Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1)

by Samuel Belcher

  “I checked. Nope.” He put the key in and turned the ignition, hoping for a pleasant surprise. Instead, they were greeted with a noise similar to two cats fighting. Mel tried to look at Rick again.

  “Don’t look at me. This was your bright idea.” He said.

  Mel jerked slightly to reposition himself and when he did his wallet fell out of his pocket and onto the transmission hump in between them. In a clear plastic window, Rick could see a strange looking card that resembled a credit card but was clear and glistened from multiple prismatic colors. Mel noticed him curiously looking at it.

  “It’s a Company card. Holo-credit. Unlimited line.” Mel said as Rick watched the colors change He could see the hologram of an eagle and a quill pin shoot up in an amazing 3-D affect. “It’s one of the benefits of being Company, like the Prime Shield.” Mel informed him, and he deftly reached down and grabbed his wallet and shoved it back into his pocket as far as his current position would allow.

  Rick didn’t seem fazed by this comment, “Uh, huh. Prime Sphere?”

  Mel looked confused as he tried to put the car in gear and it squealed in protest. “You remember. The Prime Sphere is what the Company uses to protect the integrity of reality for its employees. Remember, I explained it on the plane?”

  “Yeah, right. Plane. We any closer to dinner yet?” Rick asked pointedly.

  Mel looked at his watch. “Okay, its 1130 Guam time. It's a 7,377 miles to Chicago, we've got a tiny car, we don’t smoke, its light, and we're not wearing sunglasses.” He was grinning manically, but Rick failed to respond to his prompt. “Get it? Blues Brothers, remember?”

  Rick just stared at him blankly, his neck hurting from the exertion.

  Mel gave up. “Alright, we have to see Pete, he’s open for lunch.” The tiny engine roared to life surprisingly loud.

  “And then we see Roger?” Rick added.

  “Well, no, not exactly.” Mel looked over at him slightly annoyed. “You weren’t listening at all on the plane were you?”

  Rick didn’t reply. Mel put the tiny toy car into drive, the transmission complaining from the strain, and it rolled forward, first with a herculean effort and then finally, as the small engine warmed up, it began to get some speed. Instinctively, Rick searched for the air-conditioning controls. He knew that it might just be wishful thinking but in his line of work a working air-conditioner was standard. He had little hope as he turned the white knobs but they were both pleasantly surprised as a powerful, and cold breeze started blowing from the vents. Their joy was rapidly reduced, however, as a foul smell began to drift into the cab of the car along with the cool air. It was like some animal had died under the hood several months ago. “Wow,” Rick said. “That’s worse than burrito night at the Fiesta Hacienda.”

  Mel scrunched up his nose. “I think I ran over that last month in Louisiana.” He tried to concentrate, instead, on driving the Japanese car and avoid wrecking.

  Rick happened to notice a large white sign with big red letters on the way down the hill from the airport. It was one of the few things he could do to distract himself from the putrid smell filling the tiny car. It proudly proclaimed to everyone fleeing the airport: ‘Welcome to Guam, Where America’s Day Starts, Hafa Adai!’ And right below that was written: ‘Home of the world’s largest K-Mart.’ Rick mulled that one over for a moment wondering how those two very different things deserved to be put on the same sign in such big letters. Eventually, he decided it wasn’t worth knowing why and he dropped the subject from his mind.

  One of the great things about the Guam boony car, as they are called, is that no matter how much of a rust bucket it is, no matter how old or how poorly the engine runs, they all have air-conditioners that work like charms. Air-conditioning had long since gone from being a luxury item to being standard everyday equipage on the islands. Very few people, the native Chamorro included, went without air-conditioning. And it was a good thing, too, especially if you were new and unaccustomed to the level of heat and humidity that hung over the island like a hot wet rag. The normal day was usually around 89-95 degrees, but the humidity made it feel like 107-110. Waiting for nightfall was of no benefit. It didn’t cool down much. The only time the temperatures came down was during typhoon season. That was, in fact, the only other season Guam had. There was typhoon season and non-typhoon season. Translated to mainlander terms that meant that weather could be counted on to be one of two things: sunny and hot or cool windy with lots of rain.

  Rick’s red tropical shirt, which was quit in style on the island, was already soaking from sweat. It was a lot hotter than he was used to. As Mel drove the tiny car and managed to hit every pot hole in the road, Rick tried to get his mind off of their present status. “So, how come I don’t have one of those unlimited accounts and what about my little watch thing like you have?”

  Mel looked at the black box on his wrist, covered in small buttons and lights. “You mean my REAL-Pro 9000? That’s only for Fixers. You’re not a Fixer. And as for the card, you’ll probably get one in 6 months. You were on probation.”

  “Speaking of which, what happens when I’m not there to take the Company calls tonight?” Rick wondered.

  “It’s already night in Tampa.” Mel smiled. “Welcome to over the International Date Line.”

  Rick looked at him harshly indicating that he was not happy with that answer.

  Mel tried to calm him a little. “Look, things will be okay with the Managers. Don’t worry about them. They know this is a big deal, and I need you along. Don’t worry.”

  Rick took little comfort in that weak assurance. To make matters worse, his head kept hitting the top of the car every time Mel hit a pot hole. Rick’s head was bouncing off the bare metal and making a loud bong noise each annoying time. Mel just seemed to ignore it. Or he was silently getting a kick out of banging Rick’s head and only pretending to ignore it. “You know if you have an unlimited expense account how come you can’t afford a better rental car?”

  “I told you. It’s all they had.” He replied agitatedly. He rounded a corner and came upon one of Guam’s main roads, Marine Corps Drive. Mel waited at the light, and when it turned green, he turned left and headed south.

  Guam is one of the last leftovers from America’s futile attempt at colonialism during the late 19th century. It was one of several prizes afforded the fledgling world power after the short and bloody Spanish American War in 1898. It was basically a war prize along with the Philippines. However, in the present, the Philippines is an independent nation while Guam is still a territory. The island remains strategic to America’s national interests in the region. It is the southern-most island of a chain of islands known as the Marianas. The only time it has been out of American hands in the past century is the two and a half years during WWII, when the Japanese decided to invade and set up a nasty little island regime in December 1941. The US Navy and Marine Corps took it back on July 1944. That date was still faithfully celebrated as Liberation Day on Guam each July. That’s some of the factual history of Guam. But, to be honest, time doesn’t live on Guam.

  There are a lot of facts can be said about the small island of Guam: the tropical beauty, some of the untouched jungle, the World War II history, the Spanish history, the Philippine history, or even the green snake infestation. Most of it would fall short of the real thing, though. The island is an entity unto itself, possessing a lure and a magic that is either sensed or not sensed by those fortunate enough to visit the place. You either get it, or you don’t. The geographical facts about it (it’s thirty miles long, no more than four-six miles wide, has 212 square miles, and its highest elevation is just over a thousand feet) read like a Wikipedia page laundry list and get nowhere close to hitting the target. Guam is the pearl of the Pacific, despite what Hawaii tries to claim. It works its magic in subtle and devastating ways by changing you from the inside out. You will never be the same after visiting the little green island on the precipice of the Challenger Deep. It is a tropical par
adise in the middle of a vast sapphire blue ocean beneath a sky so big it feels like it will swallow you. Perhaps that’s why the United States quietly holds onto it…that and the strategic military value. The two large military bases on the island were a testament to that.

  Mel drove through the random traffic congestion like a pro. He understood the prevailing idea of traffic rules on Guam consisted of whatever the other driver thought might, or might not, do at any given time. That set of shifting rules could change from day to day. If a driver kept that in mind, they would be fine. Mel was following the road south toward a small village near the southern end of the island called Umatac. It was a picturesque place with an old Catholic Church and small brightly colored Spanish style houses near a beautiful crescent shaped bay. On the hill overlooking the village was an old Spanish Fort called Fort Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. Traditionally, the bay was regarded as the location of Ferdinand Magellan’s landing in 1521, which was strangely coincidental as Mel had an unfortunate role in that historic voyage. He was there when it happened. In fact, it was because of him, and an unfortunate accident with the ships’ rudder in the middle of the night, that Magellan managed to land on the island in the first place. Otherwise, he would have missed it entirely. Contrary to popular belief, Magellan wasn’t the brightest explorer on the block. In the end, Magellan found it, got robbed by the natives and then after some quick executions of the locals he left never to return. But, typically, all of this had absolutely nothing to do with Pete’s Barbecue and Mel didn’t like to talk about it, so Rick was spared the whole unpleasant affair.

  The world-renowned eatery known simply as Pete’s Barbecue was not a publicly accessible establishment. This might sound odd when presented with the fact that it was, indeed, a restaurant. But, nothing about Pete’s screamed: “I’m a business, come spend money here!” It was, as it turned out, a small, dirty cinder block building no larger than a single wide trailer that was inconveniently tucked away back from the main highway down an unpaved dirt road with a whole lot of deep potholes filled with rainwater and covered in sharp pieces of broken sea shells. It was the kind of road that made tourists think of scenes out of the movie involving rustic banjo playing people with a penchant for torturing pigs. There were no signs, no directions, and the road was edged by thick jungle on one side and a swampy marsh filled with high grass on the other. It was located about a half mile down this road, hidden by the trees and clumps of tall grass. It was exactly where you would never want to put a place of business. The parking lot was barely big enough for four or five cars squeezed together. It was unpaved and also covered in bleached white crushed shells. The shack was very touristy looking but kind of run down. Pete wasn’t one to keep up on décor, or paint, or roofing. It had a thatched roof which covered a rusty tin roof (the thatch was for effect only), and the outside looked like it hadn’t been painted since the last typhoon came through. There were large chips of paint missing, revealing the older and more faded blue color underneath. But, the diner was only part of several small buildings that had been put together to form a strange looking complex. On the other side of the parking lot, a small driveway went behind the diner where another cinder block building sat. This was Pete’s home. The two buildings were just two dozen feet apart. He could walk out of his doorway and within seven or eight steps he could be in the back door of his restaurant. Adjacent to this building, almost entirely obscured from view by palms and grass was another smaller building with several closed doors. It looked unused and empty. In between and all around were various types of palms and island grass that waved with the constant breeze that came off of the bay. And there on the front of the diner on a red background painted to look like a circus banner that arched over the doorway were the huge circus-like letters in black that spelled “Pete’s Barbecue. Open for Business”

  Rick looked at it in approval. “Finally, I hope this is good.”

  “Good doesn’t describe Pete’s. There’s no word in the English language to describe his barbecue. Just wait.” Mel explained enthusiastically.

  Mel had no trouble parking the car in the empty parking lot. The only other vehicle around was a beat up old Nissan truck that may or may not have been red at one time. It was parked off to the side with only the very back of it sticking out. Mel acted confused by the empty parking lot. “This isn’t right. Where is everybody?” The small Japanese car sputtered to a stop, and the tiny whining engine died away.

  Rick tried to look out of his dirty side window. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s gone? Try his phone.”

  “Nah, not Pete. It’s lunch time. Pete’s always got the grills going at lunch.” Mel replied reassuringly. He popped open his driver’s side door and with a grunt and an exhalation of relief he stood up. Rick managed to find the small metal handle that opened his door but when he tried to push the door open nothing happened other than the small car rocking back and forth from the effort. But, Rick wasn’t about to let a rusty jammed door get in the way of him and good food. He shoved his right shoulder against it harder and, this time, the door flew open. He began the laborious process of unfolding himself. By the time he was finished, he was leaning against the car and breathing heavily.

  “Oh, my poor nuts,” He complained, bending slightly and taking deep breathes. “Is this what vacuumed packed feels like?”

  “Relax.” Mel told him. “I once fell on a trebuchet in the tenth century. Felt like my balls were in my throat for a month.”

  “Uh, huh. You’re not helping, Mel.” Rick straightened himself painfully.

  “I’m just sayin’.” Mel slammed his door shut, not sure if it would stay that way. He was surprised when it did. “Remind me sometime and I’ll tell you about the real King Arthur.”

  Rick wasn’t buying it. “How about we just eat first? I’m tired of listening to your time travel crap.” He could still smell the mind numbing scent of barbecue wafting through the air from somewhere.

  Mel corrected him. “Not, time travel. I told you its reality travel. Time travel is impossible.”

  “Sounds a lot like time travel to me. Hey! I smell barbecue.” He said, his nose overpowering his train of thought. Unable to contain himself any longer he headed straight for the glass door underneath the big colorful painted sign. But, he stopped just a foot short of it, his hand outstretched in excited anticipation. He slowly read the small white sheet of paper tapped on the inside of the door with the message written in black Sharpie. It said ‘Closed for Holiday.’ He turned abruptly to yell at Mel. “This place is closed,” He shouted back, unexpectedly finding his friend standing uncomfortably close over his shoulder reading the same sign.

  “What? That’s not possible.” Mel grunted harshly. “Holiday? What holiday?” He stepped back and looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that might help him understand why Pete’s place was closed. Finally, he stormed off to the back of the small shack in his frantic hyper- articulated manner, leaving Rick alone, staring frustrated at the door. A few moments later he returned and motioned for Rick to follow him. As he stepped around to the rear of the eatery, the scent of barbecue grew stronger. He felt like he was walking on the golden streets of heaven. He had found nirvana, and it was calling his name.

  Pete’s front yard, which was the backyard of the diner, was just big enough to have two nicely built brick barbecue pits with a large cast iron grill sitting against the back wall of the diner. This was the place where the magic happened, where the barbecue fairies came down from sunny clouds of puffy white and sprinkled magical barbecue seasoning on pieces of chicken and fish and beef and then sang sweet melodies of Elvis songs for your enjoyment as you willing got swept away by an explosion of taste and sensation that your taste buds were incapable of adequately translating to your brain. Sound over the top? Please, when in Guam stop by and try it for yourself then we’ll talk.

  Mel was backing away from a giant hug with his old friend and he was beaming a smile across his entire face. “Rick! This
is the great maestro, Pete. Pete, this is Rick Carter, cab driver, and transport man,” he said, waving his hand back and forth.

  Rick saw Pete standing over the large cast iron grill, a pair of tongs in one hand and a diet Pepsi in the other. The smoke was wafting up from the grill and framing him in a strange aura of milky white. He was a short Chamorro, thick-set and older. His face was flat and dark, but his eyes sparkled with life. He looked like a man who was used to smiling a lot and laughing. He had those dark and tanned wrinkles around his mouth and eyes that formed when people spent more time laughing then frowning. Rick looked at him and smiled. It was the sort of thing everyone did around Pete. You simply could not help but smile when around Pete. He looked precisely how Rick had imagined him. The only thing strange or unusual was that he could not tell how old he was, not even a hint. He at once looked time-worn but his features seemed to change as he moved and spoke and there was a youthful spirit all around him. He stood over the grill in a tee-shirt and shorts, old, worn out flip flops, or zorries, on his feet. He had an apron tied around his waist and midsection that bulged out with his round stomach. The apron was smeared in old dried sauce stains. His hair was salt and pepper, and he had no sign of a beard or mustache. When he saw Rick he waved the tongs at him and said: “Hey, look its Rick Carter.” He spoke with a thick island accent. “It’s about time!” He waved his free hand at Rick. “We met on de sweet by-and-by, bra, you and me. I been waitin’ to see you again.”

  Rick stopped short, not expecting such a greeting. He was pretty sure he had never seen this particular Chamorro before, or any Chamorro for that matter. In fact, he could safely say with confidence that he had never met any Chamorro before. “Say what? Do I know you?”

  Pete smiled a strange and off-putting smile that sent a slight pulse of doubt and concern through Rick’s senses. Pete’s personality had that kind of effect on people when he wanted it to. “It not yet, bra. We got some time yet, yeah? Den, who knows, tings happen don’t dey?”