The Brickeaters

by The Residents

  At that point the door of the cruiser burst open and I was hauled out onto the sidewalk. Dazed and confused, the two law officers tried to pull me up to my feet, but it was no use. Attempting to regain my balance, I took a step or two then stumbled into the highway patrolman who grabbed me like a doll, dragged me into the small building, then out to the cell in the rear. With Duane propping me up, Bernie opened the cell door. Barely conscious, I felt the handcuffs being removed just before I was pushed into the tiny jail. Stumbling across the room, I tripped and fell on the bed which felt oddly lumpy. Still trying to orient myself, I looked around and noticed a pair of feet sticking out from under a rough wool blanket, then as my eyes traversed what seemed to be a body stretching out forever, a head emerged from the other end of the blanket.

  People see strange things when they’re drunk and sleepy, but I’d swear the head bore an uncanny resemblance to Ted Hendricks.

  PART TWO

  THE STORK

  I woke up several hours later, hung over again. Peeking out from the “blanket through a “blur of pain and nausea, all I could see was something towering over me. With a very erect posture, the something was pacing a small area next to my cot. The something was disturbed. The something was Ted Hendricks and he was screaming at me.

  “He called me Stork! STORK! I hated that!”

  Maybe I was still dreaming… a particularly unpleasant dream.

  “STORK! Do you know who The Stork was? DO YOU?”

  If this was a dream, it was time to wake up. “I beg your pardon? Stork?”

  “DON’T CALL ME THAT! It was Willy… Willy called me Stork.”

  “I’m sorry… but I’m not following you.”

  Sluggish and dull, I could only watch as Hendricks, his fury poorly concealed, paced the room like a horny giraffe, back and forth, until his own mindless incoherence reached around and tapped him on the shoulder. Pausing, he looked back and while his eyes were pointed in my direction, they saw something else, something from his past. Dialing it down, the disturbed content screener continued, “Willy… he was a huge Oakland Raiders fan… Ted Hendricks… he was a football player for the Raiders back in the ’80s… they called him The Stork… he was tall, like me.”

  It was difficult, but a light was flickering in the fog. “So you’re saying Wilmer Graves called you…”

  “STORK!”

  “…and that’s why you’re so upset?”

  “I’m upset because I’m in jail… AND YOU FUCKING PUT ME HERE, RIGHT?”

  The fog was indeed beginning to lift, but the unsightly something lingered, a specter of rage, tension radiating from it like stink around a troubled skunk. As it hovered over me, clenching its teeth, I stammered, “Uh, well, you see…”

  “Of course it was you. WHO ELSE?”

  I battled back. “Wait a minute… you did accompany Wilmer Graves… Willy… on a series of crimes, right? You guys were sticking up convenience stores, donut shops and formal wear rental places… right?”

  The ominous specter diminished. “Well, sort of… but it wasn’t really like that.”

  “Like what? Like you didn’t point a gun at people and say ‘GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY!’… if it wasn’t like that, then what was it like?”

  “That was Willy… not me. I mostly drove the car. I hate guns.”

  “So why did you help him… and how does a guy like you get involved with a degenerate old fart like Wilmer Graves to begin with?”

  “You don’t understand… Willy was… he was…”

  Seemingly stricken by a sentimental moment, Hendricks froze, staring into empty space, then collapsed on his bunk, sobbing. Like a falling fat man greeting concrete, Ted Hendricks’ mood was shattered. Between blubbers he blurted out again and again, “You don’t understand… you don’t understand…”

  I felt a little sorry for the kid. Yeah, he was guilty of something, but he just wasn’t a criminal type. Walking over to his cot, I put a hand on Hendricks’ shoulder. I sounded like fucking Father Flanagan or something but I couldn’t help myself. “Maybe it would help if you talked about it.”

  He looked at me, tears welling up and oozing out around the corners of his eyes. “My grandfather… my grandfather died a few weeks before I met Willy, and it was weird but they were so much alike… at least to me… well, of course Dido wasn’t a criminal or anything…”

  “Excuse me… Dido?”

  “That… that was the name I had for my grandfather… I called him Dido… Dido practically raised me. My dad was a heroin addict and after he OD’d, Dido took me in… I was just a kid… we were so close, Dido and me… then when Willy showed up, not long after Dido died, it was like getting him back in a funny way… yeah, okay, Willy wasn’t your typical grandpa type, and they both had these gruff personalities… but underneath they were kind and loving…”

  The kid was starting to open up.

  “Sometimes I think Willy was even more generous than Dido…”

  “Uh… Correct me if I’m mistaken but didn’t Wilmer Graves shoot the manager of a donut shop for thirty-six dollars? That’s a funny kind of generosity.”

  “Oh that… that was just an accident… the guy should’ve just given Willy the money… once Willy robbed a 7-11 then turned around and gave half the money to a kid on the street… then he waved his gun at the kid and said, ‘Go to school! Go to school, kid, or you’ll wind up like me!’ And he laughed… Willy had a great laugh. He was always doing stuff like that…”

  “So how did you meet Willy? I mean… well, you guys are a pretty unlikely pair…”

  “Oh, yeah… sure, I know what you mean… it was Margo… it happened because of Margo… or at least, I thought it was her.”

  “Wait, are you trying to say you met a career criminal, a guy with over fifty convictions, through your girlfriend?” The kid’s story was odd, but it was about to blast off into an uncharted realm of pure, unadulterated weirdness.

  “No, no, it was nothing like that… it was…”

  As he searched for words to explain an unheard-of confluence, a combination of the absurd, profane and preposterous, a pained look came over Hendricks’ face. “Well… no… you see…” After an extended and painfully long pause, when the content screener finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper: “I… I thought she was fucking a monkey.”

  As he told his story, I could see Ted Hendricks standing in the doorway of a cheap motel room several weeks earlier. He walks to his car and retrieves the box I had seen in the back seat of his car, the box labeled “eSPY – HI-TECH SPYING MADE EASY.” He carries it back into the room, then sits at a small desk and immediately opens a laptop computer. Quickly locating a folder labeled “INAPPROPRIATE!,” Hendricks then finds a sub-folder titled “YouTube_Flagged.” Navigating through the folder’s vast array of files, he focuses his attention on one labeled “Chimp_Woman_XXX.” Clicking on the file causes the familiar YouTube contextual fields to appear surrounding a video; a bright red “RESTRICTED!” warning appears at the bottom of the picture. The image in the video field appears to be a static shot of the exact same motel room, and as the tech screener watches, the video shows a young woman enter, followed by a full-grown male chimpanzee. The woman wears tight jeans and a halter top; the chimp is wearing a striped T-shirt.

  The image is fairly lo-res and while she never directly faces the camera, the woman does bear a passing resemblance to Margo, Ted Hendricks’ girlfriend. Not only that, her clothing is similar to the outfit Margo was wearing during my encounter with the couple at their house in Blue Springs. After handing a banana to the primate, the young woman undresses, climbs onto the bed and gestures for the chimp to join her. As she embraces the monkey, kissing him fully on the mouth, Hendricks angrily slams the laptop shut.

  The tech worker then turns his attention to the box containing the amateur surveillance equipment, but his hands are shaking so badly, it takes him several moments to open it. He spreads its contents out on the bed, but a familiar ur
ge soon reappears, compulsively seizing his scarred and shadowy soul; anxious, the young man obsessively returns to the laptop, pauses for a moment, then opens it again. Resuming play, the video shows the young woman disrobing the chimp, then as she fondly rubs his back, her other hand reaches around and down between the monkey’s legs. Unable to take any more, Hendricks slams the laptop shut again, abruptly turning back to the spycams. For several minutes, he continues this back-and-forth pattern of slowly distributing the tiny cameras around the room, checking the functionality of each as he does, then periodically returning to the obviously disturbing video.

  As this curious and compulsive task nears completion, Hendricks hears a loud noise outside. Carefully placing the final spycam on the desk, he crosses the room and opens the door just as a 1980s-era Cadillac abruptly pulls into the parking spot of the room next door, its flopping flat tire and roaring muffler demanding attention. With the young techie watching, the Caddy comes to a halt and an older man tumbles out, sprawling onto the asphalt parking lot. Tethered to an oxygen bottle, he struggles to his feet, waving a large handgun in the air as he does. Then, just as the man regains his footing, a Highway Patrol cruiser, siren screaming and apparently in pursuit, blindly roars past the entrance to the motel.

  Mesmerized by the curious scene unfolding in front of him, Ted Hendricks can only stand and stare as the man jerks his head around, surveying the scene for potential danger. With no one else in sight, his eyes quickly land on the young man watching him. Breathing heavily, the old man barks, “WHATCHA LOOKIN’ AT? HUH?”

  Startled, Hendricks considers retreating to his room but the old man, surprisingly quick and still waving the huge pistol, is on him in a flash. With the gun poking his ribs, Ted looks down at his shriveled and gnarled adversary. Judging by his piercing eyes and full head of gray hair, the man is probably not as old as he looks, but his shaking hands and hacking cough suggest neglect and years of self-abuse.

  Anxious and overwrought, the old man makes a split decision. “Quick, kid! Back in the room! You’re gonna help me… or else! UNDERSTAND?” Brandishing the weapon with practiced bravado and flair, the barrel of the gun barely reaches Hendricks’ chest as the old man forces him back into the motel room, then collapses in a fit of coughing as the door slams shut behind them.

  A few hours later Wilmer Graves and Ted Hendricks are parked outside a Selix formal wear rental shop in the Kansas City suburb of Raytown. The shop is in a strip mall slightly isolated from the other stores, making it a perfect choice for Graves’ next caper. Having abandoned the old man’s stolen Cadillac at the motel, Hendricks is now chauffeuring the ex-con in his ten-year-old Honda.

  “Okay, kid, out… we got a job to do. C’mon…”

  Hendricks looks around nervously. “Uh, I’d rather not, Mr, Graves… if you don’t mind, I’ll, uh, just wait for you here in the car.”

  “Mind… MIND? Are you fucking crazy, kid? You think I’m gonna let you haul ass as soon as I’m in that fucking shop? Hell no! You’re comin’ with me, SO GET THE FUCK OUT!”

  Self-conscious, the high-strung Hendricks exits the car spastically pivoting his head around, as Graves, pistol tucked into his waistband and oxygen bottle in tow, steps out onto the sidewalk. Muttering under his breath, the old man snarls, “Cool it, kid. You look like some pansy-ass little girl… relax and act natural… like me. C’mon…” Hitching his pants, drooping under the weight of the huge handgun, Graves nods at his young companion, then follows him into the shop.

  The store is deserted as the odd pair enters. With no other customers and anxious to please, the clerk approaches the pair, then hesitates, a look of concern on his face. Wasting no time, the old man immediately retrieves his pistol, waves it in front of the terrified man and fires a shot at the ceiling. The noise is deafening. Cowering, the clerk falls to the floor, his hands covering his head. Radiating terror, the man’s shrill voice instantly fills the void following the sharp sound of gunfire, “I GIVE UP! I GIVE UP! JUST DON’T SHOOT ME!”

  With the wide-eyed Ted Hendricks looking on, Graves screams, “SHUDDUP, FAGGOT!” as he thrusts the gun into the back of the clerk’s head. “SHUDDUP AND ACT LIKE A MAN! Now gimme all your fucking money! MOVE, FAGGOT!”

  On his hands and knees the man scurries like a bug across the floor to the cash register. Timidly he rises to his feet, opens the register drawer, pulls out a handful of bills and shoves them toward Graves, standing on the opposite side of the counter. As the old man reaches out to grab the money, he’s seized by another coughing fit, causing him to discharge the gun a second time, filling the small room with an ear-splitting roar as the bullet ricochets off the floor, shattering a large plate glass mirror. Terrified, the clerk immediately falls to the ground again, dropping him from Graves’ line of sight as the old man, on the other side of the counter, struggles to regain his composure. Immersed in the chaos of noise, gunsmoke and broken glass, the gunman suddenly realizes he has lost track of the clerk and panics.

  Screaming, he yells, “WHERE ARE YOU, FAGGOT? WHERE ARE YOU? YOU CAN’T GET AWAY! YOU HEAR ME? SHOW YOURSELF… SHOW YOURSELF, FAGGOT!” then fires the gun two more times. Meanwhile, Ted Hendricks, who has remained remarkably calm throughout the entire ordeal, stands near the end of the divider with a clear view of the scene, including the cowering clerk tightly squeezed into a corner behind the counter.

  As the smoke and acrid stench of gunfire waft their way through the cramped and confined space, an eerie silence envelops the room. Each unable to see the other, Graves and the clerk are frozen in indecision for a long uneasy moment until Ted Hendricks, boldly breaking the silence, finally releases the tension. Appalled and frightened for the safety of the petrified clerk, he points at the terrified man and shouts, “Mr. Graves… please… he’s right there on the floor… the poor man is scared to death. I think it’s time to leave now.”

  Jolted back to reality by his young companion, Graves snaps into action. “Huh? Oh… yeah… you’re right… we gotta leave… c’mon.” With that he grabs his oxygen bottle and heads out the door.

  Moments later, anxious to leave the crime scene, Ted Hendricks steps on the accelerator as the Honda merges into traffic, but the old man cautions him. “It’s okay, kid… back off. We ain’t in no hurry.”

  Still upset, the young man glances over as his companion calmly reloads his pistol. Radiating tension, Hendricks speaks up, “I don’t understand why you gave that clerk such a hard time, Mr. Graves. Anyone could see what a harmless little guy he was.”

  “It’s easy for you to say, kid, but I’ve done this a hunnerd times… th’ first thing you gotta do is let ’em know who’s in control. I know what I’m doin’ here.”

  “But you were abusive… verbally abusive… and there was no reason. He would’ve given you…”

  “You mean that faggot shit? Look, I ain’t got no problem with the fags… I’ve known plenty of ’em in prison… good folks, most of ’em…”

  “But it was total chaos back there… you could’ve shot the guy… maybe even killed him.”

  “Okay… okay, maybe it got a little out of hand… just for a second or so… but nobody was hurt… he’ll be okay.”

  They ride in silence for a few moments until Wilmer Graves speaks again, “But hey, you was a standup guy back there, kid. You kept your head and got us out when it got crazy and I appreciate it… much obliged, kid… I owe you one.” After a brief pause, Graves breaks the silence again, “So what’s your name, son… I can’t just keep callin’ you ‘kid.’”

  “It’s Ted, Mr. Graves… Ted Hendricks.”

  “TED HENDRICKS! THE STORK! You gotta be kiddin’ me… I knew there somethin’ special about you, kid… TED HENDRICKS! No shit…” Completely baffled by the old man’s reaction, the young man still feels a certain warmth of affection at Wilmer Graves’ obvious embrace of his name.

  Each feeling the afterglow of their strange bond, the curious couple search for a motel where they can unwind and spend the
night. After traveling a few miles in silence, the old man speaks again, “Hey kid… just call me Willy, okay? Don’t nobody call me Mr. Graves, ’cept my lawyer. Just call me Willy… okay?”

  “Sure… Willy.”

  Completely absorbed, I’ve listened for the past hour as Ted Hendricks told the story of his initial encounter and involvement with Wilmer Graves. And as he spoke, missing pieces of a puzzle I had been wrestling with for the past two weeks were falling into place. My head was throbbing and my throat felt like a dirt road in hell, but I had to keep the kid talking.

  “So why did you stay with him? I mean as weak and sick as Graves was, surely you realized you could have taken the gun from him… or just run away. You must have known you were incriminating yourself… becoming his accomplice. Why did you do it?”

  Obviously conflicted, Hendricks sat, unmoving in the dim light of the jail cell. When he finally spoke, his voice, coming from deep within, barely rose above a whisper. “I… I just couldn’t do that to him. He needed me… maybe like no one ever needed me… I just couldn’t send him back to jail… or leave him to die. I… it looked like he didn’t have much longer. I thought about Willy a lot over the past couple of weeks. I keep wondering if there was anything I could’ve done… I mean, his health was obviously bad, but I could have taken him to a doctor or tried to call his wife… or something… I just… I didn’t expect it to happen so fast…”

  Deep in thought, Hendricks laid back on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. The kid’s mood was darkening. Now that Graves’ reluctant accomplice was finally opening up, I didn’t want to lose him so I probed a little deeper. “Earlier you said you were primarily the driver while Graves was doing the actual robberies. How long was it before he left you alone in the car? Before he actually trusted you?”