Chapter 1
It was one of those times when I expected my cousin Saul to come along and shrug off something really intelligent from behind his stupid grin. Something obvious, something like, “What’cha doing down there, bud?” When it was obvious what I was doing.
I was crouching for my life.
Actually, a visit from Saul would have been real nice right about now. A visit from anyone, say, oh, I don’t know, how about a policeman? Yeah, that would be real nice.
More glass fell on top of my head. It was too bad I didn’t have more hair up there to soften the landing, but I had started losing my hair at the age of 16. I had never really cared for Sean Connery until he announced that he was never going to wear a toupee unless it was called for in a role. Then Ted Danson took off his rug, and Burt Reynolds. Suddenly, we men of thin hair were considered darn sexy. About time, too. If it had happened sooner, I might have cashed in on the fad and had a few flings, or at least quit thinking of myself as a hideous troll. It didn’t look like I was going to get that chance now.
I had always liked the counter I was crouched behind. It was one of the only redeeming qualities about my place of employment. Every night at approximately 10:45 pm, I would drive into the parking lot of the Diamond Oil gas station which sits where Highway 21 becomes North Main Street in the small town of Atmore, Alabama. The store has two islands of regular gas pumps, two pumps each. One super-unleaded, one super-super unleaded, and two regular unleadeds. There used to be one that contained lead, and my customized 1964 Ford Fairlane longed for those old, gone days.
The parking lot was small, half pavement and half gravel. The diesel pumps on the side, for the truckers, were on the gravel part beside the building. The pavement in front of the hut was swept clean by the time I got there if business was slow. Evidently, last night must have kicked.
We called the store itself The Hut because that was what it was. There was just enough room in it for the counter that held the cash register, the chair behind it, the rack of cigarettes over the chair, and a cooler across from my beloved counter for the soda, milk and juice. No beer. Thank God. As boring as the graveyard shift is, I might have been tempted to drink on the job, and if I were anything less than sober right now, I wouldn’t be here anymore. Oh, my body would be, but I’d be investigating this afterlife thing first hand. Mostly because the guy with the shiny, silver .38 revolver, yeah, he responsible for the glass on my head, still had at least two bullets in his gun, and he was all out of windows to shoot.
My poor cooler had been the first casualty. A lucky shot had hit its motor, silencing the chugging sound it makes forever. In the quiet that followed, I dove behind the counter, out of sight, and began collecting glass fragments with my head and shoulders. Since all of the windows were gone, they guy decided to shoot the door for a while. He shot it twice.
This was it! He was going to have to reload. Now was my chance to run like hell! I stood up. I sat back down. The guy had a second pistol. Hadn’t thought of that. At least I was able to get a good look at my upcoming killer. Now I would know who to haunt when I came back. The thought of being a ghost, lost, not knowing who to haunt was a miserable one. I saw myself floating around town, bumping into other ghosts and asking embarrassing questions. “Hey, have you seen the guy who killed me?” I’d ask. Perhaps my first ghost would be pale and fat. He would have died of food poisoning at the Samson's Catfish House and was haunting the cooks for revenge. He would be a fat ghost with bread crumbs on his white mustache. He’d look at me with empty eyes.
“I don’t know, what was his name?” he’d reply.
“I forgot to ask. He was busy riddling me with bullets. I didn’t want to bother him.”
“Can you describe him?” Other ghosts would be crowding around us because haunting can get boring after a while, I imagine. Maybe a good scavenger hunt or crowdsourcing assignment would be just the thing to give all of them a break from the monotony of eternity.
“He was 6’2”, 185 pounds, red hair, firm jaw, green eyes, close-shaved, sensitive lips, he was wearing Bugle Boy jeans, Puma basketball shoes, they looked like the kind that pump up, you know? And a green sweater with the sleeves torn off at the shoulder. He had powerful arms, was well-groomed, looked like he bathed regularly. And he wore braces. His teeth were kind of yellow, so he probably smokes Marlboro Reds and drinks a lot of coffee. And he was driving a Trans Am.”
“Oh, you mean that guy over there?” the fat ghost would ask, pointing behind me.
“Where?” I would shout and turn, only to find no one there. All my new ghost friends would start to giggle. The fat one would point a pudgy, white, dead finger at me that despite being dead was still jiggling with mirth.
“Made you look,” he would chortle.
Did you ever see that movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High? There’s a scene at the end where Judge Reinhold was working at a convenience store and was getting robbed. Judge saves himself by throwing a pot of hot coffee on the crook. My red-haired bandit must have seen that movie as well, because the first thing he shot after kicking open the remains of the door was the coffee pot.
There was only about four feet separating me and this madman with his pair of blazing guns. He whistled some Bon Jovi tune from the Young Guns soundtrack, maybe Young Guns II, I can’t be sure. I was about to try my idea again when he shot the corner of my counter. He was a smart one. He was reloading one pistol at a time. He shot the counter again, and I thought he was probably trying to see if he could scare me to the point that I’d lose control of my bowels, bladder or both. I was getting uncomfortably close, and so were his shoes.
I wondered if Saul was awake by now. I could sure use one of his stupid comments. And the shotgun he always keeps in his truck.
What to do, what to do, this waiting to die was actually beginning to bore me. If I hadn’t been so tired I might have been able to participate more in the proceedings, but I had been up for 36 hours and was nearly out of it. Yesterday after work I had driven Samantha Fox, a new girl in town, down to Pensacola Beach. Sam had a thin waist and a chest that was bigger than my own, and I lift weights and do a lot of push-ups. She also had a lovely pair of deep, bronze eyes, I think, not sure, the whole chest thing. I might be confusing her eyes with her nipples. Yesterday was our first date and she was pursuing this whole guy-who-loses-hair- prematurely-is-sexy thing, and I was letting her, but last night I had to return to work.
No sleep makes me sleepy. And the thought of facing my future ghost buddies without knowing the name of my killer along with the added humiliation of having fallen asleep during my own murder was unbearable.
“You fell asleep?” the fat one would moan, causing a bread crumb to fall from his astral lip.
“Yes.”
“How could you?”
“I was very tired.”
“You can’t haunt this man now, even if you find him.”
“Why not?”
“You didn’t see him do it. You can’t be sure. You can’t spook the wrong man to death. It just isn’t done.”
“Like he shot up the store, left, and somebody else came along who hates to see things left unfinished, and they killed me?”
“It could happen.”
“Well, maybe one of you saw him kill me.” I would turn to the assembled dead people. “Did anyone witness my murder? Did anyone see who did it? Come on, someone must have seen something.” Evidently these were all ghosts of yankees from New York who had come down to Alabama on vacation because they all stuck their hands in their pockets, looked at the ground and walked away.
I shook my head in order to lighten the load of slumber descending upon me. The Red Bandit was one step away from coming into view. There was his left Puma, right in front of me. I could hear him giggle. I had to do something. What? At least I didn’t have to worry about soiling my underwear, I had forgotten to wear any today.
The Red Bandit was about to reach the end of the counter. I didn’t want to think about what his future plans were, in fact, I didn’t want to think at all. I can’t help but think. My mind thinks at super speed, even when I’m asleep. I always remember all of my dreams, and they were all flashing before my eyes now, along with the rest of my life. I figured the dreams would be more fun than watching my actual life pass before my eyes. I raised my hands to my face so I could feel it one last time. That was when I realized that I was still holding my lucky Garfield pencil. Suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do, sort of.
The Garfield pencil and I have a long history. Shannon Bean, one of the liveliest persons I have ever met, had given it to me on my 21st birthday. I had kept it with me always for seven years, always sharp and ready, even though I hardly ever wrote anything with it. Actual writing would use up the pencil, and I couldn’t imagine reality without my Garfield pencil. If I lost it I could buy another one, but it wouldn’t be the same. It might look the same; a shortage of merchandise with Garfield and Odie making funny faces at each other is something the world is not suffering from. But Shannon had touched mine. I hated to sacrifice it, but it looked like it was either the pencil or me, and I wouldn’t need the pencil if there was no me. I’m pretty sure you can’t take a pencil with you into the afterlife. So I made my choice, the pencil, and I followed that decision with action.
“The caveman rose from concealment with a mighty roar!” Actually it was more of a squeak, but saying, “The store clerk sprang with the squeak of a mouse!” doesn’t convey the image I have in mind or probably even call for the use of an exclamation mark. The Red Bandit covered his face with an expression of glee as I stood up. He pointed one of his guns at me, the one in his left hand. It was bigger than the gun in his right hand. Did that mean that he was left-handed or just someone that never thought about symmetry?
I slapped the revolver away as he began to squeeze the trigger, and with another roar/squeak, I plunged the Garfield pencil into his left eye. This means that I am right-handed, and that I think about symmetry from time to time.
The Red Bandit’s roar was squeak free. It was pain-filled and tortured as he whipped his head away, snapping the Garfield pencil in two. I stared at the remains of my pencil. “You broke my pencil. This is what we do to scum who break our lucky pencils in Atmore, Alabama!” I yelled as I picked up the shattered remains of the coffee pot and smashed the back of his head with its jagged edge.
He dropped to the floor. I rolled him over and pointed one of his own guns at his face. I aimed at his one good eye and pulled the trigger. Click. Empty. So was the other pistol. I threw the gun, accidentally smashing his nose. Oops. “Now you see that? And I was on the verge of enjoying myself. Have you got any more bullets on you?” He shook his head no.
“Well, let me check. Maybe I’ve got another pencil down here somewhere. Providing you haven’t shot it.” I moved behind the counter. Self-preservation is a powerful force, as it had just made me attack an armed man, and it now made the Red Bandit rise and run out the door. I’ve never had to run with a pencil in one of my eyes but I am sure it is not a very pleasant experience.
Wait a minute. Both of his guns had been empty. That means I wasn’t in danger. I wasn’t a great candidate for an insurance policy, but I wasn’t doomed either. That means I sacrificed my Garfield pencil for nothing! I followed the Red Bandit outside with a real roar of anguish.
He was leaning through the passenger window of his black 1978 Trans Am and giggling. If I had thought about it, I might have found that odd, but I had other things on my mind. He whirled around, finished reloading his gun, snapped it closed, and pointed it at my left nipple.
“I’m going to kill you now,” he said when he wasn’t giggling.
“I thought you said you were out of bullets.”
“I said I didn’t have any on me.”
“Semanticist.”
“I’m not Jewish!” He cocked the weapon. I curled up on the pavement in order to make the smallest possible target that I could. Maybe he’d miss. I head the shot, it sounded tremendous for a hand-gun. I felt no pain. I looked up. The Red Bandit was moaning softly and staring at the spouting stump that had been his left hand. I looked to my right.
Safely ensconced behind his smoking 12 gauge shotgun, my cousin Saul said, “What’cha doing down there, bud?” I had never loved his stupid grin more.
“I’m cringing in abject terror. Can’t you tell?”
“Yep. You might want to get up and call the poh-lice.”
“The phone in the hut is shot, literally.”
“You can use mine. It’s in the truck.”
The Red Bandit dropped to the ground. At first I thought he had dropped from shock, but it turned out he was only attempting to locate his hand. I could tell because he kept saying, “My hand, my hand,” over and over, which was kind of distracting.
I walked towards the truck, imitating Saul’s drawl. He has one of the worst southern accents I’ve ever heard. He can turn a three letter word like, “Hey,” into a three syllable sound. I have never had a southern accent, despite the fact that I was born and raised in the heart of Dixie. I think it’s because I learned to talk from listening to soap operas. My mom used to like to go out to the gossip fence for long conversations with our neighbor, Loretta, so that left me alone with the electronic babysitter. “What are you doing up so early,” I asked Saul.
“Came to see if you wanted to float down the creek today. Charlie called me last night. He and Tim are going, and they’ve got a couple extra girls who are sad and lonely.”
“Hello, this is Ben at the Diamond Station on north Main. A guy just tried to rob me. You might want to send an ambulance sort of quickly or something.”
Saul got tired of the Red Bandit’s endless poem about his hand. “Would you shut up about your stupid hand?” The Red Bandit answered with another couple of stanzas about the appendage, which encouraged Saul to take the butt of his shotgun and knock the Bandit out. “Wait a minute,” Saul said, bending over the Bandit’s bleeding face. “Is that your lucky Garfield pencil?”
“Yes.”
“Shannon’s gonna kill you, boy.”
“Like she even cares anymore. We haven’t talked in over a month.”
“Ever since the trip into the Jay woods?”
“Yes. I don’t have her anymore, and now I’ve lost the pencil.”
“Well,” said Saul as he grasped the jagged edge of the pencil and yanked it out of the damaged eye of the Bandit, “I got some tape in my glove box, she won’t be good as new but at least you’ll still have the pencil.”
“What kind of tape?”
“Scotch. The good stuff. You get the tape, I’ll clean off this part of the pencil for you in the bathroom.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Saul, that’s a good idea.”
I had just got my pencil back into its favorite spot, which was really remarkable all things considered, when the white patrol car with the blue stripes and the Atmore City Seal on the door, came to a sliding halt on the gravel side of the parking lot. Actually the slide started on the gravel, which as we all know is not the greatest surface in the world when it comes to traction, and ended up on the pavement in front of the Red Bandit’s Trans Am. The officer ejected himself from the car. He trudged towards Saul and me. We were leaning against the front of Saul’s truck. “Got any coffee?” asked the police officer.
“Sorry, Randy.”
“That’s Officer Jay to you.”
“Like I said, sorry, Randy, but Red here shot up my coffee pot.”
“Shot up an innocent coffee pot, huh? Judge Brown’s gonna throw the book at you boy.” Y’hear me boy? I don’t think he’s hearin’ me. What’s wrong with him?”
“I imagine it’s got something to do with how much blood he’s lost,” offered Saul.
“Guess I better call an ambulance. You got any proof he was trying to rob you, Wheatley?”
I pointed at the remains of the hut. “Those bullet holes. His guns.”
“I reckon that’ll do. Hold the fort.” Randy Jay moved his large, flabby backside to his unit to make the call. On the way he detoured into the bathroom. After a couple minutes filled with grunts and other disgusting sounds, he came back out, hitched up his belt, and waddled over to the radio. Once done, he turned back to us and asked “Captain wants to know how we don’t know this is drug-related?”
“Randy, we don’t even sell beer here, much less drugs. Besides, we lost our pharmacy license last year, Greenlawn Pharmacy bought it out.”
“Haha. I had my eye on both of you boys for a while. Saul, you outrun my patrol officers all the time. You stay far enough ahead so that they never get your tag number, but I know it’s you.”
“Well, if they ever get my tag number, you be sure and give me a call.”
“And you, Wheatley, I see out of the corner of my eye that silver piece of shit of yours zipping around all over town.”
“I let my brother drive the car a lot.”
“Shit, he’s so short I can barely see him over the wheel when he drives it, I know when it’s you behind the wheel.”
“Look, you’re yelling at us because we keep you entertained? Nothing ever happens in this two-horse town, you finally got a real crime to deal with here, and all you do is bitch at us once we call it in.” Saul was genuinely amazed by all that he had just said. For this time of the morning, it was a pretty darn good sentence for him.
“Yeah, but you guys already shot him. What the heck do I get to do? Sit here and watch him bleed? If I wanted to sit and watch someone bleed I’d have stayed married. Maybe follow the ambulance? Makes me feel like a lawyer. Hell, I can’t even handcuff him, he ain’t got but one hand left!”
“Well, the next time someone unloads his gun at me three times, we’ll try and be more gentle with him,” I said. I tried to make it sound like an apology, and Jay was touched.
“Oh hell, I guess you boys done good. Save me the cost of a bullet.”
It was seven in the morning by the time the ambulance got there. During the 15 minute wait, Saul had suggested tying a tourniquet on Red’s stump so he wouldn’t die. I had no desire to do so, and Jay had a date as soon as he got off duty. Saul felt it wouldn’t be right to shoot off a man’s hand and then bandage it. He felt it displayed a conflict of interest, or sent mixed messages, something like that. In order to slow down the flow of the blood, Randy Jay walked his 400 pounds over and stood on the stump in question. Red had been on the verge of regaining consciousness, but this new agony quickly put him back to sleep.
He was in the ambulance and gone before you knew it. Randy gave us a wink, and true to his word, followed the ambulance towards Greenlawn Hospital. Which I always thought was a strange name for a hospital. It reminded me of a restaurant chain: Greenlawn; Red Lobster. Who names these places? Thank you, Captain Obvious. I thought that was funny. I told Saul. He told me I was wrong about it being funny. Then he said, “So are you going on this creek float or not?”
“I’m too tired. Call Shannon.”
“Why would she want to float down the creek with another lonely woman?”
“Not her, Shannon Tenson, our other cousin, he’s always wide awake and horny.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m horny, but I’m not wide awake.”
“Fine. I got to get going.”
“Wait. You got to help me explain all this to my boss.” I was not looking forward to telling Trudy, who is one of those women who always assumes men working for her are pigs who resent working for a woman, for Trudy never believes a word I say. Usually I love working under a woman, but Trudy is a real pain.
“You’re on your own, cuz. I got a trip to organize. Call me after you’ve slept a couple of hours. I got a surprise for you.” And he was gone, just as Trudy arrived. Unfortunately she brought her voice with her, and a thesaurus. She turned immediately to the w’s.
