by Rob Brunet
Glancing to his right to make sure Aldwyn Bright, Senior Ticket Counter Associate, had not noticed, Buzz scooped the wasted staple off the counter and tossed it into the trash can at his feet.
This was Buzz Meckler’s first day on the job.
Before being allowed to man the ticket counter, he had undergone no less than two weeks of intensive training. There, he learned why the simple act of purchasing a ticket from Kingston to Toronto could take up to five minutes. Turns out it had nothing to do with a level of basic incompetence shared by all ticket sellers. Instead, the complex set of procedures that ticket counter associates had to follow formed the basis of Week One training. It was heady stuff, even for a guy whose previous job had the impressive title of Entertainment Selection Coordinator. Buzz’s most recent retail stint had been at the eighth largest video store in Kingston.
Getting paid to go to bus ticket school meant Buzz had hit the big times. Gee, he thought, if they’d paid me to go to high school back when, I might have finished grade nine. What Buzz did not know was that the two-week training program qualified Kingston Greyhound Bus Station for federal Job Skills Improvement funding which covered thirty-five percent of Buzz’s wages for his first six months on the job. To make up the second week, Kingston Greyhound had crafted two new learning platforms.
The first centered on customer service. Students role-played being polite to customers and they learned how to stop using swear words in casual conversation. Buzz had wanted to know whether it was okay to swear at a customer if the customer swore first. That had been one of his favorite parts of working at the video store. In fact, he had found cussing at belligerent customers was often the most effective way of cutting short otherwise bothersome arguments over late fees. Buzz was big as a barn and looked every bit as sturdy. Some customers would take twisted pleasure mouthing off at a guy who looked like a professional wrestler stuffed into a ridiculous blue and orange striped uniform—complete with a jaunty little baseball cap, two sizes too small, with a googly-eyed owl mascot on the brim. They’d get angry, raise their voices, and swear at him like he was some kind of gutter trash. Rare, however, were the customers who stood their ground and argued about six dollars in late fees once Buzz pulled off the baseball cap to reveal his punked-out hair and let loose his tongue. Faced with a wild-eyed, bad-acned, spittle-spewing country boy who swore an R-rated blue streak and kept his nervous hands hidden beneath the counter, people paid up their late fees and got the hell out of the store.
Shrugging off his dismay at not being allowed to exercise what he considered to be one of his most employable attributes, Buzz worked harder than most of his co-trainees at being extra polite. He found that he could actually affect a special kind of intimidation by being cucumber cool. He would refuse simple requests with icy tones that tended to frustrate the role-playing customer across the counter. Once frustration set in, Buzz was adept at raising its level to the point that his co-working co-trainee would often start swearing. That gave Buzz the opportunity to prove he could counter froth-mouthed anger with frigid reserve.
The final piece of training was a two-day course on the identification of likely prison escapees. Kingston was home to no less than seven prisons, with a couple more just outside of town. It wasn’t that the local population was particularly prone to criminal activity—at least not before the families of inmates started moving to the region to be close to their loved ones—it was just deemed to be geo-effective by the bureaucrats in Ottawa who’d located new prison facilities over time.
Kingston Greyhound felt no particular civic duty to identify possible prison escapees. Rather, the course in possible escaped prisoner identification was designed to take advantage of another federal grant, intended to offset the negative economic impact of locating a high concentration of prisons in a specific geographic location—of which Kingston was the only one in Canada.
Whatever he thought of the limitations placed on his use of foul language, Buzz Meckler felt positively empowered by his perceived authority to apprehend prison escapees. As Entertainment Selection Coordinator, Buzz had watched many unwatchable movies and not a few of them involved stories about people who had been to prison—or would be going there soon. Whenever he watched films featuring criminals—which was often—he rooted for the police. Even where the men in blue were set up as a force of evil, Buzz liked to see criminals handcuffed or shot by the end of the show. His pathological self-righteousness, which had driven him to refuse to forgive even the most abusive video rental late fees, boiled over at the idea of prisoners not serving full sentences.
Any escape from justice stuck in his craw.
Already this first morning behind the real counter at the bus station, Buzz had refused to sell a student ticket to a fourteen-year-old when the kid failed to produce student identification. Then he’d forced a mother and two toddlers to wait three hours for the next bus to Montreal, rather than radio the bus driver to wait one extra minute for three final passengers.
No question. Buzz’s new gig offered lots of opportunity to flex his authoritative muscle. He served with pride.
Danny walked through the automatic sliding doors and took a half step back when confronted with two men in matching blue Kingston Greyhound Bus Station uniforms. They were both young and neither looked terribly intelligent. The one on the left was a beanpole and looked bored. The one on the right was built like a hockey player. He stood erect, had an intimidating fire in his eyes, and was fidgeting with something on the counter. Both his hands were out of sight. After years in the Collins Bay Medium Security Correctional Center, Danny could be forgiven for imagining he was standing in front of a pair of prison guards.
So when the automatic sliding doors started to close on Danny and the door to his left touched his shoulder, Danny jumped backward, out of the bus station, and watched the doors slide shut in front of him.
Still stepping backward, he moved away from the door. In prison, you learned to keep your eyes on the guards, and Danny had no reason to think anyone was behind him. Until he felt a considerable beer gut press into his back. Danny flashed back to Carson’s belly flattening him against the concrete wall in the showers that very morning.
Without pausing to wonder whose hand gripped his shoulder, he spun one hundred and eighty degrees on his right leg and brought his left knee arcing upward with as much centrifugal force as he could muster. His knee bone connected squarely with all the soft fleshy parts between the legs of the man in the bad brown suit. The man’s groan went on and on. Had he simply stood and listened, Danny might have marveled at just how long that groan lasted.
But Danny wasn’t sticking around. Even in prison, you ran toward the screws when you had to. He caught a glimpse of an incredibly red face as the heavy set man doubled over clutching his balls with both hands. It was the same tough-looking character from the Minute Diner.
Danny raced inside to the ticket wicket staffed by the guy with the over-caffeinated eyes and the bad Mohawk haircut. Breathless, he said, “I need a one-way ticket to Peterborough.”
“One-way?”
“And fast.”
“That fat man giving you a hard time?”
“Yeah. Step on it, will you?”
“Of course, sir. One way to Peterborough. Are you looking for the Express or the regular bus.”
“I don’t care. Just gimme the ticket.”
“Well, they cost the same, but the Express won’t stop for coffee or other refreshments, sir. Just straight on through it goes.”
“It’s a two-hour drive. I’ll survive.”
“Well, like I said, there’s no difference in price, so it’s really up to you.”
“The ticket...”
“Of course, the Express doesn’t leave until two o’clock, sir, whereas the regular bus leaves in just about a minute and it will get to Peterborough a little before one o’clock.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Bit of a criminal element, is he?”
“Who? Oh, him.”
“Leave him to me, sir. I know just how to handle his type. We receive training on this sort of thing here at the Greyhound.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Ticket coming right up,” said the clerk. “The bus is just about to leave. Give me just a moment while I radio the driver to wait for you.” While he called up the driver, he used his free hand to type the destination code into the terminal in front of him. “$34.70,” he announced, beaming. Danny fished two crumpled ten dollar bills from his pants and rummaged through his other pockets, piling their contents on the counter. Besides the torn article about the fire from the diner, a half pack of gum, and a handful of dimes and nickels, he had nothing. His heart sank.
Mohawk dude locked Danny’s gaze and winked. “Or just $19.50 for the student rate. You are a student, right? ’Course you are,” he said with a self-satisfied smile as he slipped two quarters and a ticket across the counter toward Danny.
Danny nodded his thanks and turned to go.
“Hey, you want this other stuff?” the guy called out at him as he ran toward the bus platform.
“It’s all yours,” Danny said over his shoulder.
In less than forty-five seconds, Danny Grant, escaped convict, had purchased a discounted bus ticket on the Kingston Greyhound bound for the Kawarthas. One minute after that, he was in his seat, watching his would-be attacker roll on the ground, still clutching his balls, now moaning more than groaning, as the bus rumbled out of the parking lot and down the road toward Highway 401.
As soon as the clean cut customer had left the counter, Buzz dialed the police hotline to report the assault he had witnessed and to tell the police the rough-looking perpetrator was still at the bus station. While he watched the burly guy in the bad suit lie on his back in front of the entrance, Buzz scanned the newspaper article left behind when the guy ran for the bus: something about a fire and some little dog that got rescued. Firemen got to be heroes a lot, he mused. Well, now he wore a uniform, too—that was something at least. For three whole minutes, he leveraged all his training in minor crisis management, maintaining a business as usual stance behind his ticket counter, waiting for the police to arrive.
Aldwyn Bright, meanwhile, apparently relying more on instinct and experience than on training and procedure, logged off his computer and announced he was going on break, pausing only to say, “You’re in charge, Buzz.”
Brimful of pride and determination, Buzz kept his eyes on the thug outside. With a grimace, the man rolled himself onto his knees and pulled himself up in stages, first one leg, then the other, then finally struggling to unbend his waist. His chest heaving, he tugged at his shirt collar, ripping off two buttons. Barely upright, he shuffled through the door, very nearly dragging his knuckles on the ground.
Buzz Meckler glared at him, one hand fidgeting with the stapler, half his brain imagining it was a side arm, and his mind still racing with a hero’s adrenalin at having aided the escape of the young man being chased by this obvious thug.
“You see that guy who jumped me?” the thug’s voice was a cross between a grunt and a squeal.
Buzz just stared at him, doing his best impression of a cold hard cop. The tough guy took a deep breath and leaned across the counter. He puffed out his words, clutching his winded gut as he did. This had the effect of sending a rush of morning-after-too-much-tequila breath directly into Buzz’s face.
“Where did that little puke go?”
Buzz was, at that moment, every tough cop in every B movie he had ever watched. His uniform was a source of pride. He was all that stood between a raving lunatic with murder on the brain and the innocent defenseless citizenry who counted on the men in blue to keep them safe. His Kingston Greyhound identification tag was a shiny brass badge. And the stapler by his right hand was a weapon of peace.
From the moment he stumbled into the bus station, Perko’s blurred vision started playing tricks on him. He knew the mammoth asshole behind the ticket counter couldn’t be Mongoose, but his square shoulders and the five extra inches he had on Perko felt like a physical putdown which was all too familiar. Even his Mohawk hairdo was reminiscent of Mongoose’s oddball buzz cut, although this guy wasn’t a redhead.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said in a voice that was way too cheerful. “I am not at liberty to discuss the travel habits of our Greyhound guests. Is there something else I can do for you today?”
“Listen, you pimple-headed fart,” Perko snapped, “I’m not here to chat about your fucking rule book. Answer the question, and I won’t pound your face to silly putty.”
The ticket clerk swallowed hard and blinked repeatedly with little nods as if counting to ten in his head. “Now, now, dear sir. There really is no need to get nasty, is there? Perhaps you would like to sit down and I can get you a fresh glass of cool water before...”
Perko snarled and bared his yellow teeth. “How about I give you a fresh glass of your snot pressed out through your ears, shit-for-brains.” The biker’s arms, bent, shook at his sides, taut like an animal straining against its leash.
Apparently the time for polite dialogue had passed and the clerk began visibly frothing at the mouth. He said, “Sir, you must—”
“I must nothing, shithead.” Perko couldn’t believe this guy was standing up to him. Then he remembered he was wearing the ridiculous brown suit. Laying in a little extra snarl, he said, “Tell me where the fucker went.”
The clerk began to tremble. His mouth opened and closed twice, like a fish, with no sound coming out. Then he closed his eyes tight for a count of three and reopened them wide, a half inch of white visible round each iris. He said, “You mouth-breathing fuck-for-breakfast horse’s asshole-licking piece of ignorant SHIT.” The dude’s eyes no longer blinked at all; they rolled back in his head. “Think you can raise your scrotum-stinking pie-hole squeaker of a voice at ME?”
He snatched up something shiny from behind the counter and thrust it hard into Perko’s exposed neck.
As the weapon flashed across the counter and the first staple pierced his skin, Perko screamed, “Fucking Taser ME?”
The clerk tried to step back, but he wasn’t fast enough, and the fleshy pile of fury that was Perko Ratwick lunged across the counter, yanked him by the lapels, and sunk his teeth into his neck. The bigger man grabbed Perko’s hair and started swinging.
Perko pushed his face into his assailant’s neck, closed his eyes, bit down as hard as he could, and waited for the charge.
The shithead bus ticket clerk kept slamming the damn thing into his chest, his arm, anywhere the punk could reach. Tears streamed down his face as Perko hung on for dear life. Everything Hawk had told him was true. The Taser was hitting him over and over, but all he could feel was little pin pricks. He knew the charge must be passing through him and back into the fool in the uniform because Perko could feel the fire pouring out the top of his head, as if someone was pulling his hair. The blood he could taste in his mouth was not his own and he knew as long as he kept the juices flowing, they would carry the charge away.
With the counter between them, Perko’s feet dangling off the ground, the clerk’s fingers buried in Perko’s hair, and Perko’s teeth deep into the other guy’s neck, the two men looked like shivering rag dolls tossed over the back of a chair. Neither one could stop the dance.
That was how the police found Buzz and Perko when they finally showed up. Their clutch had weakened by then and they were more trembling than shaking, but neither one would let go. Even after the men were handcuffed, Perko’s teeth had not left Buzz’s neck.
The cops did the only thing they could. They Tasered Perko Ratwick. And the charge traveled through him into Buzz Merkel. It worked like a charm.
Eighteen
Linette Paquin pulled her canary yellow Jeep into the parking lot at the township office. She changed her ash-covered boots for more lawyerly pumps, checked her mascara in the rearview mirror and wiped a smear of lipstick from her teeth. It
never hurt to look her best when she had to deal with the records clerk.
Located halfway between Bobcaygeon and Buckhorn, the low-slung municipal building was a model of patient efficiency. She went straight to the records office and drummed her manicured fingernails on the service counter.
“Can I help you?” A fresh-faced young man sprang from his desk to greet her. A cheap white polo shirt and uncomfortable-looking trousers did little to hide his farm-boy physique.
“Hello, Steven,” said Linette, leaning on the counter just so. “I wonder if you could help me pull the municipal rolls for a piece of property.”
From the back of the room, an older woman barked, “There’s a form for that.”
Ignoring her, Linette said, “Only if you’ve got the time, Steven.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Paquin,” said Steven. “Which lot are you interested in?”
“Ernst McCann’s.”
“That’s a little quick, even for you, isn’t it?” The woman somehow managed to look even more disapproving. “Old Ernie isn’t even cold in the ground.”
“His ashes looked pretty scattered to me, Mrs. Montgomery,” said Linette. “I just want to know whether any other names are listed.”
“That’s easy,” said Steven. “You see, we practically own it.”
“It’s not ‘we,’ Steven,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “The Township isn’t ‘we.’ I’ve explained that to you. ‘We’ work for The Township.”
“Right. Sorry, Aunt Maude...I mean, Mrs. Montgomery. Anyways, like I was saying...”
“What were you saying?” asked Linette. She leaned a little closer to make sure he could smell her perfume. Record clerks could be useful in her line of work.
“What Steven was referring to,” said his aunt, “is that Ernie McCann has not paid one dollar of taxes in twenty-six years. The township will take possession once the matter of his estate is settled.”