A Fine Kettle of Fish

by Lou Bradshaw

  We argued about it a bit until she saw that I was dead set in my mind so she said, “Alright, I’ll help you get patched up and maybe you won’t get lock-jaw or crank ass or something worse. Now get out of those jeans.”

  “No bloody way! It ain’t gonna happen Missy!”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, I’ve seen your bare butt a hundred times or more.” She wailed.

  “Not since it got so cute you haven’t.”

  “Get ‘em off.”

  “You first.”

  “GET ‘EM OFF!” She barked.

  There wasn’t much pride left in me at that point, especially since I knew that if I didn’t take them off she would. So, I did.

  “Now bend over that table, and let me see what’s what.” I did what she said. I bent at the waist resting on my elbows with my bare butt shining. I felt pretty foolish.

  Liz started cleaning off the blood and whatever else was there, probably some gravel and Tabasco sauce by the way it was burning. She was dabbing and patting, and between dabs and pats she was cussing and tisking. Cuss, cuss, cuss…tisk, tisk, tisk, then for a change of pace it was cuss, tisk, tisk. All the while, she was causing me some real hurt, and I’m giving out with ooohs and ouches, and doing some cussing of my own.

  Finally, she straightened up and told me, “Well it’s not too deep, but it’s about an inch and a half long and pretty wide. It really should be stitched…”

  “No! No stitches and no doctors. Okay?”

  “Okay, but…what the hell, it’s your ass…. literally.” Then she went to work with whatever she could find to disinfect it. I can’t swear to it but I think she mixed turpentine and bleach. She was giving me a full description as she worked. She told me that I had a furrow about pocket high on the side of my right cheek, and that sitting was going to be a challenge, and if I died of something awful, I had to promise that, she wasn’t responsible. The more she dabbed that stuff on the more it burned until I was bathed in sweat. It was worse than any dentist visit I’d ever had, but the same thought kept running through my head. Will it ever be finished?

  At last, she said, “That’ll have to do until you get some horse sense and get to a doctor. I cleaned it with peroxide, that’s the best I know to do. I put some gauze on and taped it down real good, so it’ll keep clean for a couple of hours any way.” She stepped back like she was admiring her work then said, “You were right you know, it is kinda’ cute.” Then she gave me a slap on the left cheek that would surely leave a bruise. “Now wrap up in this blanket before you catch your death.”

  She picked up my jeans to see if they were worth salvaging, and my wallet fell out, so she picked it up and wiped off the blood. When she had it somewhat cleaned off she asked, “What’s this?”

  I looked down at the wallet lying on the table, and she showed me something embedded in the leather. She picked it out with her nail, and it dropped to table. I didn’t have to look twice to know what it was. It was all smashed out of shape, but it was still a lump of lead. That sweat that I was bathed in just a few minutes ago was suddenly cold. I mean it was really cold. My head was buzzin’, and I thought I was going to keel over.

  Liz was starting to babble…just talking to keep from crying, but it didn’t work. She sat at the table with her head in her hands sobbing without making a sound. I started heating water to make some instant coffee.

  Absorbed in the bubbles rising up in the pan of water, I didn’t realize that she was turning me around to face her until she slapped the hell out of me. Then she did it again and again. All the while, she was slappin’ she was screamin’, “Damn you, damn you!” Then she had her head buried in my chest and was really letting the tears out. I held her until she stopped crying and was back in some manner of control. Talk about being helpless. I was really lost, and, it didn’t help that I was dressed in a blanket and a bandage. Do you have any idea how hard it is to take charge of a situation when you’re dressed in a blanket and a bandage?

  We sat, as best I could, sipping our coffee, not saying anything for quite a while. Then she said, “Lee, I may not be very bright, but I know a smashed up bullet when I see one. You got shot didn’t you?”

  “Uh huh,” was the best I could come up with. Sometimes I can be a man of few words.

  “Oh, Lee, you’re the biggest pain in the ass in the world and about as worthless as dog crap. But I love your worthless hide like I couldn’t possibly love anybody else’s, unless it would be that worthless hide on Mack Taylor. I don’t know why on earth I should even care if you go and get yourself killed, but I do. Now you better tell me what happened, so I can tell you how stupid you were and go home. Talk Buster.”

  I unfolded the story pretty much as it happened, except for the half naked wanton women that I had expected to be hanging on me. Oh, and I didn’t mention the James Dean business either.

  We found some cookies to dunk in our coffee and talked awhile, and it was getting pretty late by then, so she started getting ready to go. Just before she left, she looked me in the face and said, “You really went to the Red Top? Man, that takes guts. You’re the only kid I know of who has actually been there. In a semi distorted sort of way I’m almost proud of you… you moron.”

  I told her that she would make a great nurse. She thought about that for a few seconds and said, “Nurse, hell, I’d make a great doctor!” Then she bent over, kissed my forehead, picked up my bullet, and left.

  I figured that I would survive if I didn’t catch tomaine or gang-green or something. That little cut was going to be raw and sore, but it should be all right soon enough. My biggest problem was getting through the next 24 hours without the folks finding out.

  Chapter 4

  I spent the rest of the night uncomfortably (a gross understatement) on the couch. That’s why I was able to hear the banging on the front door. When I hopped and stumbled over to open it, I was fully expecting to find the sheriff, but I was surprised and somewhat relieved to find Randy standing there. He shoved in as soon as I had the door cracked. He was flushed and in a state of extreme agitatedness.

  “You alright man?” he really wanted to know. “When I saw all that blood on the floorboard of my car this morning, I was scared to death. That’s when I beat it right over here.’ He took a breath and then said, “Where’d you get it?”

  “If you’ll slow down a minute, I’ll tell you.” I told him, “I got burned across my right cheek; butt cheek that is. That bullet must have bounced off about everything in that parking lot before it got to me. It wound up lodged in my wallet. That wallet has never carried that much weight before. I’ll be sore for a while, but if I can keep it clean, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He went on to tell me how sorry he was and that he shouldn’t have taken me out there, etc. and so on. While he was apologizing, I was getting dressed and setting the living room and kitchen in order, just to make sure that there was no trace of anything that might tell a story that was best not told. Then we went out to get some breakfast.

  Over pancakes and sausage, Randy told me that Buck took off for parts unknown, and that he was from the county jail, and that he was sort of a work release parolee. He was one of his mother’s political/social projects. He said that Buck had taken about $45 from the cookie jar and a ham on his way out. He also said his mom was hoppin’ mad and was ready to declare herself a Republican and put a stop to all this liberalism. I didn’t know the difference, so I kept my mouth shut. I told him that the fewer people who knew about this whole incident the better, because I thought it was against the law not to report a gunshot wound. He thought that was a good idea since it would look bad for his folks to have their son mixed up in a gunfight. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that you need more than one gun to have a gunfight; it would have served no purpose.

  * * *

  As it turned out, when the folks got home they were so tired from the 200 mile drive that they didn’t even notice how stiff and sore I was. That meant my elaborate story about a touch
football game on frozen ground remained untold. Although, Nan did seem to give me a few peculiar glances, but she was so crabby from the trip, they could have been caused by anything.

  * * *

  Febuary (I can’t say February) came and went without anybody pointing a gun at me or having one fired in my general direction. In fact, I doubt that I even saw a gun during the F month except on TV. Most everything was going well. My butt was healing up with no problems, but I figured on having a scar for the rest of my life. Dr. Liz would get cute once in a while and ask if I wanted her to check it for me, just to give me a dig.

  Liz is a great gal, and I’ll fight anyone who says different. She stood about 5 foot 2 or 3, with kind of reddish brownish shortish hair, brown eyes, and just a little bit of nose freckles. And, like I said before, she was getting a nice body and kind of cute. Now that description may sound okay to a lot of guys, but she’s smart, and aside from being smart she could be meaner than a copperhead if she put her mind to it. So therefore, I tried not to get into sparring matches with her if I could help it. That sort of thing could get a guy hurt.

  There was one sort of minor/major problem that occurred or rather didn’t occur. I didn’t get laid, again! Minor in that I didn’t get laid a lot, and major in that I was going nuts!

  Cynthia Smith, was my regular girlfriend, I never liked the term “going steady.” I never really knew what that meant. Would that be like a person on an Exlax diet or something? Anyway, Cynthia and I dated a lot, and neither one of us dated anyone else. She was one of the cutest things you ever laid (no pun intended) your eyes on. She was built for speed. In fact, I often graded girls like sports cars. She wouldn’t be an XKE Jaguar or a Corvette. That was Marilyn Monroe territory. I would say she was approaching Austin Healey status; she was definitely an MG.

  She looked and acted like go-go-go, but when you tried, it was no-no-no! She could take you down the highway at top speed in the passing lane, and throw up a roadblock that would make the State Police envious. I think she enjoyed the control as much as she enjoyed any of it, and she knew damned well that I wasn’t mean enough to run that roadblock – yet.

  She always put me off with, “After we’re married you can have it ANY time you want it.” Well, that put me off all right. Every time I heard it I couldn’t help thinking, how could she have my future all planned when I didn’t even have the next 5 minutes planned? If she hadn’t been so tempting and inviting, then I wouldn’t have gotten so worked up and so frustrated. Some times I thought that I aught to have dated girls who were like Ford station wagons. Nobody ever got excited over them.

  Every time I’d get a notion to break it off with her, she would start revvin’ that little MG engine up and put that chassis into motion, and let’s face it…I love sports cars.

  Girls – why should I even bother with them, they only left me confused and frustrated. Of course, a lot of things left me confused and frustrated, like geometry and religion, but females, more so.

  I used to think that girls were a lot like boys except that their moms made them dress differently and wear pigtails, but even at that early age, they were different. They liked to play different games, had different toys, and would tattle without a bit of hesitation. I always thought that had something to do with pigtails. That was about the time that I started getting confused, because Liz was a girl. I knew she was because she said she was. But, she didn’t tattle and she didn’t wear pigtails, although, she did wear dresses on Sundays. As I grew older, I noticed that girls had different mannerisms, the way they moved, the way they held their hands, and the way the stood. I still laid this off on pigtails.

  Then all of a sudden, they really started to change. They started getting rounder, softer, and walked with a little motion that I couldn’t possibly describe but really liked. And, they smelled good too. Those differences had absolutely nothing to do with pigtails, because none of them were wearing pigtails anymore. So that theory was shot – note the confusion.

  By the time, I was of an age and physical growth to understand the reason for those changes, girls were suddenly unfathomable. They became something beyond the opposite sex; they became more like a mystery species with no relationship to anything that I remotely understood. What was once an easygoing person with a good sense of humor, was suddenly a high-strung sensitive space alien. For instance, if a guy were to slightly notice that one of them had a huge pimple on her forehead, and ask her if she were growing another eye up there. Well, off she’d go leaving a trail of tears behind. You can just imagine what it was like if you made note of a dangling boogger. You get the idea.

  It was when the boy/girl thing started that the frustrations got tangled up with the confusions, which were already in place, because that was the time the hormones started kicking in. As my hormones were driving me in a straight line with a singular goal in mind, the female hormones were zigzagging them. I had no idea what they were thinking or if they were thinking or what kind of reception my thoughts would get.

  As an example, about a year ago Nick Drago, Liz, Pam Skulley, and I were standing on a corner discussing some insignificant matter. Since I had little or no interest in what they were talking about, I just stood there with my hands in my pockets. All of a sudden, Pam turned around and slapped the snot out of me, not once but twice. Did you ever try to protect yourself with both hands shoved into jeans pockets? Nick and Liz just looked at me in disbelief, I looked at stars in amazement, and Pam walked away. I had no idea why she did that or even what they were talking about at the time or anything. Liz told me later that Pam just felt that it was a thing she should do. I guess that I just had that kind of face.

  I was not only confused about females in general, but I was confused about all things dealing with that he and she thing. I knew that most girls liked to dance, but most guys aren’t very good at it, so I became a pretty good dancer. That was fine, as long as it was a fast dance I could have my pick of the lovelies. But, as soon as a slow song started the hounds came out, and I was just one of the boys again.

  Where I really fell short was in the area of mood music, or make-out music if you will. Everybody had his own theory about what sets the mood. Some guys favored Elvis or Pat Boone, and Brook Benton was a big favorite with some. One of the more culturally advanced guys had a Mantavani collection. Nick Drago hated Johnny Mathis, but he had every record the guy ever put out That in itself should have told me something because Drago was notoriously lucky. But, did I get the hint? No, I just kept trying to cop a feel while Little Richard or Chuck Berry was wailing away.

  So on I went with my straight hormone driven line, while Cynthia and every other female left me bewildered and horney. What could I do but play the game even if I didn’t know the rules. Of course guys talked about this sort of thing and I knew that I wasn’t alone, but that didn’t make it any easier. Mickey said that he understood women completely, and that he had them all figured out – Mickey was a fool.

  Anyway, I got through Febuary without being shot, shot at, or laid. I was beginning to think that 1960 would be the year of horns and gunpowder. Before January of this year I had only had a gun pointed in my direction once in my whole life, and that was by that sick little bastard Lloyd Dickey. He wanted to see me dance…I danced. He didn’t really mean anything harmful about it; he was just off center by a few degrees. He was having fun and naturally assumed that I was too. Lloyd wouldn’t have shot me so long as I kept both feet off the ground at the same time. Let’s say he wouldn’t have shot me on purpose. When he ran out of bullets, I ran out of sight. I made it a point not to hang around much with Lloyd after that.

  * * *

  March came in like a lamb, with nice weather and more than a few wrecks that needed a tow truck, so business was booming. It was on the first Friday night in March when I first met Luther Bates. At about 9:30, I was thinking about closing up and running into Springfield with Mickey, when this monstrously big green ’58 Buick pulled up to the Ethyl pump. I went out and le
aned over the window to ask how much; when the window went down there was a dark brown face on the other side of it. Fortunately, he said, “Fill it up wit Etyl,” because I didn’t know what to say. I had honestly never seen a colored person that close up – in the flesh before.

  Now I knew about colored people, or at least what was said about them, and there were a few in Springfield (very few). It was just that I had never come in contact with one. Well, this guy got out, stretched, and headed for the john. I guessed that it was okay, legal I mean. I went ahead, washed his windshield, and checked his oil just like he was a regular person. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or not do, so I did what I always did. Like some wise man once said, “When in doubt follow your instincts.”

  When I got inside, he was drinking a Coke from the machine. He paid his bill and seemed to be trying to wake up, so just to make conversation I asked, “Been driving far?”

  “ Since Memphis,” he said with a smile. But, what he actually said was Me-em-pus; somehow he got an extra syllable into the name. He had a comfortable smile and we both relaxed a little.

  Being the diplomat that I am, I said, “I’m sorry if I’m staring, but we don’t get many folks of your persuasion come through here. In fact, you’re the first that I can recall.”

  He busted out laughing, and then he stuck out a big brown hand, looked at, and said, “My man, that ain’t no persuasion, that’s a flavor – pure chocolate!” We both cracked up.

  He was well dressed but maybe a bit too stylish for this part of the country. At about 6 foot tall, he was a little taller than me, but pretty thin. I’d have guessed him to be in his mid twenties, maybe a little older. He said he was on his way to Kansas City. We made small talk until he was ready to be on his way, and I guess that I stared the whole time, but he didn’t seem to mind. As he left, I wished him a safe trip, which brought out another smile and a thank you.