A Fine Kettle of Fish

by Lou Bradshaw

  I have alluded to the fact that my brother Curtis was not necessarily one of my favorite people on the planet. Curtis Underwood Brickey, (C.U.B) mom wanted to call him Cub, but he wouldn’t answer to anything but Curtis. Cub is 5 years older than me, and I suppose he had it made until I came along and kind of siphoned off some of the attention. He spent the first 10 years of my life doing everything he could to make it miserable. He spent the next 3 years denying my existence. We could be in the same room not 2 feet apart, and he wouldn’t be able to see me. I thought either he needed glasses or that I was invisible. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his eyes, but I sure was hoping for that invisible thing. Curtis had a knack for sibling cruelty, both physical and mental, that would have made those Spanish Inquisition monks a little squeamish.

  I endured the usual pinching and hitting and being locked in a closet without too much trauma, but getting pushed off the garage roof got me an arm in a cast for 6 weeks. It got Curtis a good scolding for not keeping me off the roof. I never told them that he lured me up there with the promise of seeing an eagle’s nest, because I was so proud of my cast.

  Once, when I had followed him to a part of town where I had never been before, he really lowered the boom. He told me that when I was born, mom gave me to him, sort of like a pet. He also told me that he could do whatever he wanted to with me because I belonged to him, and he could ditch me, trade me for a bike, or even kill me if he wanted to. That had me somewhat worried, I was afraid he’d leave me in that strange part of town, and I’d never find my way home again.

  Later, when I told the folks about it, Curtis said I was making it all up. Mom believed him and warned me about making up stories like that. She was sure that Curtis was pretty much the stuff that Angels were made of. Brick wasn’t so sure, and he took me aside to tell me that Curtis would never do anything to really hurt me. My left arm knew differently. That was the last time I snitched on him, but I never turned my back on him.

  It didn’t help our relationship any when I started calling him Cub after I found out that it pissed him off. Anyway, I wasn’t about to go to St. Louis to spend the weekend with him because the last I heard hell hadn’t frozen over.

  * * *

  As things now stood, the folks were gone and I was in charge, which wasn’t that big a deal. All I had to do was be available for wrecker calls and close up. But it meant that I had to hang around until closing time. I saw Liz leaving on a date, which meant there wouldn’t be any thing going on in that upstairs window. So there I was on a Saturday night just driving around town and checking in at the station now and then.

  While I was driving down West Front Street, I spotted good old Jerry Farley sitting on the curb in front of the Town Lounge. Now Jerry, or Jake as I called him, was about as off the wall as a person could be; you just never knew what was going through his head. He could be sitting there talking to a 5th dimension time traveler, calculating the probabilities that Nostradamus could be right, or he could be counting his nose.

  Jake was somewhere over 30, with a classic education, and a great thirst. He had a little place a couple of miles out of town, which barely kept him alive. He often hired out to farmers and ranchers by the day, week, or season. But come Saturday night he was in town going from one tavern to another. They said that he had graduated from Notre Dame or DePaul or some such college. He was supposed to be some kind of genius They said that he could read Latin and a couple of other languages, but right then he was sitting on the curb in front of a bar.

  The mothers of Doubling didn’t care much for Jake because of his alcoholic tendencies and his lack of ambition. They thought he set a poor example. Us guys liked old Jake because he always had something to tell us, and it was generally entertaining and always gave us something to think about. Of course, some of those thoughts could sure get turned sideways between your ears. Anyway, Jake was sitting there, and I was bored, so I couldn’t think of a reason not to stop. I pulled up across the street, walked over, and sat down on the curb next to him.

  “Hey Jake,” I said.

  “Hey back to you, young Brickey,” he replied.

  “You look like you’re giving something some serious thought.” I said, “What’s going on in your head?”

  “Well, Brickey my boy, I’ve been trying to make the connection between old Tom Edison’s work of art and the human sexual preference dilemma.” He passed me his pint of Old Crow, which I sampled and wished that I hadn’t. That stuff was like drinking a railroad flare. “I haven’t figured it all out yet,” he went on, “but maybe it will help if I say it out loud. Maybe that will give me some direction.”

  “I’m here for you pal, I’m all ears.”

  “Okay boy, hold onto your saddle while I stumble through this. As you are well aware, Thomas Edison’s crowning achievement was the electric light bulb.” Actually I thought it was the telephone, but I could have been wrong. I nodded and he went on.

  “Well, let’s start with the word, light, it can mean several things, one is lumination such as you get from the sun or a candle. Another would mean to be with out much weight. Now a man with feminine characteristics is often referred to as being light in the loafers, because he doesn’t walk like a man is expected to walk. Now, one would turn on a light with a switch, and if a person were sexually attracted to both men and women he might be called a switch-hitter. Furthermore this same person may be called AC/DC. Well, a light bulb doesn’t know the difference between AC and DC; it will accept either as long as the voltage is right.” He offered the Old Crow, which I took against my better judgment

  “You with me so far Squire Brickey?” I nodded and choked.

  “There’s more.” he said. “If you were in England and wanted to smoke a cigarette you would…light up a fag! Eh…what do you think Brickey boy? Are we talking about coincidence? Is this Gods way of slowing down the population growth by creating a portion of said population that does not reproduce?”

  “That’s pretty scary stuff, Jake.”

  “What if it’s based on how many times you switch on a light before guys start looking good to you.” He offered the bottle again and this time I declined. I left Jake sitting on the cold hard curb working out the problem of homosexuals and the electric company. As I drove up Lincoln Avenue, I laughed at Jake’s observation but made a note to turn on lights only when absolutely necessary.

  * * *

  So there I was, just rattling around on a Saturday night and naturally wound up at the Dog-N-Suds, eating a chilidog and washing it down with semi cold root beer. I was feeling all grown up and responsible, and at the same time very much not ready for responsibility when Randy Peobles and some other guy pulled up next to me.

  It seemed as though Randy and his friend, known only as Buck, were at loose ends too. Randy was about 19 or maybe 20, and Buck looked somewhat older, close to 30. Those two were a perfect mismatch if ever I saw one. Randy was a regular Dobie Guillis; I think his mother even ironed his underwear and socks. Randy was about as straight laced a guy as I had ever known; it was hard to imagine him ever being sweaty and dirty. I didn’t know that a farmer could be so buttoned down. Buck, on the other hand, was quite a bit more mussed up. His clothing was on the worn and not quite so well cared for side, and that tattoo peeking out from under his jacket sleeve was definitely not professionally done. An amateur tattoo always seemed to shout at me – trouble. He had a craggy face if a 30-year-old person can be craggy; anyway that’s how it looked to me. He had a quick smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes. One look at Buck told me that Randy didn’t have any business being in the same county with him let alone in the same car.

  After a little small talk between the cars, it turned out that they were going to the Red Top Inn, an infamous tavern over in the next county, and did I want to go along. I told them that I couldn’t because I had to close the station at 10, and that I was on wrecker call. But the more I thought about it, the more my maturity and responsibility started to erode. Erosion i
s one thing, but this was like strip mining. After all I would be the only guy that I knew of who had ever been to the Red Top Inn.

  The Red Top was sort of like Camelot, a never-never land where all sort of exotic/erotic things went on, and were never spoken of. Finally, judgment and maturity were washed away as if by the Mississippi at flood stage. I could imagine half naked women hanging around a bar doing who knew what. “I think I can work it out with Earl”, I told them. “If you don’t mind waiting till 10:15. I’ll meet you at the station.”

  I set the wheels in motion to take advantage of Earl. As I had stated before, Earl was not real smart, but he could dicker with the best of them. So, I went into my bootleg stash and came up with five sixth of a 6 pack of Fallstaff Beer and 2 packs of regular Camels. Then I went to the station and commenced to do some real hillbilly dealing with Earl. He got me to throw in 2 packs of Salems for, “ the old woman,” and clean the grease bay, which I agreed to. I got the Salems from the machine and called the county dispatcher to have any wrecker calls forwarded to Earl instead of me. Sometimes I wonder why I deal with Earl and wonder who is being taken advantage of.

  At 10:15 Randy and Buck pulled up, the place was already locked up and the lights were out. Buck was looking around curious like and wanted to know if he could get some smokes from the machine. Thinking pretty fast I told him that I couldn’t open the door before 7:00 a.m. without setting off the alarm. The closest thing we had to an alarm was a yellow cat that would scream bloody murder if you stepped on her in the dark.

  He accepted that, and we left for the Red Top Inn in Randy’s dark blue ’54 Mercury hardtop; a sweet machine. As we started out, I was disturbed about the combination of Randy and Buck. It was like oil and water or Mickey and good sense. They just didn’t go together. I finally decided that Randy was cuttin’ loose for once in his life, and Buck was just being opportunistic in hopes of a free ride and a couple of beers. Once that was settled in my mind, I was able to worry about myself and started wondering just what the hell was I doing here. I knew that I was way over my head, but this was a once in a lifetime chance – the real thing – honky tonkin. By the time we crossed the Douglas County line (known as Booger County locally) I was so jumpy that I could hardly contain myself. When we pulled off of Rt. 5 and on to the little gravel road up to the Red Top my teeth were chattering I was so nervous.

  When I crawled out of the back seat of that car I was determined to be cool even though I was shaking like a bowl of Jello. So I summoned up my best James Dean impression and headed for the door. From the outside it didn’t stack up to be much, just a good-sized metal shed. There were a few windows with neon beer signs showing in them and a bare bulb light over the door. Propped up on the roof, was a fairly well made but obviously homemade sign that proudly proclaimed it to be the RED TOP IN. I thought that sign was just a little short on Ns, but hey, I was James Dean not some spelling critic.

  Okay, here went nothin’. I was going to dance with half naked nasty women, smoke a whole pack of Luckies, and drink myself into a stupor. Suddenly, I was inside and there before me was…the inside of a good-sized metal shed. To my right was a crude bar about 20 feet long and a few mixed up mismatched well-worn tables. To my left was a bunch more tables and a couple of booths; none of which were in any better shape than the ones on the right. In the middle, was a small dance floor. Rank smoke hung from about waist high on up into the rafters; there wasn’t a ceiling just rafters and roof. There was some kind of music coming from the well-abused jukebox, or jutebox, as they were known in these parts.

  I say it was, “some kind of music,” but it was barely recognized as such mainly due to the condition of the juke. Living in this part of the country, you heard Hillbilly Music whether you wanted to or not. So, I recognized the song, but I had never heard it played a bit slower…now a bit faster…now a bit sideways before.

  With a great deal of James Deanness, I scanned the room. I could see about 12 to 15 customers, which were the ugliest, dirtiest, most lowdown gaggle of rednecks that God ever allowed to congregate in one place. Of that crowd, only 2 ½ were female, of which 2 were downright fierce. I’ve had some nasty thoughts and done some rotten things, but I’ve never thought or done anything as nasty or rotten as those 2. That ½ I’m still not sure of. I’ll call it, “her.” She was propped up against a table on her elbow wearing work boots and a print dress. She had woman hair and red lipstick, but she sat like a man with her legs spread. I swear that she could’ve changed a tire on a loaded log truck without a jack. I remember thinking; “Oh I sure hope I don’t get laid tonight.” It suddenly dawned on me why they called this Booger County.

  They were all looking at the door trying to see who was coming in. Someone must have recognized Buck because they called his name. A few more called to him, and he waved a howdy to the room. From somewhere back in that jumble of tables, heard someone say, “Buck! What Buck? You mean that bastard Buck? Where is he? I gotta kill that Buck sum-a-bitch. Lemme see, git out a my way.” Up pops this toothless little fat guy in a farmer suit, and he begins digging in his back pocket.

  Buck yelled, “Run, that fat bastard’s crazier’n hell!” And, he was out the door, racing for the car. If Randy hadn’t grabbed my arm I’d have just stood there and let that old boy blow my head off, because when his hand came out of those overalls it had a pistol in it. By the time I heard the first shot, we were well into the poorly lit parking lot. Actually, the only light was coming from that bulb over the door. I could hear tables and bottles crashing inside, and some pretty mean cussin as well. In other words, we woke up the boogers.

  I heard the door slam open and a bunch of shooting, and I was running for all I was worth. The only problem was I was running the wrong way. I had gotten turned around in the dark and was running away from the car; instead I was running down the lane toward the hard road. I thought that I pulled a muscle, because I came up lame and stumbled a couple of times. Once I tripped and fell on that rutted and frozen road. Suddenly, Randy’s car was next to me with the door open. Buck literally threw me into the back, where I lay in a heap. We got out of there…damned quick.

  Randy was probably high on adrenaline or some other internal juice, because he was talking non-stop at about 900 miles an hour, but wasn’t saying a thing. Buck just laughed and kept saying, “Whooee! That son-uffa-bitch was sure mad.” over and over. I kept saying nothing and kept hunkered down in the floorboard.

  When we hit highway 5, Randy laid into the gas pedal. All 4 of those barrels were moaning in the front and roaring in the back. We were blowing through the little town of Mansfield within a matter of minutes, and at Doubling’s city limit in 15 more. If I hadn’t been so nerved up and cramped I would have really enjoyed the ride.

  After we were out of range and back on highway 60 heading for home, Buck told the fat farmer’s story. It seems that this farmer had a comely little hillbilly wife; this of course was Buck’s opinion. So as the story goes, while the farmer was out doing farmer stuff, Buck was at the homestead plowing and planting the farmer’s field and then let the farmer have the harvest. Now that seemed fair to Buck, but the farmer didn’t see it that way and swore a blood oath on him.

  By the time we got back to the station, where I had left my car, Randy had calmed down quite a bit. He didn’t sound like he was anxious to go honky tonkin again real soon. I knew that I wasn’t. I must have groaned when I crawled out of the car because Randy asked, “ Are you okay, Little Brick?”

  “Yeah.” I answered, “I just fell down a couple of times in that road. I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t run over me.”

  I think that unnerved him because he let out a long breath and said, “Jeeze, man don’t even think that.”

  I limped over to my car and started to get in, that was when I felt a burning pain in the area of my right hip. It was enough to make me catch at my breath. That’s when I knew that I was hurt worse than I had thought.

  Chapter 3

  I threw a
piece of cardboard on the seat and drove home, in second gear so that I wouldn’t have to shift or brake anymore than necessary. When I got home, it was all I could do to get out of the car and hobble around to the back door. I turned on the kitchen light and went to the sink where I drank several glasses of water. Leaning over the sink like that, I didn’t want to touch anything or move, but I knew that I had to do something. When I finally worked my coat off, and was able to crane my head around where I could see. What I saw was a pretty bloody pair of jeans. Feeling around with fingers that felt as big as ball bats, I touched a rip in the denim and then an open gash beneath.

  Absorbed in pain and nausea, I didn’t hear footsteps on the back porch until the door opened and a head popped in. Who else could it be but little miss nosey britches, Liz McCord, and boy was I glad to see her.

  “Lee,” she said, and I knew she was concerned because she never called me Lee unless she was really serious, “I saw you draggin’ in, and you looked more hurt than drunk.”

  “Yeah,” I told her, “ I cut myself shavin’, but I’ll be okay as soon as I get a Band-Aid on it.”

  Miss nosey pants stuck her head around where she could get a look at my butt, being hurt and all I wasn’t quick enough to keep her from looking. She gasped, and when she straightened up, she was white as a sheet. I thought that I was gong to have to hold her up, and I wasn’t doing so hot at holding myself up. But, she got control of herself and grabbed my shoulders like she was going to steady me and said, “My God, Lee you’re bleeding like…. I don’t know what like! I’ll call Doc Millsap, or better yet, I’ll take you into Springfield to St. John’s…you need stitch…”

  “No!” I almost shouted, “No Doc Mis-hap, no nuns, and no stitches! I’ll be alright, I just need to get it cleaned up and bandaged, and I’ll be okay.”