by Edward Lee
“So let me get this straight. You use Melda for fucked-up flicks and for this vendetta shit you was rappin’ about, right?”
“Yeah. Pretty nifty, huh?”
Case Piece’s facial reaction suggested that “nifty” was probably not the word he’d use to describe the process. “Uh…and you brought her all the way down here to…what? Whack some dude related to the dudes who offed your wife’s father? I got that right?”
“Not a dude.” Paulie grinned, then Argi and Cristo grinned as well, all quite sinisterly. “It was a 9-year-old kid.”
“And speakin’ of that…” Argi looked at his Rolex (a real Rolex, not one of those knock-offs). “I think our package has probably been delivered by now…”
— | — | —
Chapter 3
(I)
“Well, gawd durn!” Helton exclaimed with some ire once he and Micky-Mack had returned to the shack. His son, Dumar, still tamped down hard by fears regarding the disappearance of his young son, made a startled expression.
“Dang, paw. What’cha riled about?”
“Riled? Fuck. That low-down ear-wax-eatin’ cracker Hall Sladder done stolt my whole stash’a ‘shine.”
“He shore as shit did, Cousin Dumar,” piped in Micky-Mack.
“Fuck!” Dumar shared in his father’s displeasure. “Ain’t that a kick in the tail..but, shee-it, Paw, maybe this’ll cheer ya up ’cos, like I just done calt out to ya”—Dumar’s voice lowered to an enthused whisper—“we gots ourselves a package.”
“Well, aw right, so what’n tarnations is it?”
“Don’t rightly know yet, Paw, on account it’s got your name wrote on it. Come on!”
Dumar led them into what served in this ramshackle abode as the “living room,” where in the middle of the wood-plank floor sat…a package. It was a box the size of a briefcase, plain cardboard, and the words FOR HELTON TUCKTON written on it in tight script. Next to the box, in a hand-made chair, sat a tow-headed adolescent boy in jeans, boots, and a ratty jacket. He smelled, oddly, of old cooking grease.
“Well, hey there, son,” Helton greeted. “Ain’t you one’a Cork McKellen’s kids?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Tuckton,” the boy said with pride. “I’se Trucker McKellen, and, see, I brung ya this package.”
Helton squinted. “Well that’s dang nice’a yer Paw to send me a package, but—”
“Oh, no sir, it’s weren’t my daddy sent it. I was just asked to bring it to ya.”
The prospect of a package was, indeed, interesting, especially in this time of low-spirits. But Helton for the life of him couldn’t understand.
“So if’n it ain’t from your daddy,” Micky-Mack posed to the boy, “who’s it from?”
The young lad of 12 or so explained, quite long-windedly, “Well, see, I got me this job in Luntville, working how they call ‘under the table’ at the Wendy’s. What I do, see, is I clean the toilets”—which he pronounced as toe-lits—“and pump out the grease-pit ever-day”—which now explained the boy’s curious redolence—“and, see, they’se pay me three dollars a hour, like I said, ‘under the table,’ so’s I don’t have to pay taxes to the gover-mitt. See, it saves ’em money in this thing goin’ on that we’se all hearin’ ’bout called the Repression, and I think that ain’t bad ’cos ain’t many folks round here got a proper job, and the money I make I can give my daddy—”
”Well, that’s mighty enterprisin’ of ya, Trucker,” Helton complimented, but it was difficult to stay his frustration ’cos he couldn’t see what cleanin’ a grease-pit at a hamburger restaurant had to do with this package. “And I’m sure your daddy’s a right proud’a ya, but hail, how is it you come to bring me this package?”
The boy continued, seemingly vibrant in some inexplicable nervous excitement. “That’s what I’se fixin’ ta say, sir, ’cos, see, after I finished cleanin’ the pit, my shift is over so’s I go outside to start a-walkin’ home when, when…”
“When what?” Dumar asked with his patience wearing thin.
The boy seemed in a dreamy fog, “…when I look up at this great rumblin’ sound, and what it is, see, is the biggest, fanciest white motor-home I ever seed comin’ rollin’ down the road past the Pip Boys Cleaners and the Qwik-Mart and that place with the sign that say Relax At June’s which I heared is what they call a ‘jack shack’ on account men go in there and pay ladies to play with their willies whilst they stuck a finger up their butts I guess ’cos—”
“Son, son,” Helton interrupted. “You shore have a roundabout way’a tellin’ us ’bout this package. Who done give it to ya?”
“Yes, sir, I was gettin’ to that—”
“Well try gettin’ to it a little faster,” Dumar said because he, like the others, was very curious about this box.
Trucker McKellen nodded, “Yes, sir, I’se will. But…dang…” The lad scratched his head. “I’se cain’t seem to remember what I were sayin’!”
“A motor-home!” Helton nearly yelled.
“Oh, yeah, yes sir, it were that motor-home I tolt ya about, all shiny white’n fancy it was. See, while I’se were walkin’, the motor-home—and I’se mean it were a really big one, all shiny and gleamin’, like I think it were brand-new—but anyway, that motor-home stopped right in front of June’s and then these three men get out, and they’re shorely citified men ’cos they’se wearin’ hats’n sunglasses and these real nice pants’n shoes’n jackets, and each of ’em even had these fancy things ’round their necks that I’m pretty shore folks call ties. And anyways, I think for shore that these city fellas are goin’ into June’s to pay ladies to play with their willies while’se they gots a finger up their butts ’cos that what I heard them ladies in there do, and, see, I’se even heard that some’a them ladies’ll suck on a fella’s willy till that white stuff come out and—”
“Dang, boy!” Helton finally barked. “Tell us about the fuckin’ package!”
“Oh, yes, sir, that’s what I’m fixin’ ta do,” the boy laboriously continued. “But see, these fellas, they didn’t go into June’s. Instead, they all look right at me.”
“Trucker,” Micky-Mack asked, “was it these citified fellas who done give you this package?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s what I been meanin’ to tell yawl. They waves at me after they get out’a that big white fancy motor-home, then they walk over, and they’re all real nice’n smilin’ and they ask me if I ever heard of Helton Tuckton.”
At this data, Helton’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”
“Yes, sir, they ask me if’n I heard’a ya so’s a’course I say yes sir, and then one’a the city men, he step up and say that he’s a friend’a yours and he got a package for ya, but see, he don’t know where ya live.”
Dumar and Helton looked at each other.
“—so I’se say, yes sir, down the old trail off’a Dog Tail Road past the deadfall about a mile, but then I tell ’em that that road ain’t big enough for that big fancy motor-home see, so then this fella, real nice fella, I mean ta say, all of ’em, that is, but this fella ask me since he cain’t drive his fancy motor-home to yer house, could I take this here package to ya directly, so I say yes sir, and you know what he done? He done give me a hunnert dollars for doin’ it!”
Helton went into some deep contemplation. Something just didn’t sound right about this. “Trucker, you say this city fella paid you a hunnert dollars to deliver this package to me?”
“Yes, sir, that’s a fact.”
“And you say that he says he’s a friend of mine?”
“Oh, yes, sir, he say you’re a good friend’a his, for shore—oh, oh—and he even tolt me his name. He said his name is Paulie.”
Helton stood stunned. His son and his nephew peered at him.
“Well, I cain’t think of a city fella who’s a friend’a mine,” Helton gave voice to the puzzle. “Ain’t never known no Paulie neither.”
“Well shit on all’a that, Paw,” Dumar suggested. He was tired of all this talk.<
br />
“Could be someone ya forgot, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack added.
“Let’s just see what it is that this fella Paulie sent ya,” Dumar said. “Then you’ll shorely remember him.”
“Yeah, I guess’n yer right.” He looked to young Trucker McKellen. “I thank ya kindly for walkin’ all that way with this package, son. But you best git on home now, and think ’bout how you’re gonna spend them hunnert dollars.”
“Oh, I will, sir,” the boy said. “I reckon I’ll give it to my daddy on account he work so hard and still ain’t got over my mama up’n leavin’…” Trucker looked at the five $20 bills. “Or, dang, maybe I’ll just give some of it to my daddy and keep the rest.”
“Ain’t no reason not to,” Micky-Mack said. “It’s your money.”
Now the boy’s brows rose in an anticipation. “Mr. Helton, you think for maybe fifty dollars one’a them ladies at June’s would stick her finger up my butt while’se playin’ with my willy? My mama used to do that fer me when I was little, and now that I recall…it felt a right good, it did, and—”
Helton winced. “Aw, son, now we don’t wanna hear ’bout none’a that—”
“—and sometimes my daddy’d come in and then he’d—”
“That’s enough, Trucker. Just you run on home now,” Helton insisted, and then, after a polite if not crude farewell, the boy was gone.
“Jesus,” Helton muttered.
Dumar’s face was all lit up. “Come on, Paw! Let’s see what’s in the package!”
Helton whipped out his Buck knife and zipped it through the clear packing tape. He opened the box, looked inside, and withdrew…
“Another package,” he muttered.
Sure enough, there was another box inside the first box, but this one had—
“What’s all that writin’ on the box, Unc Helton?” inquired Micky-Mack.
“Yeah,” Dumar said, “I cain’t read for dick, but you can, Paw. What’s all the black letters say?”
Helton put on an ancient pair of spectacles and, squinting at the box, slowly recited: “M-a-g-n-a-v-o-x…p-o-r-t-a-b-l-e…d-v-d… p-l-a-y-e-r…” He blinked. “What the hail’s that?”
“Aw, shit, Unc,” “Micky-Mack enthused. “I know what it is,” and then he opened up the second box and pulled out a small, sleek device, whose lid amazingly flipped open.
“I’se think I heard of ’em myself,” Dumar speculated.
Helton frowned. “Well I ain’t never heard’a no such thing.”
“Aw, yeah!” Micky-Mack placed the player on a handmade table and showed the others how there was a viewing screen inside that flipped up lid. “See, it’s fer watchin’ movies!”
Helton eyed the strange machine. “Movies? Ya mean like the movin’-picture show?”
“Yeah!”
“Shee-it, I only been to one movin’-picture show in my life. Was back when I was a little kid and some fella named Eisenhower were president.”
“What was the movie, Paw?” asked Dumar.
“Some silly shit ’bout giant octopusses or some such attackin’ underwater boats. 20,000 Weeds Under The Sea’re somethin’ like that. Didn’t much care for it.”
“Unc, things have changed in these times,” Micky-Mack went on, inspecting the machine. “Now they got these really cool modern movies made in this fancy place called Hollywood. See, I know this ’cos—‘member Crud Tooley? Just a few months ago he come back from the Army, from fightin’ these people they call towelheads in the Eye-Rack, and, see, I hadn’t seen him in years but one day I were walkin’ in town and I see him and he says, ‘Hey, Micky-Mack! I’m back! Let’s go to my place ’cos my sister’s havin’ a up against the waller!’ so I say, ‘Hey, Crud, good to see ya but—shee-it—what’s a up against the waller?’ and he say, ‘Come on up the house and you’ll see,’ so I go with him and, see, it cost ever-body a dollar to go to this up against the waller; Crud, he say his sister has ’em all the time. So when I gets there we go down the basement and I’ll be danged if there weren’t twenty fellas down there, ever-one from Old Man Halm to Mr. Winslow the school principal, and the Larkin Boys—all five of ’em—and that bald-headed fella I hear plays the organ at church, oh, and—”
“Micky-Mack!” Helton raised his voice. “Get to the dang point!”
“Uh, well, shore, Unc. Anyway, what this up against the waller was, see, was Crud’s sister Tulip—she look kind’a funny ’cos her eyes are crooked, and Crud, he tolt me it’s ’cos their mama drunk a lot’a ‘shine when she were pregnant—but anyway, we all give Tulip our buck and then all twenty of us line up against the wall and drop our pants and—I ain’t kiddin’ ya—Tulip got down on her knees and sucked each’n every one of us off. Swallowed ever-thang, too, even my big nut. And ya wanna know the funniest part? Tulip even charged her own brother a buck!”
Helton gaped. “Micky-Mack. You run yer damn mouth more’n Mckellen’s kid. What the fuck’s a 13-year-old girl blowin’ a basement full’a rednecks got to do with this damn thingamajig that come from the package?”
“Oh, well, that’s right, I was gonna tell ya that,” Micky-Mack admitted to a diversion of topics. “It was Crud, he brung one back from the Iraq and tolt me all about it. Ya watch movies on it. Movies that ya can buy in the big-city stores, and, shee-it, now that I think of it, it’s a right kick in the ass for Tulip to charge her own brother for a blowjob when it’s been him paying the property taxes on the house!”
Helton sat down and sighed. “Son. You can probably tell I’m in bad spirits right now. My grandson’s missin’, my daughter-in-law just hanged herself, and today I find out Hall Sladder stolt all’a my moonshine. Now I got this fuckin’ package from some fella named Paulie I never heard of, and I got this fuckin’ machine sittin’ here and as bad as I wanna know what it is, you’re bendin’ our ears ’bout Crud Tooler’s sister chargin’ him a buck for a fuckin’ blowjob. I don’t wanna know about that”—he pointed aggravatedly toward the machine—“I wanna know about that.”
“Does kind’a suck, Paw, that Crud should have to pay even though he been the one payin’ for the house his sister lives in,” Dumar pointed out but then he paused. “A’course, Tulip, she give a dandy blowjob—I got me one off’a her a couple years ago—so’s I guess if Crud don’t like it, he can blow his own self,” and then he and Micky-Mack howled laughter and high-fived.
Helton’s large, bearded face came down into his hands; he bellowed, ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT DAMN MACHINE!”
Dumar and Micky-Mack straightened right up when they saw how out of sorts Helton had become. “Calm down, Paw,” Dumar said.
“And the machine?” Micky-mack stepped in. “It’s like I was sayin’, it plays movies. It’s kind’a like that thing we had a while back—the tv—only this don’t show shows, it shows movies. And these machines are a right ‘spensive, Unc Helton, so this friend’a yers, this Paulie fella, he’s a damn fine friend fer sendin’ you such a snazzy gift.”
Helton remained in this quandary. Who on earth would send him something like this, some new-fangled doohicky he had no use for? “So, what? We gonna watch a movie now?”
Micky-mack stalled. “Uhhhh…well…now that I think on it… It’s the movies themselves are the dvd’s—they’se these round things ’bout the size of a beer coaster at Crossroads, only a little bigger, and they’re really smart-lookin’, see, they’re all shiny’n silvery, and believe it or not, a whole dang movie fits on one of ’em. All ya do is stick it in this slot on the machine but…” Micky-Mack’s befuddlement was clear. “Don’t look like this friend’a yours Paulie sent ya any movies to go with the machine. Unless…” The 20-year-old finnicked with the machine and—presto!—a small drawer, like magic, automatically slid out. In the drawer lay something quite similar to what Micky-Mack had just described.
“Well, how ya like that, Unc Helton! Your pal Paulie already put a movie inside!” Micky-Mack studied the buttons on the machine. “Now, give me a sec while I’se figure this out.”
“Aw, fuck, boy,” Helton continued to complain, because he didn’t have much liking for modern contraptions. Likely as not, they were more trouble than they were worth. “And, shee-it. If’n this blasted thing’s like that ole teller-vision we had, then it must run on the blammed electricity. I gotta haul out the blammed generator?”
Micky-Mick’s face seemed illumined in excitement. “Oh, naw, Unc. It’s this new tek-knowler-gee. This li’l movie machine here? Don’t need ta plug it inta mothin’!”
“Then how the fuck’s it work!”
“It runs…,” and Micky-Mack’s voice quieted as if in veneration…, “on a battery.”
Helton threw his hands up. “Well then, balls, boy. If’n we’se gonna watch a movie, then make the blasted thing work.”
Micky-Mack fiddled with some buttons—for, like Dumar, his reading skills were barely existent—until he inadvertently pressed one that read PLAY, and again, like magic, the little drawer closed…
And the screen lit up.
Dumar sat down next to his father. “Aw right! Looks like we’se gonna watch ourselfs…a movie!”
(II)
Archie leaned forward, elbows propped up on the well-stocked cellphone counter; he was hamming it up with his boss, one Mike Anthon, a snide, too-good-looking-for-his-own good 30-year-old who fancied himself a cocksman and a smooth-operator, and there was little untruth in that fancy. Both men were eyeing Veronica’s rump as she leaned over the camera counter, showing a customer (whose t-shirt read EVEN JESUS HATES THE YANKEES) the latest variety of Dynex-brand mini memory-card readers.
Archie had spiked hair that looked less 2010 Me Generation and more early-‘80s post punk, though neither actually appeared in keeping with a town like Pulaski where buzzcuts comprised the majority of men’s hairstyles. Mike, on the other hand, had short, dark, punctiliously trimmed hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and looked rather like a modern, darker-haired incarnation of Nick Adams (for those who even remembered Nick Adams), and this might explain the veritable posse of young women who seemed to revolve around him as if through some cabalistic sexual gravity. (The previously mentioned Veronica was one such woman in that same gravitational field.) It was Mike who essentially ran the Pulaski Best Buys; Archie was his floor manager, while Veronica worked the camera department, and now that that’s out of the way, we can listen in to the discrete and notably sexist conversation between the two men.