Two days ago, a battered teal Cavalier pulled into the pawnshop parking lot. A beefy blonde with a sweat stained shirt and dead eyes got out and shuffled up to my counter.
"I stopped cause your sign says 'GOLD'" he said.
"Okay."
"My root-canal fell out of my head. I can't have it put back, because my tooth broke with my root-canal. My root-canal is made of gold. Your sign says 'GOLD'."
He dropped a gold crown into my hand. It was full of rotten tooth. I looked at Aunt Cheryl and saw her standing behind the gun counter, red-faced and silently laughing.
I dropped the crown on the gold scale and calculated the value. "Your tooth is worth $12."
"What? Twelve dollars? Gold is worth eight hundred dollars. I saw it on TV."
"Yep. Pure gold is worth eight hundred dollars an ounce. What you have here is dental gold, which is 12 karat gold. And you only have two-point-two pennyweights, so your tooth is worth twelve dollars."
"Give me back my tooth."
Please publish my book. I make three hundred dollars a week, and I have to weigh people's teeth.
Showing posts with label rebel s. nerd's "pawn shop stories". Show all posts
Showing posts with label rebel s. nerd's "pawn shop stories". Show all posts
Saturday, January 16, 2010
It Seems Inevitable That I Will Be Stabbed To Death By A Mental Patient
When Michael takes his meds, he is polite and soft-spoken, even meek. When he visited this week, it was clear that he was not taking them. He ran inside, straight to the coffee pot, taking care to pour equal amounts into the floor and his styrofoam cup.
"REBEL! GIB ME A CIGARETTE!"
"What did you just say," Cheryl asked.
"NOTHIN'. I WAS TALKING TO REBEL."
"Michael, I don't know where my cigarettes are, and I'm busy right now."
"NEVER MIND."
He walked outside and rolled his own from a tobacco pouch tied to his belt. He smoked fast, bracing himself against the frigid wind, and tossed his butt into the street.
He came back inside and announced to no one, "I"M JUST WAITIN' FOR THE BUS!"
When no one replied, he walked from person to person, customers and employees, repeating his announcement, "I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS!"
The store was filling up, and we made three pistol sales in as many minutes. As I was explaining the criminal history check to a buyer, Michael pulled the 12-string Epiphone from its hook, sat on a stool next to my customer, and started playing. He tried to cover his lack of talent with enthusiasm.
"BLUE MOOOOON! I SAW YOU STANDING A...."
He was cut short by a withering glare from Cheryl, and decided to wait for the bus outside.
I am supposed to order Michael a Smith & Wesson knife with a 10" blade when he gets his disability check. I feel certain that his first act upon purchasing this knife will be to stab me in the throat with it.
"REBEL! GIB ME A CIGARETTE!"
"What did you just say," Cheryl asked.
"NOTHIN'. I WAS TALKING TO REBEL."
"Michael, I don't know where my cigarettes are, and I'm busy right now."
"NEVER MIND."
He walked outside and rolled his own from a tobacco pouch tied to his belt. He smoked fast, bracing himself against the frigid wind, and tossed his butt into the street.
He came back inside and announced to no one, "I"M JUST WAITIN' FOR THE BUS!"
When no one replied, he walked from person to person, customers and employees, repeating his announcement, "I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE BUS!"
The store was filling up, and we made three pistol sales in as many minutes. As I was explaining the criminal history check to a buyer, Michael pulled the 12-string Epiphone from its hook, sat on a stool next to my customer, and started playing. He tried to cover his lack of talent with enthusiasm.
"BLUE MOOOOON! I SAW YOU STANDING A...."
He was cut short by a withering glare from Cheryl, and decided to wait for the bus outside.
I am supposed to order Michael a Smith & Wesson knife with a 10" blade when he gets his disability check. I feel certain that his first act upon purchasing this knife will be to stab me in the throat with it.
’Cause the boys in the hood is always hard
I answered the phone the same way I always do.
"JJ's Pawn, Lazyman Tools, how can I help you?"
"Yeah. I need to ax you a querstion. If like, I like, bring somethin' up there to you, like, do I need to have a driver's license or something like that?"
I could tell that he was from the pawnshop side of town.
"Yessir, you need a state issued license or id to pawn or sell to us."
"Do you keep it?"
"No, I don't keep it."
"What do you do with it?"
"I type the information in the computer."
"How long does it take for you to give it back?"
"About two and half minutes."
"What I mean is, like, how long do I get to pay back the loan?"
"So...you're not talking about your identification? Yes, I keep your item. It's a thirty day loan, but you actually have ninety days to pay it back, but you pay the finance charge for every month that you keep the item in pawn. The finance charge is set by the state, and it is based on your loan amount."
"Oh...well, I'm gonna be up there in like, fifteen minutes. I'm gonna bring you something."
"Hold on. What are you bringing me?"
"A deuce-deuce." (for those of my readers that aren't down with the gangsta raps, a deuce-deuce is a .22 caliber pistol, as when the late, great Eazy-E rapped, "the silly motherfucker pulled out a deuce-deuce". One way or the other, he's a bad brother, word to the motherfucker)
"We like to let our customers know that when they pawn a firearm, ATF requires that they undergo a criminal history/background check when they come to pick up their firearm."
"....What do that mean?"
"That means that if you cannot pass a criminal history/background check, I have to keep your gun."
He hung up. I wish I had told him to bring me a nina (rap slang for a 9mm pistol, see Dr. Dre's "and if I got my nina then you know I'm straight trippin'.")
P.S. Please excuse my extended absence, I've had my hands full, bustin' caps in asses. But, if you're just dying to see what it looks like when I edit a story, follow this little link. While you're there, check out the other guy's stuff. Unless you're easily offended. The Others like to use the bad swears.
"JJ's Pawn, Lazyman Tools, how can I help you?"
"Yeah. I need to ax you a querstion. If like, I like, bring somethin' up there to you, like, do I need to have a driver's license or something like that?"
I could tell that he was from the pawnshop side of town.
"Yessir, you need a state issued license or id to pawn or sell to us."
"Do you keep it?"
"No, I don't keep it."
"What do you do with it?"
"I type the information in the computer."
"How long does it take for you to give it back?"
"About two and half minutes."
"What I mean is, like, how long do I get to pay back the loan?"
"So...you're not talking about your identification? Yes, I keep your item. It's a thirty day loan, but you actually have ninety days to pay it back, but you pay the finance charge for every month that you keep the item in pawn. The finance charge is set by the state, and it is based on your loan amount."
"Oh...well, I'm gonna be up there in like, fifteen minutes. I'm gonna bring you something."
"Hold on. What are you bringing me?"
"A deuce-deuce." (for those of my readers that aren't down with the gangsta raps, a deuce-deuce is a .22 caliber pistol, as when the late, great Eazy-E rapped, "the silly motherfucker pulled out a deuce-deuce". One way or the other, he's a bad brother, word to the motherfucker)
"We like to let our customers know that when they pawn a firearm, ATF requires that they undergo a criminal history/background check when they come to pick up their firearm."
"....What do that mean?"
"That means that if you cannot pass a criminal history/background check, I have to keep your gun."
He hung up. I wish I had told him to bring me a nina (rap slang for a 9mm pistol, see Dr. Dre's "and if I got my nina then you know I'm straight trippin'.")
P.S. Please excuse my extended absence, I've had my hands full, bustin' caps in asses. But, if you're just dying to see what it looks like when I edit a story, follow this little link. While you're there, check out the other guy's stuff. Unless you're easily offended. The Others like to use the bad swears.
Michael and the Baby Jesus
Mike Losing His Grip....
Michael never came in to pay for his 10" blade knife, and I was relieved (see "It seems inevitable that I will be stabbed by a mental patient"). He continued to come into the shop, and we watched his mental condition deteriorate. The last time I saw him, he was trudging up the hill in front of the store. He had the look of a man on a mission, eyes straight ahead, fists clenched at his side. When he saw me sitting on the bench, smoking, he slid his eyes sideways.....
"YOU GOT SOME COFFEE IN THERE, REBEL?"....
"Yeah Michael, we always have coffee."....
"I'M GONNA GET ME SOME."....
He turned on his heel and ran toward our door. Heemerged 10 seconds later with a styrofoam cup, and headed back up the hill. Ashe passed, I realized that the entire back of his shirt had been ripped openand his back was scratched and bleeding.....
A Merry Christmas To All....
According to police reports, sometime on theafternoon of Christmas day, the voices in Michael's head convinced him that hisneighbor was holding his two sisters hostage. Hell-bent on rescuing them, hebarged into the neighbor's house with a rifle. The neighbor was in her backyardat the time, but her son was in the house. It has not been released whattranspired, but Michael eventually went home (without injuring anyone) and theneighbor called the police.....
When the police arrived, they announced theirpresence. Michael came to the door and pointed his rifle at them. One of thepolice retrieved his patrol rifle and fired four shots at Michael. Michael wentinside and closed the door, where reports say he stayed for approximately eightminutes before he surrendered. He was taken into custody and taken to the localhospital for surgery. He stayed inintensive care for several days.....
The officer in question (his name has not beenreleased) has been put on leave of absence, and the Texas Rangers areinvestigating. ....
I hope Michael gets the help he needs. I'd hate to have to shoot him.....
Michael never came in to pay for his 10" blade knife, and I was relieved (see "It seems inevitable that I will be stabbed by a mental patient"). He continued to come into the shop, and we watched his mental condition deteriorate. The last time I saw him, he was trudging up the hill in front of the store. He had the look of a man on a mission, eyes straight ahead, fists clenched at his side. When he saw me sitting on the bench, smoking, he slid his eyes sideways.....
"YOU GOT SOME COFFEE IN THERE, REBEL?"....
"Yeah Michael, we always have coffee."....
"I'M GONNA GET ME SOME."....
He turned on his heel and ran toward our door. Heemerged 10 seconds later with a styrofoam cup, and headed back up the hill. Ashe passed, I realized that the entire back of his shirt had been ripped openand his back was scratched and bleeding.....
A Merry Christmas To All....
According to police reports, sometime on theafternoon of Christmas day, the voices in Michael's head convinced him that hisneighbor was holding his two sisters hostage. Hell-bent on rescuing them, hebarged into the neighbor's house with a rifle. The neighbor was in her backyardat the time, but her son was in the house. It has not been released whattranspired, but Michael eventually went home (without injuring anyone) and theneighbor called the police.....
When the police arrived, they announced theirpresence. Michael came to the door and pointed his rifle at them. One of thepolice retrieved his patrol rifle and fired four shots at Michael. Michael wentinside and closed the door, where reports say he stayed for approximately eightminutes before he surrendered. He was taken into custody and taken to the localhospital for surgery. He stayed inintensive care for several days.....
The officer in question (his name has not beenreleased) has been put on leave of absence, and the Texas Rangers areinvestigating. ....
I hope Michael gets the help he needs. I'd hate to have to shoot him.....
Meet Mr. Duck
Mr. Duck
moves slow. His Cadillac stops inches from the building, and he takes fifteen
minutes to turn it off, unbuckle, lock up and walk inside the store. He makes
me think of George Romero zombies.....
Mr. Duck tells me that he was born in "Nineteen and twenty
eight." He looks good for his age, preserved in alcohol. I smell it
rolling off him in waves that make my head spin.....
When Mr. Duck is low on
funds, he pawns his daddy's ruby ring. When times are really bad, he brings me
the Browning A-5 shotgun he bought in "nineteen and forty seven," and
the Glenfield rifle he uses to hunt squirrels. His eyes are bloodshot and
droopy.....
"I seen bad times afore," Mr. Duck tells me. "I
see bad times on our horizons. I-I-I lived through what they call 'The Great
Depression,' you know what I'm talking about?" I nod that I do. "Them
times were hard, folks didn't have no food, no work, just scratchin' in the
dirt. I-I-I-I see it in our future, you understand what I'm sayin'?"....
I look at his wrinkled black face, and am inclined to believe.....
Mr. Duck
needs forty-five minutes to fill out the background check form required when he
picks up his shotgun. He shakes, so he holds the pen in his fist, guides the
fist with his right hand. His letters are still jagged, like an EKG reading.....
When the background check is complete, Aunt Cheryl offers to
help him load his guns in the car.....
"That would be nice," Mr. Duck says.....
When Aunt Cheryl picks up the cracked vinyl case that holds the
Browning shotgun, the gun slides out through the busted zipper, and hits the
floor, butt first.....
"Oh NO," screams Mr. Duck. "I don't do my guns
like that."....
"I'm sorry Mr. Duck," says Aunt Cheryl. "I don't
normally do guns like that either, but the zipper on your case is busted."....
"Oh no, I don't need your kinda help, 'cause I-I-I just
don't do my guns like that. You just keep your hands offa them. I'm just fine
without that kinda help."....
Aunt Cheryl apologizes again, but Mr. Duck ignores her, tucks a
gun case under each arm and begins his slow exit.....
Mr. Duck
comes in to pay the interest on his daddy's ring. When he sees that Aunt Cheryl
is not working, he shuffles to the coffee stand to make himself a cup. His
shaky hands spill sugar and creamer on the table. When he is done mixing, he
forgets to take out the communal stirring spoon and I watch the stem press flat
against his forehead when he drinks. He settles down on the stool that sits
across the counter from my register and looks at the Osama Bin Laden shooting
target that is stapled by the front door.....
"I reckon they ain't never gonna find him. Whatcha
think?"....
"I think you're right, Mr. Duck."....
"Mr. Clinton had the opportunity to kill him, and he
didn't do it. Then Mr. Bush let him get away. See, i-i-if a dog goes mad, you
got to shoot him down. It don't matter how much you loves that dog, when he
goes bad like that, he got to be shot down. You understand what I'm saying.
I-I-I see you know what I'm saying."....
“I do,” I say.....
“As far as I can tell, we don’t even know what them folks is so
mad about, what makes ‘em wanta kill us Americans.”....
“Well, Mr. Duck, as far as I can tell, until about a hundred
years ago, them folks just wandered the desert, doin’ as they pleased, and then
a buncha white men showed up and started tellin’ them what to do and where to
live. They didn’t take kindly to that, and I cain’t say I blame ‘em. If some foreign
sumbitch with a gun walked up to my house and started bossin’ me around I’d be
awful inclined to wanna shoot ‘em.”....
“Well I know that’s right,” says Mr. Duck. “If anybody knows
that, it’s what they called the red man. I-I-I’m trying to say Indians, you
know. They was just fine afore we got here. But you know what? They wouldn’t
have ever developed nothin’. They still be wearin’ a piece of leather in front
and a piece of leather over they behind, livin’ in a teepee. They never built
nothin’ up, you see what I’m sayin’.”....
“Actually, some Indian tribes had sophisticated architecture,
but the pioneers leveled most of it in the westward migration. There are lots
of settler accounts of destroying pyramids and large buildings as they came
across ....America.....
In the southwest, there are archaeologists excavating the site of a four-story
structure that they believe is the one of the earliest apartment buildings.”....
“Is that so,” asks Mr. Duck. “I never knew that. I always
thought Indians lived in teepees and hunted buffalo with them bow and arrows.
But that makes sense, because the Mexicans are just a mix of Indians and the
Spaniards, and them Mexican Indians were Aztecs, and they had some big ol’
pyramids… I never knew that about American Indians. They didn’t tell me at
school.”....
“I think it was because no one really knew, because it was destroyed.”....
“Well don’t that figure. That’s what men do. Build and destroy.
It’s like in the time of Moses, when he led the Hebrews out of ....Egypt..... They
went to the Promised Land, where God told them not to put a king before Him,
but people want a king, and they got Solomon, and the people broke apart and
were lost. But then Jesus came, and he changed everything, and I like that… Do
you know why Jesus died,” Mr. Duck asks.....
“Romans? And my sins?”....
“Naw. What Jesus did, see, was change it to where you ain’t
responsible for nothin’ but your own garbage. You ain’t responsible for your
neighbor or your sister or your mama. When you come to Jesus, he just want you
to carry your own weight. That’s what he said. And I like that. Well, it was
real good talkin’ to you ma’am. I be in to pick up my daddy’s ring next week.”....
moves slow. His Cadillac stops inches from the building, and he takes fifteen
minutes to turn it off, unbuckle, lock up and walk inside the store. He makes
me think of George Romero zombies.....
Mr. Duck tells me that he was born in "Nineteen and twenty
eight." He looks good for his age, preserved in alcohol. I smell it
rolling off him in waves that make my head spin.....
When Mr. Duck is low on
funds, he pawns his daddy's ruby ring. When times are really bad, he brings me
the Browning A-5 shotgun he bought in "nineteen and forty seven," and
the Glenfield rifle he uses to hunt squirrels. His eyes are bloodshot and
droopy.....
"I seen bad times afore," Mr. Duck tells me. "I
see bad times on our horizons. I-I-I lived through what they call 'The Great
Depression,' you know what I'm talking about?" I nod that I do. "Them
times were hard, folks didn't have no food, no work, just scratchin' in the
dirt. I-I-I-I see it in our future, you understand what I'm sayin'?"....
I look at his wrinkled black face, and am inclined to believe.....
Mr. Duck
needs forty-five minutes to fill out the background check form required when he
picks up his shotgun. He shakes, so he holds the pen in his fist, guides the
fist with his right hand. His letters are still jagged, like an EKG reading.....
When the background check is complete, Aunt Cheryl offers to
help him load his guns in the car.....
"That would be nice," Mr. Duck says.....
When Aunt Cheryl picks up the cracked vinyl case that holds the
Browning shotgun, the gun slides out through the busted zipper, and hits the
floor, butt first.....
"Oh NO," screams Mr. Duck. "I don't do my guns
like that."....
"I'm sorry Mr. Duck," says Aunt Cheryl. "I don't
normally do guns like that either, but the zipper on your case is busted."....
"Oh no, I don't need your kinda help, 'cause I-I-I just
don't do my guns like that. You just keep your hands offa them. I'm just fine
without that kinda help."....
Aunt Cheryl apologizes again, but Mr. Duck ignores her, tucks a
gun case under each arm and begins his slow exit.....
Mr. Duck
comes in to pay the interest on his daddy's ring. When he sees that Aunt Cheryl
is not working, he shuffles to the coffee stand to make himself a cup. His
shaky hands spill sugar and creamer on the table. When he is done mixing, he
forgets to take out the communal stirring spoon and I watch the stem press flat
against his forehead when he drinks. He settles down on the stool that sits
across the counter from my register and looks at the Osama Bin Laden shooting
target that is stapled by the front door.....
"I reckon they ain't never gonna find him. Whatcha
think?"....
"I think you're right, Mr. Duck."....
"Mr. Clinton had the opportunity to kill him, and he
didn't do it. Then Mr. Bush let him get away. See, i-i-if a dog goes mad, you
got to shoot him down. It don't matter how much you loves that dog, when he
goes bad like that, he got to be shot down. You understand what I'm saying.
I-I-I see you know what I'm saying."....
“I do,” I say.....
“As far as I can tell, we don’t even know what them folks is so
mad about, what makes ‘em wanta kill us Americans.”....
“Well, Mr. Duck, as far as I can tell, until about a hundred
years ago, them folks just wandered the desert, doin’ as they pleased, and then
a buncha white men showed up and started tellin’ them what to do and where to
live. They didn’t take kindly to that, and I cain’t say I blame ‘em. If some foreign
sumbitch with a gun walked up to my house and started bossin’ me around I’d be
awful inclined to wanna shoot ‘em.”....
“Well I know that’s right,” says Mr. Duck. “If anybody knows
that, it’s what they called the red man. I-I-I’m trying to say Indians, you
know. They was just fine afore we got here. But you know what? They wouldn’t
have ever developed nothin’. They still be wearin’ a piece of leather in front
and a piece of leather over they behind, livin’ in a teepee. They never built
nothin’ up, you see what I’m sayin’.”....
“Actually, some Indian tribes had sophisticated architecture,
but the pioneers leveled most of it in the westward migration. There are lots
of settler accounts of destroying pyramids and large buildings as they came
across ....America.....
In the southwest, there are archaeologists excavating the site of a four-story
structure that they believe is the one of the earliest apartment buildings.”....
“Is that so,” asks Mr. Duck. “I never knew that. I always
thought Indians lived in teepees and hunted buffalo with them bow and arrows.
But that makes sense, because the Mexicans are just a mix of Indians and the
Spaniards, and them Mexican Indians were Aztecs, and they had some big ol’
pyramids… I never knew that about American Indians. They didn’t tell me at
school.”....
“I think it was because no one really knew, because it was destroyed.”....
“Well don’t that figure. That’s what men do. Build and destroy.
It’s like in the time of Moses, when he led the Hebrews out of ....Egypt..... They
went to the Promised Land, where God told them not to put a king before Him,
but people want a king, and they got Solomon, and the people broke apart and
were lost. But then Jesus came, and he changed everything, and I like that… Do
you know why Jesus died,” Mr. Duck asks.....
“Romans? And my sins?”....
“Naw. What Jesus did, see, was change it to where you ain’t
responsible for nothin’ but your own garbage. You ain’t responsible for your
neighbor or your sister or your mama. When you come to Jesus, he just want you
to carry your own weight. That’s what he said. And I like that. Well, it was
real good talkin’ to you ma’am. I be in to pick up my daddy’s ring next week.”....
The wrong way to start a conversation, times 2
Two pawn shop conversations about sex...
Conversation #1Creepy DVD customer: "Hey! That other lady tole me you was real good with computers, said you know all about them. That true?"
Me: "Well, I think she may have over-stated my talents, but what do you wanna know?"
Creepy: "Ya know that guy over in Carthage that just got arrested with child pornography on his computer?"
Me (feeling extremely uncomfortable): "Yeah."
Creepy: "How'd they catch him?"
Me: "There are lots of ways...why?"
Creepy: "I really like porno, and since I got my computer, I been downloading all kinds. I'm not a pervert, I just think it's entertaining. But I'm worried that I might accidentally download some child porn and end up in prison."
Me: "Well, my advice is to download your porn from a reputable site. Or just find yourself some streaming porn so you don't have to download anything."
Creepy: "Oh...thanks."
Conversation #2
Vernon: "It's weird, but hydro-floric acid don't burn my skin. We use it to wash down the plastic walls at the shop, and I can get it all over me, and it don't bother me, but I look over at my Mexican, and he's covered in blisters."
Me (resisting the urge to tell him it hydro-chloric, not floric acid): "That's weird."
Vernon: "You know what I just found out?"
Me: "What?"
Vernon: "Rohypnol, ya know, that date rape drug? It's out of your system within two hours."
Me: "Are you trying to tell me that the next time I date rape someone, I should use rohypnol?"
Vernon: "Naw. I know this old girl, she got herself date-raped this weekend. She's 38, got some kids, and she went out partyin' with these young guys, and she knew better'n ta do that. Anyway, she don't remember nothin' after nine o'clock. She woke up at her house two hours later, and her panties was in her front pocket. The doctor told her rohypnol would be out of her system by the time she got to the hospital...Ya'll have a good day!"
Conversation #1Creepy DVD customer: "Hey! That other lady tole me you was real good with computers, said you know all about them. That true?"
Me: "Well, I think she may have over-stated my talents, but what do you wanna know?"
Creepy: "Ya know that guy over in Carthage that just got arrested with child pornography on his computer?"
Me (feeling extremely uncomfortable): "Yeah."
Creepy: "How'd they catch him?"
Me: "There are lots of ways...why?"
Creepy: "I really like porno, and since I got my computer, I been downloading all kinds. I'm not a pervert, I just think it's entertaining. But I'm worried that I might accidentally download some child porn and end up in prison."
Me: "Well, my advice is to download your porn from a reputable site. Or just find yourself some streaming porn so you don't have to download anything."
Creepy: "Oh...thanks."
Conversation #2
Vernon: "It's weird, but hydro-floric acid don't burn my skin. We use it to wash down the plastic walls at the shop, and I can get it all over me, and it don't bother me, but I look over at my Mexican, and he's covered in blisters."
Me (resisting the urge to tell him it hydro-chloric, not floric acid): "That's weird."
Vernon: "You know what I just found out?"
Me: "What?"
Vernon: "Rohypnol, ya know, that date rape drug? It's out of your system within two hours."
Me: "Are you trying to tell me that the next time I date rape someone, I should use rohypnol?"
Vernon: "Naw. I know this old girl, she got herself date-raped this weekend. She's 38, got some kids, and she went out partyin' with these young guys, and she knew better'n ta do that. Anyway, she don't remember nothin' after nine o'clock. She woke up at her house two hours later, and her panties was in her front pocket. The doctor told her rohypnol would be out of her system by the time she got to the hospital...Ya'll have a good day!"
So many medicines for just one head
Lori is a trust fund baby
that has spent the last twenty years looking for the magic mix of chemicals
that will self-medicate her into bliss. A handful of xanax, a generous shot of
codeine cough syrup over ice, slammed at the pawn shop counter, a rock paid for
with the loan on a tennis bracelet. Lonely isn’t so bad anymore.....
Her friends steal her car,
her purse, her pills. She says someone sneaks in at night to swap diamonds with
her.....
“Reb-uhl, I swear ta gawd
that this bracelet useta have princess cut di-muns. I heard a noise in ma room
last night, and this morning, I checked and somebody had switched all the
di-muns ta rounds. I like it better though.”....
Lori wants me to come
over, she says she’ll buy me pizza, and we can sit out by the pool. She offers
to paint my nails with purple sparkles. She likes to tell me her problems, and
ask for my guidance. She says I’m the smartest person she knows.....
She introduces me to all
her pets. She trained “seeing-eye goats” for awhile, until the city told her
she couldn’t have goats in an apartment. Her dog Joe-Bob got into fight with
the neighbor’s dog, and Lori accidentally jerked all Joe-Bob’s teeth out.....
“Reb-uhl? Can you come
outside? I saved his teeth in a bag and I’m thinkin about gluing them back in
his mouth.”....
“Lori, you can’t do that.”....
“Well, do you think we
could use his old teeth to make him some dentures? I think we could make it
work”....
Lori is pretty, but tired.
Sometimes, she forgets to brush her hair, and it sticks up in crazy directions.
She comes to pay her loans in a bikini, and you can see her tiny bones.....
She tells the lady at the
dry-cleaners the beginning of a story, forgets I’m not her, and tells me the
end.....
“I know the principal was
mad at me, because he told me he didn’t want to see my car on campus ever again.
And now the damned lunch lady is trying to sue me for hitting her car, and I
have insurance. You cain’t sue somebody with insurance, you hafta go through
their insurance first! And it didn’t do hardly nu-thin to her car. And now
she’s got a damn five-hundred dollar estimate for a three inch long scratch tha
width of a fingernail on a RUB-BER BUMPER! Why cain’t she just be glad that no
one got hurt? Who cares about a scratch? But she’s sue happy. I’ve heard that
word used before.”....
Lori isn’t allowed to call
the police anymore. They said she was not allowed to file a police report once
a week for things she misplaced. They also said that normal people did not have
their cars stolen once a week and she should re-think her choice of friends.
Lori says the arrests started because the cops were picking on her.....
“So me and that twelve year old girl started walkin’ up there where I thought Smoky was hiding ma
four-wheeler. Before we left, I got a glass of wine and some a ma nerve pills.
But my shorts didn’t have no pockets, so I told the girl to put them in her
pocket. We found my four-wheeler, but a cop stopped me ta ask what I was doin’.
He told me I was trespassing, and he was putting me under arrest cause I was
under the influence. I’d only had three glasses of wine! So I told that girl to
give me my pills cause I could feel a headache comin’ on. He took me to jail,
and then they told me that I was charged with furnishing marijuana to a minor.
Do you think I should go back up there and explain that she was just holdin’ ma
nerve pills for me?”....
I hope she took my advice
and told her lawyer instead.....
that has spent the last twenty years looking for the magic mix of chemicals
that will self-medicate her into bliss. A handful of xanax, a generous shot of
codeine cough syrup over ice, slammed at the pawn shop counter, a rock paid for
with the loan on a tennis bracelet. Lonely isn’t so bad anymore.....
Her friends steal her car,
her purse, her pills. She says someone sneaks in at night to swap diamonds with
her.....
“Reb-uhl, I swear ta gawd
that this bracelet useta have princess cut di-muns. I heard a noise in ma room
last night, and this morning, I checked and somebody had switched all the
di-muns ta rounds. I like it better though.”....
Lori wants me to come
over, she says she’ll buy me pizza, and we can sit out by the pool. She offers
to paint my nails with purple sparkles. She likes to tell me her problems, and
ask for my guidance. She says I’m the smartest person she knows.....
She introduces me to all
her pets. She trained “seeing-eye goats” for awhile, until the city told her
she couldn’t have goats in an apartment. Her dog Joe-Bob got into fight with
the neighbor’s dog, and Lori accidentally jerked all Joe-Bob’s teeth out.....
“Reb-uhl? Can you come
outside? I saved his teeth in a bag and I’m thinkin about gluing them back in
his mouth.”....
“Lori, you can’t do that.”....
“Well, do you think we
could use his old teeth to make him some dentures? I think we could make it
work”....
Lori is pretty, but tired.
Sometimes, she forgets to brush her hair, and it sticks up in crazy directions.
She comes to pay her loans in a bikini, and you can see her tiny bones.....
She tells the lady at the
dry-cleaners the beginning of a story, forgets I’m not her, and tells me the
end.....
“I know the principal was
mad at me, because he told me he didn’t want to see my car on campus ever again.
And now the damned lunch lady is trying to sue me for hitting her car, and I
have insurance. You cain’t sue somebody with insurance, you hafta go through
their insurance first! And it didn’t do hardly nu-thin to her car. And now
she’s got a damn five-hundred dollar estimate for a three inch long scratch tha
width of a fingernail on a RUB-BER BUMPER! Why cain’t she just be glad that no
one got hurt? Who cares about a scratch? But she’s sue happy. I’ve heard that
word used before.”....
Lori isn’t allowed to call
the police anymore. They said she was not allowed to file a police report once
a week for things she misplaced. They also said that normal people did not have
their cars stolen once a week and she should re-think her choice of friends.
Lori says the arrests started because the cops were picking on her.....
“So me and that twelve year old girl started walkin’ up there where I thought Smoky was hiding ma
four-wheeler. Before we left, I got a glass of wine and some a ma nerve pills.
But my shorts didn’t have no pockets, so I told the girl to put them in her
pocket. We found my four-wheeler, but a cop stopped me ta ask what I was doin’.
He told me I was trespassing, and he was putting me under arrest cause I was
under the influence. I’d only had three glasses of wine! So I told that girl to
give me my pills cause I could feel a headache comin’ on. He took me to jail,
and then they told me that I was charged with furnishing marijuana to a minor.
Do you think I should go back up there and explain that she was just holdin’ ma
nerve pills for me?”....
I hope she took my advice
and told her lawyer instead.....
you're makin' my brain hurt.
I had the following conversation with a woman today. I did not make it up, and I haven't embellished.
Lady (pointing to a poster by the door): "Who is that up there on the FBI's most wanted fugitive poster? I don't recognize him."
Me: "That's Osama bin Laden"
Lady: "Who is that? I've never even heard of him."
Me: "Are you joking?"
Lady: "No, I don't know who he is."
Me (now bleeding from the ears): "He's the guy that the FBI says is responsible for the 9-11 attacks."
Lady: "What are you talking about? I didn't hear about any of this."
Me: " Planes crashed into buildings, people died. He releases tapes all the time talking about how he's going to kill us all."
Lady: "I must have missed that. I don't watch much news. My friend did tell me that Farrah Fawcett died the other day. I always admired her, she was so pretty."
The scariest part...she's allowed to drive a car. I saw her do it.
Lady (pointing to a poster by the door): "Who is that up there on the FBI's most wanted fugitive poster? I don't recognize him."
Me: "That's Osama bin Laden"
Lady: "Who is that? I've never even heard of him."
Me: "Are you joking?"
Lady: "No, I don't know who he is."
Me (now bleeding from the ears): "He's the guy that the FBI says is responsible for the 9-11 attacks."
Lady: "What are you talking about? I didn't hear about any of this."
Me: " Planes crashed into buildings, people died. He releases tapes all the time talking about how he's going to kill us all."
Lady: "I must have missed that. I don't watch much news. My friend did tell me that Farrah Fawcett died the other day. I always admired her, she was so pretty."
The scariest part...she's allowed to drive a car. I saw her do it.
The Disappointing Life of Tiny Bobby
Tiny Bobby, the one that tells me that he's gonna get his life back together, visits me before his daily, parole required AA meeting. Tiny Bobby wears his hand-me-down Catholic charity suits, and they puddle around his ankles. He says everyone is invited to the multi-cultural festival, there'll be plenty to eat. Father John wants him to tell everyone, because Bobby is in charge of inviting people and supervising the hay-ride. He might even be on the tv, the news is usually there. He makes a mess at the coffee stand, flapping his hands while he talks.
Tiny Bobby says he needs to buy a wedding ring, nothing fancy, for his dying wife. She's the mother of his son, and he's gonna do right by her, gonna make her an honest woman before she dies. And he's gonna talk to her momma and daddy, cause it ain't right that they won't let him see his boy. Everybody in town saw him on tv, they recognized his suits. Pretty soon, Tiny Bobby is gonna buy himself a guitar, start a country and western band, write a hit record and travel the world. Gonna be clean and sober, stay on the righteous path. He'll be getting that ring soon, it's real important to get it on her finger 'fore she passes.
Bobby's momma is so proud of him for living right and carrying the Jesus fire in his eyes. Everyone else is gonna be so proud of him when he wears the wire like the police want and walks up to people on the streets, asks if they like to party. He's gonna get them to tell all about it, then they'll get arrested and everyone will be so happy that Tiny Bobby took another dope user off the streets. He says that his fiancé has some video tapes she'd like to sell, they're gonna use the money to go to dinner. He thinks it's important to take your lady out to dinner every once and awhile. He borrows the phone and asks Brother John if he could get a few more suits, one for dinner tonight, one for his wedding. He’d like it if his pawn shop family would come stand up for him at his ceremony. Cheryl says, “Hon, we ain’t your family. You need your family there, not some strangers you know to say hi to and get free coffee.”
Tiny Bobby sits on the bench in the rain, trying to light the damp cigarette butts he scavenged from the A.A. ashtray, tries to make eye contact with anyone that passes. He bums a ride from a biker pawning tools, and Cheryl tells Tiny Bobby not to come back, to stop harassing our customers. The biker says he knows Bobby, it's his cousin, and he's a pain in the gawd-damned ass. Best thing to do is just run him off the place, never let him come back. He hollers "Get yer ass in the truck" and Bobby follows like a whipped dog.
Biker cousin comes in to pick up his wrenches, says Bobby got mad and punched his A.I.D.S. infected wife. Said she was already two steps away from death's door, and the shock of it caused her to have a massive heart attack. She was livin' on borrowed time up at the hospital, and Bobby was going back to the pen. Some folks can't handle their disappointing life.
Tiny Bobby says he needs to buy a wedding ring, nothing fancy, for his dying wife. She's the mother of his son, and he's gonna do right by her, gonna make her an honest woman before she dies. And he's gonna talk to her momma and daddy, cause it ain't right that they won't let him see his boy. Everybody in town saw him on tv, they recognized his suits. Pretty soon, Tiny Bobby is gonna buy himself a guitar, start a country and western band, write a hit record and travel the world. Gonna be clean and sober, stay on the righteous path. He'll be getting that ring soon, it's real important to get it on her finger 'fore she passes.
Bobby's momma is so proud of him for living right and carrying the Jesus fire in his eyes. Everyone else is gonna be so proud of him when he wears the wire like the police want and walks up to people on the streets, asks if they like to party. He's gonna get them to tell all about it, then they'll get arrested and everyone will be so happy that Tiny Bobby took another dope user off the streets. He says that his fiancé has some video tapes she'd like to sell, they're gonna use the money to go to dinner. He thinks it's important to take your lady out to dinner every once and awhile. He borrows the phone and asks Brother John if he could get a few more suits, one for dinner tonight, one for his wedding. He’d like it if his pawn shop family would come stand up for him at his ceremony. Cheryl says, “Hon, we ain’t your family. You need your family there, not some strangers you know to say hi to and get free coffee.”
Tiny Bobby sits on the bench in the rain, trying to light the damp cigarette butts he scavenged from the A.A. ashtray, tries to make eye contact with anyone that passes. He bums a ride from a biker pawning tools, and Cheryl tells Tiny Bobby not to come back, to stop harassing our customers. The biker says he knows Bobby, it's his cousin, and he's a pain in the gawd-damned ass. Best thing to do is just run him off the place, never let him come back. He hollers "Get yer ass in the truck" and Bobby follows like a whipped dog.
Biker cousin comes in to pick up his wrenches, says Bobby got mad and punched his A.I.D.S. infected wife. Said she was already two steps away from death's door, and the shock of it caused her to have a massive heart attack. She was livin' on borrowed time up at the hospital, and Bobby was going back to the pen. Some folks can't handle their disappointing life.
Cowboys Can Be So Cruel
Cowboy Bill, pawn shop security, was immediately suspicious, signaling with his eyes that the shaggy haired hippie staring at the handguns was fucking crazy. I looked at Shaggy's happy face ankle tattoo, Birkenstocks, and blissed out expression, and decided his inevitable craziness was probably drug induced. Mr. and Mrs. Fox stared at him, sizing him up.
"Can I help you," Bill asked, hitching up his pants and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, rocking back on his boot heels, his authority pose.
"No thanks," Shaggy answered in a breathy, high-pitched voice, "I'm just looking."
Bill stared at him, and Shaggy continued to look at the guns from a distance and fidget in his skin. An air of tension built while we all waited for the crazy shoe to fall.
Hoping to avoid the craziness, I announced to no one in particular, "I am going outside to smoke."
Shaggy darted between me and the door, beating me outside.
"I'm gonna...get a...gun," he says when the door closes behind us, "I gotta...get...the right one...can't be too big...or otherwise..." He trails off, fixated on the Marlboro between my fingers. "Could I...uh...get a drag off your cigarette?"
"No, you cannot. But I will get you your own cigarette." I rested my smoke on the windowsill and went back inside to get him one. "Bill, that sumbitch has no concept of appropriate behavior. He just asked me if he could have a drag off my cigarette."
"He asked you what," Mrs. Fox shouted, outraged at the idea.
"I knew that poor bastard was crazy," said Cowboy Bill. "He just looks funny."
I walked outside and handed Shaggy a cigarette, disappointed to realize that he planned to sit beside me on the bench while he smoked it.
"I...was born and raised...outside Houston...my grandma died...of lung cancer." He waved the cigarette with a lazy hand to emphasize the cancer. "My parents...they're dying...of lung cancer." He used the cigarette as a pointer, marking the medical oxygen clinic across the street. "...they're getting their tanks...refilled. Sposed ta quit this...just...smelled so good." He stared at the sun, puzzled during his pauses, looking for words in the sky.
"I can't say they smell good, that's why I plan to quit smoking on Monday."
"Right on...you can do it...I try to kill the craving...I eat tons of ice cream." He grabbed his belly in both hands, squeezed it and flopped it up and down. "I'm such a fatass."
I heard someone tapping on the window behind me, and turned to see Cowboy Bill on a step-ladder, tongue hanging out of his mouth, circling his finger around his ear in, the elementary school signal for crazy. Then, he pointed his finger at me, and laughed. Shaggy was not deterred.
"I try to eat as much ice cream as possible...to keep my...sanity...this is my first cigarette in awhile...WHOO! I am light headed."
"Alright," I said, "you have a good day. I'm going back to work."
I walked in the shop to a chorus of "you made a new friend" from Bill.
"Yeah that guy is definitely a weirdo, and now he'll probably be here every day." I looked out the window to see if he was still lurking outside and was surprised to see Shaggy's feet in the air, feebly kicking. "Is that sumbitch laying down in the parking lot?"
"Yes he is," said Mrs. Fox, "and he's right behind my car, blocking my exit."
"It appears that he is doing the bicycle," Mr. Fox added.
"Well, did he fall down, or do you think he just likes rolling around on the ground?"
"I'm not sure, but I'm going to watch this," and Cowboy Bill went outside and leaned on the trunk of Mr. Fox's Toyota.
Shaggy rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled 15 feet to catch his wayward visor. Bill made no move to help, never even uncrossed his arms when Shaggy stumbled to his feet and wandered up the tree lined sidewalk. He just stood and watched long after the hippie had disappeared from my sight..
"What the hell happened," I asked when Bill came back inside.
"Poor stoned bastard wandered into the street and almost got hit by a truck. I thought, 'Oh shit, here comes the end for this nutjob,' but he wandered back onto the sidewalk at the last second. I was kinda disappointed."
"Can I help you," Bill asked, hitching up his pants and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, rocking back on his boot heels, his authority pose.
"No thanks," Shaggy answered in a breathy, high-pitched voice, "I'm just looking."
Bill stared at him, and Shaggy continued to look at the guns from a distance and fidget in his skin. An air of tension built while we all waited for the crazy shoe to fall.
Hoping to avoid the craziness, I announced to no one in particular, "I am going outside to smoke."
Shaggy darted between me and the door, beating me outside.
"I'm gonna...get a...gun," he says when the door closes behind us, "I gotta...get...the right one...can't be too big...or otherwise..." He trails off, fixated on the Marlboro between my fingers. "Could I...uh...get a drag off your cigarette?"
"No, you cannot. But I will get you your own cigarette." I rested my smoke on the windowsill and went back inside to get him one. "Bill, that sumbitch has no concept of appropriate behavior. He just asked me if he could have a drag off my cigarette."
"He asked you what," Mrs. Fox shouted, outraged at the idea.
"I knew that poor bastard was crazy," said Cowboy Bill. "He just looks funny."
I walked outside and handed Shaggy a cigarette, disappointed to realize that he planned to sit beside me on the bench while he smoked it.
"I...was born and raised...outside Houston...my grandma died...of lung cancer." He waved the cigarette with a lazy hand to emphasize the cancer. "My parents...they're dying...of lung cancer." He used the cigarette as a pointer, marking the medical oxygen clinic across the street. "...they're getting their tanks...refilled. Sposed ta quit this...just...smelled so good." He stared at the sun, puzzled during his pauses, looking for words in the sky.
"I can't say they smell good, that's why I plan to quit smoking on Monday."
"Right on...you can do it...I try to kill the craving...I eat tons of ice cream." He grabbed his belly in both hands, squeezed it and flopped it up and down. "I'm such a fatass."
I heard someone tapping on the window behind me, and turned to see Cowboy Bill on a step-ladder, tongue hanging out of his mouth, circling his finger around his ear in, the elementary school signal for crazy. Then, he pointed his finger at me, and laughed. Shaggy was not deterred.
"I try to eat as much ice cream as possible...to keep my...sanity...this is my first cigarette in awhile...WHOO! I am light headed."
"Alright," I said, "you have a good day. I'm going back to work."
I walked in the shop to a chorus of "you made a new friend" from Bill.
"Yeah that guy is definitely a weirdo, and now he'll probably be here every day." I looked out the window to see if he was still lurking outside and was surprised to see Shaggy's feet in the air, feebly kicking. "Is that sumbitch laying down in the parking lot?"
"Yes he is," said Mrs. Fox, "and he's right behind my car, blocking my exit."
"It appears that he is doing the bicycle," Mr. Fox added.
"Well, did he fall down, or do you think he just likes rolling around on the ground?"
"I'm not sure, but I'm going to watch this," and Cowboy Bill went outside and leaned on the trunk of Mr. Fox's Toyota.
Shaggy rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled 15 feet to catch his wayward visor. Bill made no move to help, never even uncrossed his arms when Shaggy stumbled to his feet and wandered up the tree lined sidewalk. He just stood and watched long after the hippie had disappeared from my sight..
"What the hell happened," I asked when Bill came back inside.
"Poor stoned bastard wandered into the street and almost got hit by a truck. I thought, 'Oh shit, here comes the end for this nutjob,' but he wandered back onto the sidewalk at the last second. I was kinda disappointed."
farmer magician.
I was making polite conversation with the overall clad farmer buying discount tools. We started with, "this rain sure has been nice," moved on to, "it's hard to pass up half price tools", and has just gotten warmed up on, "isn't it crazy that you can't find ammo anywhere," when the farmer showed me his magic coin.
"Betcha never seen a coin like this before, no matter how many times I flip it, it comes up heads."
He demonstrated several times, launching him into a five minute run of coin tricks, including pulling it out from behind my ear, before finally making it vanish completely. Then he bid me good day and went on his way.
That farmer magician is my new hero.
"Betcha never seen a coin like this before, no matter how many times I flip it, it comes up heads."
He demonstrated several times, launching him into a five minute run of coin tricks, including pulling it out from behind my ear, before finally making it vanish completely. Then he bid me good day and went on his way.
That farmer magician is my new hero.
Lady Pit Bull and a COCK FIGHT!
Lady Pit Bull and a COCK FIGHT!
To Be Followed Shortly By a Plague of Locusts
10:30 a.m.
I heard a voice when I went outside to smoke, but it was hollerin' in a foreign language. I thought it might be Sebastian, hanging out in between our building and the statuary store next door. 'Cept the voice seemed to be speakin' in tongues, or "God's special language" as the Pentecostals like to call it, and that wasn't Sebastian's style. He preferred to pace the sidewalks, yellin' "MOTHERFUCKER!" and "COCKSUCKER!" at the sky and passing automobiles. I decided this voice must belong to a whole new crazy. Crazy X.
11:57 a.m.
The skinny girl with hollowed eye sockets stood behind her shotgun buying boyfriend, shifting from foot to foot, chewing on a hangnail.
"I'm thirsty," she said, "but my drink is in the car, and I don't want go out there with that crazy guy yellin'."
"Is he still out there," I asked, still working on the background paperwork for shotgun boyfriend.
"Yeah, he's just sittin' on the porch, yellin' something. He's weird."
I thought about calling the cops to run him off, but decided it sounded like an awful lot of hassle for some crazed hollerin', so I left it alone.
12:25p.m. Let's Break for a Cock Fight!
The Mexican told me in broken English that he thought the watch was too expensive, so I took it back and bent to return it to the locked case. Then I noticed that his baseball cap had a large embroidered rooster, and the bill had words on the brim. Closer inspection revealed that the words were "COCK FIGHT!" There in the corner, on both sides, all caps and exclamation point. When he turned around to look at guitars, I realized that the adjustable band on the back of the cap bore the same "COCK FIGHT!" slogan.
I concluded that I just met a gentleman that appreciates hisself a COCK FIGHT!
1:05 p.m.
"D'ya know ya got a new neighbor," Grumpy Old Man asked when he settled his formidable ass on his favorite stool.
"He still out there?"
"Yeah, just sittin' on their front porch over there, hollerin' and barking."
"He's barking? That's fucking weird. Should I call the cops? That's the kinda crazy I try not to fuck with."
"He ain't botherin' me none," Grumpy said, "long as he don't walk up to me or nothin' when I get in my car. Far as I'm concerned, that sumbitch can set over there and bark all he wants."
............
1:45 p.m.....
I went outside to smoke and look menacing to any last minute shoppers, and I heard barking. I looked over and put eyes on Crazy X for the first time, sitting next to the rhino statue next door. I thought he might be holding a salami under his t-shirt, till I realized the he had tits that had dropped down to see what was happening in his belly button, so he must be a she. Round about the time I'd puzzled that out, a late model SUV glided into the parking lot to ask Crazy X the price of the bronze horse. All the yuppies want that statue, least until they find out it's fourteen grand.
"Scuse me," said the blonde with giant sunglasses in the passenger seat. "How much is that horse?"
"THEY DON'T BE HERE RIGHT NOW!" Crazy X had a voice like a pit bull. "I TAKE THE BUS! THEY DON'T BE HERE RIGHT NOW! ROOROOROOROOROOROO!" Foam flew from her mouth with every ferocious bark, and the blonde never said another word, just looked straight ahead while she rolled up her window and they sped down the street, putting distance between them and Lady Pit bull.
I laughed until I 'bout busted my guts. I'm so glad I didn't call the cops.
To Be Followed Shortly By a Plague of Locusts
10:30 a.m.
I heard a voice when I went outside to smoke, but it was hollerin' in a foreign language. I thought it might be Sebastian, hanging out in between our building and the statuary store next door. 'Cept the voice seemed to be speakin' in tongues, or "God's special language" as the Pentecostals like to call it, and that wasn't Sebastian's style. He preferred to pace the sidewalks, yellin' "MOTHERFUCKER!" and "COCKSUCKER!" at the sky and passing automobiles. I decided this voice must belong to a whole new crazy. Crazy X.
11:57 a.m.
The skinny girl with hollowed eye sockets stood behind her shotgun buying boyfriend, shifting from foot to foot, chewing on a hangnail.
"I'm thirsty," she said, "but my drink is in the car, and I don't want go out there with that crazy guy yellin'."
"Is he still out there," I asked, still working on the background paperwork for shotgun boyfriend.
"Yeah, he's just sittin' on the porch, yellin' something. He's weird."
I thought about calling the cops to run him off, but decided it sounded like an awful lot of hassle for some crazed hollerin', so I left it alone.
12:25p.m. Let's Break for a Cock Fight!
The Mexican told me in broken English that he thought the watch was too expensive, so I took it back and bent to return it to the locked case. Then I noticed that his baseball cap had a large embroidered rooster, and the bill had words on the brim. Closer inspection revealed that the words were "COCK FIGHT!" There in the corner, on both sides, all caps and exclamation point. When he turned around to look at guitars, I realized that the adjustable band on the back of the cap bore the same "COCK FIGHT!" slogan.
I concluded that I just met a gentleman that appreciates hisself a COCK FIGHT!
1:05 p.m.
"D'ya know ya got a new neighbor," Grumpy Old Man asked when he settled his formidable ass on his favorite stool.
"He still out there?"
"Yeah, just sittin' on their front porch over there, hollerin' and barking."
"He's barking? That's fucking weird. Should I call the cops? That's the kinda crazy I try not to fuck with."
"He ain't botherin' me none," Grumpy said, "long as he don't walk up to me or nothin' when I get in my car. Far as I'm concerned, that sumbitch can set over there and bark all he wants."
............
1:45 p.m.....
I went outside to smoke and look menacing to any last minute shoppers, and I heard barking. I looked over and put eyes on Crazy X for the first time, sitting next to the rhino statue next door. I thought he might be holding a salami under his t-shirt, till I realized the he had tits that had dropped down to see what was happening in his belly button, so he must be a she. Round about the time I'd puzzled that out, a late model SUV glided into the parking lot to ask Crazy X the price of the bronze horse. All the yuppies want that statue, least until they find out it's fourteen grand.
"Scuse me," said the blonde with giant sunglasses in the passenger seat. "How much is that horse?"
"THEY DON'T BE HERE RIGHT NOW!" Crazy X had a voice like a pit bull. "I TAKE THE BUS! THEY DON'T BE HERE RIGHT NOW! ROOROOROOROOROOROO!" Foam flew from her mouth with every ferocious bark, and the blonde never said another word, just looked straight ahead while she rolled up her window and they sped down the street, putting distance between them and Lady Pit bull.
I laughed until I 'bout busted my guts. I'm so glad I didn't call the cops.
I'm disappointed that he didn't strip like the guys I see under the influence of PCP on C.O.P.S
I was standing in front of the pawnshop microwave, watching my Bar-S Franks spin in a circle when I heard the "BANGCLANK!" outside. I looked out the tool room window and saw a sweaty black face with bulging eyes looking back. He was clutching his arm close to his chest, bobbing and weaving in the parking lot, looking behind him all the time.
I put some spicy brown on my franks and sat down to eat. Aunt Cheryl was on the phone with Grandma, asking about her trip when the sweaty black face ran through the front door.
"Please help me! They shootin' at me, tryin' to kill me! I've been shot! Call 911! My name Percy Lloyd Campbell Jr. the Fourth, and they said I was a molester but they wouldn't tell me nothin' about it ANDNOWTHEYSHOOTINATME!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Mom, I better let you go, everything is fine, but I've got to call 911." She hung up and looked Percy Lloyd Campbell Jr. the Fourth in the eyes. "Hon, who's shootin' at you?"
"EVERYBODY! THEY KNOCKED ME OFF THAT HORSE! SHOT ME IN THE ARM! CALL 911!" Percy ran to the back of the shop at full tilt, bobbing and weaving the whole time.
Tom came out of his office, hand on the pistol in his pocket. Cheryl walked between Tom and Percy, locked eyes with Percy. "Hon, you're gonna hafta calm down. You can't be runnin' around in here. I'm callin' 911 right now, but I need you to come up front and sit down."
"I CAIN'T! THEY'LL SHOOT ME THROUGH THE WINDOW!"
Cheryl got him in a chair, and called 911. The dispatcher figured out we had a crazy on our hands right quick. "We got a 10-96 down at Cheryl's pawnshop guys, better hustle. Cheryl, stay on line with me until they get there."
A Pentecostal family wandered in to compare pistols just as Percy decided that our novelty hand-grenade "complaint department" was an immediate threat and repeated his bob and weave dash to the opposite corner, yellin' "OH JESUS! I DON'T WANNA GET BLOWED UP!"
"It's not always like this in here," I said to the Pentecostals, "and the police are on their way, and as long as you don't point the laser grip his direction, I think we're all cool."
"THEY SHOT ME OFF MY HORSE! I BROKE MY ARM!"
"What horse are you talkin' about Percy? The horse next door," Cheryl asked.
Percy nodded and clutched his arm tighter to his chest, sucked air through his teeth to demonstrate his agony. Cheryl walked next door to investigate. She came back holding a bronze ear aloft for everyone to see.
"He knocked that eight-thousand dollar horse statue over, broke it's ear off," she announced to the shop. "Percy! What happened to the horse?"
"I PUNCHED IT AND IT FELL OVER! I WANT TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL! IT BROKE MY ARM!"
The parking lot soon filled up with black and whites and a lonely ambulance. The EMT pressed on Percy's arm and determined that he had not been shot, and all the bones were intact.The head officer had met Percy before, knew him well enough to know his real name was Langston.
"Langston, did you dip your cigarette in PCP!"
"YEAH MAN!"
"What did I tell you about that stuff," the officer asked, not waiting for an answer. "Langston, did you knock that horse over?"
"YEAH I DID! Say officer, why don't you give me a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke. Stand up for me, nice and slow, put your hands behind your back."
"I WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND YOU BETTER GIVE ME A CIGARETTE!"
"I told you, I don't smoke," the officer said, cuffing him. As he led him to the squad car he said, "You're going to the hospital, and back to the county jail."
When they were gone, everyone stood around and rehashed their favorite Percy moments. A different dispatcher called to find out why we didn't shoot him. I sold the Pentecostals a gun, then made a fresh pot of coffee.
I put some spicy brown on my franks and sat down to eat. Aunt Cheryl was on the phone with Grandma, asking about her trip when the sweaty black face ran through the front door.
"Please help me! They shootin' at me, tryin' to kill me! I've been shot! Call 911! My name Percy Lloyd Campbell Jr. the Fourth, and they said I was a molester but they wouldn't tell me nothin' about it ANDNOWTHEYSHOOTINATME!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Mom, I better let you go, everything is fine, but I've got to call 911." She hung up and looked Percy Lloyd Campbell Jr. the Fourth in the eyes. "Hon, who's shootin' at you?"
"EVERYBODY! THEY KNOCKED ME OFF THAT HORSE! SHOT ME IN THE ARM! CALL 911!" Percy ran to the back of the shop at full tilt, bobbing and weaving the whole time.
Tom came out of his office, hand on the pistol in his pocket. Cheryl walked between Tom and Percy, locked eyes with Percy. "Hon, you're gonna hafta calm down. You can't be runnin' around in here. I'm callin' 911 right now, but I need you to come up front and sit down."
"I CAIN'T! THEY'LL SHOOT ME THROUGH THE WINDOW!"
Cheryl got him in a chair, and called 911. The dispatcher figured out we had a crazy on our hands right quick. "We got a 10-96 down at Cheryl's pawnshop guys, better hustle. Cheryl, stay on line with me until they get there."
A Pentecostal family wandered in to compare pistols just as Percy decided that our novelty hand-grenade "complaint department" was an immediate threat and repeated his bob and weave dash to the opposite corner, yellin' "OH JESUS! I DON'T WANNA GET BLOWED UP!"
"It's not always like this in here," I said to the Pentecostals, "and the police are on their way, and as long as you don't point the laser grip his direction, I think we're all cool."
"THEY SHOT ME OFF MY HORSE! I BROKE MY ARM!"
"What horse are you talkin' about Percy? The horse next door," Cheryl asked.
Percy nodded and clutched his arm tighter to his chest, sucked air through his teeth to demonstrate his agony. Cheryl walked next door to investigate. She came back holding a bronze ear aloft for everyone to see.
"He knocked that eight-thousand dollar horse statue over, broke it's ear off," she announced to the shop. "Percy! What happened to the horse?"
"I PUNCHED IT AND IT FELL OVER! I WANT TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL! IT BROKE MY ARM!"
The parking lot soon filled up with black and whites and a lonely ambulance. The EMT pressed on Percy's arm and determined that he had not been shot, and all the bones were intact.The head officer had met Percy before, knew him well enough to know his real name was Langston.
"Langston, did you dip your cigarette in PCP!"
"YEAH MAN!"
"What did I tell you about that stuff," the officer asked, not waiting for an answer. "Langston, did you knock that horse over?"
"YEAH I DID! Say officer, why don't you give me a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke. Stand up for me, nice and slow, put your hands behind your back."
"I WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND YOU BETTER GIVE ME A CIGARETTE!"
"I told you, I don't smoke," the officer said, cuffing him. As he led him to the squad car he said, "You're going to the hospital, and back to the county jail."
When they were gone, everyone stood around and rehashed their favorite Percy moments. A different dispatcher called to find out why we didn't shoot him. I sold the Pentecostals a gun, then made a fresh pot of coffee.
Your gun girlfriend
I get it guys, I really do. Your special lady doesn't care if you go with the AK-47 with milled receiver or the Bushmaster AR chambered in 6.8mm. Her eyes don't light up like mine do when waxing poetic about the benefits of Crimson Trace laser grips or why you really should spend the extra ten bucks to get those hot little Hornady Critical Defense rounds for your carry pistol. She doesn't understand the thrill of hitting the target dead center with your Colt .38 Super at 75 yards, or why the smell of gunpowder gets you all riled up. And she certainly can't disassemble and clean your 1911 like I can. In fact, she thinks it's stupid to spend $600 on that Leupold scope with the Boone & Crockett reticle.
So I'm your gun girlfriend. You hang around the shop, talking guns with me for hours, and sometimes you look down my shirt, or hug me a little too long. I can live with these things, for a fee. See, it's not you I'm in love with, it's your firepower. That's why I'm gonna hafta start charging you by the hour for my gun girlfriend services. We can still do all the things we did before, like compare the ballistics of the .257 Roberts vs. the .257 Weatherby, or debate whether or not you should pony up the cash to get that trigger job you want for your Glock, you're just gonna pay me to do it. What I'm trying to say is, my services are no longer free boys.
So I'm your gun girlfriend. You hang around the shop, talking guns with me for hours, and sometimes you look down my shirt, or hug me a little too long. I can live with these things, for a fee. See, it's not you I'm in love with, it's your firepower. That's why I'm gonna hafta start charging you by the hour for my gun girlfriend services. We can still do all the things we did before, like compare the ballistics of the .257 Roberts vs. the .257 Weatherby, or debate whether or not you should pony up the cash to get that trigger job you want for your Glock, you're just gonna pay me to do it. What I'm trying to say is, my services are no longer free boys.
It was a fat drunk guy with his junk hangin' out
We were leaving the pawn shop last night, rehashing our day. We rounded the curve by the inappropriately named "Lucky Stop" when we heard a crunch and saw sparks from the transformer shoot into the sky. The light pole fell over, live wires falling on the hood of the truck that just hit it. Aunt Cheryl whipped her car onto the side street and handed me her cell phone before jumping out of the car to render aid.
"Call 911, tell 'em we've got live wires down," she yelled over her shoulder.
A crowd of folks gathered around the wreck, all hoping to be a hero. 911 promised that help was on the way. That didn't stop the shirtless white guy with the necktoo from kicking out the passenger side window.
"We've gotta get him out, the cab is filling with smoke!"
"Watch out for those live wires!"
They pulled a fat black man from the wreckage. The force of the impact knocked him out of his pants, and his junk was hanging out.
"Oh my god, that's Pookie," screamed a skinny black girl. She grabbed his face, whipping it back and forth. "Pookie! Pookie! Is you okay? Wait a minute...that ain't Pookie." She began to tug at his pants furiously, trying to bring them up to a modest level.
"Hon, we don't know if he has a broken neck or back, we need to just get him on the ground."
"But his junk is showing," the skinny black girl replied.
"The EMT's have seen junk before. We just need to stabilize him until help gets here."
The fat drunk guy was laying on the ground, his face covered in a shit eating grin. "I can't feel a thing," he said.
"I'm not surprised," Aunt Cheryl told me, "he smells like a brewery. If he's alright, he's going to jail tonight."
"Call 911, tell 'em we've got live wires down," she yelled over her shoulder.
A crowd of folks gathered around the wreck, all hoping to be a hero. 911 promised that help was on the way. That didn't stop the shirtless white guy with the necktoo from kicking out the passenger side window.
"We've gotta get him out, the cab is filling with smoke!"
"Watch out for those live wires!"
They pulled a fat black man from the wreckage. The force of the impact knocked him out of his pants, and his junk was hanging out.
"Oh my god, that's Pookie," screamed a skinny black girl. She grabbed his face, whipping it back and forth. "Pookie! Pookie! Is you okay? Wait a minute...that ain't Pookie." She began to tug at his pants furiously, trying to bring them up to a modest level.
"Hon, we don't know if he has a broken neck or back, we need to just get him on the ground."
"But his junk is showing," the skinny black girl replied.
"The EMT's have seen junk before. We just need to stabilize him until help gets here."
The fat drunk guy was laying on the ground, his face covered in a shit eating grin. "I can't feel a thing," he said.
"I'm not surprised," Aunt Cheryl told me, "he smells like a brewery. If he's alright, he's going to jail tonight."
The end of fake Pookie's story, as told in the local newspaper
I found this on the Nacogdoches Daily Sentinel website. Seems like Fake Pookie had some adventure left in him after we left....
Driving while intoxicated and possession of a controlled substance, 1100 block of Spokane Street. The driver of a vehicle involved in a rollover accident became combative while en route to the hospital and jumped out of the ambulance and began to run down South Fredonia Street. The driver was located and found to have Hydrocodone and suspected PCP drugs. He was arrested.
Driving while intoxicated and possession of a controlled substance, 1100 block of Spokane Street. The driver of a vehicle involved in a rollover accident became combative while en route to the hospital and jumped out of the ambulance and began to run down South Fredonia Street. The driver was located and found to have Hydrocodone and suspected PCP drugs. He was arrested.
Did I mention Larry Knows 47 Ways To Kill You?
The pothole in the handicap parking space had expanded to stock pot size when the spring rains came. The water mixed with the red Texas dirt at the bottom of the hole, and became a soupy mess that made me think of chile con carne. While I smoked, I watched old lady jewelry customers climb out of Oldsmobile’s and Buicks and narrowly avoid broken hips and stained pant suits.
Aunt Cheryl refused to fill the hole or pay to repave the parking lot because the city promised to pay for it five years ago, on account of the water main they busted being the reason the parking lot is cracked and buckled in the first place. And the land lord wouldn't pay for it either, because he refused to pay for most repairs, including the leaky roof that made the ceiling sag in the tool room. The landlord was a sorry bastard that looked like Kenny Loggins in tiny white tennis shorts. He was considered to be a crook by most, but those same folks agreed that he was not as crooked as his daddy, a man universally despised by everyone that knew him. It was also said that the landlord's daddy's coffin had been pissed on by half of ..East Texas.., ‘cause the folks he ripped off in life took their satisfaction when he died. But I wander....
I noticed it for the first time during my after lunch cigarette break. The handicap pothole was full of concrete chunks. Actually half of the pothole was filled in with concrete chunks, piled willy nilly, sharp points aimed at the sky. The right side was empty, and looked deeper by comparison.
"Cheryl? Are you filling in the pothole?"
"No, but I saw that. I wonder who did it. I can tell you one thing...it sure as shit wasn't the landlord or the city."
"Well that's just weird. But really nice. We have a mystery samaritan!"
The samaritan brought more concrete chunks the following week, working under the cover of night. The pothole had been transformed from a chili pot to a miniature mountain that the college boys in 4x4's were afraid to drive over. People preferred to park with the ass-end of their automobile hanging out on Main Street rather than drive over the repaired hole.
"Cheryl, did you notice that they finished filling in the pothole? It looks a little haphazard."
"Yeah, I'm hoping that the samaritan isn't finished yet. Who do you think it is?"
"I thought about it, and I suspect it might be Chuck. He's over road & bridge crew now, and it seems like something he would do."
"You think so? I think that if anybody is filling our pothole anonymously, it would be Larry."
A week later, I noticed the parking lot as soon as Eric dropped me off at work.
"Holy shit! The samaritan finished the job. Look at that! Shit is perfect!"
I jumped out of the car to inspect it. The hunks of concrete were level, invisible, hidden under a dense layer of small rocks and tar, even with the surrounding pavement. I felt bad for doubting the samaritan. He was clearly a man that took pride in a job well done.
Cheryl was also impressed with the quality of the work, and further convinced that Larry had done it.
"I'm gonna ask him the next time we see him, and I bet you money it was that man."
It took two days of waiting before Larry made his appearance. He pulled his battered Blazer, the one with bullet proof seats, into the refurbished handicap spot, and shuffled into the building.
"Hey everbody! How ya'll been doin'?"
We greeted him, allowed that we'd all been pretty good, and asked him the same. He told us about the hotel, said they were moving him from days to nights, said his kids were growing so fast, and he'd taken up riding motorcycles for fun again. And he was pretty close to being finished with the rifle he'd been working on, building it from a Mauser action manufactured by Winchester, and was planning on buying himself a nice long distance scope. He believed it was gonna be a mighty fine shooting gun, and pulled a paper target from his shirt pocket and pointed at the 1 ½ inch shot group. I took my opportunity when he paused for breath.
"Cheryl, did you ask Larry about the hole?"
"No," she said. "Larry, did you fill in our hole?"
"What hole," Larry asked, avoiding eye contact.
"The hole in my parking lot."
"What about it?"
"Did...you...fill...it...Larry?"
Larry looked at me, attempted the face of an innocent school boy. "Whoever filled that hole in did a good job. They took their time and did things right. Have you seen that hole? It looks like it's been professionally filled."
"I know that Larry," Aunt Cheryl said. "Was it you that did such a good job filling in that hole Larry?"
Larry threw back his head and belly laughed at the saggy ceiling, slapped his thigh in celebration.
"I bet ya'll were going crazy, trying to figure out who was filling in your pot hole. I'd come by every couple of days, in the evenings. I just did a little bit at a time!"
He laughed more and tears streamed down his cheeks. "I wish I coulda been a fly on the wall and heard ya'll trying to figure it out. ‘Who in the world?...Who is filling that hole in?’ I bet it was so funny! Ya know why I did it? Back in the late eighties when I still had my liquor store, I had a big ole pothole like that. One day I came to work and noticed somebody had put bricks in my hole. And every night, they’d add a little more, and it was drivin’ me crazy tryin’ to figure out who was doin’ it. Finally, this guy dropped by, started asking me questions about my hole. I knew something was up, so I asked him, ‘Did you fill my hole?’ He started laughin’, and said he drove a truck, delivering bricks. At the end of the night, he’d have left over broken bricks, so he found a place to put ‘em, my hole. So, when I noticed your hole, and then my neighbor had his drive-way re-rocked and I realized that they put a dangerous amount of rock on that drive-way. I didn’t want my neighbor to skid, so I found a hole and put his extra rocks in it. See ya’ll later!”
Aunt Cheryl refused to fill the hole or pay to repave the parking lot because the city promised to pay for it five years ago, on account of the water main they busted being the reason the parking lot is cracked and buckled in the first place. And the land lord wouldn't pay for it either, because he refused to pay for most repairs, including the leaky roof that made the ceiling sag in the tool room. The landlord was a sorry bastard that looked like Kenny Loggins in tiny white tennis shorts. He was considered to be a crook by most, but those same folks agreed that he was not as crooked as his daddy, a man universally despised by everyone that knew him. It was also said that the landlord's daddy's coffin had been pissed on by half of ..East Texas.., ‘cause the folks he ripped off in life took their satisfaction when he died. But I wander....
I noticed it for the first time during my after lunch cigarette break. The handicap pothole was full of concrete chunks. Actually half of the pothole was filled in with concrete chunks, piled willy nilly, sharp points aimed at the sky. The right side was empty, and looked deeper by comparison.
"Cheryl? Are you filling in the pothole?"
"No, but I saw that. I wonder who did it. I can tell you one thing...it sure as shit wasn't the landlord or the city."
"Well that's just weird. But really nice. We have a mystery samaritan!"
The samaritan brought more concrete chunks the following week, working under the cover of night. The pothole had been transformed from a chili pot to a miniature mountain that the college boys in 4x4's were afraid to drive over. People preferred to park with the ass-end of their automobile hanging out on Main Street rather than drive over the repaired hole.
"Cheryl, did you notice that they finished filling in the pothole? It looks a little haphazard."
"Yeah, I'm hoping that the samaritan isn't finished yet. Who do you think it is?"
"I thought about it, and I suspect it might be Chuck. He's over road & bridge crew now, and it seems like something he would do."
"You think so? I think that if anybody is filling our pothole anonymously, it would be Larry."
A week later, I noticed the parking lot as soon as Eric dropped me off at work.
"Holy shit! The samaritan finished the job. Look at that! Shit is perfect!"
I jumped out of the car to inspect it. The hunks of concrete were level, invisible, hidden under a dense layer of small rocks and tar, even with the surrounding pavement. I felt bad for doubting the samaritan. He was clearly a man that took pride in a job well done.
Cheryl was also impressed with the quality of the work, and further convinced that Larry had done it.
"I'm gonna ask him the next time we see him, and I bet you money it was that man."
It took two days of waiting before Larry made his appearance. He pulled his battered Blazer, the one with bullet proof seats, into the refurbished handicap spot, and shuffled into the building.
"Hey everbody! How ya'll been doin'?"
We greeted him, allowed that we'd all been pretty good, and asked him the same. He told us about the hotel, said they were moving him from days to nights, said his kids were growing so fast, and he'd taken up riding motorcycles for fun again. And he was pretty close to being finished with the rifle he'd been working on, building it from a Mauser action manufactured by Winchester, and was planning on buying himself a nice long distance scope. He believed it was gonna be a mighty fine shooting gun, and pulled a paper target from his shirt pocket and pointed at the 1 ½ inch shot group. I took my opportunity when he paused for breath.
"Cheryl, did you ask Larry about the hole?"
"No," she said. "Larry, did you fill in our hole?"
"What hole," Larry asked, avoiding eye contact.
"The hole in my parking lot."
"What about it?"
"Did...you...fill...it...Larry?"
Larry looked at me, attempted the face of an innocent school boy. "Whoever filled that hole in did a good job. They took their time and did things right. Have you seen that hole? It looks like it's been professionally filled."
"I know that Larry," Aunt Cheryl said. "Was it you that did such a good job filling in that hole Larry?"
Larry threw back his head and belly laughed at the saggy ceiling, slapped his thigh in celebration.
"I bet ya'll were going crazy, trying to figure out who was filling in your pot hole. I'd come by every couple of days, in the evenings. I just did a little bit at a time!"
He laughed more and tears streamed down his cheeks. "I wish I coulda been a fly on the wall and heard ya'll trying to figure it out. ‘Who in the world?...Who is filling that hole in?’ I bet it was so funny! Ya know why I did it? Back in the late eighties when I still had my liquor store, I had a big ole pothole like that. One day I came to work and noticed somebody had put bricks in my hole. And every night, they’d add a little more, and it was drivin’ me crazy tryin’ to figure out who was doin’ it. Finally, this guy dropped by, started asking me questions about my hole. I knew something was up, so I asked him, ‘Did you fill my hole?’ He started laughin’, and said he drove a truck, delivering bricks. At the end of the night, he’d have left over broken bricks, so he found a place to put ‘em, my hole. So, when I noticed your hole, and then my neighbor had his drive-way re-rocked and I realized that they put a dangerous amount of rock on that drive-way. I didn’t want my neighbor to skid, so I found a hole and put his extra rocks in it. See ya’ll later!”
Lori.
Lori says that since
she took a bite out
of her boy's shoulder
and CPS took him away
she spends more money
on drugs to feel better
and she also says
that every twelve dollar
pint of vodka
does it's part.
And someone stole
her 42" tv
and the boy's PS3.
Police say it's drug related
and Lori agrees
that she'll have to buy
even more drugs now
to deal with the loss.
she took a bite out
of her boy's shoulder
and CPS took him away
she spends more money
on drugs to feel better
and she also says
that every twelve dollar
pint of vodka
does it's part.
And someone stole
her 42" tv
and the boy's PS3.
Police say it's drug related
and Lori agrees
that she'll have to buy
even more drugs now
to deal with the loss.
merry christmas from the pawnshop.
Royce Hardeman is about the nastiest sumbitch on God's green earth, with teeth as black as midnight in a coal mine, and crooked as gravestones in a churchyard. The rest of him ain't much better, as he has only passing acquaintance with his bathtub, and a nasty skinrash to boot. He smells like he might have been chainsmoking Camel filterless in a closet for the last thirty years, and he breathes heavy, like a locomotive going uphill. Which is why I am confused about why the cricket wasn't dislodged earlier.
Let me explain.
Yesterday, Royce came in to get his Enfield out of hock, and he was standing hunched over the paperwork, breathing heavy, with a look of savage concentration on his face. And that's when the head of a cricket flew out of his left nostril and fell on his 4473 form. Surely that's not what I saw, I was thinking, when a cricket leg came flying out of the same nostril and landed next to the head. And then another leg, and another.
I managed to avoid vomiting, but it was real questionable there for a second. Real questionable.
Let me explain.
Yesterday, Royce came in to get his Enfield out of hock, and he was standing hunched over the paperwork, breathing heavy, with a look of savage concentration on his face. And that's when the head of a cricket flew out of his left nostril and fell on his 4473 form. Surely that's not what I saw, I was thinking, when a cricket leg came flying out of the same nostril and landed next to the head. And then another leg, and another.
I managed to avoid vomiting, but it was real questionable there for a second. Real questionable.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
PAPPY.
Pappy busts through the door, hollerin' "Howya'lldoin'?"....
.. ..
The fringe on his leather vest trails him to the front counter. He locks eyes with me and clasps my hand in his. His fingers are rough.....
.. ..
"It's goodta seeya gurl."....
.. ..
I see that a pink Bic Daisy razor, clogged with grey stubble is about to fall from the pocket of his pearl-snap shirt. I squeeze his hands and say, "it's good to see you too Pappy. We've been worried about you. We wanted to go out to your place, but we were afraid you'd shoot us."....
.. ..
"Been upta Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter, closeta the VA hospital. I tole that doctor 'you tell me why I ain't dead gawd-damnit!' He couldn't tell me, so I left that gawd-damn town. I hate that Tyler. I come home, back to the woods, where I belong."....
.. ..
“I hate Tyler too Pappy. It's good to see ya. Cheryl is sure gonna be sorry she missed ya."....
.. ..
"I'm gonna sit down over yonder, drink a cuppa coffee."....
.. ..
Tom stands up from the bullshittin' table and pours Pappy a cup. ....
.. ..
“Sit down old man I'll get yer coffee."....
.. ..
"Thankya son." Pappy lowers himself into the chair with a grunt.....
.. ..
“Tell me whatya been up to Pappy. We ain't seen yer ass in six months."....
.. ..
"I been upta that gawd-damn Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter. I'm home now. Them gawd-damn VA doctors ain't worth a shit.” ....
.. ..
He tucks a wad of tobacco into his lower lip and spits into an empty styrofoam cup. Juice escapes the wrinkled corners of his mouth and he wipes it from his scruffy chin with the back of his hand, wipes his hand on his spit-stained jeans.....
.. ..
"Well," Tom asks, "is your son still robbin' ya blind, or did the Pen straighten him out?"....
.. ..
"Aw hell naw. He stole everything I got. Him an' that whore of his, took it all. I left 'em there so's they could take care of his mama. Little bastard. I done called the law. They gonna come ta call this afternoon."....
.. ..
"Fuck that," Tom says, "shoot that little dope-fiend sonuvabitch."....
.. ..
"I done kilt one man and buried him up on my place. One more cain't hurt. I'm ninety, what the hell they gonna do ta me?"....
.. ..
"That is true old man." Tom's belly shakes with laughter.....
.. ..
Pappy gets up and wobbles his way to the door. "It was good seein' ya'll. Gal, you take care a yerself. Tell Cheryl I said hello. I got ta take care of some bidness."....
.. ..
"I'll tell her Pappy. You be careful."....
.. ..
Pappy leaves, backs his car into the street without looking. A Budget Rental truck has to swerve to avoid him. They honk their horn, and Pappy shakes his fist at the driver, throws his head back and howls.
.. ..
The fringe on his leather vest trails him to the front counter. He locks eyes with me and clasps my hand in his. His fingers are rough.....
.. ..
"It's goodta seeya gurl."....
.. ..
I see that a pink Bic Daisy razor, clogged with grey stubble is about to fall from the pocket of his pearl-snap shirt. I squeeze his hands and say, "it's good to see you too Pappy. We've been worried about you. We wanted to go out to your place, but we were afraid you'd shoot us."....
.. ..
"Been upta Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter, closeta the VA hospital. I tole that doctor 'you tell me why I ain't dead gawd-damnit!' He couldn't tell me, so I left that gawd-damn town. I hate that Tyler. I come home, back to the woods, where I belong."....
.. ..
“I hate Tyler too Pappy. It's good to see ya. Cheryl is sure gonna be sorry she missed ya."....
.. ..
"I'm gonna sit down over yonder, drink a cuppa coffee."....
.. ..
Tom stands up from the bullshittin' table and pours Pappy a cup. ....
.. ..
“Sit down old man I'll get yer coffee."....
.. ..
"Thankya son." Pappy lowers himself into the chair with a grunt.....
.. ..
“Tell me whatya been up to Pappy. We ain't seen yer ass in six months."....
.. ..
"I been upta that gawd-damn Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter. I'm home now. Them gawd-damn VA doctors ain't worth a shit.” ....
.. ..
He tucks a wad of tobacco into his lower lip and spits into an empty styrofoam cup. Juice escapes the wrinkled corners of his mouth and he wipes it from his scruffy chin with the back of his hand, wipes his hand on his spit-stained jeans.....
.. ..
"Well," Tom asks, "is your son still robbin' ya blind, or did the Pen straighten him out?"....
.. ..
"Aw hell naw. He stole everything I got. Him an' that whore of his, took it all. I left 'em there so's they could take care of his mama. Little bastard. I done called the law. They gonna come ta call this afternoon."....
.. ..
"Fuck that," Tom says, "shoot that little dope-fiend sonuvabitch."....
.. ..
"I done kilt one man and buried him up on my place. One more cain't hurt. I'm ninety, what the hell they gonna do ta me?"....
.. ..
"That is true old man." Tom's belly shakes with laughter.....
.. ..
Pappy gets up and wobbles his way to the door. "It was good seein' ya'll. Gal, you take care a yerself. Tell Cheryl I said hello. I got ta take care of some bidness."....
.. ..
"I'll tell her Pappy. You be careful."....
.. ..
Pappy leaves, backs his car into the street without looking. A Budget Rental truck has to swerve to avoid him. They honk their horn, and Pappy shakes his fist at the driver, throws his head back and howls.
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