper into the hole and when the baler is filled, I'll run it - bale it all up. You see all this paper? We should be able to compress it all into one bale."
"You mean like hay?" House's eyes were wide in disbelief.
"You got it Bunky."
"House."
"What?"
"Just call me House. Everyone else does."
"You got it Bunky. You should be able to finish this job by the lunch break. After that, I'll take you up to the offices and show you what to do." The foreman left and House walked to one corner of the large room and started sweeping toward the middle.
As the foreman had said, the work was easier than it looked and House began to enjoy it, especially about half-way into the job, when he started to see some results. Whenever he reached the hole and swept papers down into it, the foreman would call up to him, "You're doin' fine Bunky. Keep up the good work!" House felt good about the job he was doing, although he suspected that the foreman was supposed to be up in the big room with him, helping him to sweep. After a couple hours, when the foreman came up to see how House was doing, House thought he smelled the odor of whiskey on his breath.
"You're a good worker, Bunky," he had said, as he looked around the room at the almost cleared floor. "The sooner you finish up, the sooner you can take lunch."
House liked the idea of that. He had already started thinking about those bologna sandwiches that were sitting in the brown bag which he had left by the door. He had even considered sneaking over and getting one to eat as he swept. Now, that bit of connivance wouldn't be necessary.
After he swept the last of the paper into the hole, he called down to the foreman and told him he was done.
"Get your lunch and come on down here, then." The foreman told him.
House found his brown bag then looked around, confused as to which door the foreman had gone through when he left him. He went over to the hole and started to climb into it.
"Jesus Christ, you don't want to do that Bunky! Use the door directly opposite the hole."
House found the door and went down the stairs which opened into the baling room. House looked around. In the middle of the room was a large piece of heavy machinery directly under the hole from upstairs. Along one wall was a steel table with pipe legs bolted to the floor. In a corner was an old recliner which looked like it had been salvaged from someone's trash. Next to it was a copy of the current edition of the Banner, opened to the sports section.
"Put your lunch over there!" The foreman indicated the steel table. "Then come over here and I'll show you how to thread the baling wire and I'll run the compressor."
When they finished, the foreman declared that it was lunch time and that since they had finished early, they would be able to take an extra fifteen minutes over the normal half-hour. He slumped into his recliner, reached under it and pulled out a flask.
"Lunch," he said, pointing to the whiskey. "What you got, Bunky?"
"House," Marvin corrected him. "Bologna."
"Now that I've seen that you can work, you can call me Norm," the foreman said.
House found a steel folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it and sat. When he pulled the can of beer from his bag and opened it, Norm nodded in approval and gave him the thumbs up.
Norm dozed for awhile, then awoke with a start. He looked at his watch. "We'll give her another five minutes, then we'll go upstairs. They should all be gone by now."
***
The upstairs offices were a combination of cubby-holes in the center of a room about the size of the one House had just swept, surrounded along the walls by small offices with windows and doors that looked in upon the maze in the center. Norm handed him a smaller broom this time and gave him a canvas mail wagon to push around with him. "First you go around to all the rooms and cubicles and dump all the waste baskets into the wagon. Then you go back around and sweep every floor. I'll be down in the bailing room, tidying up. Come down and get me when you're done."
House had the place to himself. All the reporters and secretaries and whoever else worked here had long-since gone home. He felt good after the beer. So this was where he would be working when he got promoted to reporter, he thought. He smiled, trying to imagine which of the desks would be his.
He started in the outer offices. Most of the waste baskets were overflowing with paper waste. He began dumping them, stopping occasionally to read something that would slip to the floor.
The offices belonged to the different editors of the paper. Gar Findlay's office was clearly marked "Managing Editor" in gold leaf lettering on the glass pane in its door. It was in the corner and bigger than the others. House had been here before, the day he was hired. He had saved it for last. All the other baskets had been dumped, all the other floors swept. House looked at the clock on Gar's desk. Once again, he appeared to be ahead of schedule. He sat in Gar's large leather upholstered swivel chair and began handling the nick-knacks on his desk, fingering them as carefully as if they were rare treasured items. He opened and closed drawers.
To his right, on the floor was a wire waste-basket. House thought this was odd. He had already emptied a large brass one that had been quite full. This one had a label taped to the side that read "Letters to the Editor". House began to leaf through the pile. Every one of the letters was from someone named Harry Kresge. House had heard of this Kresge fellow. Freddie the bartender at The Blue Moon had been telling Phil and Hank about him. He was a lawyer from New York. He wasn't sure if he should dump this one. He went downstairs to find the foreman.
Down in the bailing room, Norm was laid out on the recliner, snoring loudly. House had to shake him to rouse him. "What? What? Geeze, don't ever do that! You done already?"
"Almost..." House went on to explain his dilemma.
"Yeah, you can dump it. It's like the Editor's private joke or something. When I first came on the job, I wasn't sure if I should dump it or not, so I asked, too. Go ahead. It's just more rubbish."
House went back upstairs. He dumped the can on top of the pile of trash which almost filled his wagon. He wondered what kind of special trash would get its own basket, labelled "Letters to the Editor." He pulled one off the top of the pile and began to read it:
Dear Editor:
It may not seem like much, but I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that I am no longer tailgated by tiny peroxide blondes in over-sized pickup trucks. This I attribute to having recently registered our car with the Ohio BMV and consequently having removed our telltale New York number plates. That first step toward immersion in Buckeyedom notwithstanding, we continue to be harassed, if not on the road, then at home.
The new neighbor's kid sets off firecrackers on our front lawn at all times of day and night in an apparent effort to get a second look at our teenage daughter. Just once, she came to the front door and excoriated him when he attached several bottle rockets to one of the small oaks in our front yard and sent them whistling onto our roof like a battery of Patriot Missiles in pursuit of an enemy Scud. Last night I had to go over there and remind him that it was 11:00 p.m. When I asked him to stop, he replied, "Oh, okay," staring at me as is if I had two heads.
I migrated to southwestern Ohio in an attempt to get away from the everyday noise of living in New York, the honking horns, garbage trucks, police and fire sirens, three-Concordes-a-day landing at JFK. I chose this place because I was somewhat familiar with the area, my son from my first marriage having attended college in nearby Hollowbrook. It looked like a nice quiet place to pursue a career as full-time writer.
There is an object lesson in what I am about to tell you, and it is this: Before you buy or rent a house, ask the owner if you can sleep in it for a couple nights.
The woman who lives next door to the little house we have rented here in Serena is deaf-mute, a fact that would be of no consequence to me but for certain aggravating factors. She is a pleasant woman who smiles and waves when she sees us. The problem is that she has a barking dog. Barking dogs are probably something Serenans don't even notice, much in the way that New Yorkers don't notice the yellow cabs which constantly have them in their cross-hairs. But a New Yorker will be acutely aware of a barking dog, tuning in to its every menacing growl, frightened yelp, off-pitch howl, and full-throated woof.
Imagine complaining to someone who can't conceive of that which is the very sum and substance of your complaint against them. If complaints to the non-hearing-impaired owners of barking dogs usually fall on deaf ears, try complaining when the owner really is deaf. So I haven't. I continue to smile and waive whenever I see her and she smiles and waives back, content in the silent world which I so long to attain. Ignorance is bliss.
A little about the four-legged offender himself: It looks like a ten-year-old miniature poodle that hasn't had a trim or a bath in a decade. As there is no logic to its barking, I have come to suspect that the dog itself may very well be deaf and/or blind. The usual things that will set a dog off, such as our ten-year-old son gliding his model airplane in the backyard or a boy setting off firecrackers, do nothing for this mutt. But when all is quiet and not another creature is about, he will suddenly let out with a string of barking that will continue, uninterrupted, for fifteen minutes, then, just as suddenly, stop. We might not hear from him again for an entire day. "Not bad," you say? You might be convinced to retract that, if you were subjected to the barking which occurs at unpredictable, random times, such as 4:30 a.m. and outside our bedroom window, while his owner sleeps soundly through it.
But there's more. Remember our young demolitions expert? He happens to be the son of the lady who can't hear and, therefore, operates with equal impunity to his furry sibling. If complaints to the non-hearing-impaired parents of unruly children usually fall on deaf ears, try complaining when the owner really is deaf. But you've heard all this before.
Ignorance truly is bliss. So is silence.
As I write this, I hear something that sounds like a dog whimpering in the yard of the house on the other side. We have lived here for all of two weeks. There has never been a dog there before. I look out the window and see something that looks like the mutt from the "Our Gang" comedies, right down to the black spot over one eye. Please tell me he's just visiting!
I guess I won't truly be a Serenan until barking dogs are as ordinary as the medallion cabs of my former life.
Very truly yours,
Harry Kresge
***
House liked the letter. It made him laugh. Freddie had said that this Harry Kresge was a funny fellow. House wondered if he knew that his letters to the Editor had all been thrown in the trash. Without knowing why, House decided to retrieve all the letters and take them home. There were about a dozen of them. He found a large envelope that had been in one of the waste baskets. He emptied it and used it to hold the letters. He filled it and stuffed it under his shirt. He decided it would be best not to mention this to Norm.
It was midnight, time to go home. The foreman was pleased with the job House had done. He promised to put in a good word for him. House knew that Norm liked him, because he worked hard and kept his mouth shut. If he could avoid waking him in the future, they would get along just fine.
That night House slept soundly atop the envelope full of letters which he had stuffed under his mattress. In the morning he would read them all.
***
Harry Kresge stopped to check his Post Office Box on his way to the Blue Moon. There was one letter, addressed to him in what he would later describe as a psychotic scrawl. The return address, also scrawled, purported to be that of the Serena Daily Banner. Harry opened it in the car, before pulling out of the Post Office parking lot. The letter was in the same hand:
Dear Mr. Kresge:
I regret that, due to space limitations, we are unable to publish your letter. I am, however, sympathetic to your plight and would like to offer you some advice.
My solution to your problem of the barking dog is to fight fire with fire. Get a dog of your own, a large vicious one. If you do not wish to own such an animal, borrow one. I have reason to believe that such a mongrel might be available. If you are interested I suggest that you speak to Morely Stevens. The dog's name is Godzilla. Need I say anything more?
The Editor
Kresge was both amused and a little bit frightened. He was certain that it had not been authored by the Editor of The Banner. But by whom? He would seek counsel at The Blue Moon over a cold one.
***
"Godzilla?" Freddie Edwards set the letter back down on the bar. He smiled wickedly. "Godzilla could swallow that mutt in one gulp."
"Well then, I'd have to say this letter contains nothing but sound advice," Kresge quipped. "But who could have written it?"
"Beats me. Morely should be in later. Maybe he'll know."
But Morely Stevens did not know. Neither did any of the other denizens of The Blue Moon. Phil Rowley, however, acted rather strangely when the letter was shown to him. Harry had the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. Had he recognized the handwriting? If he had, he wasn't saying.
"So, you want to borrow Godzilla for a week or so?" Morely asked Harry.
"Christ Almighty!" Hank chimed in. "Talk about the cure being worse than the disease... I was scared to feed that son-of-a-bitch over at Morely's place. I'd be damned if I'd take him home with me."
"All you got to do is chain him up in the yard," Phil said.
"Yeah, and push his food bowl over to him with a long stick," Hank added.
"Must be some dog," Harry said. "If it's alright with you, Morely, I'm game."
"Hell yes, it's alright with me," Morely said. "Just keep your girlfriend's kids out of the yard.
***
Morely Stevens arrived with Godzilla in a big wire cage in the back of his pick-up. The dog looked like a cross between a Doberman Pincer and a German Shepherd. Before he removed the dog from its cage, he carried a large pipe and a heavy galvanized chain into Harry's backyard. He pounded the pipe into the ground with a sledge hammer, having chosen a spot where the length of the chain would allow the dog to roam along the fence between Harry's yard and the yard next door.
"That should do her," he said when he finished rigging the chain. "Let's get the dog."
Harry's girlfriend and her two children watched wide-eyed out the windows as Morely removed the large snarling dog from the cage. Godzilla was on a short leash and Morely was having all he could do to control him as he led him into Harry's yard. When he finally managed to get the dog chained to the pipe and had set out bowls of food and water, he shook Harry's hand and turned to leave.
"I never liked that goddam dog."
"You are going to take him back, next weekend, aren't you?"
"We'll see..." Morely smiled wickedly.
***
"You got video?" Freddie asked, expectantly.
"Not this time, pal," Harry said. "It must have happened in the middle of the night."
"What exactly did happen?"
"All there is is circumstantial evidence. A hole chewed through my chain-link fence, bits of gray fur scattered about my yard, and a hole in the ground where Morely had pounded in the pipe."
"What did your neighbors say?"
"Not a peep. Who knows..? With that stereo thumping away all the time, they might not have noticed their dog is missing. Of course, I did clean up the fur. But there wasn't much I could do about the fence. Hey, both dogs are gone. Who's to say their dog didn't chew the hole and attack my, er..., Morely's dog?"
"Does Morely know yet?"
"Sure. I called him right away. Says he hopes no one ever finds Godzilla. He's glad to be rid of the dog."
The phone rang. Freddie answered it at the back bar, by the cash register. "It's Morely, for you." Freddie stretched the long chord and handed Harry the receiver.
"Harry?" Morely's voice was grave.
"Yeah?"
"You'll never guess who just showed up at my place, carrying the mangiest carcass I've ever seen."
"Godzilla?"
"You got it. Animal Control pulled in the driveway, right after he got home. Seems they've been following him for an hour or so, afraid to go after him."
"What'd they say?"
"They gave me a summons for not having a dog license. It's a fifty dollar fine."
"I thought Godzilla had a license."
"He does. The other mutt didn't have one. I told them he was mine, too. I figured it would be easier that way - less questions. I got a fifteen dollar fine for Godzilla being loose without a leash. They figured that since the other dog was dead, they'd let me go on that one."
"Har. Come on down here, I'll buy you a beer and give you the money for the fines."
"You know what the worst part of it is?"
"No, what?"
"I wanted them to take Godzilla and put him away, but they wouldn't do it. I told them, look what he did! He killed my other dog! You know what they said?"
"No, what?"
"They said, how'd they know the other dog didn't die of natural causes? They was just afraid to deal with the son-of-a-bitch."
"Where's Godzilla, now?"
"Chained up out by the barn, again. You want him?"
"Hell, no. Get your ass down here. I'll buy you a beer."
"Make that a shot and a beer."
"You got it."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
