by Ben Rehder
But he wasn’t. He would agree that good things sometimes happened after bad things happened but he knew that one didn’t necessarily cause the other. When something happened, you chose how to react. Things change and you can change with them or not, the choice is yours. Rick laughed at himself. Radio had changed, but Rick refused to, but at least it had been his choice. He was alone again and heading for another town, another station. But at least he had something to look forward to.
As he drove beyond the city limits Rick picked up his cell phone and hit speed dial for the studio. Rob answered and Rick said, “Just wanted to say one last good bye and wish you good luck with everything.”
“Thanks,” Rob said. “You, too. I really appreciate everything you did for me.”
“Glad I could help.” Rick gave Rob his cell phone number and told him to call if he ever needed anything or if he came to Vicksburg. Rob said he’d come to visit.
“Listen,” Rick said, “I have a request.”
“Name it.”
“How about Buddy Miles, Them Changes?”
CALABAMA – Steve Brewer
Copyright © 2011 by Steve Brewer
Chapter 1
Never argue with a man whose tattoos outnumber his teeth.
I’d developed a lot of survival rules during my seven years among the bikers, lumberjacks, hippies and hillbillies of Northern California, but that one topped the list. Too many tattoos signal a man who’s impervious to physical pain and social pressure. A shortage of teeth suggests a brawler or a meth-head, and I try to avoid unpredictable types.
But sometimes I can’t stick to the rules, even ones of my own device. That Tuesday evening at The Busted Nut was one of those times.
I’d stopped for a quick cold one on my way home from work. It was over a hundred degrees outside, typical July weather in the Sacramento Valley, and the saloon’s ancient air-conditioning wheezed from the strain.
Leather-clad bikers, lard-ass truckers and sunburned construction workers lined the bar like an overweight tribute to The Village People. The few female customers looked even tougher than the men.
The Nut’s one of those bars where people of all stripes, with nothing in common except thirst, mingle under an uneasy truce. It’s a lot like Redding, simmering with class struggle: rich newcomers vs. poor natives, snowbirds vs. peckerwoods, hilltop McMansions vs. rusty trailers. During the Gold Rush era, when the surrounding mountains teemed with prospectors, this area was called Poverty Flat, and the locals still resent outsiders with money.
I stood at one end of the polished redwood bar, a little too buttoned-down in my office attire of loosened necktie, khakis and scuffed penny loafers. Unfortunately, I stood out enough to catch the attention of Cecil Lynch.
“Eric Newlin!” he brayed as he elbowed his way through the crowd. “What you doin’ in here? Slummin’?”
His face split into a malevolent grin, showing a hippo’s mouth of pink gums and a few scattered brown stumps. Cecil was around forty, only ten years older than me, but his sunken mouth and sun-baked squint made him look like an old man. His breath was an assault of beer, cigarette smoke and tooth decay.
Cecil stood a few inches shorter than my six feet, but he was thick through the shoulders and chest. He wore a black tank top so we could all admire the colorful tigers and dragons climbing up his leathery arms. Tattoos of black hands clawed at the sides of his neck, so it appeared he was being choked by a dwarf hidden inside his shirt. His shaved head bore a Harley-Davidson logo above one ear and a Gothic-script “Cecil” above the other.
Not that there was any chance I would’ve forgotten his name. Three years earlier, I’d fired him for showing up drunk at a construction site. Our paths had crossed only twice since. Both times, he’d tried to strike up an argument, an excuse to settle old scores.
Today was the wrong day for that shit. I was already in a bad mood, and my temples throbbed. I frowned, but he didn’t take the hint. Subtlety’s wasted on losers like Cecil Lynch.
“Still working for your father-in-law?” he said, too loud. “How is ole Bart Honeydew?”
“He’s fine.”
“I bet he is, the rich son of a bitch.”
I didn’t rise to the bait. As far as I was concerned, Bart was a son of a bitch. But I tried not to say so in public.
“Look at you.” Cecil reached out a filthy, scabby hand and gave my silk necktie a tug. “Guess you’re working in the office now, instead of out in the weather with the real men.”
That rankled. I’d spent years under the scalding sun, running crews for Honeydew Construction, earning my place in the family business. Bart believed you learned a company from the bottom up, and that went double for me, the Midwesterner who’d dared to marry his only child, Darlene.
Before I could respond to Cecil, the bartender appeared, smiling through red lipstick, tossing her bottle-blond mane back over her shoulder. Her name’s Clorette, and she’s one of those sassy hill girls with more smarts than a paper cut. She wears denim cutoffs and low-slung shirts. Calls herself “recycled white trash.” We’re all crazy about her.
“How about another beer, Cecil?”
“All right,” he said. “Eric here is buying.”
Clorette raised her eyebrows at me.
“Sure, I’ll spot him a beer. He could use some cooling off.”
She kept watch on us as she pulled a draft Bud and set the mug in front of him. She plucked the last of my change from the bar.
“Eric owes me that much,” Cecil said. “Ain’t that right, boy?”
Now, see, here’s where I should’ve followed my own rules. Shouldn’t have argued with someone as mean and dim-witted and tattooed as Cecil Lynch. I should’ve said, “Whatever you say, Cecil,” chugged my beer and departed. But anger surged within me, and I snapped, “I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Cecil had tipped up his mug, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he inhaled the beer. He slammed the sloshing mug down on the bar.
“I say you do. You cost me a good job. Throwing your weight around, trying to impress your wife’s daddy.”
“Just doing my job.”
“‘Just doing my job,’” he repeated in a girly voice. “I hate smartasses like you, who have the whole world handed to them. Think you’re better than a working man—”
“Nobody gave me a thing. I earned everything I’ve got.”
He snorted. “Like I’d believe that. Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck?”
“That’s exactly what you look like, Cecil. Whenever I imagine someone falling off a turnip truck, I think of you.”
His face flushed.
“How did you earn it? By screwing Darlene Honeydew? That’s a mighty steep price to pay, ain’t it?”
His rubbery lips kept moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Rage roared in my ears. My face blazed. My hands wanted to be the ones around Cecil’s neck. Barely under control, I turned and walked stiffly out of the bar. Cecil yelled something, but I didn’t look back. Just kept walking, chased by the laughter of rednecks.
Outside, the heat was a slap in the face. I paused, squinting against the setting sun. I took a deep breath, then another, trying to blow the taste of anger out of my mouth.
I told myself that leaving was the prudent decision. If I’d swung on Cecil, half the good ole boys in The Busted Nut would’ve pounced on me. The solidarity of the stupid.
Another of my survival rules: In a conflict, always assume the other guy is stupid, crazy, drugged and/or drunk. If a man’s ready to fight, the odds are pretty good that at least one of those conditions apply. Particularly in a place like the Nut.
I couldn’t afford such trouble. I often felt that everyone in Redding knew I was Bart Honeydew’s son-in-law, that the whole town was watching, waiting for me to screw up. Last thing I needed was to show up on the police blotter for a bar brawl.
My truck was at the far end of the parking lot, facing the big intersection where two six-lane avenu
es met in a “T” among a forest of stoplights and streetlights and signs. The narrow saloon tucked into one side of the half-acre parcel, its exterior covered in wooden shingles the color of mud. The only decoration was a red neon sign featuring a buck-toothed squirrel brandishing a cracked acorn. Half the squirrel’s tail burned out years ago. At night, he resembles a glowing rat.
Streetlights flickered to life as the day died. Hardly any traffic at this hour. Most folks were home with their families.
I glanced at my wristwatch. Shit. No way Darlene would believe I worked this late.
The asphalt felt tacky underfoot as I hustled to my shiny pickup, a silver Ford F-150 with “Honeydew Construction Co.” stenciled on the doors. I’d left it locked up, and the cab was its own little Hades. I set the air conditioner to full blast and leaned into the vents, sucking in the cooling air.
An engine’s roar made me look up. A red Corvette was coming right at me, way too fast, doing at least ninety on Redwood Avenue, the thoroughfare that ended at the “T.” A black car was a few blocks behind, but the intersection was empty. No one in the way but me.
The Corvette driver stood on the brakes. The car’s prow dipped and its wide tires shrieked and smoked, the fat back end trying to dance around to the front.
Still coming too fast.
A telephone pole stood in the sidewalk to my left. Angling down from it was a taut guy wire, a wrist-thick rope of steel braids anchored in the concrete directly in front of my truck. Maybe it would offer some protection if the Corvette jumped the sidewalk—
Bang! The ‘Vette’s front tire exploded against the curb and the car leaped forward. The fiberglass bumper hit the angled cable and the front end rocketed toward the sky.
Everything seemed to slow as the airborne Corvette flew right at my face, silent as a swooping bird. The red car filled my windshield. Before I could react, its undercarriage passed over my truck, only inches above my head.
Shrapnel cracked against my windshield, making me jump. Then an enormously loud crash behind me.
I looked in my rear-view mirror. The Corvette had smashed onto its left side, crumpled between two unoccupied cars in the next row. Its tires still spun. Bits of glittering glass danced around the asphalt.
My God. I grabbed my steering wheel as the shakes hit me. The guy wire vibrated like a banjo string. The telephone pole remained unmoved.
The trailing car, a muscular Dodge Charger, reached the intersection, hesitated a moment, then raced away on Pine Street. The black car had tinted windows, so I couldn’t see the driver, but he must’ve witnessed the wreck, must’ve seen the flying ‘Vette go right over my head.
A few inches lower, and that car would’ve decapitated me. But it had missed me, missed my truck.
And I didn’t have a scratch on me.
Chapter 2
Customers spilled from the doorway of The Busted Nut, yelling and pointing and hurrying over to the Corvette, which was wedged between the parked cars like a machete buried in a melon.
From where I sat, I couldn’t see the driver, but I didn’t see how anybody could survive such a crash. The entire left side of the Corvette was smashed flat against the pavement.
Still shaking, I stumbled out into the heat for a better look. Sirens howled in the distance.
I stooped to peer through the Corvette’s narrow rear window. The driver had short brown hair like mine, but his was slick with blood. His neck bent at an impossible angle.
My stomach flopped, and I reeled away.
Clorette the bartender appeared at my side and gently grasped my elbow.
“Eric? Are you all right?”
I swallowed bile, and croaked, “Yeah.”
“You saw it happen?”
“Damned car went right over my head.”
“Jesus.” She looked past me to my silver truck, which was freckled by debris. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
Sniffing a survivor, customers hurried over. We soon were surrounded by drunks asking, “what happened” and “did you see it” and “how fast was that fucker going?”
My head swam and I teetered on my feet. Clorette clutched my arm and said, “Whoa. Steady. Sit down.”
I collapsed to the hot pavement, and sat with my head in my hands, trying to find my equilibrium. Clorette crouched beside me, her fine tanned legs in my line of sight, and patted my shoulder.
“Easy now,” she said. “You’re all right. You’re fine.”
Police cars arrived amid squealing brakes. Sirens whooped to silence. A cop pushed his way through the crowd, saying, “Stand back. Stand back. Give this man some air.”
I didn’t look up as he asked, “Are you injured?” I shook my head, which caused another wave of dizziness to wash over me.
“Aw, hell,” someone said. “He ain’t hurt. Take a look at the boy in that Corvette. He’s the one who’s fucked up.”
The voice sounded like it belonged to Cecil Lynch.
Chapter 3
By the time the body was extracted from the Corvette and hauled away on a sheet-covered gurney, my nausea and dizziness were gone. But my headache had returned for a repeat engagement.
The police had ordered me to stick around, and I was sitting on my tailgate when a squat cop came over.
“I understand you witnessed the accident.”
I nodded. He asked my name, address and phone number, and I watched as he dutifully wrote them in a small notebook.
“Age?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I’d felt touchy about my age lately. My thirtieth birthday was only a month away.
“Just answer the question.”
Granted, my emotions still were raw, but I didn’t like his tone. The cop looked up from this notebook, frowning at my silence.
“No need to get brusque with me,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
Even sitting on my tailgate, I was a head taller than him. I took in his pressed uniform, impatient expression and manicured mustache. His nametag said “Schmidt.” Sawed-off Nazi.
“Just doing my job, sir. You don’t want to be an obstruction to that.”
An obstruction. As if I blocked his large intestine.
“I’m twenty-nine,” I said. “Be sure to write that down because it’s very important.”
He wrote “29” and underlined it twice. Then he asked me to describe what had happened “in your own words.”
“Whose words would I be using, if not my own?”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Sir, do we have a problem here? Is there some reason you don’t want to cooperate?”
“I don’t like being talked to like I’m an idiot.”
“Your feelings aren’t my main concern at the moment. I’m trying to get your statement while it’s fresh in your mind. Sir.”
“Fine. That Corvette was coming this way on Redwood, way too fast. The driver hit the brakes and tried to make the right turn, but the car jumped the curb, hit that guy wire and went airborne.”
Schmidt said nothing, writing furiously in his little notebook.
“I was sitting in this truck at the time. The Corvette flew right over me.”
He looked up, tracking the trajectory the car had taken.
“Over the cab?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
I was starting to believe it myself. But another patrol car arrived at that moment, and Police Chief V.J. Drake emerged from it. The chief’s looming presence was enough to make any man wonder whether his luck had run out.
Drake was a friend of my father-in-law’s, a fellow Rotarian, but I’d always avoided him. Even from a distance, the police chief gave me the creeps.
He’s a big man around fifty with acne-blasted skin and reptilian eyes. One of his ears is a wad of pink scar tissue because, so the story goes, a drunk bit it off. The doctor who reattached the ear was inebriated, too, and
screwed up the job. Needless to say, Drake doesn’t have much patience when it comes to boozers.
His arrival was enough to make the customers at The Busted Nut scurry back indoors. I wished I could join them. The sun was gone, but its heat lingered. I used my sleeve to wipe sweat off my face as I watched Schmidt and the other cops huddle with Drake.
Like his men, the chief wore a dark blue uniform, complete with gun and badge. He stood a head taller than the others. At one point, his eyes fixed on me, and I could tell Schmidt was informing him that I’d been uncooperative.
I couldn’t help being a pain. I’ve got a smart mouth, and it often goes off on its own, especially when I’m dealing with authority figures. That’s one reason I avoided cops in general and Chief Drake in particular. Never could tell when I might talk myself into trouble.
Now I’d done it again, popping off at Schmidt. If I weren’t careful, I could end up down at the police station, spending the night telling and retelling the story of the flying Corvette.
That’s when I realized I’d failed to mention the other car. Damn. I’d been so busy acting pissy, I’d forgotten all about that black Dodge. Now it felt too late to say anything. The cops might think I was hiding something.
I couldn’t positively identify the black car anyway; I’d gotten only a glimpse. Revealing it now wouldn’t do anybody any good. Certainly wouldn’t bring the Corvette driver back to life.
Drake gave his men their marching orders, then strode across the parking lot and stopped in front of me. He hung his thumbs in his heavy gunbelt.