by Gibby Haynes
He has the upstairs in the folks’ garage apartment. I have the downstairs. I say “most of the time” because three or four days out of the week I end up crashing at Carla’s. It’s way closer to IBC, plus Carla has an awesome cook. I hardly ever go inside my folks’ actual house anymore. It’s way too spooky for one person . . . especially at night. My mom is always with her boyfriend, and I get depressed when I’m alone there. It reminds me of my dad and the way things used to be. But Lytle has been my roommate for almost two years, and we have a great time out back.
He’s a year older than me. His middle name is Falstaff. Lytle Falstaff. He says I’m the only person in the world he’s ever admitted that to and claims even his father doesn’t know his middle name. I met him when he was the first person to arrive at one of the first parties in the garage apartment where we now live. He came thirty minutes early, and we just kind of hit it off. His father owned the landscaping business that does my parents’ garden and lawn. I say “owned” because his parents broke up and his mom got the business. All his dad got were the boat and the F-350 (at least that’s what he tells Lytle and anybody who’ll listen), and there’s the thirty-year-old Starbucks manager he ran away with too.
His philandering makes Lytle want to vomit, and everybody else thinks it’s gross, but Dan’s Lawn Services is now Jan’s Lawn Services, and that’s kind of funny. Funny too that Lytle is the only person besides me, my sister and Larry Teeter who saw what happened that day my sister lost her hand.
THE CHOCOLATE CHAINSAW
He was working for his dad that day. His dad was around back, so only Lytle had a clear view of the incident. He might have been able to see what happened, but I know Lytle doesn’t have any idea what really took my sister’s hand off. Neither do I. It was a Saturday, and he was thirteen. Also, that day his mom found out about his dad’s infidelity with the Starbucks lady, and that night Lytle was in Enid, Oklahoma, at his aunt’s house, where he stayed until the divorce was all settled two years later.
When his mom took over the family business, they moved back down to Texas. They were here only for a week when me and Lytle re-met. I was putting some ice in the bathtub when he walked in the front door of the apartment thirty minutes before anyone else. He offered his services and his mother’s car for a last-minute ice run, saying, “It’s got a Jimmy Dean Martin Landau roof” as we hopped in for the six block-journey.
I thought about that and on the way back, ended a moment of silence with, “I’m glad Elton John Glenn Campbell is DJ’ing tonight.”
Ever since . . . that particular style of linking wordplay has become a running têtê-à-tête in our everchanging verbal relationship.
Later that night, sporting a total deadpan expression, he wisks up beside me on the dance floor, saying, “I just made out with Bob Hope Lange . . . Older chicks are cool.” It still cracks me up. The kid’s got talent, what can I say?
Later, he said something like: “Hey, Oscar, you don’t know me, but I totally saw that owl thing bite your sister’s hand off.”
Amazing.
I said, “What are you talking about?”
And he started laughing, a seriously crazy laugh . . . and I started laughing too, and didn’t stop. That’s pretty much what we still do. We had so much fun that night we started throwing parties together, and now we’re roommates and partners in crime as well as business. The sports team at his junior high were the Fighting Owls, and he’s told me many times how he got a lot of mileage in high school out of telling people he once saw a girl get her hand bitten off by an owl in Texas.
His mom, Jan, who is awesome and comes over to cook for us like three times a week, says, “Oh, Lytle, you know that was a lawn mower.”
Lytle always winks at me when she isn’t looking and says, “Well, a lawn mower was there.”
But it was no ordinary lawn mower, because it flew up toward the hill country after it bit her hand off. Although I know Mr. Cigar is special, magical or whatever to the outside observer, he is just an ordinary dog. Others may take his behavior as being extremely obedient, while I treat him as an equal. He may not seem so magical to them. I have come to rely on him, I never take him for granted and I think, to a certain degree, he relies on me . . . after all, I never feed him dog food, and he knows I never would. I think to Lytle, Mr. Cigar is a dog. He can tell Cigar is smart but thinks he’s just a regular canine.
I think.
Just like me until I saw Mr. Cigar come back from the grave and give birth to a flying bat dog with photo-morphing-skin capabilities.
A TRUNKIE CORNER
The government contractor totally freaks me out. He definitely and specifically wants Mr. Cigar. I suspect these two have a definite and specific history together. He accused Mr. Cigar of being, of all things, military property. I hope I never find out why. Mr. Cigar belongs to ME.
Pulling the ATV out of a particularly treacherous corner, I notice a light in the eastern sky. So it had to be past six a.m. We’ve been going fairly steady for a couple of hours now, so for sure we’re getting close. At the next bunch of trees I recognize the pecan grove surrounding the company property, then—turning left along the creek—a parking lot, a warehouse and a couple of trucks . . . IBC.
Through the water and up a small hill, I see the vehicle of interest and next to it . . . two familiar cars. Apparently, Carla and Jack came to work early. Oh man. I know somebody noticed the missing ATV and probably figured I took it. So this might be tricky. Not a bad one but definitely “one.”
Through the unlocked front door I walk in to find . . . Jack Ogilvie and Carla in the reception area, drinking coffee and watching some black-and-white documentary jazz performance.
Jack waves. Carla notices, turns to me and waves too.
“Hey, guys? Uh . . . what’s going on? Seriously.”
“Oscar, that was so weird last night,” Carla says, her eyes sort of back on the TV. “Are you all right? Well, we figured you were all right. You kept moving.”
“What do you mean I kept moving?”
“We were watching you,” Jack explains, pointing to a laptop. “The ATV has a beacon that can be initiated remotely. It can be disabled at the vehicle, but it’s a hunter’s safety option. I thought it was neat . . . Low Jack . . . Get it?!”
I nod. After all, I stole the ATV in question. “That is neat.”
“It wasn’t that expensive, but they sting you on the activation fee.”
Carla sniffles. I suddenly realize she’s been crying. “I was worried about you, sweetie,” she says. “Lytle too. He’s still at large. And with the colonel after you—”
“Who the fuck is that guy, anyway?”
Before I can obsess too much over whether or not Lytle has been busted again, Jack Ogilvie fills me in on a little of the colonel’s history.
It sort of makes sense, in a less-than-understandable way.
YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THE COCONUT
“You see, Oscar, I’ve known Pete for a long time—we were in basic and combat together as sailors, and he’s the kind of guy that you want on your side when the tough gets goin’. But when the tough gets gone, he’s . . . really intense. I think he tends to take his job home with him, and he got in more than a couple of fights with fellow soldiers . . . the ones on his side. Nonetheless, he is professional, highly qualified and extremely by the book. It’s just that sometimes he wants to be the one who writes the book. But, along with your dad, we met in boot camp, did our first tour together then got different assignments. He went into some MCIA training program, and now he can’t talk about a lot of it. I kept flying F-35s and we didn’t keep in contact until his name came up in an IBC meeting and I learned he was a military tech acquisition specialist. Sort of the typical IBC customer. Like I said, we didn’t keep in contact, but over the years bits and pieces of what Pete did in those five-plus years have come to the surface or at least c
irculated in hushed tones (among the people in the intelligence community).”
“Wow, Jack, are you going to tell me some classified dirt on Colonel Sanders?”
“Well, maybe. No, not really. Most of what I’m going to say is speakable, but I might include some heretofore redacted information. Heh heh.”
I laugh too. “Wow, cool.”
He frowns. “No, it’s really not that cool.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just that a significant portion of that which has been repeated over the years is so ridiculous that it can’t be true. Okay, here it is. They say he was working on a classified program that somehow involved wildlife or animals. These type of operations aren’t unusual—from carrier pigeons to even trained dolphins. The military has been using animals in all sorts of ways for years. Apparently, in Pete’s case, the animal he was involved with attacked him and escaped. That much is fairly undisputed. In fact, it almost tore off his nose and actually fully severed two fingers. Obviously, he’s got the scars to prove something. They say the animal was never recovered and the program got shut down. What they don’t say is what kind of animal it was. It’s certain he was working at a canine research facility in North Texas. I had a layover at Sheppard AFB almost twenty years ago and ran into him there. We had a few minutes to catch up, and he told me he was still working for the MCIA. When I asked what his mission was, he winked and kind of laughingly said, ‘Right now we’re training dogs.’ Then he changed the subject. Sounded reasonable to me . . . I thought it was probably part of a bigger project and left it at that. Like I said, that was almost twenty years ago. Next time I saw him was last year, when he turned up as a purchasing rep buying IBC technology.”
Jack Ogilvie pauses.
“So, what’s the weird part?” I ask.
“Well, Oscar, the weird part is that a few years back I got a call from a friend who had served with me and Colonel Sanders in Indonesia. He said he ran into Pete the night after he got out of the hospital from the animal attack. They went out to dinner, and over some drinks Pete told him a weird tale indeed. Basically Colonel Sanders told our mutual buddy that an immortal dog with telepathic powers had maimed him and run off into the North Texas countryside. Rich, our mutual buddy, said Pete looked him right in the eye and said, ‘That goddamn commie dog nearly tore my nose off.’ At this point, Rich said he convulsed with laughter, saying, ‘I understand the immortal, telepathic part, but why is the dog a communist?’ He said Pete didn’t crack a smile and said, ‘Because Khrushchev gave the damn thing to Kennedy.’ He also told Rich he had seen a tintype photograph of the dog sitting on the lap of Grigori Rasputin.”
“Wow, man.”
“I know. Rich might have just blamed it on the drinks—apparently, they’d had a few—but over the next few years the stories kept coming back around . . . and from different sources. Everybody felt bad for Pete, but you can’t say stuff like that and keep a career in the US military . . . even if it is true. So, needless to say, the program got canceled or redirected, and Pete retired from the navy. Or was forced to resign. Which is a lot more likely . . . if you believe the stories.”
APOLLO STATION ZEBRA
This whole time Mr. Cigar has been sitting next to me, intently staring at Jack. I catch his eye, and I swear he winks at me then continues his gaze.
“So what you’re saying is that you think that guy from last night thinks that Mr. Cigar is an immortal clairvoyant dog given to John F. Kennedy by the leader of the Soviet Union.”
“Well, yes, but the salient piece is that he’s upset because Mr. Cigar ruined his career. As well as almost tearing his nose off. Ouch.”
Holy shit, I’m thinking, so that’s who/what Mr. Cigar really is.
I shake my head. In spite of the drugs, I still can maintain a standard of reality. “I gotta say, guys, that story just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, why in the name of logic, if you had a clairvoyant immortal dog, would you possibly want to give it away?”
Cigar barks.
Carla laughs. “Exactly.”
Jack laughs too.
We all laugh.
I stop when Cigar springs from the couch and runs to the door. He jerks his nose at me and barks three more times—loudly—then shoves the door open. Looking toward the facility entrance, I see two blacked-out sedans entering the parking lot.
“Oh no, you guys. It looks like Colonel Sanders is back to get Cigar.”
“‘Oh no’ is right, Oscar,” Carla says in a shaky voice. Then, quickly recovering: “I’m sure the colonel is fairly harmless, but I don’t want a repeat of the after-party scene, so here . . . Here are the keys to the white truck in the back. But at some point, I really need to talk with you, okay? Your mother called. She is going to stay in Florida for a few days.”
“I don’t know why she doesn’t call you,” Carla wonders. “So take the truck to my place. Go . . . I’ll see you down at the guesthouse after; we’ll all get some sleep.”
Our eyes meet. I force a smile. “Cool, Carla. Thanks for the truck.” I pause. “I probably would have taken it anyway.”
Carla smiles back, her eyes damp. “I know, sweetie.”
THE WAY-OUT CAT NAMED WILLIE
Down the hall, past the lab, to the loading dock. This place is kind of creepy with no one here. Off-hours lighting is supplied by one of Carla’s crazy solar inventions. It lends a cool blue glow/essence to the entire facility. I slip out the back into the pickup truck, down the driveway to the rear entrance of IBC . . . then home. Well . . . sort of home—to Carla’s house with Mr. Cigar. Maybe sleep. MDMA still tugging at my psyche as we autopilot south on the interstate toward FM26. That’s 26 . . . 2 x 13—double unlucky, I’m thinkin’, then, glancing over to the passenger side, I notice that Mr. Cigar has managed to bring my little drawstring backpack containing my dead iPhone, the aerosol can and the remote control. Maybe not so unlucky after all. I need my cell phone, and the light-show camouflage unit is just plain cool.
Nice job, Cigar.
Finally to Carla’s house.
I pull into the guesthouse garage, make my way upstairs, plug in my smart-ass phone and collapse on the couch.
AFFORDING A CADILLAC
I instantly pass out, dreaming of nothing. Mr. Cigar is a warm ball on my stomach doing whatever he does when I’m asleep. After what seems like minutes, I wake to Mr. Cigar standing on my chest and the sound of pre–Henry Rollins Black Flag coming from behind my head. It’s Lytle’s ringtone—as far from opera as humanly possible. Lytle loves opera. I hate it.
“Hey, Lytle.”
“Where you been, man? It’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon! I just left your folks’ house. I’ve been trying to call you since noon. We got to figure out what to do about that freaky cop.”
I rub my eyes. Cigar hops down, and I sit up. “Sorry, man, I was totally passed out . . . I’m at Carla’s house, and you’re not going to believe what happened last night.”
“Yeah, I can! We had a cool party going on, you disappeared and we got our shit jacked by some Texas Ranger–wannabe douche named Cletus Acox!”
I laugh hoarsely. “No, not that part, man. After that . . . you left and I went to the trailer to talk to Carla and some government agent dude with a ripped-up nostril bum-rushes me and tries to steal Mr. Cigar.”
Lytle pauses. “Wuh?”
“Yep, and I left my car at the gig and drove the ATV through the woods to get to IBC so I could borrow their truck and get home.”
“Cool.”
I shake my head. “No, not cool . . . and when I got there, Nostril Man, whose name is Colonel Sanders, was basically waiting for us.”
“Wow, Colonel Sanders? I haven’t eaten all day—”
Mr. Cigar cuts him off. Interrupts with three familiar crisp, loud barks. Oh, shit. Out the window and up the driveway I see two blacked-out sedans coming on
to the property. Inside. The security gate shuts behind them.
“Where are you, Lytle?”
“I’m like five minutes from Carla’s driveway, dude. At the bottom of the hill on 26 just behind her property. I can fucking see the garage roof from here—”
“Stay right there. I’ll be there in one minute.”
I grab my backpack and a toothbrush and dash out the back door, down the hill to Lytle’s car.
X GAMES
Halfway down, Cigar pulls up next to me and glances up. He is taking effortlessly huge strides, looking up at me while carrying my backpack in his mouth. We make it to the open door of Lytle’s pickup. I hop in—Cigar on my lap—close the door and we’re gone.
“Oh my God, dude, what’s going on?”
“Just keep going straight, man . . . This is crazy. Those cars—I mean, the Colonel Sanders dude just pulled into Carla’s driveway. That guy wants Cigar. Bad man . . . He’s chasing me wicked-style. We got a bunch of shit to figure out. We can’t go to my mom’s house, man. I know they’ll go there if they haven’t already.”
Lytle grips the wheel, scowling. “Why would Colonel Sanders want Mr. Cigar? And what are ‘those cars’?”
“Because he thinks Cigar is an immortal clairvoyant dog from nineteenth-century Russia. Those are the blacked-out box-shaped sedans they drive. They look like fucking robots.”
Finally, Lytle cracks a grin. “I could have told you that about Mr. Cigar, dude. But how many cars?”
“Two . . . why?”
“Because earlier there were two blacked-out box-shaped sedans parked in front of your mom’s place.”
“Wait, what? When?”
“They were there just after noon, when I woke up, and when I left they were gone. Don’t know when they left . . . but . . .”