“I’m going down the street to get a fizzy-drink.”
I saw my neighbor walk out to the curb and shoot dead the fancy jogger whose dog pissed on his mailbox. My neighbor walked back to his house while the jogger’s body quivered and jerked, the expensive phone watch on his wrist was playing the theme from the 1980’s show “Nightrider”. It was a beautiful morning. A cool breeze had broken the summer’s heat and Halloween was a few short weeks away. The jogger’s German Shepherd was sniffing a bush two houses down.
I gave the police all the pertinent information. The victim’s family came by in their European cars and held each other tight. He was a local real estate man who lived far up the hill where the oak trees are healthy and the blacktop is new. He ran down our street frequently.
That evening an ambulance with flashing lights and no sirens rushed down the street followed by two police cars and a fire engine. The following morning I walked to the gas station at the end of my street to pick up a can of long-cut wintergreen and tell Rick a dirty joke I heard at work. Down the street, closer to the gas station, the cars of the old Asian woman’s adult children were parked by the curb of her house. The fat one from Houston was on the porch, smoking. We waved to each other. He was a nice fellow, read comics and worked for NASA, facilities. I can’t remember his name. He knew mine.
The gas station door chimed when I entered.
“Rick! What’s up buddy?!”
“Luis!”
“I got one for you!”
“Alright! Lemme put these up real quick.
Rick stuffed a handful of Kool’s into their slot, right next to the Camel Crush, whispering some numbers and gibberish to himself.
“Ok”, he turned around and leaned over the counter.
“An old couple, super religious, travels to a Baptist convention in some shitty town in the south. They rolled in late so all the hotels and motels were sold out, no vacancy except for an old motel at the end of the main drag. In neon red, under the motel marquee, the sign read ‘Free Unlimited Porn’.”
“Oh no!” responded Rick with a smile, winding up for the punchline.
“Yeah, so the couple turns around and tries all the other places again. No luck.”
“Shit!”
“Yeah, so they go back to the porn motel and park with the engine running. The old man says to the old lady, ‘mother, let's pray about this’. After a while they walk into the front office and ask for the room. ‘It’s the last one in town,’ says the front desk manager. ‘We’ll take it’, says the old man. Then the old lady says ‘Can I make a small request? Can you please make the porn disabled?’ The clerk gets pissed and says, ‘you sick motherfuckers! Get out!!’”
Rick slaps his hands and screams out laughing.
I walked home. There were more Asians on the porch. They looked sad. I checked my phone when I walked in the house, my ex-wife left a long message. I didn’t bother listening and skimmed the transcript written by the phone. It was nothing important. She’d heard about the neighbor’s incident with the jogger. The rest was inaccurate dictation about buying insurance and some woman named Betty. I text her back.
“U good?”
“Yup, u k? I read bout ur neighbor.”
I text her an abbreviated version of the account. She wanted details, so I called her back, too much to text. We had a good laugh. True crime was in vogue and she missed the show.
———————
The next morning I waited in line to pay for my glazed donut sticks and a 16 oz coffee. Rick took cash from the customer at the counter, handed him his cigarettes and put the rest on pump 6. He saw me walk in and with one look I knew he had a joke for me. By the smirk on his face, I knew it was a dirty one. We’d have to wait for the tiny store to empty. The next customer was another regular, nice lady, dressed like a teacher, probably a teacher, another order of gas and cigarettes. The door beeped and the short little Mexican who’d asked me to sponsor him a few years back walked in and avoided eye contact. It’s a weekly thing with this guy. Today he said ‘good morning’, then scuttled behind the chip aisle and pretended to look at the sodas through the glass refrigerator door.
“Luis!”
“I know you got one!”
Rick leans over, “A farmer hears a knock and opens his front door. This hippie is standing there with a pail in hand and says, ‘Sir, I noticed you have some honeysuckle growing on your fence by the highway. Do you mind if I get some honey from them?’ The farmer laughs and says, ‘knock yourself out’. A while later he hears a knock and it’s the hippie, holding up a pail full of honey, says to the farmer, ‘got all I need, sir. Thank you!’ The farmer was confused.
“A few weeks go by and the farmer hears a knock on his door, it’s the hippie again. The hippie says, ‘sir, I see you have milkweed growing by your barn..’ The farmer cuts him off, ‘ lemme guess, you’re gonna git’ milk from that milkweed?’ ‘Yessir, you mind,’ asks the hippie. ‘Be my guest,’ says the farmer. A while later the hippie knocks on the door and shows the farmer the pail of fresh milk. ‘Thank you, sir’ says the hippie. The farmer was really confused.
A few months go by and the farmer sees the hippie’s pickup truck coming down his drive. The hippie pulls up, says, ‘sir I see you got some pussy willow…’ The farmer cuts him off, ‘lemme get my hat, I’m coming with you!”
——————
Rick’s car was still at the store later that day. It was 5 p.m., he’s usually gone by 2. His car hadn’t moved when I passed by at 7. I pulled in at 9:30 p.m. to get a cheap fizzy drink from the multi-flavored dispenser, Gerry’s PT Cruiser was now in Rick’s spot. Gerry called everyone ‘sir’, even those younger than him.
___________
Mario came home from work around 6 a.m. the next morning. He rode his electric powered bicycle 3 miles downhill from the warehouse district on the other side of IH 35. It was 50 degrees outside, he said it felt more like 30.
“My hands are fucking cold”
“Want some coffee,” I pointed at the French press I’d set to steep.
“I”m good, I”m gonna head to the 7-11 and get a taco and a decaf.”
“Dude I’ll make you some eggs.”
“Nah, I’ve been thinking about those tacos since 4.”
“Alright, let's go. I gotta get something to eat too. They make good tacos. That big white lady loads them up.”
We drove the 3 blocks to the 7-11. My car has heated seats and a heater that still works. I cranked the settings for a few seconds then tapered down to a comfortable 72. At the stoplight I looked to my right to see if Rick was there. Gloria’s dirty white Ford Focus was in his spot. I liked Gloria, she wore dark aviators all day long and called everyone “Babe”.
Mario told me about the temps at his warehouse making his job miserable. This time it was a skinny white stoner and two overweight black women who showed up wearing long press-on fingernails and sneakers. One of them didn’t want to crease her Air Jordan sneakers. Evidently they were classics and rare but suitable for overnight warehouse work. The other one talked too much and too loud, reminded him of the mean overweight black women in Atlanta. I changed the subject.
I got up late on Monday morning and had no time to stop at Rick’s. His primer gray pickup truck was parked by the sidewalk where he kept a clear view, a restored 1970’s Ford F-150 that many had offered large cash sums to buy and one attempted to steal it when it was parked in the side employee parking spaces. The bum broke the driver’s side window but couldn’t get past the shotgun 3 feet from his face when he sat up after hot wiring the engine.
Rick was an older gentleman about the same age as my dad, with a slender build and a thinning salt and pepper pompadour. His long face, dark brown skin, high cheekbones, and large eyes gave him Indian features, doctor not casino. His thick manicured mustache almost completed the stereotype, but his accent was all Texas with a hint of south side San Antonio.
The week flew by and work required me to arrive by 6:30. Some mornings closer to 7 but the students didn’t mind.
(Continued)
That week I’d glance to Rick’s place as I was leaving and see his pickup out front or his wife’s sedan on the side employee spot. The store’s exterior lights were off and I could see him through the glass doors stocking tobacco on the wall behind the counter. Turning onto my street Friday evening I saw his pickup parked out front.
“Rick! Dude, what are you still doing here?”
“Luis! You just getting home from work?”
“Yeah, but what are you still doing here?”
He rolled his eyes, pursed his lips and motioned towards the back. From the backroom I could hear cardboard boxes being cut and broken down.
“I’m training a new employee.”
“That’s great! You found someone.”
He leaned over and spoke in a lower voice. “She can only be here evenings during the week when Gerry’s not here. No weekends.”
“Why not? And what’s up with Gerry? He’s always here in the evenings. That dude is solid.”
“He’s getting old, Luis.” Something I was aware of but ignored because of his Clint Eastwood-John Wayne demeanor. He was a man of few words. I’d seen him stare down and quiet irate customers. He took no gruff. “He’s got a walker back here. It’s getting harder for him to move around.”
“Is she hot?” I gestured to the stock room.
Rick snickered but didn’t hint either way. He was too professional, a trait I always admired. “She’s a nursing student and has a kid, so she needs the weekends off to be with her son. Right now I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“I told you I could hold down the place while you take a quick nap.”
“I know you would.”
“You got a piece of paper?”
“Let me see.” Rick looked around the counter and handed me receipt paper from the register.
“... and a pen?” Rick found one in his shirt pocket and handed it to me.
“Rick, I’m gonna give you my cell number and street address. I live right down this street, here on Passchendaele, 519, the yellow house with two big windows facing the street. They’re huge, storefront size. I know you don’t live close. If you need a place to crash because you’re here all night and need to be back early, I’ve got a couch for you.” He pulls out his cell and punches in the numbers, both of us realizing we could’ve skipped the paper play. He sends me a text with his name.
“This is Rick”
———————
The Dodgers were up 7 - 2 at the top of the 3rd when I walked in the house. Mario was watching the game from the kitchen table.
“Kershaw’s killing it tonight.”
“Dude, I just saw Rick.”
“At the store?”
“Yeah”
“He’s been there all day?”
“Yeah”
“Overtime?”
“He’s training some new chick. Turns out they haven't hired anyone since the black dude quit 3 weeks ago.”
“That guy wasn’t gonna last.”
We watched the rest of the game with our signature commentary, creating fictional stories about the players, calling balls and strikes, critiquing pitches, lauding tip fouls on full counts that stretched an inning past my bladder’s limit, turning the game into a battle of endurance for the men and the spectators, ultimately ending in walk after 17 pitches.
The THC edible I ate kicked in at the bottom of the 6th, just as Mario finished his 3rd beer. With the Dodgers locked in 11-2 at the top of the 9th, we went out back and lit a fire in the rockpit I’d built earlier that summer. My phone buzzed notifying me of a missed call from Rick.
“Luis! Your offer still good?”
“Always, my friend.”
“I'll be there in a bit. 519?”
“Yep, we’re out back, just come in through the side gate. We’ve got a fire going. You can probably see it from the street.”
Rick came through, squeaking the gate hinges. He brought sea-salt and vinegar potato chips, Japanese peanuts, and cherry flavored diet sodas, all snacks he knew we liked. Mario offered him a beer but he declined. We stood around the fire and quizzed him about the store drama for a bit then ushered him to the living room couch where he quickly fell asleep. He was gone when I woke, folded the linens and blankets I set out, and left a $20 bill on the kitchen table. I stuck it on the side of the refrigerator under a magnet that pinned fast food coupons and an old picture of my son. It was Saturday and I had college football to watch.
The city came by on Monday to power wash the remaining maroon and black stains left by the neighbor’s tantrum over a week ago. We live in a working class neighborhood built in the 1950’s. Single story ranch-style homes with colored brick facades and carports on the side. It’s a neighborhood where every other house has 4 to 5 cars parked out front. Each block has two homes assigned to mow their lawn once a year. Those who mow their lawn weekly, mostly weeds with patches of actual grass, are not required to trim the edges. Only a few “try-hards” and the carpetbaggers trying to flip a house with cheap upgrades and neutral tone paint jobs go the extra mile to fully manicure the exterior. Most of the oak and pecan trees are overgrown, a few are rotting, dried up and leaning over to die.
The residents, mostly working class black, Hispanic, Asian, and old white people, proudly wave cheap flags made in China outside their homes on the 4th of July. Christmas lights from mid-November to early February makeup for the lack of street lighting. There are no sidewalks, just curbs and mottled crumbling asphalt with little or no drainage. Heavy rains raise sewage onto the streets at the bottom of the slope closest to the railroad tracks. The Asian woman’s house at the end of the street gets it the worst. A pond of filthy street water, a foot deep, 10 feet at its widest, and 25 feet at its longest, sits at the end of her driveway up to 3 days after the rains pass. The jogger’s stains were camouflaged by the multiple asphalt tar patches and weeds sprouting through the cracks. Someone must’ve complained.
I walked into Rick’s after the morning rush. No one else was in the shop. He walked around the counter and gave me a hug, a modified high five with a grip and a shoulder bump.
“I got one for you,” he said.
“Ok, lemme get a coffee and some snuff.”
“Grizzly?”
“Wintergreen”
“Pouches?”
“Yep”
“Ok, so this guy and his wife got into a big accident. The guy is ok but the wife ends up in a coma. The husband starts coming by to sit by her side every day for weeks. He ends up losing his job and eventually his house because he’s always there.
“One of the older doctors, tired of seeing him suffer, pulls him aside and says, ‘There’s an old therapy that has been proven to work in cases like yours. It’s not an endorsed medical practice so I can’t even mention it, but I wanna help you. This is something that you can do on your own’. The husband was desperate, ‘Doc, I promise I won’t say anything.’ The doctor looks around and whispers, ‘You’ll have to give her oral sex.’
“The husband looked confused, ‘Are you sure this will work?’ The doctor nodded and sent him into the room. A while later the husband comes out and says, ‘Doc, I’m not sure this is gonna work. She keeps choking.”
THE END
