If every new relationship does start with a sweet beginning, then this one should’ve come with an insulin pump. We arrived at my place early Saturday evening and didn’t emerge until Monday morning. Thereby establishing a new Women’s Record for consecutive hours in my apartment; made even more impressive by the fact that I was present the entire time.
Coming out I noticed my neighbor Housecoat Helen peering through her blinds in disbelief. I clasped my hands around Miss Iceland’s lower back and posed with her for Helen’s benefit like models in an advertisement. She the naturally beautiful, outdoorsy Eddie Bauer catalog type. Me like one who should be modeling socks...on the radio.
We lingered that way on the walk, heck I didn’t want only Helen to get a look, to go over our plans that we’d worked out over the weekend in between tumbles between my theoretical sheets.
She began authoritatively, “I’ll go up to Burlington to check on the Archdiocese; why they sold the building and who they sold it to. Then I’ll swing by the State Police barracks up there. I still have my press credentials and I’ll try to see why they took the locals word on the murder-suicide theory. Meanwhile you…”
“I know, I know go to the High School and see what Barton found at the house...You don’t have to nag,” I moaned, semi-facetiously.
“I don’t nag,” she said in a tone that seemingly made my point. But I was too experienced to get into that little Circle of Hell. Besides she didn’t nag, really. Heck except during meals (I ordered in, my fridge containing only beer, pickles and ketchup) we hardly conversed the whole weekend. On Sunday the true journalist that she was she consumed the entire Boston Globe while I sat on the sofa and finally started Rebecca West’s 1158 page classic travelogue Black Lamb and Grey Falcon that I had previously employed for crushing bugs (it was bought at a garage sale for fifty cents when I realized on a cost per page basis I couldn’t pass it up). Unaccountably, from her standpoint mostly, we just enjoyed being together to the point I was having a hard time getting a pause in edgewise.
I felt this was maturation so when she leaned into kiss me goodbye I avoided reaching for that plum of an ass so as not to stunt the growth (though, it now occurs to me, writing that about that segment of her anatomy may have killed the effect in and of itself). I could have stared at her pale visage all morning, but she broke my reverie with an all too real world question.
“How is the money situation?”
“That’s Gladys’s department,” I deflected. “But if I had to pin it down in a word I’d go with…’bleak’.”
“Hmm,” she breathed, wrinkling her nose as she thought.
“Hmm, indeed,” I spoke, pretending I was thinking as well.
“What if we start, like, one of those GoFundMe pages...uh, have you ever done one of those before?”
“Actually I have a page like that in my name, but that’s on the ‘Go Fuck Me’ website created by a coupla ex-girlfriends,” I cracked. “Don’t think we want to hit them up for help.”
“Well then this is gonna be a problem.”
“Ya think…”
Sarcasm was reflexive in me. She broke free and began walking away which, in turn, seemed reflexive in women privy to my sarcasm.
Suddenly something that got lost in the weekend’s exchanging of mucosal fluids popped into my head. I called out trying to save the moment, though speaking has never been my best option in such instances, “Hey, you texted on Friday that you had big news. You never told me what it was…”
“Oh yeah,” she said, entering her car and putting the window down electronically as if to taunt me and the Falcon simultaneously. “I quit the paper. Now I can devote myself to solving this thing full time.”
She blew a kiss which I pretended to catch and put in my pocket before switching gears, pulling out the waist of my jeans and miming dropping it down there. With that the window went up, the car pulled away and I stood there dumbfounded. It was like being in that Franz Kafka story where the protagonist wakes to find everything changed and can’t figure out what’s happened....which, come to think of it, is pretty much all of them. One second I was wrapping Miss Iceland in my arms. The next second she was wrapping me in a cocoon. Now we could work together, play together, even, good God, live together. My only thought was...I gotta get Febreze.
By the time I waved she was halfway to Canada, so I quickly pulled my hand down and looked for any witnesses. Spotting none I made my way round to the driver’s side of the Falcon. There I was confronted by a 8.5” x 11” manila envelope plastered to the window. I pulled it away carefully- the Demolition Derby of Friday still on my mind- but instead of the tearing sound of tape breaking free I had the distinct feeling the envelope was adhered with some kind of paste. Looking over the missive I saw a viscous brown substance had been used and.it was then I realized, with ironically sphincter-tightening distress, that the Mad Shitter (Chapter 5) had returned.
I happily found my dented trunk still opened, pulled out a sweat-stained softball shirt that declared I was a member of the 2002 Businessman’s B-Division Slo-Pitch champs- no wonder Miss Iceland couldn’t keep her hands off me- and returned to the package. First I inhaled deeply through my mouth and held my breath. Next I separated said package from the window gingerly- a mode I never knew I had- and wiped the window and back of the package with the t-shirt. Finally I laid the package in the trunk, looked right then left, saw no one, dropped the t-shirt on the ground, hopped behind the wheel and pulled out.
I’d look at the contents of the envelope at the office after calling around for a Hazmat suit. Actually I was glad the Mad Shitter was back. Not just for the potential clue, but to possibly meet the man with such bowel control. I swear he was going for a bow on my hood last time but probably cramped up.
Fifteen minutes and a tollbooth collector’s shift worth of gas fumes later I pulled the Falcon into the rear lot of the office. The engine shut off with the automotive equivalent of an exhausted groan. Hopefully Miss Iceland had a savings account, I mused.
Inside I was met by my staff, such as was left of it, wearing the combined look of folks pulling up to the DMV inspection line on the last day of the month. Gladys sat at her desk, her mouth pursed into a web of wrinkles. Sandy Molesworth had a flank hoisted up on one of the new desks, that hadn’t gotten much use, filing her nails. Our photog Charlie Grissom leaned against the counter stirring coffee, his comb-over looking like he had slapped a dozen strands of whole wheat angel hair pasta across his head.
No sooner had I stepped in the room then they pounced. At least they hadn’t bothered to notice the envelope I carried well out in front of me and stashed inconspicuously on a file cabinet. Such was their enthusiasm to rip me a new one.
“Where have you been all weekend?” Gladys started in.
I didn’t have time to open my mouth- probably a good thing- before our lone reporter Sandy Molesworth answered. “I heard he was with his bleach blonde floozy all weekend.”
Considering she had enough spray tan and hairspray on that she walked around with her own private hole in the ozone above her like a climate change-denying Schleprock the hair remark was uncalled for. I passed it over to focus on the second insult though. “If we’re gonna talk in 1930s slang I prefer skirt, dame or hotsy-totsy. But she has a name you know it’s...er...um...Miss Iceland,” I finally blurted out.
At least Charlie Grissom thought this was funny and snorted into his coffee cup. The women, on the other hand, were having none of it.
“We’re going under here and you’re out there playing doctor,” Sandy cackled, getting on my nerves.
“Doctor, really? How freakin’ old are you?” I shot back. I didn’t care about Sandy Molesworth. She delivered some decent copy and the fact she was banging half the Bund up in Montpelier gave us an in there. Mostly, though, she just liked to put a pencil behind her ear, don a pair of those Ashleigh Banfield rectangular glasses and prance around town playing reporter. “Besides what have you been doing?”
“We’ve been brainstorming…”
“In your case it’s more like a drizzle,” I countered and turned to Gladys. “What’s the state of our finances?”
“Bleak at best,” Gladys responded.
“Hey, that’s exactly the word I used to describe it.”
“Oh great, now I’m thinking like you? We really are doomed.”
I had had enough...and not only because I’m always amazed ‘had-had’ is proper English. I snatched the package off the file cabinet, grabbed a beer from the fridge and with a nod to my only seeming ally, Charlie Grissom, I stormed into my office . I tried to slam the door but the cheap, hollow plywood caught against its own wind and I had to back kick it shut. Just one more thing to piss me off.
Sitting at my desk, I was relieved to notice the envelope didn’t smell. I might have cried if it had. All the weight was at the bottom where a compact, rectangular object resided. I squeezed but there was no give. So unless it was a petrified turd this was something the Mad Shitter wanted me to see. A clue? At this point I wasn’t sure I’d know a clue if Colonel Mustard hit me over the head with one in the conservatory. Nonetheless I held my breath and opened the package.
Halfway down was a once folded piece of paper which I removed, revealing a gun metal gray object I was all too familiar with- a cell phone, more precisely a flip phone. Opening the note I found the message “is this yours?” in childish, lower-case letters across the fold like a ransom letter from e.e. cummings. Now I never won any penmanship awards in school- that capital script ‘Q’ that looked like a big number 2 tripped me up every time- but this shaky correspondence seemed to come from a 5-year old with Parkinson’s.
Looking down into the envelope again it obviously wasn’t my phone. Not to brag (as if I could) but mine was a sleeker, antennae-less upgrade in classic black. This one was the kind I had prior- gun metal gray and thicker. I opened it and pushed the red END key that turns it on, but the battery was dead. The fact that I had a flip phone was a running joke around town. Even in this semi-rural burg everyone but the oldest of timers had iPhones and the old bastards like Wes Willard and his gang had nothing. Whenever my cell rang it’s generic, default rock song in Pete’s Pub someone would snatch it from me, answer and say, “It’s 2003 calling to say get a freakin’ real phone”. I countered by claiming they could put their kids off constant upgrades by claiming, “Look at poor Mr. Williams, he still has a flip phone…”, like I was analogous to the ‘poor *insert third-world country* kids’ our parents threw out at us when we wanted ColecoVision.
So anyone could have left it. Someone either playing a joke or actually finding this phone and thinking it could only be mine. But why the unsigned note and why attach it to my car as they had? Was it the Mad Shitter? Or like the Kennedy Assassination was there a mysterious Second Shitter? Maybe there was a Crap-ruder film out there?...OK, I’ll stop now...
It was all too much. I sat back, took a pull on the Natty Ice and pondered my future. At this point I couldn’t work for anyone else. That lazy ship sailed long ago. There was my idea for a Procrastinating Writer’s Workshop, but then everyone would attend the “next” meeting and write me a check “later”...so that was a no-go. I considered again querying Shark Tank about funding my Elf On The Shelf-like marital aid Whore In The Drawer- find the correct drawer get a bedroom surprise that evening. But my major character traits- snark, sarcasm, self-deprecation- didn’t play well in a sales environment.
To Hell with it, I thought, I'd just keep plowing ahead and throw myself on the mercy of Miss Iceland- and her couch- if the whole thing went bust. With that I chucked the note and phone back in the envelope, snapped it up under my arm like a German Field Marshal with a riding crop and headed off to Artfield High to meet Ted Sheehan’s friend Barton.
Exiting my office I tossed the empty beer can in the trash and in keeping with the day’s theme Sandy Molesworth was right there with a wisecrack.
“What happened? Your ‘Brain Juice’ didn’t induce any bright ideas?”
“Screw you and the whore you came in as…,” I snapped back. Gladys gasped. Sandy was, for once, speechless. While Charlie Grissom snort-laughed again which was nice to hear because I was non-confrontational on the whole and wasn’t sure, in my new found anger, that my comment made any sense. I opened the screen door to the parking lot, stepped out and this time due to a perpetually broken spring was able to slam my way out.
I was just easing myself into the Falcon when Grissom came out and called to me. “Can I tag along? Too much simmering estrogen in there for me.” I motioned for him to get in so he tossed his coffee cup in the dumpster and jogged around to the passenger side.
“Where we going?” he inquired, but I don’t think he cared.
“Artfield High,” I said through gritted teeth and was pleased when Charlie didn’t ask why. As a retiree he was just happy to be out of the house and away from his wife. The office had provided no solace so like a dog he jumped in the open car door and was just thrilled to be there. Hell, I think he would have stuck his head out the window if it wouldn’t have blown his comb-over all to crap.
We arrived at the school in a blissful silence that allowed me to calm down. Inside we went through everything short of a body cavity search before we were issued Visitor passes- thank you Trench Coat Mafia and other trigger-happy punks for that- then Charlie went to the faculty lounge to poke around while I set off for Barton’s room.
Surprisingly, I found the room through the labyrinth of identical hallways and peered into the vertical gash of window that ran from the top of the door to just above the handle. I could see Barton’s head just above the shoulder of a gangly kid in a long t-shirt and sweat/pajama pants. He saw me and motioned me in as he finished with the student. Surveying the class I noticed something looked different, but like my parents when I was in High School (“...maybe just once you wear a collared shirt, even open-necked…") I had no clue regarding today’s fashion. Then the student stepped away and I saw Barton in a terry cloth robe and slippers with silk pajamas peeking out at the chest and ankles.
“It’s Pajama Day,” he offered, noticing my confusion. “I used to not participate, but then I’d feel like an orderly in a mental institution...I mean more so than usual.” He smiled at the class who obviously had never seen One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest so I ditched my Chief impression (“mmm, Juicy Fruit…”) as they used the distraction to surreptitiously ease their phones out of pockets and pencil cases.
“Well, I guess I fit in since this is what I slept in last night,” I half-joked.
“At least you don’t sleep in the nude like your friend Max Lipper threatens to do before these events.”
I suppressed a laugh by asking, “What are you teaching ‘em today?”
“Well, these seniors were about to continue with Hamlet until someone said we left off at Act ‘eye-eye’ Scene three, so we transitioned to a mini-lesson about Roman numerals,” he said, indicating the board.
“Yeah, you gotta know your Roman numerals.”
“Why?” immediately came from a fat kid in the front row wearing pajama bottoms and an ‘I Beat Anorexia’ t-shirt.
“How you gonna know what Super Bowl it is?” I deadpanned to some nods and some chuckles. I thought I could get in to this teaching thing. It was like doing stand-up comedy without the heckling since the audience counted on you for good grades. I filed it away as an option if/when (we were getting to that point) the paper went completely under.
Barton had moved to his desk, no doubt anxious to be rid of me and my possible impression on developing minds. He pulled a manila folder, similar to the one the phone came in, from a bottom drawer and handed it to me. I took it by a corner which I’m sure Barton thought strange, but once shit on twice shy was the motto I never thought I’d have to live by.
“Police pretty much cleaned the place out,” Barton whispered so as not to alarm the kids. “It was in a locked file drawer in his basement office. I had a key. Just papers, but maybe it’s important.”
The fat kid was jamming a pencil in the electric sharpener over and over in a way Freud could have written a dissertation on, so I barely heard Barton’s words above the drone.
“That’s enough Brendan,” Barton mildly scolded. The kid pulled the pencil out and admired a point that could be used to dress a deer. Meanwhile I headed to the door looking for the old manual sharpener that invariably went dull on one side and left students in that ‘sharpen-pull out point-sharpen again’ conundrum. Kids were soft these days.
In the hallway I debated looking for Lip in the gym when Grissom wandered around a corner coffee affixed to hand. “I just saw a kid wearing overalls,” Charlie mused. “Is that in style again?”
“Either that or he’s in a Dexy’s Midnight Runners cover band,” I listlessly joked. Too tired for Max Lipper’s perpetual exuberance I motioned toward an exit. “Come on, let's get out of here.”
Crossing the students’ parking lot I noted the preponderance of muddy pickups and thought those would be joined, incongruously, by BMWs and Mercedes once Rick James’ development was fully populated. Unless the rich still sent their kids to boarding schools like in those Evelyn Waugh books that claim to be “...uproariously funny…”, but only deliver a few pissy British “Gee, that’s clever”-moments.
Charlie Grissom was going off about some well-endowed co-ed wearing lingerie, but I steered clear thinking once the paper went belly-up and Miss Iceland inevitably grew weary of me I’d be substituting here to pay the rent. In the car I opened the envelope and as Barton said it was full of miscellaneous paper. There were letters from state and federal agencies with acronyms I didn’t recognize and pamphlets depicting houses like you’d see along the beach in Newport, Rhode Island. There was also several dozen chicken-scratched Post-It notes that kept falling onto and, considering the state of disrepair, nearly through the floor of the Falcon so I shoved everything back inside, fastened the clasp and tossed it in the backseat.
I sighed which is something I rarely do and sadly didn’t know what it meant when written out in Peanuts comic strips until I was twenty-two (why is Snoopy always saying ‘sig-ha’ to Woodstock I pathetically thought). Then I became much chagrined (can one be a little chagrined?) as we drove off. With the acquisition of the phone and this packet of miscellany plus whatever Miss Iceland brought back it seemed, we had gone from too little to too much evidence in one leap. I often had trouble seeing the proverbial forest for the trees and now I felt as if I’d been dropped in an Amazon jungle or warehouse...whichever is harder to get out of...it’s probably close.
Charlie, sensing my unease, offered up his unsolicited advice. “Well, when I was at the Albany Times-Journal,” he started. This was usually my cue to tune out like my sister and I used to do when our grandfather would start a story, “Back when I worked at the foundry…” a place that produced what I’m still not sure and seemed to employ an inordinate number of fellows named Smokey and Dutch. Grissom went on, “...I worked with the investigative reporters on, you know, political scandals, corruption that kinda thing. Anyway, at some juncture they’d lay out all the evidence, their notes, my photos and try to make out the big picture. I think you’ve reached that point.”
I thought about it and he was right. We had a couple of weeks left on the office lease. A couple of days left on the money front and no one stepping forward to pony up more. We had evidence, suspects, motives and theories, but never tried putting them in any coherent order. So, I realized, it was time for me, and only me, to lay them all out and make a bold, decisive move...God help us all.
After dropping Grissom at the office I headed home. On the way it all seemed so simple: spread everything out, list the suspects, columns for MOTIVES and MEANS, notebooks, index cards, heck, I’d even break out some colored highlighters...if I had or could find them. Miss Iceland would be so proud. When she showed up I’d put on a show.
Then I got home, cracked a Natty Ice and it was a show alright...A Shit Show…
First, I sliced my finger on a box cutter I never knew I had while scouring my junk drawer for colored highlighters (uncovering one, orange, dry), found all of two index cards, then rummaged through a stack of notebooks each containing failed attempts at the Great American Novel plus a few disturbingly erotic doodles. I did manage to locate three pencils larger than miniature golf size and a pencil sharpener from grade school housed in a tiny, plastic Buffalo Bills helmet (the old one with the buffalo just standing there taking a dump).
I took the beer, pencils, sharpener and least salacious notebook to the sofa. Laid them all out on my plywood plank across two milk crates coffee table and stared. I figured I’d start with suspects and turned the notebook landscape...er, portrait...no, landscape...uh, with the binding at the top. I wrote three names and crapped out with three-quarters of the page left. So I erased what I’d written and turned the notebook back...um, ‘normal-ways’ and started again: CHIEF BOWDEN, RICK JAMES, REPORTER JEREMY,...CURLY CARSON (because it could actually be as the Artfield PD said)...and finally REVEREND BROOKS (just cause I needed a name to balance the page and he was nutty enough to be involved somehow).
At this point my beer can was empty and I found a random Cheese Doodle (puffed, not crunchy) of indiscriminate age poking out from under the sofa. I knew I should throw out both, but I was too tired. So, I pushed the beer to the corner of the “coffee table”, ate the Doodle when it wouldn’t fit in the top of the can, swung my legs up and took a nap.
Maybe I didn’t want Miss Iceland taking over my life...but it was looking more and more like I damned sure needed it!
