Jazz McCool: Cub Reporter

Last week, I got to thinking as I was walking to Margaret Ann’s regular Thursday night pizza and Parcheesi party about just how fortunate I was to be having my teenage boyhood years being frittered away in a small town, where everybody is a somebody, and not in some big city, where almost everybody is a nobody, which probably suits them just fine, of course, and will probably suit me just fine, too, when I get older and I can get out of this place, because, well, you know, who really likes having everyone and their cat sticking their nose into your private affairs all of the time.

But I never made it for pizza and Parcheesi that night; instead, the fickle finger of fate stepped in, and although one can never be absolutely certain about these things, I suspect the course of my life may have been altered in some not insignificant way.

Because I had wanted to check out the new baby blue Vespa I had heard was in Mr. Duffers’ Scooter Shop window, I was taking the longer route to Margaret Ann’s, through downtown. Passing by Mayor Wiggins’ House, I was startled from my meditations — about just how many mowed lawns it might take to earn enough greenbacks for a down payment on the Vespa — by the sudden appearance, not two feet in front of my face, of a foot, hanging down from one of the mayor’s large magnolia trees. And not just any old foot, mind you, but the unmistakable, black high-top sneakered with pink sock foot of one Jaz McCool: small town somebody extraordinaire, and cub reporter for the local rag — aged seventeen.

The unexpected eye-level appearance of one of Jaz’s lower appendages was followed by a muffled exclamation from above: “Oh, bumble bees! I’m stuck!”

“Jaz? Is that you, up there?” I asked.

“No, it’s not,” came the surprised reply.

“So, who is it then?”

“Well, who wants to know, anyway?” responded the foot’s voice.

“Chuck Smith.”

“Chuckie?! Is that you? Oh, thank goodness!”

“Not that it’s really any of my beeswax, of course, but, what on god’s green earth are you doing up there, Jaz!?”

“I’m on a story.”

“Looks to me like you’re on a tree limb, but, please, do go on.”

“Investigating a case of corruption, Chuck ... at the highest levels, I’m afraid.”

“Well, come on down. You can tell me all about it on the way to Margaret Ann’s.”

“No can do, Chuck. My foot’s caught in a crook, and, well, I might be in need of your assistance, actually.”

Ten minutes later, up in the tree myself, I was nearly ready to throw in the towel vis-a-vis my efforts to free our fair town’s newest member of the fourth estate from the magnolia, when a car pulled up and parked at the curb, just below us.

Jaz put a finger to her lips.

A man, wearing a dark trench coat, then exited the vehicle and headed for the mayor’s front door.

“That’s the same guy and the same car from last Friday afternoon!” exclaimed Jaz in a whisper.

“You’ve lost me there, Jaz,” said I.

“Shhh. I’ll explain later, Chuck.”

At the front door, about thirty feet away from our location in the magnolia, the Trench Coat rang the bell. A few moments later, Mayor Wiggins, himself, appeared on the threshold.

“What are you doing here?! I told you never to come to the house?!” cried the mayor, in barely hushed tones, as he nervously looked up and down the avenue.

“Sorry, but it’s an emergency,” said Mr. Trench Coat. “We’ve got a couple that, well, they were headed for Italy, to be with the family, if you know what I mean, but due to circumstances beyond their control, now, it’s gonna have to all go down stateside, this Saturday night.”

“Saturday? That doesn’t leave much time,” said the mayor.

“Do you think you can handle it?”

“I’ll have to,” said the mayor.

“Here’s all the pertinent info,” said the Trench Coat as he handed a folded note to the mayor.

“Okay. Meet me at three, Saturday afternoon, at the regular place. And bring the money, in cash!” demanded the mayor as he closed the door.

“Wow! He must really be in deep!” whispered Jaz into my ear.

Half an hour later, on a park bench across from the Stevenson County Daily Gazette, I listened as Jaz, sans one sneaker, brought me up to date on her investigative journalism.

“So, last Friday, my aunt Shirley was driving me over to Clarksville to stay with her family for the weekend ... it was my cousin’s birthday, you see ... and on the way, right before dark, just past the river, a short ways down a farm road, I saw the mayor, handing a large box over to Mr. Trench Coat. ’What’s that all about?’ I wondered; and so I had my aunt slow down so we could get a better look. Just as Mr. Trench Coat was giving the mayor this wad of cash, the mayor spots us and he gets this look on his face ... like he was scared, maybe ... and he jumps in his car and drives off … in a cloud of dust, you might say.”

“Got to be some reasonable explanation, Jaz.”

“Power corrupts, Chuck. Never forget that. Power corrupts!”

“What do you think might have been in the box?

“I doubt that it was body parts ... though I’m not ruling anything out.”

“Jeepers, Jaz!”

“In any case, it’s my duty to get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“I’d refer you to the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. Do you think the American republic could have survived this long without a press that was free to ferret out graft and corruption, whenever and wherever they stick out their ugly heads? ‘I’ ‘M’ ‘H’ ‘O.,’ Chuck ... No!”

It was arranged that on the coming Saturday afternoon I would drive Jaz (an old bicycle with fat tires being her only mode of personal transportation) out to the farm road — where her plan was to hide in the bush and take snaps of the mayor’s réunion secrete.

At noon on Saturday — prior to the ‘big event’ — I met Jaz at the Scooter Shop, as Mr. Duffers had promised me a test ride on the Vespa — a machine which turned out to be better than I could ever have imagined: pressed, painted steel unibody, cowling for the engine, a flat floorboard for foot protection and a shielded front from the wind.

Motorcycles are perfectly fine, if you’re out to impress, that is; but for me, it’s all about ‘Point A to Point B’ — and for that, you can’t beat a scooter.

After a jaunt on the Vespa through my neighborhood, I motored back to the Scooter Shop, where I let Jaz jump on the rear for a quick spin pour deux.

But before we could make it two blocks, she shouted into my ear: “Look, Chuck! It’s the mayor! He loading up a big box in the back seat of his car!

“What’s he doing? The meeting is not for another three hours!” I cried back.

“And now he’s driving off! Maybe there’s been a change in plans. We’ve got to follow him, Chuck!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll head back for Duffers’.”

“No time for that!” exclaimed Jaz, “We’ll need to use the Vespa!”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Well, you were going to eventually buy one, anyway. Listen, my granddad gives me U.S. Savings Bonds on my birthdays ... he says it’s the patriotic thing to do ... and I got maybe five hundred dollars’ worth. It’ll be enough for the down payment on the scooter. You can pay me back.”

The Operator’s Manual for the Vespa LX 150 allows for a maximum speed of sixty miles per hour, and we needed each and every one of those mph’s to just barely keep up with the mayor — who was obviously in a very big hurry.

Finally, as expected, he turned off the highway just past the river, onto the farm road; and I puttered a short way further before stopping.

“Back in a flash!” said the cub reporter as she took off in a run.

“Be careful, Jaz!”

“Careful is my middle name, Chuckie boy!”

Somehow, I doubted that.

Fifteen minutes later, as I sat against a tree researching ‘recommended Vespa tire pressures’ on my smart phone, I was suddenly grabbed by my shoulders from behind and pushed to the ground — to find myself being pinned down by someone whose knees were on my shoulders.

Then — amazingly — this person was kissing me!

“Jaz, what do you think you are doing!?” I cried, pushing her away.

“Sorry about that, Chuck,” said Jaz, letting go of me. “Mr. Trench Coat was driving by and I didn’t want him getting suspicious. C’mon, we need to follow him! He’s got the big box that the mayor gave to him.”

Speeding down the highway, I called back to Jaz, “You took some pictures, I hope.”

“Sure did! Plain as day! The mayor’s greedy, grubby paws, full of cash! Now there’s a headline for you!”

“Well, isn’t that enough? This guy could be headed for Timbuktu for all we know.”

“The pursuit of truth can never be a halfway endeavor, Chuck!”

Chase Rabbit number two seemed just as keen on peddle-to-the-metal as our mayor had been. Fortunately, he took the Clarksville turnoff, and soon enough we were in town — traveling at a speed more in line with God’s plan for humankind. Just past the town center, Mr. Trench Coat turned off the main drag and onto a side street. A couple of blocks later, he pulled into a small Catholic Church, where he parked amongst three dozen or so other cars.

Quickly, I pulled the Vespa behind a battered flatbed hay truck which gave Jaz and me an excellent view of the events that followed.

Upon exiting his vehicle, Mr. Trench Coat, (A), removed his outer garment, revealing a yellow polo shirt, tan slacks and penny loafers; (B), retrieved the big box from the back seat; and, (C), smilingly headed in the direction a nearby panel van — upon whose side was emblazoned: ‘Dora Lee’s Wedding and Catering Services.’

By the panel van’s opened rear, a middle-aged woman with big hair, presumably Dora Lee, stood offloading trays of canapés, and handing them to young, willing volunteers who were transporting said trays into the nearby ‘Church Fellowship Center’ — across whose front a long banner had been strung, upon which was printed: “Mazolli – Campbell Wedding Reception Here! 5PM.” Only the ‘5PM’ had been crossed out, and hand-painted beside it was ’2PM.”

Upon sighting the man formerly known as Mr. Trench Coat carrying the big box, Dora Lee became bubbly and moved to greet him, pecking his cheek.

“Hi Honey!” she said, “Looks like the cake was ready! Did you thank the mayor?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Polo Shirt, “and he laughed, Dora Lee, when I explained why it was that the wedding was had to be held earlier in the day than originally planned.”

Dora Lee: “Well, who would want their parents in Italy to have to get up at midnight to watch a live-stream of their daughter’s wedding?”

The next afternoon — out in the backyard hammock, listening to new age music, and working on a well-deserved ‘thoughtless state’ — I received an email from Jaz McCool:

Hi Chuck! Got your text, this morning. Sorry about your sore shoulder, I do hope you sleep better, tonight. Interesting how things sometimes turn out, innit?

BTW, I’m attaching a “column” I wrote last night … just for funzies, mind you … NOT FOR PUBLICATION … :-)

xxx ooo (please note ‘lower case’)

Jaz

P.S. Can you cut it out with the French phrases, already. This is America, you know, bub! :-).

The attachment read as follows:

Passionate about Passions, By Jaz McCool – City Desk

Those among us who are truly passionate about something are fortunate indeed. Whether it be fly-fishing, restoring antique cars, collecting fine wines, or even keeping chickens — passions keep us vital, give us a feeling of engagement, and make life more interesting.

Sadly, it has come to this reporter’s attention that a highly respected member of our community, and holder of high office, carries a sense of shame and embarrassment with regard to his own passion — absolute and insatiable — for the baking and the decorating of wedding cakes — for which his skills are purported to be unmatched in the six-county area.