Day 182: Monday, April 12, 2010:  You were considered “too big” for sumo wrestling.

THE FREE-FORM VENTING OF AN EXHAUSTED POSTAL WORKER:

I watched “The Blind Side” late last night until stereotypical football hero parts appeared — kind of like the book — where you know he makes it big (plays for the Ravens now) and the touching parts about poverty and struggle and dealing with the cancerous DMV are over.   Now he makes millions and is like a saint.  A huge football saint who paid serious martyrdom dues in a fractured society.

The movie critic voices in my head went at it early yesterday morning, waking me up after a brutal eleven hour day of putting up mail, taking it down, and delivering at the fastest possible rate, with no lunch or breaks.  I barely made it back before the truck came for outgoing mail.  The book Post Office by Bukowski (thanks nursemyra) nailed it.  The job isn’t quite that bad nowadays, but it still holds a lot of residual damage.  I won’t take pain killers for the bolts of pain running from heel to neck, but I see stories like “Blind Side” and know to sacrifice and use these hungry days, to write my ass off and look hard for a better way.  I stretch the pain away and do a lot of gymnastic floor exercises and focus my temper and damn I’ve dropped almost twenty pounds in under three weeks.  The stretching involves crunches and elbow-to-knee crossovers and squats and close-in push-ups and blah blah blah, working the anger and pain out, watching three belt notches appear just like that, and thinking of my little girl.  Time to get mean and hungry and productive.  The pins and wires in my left foot have been hurting and causing cramps at night, but it will go away when muscles adopt.  I could call it “The Frightened Into Shape Diet”.  Or the “Getting Old and Pathetic Activity Book”. 

Jesus!  Off track again.  

This week I’ll call in every day and go after whatever they give me, and continue to look for better work.  I understand Mike Oher’s world and the need to protect your family.  Cut more fat and watch your blindside.  Be the meanest SOB and never relent.  My casing time was slow in the post office, so I showed-up on days off with index cards marked with random addresses and kept casing them until the time greatly improved.  Now I’m learning the numbers.  The job is a low paying beast with no bennys and I will beat the hell out of it until it gives back more or I find something better.  

Meanwhile, the movie critic voices cranked up to full gear, and this is what transpired:

THE TYPICAL MOVIE GEEK CRITIC (TMGC):  Blind Side . . . a great “feel good” movie about what can happen when someone with wealth and influence helps a poor, talented young behemoth who is falling through the cracks.  It just makes you wonder how many others in this situation never get a decent opportunity to have a structured education and organized sports.  Plus, Sandra Bullock as a mother.  A driven, sexy, mothering mother who kicks ass and takes names.  Kudos to her charater portrayal, which is Sandra’s best acting gig in years.  There is a lot of underlying themes in this movie, like “Deliverance”, when Sandra Bullock calls a loud backwoods fan ”Deliverance”, or Kathy Bates describes a dead person’s hand coming up from below, but this time from a football field where bodies are buried, and not the river.  There are many layers to this movie. 

THE RACIST MOVIE CRITIC:  Jesus Christ, boy.  Stick a knife in my eyeball and call it a day.  You’re looking at a spoiled white bread desperate housewife taking in her own personal buck n-word for the ride of a lifetime, before passing THAT on to her daughter, then showing her rich, smug husband what a proper Stallion is all about.  Whoooo-weeee!  Ride ‘em hard and hang ‘em high when you’re done!  I’m particularly fond of the parts where their little boy drives the buck hard and gets his lazy ass slave body into some kind of sporting shape.  He was missing everything but a proper bull whip.  Hoo dang!

TMGC:  Ahem.

THE SPORTS MOVIE CRITIC:  I’d like to add my two cents here, if . . .

THE RACIST MOVIE CRITIC:  You’re black.  Shut the hell up.

THE SPORTS MOVIE CRITIC: I’ll fuck you up, cracker box.

RACIST:  Bite me, Sambo.

TMGC:  Ahem.

The sports move critic (a former linebacker with San Francisco) proceeds to detach the racist’s head and play “Go long” with a cameraman named Fitzy.  The pass is complete . . . end of critique.

THGC:  Next week we’ll be reviewing “Push” . . .

So the voices in my head are very much inspired by present circumstances, due to frightened stimulation and a very dynamic situation.  I have no idea why I have to write, but I hope you like it.

Okay!  I watched the whole damn movie and almost cried!  Happy now?! 

DAY 120: Friday, February 5, 2010:  The dinosaurs really miss you.

Before we continue, I did something insane today by rising at 5:00 a.m. to start my writing, and just quit an hour ago, at 9:30 p.m.  I edited and uploaded 19 Chapters of this insanity onto the HarperCollins “Authonomy” site, where other authors read your work and make suggestions, etc., and one day an editor or agent may . . . just may . . . totally ignore you.  It’s all good, and so the entire thing is within roughly fifty pages of the ending on: http://www.authonomy.com/   .  Chapters have been swapped a bit (the first chapter is when Ferg loses his job, so it’s more chronological), and just a bit more streamlined, so it moves faster.  If it wasn’t very funny and went on too long, I tossed it.  Not much, but enough to cut some fat.  So here’s the daily fix continued from Day 119 . . . 

As Fiddles finally finished making secret history with himself, pushing the toothless rummy out of his car with a five dollar bill and two cans of Bud, another toothless drunk named Vera held her brand new husband tight in the back of Frenchy’s Suburban, the infamous Wilson brothers passing a big round mayonnaise jar between them, up front.

Five rusted Folgers cans clanked and bounced behind them , and “Hitched to the Bitch” was scrawled with thick shaving cream, flying in beady clumps off the rear window.

“Will ya hold me tighter?” Vera asked, matching whiskey breath with whiskey breath, Frenchy trying desperately to find a little breathing space.  “Will ya tell me that we’re soul mates?”

The lumbering truck hit a frost heave, sending sparks out like fireworks around loud, clanging cans, making a perfect little wedding celebration in their wake.

Something grabbed Frenchy’s aching genitals like that snapping turtle on Mark’s face, and he screamed bloody murder as they clanked and bounced further east, toward Ashford.

“Unrequited love,” Willy confided, his brother beaming with total and drunken abandon, sipping more magic from the fat and fuming mayonnaise jar.  “Romance times ten.”

Eee-hah!

-   -   -

They were eastbound on the highway, Fiona driving her black attack vehicle with Ferg riding shotgun; Janelle in back with her baby girl leaning close, hands clasped tightly.

“Special medication,” Ferg said, looking at Fiona.  “They gave me some very special medication to administer once we get home.  It looks like serious horse tablet sedatives.”

Fiona turned from the road for a second, arching sharp warrior eyebrows with a questioning look as Janelle grinned like the Fairy Queen in back, reading her husband’s tone.

“You know about this?” Fiona asked, looking to the rearview.  “You know what they’re giving you here, and what it’s all about?”

“It’s not for Janelle . . .” Ferg started, waiting for a punch from his sister.  “We all heard about your little game of dodge ball in the big meeting.”

“Some guy made a rude comment, and couldn’t duck my retort.”

“Good arm there, Roger Clemens.”

“I was aiming for his nose.”

Ferg turned back to face his wife, telling her how she hadn’t spoken two words since they left the hospital.

“I don’t like words much anymore,” Janelle said, kissing her daughter’s hair.  “I just love the moment, in all its physical beauty.”

“Sounds like a book on tape.”

Janelle was nodding to some kind of inner music.  “Yeah . . . so let’s go hit a drive thru and see what all this Baghdad Burger crap is about.”

“American falafels and don’t look too closely.  I love the oversized jersey, by the way.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You hated when I had the old hockey games on.”

“Padded rooms do very strange things after a while.”

“I’ve never been in a penalty box that long.”

To be continued . . .

 DAY 109: Monday, January 25, 2010:  In a head-on collision, there’s no room for the air bag to deploy.

Severance Pay:  Continued from Day 108 . . .

A man alone with his thoughts . . .

Rrrrrrring!

Rourke reached for the phone and hesitated.

Rrrrrrring!

He followed through, and slowly put it to his right ear.  “Yes?”

“Johnny Farrenza on two, sir.”

“I’m out at a site.”

Silence.

“Doreen?”

“Not good, sir.”

“How not good.”

“So very, very not good.”

“Shit, then.  Put ‘im through.”

“Incoming.”

Click.  The sound of machinery, muffled by trailer office walls.

Rourke cleared his throat.  “Ryan Rourke here!”  

He could barely hear thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.  “You’re available now, you little prick.”

Rourke cringed.  “’Scuse me?”

“Clean your fucking ears out, chief engineer.  You’re gonna be paying through the nose for this one.”

“Well now, it certainly doesn’t sound good!”

Heavy, angry breathing on the other end.  “Bonuses are in play, motherfucker.  Buko bucks for Christmas if this comes in under the projected date, and guess what’s going on right now?”

“They’re getting that flu bug going around?”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you all.” 

“Sorry.”

The breathing became heavier.  “I tried getting your head of survey, but Randy just told me how Rick doesn’t roll out of bed before his wife drives the kids to school, because she’s just as lazy, and can’t get ‘em up for the bus in time.”

“That Randy sure is a talker.”

“He’s trying to pass the blame, because we’re about to make his fat ass part of a Jersey barrier.”

“Not good, not good.”

“Oh!  You’re listening!”

“I’m all ears.”

“Your surveyors are telling me how points are bad, and everyone’s standing around holding dick while they play with those goddamn survey guns, trying to figure things out.  But there’s one massive monstrous problem with that.”

“No.”

“Yes.  The concrete guys poured this weekend, going off bad points.”

Rourke swallowed and leaned forward.  “We signed-off on that?”

“Hey, what a concept . . . like you never signed bar napkins for that Devens project, you schmoozing piece of shit.  That Frenchy faggot signed away after lunch on Friday, and this time the contract was official, like cans of NFL beer he was drinking all afternoon. ”

“Jesus Christ Almighty.”

“And you just found religion now, huh?”

“I uhhhhhh . . . I . . .”

The line went dead as a shadow appeared at his door glass again, this time Rourke spotting some kind of familiar shape to it.

Out at the reception desk, Doreen noticed Rick nursing a coffee near Rourke’s door, and started to ask him how things were going when the door flew inward, and their survey manager was yanked inside like he was never there, screaming as hot coffee splashed his dress shirt.

The door slammed shut as Doreen recited a silent prayer, officially making Farrenza’s comment ironic.

Things were not going well at Victory Engineering, and when Rourke was done explaining the blown survey points to Rick (who was slightly distracted by a ruined shirt and scalded chest), he turned their attention to Frenchy, presently incarcerated in the lovely town of Danielson, sixty miles east.

Details were still coming in, but it appeared that his old Chevy Suburban was discovered in a deep roadside ditch off Route 44 late Saturday night, blown front end parked on top of a crushed pig trough with Frenchy out at the wheel, soaked to the skin with booze and urine, his blood alcohol count near fatal levels.  His pants were down around his knees, and it looked like some kind of rabid animal had a go at his personal equipment, everything red, bruised, or bleeding.

The state boys in Troop D had little compassion for a blubbering story of crazed rednecks in the hills of Ashford, and after skunkweed was easily detected among other appalling odors, they started messing with him big time, ending with a 5 am jail wake-up featuring heavy metal music blasting at a very high volume.  Sunday was not a day of rest for Frenchy, and officers laughed at a video of his drinking fountain attempts, their rigged bubbler blasting his face like a Florida waterspout.

Rick listened to Rourke’s report and appeared to shrink in his chair, awakening a small sliver of glass still hiding in the rear crevice, now finding solid purchase in his left butt cheek, causing further discomfort.

“. . . we’re gonna write Frenchy off for awhile and just comfort his poor wife.  I mean, he really doesn’t seem to appreciate being employed during a growing recession.”

Rick was doing the Bush-in-classroom stare, nodding slightly as he tried to piece things together, remembering his crew chief’s wife on the phone yesterday, sobbing loudly as one of the kids shouted from the background, telling his frantic mother to shut the hell up and pull it together; he was trying to play some totally awesome Guitar Hero.

“So,” Rourke concluded, making a tent with his fingers. “What did you find out about my creative interior decorator?”

Rick was confused for a second, then realized he was referring to Fergus and the bashed window.

“He seemed to be gone all weekend.”

Rourke regarded him like something on the bottom of his shoe.  “Uh-huh.”

“Probably wanted to get away and chill after blowing his severance like that, and blowing his cool.”

“Really.”

“Oh yeah.”

Rourke stared.

Rick stared back. “You don’t believe me for a second.”

“The math wasn’t hard, Rick.”

“No.  I suppose not.”

“I mean, what’s Frenchy doing way the hell across Connecticut, in McCrory’s backyard, just after I asked you to find out what’s going on?”

“Apparently, he was getting eaten alive.”

“D’you know what we called that back in the Airborne Green Berets?”

“I thought it was Rangers.”

“Whatever . . . it’s been a long time.”

Shit, Rick thought, here we go . . .

“Staking heads, Rick. We called it STAKING HEADS!”

“You lost me.”

“We made an example of the enemy by putting one of their heads on a stake, for others to see.”

“Was Frenchy decapitated?”

Rourke stared at his survey manager.  “Depends on which head you’re talking about.”

Rick hesitated on that one.  “Sorry.  I thought my chummy crew chief could find something out, schmoozing at the strip joint out there and having a few pops.”

“Perpetual Motion?”

“You know it?”

“Dark as a cave with crazy Europians?”

Rick stared.

“Never been there.”

Rick actually laughed a little, sharing a good ol’ boy moment with his boss as Rourke let him off the hook a little bit.  “Not a bad plan, and we certainly found out where Ferg stands these days, giving up his crew chief to the cops by letting him drive away like that.  I mean, what kind of Airborne turns on his team?  It’s very un-American.  Very un-family like.”

Rick was nodding yes; it appeared that Ferg was no longer in their close little family of a thousand.  “You want me to call him for real this time?”

“And say what?  Come sign your severance and we’ll call it even?”

“I see your point.”

“He’s really, really angry, Rick.”

“Tragedy, going postal like that.”

“You can start talking any time now.”

“I got nothing.”

“Right.  Why do you keep playing with your ass?”

Rick dug under his gluteals to produce a long sliver of glass.  “What the hell.”

Rourke ignored his pain.  “You run a dirty little department, huh?”

Pissed off now, Rick summoned an ounce of courage.  “What about you?”

“Careful . . .”

“Exactly . . .”

“There you have it.”

Ring!

Rourke picked up his phone and listened a few seconds, eyes rolling with exasperation.

“Tell her I’m at a site.”

He listened as Rick tossed the glass sliver toward a wastebasket and pulled his shirt out a little, looking at the coffee stain.  He was a natural slob anyway, and there were spares in a desk drawer, if he could ever remember.

His boss was nodding on the phone, as if Doreen could see him.  “I know she’s hysterical.  She’s gonna be hysterical for days and weeks and months.  It’s what she does best.”

He listened a few seconds, then made eyes at Rick.  “What!?”

He listened some more, swiveling and tapping on his desk, looking back at Rick with big eyes, then finally getting some words in.

“Really Doreen, I don’t even know what to say at this point.  These people are all nuts.”

He waited some more, and finally said, “Right,” hanging up; tapping the desk; looking at Rick.

“Frenchy got married.”

“But he is married.”

“Well,” Rourke said, “he’s married again.”

Rick smiled. “His wife must be very happy for him.”

“Another winner . . . remember her at the Christmas party?”

“Frenchy tells everyone their most intimate sexcapades like – every single day – and then she shows up and all you here is, “Wow . . . I just lost my appetite.”

Rourke studied his survey manager.  “You can really pick ‘em.”

“We were in a corner with that one, remember?”

“Friend Of Client?”

“Another lousy mother FOC-er.”

“Coming back to bite us.”

“I sent a boy to do a man’s job.”

“Huh,” Rourke said, studying the coffee-stained Rick.  “Marriage and jail is a lot in one night.”

“He’s always been funny that way.”

“Better get your ass out to Farenzza, before another one of our boys blows the biggest project we have right now.”

 “How mad is he?”

Rourke stared in disgust.  “Change your fucking shirt.”

To be continued . . .

DAY 104: Wednesday, January 20, 2010:  You don’t reserve seats; you reserve sections.

Continued from Day 103 . . .

“Holy shit,” Candy said, watching a forest green, rusted Suburban careening into the parking lot, black smoke puffing from a clanging exhaust, sparks flying out from underneath. 

“My man!”

“You’re kidding.”

Ferg blinked his lights, thinking it was perfect.  He had already explained to Candy how Frenchy worked in the mob-controlled trash business years ago, always swearing how he knew every strip club owner in the state on a first name basis. 

She nodded in agreement. “Trash was always big-time mob.” 

“And this is one of those guys who gets away with everything,” Ferg said, watching Frenchy ease the lumbering truck toward his tiny Hyundai. “Like some kind of blessed star is covering his ass.”

“I saw a couple in school, but there was always a trust fund or something bailing them out.”

“Not this one.”

Ferg lowered his window as the Suburban parked, and Frenchy’s window stuck halfway, causing him to pound it down a few more inches, cursing loudly.

“Evening, Frenchy.”

“What the fuck!?” Frenchy wailed, using his favorite vernacular.  “What’s going on, bro?”

“Frenchy, meet Candy.”

Candy waved from the passenger seat as Frenchy tried to focus, then gave a big thumbs-up.  “Yo my ho!  Ferg’s moving fast these days!”

Candy’s smile froze in place, along with her hand.  “Gosh . . . thanks . . . I think.”

Frenchy laughed, but at another voice in his head.

“Candy’s gonna scoot for a while, and we’re going to go get trashed.”

Frenchy looked serious.  “Dude, you won’t believe what’s going on at work, since you left.”

“I left yesterday, but you can tell me in a minute.”

Frenchy was confused, until Ferg’s words could be processed. 

“Oh!  Right!”

Ferg struggled to get out, as Frenchy had parked too close.  He awkwardly made his way around the big Suburban while the drunk crew chief continued staring at Candy.

“Why isn’t she getting out to drive?” he asked.

Ferg took his seat, brushing beer cans and Happy Meal toys to the floor.  “She’s waiting for us to go.”

Frenchy kept staring, mumbling, “Oh.”

“Frenchy?”

Frenchy continued to stare at Candy, who waved again.

Ferg put his mouth close to Frenchy’s ear.  “She won’t move until we go, because you’re staring like a fucking freak!”

Frenchy broke out in drunken laughter, slamming the shift lever into reverse, mumbling “Bitch,” as he nearly rammed a small truck, then lurched forward to the sound of blaring horns, right back to where he had started.

“She gets that a lot,” Ferg said, watching his friend closely.  “You’re off to an early start.”

Frenchy laughed.  “Kids are with Grams tonight.  The wife is off bowling.”

“Let the lions run free.”

“Egg-zactly!”

Frenchy struggled with the shifter a few seconds, finally finding the big white “R” as Candy watched nervously from the Hyundai, cringing when he nearly took out the front end.

Frenchy started to tell Ferg about fixing the office window earlier – on the phone – but Ferg had cut him short because Frenchy would talk you to death.  Now the big drunkard was unloading, saying, “Dude, dude!” crossing the broad expanse of parking lot to Perpetual Motion.  “Work is going crazy since you left, and Rourke swore me to secrecy on the window!  He promised a couple kegs of Heiny to keep mum, and a huge raise when my review was due.”

“That’ll almost make up for all the times they procrastinated.”

“Fucking aye!  It looked like Here-o-sheema in there!”

Frenchy bent over with laughter, almost taking out another drunk as he entered the extended lot, bouncing through deep, frozen ruts to finally park.

“There’s all kinds of shit going down, bro . . . Randy’s running around in a bad mood, the Nazi’s eyes are buggin’ out more than usual, Rick looks like a mess, and Uncle Fiddles is getting his ass kicked for some unknown reason.  Environmental has been snooping around, asking what the hell happened, and cops even came to check things out, but left in a hurry.  You dropped a fucking A-bomb on their ass!”

The spark of excitement caused Frenchy to remember where his skunkweed stash was hidden, scrambling to scoop a fat, crumbling joint out from under the seat, beer bottles clanking loudly.

“Cops aren’t good, Frenchy.  I hope there’s not a warrant out.”

“It’s all hush-hush!” Frenchy yelled, sparking the joint.  “What the hell did Rourke say to piss you off so bad?”

“He offered a severance.”

Frenchy inhaled and held the smoke, offering the joint to Ferg, who waved him off.

Finally exhaling, Frenchy started coughing, ending with “Say what!?”

“Severance,” Ferg repeated, tasting sweet clouds of skunk.  “Severance and a gag order.”

“How much?”

“Don’t care.”

Frenchy reared back in exaggerated shock.  “Well excuse me, Mister Howard fucking Hughes.”

“Money’s not the point, Frenchy.”

“Screw that!  Sign the paper, take the money, and say what you want anyway.”

Frenchy was laughing loudly at his own words; Ferg disappointing him by opening the passenger door, prompting Frenchy to pinch his skunkweed out and stash it back under the seat, along with unfinished Budweiser.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he mumbled, stumbling to catch-up, kicking a beer can. “Can’t let my sugar daddy get away!”

Ferg moved fast, leading Frenchy to a hulking fireplug doorman just inside, where darkness overwhelmed them like spelunkers rappelling into deep caverns.

Ferg dropped a twenty to get them through, and Frenchy started jiving to loud stage music, bopping back and forth in his heavy winter coat, eyes bulging at the runway girls, sliding down poles and thrusting their asses for dollar bills.

Ferg was glad to see that up-front stage seating was full, and they dropped back to a corner table, where most of the club was in view.

He motioned a girl over to keep Frenchy parked in place, offering to get them well drinks as he circulated slowly, taking stock of everything and everybody.  It was the first time he had been there since last Christmas, when he was much closer to Frenchy’s condition, and now things stood out that he hadn’t noticed before:

Black security mirrors along the wall in back, and behind the stage.

Several ceiling cameras near recessed lights, covering every angle.

A powerful looking barback with shredded arms stuffed into a tee shirt; short brown hair slicked with gel, stocking drinks and hanging close to scantily clad barmaids, who were busy filling drink orders for waitresses, and waiting on bar patrons.  His eyes were everywhere, and when he finally said something, it sounded Russian and aggressive.

Ferg ordered gin and tonic for Frenchy and Seven Up for himself, arriving back at their table just as Frenchy’s mouth came off a tiny stripper’s rouged areola.

He plopped three more twenties down as Frenchy started gyrating ample hips into the dancer; a move that sent Ferg away with inspired haste.

 Up by the front door, Ferg stepped past a private booth room on his left and slowly walked out, saying  “Fresh air,” to the fireplug doorman in a suit, showing his face before leaving, punching numbers in a small cell phone as he crossed the lot for privacy.

On the other end, Candy started with Mission Impossible; “Da!  Da-daaaaa-da. . . Da!  Da-daaaaa-da . . .“

“Cute.”

She tried the flute part but failed miserably, opting to ask how everything looked.

“All kinds of sneaky mirrors and cameras in the ceiling.  Dark as the ocean floor, with lots of leering drunks.”

“You’re making me homesick.”

“Barback looks quick . . . spews some kind of Slavic language.”

 “Built like a fighter?”

“Big guns and a full barrel.”

“Textbook set-up.  Believe me; he sees everything”

“Yes.”

“How’s Frenchy?”

“Little head’s in control.”

“Nice.”

“In person . . . not so much.”

“I bet.”

“So now we study a little more, and begin Phase Two.”

“Da!  Da-daaaaa-da. . . Da!  Da-daaaaa-da . . .“

“You took a hit.”

“Two small ones from a bat pipe.”

“You and Frenchy.  Jesus.”

“Can you say, designated?”

“I will take so much advantage of you tonight.”

“One hopes.”

“One better stay focused.  The moment of truth approaches.”

“So it does.”

They hung-up as Ferg circled back, keeping his eyes open and nodding to the fireplug going in, finding Frenchy lost in the eyes of another . . . for twenty more dollars.

“She wants to go in the booth room!” he yelled, causing several nearby patrons to cheer.

“Of course she does . . .” Ferg peeled off some bills and pressed them into Frenchy’s waiting hand.  “Does she know your buddy?”

“She knows Big Jim the owner, only he’s not running the show anymore.”

“No?”

“He’s running Hartford, but still has a hand in this.”

“Good to know.”

The stripper turned and said something to Ferg as she disappeared with Frenchy, but he couldn’t understand a word, as if the cold war never existed.

He took a seat at the table and watched everything, noticing a spot in the stage curtain where strippers could be seen getting ready, with another athletic employee hanging out, showing biceps.

The speakers were pounding out one song after another, Fergus wondering just how far he had drifted since Friday morning, throwing that damn chair through Rourke’s office window . . .

-   -   -

Over 2900 miles away, Bobby Casseolla, aka Bobby Shenanigans, aka Bobby Bonia, and finally, Robert P. Kane, ignores the pounding music through office walls and answers a phone resembling one of his strippers; the receiver a naked woman laying face-down on a furry bearskin rug cradle.

He listens closely to his daughter’s voice coming from the naked woman’s tiny plastic head; popping cocktail peanuts into his mouth, crunching them slowly, savoring the salty taste.

“Hey dad!”

“Candy!”

“How’s tricks?”

“Never ask,” he says, in an opening exchange they’ve been using for years.  He runs a thin hand through thin hair on top of a thin skull.  He is using the exact same brand of hair dye that his daughter uses, but its color is far from blonde.

“I’m gonna bring ‘em down,” Candy says.

“Oh you are, huh?” he asks – suppressing a laugh – digging for more peanuts. 

Listen to my smart little college kid, he thinks.  Gonna take out the crazy ‘krainians.  “Where are ya, babe?  Partying?”

“Calling a raid on their skanky Slav asses.”

Bobby starts choking on a peanut and tries to relax, coughing out, “Wha-What?”

“The cops are gonna bust ‘em any minute now, dad, just like Christmas lights in Time’s Square!”

“Shit!” Bobby says, then, “peanut in my throat honey, wait a sec,” and he’s coughing up the tiny legume, pressing a special red button under his desk like crazy, trying to get Sonny Fixit in there right away, desperately searching through a long security mirror facing the club . . .

“You okay there, dad?  Don’t go dying on me . . . it’s not your poor tongue acting up again?”

“Yuh, yuh . . . no!  I’m fine . . “

“That’ll shake ‘em up, huh dad?  Then I’ve got some other people to keep the heat on . . .”

“Jesus, Candy!  You don’t waste any time!”

“. . . and uh, no!  I’m bringin’ ‘em right down, daddy-o!  I figure the raid will shake ‘em up a bit, and then these people I met . . .”

Bobby sees Sonny coming fast now, like a ship breaking ice for explorers or whatever the fuck he saw on Discovery the other night, Sonny parting crowd seas with ruthless abandon, knowing Bobby was watching every move, buzzing him through the door, loud music pouring in for a few seconds to drown out his crazy daughter on the pornographic phone . . .

“. . . and by that time, we’re going to own it outright, and . . .  what was that noise, dad?  Sounded like a stereo blasted on for a sec . . .”

She’s teasing him hard now, knowing that her father is about to cup the receiver -  there’s the silence – and tell somebody to call Perpetual Motion right away, because his dumbass daughter has pulled a Sarah Palin and gone rebel, all hell about to break loose with the deadliest bunch of Slavs ever created without genetic engineering.

Sonny jumps on another line, speed dialing  Connecticut and talking rapidly as Bobby listens to his daughter ramble on like a little school girl, making very big waves on the other coast, Holy Mother of Good God Almighty.

I really didn’t want kids, Bobby thinks, half-listening now.  One Happy Ending in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong orifice, and I’m fucking screwed forever.

“. . . really ran it into the ground, dad.  You should see the kind of dive it’s become . . .”

It’s a strip joint, Bobby thinks.  Name one that isn’t a dive, you brilliant goddamn business major.

To be contunued . . .

DAY 100: Saturday, January 16, 2010: You never need a tray or table to eat.  Your stomach is mostly horizontal.

Continued from Day 99 . . .

Candy offered to buy McDonald’s for lunch, but Rhiannon made a face and educated her dad’s new girlfriend about high fructose corn syrup in hamburger buns, and the arterial cost of addictive and salty French fries.

There was something else Candy picked-up on between sister and brother; a kind of look between them she couldn’t understand, but filed away for later.  The word McDonald’s had triggered something, and it wasn’t good.

“How about Baghdad Burger?” Fiona offered.  “I heard their Minuteman Meal is unbelievable.”

“And the kid’s toys are better,” Rhiannon added.  “They’re made out of petroleum products like McDonald’s, but it’s Baghdad Burger, so whaddaya expect?”

“This family kind of frightens me,” Candy laughed, “in a good way.”

They located Baghdad Burger within view of a Burger King and McDonald’s, the end result of any area with a steady traffic pattern heavy enough to support fast food franchises.

Baghdad Burger had been a marketing guru’s creation during the now infamous “Shock and Awe” campaign, growing rapidly as the Mideast crises developed into an endless conflict.  The genius behind it was an advertising tycoon from Manhattan named Mark Stein, who was banking on name familiarity, curiosity, and halfway decent offerings served under thirty seconds, or it’s free.  He hit a trifecta and never looked back, adding fast food falafels (Camel Drops), and other once exotic Mideast and not-so-Mideast foods to a growing and ever-changing menu.  Several critical pieces came out concerning the Greek origins of his Bedouin Baklava, but it was a hit nonetheless. 

“See this?” Rhiannon asked, holding up a plastic camel.  “It’s made out of Mideast oil.”

Candy stared with trepidation.

“Hello.” she said, waving the little toy.  “Sucking the earth dry?”

“What kind of toy do you like, then?”

“Something I can wear, read, or use for art.”

“Well now, Ree.  You could use that little pony for a three-dimensional reenactment of the old wild west.”

Rhiannon studied Candy like a new insect species.  “I kinda like you, Miss Kane.”

“Right back at’cha.”

“Do you like my daddy?”

“Only if he likes me back.”

Rhiannon spoke to Candy, but studied her father.  “You’re the only girlfriend he’s had in a long, long time.”

“He has good taste.”

Rhiannon nodded and looked at her new pony.  “Time will tell, Miss Kane.  Time will tell.”

-   -   -

Doctor and orderly walked quickly down the wide hall, white lab coats flowing slightly from the velocity of their mission, both wearing disposable gloves and stern looks. 

Max the orderly was well over six feet tall with short red hair and a musculature developed from over three years of training for steel cage matches he never entered.  He always chickened-out at the last minute, but was getting closer to actually fighting.  He looked ready in front of the mirror, flexing and making sound effects and punching the air in wide swoops.  He was definitely ready now; a bright yellow taser gun was grasped tightly in his left hand.

Doctor “No Nonsense” Spense was a middle-aged woman with short black hair and thick glasses.  A small Bluetooth cell was hooked around her ear.  Everything about her said smart, serious, and more serious.  In a steel cage match, she may actually fair better than Max.

They passed heavily fortified doors that faced each other, spaced every twenty feet; thin slots situated five and a half feet up on each door, operated from the outside.  

Their feet were nearly running now, coats flaring wildly as Doctor Spense cleared her throat, prepping the huge orderly.  “They noticed slight movement, and thought she was having a bad dream, then . . . blip . . . her straight jacket was off and over the camera lens.”

“Jesus, that’s a first.  Not the jacket . . . I’ve seen that trick from double-jointed tricksters, but covering a camera with it?  Wow.”

“So now part of her room is out of view.”

What Doctor Spense didn’t tell Max was that it happened three days ago, and she had broken several laws by not feeding their infamously famous patient, hoping for a weakened state.

 “Don’t worry, doctor; I’m on it.”

Doctor Spense stopped three doors short of their destination.

“Max?”

He regarded her casually as she motioned him to follow, backtracking the way they had come, pausing nearly three more doors away to get up close and personal.

“She can never hear our planned approach here.”

Max put his game face on.  “Sorry, Doctor.  I didn’t mean to sound glib.”

“That’s exactly why you’re our number one orderly, and you know how I feel about Janelle.”

“These doors are soundproofed with reinforced steel . . .”

“Max.”

He sighed and nodded, knowing better than to argue with No Nonsense Spense.

“Max,” she repeated, turning the Bluetooth off , “I would do anything to have your testicles swinging between my hairy legs right now.  You know that.”

Max tried to focus, but wanted to take her right there and then.  “I know, Spensey babe, I know . . .”

“You bitch.”

“Whore.”

“Slut.”

They looked longingly into each other’s eyes, as Spense slowly raised a hand to reignite Bluetooth.

“Okay!  We’re only going to get one shot, Max.  We’re dealing with a woman who single-handedly developed a species through advanced cloning techniques never used or fully understood within the civilian scientific community – or the world – for that matter.  Species developed to consume insects destroying crops, but that’s just the tip of a very big iceberg, before things went far south.  Now her genius has morphed into other areas, and some of them are very, very deadly.”

Max nodded at a familiar story, his attention suddenly drawn to a SWAT officer making his way slowly up the hall, the barrel of an M16 rifle pointed down at the floor in reverse port arms position, bulky grenade launcher visible beneath the ventilated barrel.

Doctor Spense nodded, and Max turned to see another entering from the other far end.

“I’ve never see so much force for a slim little female patient.”

“She can kill you with words, Max.  She can kill you in a million ways you never thought about, and it won’t happen for days.  She will read you in an instant and find a subject that will grow and mature and fester in your mind, until you run screaming out a window to stop the voices in your head, that have been breaking you down since little Janelle entered your big badass world.”

“Damn.”

“Damned is more like it.  Think demon in The Exorcist.  Hannibal Lector making that guy swallow his tongue and die, using only words.  You think I’m joking?  She can do it all in about twelve languages, and ten times faster.”

Max knew this, but needed reminding, and Spense was very good at reminding.

The SWAT officers approached, handing both a pair of headphones.  Max noticed that they already had phones around their necks, ready to go.

He geared-up and checked the taser.  “Well, this is going to be a very historical moment in my career at Evergreen Haven.”

“Pray it’s not your last.”  Spense turned to the SWAT officers.  “Are we all set?”

Two bolts clanked rounds into chambers. 

Spense mumbled.  “I wanted three officers.”

The leader shrugged.  “We’re the best, doctor.  Combat vets.”

She studied them carefully.  “You’ve never seen anything like this, believe me.”

“You’re the point?” he asked, impatient.

She nodded.  “I’m first one in.  This will be very psychological.  Words are everything.”

“Gotcha.”

“If I disappear into that room, secure the door and never open it again.”

The men stood in awed silence.

“Blow the building.”

They stared.

“Kidding.”

Nobody laughed, but there were a few sighs of relief as she led them slowly to the door.

Doctor Spense raised a hand to her Bluetooth and listened carefully.

“She knows we’re here.”

Max shook his head. “No way.”

“She took her straight jacket off the camera, waved hello, and put it back on the lens.”

 Doctor Spense slowly turned back, and opened the first door slot to see a woman’s mouth smiling brightly through thick Plexiglas.

“Ear protection on.”

Max and the SWAT team adjusted their phones, as Doctor Spense slid the Plexiglas open.

“Good morning, Doctor McCrory,” she said.  “You’ve been very busy lately.”

“Define busy,” Janelle hissed, and in their strange and silent world, three men watched Spense clutch her eyes and fall back violently, hitting the opposite wall to roll and crawl, her mouth working in muffled agony.

“Stay away from the door!” Max screamed, trying to be heard as he ran to the doctor.

He ripped his phones off as an officer crouched beside them with an open medical kit, working an eye wash bottle to douse Spense’s eyes, spilling fluid over her face and lab coat.

The other officer trained his weapon on Janelle’s smiling mouth, still visible through the door slot.

“Call me a spitting cobra,” Janelle hissed, a spray of saliva raining from the door slot.     

This was punctuated by strange giggling, then Spense screaming at them to close the slot, but Janelle quickly trumped them by shoving four fingers through to brace it open.

“Occupato, mi amiga.  Salt from the sweat of suffering,” she explained.  “Some blood and acidic urine from when they used to feed me; her eyes will survive, her mind will suffer greatly.”

To be continued . . . Ferg’s Wife is coming . . .

 DAY 99: Friday, January 15, 2010:  The septic service has to come daily.

Continued from Day 99 . . .

FERG AND CANDY GO SHOPPING

Ferg first spotted Candy while shopping a rear store aisle just days ago, the gorgeous blonde almost exploding through dual stockroom doors in obvious duress, hurrying up the main runway, one hand clutching her breast as Ken Casey waddled in pursuit, barely intercepting her at the front entrance.

Candy whirled when he grabbed her arm, trying to push away as Ken held on and spoke rapidly, Ferg reading panic as Candy fought tears, gradually calming to listen intently.

Ferg wanted desperately to intervene, but studied everything very closely, investigating facial expressions and body language.

God she’s stunning, he thought, guilt-ridden to know that if she was kind of butt ugly, he probably wouldn’t hang around and disappear into the rows of display cases, which is exactly what happened, stalking on a short term basis, closing when Candy entered the mall after her shift.

“Guy just stole something out of that store,” he said, coming up beside her near a CVS.

Candy turned.  “What?  What guy?”

Ferg had her now, pouring on the Ferguson charm with a casual confidence Candy spotted right away.  “Fat dude with a plaid sport coat; greasy brown hair.”

Candy balked and backed-up a step at this stranger’s quick description of Casey Kasem.  “Really?” she asked, red warning flags flying.  “And what exactly did the fat man take?”

“Your dignity, I’m afraid.”

She quickly processed this latest development, Ferg thinking, This is where it’s fight or flight in her beautiful little world, pegging me for a creep or a charming knight coming to her rescue . . . 

“Well fuck me,” she said.  “How do you propose to get it back?”

“Not a problem,” Ferg said, watching the white knight in his head pump a fist.  “It’s my specialty.”

-   -   -

Now they lay resting and tangled in bed on the second floor of his old, creaking farmhouse, listening to each other breathe.

“Well this is speeding along,” Candy said.

“And nicely, I might add.”

“Yes, considering we’re both unemployed and of questionable character.”

“I’ll see Fiona’s rap sheet on you tomorrow.”

“And what about you?” Candy asked, propping-up on one elbow.  “When do I get your sheet?”

“A life is revealed over time in small actions, and words are but sounds made from human organs.”

“I’m impressed.  Who said that?”

“I just made it up.”

Candy faced her new, strange, and now invisible lover.  “So if the sheet is bad, I can just walk on out of here, and you’re not going to care?”

“I haven’t grown emotionally attached yet.”

“Excuse me, Doctor Spock.”

“Just horny.”

“And you have a lot already.”

“I have a lot even if I don’t have a lot.”

“Stubborn mick.”

“Horny Hibernian.”

Ferg couldn’t keep his mouth away as her hands went crazy, so they made love for almost a half-hour before the conversation continued, Candy breathing harder beside him in the dark.

“I’ve gotta ask.”

“So ask.”

“You had a wife.”

“I have a wife.”

Candy waited, uncertain.

“She’s in an insane asylum.”

“Jesus.”

“Try Buddha.”

“How long has she been there?”

“Couple years.”

“Rhiannon was five?  Fergus . . . I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Don’t be, especially around Ree.  Never mention her mother.”

“Promise.”

“She’s seen things a little girl should never have to see.  There’s been very tough times around here.”

“And Fiona came to help.”

“Fiona’s made it her number one priority to help raise Ree, and train her for anything life can throw.”

“I got that.”

Ferg sighed.  “Sometimes she gets carried away.”

“Like the sand.”

“We have an understanding, and she takes my concerns to heart.”

Like she has a choice, Candy thought.  “She was certainly listening about the sand.”

“I get too intense.”

“You love your daughter.”

“My daughter is my life.  Period.”

“And you let me in your house.”

Ferg rolled over to face her in the dark, inhaling that glorious perfume.  “Anything I should know, you can tell me now.”

Candy took a deep breath.  “I’ve been shopping around lately.”

“For?”

“For my parents.”

“What . . . they need some fresh strippers?”

“Strip joints.”

“You’re shopping for strip joints.”

“I’m taking them over.”

Ferg stared into the glorious odor drifting his way, waiting for more information.

“Curious?”

“Infatuated, but extremely jumpy.”

“After a bachelor’s in business, I tried convincing my parents how I was ready to help with their clubs, and they wanted no part of it.”

“So you called them out.”

“I got naked in front of the usual creeps.”

“And like most desperate hypocrites, they caved-in to the whims of their little princess, and threw a bone to see how you’d handle it.”

“Mind reader.”

“Well traveled.  So now you came out here to the other coast; to do something challenging, risky, and lucrative.”

“Our business partners were taken over by a bunch of crazy Ukrainians, who evidently have very strong ties to local politicians.”

“That’s so Connecticut.  And your partners would be the former owners of . . ?”

“Perpetual Motion.”

“Exit 69.”

“The exit number of ultimate irony.”

“Very familiar with it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m a lonely man.”

“Lonely like a regular?”

“More like twice a year, slightly drunk, near a major holiday.”

Candy laughed.  “Lightweight.”

“Light wallet, when they’re done with me.”

“Would they recognize you?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“You returned my dignity, remember?”

“I’m listening.”

“So I owe you a very special favor.”

“Really.”

“If you’re up for it.”

Ferg moved closer.  “You tell me.”

Candy was once again impressed, feeling much better about her new mission in life.

Several hours later, house noises and light woke Ferg, rolling him out of bed.

“Stay here,” he said softly, kissing Candy on the forehead.  “I’ll give a call when it’s clear.”

Candy was going to say something, but saw a look in Ferg’s eyes as he pulled on black cotton pants and a black jersey, stealthily disappearing downstairs and into the kitchen.

She opted for a listening session, positioning pillows to sit-up and look around, noticing shelves of sports trophies and old photos near a back corner of the converted stand-up attic, and a rack of rifles high above a tall, lock dresser.  Behind the rack, she noticed double-As with 82^nd Airborne in gold script, underneath. 

In an open area between the bed and dresser, she spotted black gym mats, free weights, and a 100 pound leather bag hanging from a portable stand.        

There’s going to be handguns somewhere, Candy thought.  Safe from his daughter.

She heard Rhiannon’s voice downstairs, and had a good listen:

Rhiannon was sitting at the breakfast table picking at a bowl of cereal as Ferg entered, Aunt Fiona steeping tea again near the stove.

“That woman’s still here, isn’t she?” Rhiannon asked, a spoon full of sliced strawberries poised halfway to her mouth.

“Where?” Ferg asked, making her work for it, Rhiannon slurping and staring; fishing for more fruit in angry silence.

“This house is pretty old,” Fiona started, from the stove.  “Real creaky at night, bro.”

“Oh.”

“Reeeeeal creaky . . .”

“Got’cha, sis.  Loud and clear.”

“Loud and clear.  Reeeeal loud.”

Rhiannon started giggling as Ferg stared at his perceptive daughter, asking, “What?”

“Creeeeeaky,” she said, imitating an old woman.  “Creeeeeaky.”

“Great,” Ferg mumbled.  “This is just great.”

Fiona elected to change subjects.  “They asked what air was made of in school yesterday.” 

“And?”

“Ree reminded them of carbon dioxide, after little Gil answered ‘oxygen.’”

Ferg raised his hand.  “Proud parent in the house.”

Fiona pointed to herself.  “Excuse me?”

“And let’s give a big hand to Aunt Fee, a great tutor in her own right.  Fee, Ree, and Ferg, ladies and gentlemen.  Or what I like to call, two Asians and a Swede  . . .”

Ferg got the hairy eyeball, Fiona mumbling over tea, “Somebody’s way too happy this morning.”

“She’s upstairs, isn’t she?” Rhiannon asked, spoon poised beneath her chin again.  “That Candy woman is upstairs in your room.”

Fiona looked at Ferg with a crooked grin.  “Jig’s up, lover boy.”

“Anytime!” Ferg yelled, and footfalls descended gently down the stairs.

Nearly two hours later, they were all looking through the darkly tinted windows of Fiona’s massive Hummer H2, inspecting Candy’s rental Toyota parked in the back end of the department store parking lot.

BITCH was spray-painted across her driver’s door, which resided a few inches above the ground, with all four tires flat as pancakes.

Far across the lot, a cherry picker crane idled beside towering vapor lights, where a repairman dropped his crimpers for the second time, cursing loudly underneath the blasted security camera.

“Don’t read that spray paint, “ Ferg said to Rhiannon, sitting in the back seat.

“Bitch is a female dog; maybe a dog owns the car.”

Candy fought laughter and opted to step out for a look, as the others followed.

“Avis won’t like this,” she said, unlocking the door.

“Casey will like it less,” Ferg said, “when his credit company calls.”

“Ohhhh . . .” Fiona inspected her ring. 

Ferg handed Fiona a twenty.  “Why don’t you go play some games at the new arcade, while we return  Casey’s very empty wallet?”

“Ohhhh . . .” Fiona turned her ring in the morning light.

She parked them all closer to the store, and a few minutes later, a woman in Customer Service paged Casey Kasem to the front desk.

Ferg spotted the large, disheveled man peeking out from stockroom doors in back, and waved happily just before the doors swung shut , and Customer Service answered their ringing phone.

“I see,” the woman said.  “Sure . . . I’ll tell them.”

Ferg and Candy smiled together as she hung-up, explaining that Mister Kasem would like to see them both in his security office.

“You know where it is . . .” she said to Candy, but they were already on the way, giving a small, cheery wave of thanks down the main aisle.

Twenty-two seconds later, they were facing a .38 caliber revolver in Kasem’s tiny office, the overweight manager leaning back in a challenged swivel chair, with a very confident look on his face.

“You assaulted me,” he smirked, looking at Ferg.  “You suckered and tortured me in the parking lot with a bunch of gangbangers, and took my wallet.  Now you’re back for more, and I’m going to shoot your sorry ass right here, right now.”

“Come again?”

“Oh . . . shit.”

Candy saw Kasem’s eyes grow wide and glanced nervously to her right, at a black automatic gripped tightly in Ferg’s right hand.

“You first,” Ferg said.  “Thirty-eight pop gun versus forty-five boom town.”

Ferg very slowly leaned over the desk, placing his gun to the big man’s forehead.

With his other hand, Ferg cupped the .38’s barrel and pushed it upward, telling Kasem to relax his grip or die, before sliding the small revolver into the right pocket of his black field jacket.

A cheap, faded wallet came out with Ferg’s hand, and landed on the desk.

“How was it?” Ferg asked, way too calm for Candy to believe.

Kasem swallowed and sweated, looking at the .45, unmoving and pointing at his fat face.

“How was . . . uh . . . wha-what?”

“Her breast.”

Kasem’s hand came slowly off the desk, and Ferg extended the .45, as the security manager’s large round paw slowly swiped perspiration from a glistening forehead, and returned.

“I . . . uh . . . I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

Ferg thumbed the hammer back; a sharp little “click” sounded deafening in the small office. 

“You pressed Candy against the wall over there, and grabbed her lovely breast like a goddamn birthday balloon, you delusional fat fuck.”

“God . . . please don’t shoot.”

“You will not be the first, believe me.”

Candy looked over and saw the frightening intensity of Ferg’s killing face . . . the same one that had frozen his ninja sister the night before.

“Ferg.”

He remained as a statue – the gun an extension of that statue – as a horrible and gaseous odor suddenly filled the room.

“Oh . . .” Ferg said, losing some of the intensity.  “You have got to be kidding.”

“You ruined my stomach,” Kasem offered, watching the gun waver slightly.  “I’m . . . I’m wearing a truss . . .”

Candy saw Ferg lighten-up, secretly grateful for Kasem’s active colon.

“Jesus Christ,” Ferg said in disgust, “here’s the way it is:  You’re going to apologize for groping Candy here, and then you’re going to buy a can of paint and cover the word “bitch” that you sprayed on her rental car, before they take it away.  Are we clear on that?”

Kasem nodded solemnly.  “I’m really, really sorry.”

“Candy you idiot, not me.”

Kasem turned to Candy, who waved him off, saying, “Whatever.”

Ferg adjusted his gun.  “And on top of that pitiful apology, you’re going to happily pay off every goddamn charge coming back from your credit card.”

Kasem swallowed hard.  “I . . . I don’t have much to cover that . . . I’m deep in debt already.”

“You and the entire nation, asshole.  That’s the price of quick and forceful rape.”

“Rape?”

“You wanna argue it in front of a fucking jury?”

“Ja-jury?”

“What did you think trapping Candy in your office?  She would fall in love with a drunk loser grabbing at her breast?”

“I wasn’t drunk . . .”

“Open your desk drawers,” Ferg said, motioning with the gun.  “Bet your life there’s a bottle in there.”

Kasem stared.

“Amazing, isn’t he?” Candy asked.  “He really grows on you.”

Ferg smiled broadly.  “Thanks, hon.”

“Any time, counselor.”

“Counselor?  He’s a lawyer?”

“Best in the East,” Candy said.  “Great marksman, too.”

Kasem looked down at his desk in defeat.  “I’m so screwed.”

A sharp BANG made him jump, and the small revolver was suddenly next to his right hand, empty cylinder open and exposed.

“Never lose hope,” Ferg said, holding the door for Candy.  “Stores are flooded with self-help books.”

Candy hesitated at the door, turning to quote Seinfeld:

“And by the way . . . they’re real, and they’re spectacular.”

They walked the main aisle arm in arm with heads held high, like lovers down the wedding aisle as Kasem crept off to a bathroom. 

Perhaps they were more like Bonnie and Clyde, waving brightly at Customer Service, Ferg caressing the pocketed .45 with his other hand as they entered the festive mall, taking in sales, disgusted at early early Christmas decorations, talking about Avis and O.J. Simpson back in the day, running through airports and catching those cars, young and athletic, years before driving a white Bronco into sordid history and criminal madness.

“The man had everything but self-control,” Ferg said, prompting a quick look from Candy.

“And you’ve been so level-headed lately.”

“The man pulled a gun, Candy.  He accosted you and threatened to shoot us.”

“Shall we review?”

“Please don’t.”

“Loss of job, assault, stolen credit card, and . . . oh look!  It’s high noon at the O.K. Corral!”

“Nobody said dating was easy.”

“I did not cost your job.  Do not put that on me.”

“I’ve been heavily distracted.”

“You met me a few days ago.”

“And blind ever since.”

“Flattering bastard.”

“I thought we could rob a bank for lunch.”

They were approaching the arcade now, bells and whoops spilling out into the mall, Candy holding back to tug on Ferg’s arm and ask a pressing question.

“You had that gun out like it was already in your hand, but why have it so ready, and why take the risk of putting Ree through life without a dad?”

“Really?”

“Goddamn right, really.”

“I love you.”

She started to say something – hesitated – then said it anyway.  “Answer my question, Ferg.  Why put your girl at risk?”

“Because a man like that with a gun is much more dangerous facing unarmed people.”

“I noticed.”

“So there you have it.”

“When you reached for that little . . .”

“Whoa; let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Bad choice of words.”

Candy flashed a nervous smile.

“Do you remember me dropping bullets out of his revolver?”

“You did everything so fast.”

“It was empty, Candy.  I saw clear through the chambers when he pointed that damn thing.”

“Whoa.”

“Whoa again.  Worse than Barney with his one bullet in The Andy Griffith Show.  There was never any threat there.”

“Yet another television reference.”

“Our glowing little babysitters.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Happy now?”

“Happy’s relative.”

“Okay Gandhi, let’s go save the children.”

And they did, distracting Fiona and Rhiannon from a video world full of flying killer Kung Fu artists, to go drive off into Saturday afternoon.

To be continued . . .

 DAY 98: Thursday, January 14, 2010:  Your cruise ship tipped over, when you left the center of it.

Continued from Day 97 . . .

As Rourke danced around morning events, refusing to press charges and secretly cursing Randy, Ferg began tapping his first survey point at a huge box store site near the Buckland Hill Mall in Manchester, tapping capped rebar with a hammer and chisel, causing a massive geometric ripple effect as his former survey manager motored just out of sight, along Interstate 84.

Rick had neglected to charge his cell phone again, holding barely enough life to reveal several new calls parked in his message box, before the tiny battery fizzled out.

He never got a proper count, but Rick noticed how several leading entries started with Rourke, suddenly remembering that . . . ! . . . today was the day they slam-dunked Ferguson’s career goals, and sent him packing.

Rick started chuckling to himself, nearly spilling a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as – only a half mile behind his car – Ferg drove over to another traverse point across the sprawling lot.

A small tap for man, thought Ferg, a giant blow for ugly retail.

Meanwhile, getting ready for the merge onto Route 91 South, Rick was thinking, no more turncoat knowing far too much and giving me the hairy eyeball lately, ratting me out for taking the Environmental Department’s truck on a weekend run to Montreal, hitting those titty bars off Saint Denis Street. No more telling me how people are losing jobs, and I’m spending profits on trips I damn well deserve.   I would’ve kept Ferg alive at five if he didn’t start spewing lectures on morality.  A fucking instrument operator . . . I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but one thing is certain; he’s presently unemployed

Sixteen minutes later, Ferg was done halting progress on a multi-million dollar project, and Rick was seated in Rourke’s office, staring at a wall of ugly-ass cardboard and duct tape.

The policeman had left, unconcerned with bullshit on private property, involving an evasive little man who forced smiles and was hiding something that didn’t matter . . . yet.

“Wow.” Rick started.  “Looks like some local crack heads pitched at your window last night.”

A large manila envelope sailed over the desk to land in Rick’s lap, with Ferg’s name on a small, white label.

Rick jumped at this intrusion upon his hangover and read the label, Rourke watching closely.

“Hey Rick?  You wanna tell me why a ten-year employee just refused our separation agreement, and introduced that chair to my big fucking picture window?”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

Rick looked away, as if there was something to his right.  “Wow.”

“Wow, indeed.”

“Did he uh . . . say why?”

This time Rourke worked hard to make his smile appear genuine, watching Rick closely.  “He said a lot of things, Rick.  A whole lot of things.”

Rick was nodding now, not liking that smile at all.  “Really?”

“Really.”

Rick waited, feeling his hangover melt away like something very serious had just entered his bloodstream.

“Gonna say a lot more, Rick.  God only knows.”

“Shit.”

“Shit, indeed.”

Rick looked very ill, Rourke asking, “Anything you might wanna add?”

“Well . . . uh . . . what did he tell you, exactly?”

Now Rourke was smiling for real.  “Randy!”

“Shit!”

“He told me about the shit, too,” Rourke said, making stuff up.  “Pretty sick, if you ask me.”

“No!”

“Everything.”

“Bastard!”

“Now it’s your turn.”

Rick swallowed hard, thinking things over until the little man elaborated.  “Why in god’s name would a calm and collected survey schlep like Ferg turn down thousands of dollars in severance pay, health insurance, and a job placement service to walk through my window in the blink of an eye?”

Rick’s eyebrows arched in anticipation.

“We both know it’s not stupidity.”

“You just told me he’s holding a lot of information.”

“That’s one-half of the equation.  He’s holding something else.”

“Well, obviously he can do a lot with that information.”

“Like go to Andover and Johnson?”

“Sure.”

“Or . . . say . . . newspapers?”

“Ugly.”

“Let’s throw the Department of Environmental Protection in there, while we’re at it.”

“He would be burning bridges, though, wouldn’t he?”

 “The man just verbally filleted my ass and took out this window with that chair you’re sitting on; do you really think he cares about working this field anymore?”

“Apparently not.”

“So what does he care about?  What’s his course of action?  He certainly doesn’t have a lot of money to go postal and burn bridges, unless his wife makes a lot.  Is he even married?  I mean . . . what could cause this crazy action, other than your perverted fucking survey crew driving him nuts?”

“Hey!”

Rourke scowled, putting Rick in his place.  “I did like the snapping turtle.”

Rick glared.  “Mark still talks funny, like Uncle Fiddles.”

“Another sick bastard,” Rourke said.  “You sure know how to hire ‘em.”

“Tough field, shitty pay.”

“Give Ferg a call.”

“Give him a call?”

Rourke smiled again, rare and shark-like.  “Randy.  I had no idea about Randy.”

“I’ll let the heat wear down for a day or so; see if Ferg comes to his senses and apologizes.”

“Sunday night’s good.”

“Jesus . . . he didn’t tell you about Uncle Fiddles, did he?”

Rourke was showing the shark again.  “Quite a crew you got there, Rick.  Hell of a bunch.”

Rick looked at the envelope in disbelief.  “Surveyors never turn down a severance.  They don’t make enough.”

“This one’s making something, and you better find out what.”

To be continued . . .

 DAY 97: Wednesday, January 13, 2010: Your own mother called you Fatso.

Continued from Day 96 . . .

“I’m going to tell you exactly what happened and how things are,” Ferg said, sitting on the edge of Rhiannon’s bed, where the open Macy’s box revealed a stunning winter coat depicting Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.  “I’m not going to pull any punches.”

Rhiannon extended her pinky for the promise shake, and Ferg was suddenly with his little angel.

“The people I work for let me go, which means I no longer have a job right now.  Since I’ve carefully saved money and can collect unemployment, that doesn’t pose any problems for a long, long time, and I’m going to be around here some.”

Rhiannon’s face brightened.  “No way!”

“Way.”

“Does that mean we get rid of Aunt Fiona?”

Ferg studied his daughter’s face closely.  “Oh.”

She watched him back, eyes searching like a nervous animal.

“Now it’s your turn, honey.  Something you wanna tell me.”

A tear appeared in the corner of one eye.

“Intense, huh?”

“She’s a little too serious with the defense stuff, dad.”

“How serious?”

 “She had me punching a pail of sand today.”

“To make your punches like rocks.”

Rhiannon nodded, showing Ferg the knuckles of her hands, which were bright red.

“Ouch,” Ferg said.  “This is a problem.”

Rhiannon cocked her head, and asked words that triggered Ferg into action once again:

“Is she a little crazy?”

“Stay here,” he said.  “Don’t move.”

Rhiannon watched her dad blow out of the room, and knew that Aunt Fiona was – as the older kids say – in very deep shit.

-   -   -

“Drop the sand drill,” he said, entering the kitchen.

Fiona’s eyes turned from Candy and locked on her brother.  “She’s ready.”

“For what?”

“Her hands are too tender.”

“According to what fucking chart?”

“Shaolin.”

Ferg gestured at their surroundings.  “Do you see a fucking temple?

“You have no idea . . .”

Ferg stepped closer and raged.  “Do you see a motherfucking temple?!”

Candy felt herself wanting to disappear, and eternally grateful when Fiona stepped down, shaking her head nervously as Ferg stepped even closer.

I would wither in front of that, she thought.  He’s a force of nature . . .

“My daughter’s hands look like lobster claws, and there’s not a goddamn thing in this world that’s gonna require her to use Iron fucking Fist Kung Fu punches in the next several fucking years, are we clear on that?”

To Candy’s amazement, Fiona nodded meekly, watching her brother’s face with a frightened intensity.

Ferg screamed like a raging bull, “ARE WE FUCKING CLEAR ON THAT!?”

Fiona nodded, afraid to move any other part of her body.

Ferg took a deep breath, fighting his temper.  “Since when are we raising my little Ree in a goddamn Chinese Monastery?”

Fiona nearly whispered, “You know the answer to that.”

“Enlighten me.”

His sister was a little louder now, fighting for courage.  “Since life got hard.”

“Hard?”

“Hard.”

“Fucking hard?!”  Ferg shook his head.  “Fiona . . . we live out here where nothing ever happens, and nothing ever will.  We live in a place that sounds like home to the Jolly Green Giant; where good grades get you noticed, and having a ‘finger of death’ doesn’t count for much, because nothing ever really threatens you, see?  The odds are just not there.”

“Really.”

Ferg put his hands on his hips, sounding more calm.  “Prove me wrong.”

“You,” said Fiona, startling Candy.  “Tell me a few things for leverage here, like how most strippers are drug addicts with a posse of characters cops like to call ‘the usual suspects.’”

“You have a point,” Candy said.  “You know the life.”

“And I have no idea what you were cultivating out in LA, but I will learn everything inside of eight hours, and if you bring any shit near our little Ree, it will be fast and furious in your fucking face.”

“Good to know.”

“Good to know.”

“Fiona was a cop,” Ferg said, turning away from his sister.  “Almost three years with the state.”

“I’m afraid,” Candy said to Fiona, “to ask why you’re not with them anymore.”

Fiona let out a gust of air, crossing to turn down the tea kettle.  “We’re gonna Belichick that one.”

“Belichick?”

“Coach of the Patriots,” Ferg explained.  “Never tells anybody anything until after the game, and then never tells them anything, again.  You might as well ask about the weather.”

“How provincial.”

“It ain’t LA.”

“No,” Candy said.  “Doesn’t even seem like earth, anymore.”

“Going back to your past,” Fiona said, steeping a tea bag in boiling water.  “If this thing develops between you and Ferg, it’s paramount that nothing comes near our little Ree.”

“Counter point?”

“Go.”

“Violence begets violence, and what I’ve seen and heard today is very, very far from a calm, nurturing environment.”

“You caught us at a bad time.”

“I caught you in a ninja training session, after your brother made a new doorway through his manager’s window.”

“Good counter points.”

“Violent anger is everywhere, and you’re looking at a flaky ex stripper three thousand miles from home as some kind of threat, when both of you could probably kill me in more ways than I care to know, if you don’t kill each other.”

“There’s that,” Fiona said, “but you don’t sound like any damn stripper.”

“Two weeks of slumming,” Candy said, handing Fiona her driver’s license.  “Look it up.”

Fiona frowned at the laminated document.  “Candace Kane?” 

“My parents were cruel and unusual.”

“They gave you a stripper’s name.”

“They owned the clubs.”

“Plot thickens.”

“I danced to get back at them, and left after raiding the office safe.”

“I’m going to copy this and run a check,” Fiona said, looking nervously at her brother.  “Unless you have a problem with it.”

“This is why all my dates run away screaming.  Maybe you should ask Candy.”

Candy smiled warmly, daring to step-up and see what happens.  “Run it, bitch.”

They all heard, “Bad word!” and turned to find Rhiannon watching, crouched near the hallway entrance.

Fiona smiled warmly.  “We’re done with the sand drill, honey, and need to spend more time on algebra tonight.”

“Are . . . you mad at me?”

“No . . . I just love you a little too much, and get off course sometimes.”

“Don’t we both,” Ferg said, bringing things down another notch.

Little Rhiannon looked from one to the other.  “Reward system in place?”

“For everybody.”

And right on cue, Rhiannon tossed a felt box to Aunt Fiona, who found herself staring at a massive diamond ring.

“It was in the Macy’s box dad gave me.”

Fiona met Ferg’s eyes, as he shrugged to explain “Courtesy of Casey Kasem.”

“The shwarmy New Year’s guy?”

“Oh god,” Candy said, crossing her arms.  “I need a translator.”

EARLIER THAT DAY:

8:07 am:  A man alone with this thoughts; confused and tortured after a burned-out, hung-over surveyor known as Frenchy plastered nearly forty yards of duct tape in a zigzagged pattern over flattened cardboard boxes, to replace his shattered office window.

A man alone, hearing the cold November wind whispering through ugly brown flaps, taunting him like the muffled laughter he had heard earlier, outside that office cushioning door.

A man alone – yet not alone – Rourke now staring blankly at a young, angelic face waiting eagerly for his attention, asking, “Sir . . . are you alright?”

“Huh?” he asked, flashing to a scene from Pulp Fiction, after the huge crime boss known as Marcellus Wallace was brutally gang raped in the back room of a pawn shop.

“No,” he mumbled.  “I’m very fucking far from alright.”

The young lady sat, stunned into silence, watching the manager stare blankly in her general direction, making weird moves like he was going to say something, but then not.

The visitor’s chair still felt cold, having been out in the front parking lot for quite some time, and there was a bit of broken glass jabbing her attractive rear end, but the woman was focused on much larger issues, like if the manager had completely lost his mind.

Rourke had been trying to locate his seedy survey manager, Rick, but only got shaking heads and rolling eyes, until Rick’s brutish assistant, Randy, finally reminded him that their survey boss never rolled in before eight o’clock, and sometimes noon.

“Since when?” Rourke asked, unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth; third cup of coffee in hand.

“Since he became survey manager, and sloffed most of his morning shit off on me.”

“Call his house.”

“No answer.  Never and forever.”

“Soon as he gets in the door . . .”

“Right to your office,” Randy said, barely suppressing a grin. His entire life centered around three things: Screwing people, hiding his homosexuality, getting the survey boss in hot water, and eventually – one great day – getting his desk.

It would never happen because of his obvious underhanded nature, but it never stopped him, and now even Rourke felt uncomfortable, noticing sick, unbridled joy in Randy’s squinty eyes.

“Hey,” Randy said, turning Rourke as the small manager tried to get away.  “Did you call the cops on Ferguson?”

Rourke pointed the unlit cigarette at him. “Just get Rick’s ass in my office and do your fucking job.”

Damn, thought Randy, watching Rourke disappear through Land Development, as the nasal voice of Uncle Fiddles drifted over from a survey cubical, like Pee Wee Herman with a nasty head cold:

“Hey Randy . . . didn’t you just call them?”

The other surveyors and drafters chuckled, as Randy raged away to the restroom.

Now Rourke sat alone, but not alone, like President Bush in front of that classroom on 9-11 when the planes hit, confused and indecisive with everything unraveling on his elected watch, and no one else to blame just yet.

Carey was also confused, but knew it was time to remove that broken glass from her derrière, dropping it on the corner of Rourke’s desk as patience wore thin.

Clunk.

It seemed to snap Rourke back to reality, and Carey spotted a brief window of opportunity when the manager’s eyes turned to the broken glass.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve got that big proposal going out today, and . . .”

“No you don’t.”

Carey stared in silent anger as Rourke quickly snagged the top manila envelope and flipped it across his broad desk, where it slid to fall at her tiny feet.

“I’m, uh . . . sorry there, Carey.  This isn’t about you.”

Carey crouched forward, picking up the envelope as Rourke continued with, “. . . lots of cutbacks in this economy, and – well – people in Boston decided that we were having trouble keeping people on board now, so . . . nothing personal here.  It’s . . . uh . . . not about you.”

“This isn’t about me.”

Rourke froze, thinking, Shit almighty, not another one . . . as Carey calmly pointed out that the manila envelope had someone else’s named printed on the outside.

“Whoa,” Rourke said, going quickly through the pile.  “I was sure your name was in here . . .”

He went through the pile twice, reading each name carefully as he finally stood to address Carey and found that:

a)      Carey was gone.

b)      A large policeman was now standing in his open doorway.

“Nice window, there,” the officer said, nodding toward duct-taped cardboard.  “Before we start; you wanna tell me why a young woman just came crying out of your office?”

“Sure,” Rourke said, not missing a beat.  “We’re like a family here, and sometimes things get very, very emotional.”

The officer stared.

“It’s nothing personal.”

“What?”

“Uh . . . what?” Rourke asked, confusing himself into confusion.

The officer blank-stared him hard, suspecting that local forecasts called for heavy bullshit moving in, followed by a high pressure system.

“Lotta love here,” Rourke mumbled, feeling a cold November breeze.  “Loootta love.”

“Well,” the officer said, looking around.  “Someone sure didn’t love your nice, big window.”

DAY 88: Monday, January 4, 2010:  Your inflatable sneakers are water beds.

THIS IS ACTUALLY BEFORE THE STORM

As the “few inches” of predicted snow became about TWELVE this weekend, crack-addled weather people rolled out some very innovative excuses:

“The storm keeps ‘backing up ‘ into New England.”  [I didn't hear a loud warning beeper.]

“There are several swirling bands, and if one keeps hitting your area, snow accumulations may surpass our predictions.” [Bands?  Like Aerosmith?]

“You may experience anywhere from a half-inch to nearly thirty.”  [No.  I was not hearing things.]

“Canada is dumping on us again.”  [When you gotta go, you gotta go, and many of our cities do resemble sprawling toilets.]

“This is way too stressful, and my wife is leaving forever.”  [Kidding, but it's just a matter of time.]

“What the hell . . . do I look like some kind of friggin’ fortune teller?”  [Way kidding now.  Jumping the shark.]

On the good side, our driveway and walks are clear now, and if we get just a few more inches overnight, a school delay will mean rolling over for an extra half-hour of sleep tomorrow!  [Murphy's Law: When you actually want it, forget it.]

DAY 81: Monday, December 28, 2009:  The static from your thighs power a large city.

I was just thinking that if I ever owned a football team, they would wear ref uniforms to confuse opponents, or maybe cheerleader outfits, to confuse everyone . . .

I used to work and live above an old three story seaside bar on the coast of Rhode Island, which was a famous whorehouse during WW II.  During my tenure there, it was owned and managed by Bob Gunny and Sterling Smith.  Gunny was a handsome, ex-surfer-turned-successful-businessman with a georgous wife and great demeanor.  Sterling Smith was a retired train engineer who looked like the Cheshire Cat, after he ate the Cheshire Canary.  He had a sly grin, and usually perched high up on a corner staircase, where he could survey the second level club area, looking over heads all the way to the front entrance.  Howie Smith was the bartender/bar manager, who could juggle bottles and glasses with insane speed and dexterity, years before Tom Cruise tried his luck in the movie Cocktail.

It was the early nineties; you could still smoke in a bar, and there was a massive exhaust fan up behind Sterling, set high in the wall where the stairwell turned upward to a third floor office and boarding rooms, one of which was mine, for sixty bucks a week.  I lived next to an old sleight-of-hand artist named Joe Hirsch, and his wife Genie, who pulled rabbits out of hats and assisted him with other stage props back in the day.  He had turned to lobster fishing for a living, and Genie cleaned rooms at the Old Dutch Inn on Point Judith, near the Block Island Ferry. 

During busy hours, there could be six-hundred people jammed into the main club and downstairs tavern, which opened out into a parking lot that bordered waters of the Atlantic Ocean.  Between checking bouncers all around and keeping bars stocked, I would be perched just below Sterling on the stairs, watching for trouble or a signal from the bartenders for beer cases or specific spirits.  That big honkin’ exhaust fan behind us would pull all the cigarette smoke into our lungs, so Sterling and I would be inhaling the equivalent of several packs of cigarettes.  I would be spitting black when the night was through, after a complimentary open bar that often went to sunrise.

One night, in a twist of genius and sick humor, Sterling and Howie handed out brand new, bright pink tee shirts to all the bouncers.

Huge football and rugby players with mohawks, tattoos, and more piercings than a busy pub dartboard were suddenly wearing bright pink tee shirts, which was funny, creepy, and smart.  They could spot each other in a heartbeat, and even the most hardened Grand Banks fisherman didn’t want to be tossed out by a man in pink.  It was just plain wrong . . . and yet, so right.

It could be a brutal place, and I remember some crazy ass fights.  There’s a long scar where some guy I knocked down grabbed a broken bottle and carved deep into my calf, while I was fighting someone else.  Without health insurance, I poured whiskey into the wound, wrapped it tight, and propped my foot up on the dashboard of my old monster Buick Electra, elevating so it wouldn’t bleed. 

I drank myself to sleep, listening to the ocean surf, and the next morning, I suffered more from a hangover than the cut, but I was good to go.

Another night, some fisherman pinned Howie’s hand to the bar with a knife.

Wearing bright pink was our sick little payback, and it was funny in court, when lawyers referred to “assailants” as the “large gentlemen wearing pink.”

We had our moments, and like any old adventure where your selective memory edits for content, we really did have some great times.

Howie bought the place and changed it into a nice seafood restaurant, and my room is now an intimate seating area.  Sterling Smith suffered a serious stroke years ago, and may not still be alive.  Bob Gunney is missing in action, and everyone else went with the tides.  Joe Hirsch died years ago, rest his soul.  I never could learn his incredible sleight-of-hand tricks, like pulling a napkin from over a whiskey glass, to see that it had disappeared.

The stories about that place could fill volumes, but here are a couple pictures from just after my days at the great Bon Vu Inn, a historical and legendary Rhode Island institution.  Enjoy! 

PRETTY IN PINK - VINNY THE BOUNCER AT THE BACK STAIRS