CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Name Game
Nick was sitting on his balcony, sipping his third cup of coffee. The heavy rain had subsided to relaxing drizzle. He kept ignoring the telephone, which had been ringing all morning. From this vantage point, Nick could see the Eagleton building, Rollins University, and the 7-Eleven where Tony worked. This section of the city, known as ‘The Village,’ was a quiet community nestled between the downtown area and the campus. The homes resembled the architectural style of the houses on St. Charles Avenue in uptown New Orleans. Most of the homes had been converted to apartment houses. Nick shared his with Tony, who occupied the other half of the upstairs section, and Mrs. Ratzenburger, the owner of the house who lived downstairs. The house was on the corner of Maplewood and Cedar, giving Nick a good view from his balcony. Nick needed another distraction. He went back inside and grabbed his Playboy magazine from the coffee table. As he glanced at the feature titled Girls of the Big 12, a familiar picture caught his eye. The sexy redhead’s name was Kiki Thomas. Her bio stated she majored in Philosophy at TCU. She was pursuing a singing career and worked part-time as a hotel clerk in Dallas. He remembered having sex with her the night he met Andie about a year previously. The picture displayed her topless with a bikini bottom but Nick vividly remembered her being a true redhead. He recalled something bizarre about the sex but didn’t remember what. If fact, he had trouble remembering any sexual encounter since that night.
“So much for distractions,” he muttered. Having no intention of going to work, Nick had to get out for a walk. As he ventured outside, he met up with Mrs. Ratzenburger. She was an eighty-year-old widow who thought of Nick and Tony as her own grandchildren.
“Is that you, Marcus?” she asked, as Nick walked by.
“It’s Nicholas. Yes, ma’am. Good morning Mrs. R.” He was used to her trouble with names. She squinted as she grabbed Nick’s cheek and pulled him closer.
“You don’t look to well, honey. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been getting plenty. You don’t have to worry about me.” He didn’t like to burden her with his problems.
“But I do worry. You and Anthony are such sweet boys and you need someone to look after you.”
“Its Antonio. Thank you, but really, I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you. Come inside and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” She was lonely since Sister Mary Francis died. They were friends for ten years. Nick followed her into the house and was greeted by a huge, satiny black cat. It was tearing up an envelope with an Apocalypse Records logo printed on the return address. The rents checks were always on time.
“I don’t remember ever seeing this one around,” said Nick.
“Oh, I just got her from the shelter last Friday. Somebody found her wandering around Devil Creek.”
“You mean to say Deville Creek, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I keep calling it that. Ever since my dear Bernard passed away while working at our little store, I’ve had trouble with that name. In fact, I have trouble with every name, Mike.”
“Nick.”
“Oh, dear. You see what I mean?”
“What store are you talking about?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this story. We owned a little propane dealership near Devil - I mean - Deville Creek. Bernard suffered a heart attack and died right there in the parking lot. That was over thirty years ago. I still miss him so much.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Nick.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Whatever happened to the store?”
“I didn’t do anything to it. That property has belonged to the Ratzenburger family for years. I couldn’t bear to sell it, but I didn’t want it to keep it open. It’s still standing there, abandoned near the creek. Bernard’s father, Sal, died from a hunting accident in the creek. Did I say Sal? I meant Saul. His grandfather, Edwin, drowned – I’m sorry, I meant Ephron, drowned in the shallow water while fishing. His great-grandfather – I won’t even bother with that name - died when a dead tree branch fell on him near the creek. His great-great-grandfather was the famous Martin Ratzenburger. He hung himself from a tree near the creek. There’s nothing going on in that area anymore. That’s why I’m particularly fond of this kitty. She was by herself in the middle of nowhere.”
The cat was purring as it circled Nick’s legs, rubbing them with apparent affection. He wasn’t particularly fond of cats, but decided to pet it anyway. As his hand was about an inch from the cat’s head, it reached up and scratched him.
“Damn it,” screamed Nick, as he pulled away.
“Bad Jamie, don’t do that,” said Mrs. Ratzenburger, as the little monster ran away.
Nick was shocked. “Your cat’s name is Jamie? Are you sure that’s the name you wanted to say?”
“Isn’t that a strange name for a kitty? I didn’t give it to her. The lady at the shelter had already named her, so I’ll just keep it. I guess it's better than the name I wanted to give her.”
“What name was that?”
“Satan.” She meant to say Satin.
“I gotta go.” Nick stormed out the house and headed down the street towards the 7-Eleven. The street was crowded with a combination of little upscale shops and college hangouts. As he walked in front of La Petite Maison, he got an eerie feeling. It felt like something weird was going to happen there. He walked across to the 7-Eleven. Tony was usually working his only morning shift on Mondays, but the spring semester was in session and he was taking classes. A new girl was working behind the counter. Nick gave her a quick glance, but wasn’t impressed. She didn’t acknowledge Nick’s entrance. She was about 5’2”, had full Goth make-up, and gave the impression of not wanting to be working there. Nick grabbed an apple pie and placed it on the counter.
“That all you want?” she asked.
“That’s it,” said Nick, as he looked at her nametag. It read JEANIE. She noticed Nick staring at the tag.
“Do you have a problem, man?” she asked Nick.
“I was just looking at your name tag,” replied Nick.
“That’s not my name. They screwed up the spelling. Stupid foreigners.” She didn’t have the friendliest of demeanors.
Nick had to ask. “How is it supposed to be spelled?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I was just curious.”
“Frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“Forget it,” said Nick, as he threw two dollars on the counter and headed to the door.
“You forgot your change, man.”
“You can keep the fricking penny,” said Nick.
“Hey, don’t cop an attitude with me, man.”
The non-confrontational Nick turned back. “Look, I was just trying to be nice. I’m having a rough time right now and I was just trying to be nice. Do you have a problem with me being nice? Because, if you do, I can be just as much of a shit as you. So, just let me be nice – Jeanie.”
The girl went on the defensive. “I’m sorry, man, and it’s Jamie. They misspelled my name tag”
“What?” Nick freaked out.
“Hey, I can be nice too. I just said I was sorry. I mean, come on, for God’s sake. What the hell do you want from me? I’m just a clerk at a 7-Eleven. They’re not paying me minimum wage to sit behind this fricking counter to kiss your ass.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t have to take that kind of crap from some Goth wannabe loser.” Nick was enraged as he headed out the door. He turned around again to make one last remark. “And by the way, Jamie is– by far – the worst name in this whole, entire, universe.” As he turned to face the door, he eyes were at chin level with a tall, sweaty figure. “You got a problem with the name Jamie?” asked the mammoth man, who was wearing a Rollins University football jersey.
Being 5’11”, 175 pounds, the threatening sight terrified Nick. “I’m not exactly fond of that name at the moment.”
&
nbsp; “Well, it just happens to be my name,” said the intimidating force, “and if you don’t like it, I can take you outside and make sure you never use it again.”
Nick realized who this man was, as the number 98 was a few inches from his nose. He was Jamie Dumbrowski, the star defensive tackle for the Rollins University Demons. He was there on a full scholarship but earned spending money by working for Carlos Verona. He was ejected for punching a referee during the last game of the season. The ref had called Dumbrowski for being offside – Dumbrowski obviously didn’t agree with him.
“Hey, I know who you are,” said Nick, as he tried to talk his way out of a certain beating. “You’re Jamie Dumbrowski, the greatest defensive tackle to ever play with the Demons. Man, I saw that play where the ref called you offside. You had every right to hit that stupid jerk. You definitely were not offside.”
“Damn right, I wasn’t.”
“As a matter of fact, the names Jamie and Demons are synonymous. You wear that name well.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” said Dumbrowski. “I don’t think I need to kick your ass anymore. Have a nice day.” He held the door open for Nick, who was wiping the sweat off his forehead as he strolled out the door.
He opened his apple pie while walking on the side of the 7-Eleven. He stopped when he heard a faint voice.
“Did you enjoy watching Peter Frampton make a fool of himself last night?” said the voice.
Nick looked around to see where it was coming from. It seemed to be from the other side of the dumpster. He walked over and saw the same homeless man from six months earlier, when he first met Tony.
“Did you say something about Peter Frampton?” asked Nick.
“I sure did, son. That movie he made was a career ender. He shouldn’t ever have done it.”
“How did you know I watched that movie last night?”
The old man took a sip of whiskey from the bottle. “I was walking past your place last night, saw the movie playing on that TV set through your blinds. Shame that such a talented guitarist like Frampton had to stoop so low to make such a crappy movie.”
Nick was amazed. The man looked to be in his sixties. He was wearing what appeared to be the same clothes, smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in at least that long, and was more drunk than Nick can ever remember himself being.
“How do you know so much about Peter Frampton?” asked Nick.
“I used to play guitar myself. Played jazz, you know, the good stuff. Then that rock and roll crap took over and I couldn’t handle it. My style didn’t fit. I lost the only girl I ever loved and took to the bottle. Kept up with music, though. That Hendrix kid, the best I ever heard. He had too many demons following him.”
“What do you mean by demons?”
“You know - demons. The same kind that’s been following you. Hendrix had those demons following so close - they made him choke on his own vomit. That Frampton character, best melodic guitarist I ever heard, had the superstar demon following him. Thought he could do it all because of that Frampton Comes Alive album. Bad move, making that movie. The Devil knocked him down a few notches.”
“What do you know about my demons?” asked an intrigued Nick.
“You got those bad boys everywhere. I can see it in your face. I’ve been seeing you round here for months. I saw you throw up the Devil’s meal right here. You can’t let them do that to you, kid. You’ll end up like me.”
Nick was enthralled. “Do you know Tony from this 7-Eleven?”
“Nice boy, that Tony. Gives me food from time to time and lets me sleep in the back room. Don’t tell anybody I said that. He might get fired”
“Do you think he’s the Devil?”
“For all you know, I might be the devil. He's everywhere you think he is. He’s in your bathroom…”
“Wait a second. What do you know about the Devil being in my bathroom?”
“I’m just trying to say that he’s in your bathroom, your closet, your kitchen cabinets. You know, anywhere you could believe he might be hiding. I can tell you this – I think you’re about to meet your biggest demon of all.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I heard you talking to that new girl in the store right there. The back door was open, so I gave a listen. You had the devil coming out your mouth. You never talk like that to anybody.”
Nick was disturbed. “You don’t even know me.”
The old man took another swig of whiskey. “Look, son, I know people. I can tell you’re a good kid who has some big demons following him, and the way you’re acting, I can tell you’re getting worked up for the big one.”
Nick was taking him seriously. “How do you think I’ll handle it?”
The old man put down the whisky bottle, put his hand on Nick’s shoulder and said, “Son – that demon is gonna kick your ass.”
Nick pulled away as the old man started hysterical laughter. “Screw you, old man,” screamed Nick.
“You see – ha, ha – you never talk to people like that. He’s already got a grip on you. That Devil’s gonna kick your scared little ass. Ha, ha.”
“Kiss my ass, you old son-of-a-bitch.” Nick was surprised those words came from his lips. He was even more shocked when he felt a huge hand grab his shoulder. It belonged to Dumbrowski.
“I’ve had enough of you disrespecting people for one day,” said Dumbrowski.
The next thing Nick saw was a clenched fist between his eyes, followed by darkness. When his eyes opened, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. When the angel lifting him up came into focus, he realized it was Kristi.
“Are you okay, Nick?” she asked.
“Depends on what you call okay.”
“What happened to you?”
Nick shook his head, and then put his hand to his face. “I just got an all-American whoop-ass kicking.” He didn’t feel any blood, but knew there would be two black eyes immerging soon.
“Let me give you a ride home.” She helped Nick into the front seat of her Corvette, and then went around to the driver’s side.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I just quit. I was on my way home and saw you laying there.”
“Why did you quit?”
“Well, for one thing, your boss had me trying to come on to some gay detective and…”
“Whoa, wait a second. What was a detective doing at work?”
“Something to do with that whole Zipper Down mess. That’s your apartment house, isn’t it?” she said, as she approached Nick’s home.
“Yeah,” said Nick. A car was parked in front as Kristi pulled in behind it. The car door opened and out popped Lieutenant Gerome Elderberry.
“Nick, get out the car, now. I’ll call you later to see if you need anything.” Nick was still groggy from the hit, and didn’t quite know what to make of Kristi’s haste.
“Okay, thanks.” He got out the car just as Kristi sped off.
“Looks like your friend was in a hurry to get somewhere,” said Elderberry, “or at least away from here.”
“Do I know you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Gerome Elderberry, from Metro Homicide. Am I correct to assume that you are Nicholas Pel-tire?”
“It’s Pel – tee – ay.”
“I stand corrected. My apologies.”
“No problem. I’m used to people screwing up my name over here. You’re not the first.”
Gerome didn’t like that comment. “First of all, I did not screw up your name. I simply mispronounced it. Second, I don’t appreciate you insinuating any form of incompetence towards me.”
“But I wasn’t insinuating. I was flat out telling you.”
“Look here, mister,” said an irate Elderberry. “I don’t like your attitude. I just want to ask you a few questions about the drummer that just died, who was under a contract from your damn record company. Do you get my goddamn point?”
Nick started smiling. “Hello, Mrs. Ratzenburger.”
“Don’t
play games with me, Pel-tire.”
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Ratzenburger. Gerome turned around in surprise. Elderly ladies were the only people he had a genuine respect for.
“I am so sorry, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant…”
“I don’t care who you are, young man. I will not have anyone coming on my property using such vulgar language.” She looked at Nick’s face. “My, goodness, Nigel. What did this horrible man do to you?” She grabbed Nick’s hand and led him inside the house. She turned to Gerome. “And you can leave before I call the police.”
Elderberry was too ashamed to admit he was the police.
“I’ll be talking to you soon, Pel-tire,” he yelled, as he got behind the wheel of his BMW.
The Devil's in My Bathroom Page 14