by Bob McGough
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Robert L. McGough
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, contact Robert at this email address: [email protected].
First edition August 2021
www.talesbybob.com
Introduction
Howard Marsh is a lot of things: a liar, a thief, a poor man’s wizard. He’s a shoddily tattooed skin stretched over a too skinny body that's barely held together by the same drugs that are tearing his life apart. A cynic, his words are often as poison as the substances he takes to pass his days, a suicide attempt years in the making.
He’s the scion of a family with a history as rich as it is materially poor. He’s the product of a miserable county with more dirt roads than paved, where poverty and loss is the order of the day. He’s a man haunted by his past, and has yet to find any reason to try and piece himself back together.
You would be well advised to take what he says with a large grain of salt. He will cover the worst parts, glossing over the bits that show his darkest sides. The bits where the drugs that ravage him are in control. Where we find him is at the bottom, eking out a living as a water witch, a copper thief, a finder of lost things. Living in a storage shed and trying to maintain what's left of his frayed relationships with the few family members who will still talk to him.
But dear readers, he’s a better man than he thinks. He doesn’t see it; he’s long forgotten the possibility even, and no one left in his life sees it either. But, if you can endure the miserable existence of watching someone make nothing but bad choices for a time, then you will perhaps be rewarded. Maybe you will see him slowly scrabble out of the muddy, trash filled ditch that is his life.
It won’t be quick, and it won’t be painless. The stories to come are often filled with sadness. The fairytale ending is not for stories such as these. There is a chance at happiness, but it is a long way away, and there are many obstacles both in him, and in his path.
This is not a plea for understanding, or forgiveness, or any sort of justification. It is just the way of things.
He is Howard Marsh, the Methgician.
And he doesn’t give a damn what you think.
Bringing Home The Rain
Being the first tale in the Redemption of Howard Marsh.
A Conversation At The U-Store-It (Fall)
With a groan, I rolled up the door to my storage unit and stepped outside. The mid-morning sun was blinding compared to the utter darkness inside my unit, so I shaded my eyes with one hand and stretched deeply. A yawn forced its way past my stiffened jaw, causing it to pop painfully, and was escorted by a sound echoing in my back.
I didn’t remember much from last night, but as I rubbed my tender jaw, a brief memory of a fist colliding with my face bubbled up. I decided not to think too hard on it; I had probably deserved it, and ignorance is frequently bliss. I am a snarky shit sometimes - one of my many fine qualities that have so endeared me to my local community.
The fall air was cool enough that I wished I had taken time to put on some clothes instead of stepping out in just my faded blue boxers, but I decided it was too late now. I knew I made quite a sight: a short, wiry man with disheveled black hair and a few days worth of stubble across my chin that danced along that fine line between rugged and rough-looking. A battered pair of glasses sat across the bridge of my oft broken nose, held together with a little bit of electrical tape. When I smiled, you’d notice more than a few missing teeth, but then I had the sort of pale blue eyes that women seemed to like. A pair of untied combat boots loosely encasing my feet completed the look, a fitting match for the plethora of poorly done tattoos that dotted my body. I was a hot mess, but I had long embraced that fact.
Gravel crunching underfoot, I made my way down the row of storage units. Built from cinder blocks and tin, they’d been painted white once, though most had flaked back to their natural gray. They’d been my home for years now, long enough that I knew each faded red roll-up door like an old friend. I could even pretty well tell you what each one held, having spent time rummaging through them each, in turn, late at night when the only security light flickered off.
Rounding the corner, I leaned against the wall and groaned. My whole body ached; that sort of deep pain you get from drinking too hard and falling asleep on a concrete floor. Without leaning up, I relieved myself against the fence that separated the Elk Grove U-Store-It from the backlot of the Dairy Queen.
Through the cracks in the wooden fence, I could see the back of the rusted green dumpster with its accompanying grease trap. Even if I hadn’t seen it, I could easily have smelled it, the reek of rancid food filling my nostrils. Beyond that, a small line of cars filled the drive-through of the restaurant, which immediately told me it had to be at least ten in the morning. Over the sounds of engine noise, I could hear something rustling in the dumpster, though whether it was a cat or possum was anyone’s guess.
Tucking myself away, I came back around the corner just in time to see my only neighbor, Corey Davis, sliding up the rolling door to his unit. What was meant to be an overnight stay three years ago when his wife kicked him out had become a more permanent situation, but I certainly did not begrudge him a stay in my little slice of paradise.
He nodded to me as I passed. Corey was not a morning person, and he looked about as rough as I did, wearing a pair of plaid pajama bottoms coupled with a sweat-stained wife beater. He had to walk carefully so as not to knock over the numerous empty beer bottles that littered his floor, and judging from his bloodshot eyes, most of those were from the night before. Had we been drinking? Had he been the one who hit me? Wouldn’t be the first time.
I knew I wouldn’t get a word out of him for at least a half hour even if I wanted to, so I just returned the nod and dipped back into Casa del Marsh. Pulling the chain, the yellow bulb that was the room’s only source of light flickered on fitfully, but coupled with the morning sun, it gave me enough illumination to try and find some clothes. I rummaged around until I found a pair of cutoff jean shorts, which I paired with an Atlanta Braves shirt I’d taken from a box someone had left behind the Christian Mission. I didn’t give a rip about sports typically, but it was a damn nice shirt, and as shitty as I felt, I decided that maybe I would attempt to spend the day faking it till I made it. Look good, feel good.
Dressed, I wandered to the back of my shed where I kept my food. I reached inside my mini-fridge to grab a beer, and cracking it open, I slumped into the worn recliner that doubled as my bed. I figured a little hair of the dog that bit me would have me feeling better soon enough. Then I might dive into a honeybun, or maybe some Spam.
In a moment or two, I would start in on one of my other bad habits, but the beer would do until I could fully wake up. I thought about going back to sleep but decided against it…these drugs weren’t going to do themselves. If it hadn’t been a weekday, Corey might have joined me, but seeing as he actually had a job, as an accountant of all things, I knew he wouldn’t.
I was reaching under my chair for my little box of oblivion when I heard the sound of tires rolling over the gravel. Swearing, I sat up straight, leaving the box in place for now. It was probably just s
omeone coming to see Corey, some poor sod who could only afford an accountant that had his office in a storage shed, but it paid to be at least somewhat cautious, I figured.
A heartbeat later, I watched as a jet black Suburban pulled up about ten feet from my door and came to a halt. The doors opened and a trio of men stepped out wearing dark-colored suits. One of those suits contained a man I knew, and I grimaced.
“Mr. Marsh, pleasure to see you once more,” said the grey haired man striding towards me. The other two men, aviator glasses mirroring the area, hung back, leaning against the SUV. I could see the telltale hint of a bulge that had to be pistol holsters on their side.
“Agent Rutherford. Wish I could say the same.”
The agent belonged to some alphabet agency that I struggled to recall. NOAA? That seemed right, but fuck, who can keep them all straight. We’d had a few run-ins over the years, ones that rarely ended very favorably for me. He knew what I could do, and was not above using me for his own ends. And I suspected, using me up, if needed. Slipping off his sunglasses, he slid them into his breast pocket and stepped inside.
His face twitched almost imperceptibly as the disarray of my living quarters hit him. “Quite the tidy little domicile you have here, Marsh. About what I expected if I’m being honest.” His nose scrunched. “When was the last time you bathed, man? Jesus.”
I ran my fingers through my greasy hair on purpose and smiled sourly. “A week or so, I guess. If’n you’d called, I would have picked up for you. Taken a bath in the Jacuzzi tub I keep in the guest house maybe.”
Rutherford ignored my snark. “We may have another incident on our hands, and I want you to look into it.”
I took a sip of my beer, a trickle of the cool liquid escaping my lips to dribble down my chin. “Not interested.”
Rutherford grinned. It was a predatory thing, all teeth and meanness. Reminded me of my daddy’s when he had a good drunk going. “I don’t particularly care. Your state of desire doesn’t frequently figure into my calculations.”
I just gave him a blank stare that I hoped conveyed my extreme disinterest. It lost some effect in that he wasn’t even looking at me, but was instead leaning down to look at the little stack of books I had by the door.
“Ten miles south of here,” he began, at last looking up from his perusal, “it hasn’t rained in 7 months.”
I was digging around the cracks of the recliner trying to find my lighter, but found time to scoff instead. “It stormed here last week. Blew down a tree, near about took out the police station. Didn’t, mores the pity, but it is what it is.”
Rutherford nodded. “I’m well aware. In fact, in the past seven months, there have been a number of storms that have hit Elk Grove, and Jubal County in general. In that time, the weathermen tell me that every inch of the county has gotten at least several inches of rain. Except for a five mile circle just south of here. They say when you watch the radar, the clouds part right around it every time.”
“Weather’s funny like that,” I opined. I had found my lighter and managed to match it to the nub of cigarette from my makeshift ashtray.
“Marsh, I am going to level with you. We don’t know what’s going on. We suspect it’s something in your realm. So get to it. Solve the problem, before more folks start to notice. We will pay the standard rate, as always.”
I took a deep drag, deep enough that it killed the little bit of tobacco, and then chased it with a sip of beer. “Rutherford?”
He arched an eye.
“Fuck off.”
Rutherford grinned that vicious smile again. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his glasses and slipped them onto his face. He nodded to one of his men, who pulled out a phone. Something was up, I could tell. The bastard had an ace up his sleeve, else he wouldn’t have bothered coming out here.
The agent pulled a business card out and set it on the arm of my recliner, careful not to touch me as he did so. “My number is on there. If I might make a suggestion, perhaps you should remember it. You know, for your one phone call.”
My stomach knotted as I heard sirens turn on. Nearby. Way too nearby. I jumped to my feet. “The fuck did you do?”
Rutherford stepped back out into the light. “I guess that gentleman you ‘assaulted’ last night pressed charges. What a shame.” He opened his door, and one foot inside turned to face me. “Be a peach and give us a ring if you change your mind.”
I stepped out, ready to run, but before I could even get good and started, the cops were wheeling into the lot, lights flashing. Swearing, I flipped off Rutherford's SUV as it pulled away, and stepped back inside. I killed my beer and then scooped up the man’s card, muttering a small Word and flicking my wrist just so it made a slight...crinkle...in reality, causing the card to vanish. I made sure my stash of drugs were well hidden, as best as I could in the time I had.
The cops rolled to a stop, and I made my way outside with my hands up. I knew the drill all too well. Corey had stepped out too, shading his eyes against the sun. “Be seeing you, Marsh?”
I nodded. This wasn’t the first time he had witnessed me get hauled off, and I strongly suspected it would not be the last. “Thanks man. Lock up for me?”
He said he would, and went back into his unit. Then the cops had me on the ground. Same shit, different day.
A Field Trip To The City Jail
If the cops were a little rough with me, well, I would be the first to admit it wasn’t entirely undeserved. I had gotten on a first name basis with pretty much all of them, both city cops and county sheriffs, all of them for the wrong reasons. In some of my “higher moments,” I had perhaps given one or more the odd bite or black eye. So I couldn’t rightly fault them for erring on the side of caution, even if I was pretty sure I would be picking gravel out of my knees for the rest of the day.
It was a dismal ride to the station in a cop car that reeked of cleaning supplies. They must have busted a drunk last night, and the poor soul had hurled all over the backseat. That was most likely an added factor to the surly attitudes of the men in blue in front of me, who had shut down my every attempt at civil conversation. I just shrugged and went back to staring out the window.
Elk Grove was a miserable place, but it was my home. It had just enough for a man to survive, but a man sometimes wants to do more than just survive. Luckily, Montgomery was only 40 minutes away, and that was a place you could do a little living if you knew the right people. And like all good rural areas, the drugs were plentiful enough. They certainly helped relieve the monotony of daily life.
We passed through a town that could go from movie set idealism to the dungy truth of southern life in a matter of houses. You’d have some old folks’ white-painted home with a too-nice yard sitting next to a place that had enough scrap metal lying about the yard to keep me in rent for a month of Sundays. The only business we passed that seemed to be really popping was the Piggly Wiggly, although there were more than a few cars parked in front of the ABC store, waiting for it to open at eleven no doubt.
Elk Grove was small enough to not have been rightly killed by a Walmart yet, so the square around the courthouse was still mostly full of stores. The Court Square Cafe, Jones Hardware, Jernigan Hunting Supplies, Quick Cuts, and the usual cross section of what a city needed when they were too lazy to drive some place with better prices. In the middle of it all squatted the Courthouse, the tallest building in the county with its clock tower that chimed every day at noon.
The jail was a small building set off behind the courthouse, surrounded by a number of old oak trees so the eyes of the city would not be affronted by the sights of lowly criminals such as ourselves. Sun-bleached bricks with grey barred windows, I suppose I can understand where the city was coming from. It was not a stately edifice by any stretch.
A few shoves, a few curses (going both ways, mind you), and I was safely ensconced in my home away from home once more, dressed in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. I wished I could remember the details fr
om last night, but I was sure one side of it would come out soon enough. If I let it get that far.
I muttered that small Word again and snapped. Rutherford’s card appeared in between my fingers. I eyed it a bit, and began slowly twirling it as I weighed my options.
On the one hand, the city jail was not that bad. A few days’ stay and I would likely be out again. When you are as annoying as myself, they tend to do what they can to be rid of you as quickly as possible. I would have some community service to try and weasel out of, some more time tacked onto my court referral program, and of course new rounds of fines. The county just couldn’t do without a little bit of financial serfdom from one of its favorites.
On the downside, it was sometimes hard to get my chosen forms of entertainment. Just depended on who decided to get caught during my stay. Or who worked their shift at the jail. There was already a crawling itch creeping up my spine informing me that there was a solid desire for illicit substances to enter my body. Sooner rather than later.
Rutherford could save me all that hassle. But then I would have to do what he asked. And I, without fail, regretted getting involved in his bullshit. Moreover, it was not like doing the job would get me in his good graces. I was convinced no such thing existed.
He did pay though. I was about a month behind on the rent on my unit, as I hadn’t had as much luck scrounging up copper of late as I usually did, and scrap metal prices had bottomed out. I’d made a touch cleaning up some limbs in last week’s storm from some of the houses near the storage unit, but that money had been magically transformed into a Dairy Queen ice cream cake during a late night smoke session.
Homelessness was not the optimal choice.
I lay there on my cot, weighing my options. A groan from the next cell roused me from my introspection. A bulbous man was lying on the adjacent cot, so soused with alcohol that I could smell him sweating it out. You likely could have gotten drunk just by taking a lick of that man’s forehead. And then he puked. The smell that came with it implied that he had gotten so drunk as to eat something decaying.