Day 149: Saturday, March 6, 2010:  Indians tried to tie you to a stake, but ran out of rope.

Another good Mac Story:

I remember him sitting in that porch chair like it was yesterday, with Boston traffic going by outside, telling me “The Dock Story”:

Shortly after World War I, a guy named McCree drowned while working the docks with Mac, so they wrapped the body and put it in a horse-drawn cart, after informing the police.  Their boss had been a foreign diplomat at one time, so they asked if he would tell McCree’s wife what happened, and he agreed, but they stopped at a bar first and bought each other liquid courage.

Eventually they drove the cart up to McCree’s house, and the former diplomat knocked hard on the door.

“Who the hell is it?” asked Mrs. McCree.

The diplomat asked, “Does the widow McCree live here?”

“I’m Mrs. McCree,” she said.  “But I’m no widow.”

He said, “The hell you’re not.  Wait till you see what we’re dragging up the stairs.”

Swear to God.  Mac would tell this story and laugh, then cry, then tell me the docks were full of tough, drunk characters.  The thing I remember most was his stand on the Vietnam war, and how he would personally “send our asses to Canada” if my brother and I were drafted.

“I know a lumber camp on the Saint John’s River,” he would tell me.  “It’s the best education you could ever have.”

God I miss you Mac.  I miss you so much.  I need to see Boston soon, and put another Red Sox hat on your grave.  They actually won another couple of World Series.  I swear.   

 

 

 

DAY 122: Sunday, February 7, 2010:  You don’t need a bathroom break until after two cases of beer.

Utmost insanity.

I have an vague memory of waking with my head on the keyboard, breaking to eat and walk the dogs, then returning to finish in time for the midnight deadline tonight.  It’s the Amazon writing contest to discover “new” writers (I’m old), so I banged out a few thousand more words and started an editing frenzy that discovered the usual multitude of mistakes and so forth (the italicized first person had to be altered to keep the fast pace going, and match the rest.  Stuff like that).  I finished and submitted at 10:37 pm, after three days of sick night and day typing, so tomorrow I’ll head into Massachusetts to meet crazy friends and light up a gun range with several exotic weapons, and I have no idea why this is fun.  They love black powder and I love long distance, having been trained by a Marine sniper named Bob Koteen out in Minnesota; I’ll try to hit nail heads at a few hundred yards.  I couldn’t shoot anything that breathes, but paper, cans, and nails are fun.  Then I’ll cheer like crazy for the Saints, but enjoy it anyway if they lose.  I have no idea why.  Blah blah here’s more story . . .

Janelle giggled like a small child, loving every second of this family reunion, but when the giggling finally stopped, Rhiannon looked deeply into her mother’s eyes, and smiles turned to silent tears of gratitude, holding each other close.  They were family once again, and later that night Janelle did some serious catching up in the soul kitchen, sitting across from Ferg with Fiona nursing China tea at the island, and little Rhiannon doing homework in the living room, between colorful crayon renderings of a gorgeous genius mother.

“I can sit here all night and tell you the little things I see,” Janelle explained.  “Nervous excitement in Rhiannon’s eyes that require my comforting attention, another kind of nervous excitement from Fiona’s attentive mentoring program . . .”

Janelle trailed off, looking to her sister-in-law.  “Is she full ninja yet?”

“Close.”

“Right.”

There were more smiles and laughter until it came time for Fiona to check Rhiannon’s homework, passing her off to Janelle at bedtime, mother and daughter lying down to cuddle and chat until sleep took the little girl elsewhere, and Janelle quietly switched spots with Fiona, the celebrity patient from Nutmeg Highway creeping out to read her long lost husband.

Ferg explained his dramatic departure from Victory Engineering in detail, and Janelle mentioned the ironic timing of a couple breaking loose from oppression.

“Your job sounds worse than the insane asylum.”

“Good thing I didn’t bring guns.”

“I can sense a fresh energy,” Janelle said, sipping tea from Fiona’s stash.  “I can see a level of intensity coming off you like nothing before; certainly not during the old daily grind with those bottom feeding scumbags.”

“That’s just me needing a shower.”

“Goes without saying.”

Smiles.

“And you,” Ferg said.

“Went very deep to get here.”

“Center of the earth, baby.”

“And you came in the wink of an eye.”

“Like a finger to the moon.”

 “Enter the Dragon.  Very appropriate.”

“If I ever knew what was going on, I would’ve killed to get you out.”

“I almost did.”

“Remind me to change our current health plan.”

“Fuck that,” Janelle said, putting the tea aside.  “Are all your parts in working order?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Ferg watched her closely, a nightmare flash of Candy before his eyes, and a very tense moment when Janelle’s eyes changed, like she saw something there.

Janelle whispered “What,” as if the secret had been found.

Ferg looked down, trying to cover.  “I thought it might be like those prison movies, where it takes a long time for you to come around again with intimacy and all that.”

“Are you nuts?”

He looked up; the ironic nature of her question striking them both at the same time.

Janelle stood.  “To the bat cave . . .”

And they climbed narrow steps to Ferg’s converted attic room, not making the mad and passionate love one would expect after years of separation, but the slow drumbeat of rediscovery, exploring bodies that had changed a bit over the years.

“How the hell did you become so strong and . . . flexible?” Ferg asked, finally exhausted as Janelle rested her head on his chest.

“I had to work a deal,” she breathed, walking long, sinewy fingers across waves of abdominal muscles.  “Horrible sacrifices to get serious workout time.”

His voice caught, thinking of Janelle’s imprisonment.  “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

She rolled onto him then, searching to finally reach down and feel fresh tears starting, his heaving stomach giving them away.  “I know, my Fergus McCrory.  I know everything about you and everything that worries you and everything you feel right now.  It’s nearly impossible to explain the level of sensitivity I’ve obtained, gathering strength in a twelve by twelve room with no communication until those little door slots opened to feed me, and those visits became a very big intrusion over time.”

Ferg held his breath, listening.  A horrible guilt was building now; his wife’s ordeal driving it home.  “Intrusion?”

“It was like a shotgun blast, interrupting meditation and conversations with myself, trying desperately to break free of random, disconnected thoughts to reel them in and get something cognitive and rational going; something that had a flow and sense to it, while over time – over a lot of goddamn time – something pretty fucking clear came across to me in that little room.”

“And what was that?”

She bent near, whispering.  “You were cheating.”

Ferg exhaled slowly, and Janelle inhaled to continue.  “Medical experts told you how my chances for recovery were a million to one; that I was sliding away into dangerous dementia and incurable behavior, so it was perfectly understandable and inspirational for recovery, knowing that my husband was going to move on and that my little girl would live her life without me, eventually seeking comfort in the arms of a surrogate mother, all of this driving me hard for what I had to do.”

Ferg slowly reached up, running his hand through Janelle’s flaxen hair as tears fell to join his own, now coursing down the sides of his contorted face, lips pulled back in a tortured, frozen grimace.

“I had to sweat,” Janelle said.

Ferg stared up to her dark face.  “Sweat?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Like . . . perspire?” 

She was nodding, brushing the tears away.  “Like a ten dollar Mexico City whore.”

They both started breaking from the torturous truth then, nodding and laughing through the sadness, as Janelle continued.  “At first it was just isometrics against padding because of the straight jacket, with a lot of deep knee bends and squat-thrusts – stretching and yoga – but as people started noticing during camera surveillance, a couple of deals were struck with randy orderlies, and my jacket was taken off.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Randy as in . . .”

“YouTube.”

Ferg exhaled.  “Have you seen my little laptop?”

“Not now dear; I’m on a roll.”

“Go.”

“So a deal was struck, and I was prancing for all the world to see, using that canvas jacket as another tool for isometrics, sweating the chemical out – which really wasn’t a chemical by then, but close enough – and starting to see things clearly.

“But even as sanity slowly returned, powerful feelings of vengeance and anger started to grow so that it went on and on and on, taking one new level at a time, my inner self rising to the surface of a very polluted and toxic lake.”

“Damn.”

“And of course, there was the old Boston Bruins.”

Ferg shook his head at another brutal switchback.

“I remembered you playing the senior league with my brothers; all of you guys drinking beers later and watching the old Boston Bruins tapes as I tried to study, then joining you later to wonder what it was all about.  I remembered the history and development, until those incredible years with Orr and Cashman and Cheevers . . .”

She cleared her throat.  “Jesus saves; Esposito scores on the rebound.”

“Who could forget?”

“So I clung to these simple memories dangling like a rope into Hades, climbing and climbing upward to more recognizable patterns and other memories, falling back to the old Bruins when things became distorted, but soon it all started flowing into some kind of crazy sense.  Soon I had more platforms to ascend, and present reality came slowly into view.

“When I was absolutely, positively certain that sanity was finally coming back, I also knew that patience was quickly disappearing, and that trust between the hospital staff and myself had eroded into dangerous territory.  I had to take complete control of their situation.”

Ferg was transfixed and listening to every word now; ready to cry again for the bravery of this woman he had loved so much and was loving now, more than ever.

Janelle whispered in his ear.  “Was she good?”

The change-up question froze Fergus as she giggled, rolling off to look up into darkness, letting the question slam through her husband’s consciousness like an angry hornet, then feeling his weight shift to prop up on one elbow, facing her way.

“That was interesting,” he said, “how you dropped the infidelity question again, after talking about your own experience at the infirmary.”

“Yes,” Janelle said, breathing hard.  “Thanks.”

“And you seem really, really happy.”

“I’m ecstatic.”

“And that would be because . . ?”

“It’s a reverse set-up question that would normally be used to start gaining control, but now is used in order for me to lose control.”

“Control of what?”

“A converted transference caused by jealousy and anger.  Would the word homicidal be overly problematic?”

“In a way.”

“I really have to know about your infidelity, for me to trust you and for you to trust me, after watching my naked performance while trying to make deals with a bunch of underpaid zookeepers.”

Ferg settled down on the bed with a great gush of air, gathering his thoughts.  “Could you really fry my brain?”

She giggled.

“Janelle . . . honey?  The giggling really scares me now.”

She broke into laughter, shaking her head to roll on top of him and sit, reminding Ferg of a position Candy had just recently taken.

And he told her everything, starting with a couple of drunken visits to Perpetual Motion around the holidays, to a happy ending massage down in New London, finally wrapping things up with his recent adventures involving Miss Candas Kane, the post grad mafia princess.  He told her the entire Bonnie and Clyde fiasco, explaining how their strip joint episode ended, with Frenchy’s brand new wife and self-adopted brothers.

 “My turn,” said Janelle, and they were at the laptop in no time, Ferg watching intensely as a very naked-from-the-neck-down black and white Janelle danced about the padded room, wearing her straightjacket as a kind of flowing Muslim Hijab, with one sleeve pulled tightly over her mouth.

“Love the Wayfarers,” Ferg said, enlarging the image on his screen.  “It could really be any super hot, athletic looking crazy person in a rubber room.”

“Indeed; and when the goons thought they were having sex with me?  They never laid a hand.”

“Come again?”

“They did, but only with themselves.”

“No.”

“Oh yes . . . once I got into their heads, it was look but no touch, unless operating their very own tools.”

“I know a guy from work who would love that job.”

“Once they operated each other’s tools.”

“I’ll e-mail him the address right away.”

“Don’t wanna know.”

 “So in essence, you gave them a faceless body, with the feeling of only themselves.”

“That’s deep for you.”

“I’ve been reading Rhiannon’s textbooks.”

“I see.”

 “Candy is over,” Ferg said.  “Dead and gone forever.”

“Maybe for you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Questions, my love.”

“This is where you cook my brain.”

Janelle smiled.  “Not yet.  My only concern is, you weren’t even a day out of work, robbing the cradle of a wild girl and bringing our kid around that.”

“We have Guardian Fiona.”

“Who – by the way – kept this secret very well.”

“For now, and Rhiannon would’ve let something slip; guaranteed.”

“Hmmm . . .”

Janelle pushed away from the desk and stood, Ferg watching his wife’s lissome body stretch and glide away, breaking into perfect ballet spins before slowly returning cat-like, crouching before him like a Saigon street vendor, watching Ferg’s angular, shadowed face.

“I want to know everything about this woman.”

Ferg turned to see the paused image of his wife in a padded cell, dancing for a chance to make deals, knowing there would be other images somewhere because these kinds of people always had backup plans, thinking how she might be affected by such a twisted ordeal.

“You have every right,” he said, turning back.  “You can do whatever you want with this situation.”

“Bingo,” Janelle said.  “That’s the million dollar answer, because it’s not about the girl or what took place between you, it’s about how we both feel and how we’re going to feel now, with my sudden escape from the dungeons of padded hell.”

“Ah.”

“Ah.

“Eee.”

“Ohhhhh,” Janelle said, rising to carefully straddle Ferg’s lap, reaching to close the paused image of herself in another time and place.  “Enough voyeurism.  I just want to hold you tight for like . . . ever.”

She bent forward, and they kissed for a very long time.

To be continued . . .

 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 . . .