Joe's Black T-Shirt Page 4

  That’s it in a nutshell, the four magic words that give me carte blanche to dig deeper than a grave robber at midnight. I would like to tell you I have been surprised on occasion. That Mr. CEO or Mrs. Powersuit was putting together a gagillion dollar merger to conquer the world and secure a golden parachute for retirement by age fifty-five. Maybe they were, but the camera doesn’t lie.

  I always choose a public place to show them the pics. The atmosphere of the Waffle House is best. I order coffee and tip the waitress early to leave us be.

  Then the damnedest thing always happens. After the shock turns to numbness, after the wronged party realizes the horrible facts at hand, they say, “Thank you.” It never fails. The first time it happened I wanted to scream, but the more it happened the less it began to effect me. Now I have to control the urge to laugh.

  I had my doubts at first about Tommy. He felt more compassion for the clients than I liked. He was always wondering who they were and why they would do this? They had everything life could offer.

  I was careful to never refer to anyone by name around him. Instead I would use some iconic figure from bad television to identify the targets. It unnerved the kid and gave me a hobby. I would say, “Looks as if Mrs. Brady loves Sam the butcher’s meat,” or “Ward sure is teaching the Beaver a lesson tonight.” Eventually, he quit asking stupid questions.

  ***

  I’ve worked at the Coffee Cartel for the last eight months. The money sucks but the fringe benefit of all the free coffee I can drink can’t be beat. My personal favorite is the extra strong Ethiopian blend. It’s like swallowing raw nuclear energy.

  I have to wear a uniform, but beyond that my appearance isn’t taken seriously. Black lipstick and nail polish are essentials for me. Since I started, my hair has been blue, green, and a brilliant pink cut into a bob. In a place like this, I hardly get noticed. My manager has a Mohawk, and the other girl keeps her head shaved to display an intricate array of tribal tattoos.

  The continual infusion of caffeine into my system also helps me to keep from crashing. On average, I sleep five hours max. My time outside of here is a never-ending pursuit for methamphetamine. As a kid, my mother was hooked on what she called trucker diet pills. When she got clean, she ballooned from a hundred twenty-five pounds soaking wet to over two-fifty. The woman who used to move at the speed of light now puttered along in agony. Sobriety seemed an unfair trade of bad for worse.

  Now that I had the habit, I had no plans to ever quit. My friend, Reggie has snorted so much meth she burnt out her sinus passages. She has lost the ability to taste anything. She could be fed a shit-filled sandwich and it wouldn’t matter. Her nose is a sieve constantly oozing a clear mucus tide that doctors say can’t be fixed. She always has a crumpled hand-full of wet tissues trying to contain the mess, but that is not her biggest sorrow in life. Her chief complaint is that she cannot snort it anymore. I mean she’s tried like hell, but it gets all caught up in that gooey mess and none of it goes down. There ain’t nothing sadder than a junkie sitting on a mound of their favorite chemical and unable to use. She has to inject it to get high now. I’m certain it’ll be the death of her. It’s just a matter of time. If an accidental overdose don’t kill her, then a dirty needle will.

  My work certainly doesn’t suffer any from my addiction. I recently made employee-of-the-month due to my ‘outstanding work ethic.’ Shortly after that, the day-shift manager offered me a sunshine slot. I thought seriously about it. The money was better for sure and I could probably triple my tips. On the other hand, I wasn’t the greatest people person. The zombies I served now were my kind of freaks. People who talked little and asked for less in the way of friendly service. Take the money, give them the coffee, and they went away. No one ever complained.

  The day shift was an epidemic of clean smelling, wide-eyed coffee elitists. When I first walked in here to fill out an app, I heard this: “I want a tall, half-skinny extra hot split quad shot latte, hold the whip.” I almost walked out. What the hell happened to, “Give me a coffee to go?” That’s why I liked the night shift. Nobody gave a shit. If you were in here between twelve and six, your only goal was to keep awake.

  When the clean-cut republican came in for the sixth night in a row, I knew he wanted to talk. Typically, no one came in here to stay without a book, a computer, or a friend. After I served him two Turkish Vente dark roasts, I turned my back on him and pretended to wipe down my station. When I turned around and saw him still there, I felt trapped. I gave him his goddamn coffee, what more did he want?

  “Can I help you, sir?” I asked with as much derisiveness as I could muster.

  “You’re name is Jenny,” he said.

  “Congratulations. You can read.”

  “I’m Tommy.”

  “Good for you.”

  He continued to stand there, not ready to leave, and not certain if he should try again.

  “I’m not interested,” I said.

  “Interested in what?’

  “You.”

  “How did you---”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning. If you’re not pimping for Jesus or trying to sign me up to vote, then what’s left?”

  “You’re right,” he said. A cup of coffee in each hand, he used his back to push open the door. I watched him until the sticky, black night swallowed him whole.

  He reminded me of a boy, the first boy, I had kissed. Maybe that’s why I had been so mean toward him. Then again, maybe I was too strung out to know good from bad any longer. Christ, I thought, at this rate it was a matter of time before I would be completely delusional.

  ###

  Ademption

  Father Gabriel walked down the hallway mumbling to himself and moving fast. He had been Mike’s coach in everything from baseball and girls to picking a college. Father Gabriel was a good guy, one of the few men who didn’t take shortcuts. A man like his father.

  Mike had deliberately opened a small law office about an eight-hour drive from home. He and his partner were both sons of prominent men. Mike’s father had been the unopposed Jefferson County Sheriff for the last thirty years. Chad, Mike’s partner, had it even worse. His father, who had been an attorney, was now an appellate court judge.

  Their office did mainly small stuff: speeding tickets, community service commitments and simple contract work. Mostly, they gave more advice away over the phone than they charged for in their shared office. Maybe later, when they had wives and kids, they would become more like their fathers. Until then they would leave the mess of saving the world to better men.

  The phone was already ringing as he unlocked the office door and took off his light jacket. The slow, mystical fireworks celebration called fall was about to turn the leaves red and orange.

  Mike ignored the phone and turned on the coffeepot. The coffemaker’s drip triggered a Pavlov reaction in him to urinate. He resisted. The phone kept ringing.

  The phone’s aggravating, modern bleep made him melancholy for a real bell. The only time you heard bells anymore was on Sunday, but even those were recordings.

  In a quick exchange, Mike stole a half-cup of the still brewing coffee. He sat at his desk blowing away the top layer of heat. Eager to take his first sip, he watched the phone. By now, a rational person would have hung up and called another office. It was a small town, but hell, there was more than one lawyer to be had.

  “Law offices,” he answered trying to sound as disinterested as possible.

  “Mike, it’s Mom,” she said identifying herself as she always did. Must be something to do with her generation. Chad said his mother did the same damn thing every time she called too.

  “It’s your dad, Mike,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, and it sounded like she was trying not to cry. “There’s a tumor. He has cancer.”

  The wind rushed out of Mike’s lungs. It was by the barest amount of oxygen he could still breathe.

  “There’s nothing that can be done but make him comfortable,” she said. Her word
s, emotionless and rehearsed, but still potent.

  Mike gripped the phone tightly, as if letting go meant falling into a deep pit. He felt dizzy.

  “How…long?” Mike asked, the simple question hard to enunciate.

  There was a pause. He could hear his Mother holding the hospital payphone away, blowing into her Kleenex, and trying to keep her composure. He was in no rush for her to give him an answer.

  “Three weeks at most,” she said, then asked, “How soon can you come home, Mike?”

  When Chad came in, he told him the bad news and that he didn’t know when he would be coming back. They shook hands and then hugged. Before lunch, he was on the road.

  ***

  He drove all night thinking about how quickly life changed. The idea that a man as vibrant as his father could suddenly be dying angered him.

  His father’s whole life had been in the service to others. Trivial ideas of retirement, hunting and fishing as the seasons afforded themselves, golfing for the hell of it on a Wednesday morning, were gone. As painful as the thought of his mother being alone was, the reality he believed would be a thousand times worse.

  On the phone his mother had said they had discovered Father in a closed flea market a hundred miles from home. Later, they found his truck in a ditch, still in drive and the engine running.

  The owner had come upon him while picking up litter. By the cuts on his hands and his torn clothes, it was obvious he had climbed over the barbed-wired fence. The owner asked him what did he think he was doing there? Mike’s father said he didn’t know. When he told him he better get out, he didn’t move. The owner said he was going to call the police. When he still didn’t move, he did exactly that.

  The police came, and like the owner, asked him the same things. Again, he said he didn’t know. They asked him for his name. For a moment he stared at them, seeming not able to understand their question. His mind was a freshly cleaned blackboard. The indecipherable faded chalk lines that used to be knowledge now meant nothing to him. Then, he told them the only thing he could. “I don’t know.”

  The police asked him to stand to be searched and he automatically complied. The younger officer pulled a billfold from Father’s back pocket and handed it to the older cop. When he opened it and found a gold badge along with his drivers’ license, they ceased their interrogation and called for an ambulance.

  In the hospital the standard tests were conducted. The man was the epitome of physical fitness. It wasn’t until the MRI machine revealed an egg-sized black mass above his spine that a diagnosis was made.

  It was inoperable, malignant, and would turn him into a vegetable shortly before it killed him. The tumor had been growing for at least the last three to four years. Even if, by some miracle, it would have been found back then, aggressively combated with chemo and radiation, the odds of him living much longer than he already had weren’t any better.

  Mother had asked Mike to come specifically to help. She would be by Father’s bedside from six in the morning till six at night, then Father’s brother Henry would be there until eleven. Mike’s shift would be those uncomfortable hours of total darkness, allowing his mother and uncle to rest. It was a vigil to be enforced without excuse.

  A litany of comfort meds kept Mike’s father mainly unconscious at least four out of every six hours. When he awoke it was anybody’s guess if he would be lucid or hydrophobic. The doctors said that as the tumor progressed, an induced coma would be necessary due to the pain. Until then, they could have him, if only occasionally.

  ***

  He had found Mother as he had expected. Perched silent next to Father in a semi-comfortable hospital chair. She held his hand and looked lovingly, hopefully at the man she loved.

  They married the day after he had graduated from the St. Louis Police Academy. After a short stint with city law enforcement and quite possibly by divine providence, he became the new under-sheriff in rural Jefferson County. A year later, the old boy he answered to died of a major heart attack in an Illinois brothel. Youth, integrity, and charm got voters to elect him Sheriff the first time. His vigilance for keeping the peace year after year got him re-elected.

  The area had risen up since Father began. He liked to say that they may have the same problems of a big city, but they still had small town values. By that he meant, he still called men older than him sir and expected the same of men younger than him (damn their rank). When the food pantry was asking for donations, you raided the cabinets. Men held doors open for women and waited their turn. It was a nice way to live.

  Mike kissed Mother on the cheek. She was happy to see him and knew Father would be pleased with him as well. As he stood next to her, Mike placed his hand over theirs.

  “Have you eaten, Mike?” Mother asked.

  “A little. Some burgers, a few gas-station hot dogs. Mostly just coffee.”

  “Go home. Take a shower. Fix yourself something from the icebox,” she ordered maternally. “There’s more food going to rot in there than is going to get eaten. Then get some rest. Uncle Henry needs you to be here on time.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Mike said kissing her cheek again.

  Father hadn’t moved except for his deep breaths. A tube went to his stomach that pumped in a nutritional mush. Another, thankfully hidden beneath the hospital blankets, collected his waste.

  The prone body was his Fathers, but without the towering six-foot-six frame erect and his ‘aw, shucks’ smile, he looked different. Not like he was sleeping or deceased, more empty than anything. As if his soul was wandering confused, far away from his body, not entirely certain it should come back to visit.

  ***

  Mike came to the hospital quarter after ten. He had disobeyed his mother’s order to go directly home and raided the meager resources of the local Library. He blindly pulled books until he had collected a full armload from the shelves. Some he knew by author, others he chose solely by their cover. The librarian seemed frustrated to be checking out so many books at once. He tried to reassure her using his best imitation of Father’s smile. She had no use for such conveyances.

  Uncle Henry sat where Mother had been before when Mike came into the room. Unlike Mother, however, his uncle had his boots propped up on the bed, watching the Rams offensive line get trounced by the visiting Forty-Niners.

  He bounced to his feet upon seeing his nephew and gave him an unusually long hug. The big man pushed away first. He was a five-year younger carbon copy of Father and seemed all to ready to cry. He changed the subject to avoid it.

  “Dang, boy! I ain’t seen you since Cindy got married. How’s life down there in the middle of God’s country?”

  “Pretty good. The village has three horses now, but there is talk of getting a fourth.”

  “Why do all good lawyers have to be such smarty pants?” Uncle Henry asked loving every minute. Mike may have looked like his Mother, but it was a disguise. Inside, he was every bit quick as his father.

  Not much for small talk, Uncle Henry shook his nephew’s hand and wished him well, then left.

  In the still warm chair, Mike sat next to his Father. With nothing to distract him, he randomly chose one of the books he had brought. The story was vaguely familiar and it was likely he had already read it years ago. It offered him a comfort, an escape, he gladly accepted to defy reality.

  ***

  At one a.m., a nurse came into the room. She smiled toward him and wordlessly changed Father’s IV’s. Methodically, she charted her duties on an aluminum clipboard. Mike was grateful for her silence.

  This was the hospice ward. The patients cared for here were not going to become well. The staff and the families who shared these sanitary rooms moved among each other with delicacy. No one wanted to be here but made the best of things if they had to be.

  Mike’s head was bobbing up and down, trying to resist the natural urge to sleep, when Father awoke.

  “What the hell is going on here?” his Father’s voice barked.

  “Dad
,” Mike answered.

  “I asked a question, boy, and I expect an answer.”

  The stern response made Mike wonder.

  “You’re in the hospital, Dad. Mother will be here soon,” he said.

  “Don’t you hand me that hogwash,” Father said. “You’re in a heap of trouble.”

  The agitation caught Mike off-guard. He was accustomed to the soft-spoken, laconic man his father normally was.

  “Now if you’re smart, you’ll tell me the truth. I’ll do everything I can to make it look good that you confessed.”

  His Father was awake, but not in the present. Not knowing what else to do, Mike decided he would try and play along.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”

  “The hell you say.”

  This game wasn’t fun. His Father had helped him a few times with advice on interviewing clients. How to discern the truth from the lies, the facts and not the feelings, no matter what the alleged crime.

  He recognized this as a rudimentary backseat-interrogation, some ghost of Christmas past come to visit. Whoever Father was speaking to, he had them dead to rights. In a blatant disregard to his own best advice to clients, Mike confessed.

  “You got me Sheriff,” Mike said. His intonation reminded him of a black-and-white cowboy movie, maybe something staring Gary Cooper or Henry Fonda. “I’ll be happy to oblige you and show you where the gold is buried.”