by Ryan McCord
CHAPTER 12 – MONEYGRIP, JOHN COMMUTA
It’s close to midday here in Iowa City, IA, a little over 200 miles west of the Chicago Holiday Inn parking lot where Gerry had warmed up the truck this morning.
As James gets out to refill the gas tank himself for the first time today, he walks right into a very steady, very wide-open 10-degree plains breeze. Instantly, the leeward retrieval for a winter jacket has become the top priority. Irritated from the cold, he curses upon learning that he didn’t need to pick off a thin layer of tough rime on the keyhole, as the latch is already unlocked to begin with. After what felt like a minute of surveying, he learns that his four contractor bags stuffed with his entire wardrobe are all missing (jacket included). The only items the thieves in the Joliet parking lot did not take out from underneath the canopy (left unlocked by none other than Gerry during his meeting) is the cooler holding what’s left of their Vermont grass, along with the baseball bat Gerry tucked under the rubber bed liner. Impulsively, he wants to turn and let out a string of invective in Gerry’s direction. But since nobody has any proof in regards to where or when the crime scene actually went down, he instead just lets it all out with a big, helpless sigh. He then takes a look around, his hands on his waist in disbelief. After all, he hadn’t physically visited the back of the truck since they left Connecticut. As he reacts, he notices a Salvation Army thrift shop across the street.
“Well I have to get out of this shirt,” James quivers. “I’ve been in it for days now.”
Once the truck has been gassed up, the two jaywalk across to the thrift shop and head inside so that James can pick up a few textile staples at used prices.
“If we both die tomorrow and St. Peter gives us an option to either a.) Begin the judging process right then and there or b.) Accept a do-over down here, under the condition that if we should choose to go back again as a male, we would be stricken with a social handicap of going through life smelling like…” James pauses to take a whiff of the used white t-shirt he’s holding by the hanger. In screen-printed black calligraphy font, the shirt reads: Wade The Restaurant King.
“…Leftover turkey gravy.”
In remarkably good spirits considering the weight of the world is presently resting on the shoulders dressed with the only shirt he now owns, James continued on.
“Or you could go back as a woman, where the only social disadvantage you’ll have in life is one that you’ll never be aware of: you have poor taste in perfume, and therefore, you’ll walk around with a signature scent of something like Siberian Fur Trees…”
James then turns to the cheap shelving unit attached to the peg-boarded wall immediately behind him and grabs a cylinder shaped item with a picture of a St. Bernard on it.
“…Or pet odor powder in case you were a real sinner.”
“I’ll take the judgment,” Gerry said from the other side of the clothing rack, holding up a yellow shirt with a green caricature of a sports fan on the front, with capital green letters reading BBA above. He spins the shirt around so that James can view the back: it reads "ALF" at the shoulders with the number 44 underneath.
James smiles but motions for a pass on the shirt, explaining he only cares for yellow when it comes in the form of notebook paper.
Gerry put the shirt away and shook his head. “Think about it. The kind of life you’re going to have to live.” He then leaned against the rack, resting his forearms on the railing, proceeding to check his mobile phone for any messages. “If you’re the dude, you’re going to have to deal with people telling you that you smell for as long as you can remember. Bullies, the whole nine yards.
“If you’re the gal, you’ll go through life lonely because nobody in their right mind has the audacity to tell a woman the reason he can’t get involved with her is because she smells like cheap perfume.”
James nods in agreement.
“But then again, is St. Peter speaking suggestively? Like, do we need this redo to save ourselves, or is he simply making a pity exception since we both died tragically with our respective future’s in balance?”
James took a deep breath before responding, “Conventional wisdom would probably suggest he’s not going to be self-implicating. But ultimately, it will probably depend on how long the line behind us happens to be at the time.”
“I like to think I’ve been pretty pious,” Gerry said. “I’ll take the judgment.”
James then holds up a red Christmas sweater with a navy and white pattern of reindeer and snowflakes running across the chest.
“This is a winner! It doesn’t smell!”
Gerry sneers in direction of the sweater, “Then it’s probably possessed.”
“For $8 it’s going to keep me warm from here through the farm belt, I can tell you that,” James said.
“I’m not riding across the country with someone who’s wearing that,” Gerry insisted. “That could cause a bridge to collapse…and we still have to cross the Mississippi.”
Gerry then takes an XL navy shirt off the hanger, wraps it up into a ball and tosses it over to James who holds it up for a look. In simple screen-printed white block lettering the shirt reads MONEY GRIP in a gameday on campus kind of lettering across the chest. Underneath the lettering is a single bill of wavy paper currency as if it were floating around in an autumn breeze. Below the bill is an outstretched pair of white gloves, reminiscent of something an old cartoon character would wear, awaiting to snag the treasure.
“That’s a winner, my friend,” Gerry said with conviction. “I’d buy it for myself but it smells like panty hose.”
James laughed. But after a quick examination, he decided the shirt was worth the gamble for just $4. “I can rehab it with fabric softener sheets,” he said. He put the sweater back in exchange for a white hooded sweatshirt that read in small calligraphy font at the right side of the chest area: "Carjo Apartments" with the word "Staff" directly underneath. James would buy one more plain black shirt to wear underneath the sweatshirt.
Thirty minutes later, now 13 miles west of Iowa City, James is riding shotgun, wiping himself down with a fabric softener sheet he bought at the grocery store.
“Any word from your brother, yet?” he asks.
With the cruise set at 74 mph, Gerry is driving with one hand on the wheel, munching on a red delicious apple with the other.
“Nothing at all,” he said with a long headshake, while chewing with his mouth open. “He’s not one to leave messages of any sort, either. I’m not sure he even knows how to text.”
Gerry’s brother, insular from working bottomless hours as an associate on his father’s grain farm, has no email address. Therefore, any alternative form of communication cannot be optioned at this point, as Gerry remains steadfast with his policy to avoid speaking with his parents, as long as he can help it, until he and James reach home to Pullman.
“I saw how my mom reacted when he got released,” Gerry said passionately about the end of his brother’s pro playing career. “I remember her throwing all that team gear away, like they publicly insulted him or something.
“I want to look her in the eyes and assure her that I’m okay about it,” he said. “I’m better off now.”
Time, however, continues to impose itself heavily not just on Gerry’s mind, but in matter as well. His fiancé, deeply concerned with the state of uncertainty now beclouding the issue of engagement, wants him back to their apartment in Seattle to discuss matters-ASAP. Meanwhile there is one and only one contract offered to continue playing professional baseball, and as of now the expiring clock that it came with is counting down to 33 hours and change.
Concerning his own emotional IQ, Gerry is certainly confident enough to make a fair decision. But until he can acquire what he believes is surefire closure from his brother, he’ll prefer to remain on the fence about the issue until the final hour if he has to.
Gerry will go on to propose the idea of driving to the nearest major metropolitan airport in order to get himself home faster. Jam
es reminds him how difficult it is to fly all the way to the isolated town of Pullman from nearby Spokane, let alone the American Farm Belt. But since James had been staring at nothing but replete, sand and white colored Iowa farmland all day, he fully embraces the idea of new mental stimulation at this point, quickly pulling out the US road map from the pouch behind his seat. After minutes of mental math, the two decide that Omaha, Nebraska, at roughly four hours away, would be Gerry’s best shot at making it back to Washington State tonight. James will continue to play devil’s advocate though, reminding Gerry that Omaha will most likely only fly to Seattle. By flying to SeaTac, by default, his fiancé will be picking him up at the airport. In which case he would have no choice but to abort the idea of discussing matters directly with his family first, which his instincts have been motioning for all along.
“Blood is thicker than water,” James reminded him. “Maybe I’m biased because I know your family better, but the hell with it. If the need to see them is what your gut has been telling you all this time, then we’re going to drive like truckers to get you home as soon as we can, alright?”
The two then shake hands right then and there, at 12:06 PM, challenging each other to get back to Pullman in 24 hours.
“Jees, I’m sorry, Big Game,” Gerry says with sincerity.
“What for?”
“I’ve been dictating the direction and speed of this trip since we left the east coast, man” Gerry said, flipping on his left turn signal and turning his head towards the window to check his blind side in order to make a pass. “We did start out with the idea of taking our time and savoring this thing.”
James admitted, “Listen this decision of yours is beyond my capacity for rational thought. But I want to do whatever I can to help.
“Besides, I can see Mt. Crushmore when I drive back to Connecticut next week.”
Gerry is conscientious to finish making the pass with apropos skill, carefully directing the truck back into the right lane all while using his blinker liberally for the senior in the white Cadillac Deville now behind him, before re-opting the cruise control. Then he will begin to initiate his own final attempt to dislodge James from what he feels is a nothing but a quixotic rut he has superficially fashioned for himself over the span of just a few days.
“What did you think of Tina?” Gerry inquired.
“Nails,” James shook his head in amazement. “We’re in love.”
“So what now?”
“She wants me to live with her under the condition I continue to write,” James spoke sardonically. “That was after I told her I loved her and asked her to move with me to Connecticut.”
He finishes coldly, reaching forward to dial in a new station on the satellite radio receiver as if the CNN channel had something more important to say. “When she comes around, she knows how to get a hold of me.”
Now comes Gerry’s attempt to implant encouragement and direction, but not before spilling a little ad-hominem on his friend’s lap in order to keep things real.
“You want to know why I think this new strategy of yours is going to make you feel spineless in the end?” Gerry questioned suggestively.
“Oh not you, too?” James said with a sour look. “Before you go on, may I just give you the bullet points?”
Gerry opens his hands towards the windshield, speaking in an antagonistic manner, “We got time!”
“I’m a talented writer, not a gifted one,” James began to explain, holding up one finger.
“Exactly where I’m going!” Gerry interrupted. “People have a better chance to be uncommon with effort than talents alone.”
“Oh who said that?” James moaned. “Richard Nixon?”
Seen as an opportunity to relieve any possible tension in the truck, Gerry efforts a laugh at the remark. He did not want to approach this subject confrontationally, but something told him just before he let out that “spineless” reference that James was not going to receive tough love from anyone else between now and his expected departure date of next week. Therefore, the quick, sharp stab of a proclamation suddenly seemed reasonable (especially in knowing that the two could not escape each other’s company for 24 hours).
“I’m a work in progress, Gerry G,” James said with an undertone of regret. “And that progress is moving too darn slow.
“If God gave me a skill to work with for a living, then I’m hardly making a living out of it.
“I’m not seeking bliss from this,” James folded his arms and cleared his throat a little emotionally. “I just want normalcy. I want to be able to begin paying my student loans. This nomadic life I’ve lived is only cool for the people who get to hear about it.”
Gerry nodded sympathetically. The John Commuta Transforming Debt Into Wealth advertisement continues to run its course on the radio.
“Just let me say one more thing, here,” Gerry said, leaning back, keeping his focus to the road ahead.
“Good, because I’m ready to play 20 questions,” James pleads itching at his scalp, his winter hat now clinging to a swirling full head of hat hair. “Movies first.”
“Just remember,” Gerry continues to look and speak calmly. “Nobody can ever take the pen and paper away from you.
“The truth is, with my decision,” Gerry levels. “The only thing that makes it all so confounding is the fact that once I decide its over, at this point, never will I play again.
“They can take the bat away,” he pauses, glancing over at James to make sure he’s listening. “They haven’t yet, of course. But some day they will.
“Then for the first time ever, I’m going to have to find a new sort of therapy.”
He raises his eyebrows to accentuate his point. After hearing this sobering thought out loud for the first time, his throat will reflex itself a dry swallow.