Big Fish Part 1

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What's new pussycat? Whoa-a-whoa-a-whoa-whoa

Arriving at the Oscar Mayer Slaughterhouse in Perry, the crew chief told us to sit tight while he went up to the office to check in.  We didn't really want to get out of the truck because of the smell, but since it was a hot summer day and the prick turned off the truck and took the keys with him, we didn't really have a choice.

Our distaste at the horrific smell did not go unnoticed by the array of manly man worker guys there.  It was almost like they had a job to do and that job was to stand around laughing at city folk who are so used to exhaust fumes, they think shit smells bad.  I was suddenly embarrassed by my clean clothes.  Newish work boots, jeans that had been recently washed.  Clean faded orange cotton T-Shirt, neatly torn down the front center from collar to roughly ¾ of the way down.  It looked how I imagine Tom Jones would look if he wore a T-Shirt.

We cut or tore our T-shirts because we were required to wear a shirt of some kind, but if there was nobody from the office around, we’d tuck our shirts in and wriggle out of the top of them through the enlarged neck hole, letting the shirt hang around our waists so we could soak up the sun for roughly 6 hours of the day, thus getting some superhero inducing levels of UV Radiation.  Sun screen?  What the hell is that?  Oh they used to sell stuff to put on if you were going out in the sun.  We never used it though.  And it was designed to promote tanning anyway - not block out the sun.  Crazy talk.  

Anyway, as much as I hated my boss, he let us go around essentially shirtless most of the day, so we could work on our “Savage Tans™”.  The only stipulation was that if we spotted Chuck's Big fat White Town Car hauling his big fat white ass to the work site, we had to cover up quicklike.  Dean hated Chuck as much as I hated Dean, so as the enemy of my farther up enemy, Dean was sort of a friend.  But I really hated him.  Have I mentioned that?  Some might say, "Cube.  Let it go."  And they'd be right.  But I would counter with "Fuck them, too."

When Chuck came to visit us, He usually had some rolled up poster looking pieces of paper with him.  He was wearing a hardhat, A crisp white dress shirt and tie, etc.  He’d step out into the heat and point for a while.  If he saw a crew man without a shirt on, there’d be hell to pay.

By the middle of summer, I was as dark as I was going to get.  More of a "Golden" than brown, but it was still the best tan I ever had.  Boomer and everyone else who worked outside had great tans.  At least from the waist up.  The ill effect of all of this was that the legs got absolutely no sun.  

Normally, my legs looked really really white.  But contrasted with my new deep tan and sunbleached hair, my legs now looked ridiculously pale.  We're talking “slight purple hue”.  In the off hours, Boomer and I hung out at Peony Park.  It was a small amusement park in Omaha with a swimming pool built to look like a beach.  A small, smelly, dirty beach next to greenish brownish water.  This was the great place to show off our tans.  We'd stand in the waist high water and yell to all the girls, "What's new pussycats?", which was  the 1980's equivalent of "How YOU doin'?'"

Unfortunately, my legs glowed even through the murky waters of Peony Park's pool, so nobody was fooled into thinking I had the "Savage Tan™" the "Tanning Oil" sellers touted.

There was another cool thing about Peony Park.  Well, gross actually.  Since it was designed to look like a tiny lake, the bottom of the pool was coated with sand.  Underneath the sand was a particularly rough concrete.  If you were swimming along and your foot scraped the sand, it would instantly get torn up on the concrete.  Due to the disgusting array of disease and muck in Peony Park's water, you could count on this injury not healing.  Ever.  I still check the top of my foot each day.  I tell myself, “Yeah, the festering looks less festery today.  It’s going to be a good day!”

But I’m kidding myself.  When they say some wounds never heal, they’re talking about wounds that happened in the Peony Park pool. 

"Don't worry boys," one friendly old stereotypical country boy encouraged, shaking me out of my flashback and back to the present smelly pigsty situation, "You'll get used to the smell in a while."

"Why would I not worry about that," I asked, "It can't be good for you to get used to."

"C'mon let me show you around while the enlightened ones decide what to do,"  Said our cowboy friend, referring to Our beloved Crew chief and his boss.  His sarcasm was not lost on us.

“An ally,” Boomer and I thought.  It was apparent he had the same disdain for those indoor assholes as we did. 

Detecting our lowering suspicion levels, shitkicker nodded his Iowa Hawkeyes Ball cap toward the big building full of bacon, "This way boys"

Well, it wasn’t quite bacon yet.  It was currently a big pavilion full of the worst smelling shit covered beasts I’d ever seen. 

I enjoy ham, bacon, etc. so if it seems like this next part is some sort of liberal tree-hugging rant about the cruelty of slaughterhouses, that's just not true.  I was sickened by what I saw.  Not because it was inhumane, so much as "Ewww, that's what we eat?"

Since I don't really have a grasp on what a "Healthy pig" looks like, I can't say that they weren't having just the time of their lives.  But I don't think they were.

"An' that there's the pen, boys," explained farmer Gus or whatever his name was, proudly waving an arm in the direction of the big huge square area where there were hundreds of pigs.  But they weren't all pink and bright and shiny, standing around squealing.  It looked more like the end of a great battle in "Braveheart,"  where the soldiers were played by pigs.  They were lying around eating and drinking. Slurping up whatever that brown/yellow liquid was that covered the mud/shit/slop floor of the pen.  There was the occasional grunt or cough from a pig here and there.  There was one pig, who I can only assume was a general or something.  He was up on his hind legs, solemnly placing playing cards on certain pigs as they lay motionless in the muck.

"Sight like 'at changes a man," Gus said, causing Boomer and me to try to shake the image away. 

“What’s that on the ground they’re eating,” Boomer asked.

“Surely you’ve seen it before,” Gus answered with a grin.

“I mean, I know what it looks like.  It looks like shit.”  Boomer said.

“Well sure it does.  But the marketing term for it is ‘Hot Dogs’” Gus said.

“Ew,” Boomer and I agreed.

No Hot Dogs Today Thanks.

“Hungry?”  Boomer asked.

“KFC,” Cube wasn’t a big fan, but they had this lunch deal that was pretty decent.

“Perfect,” Boomer said as he turned his dad’s Buick LeSabre into the KFC lot.

I thought I saw a zombie this morning on my way to get an oil change

I drive a 2002 Honda Accord 4 Door Sedan.  I know.  Boring.  Predictable.  I imagine the actuarial guys playing little games about typical people like me.

“So Bob, My buddy ‘Fred’”, Joe starts the game, feet up on his desk, bouncing a little red rubber ball off the near wall.

“Please Joe, could you at least come up with a more realistic name,” Bob pleads.  Bob works for Joe.  Bob is the brightest stats man Joe has seen in his 40 years of generalizing people.  Bob has the cocksure attitude that comes with the lethal combination of youth and genius.

“Kid’s got no fear.  He whips out correct statistical answers to my scenarios like nobody I seen.  Kind of reminds me of a young me.  Sniff,” Joe  would often say.  Joe knew painfully well how costly a mistake could be.  That’s why he insisted on these scenarios, “You can never be too sharp, kid,”

“More realistic name?  You mean like ‘Bob or ‘Joe’” Joe countered.  So the old man still had it after all.

“Touche.  Continue,” Bob submitted.

“Job Title,” Joe wasn’t wasting any time this morning.

“Software Engin … Wait.  How old is he?” Bob quickly realized his near mistake.

“Careful Bob.  You don’t want to lose this easy.  He’s 47.  Turns 48 at the end of this month.”

“Ok, Senior Software Engineer,” Bob answered with a bit of a suppressed fake yawn, digging at his thumbnail with a fingernail.

“Car,” If Bob missed an answer there were no more questions.  It would be time for him to go hit the books and see where he went wrong.

“Did The New Numbers come in?”  Bob asked nonchalantly as if changing the subject.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” came Joe’s smug response.

“ Doesn't matter to me at all.  2002 Honda Accord.  Silver,” said Bob taking off a loafer to rub the arch of his left foot. 

It just seems so effortless, Joe thought.  I think that’s the most amazing part.  His presentation.  Let’s see how he deals with my little surprise.

“The New Numbers,” they were talking about was an electronic document that was published every 4 weeks or so.  It contained any changes to any demographic imaginable.  Companies like Bob and Joe’s would integrate this information into their systems for all of their important calculations and business related things and stuff.  It was really professional.

Every once in a while, something strange would show up.  Maybe 2 or 3 times a year, one item would seem so off base that it had to be a mistake.  It usually was.  This time, however, Joe had received “The New Numbers” and personally verified the accuracy one of the strangest tidbits he’d seen in the whole of his 40 years as a big time hotshot actuarial guy.

“Shop or Dealer,” Joe knew these were too easy.  He was baiting the kid.  He noticed thankfully that the kid was getting suspicious.

“Come on Joe.  It’s me.  Bob,” Bob said, only to get a blank stare from Joe.

“Stalling?”  Attaboy Joe.  Accuse him of not being able to answer the easy ones. 

With an exasperated sigh, Bob answered Joe’s pedantic question, “Shop.  Exclusive Honda Repair of Omaha.  Scheduled maintenance at the change of the season,  blah blah blah.  C’mon Joe.  What is this?”

“Zombies?”, there it is kid.  Take that one.

The blood ran from Bob’s face.  Bob had a way of memorizing facts that was similar to a filing system.  When he was asked any of these questions he would simply visualize going to the appropriate drawer and retrieving the information he was asked.  Years of doing this, and it appeared as magic to the untrained eye.  But now, he was at a loss.  He did not understand the question.  In the split second from the time Joe said the word ‘Zombies’ to when Bob dropped his loafer, he had imagined going to a file drawer called ‘Zombie’.  There wasn’t one though.  He truly needed more information.

“I’m afraid I don’t …” Bob started.

Pretending his patience was being tried, Joe calmly restated his obscure question, “Does ‘Fred’ believe in zombies?”

What kind of trick is this?  The old man’s got something.  Think.  He’s been baiting me.  What is it?  The Auto Shop?  Zombies?  Oh well.  Whatever.  I’m tired of this game, “No, Of course not.  No Zombies.  That doesn't even make any sense.  He also doesn't believe in Vampires despite all of the blogging evidence to the contrary.  Nor does he believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus for that matter.  Where you going with this, Joe?”  Bob was having a difficult time coping with this new feeling.  He was able to identify it in a mental file cabinet called ‘Disoriented’.

“In answer to one of your earlier questions Bob, yes, ‘The New Numbers’ came in,” Joe said with a touch of a grin.  He was really getting a kick out of this.  Then he reached over to push the button on his archaic intercom thing and said into it, “Marilyn, would you show Renaud in, please …”

~~~

From time to time, under certain conditions and for the briefest of scary moments, I might be tricked into believing I’m seeing a Zombie uprising before reason has a chance to intervene.  I know this because that's what happened this morning as I pulled into a parking space at Exclusive Honda Repair.  

On Tuesday, I called the shop and explained that I needed to bring my car in for an oil change and to talk about some things including whether or not it’s worth making certain costly repairs.  I plan on trading the car in for a new one in a few months and wanted to know if Mabel (My Car’s name that I gave it just now) could get by for a few months without doing any of the maintenance.

“Yeah sure, we can check it out for you.  How’s Thursday Morning work,” the nice Honda repairman asked.

“Thursday’s perfect,” I cheerfully shot back.  Those Exclusive Honda guys always put me in a good mood.  But something seemed different as the phone call continued.

“Brains?” Said the Repairman, whose name is Jim.

“Hmm?  What?”  I said.  Totally confused.

“Name?” repeated the repairman/potential Zombie.

“Oh, huh huh.  Cube.  Fred Cube.  I thought you said …”

“Will you be waiting here or dropping the car off,” Asked Jim.

  

“I’ll just wait, if that’s ok.  I won’t have any work done Thursday, I just want advice on what I should do.”  I explained.

“Okey – dokey, see you brains,” finished Jim as the phone went dead.

The shop opens promptly at 7AM.  If you get there a little earlier than that, there’s usually somebody there to get started on your car.  You can be out of there by 7:15 on most days.  But this is October.  The evilest of all the months portrayed in the yearly issue of “The Calendar”.

I timed this morning perfectly.  I left the house at 6:34 and went up to QT to get a cup of coffee and make sure my oil level was not low.  I know.  It makes no sense.  If it was a quart low or something, I would have added a quart and taken it directly to Exclusive to have it drained and replaced.  I guess if I do that, I can be all like “Don’t you just hate those guys who never check their oil.”  Yeah – joshing around with the mechanics.  Just one more thing that will never come naturally to me.

Taking the left turn across Leavenworth Street into The Exclusive Honda Repair Parking Lot, I noticed it was completely dark.  No lights inside.  No parking lot lights.  No cars in the lot other than mine.  This was odd.  Normally, there’s at least 7 or 8 Honda/Acuras in the lot.  Oh well.  Better parking for me!

As I pulled into a parking spot closest to the south garage door on the west side of the lot, the beams from my headlights swept across the guardrail that demarks the perimeter of the lot.  It took a moment to register, but I had momentarily lit upon a hand reaching up to the guardrail from outside the lot.  It was now dark over there, but I could see a shadowy figure seemingly pulling itself out of the ground and into the Exclusive Honda Repair Parking lot.  EEK!  In my confusion, I realized it was obviously a Zombie.  Bald head.  Dirty Grey Coveralls.  That’s definitely standard Zombie issue.

Because I behave like some idiot in a Zombie movie, I did not throw the car into reverse and screech out of the parking lot to save my soul.  I just sat there like some movie victim and watched this – this, THING emerge.  This Bald headed, coverall wearing – Zombie with a lunch pail?

That’s when I realized something was going on that was only slightly less weird than a zombie uprising. 

Beyond the parking lot is not ground.  I could not see that because it was dark.  I’ve never noticed before because normally all of the parking spaces are filled with Hondas or Acuras, but there is a dropoff of about 10 or 12 feet at the edge of the parking lot.  At the bottom of the dropoff is what I now know to be “Employee parking.”  The weird part is that instead of walking around to Leavenworth Street and going to work like normal people, The Exclusive Honda Repair Guys/Zombies have affixed an aluminum ladder to the guardrail via bungee cord.  Each morning, they lock their Hondas/Acuras and literally climb the company ladder.  True story.   

I saw Brady's bike while riding yesterday

I was riding.  Brady's bike was on top of a car.  I didn't expect to see Brady's bike.  But I did.  On top of a car.  Presumably Brady's car.  I don't know why Brady was driving his bike around, but I have a few ideas.  I won't go into those ideas here because it's just not important.

I was riding to the keystone trail.  Originally, I was going to go north to the Fort, but WOWT insisted the wind was coming out of the south at about 6MPH and since there was a chill in the air, I decided to go into the wind to start.  So I went south.  Into the wind.  To Start.

The South part of my ride was marvelous.  The sun was bright and warm, which felt good, because there was chill in the air.  The wind was nice and warm too because it was coming out of the south at what seemed like about 6 MPH.  So it was a nice easy bright and shiny spin at about 24 MPH.   "Wow,"  thought I, "24 into a 6 MPH wind is not too shabby considering the easy spin I'm maintaining.  On your left, bitch!"

When I turned to go back North, I found out the reason the south wind was only 6 MPH.  It had to battle the 20 MPH chilly north wind.  "Where's Brady's bike now," thought I, "probably all cozy and warm in front of the roaring hearth of Brady's North Omaha cabin.  On your Left, douche!"

If you have to die to smell better, you're probably bacon

“It’s good the old architectural firm gave us our old jobs back.  I’m mean look at this.  Did we ever take business trips when we worked at the cabinet shop,” I was trying to convince Boomer that we made the right move.  Of course he knew we did.  There was some sort of crazy shit going on over there at the cabinet shop.  In fact, it seemed like we were being followed to this day.

“Business trip?  We’re going to survey a slaughterhouse …”

“Please Boomer.  Slaughterhouse sounds so Je ne sais quoi.  How about ‘Abbattoir’?  Sounds French, n’est pas?”

"Oh yeah, I forgot.  We’re going to Perry.  Might as well brush up on the ol’ fran-say."

“Exactement!”

“Ferme la bouche!” 

~~

Boomer and I had both taken French in High School.  The school was in downtown Omaha.  It had been the Douglas County Courthouse before it became a school.  It was a very old building.  The walls of the classrooms were made of this concrete like material known as ‘Plaster’.  Running along the length of all the walls at about 4 feet from the wood floors was a trim made completely out of Oak or some other hard wood.  The wood was made harder by the fact that it was about 1000 years old.  The French teacher was a peculiar little fellow by the name of “Monsieur Throne”.  I don’t know if M. Throne liked Boomer or not.  I’m fairly certain that he spent his spare time thinking about how much he despised me.

Boomer and I sat in the very back of the room, about 2 or 3 rows from each other.  Leaning the desks back against the wall, the backs of our heads were even with the oak trim.  Boomer started it.

“Attention class.  Voulez vous , un deux trios, blah, blah blah …”  M. Throne was droning on about something in French.  Then, due to the acoustic qualities of the squarish plaster room, the source of the extraordinarily loud knocking sound that interrupted M. Throne was difficult to determine (unless you were right next to it like I was).

“Que’st que ce?” M. Throne asked.  Silence.  Then with a shrug, M. Throne continued, “Alors, Petit fours, Salle de bain, eau de toilette, blah blah blah …”

After a couple more minutes of the French talking teacher guy, another loud knock.  I had figured out what had happened.  Hitting the bone part of the back of your head against the trim made an unbelievably loud noise. 

“D’accord.  Maintenent qu’il fait la,” Pardon M. Throne’s French.  It was 30 years ago.  I didn’t really listen then and even if I had, I wouldn’t remember what he said, let alone the proper French grammar and everything.   For all of these reasons, M. Throne was forced to transform into Mr. Throne and speak English.   

“What is making that noise,” Came Mr. Throne’s high pitched nasally query.

“Um, excuzay mwa Misher Throne,”  I began.

“What is it, Cube?”

“I thought that high pitched nasally voice thing was just for when you speak French,” I said to the great satisfaction of much of the classroom, securing my spot at a local community college somewhere.

As I waited for Mr. Throne to finish deciding whether he was going to have a sense of humor or be a dick, Boomer saved me.  “Crack!” came another loud knock.  Since Mr. Throne was looking directly at me when it happened, he knew I had nothing to do with it, but he was now looking at Boomer suspiciously.  As he partially squinted his left eye and paced about the front of the classroom, glaring at Boomer, “Kaboom!”  I think I dented the wood on that one.  Giggles all around.  That’s right ladies, I’m here through Thursday.

So that was the reason that Boomer and I were so good at French.  Shortly after we started back up at KMA, we were told we were going to spend the week surveying the grounds of a slaughterhouse near Des Moines, Iowa. 

“Des Moines?  Sounds French,” Boomer said.

“Of course it’s French.  It means ‘The Minuses’,” I thought it did anyway.  I only passed French class as part of an agreement I had with M. Throne to never take French again.   That is absolutely 100% true.

“We’ll be perfect for the mission, chief,” Boomer explained, “See Cube and I both took Fran-say in ‘lay – cole - oat’” 

“Well don’t sweat it, garcons,” You’re not going to Des Moines.  You’re going to Perry,” the boss said, 2 seconds before regretting it for the rest of his life (15 years, if you’re wondering how long the rest of his life was).

“Ah Magnifique!”, both Boomer and I exclaimed.  Paris is even better, we thought.

“J’ai jamias va a Paris,” I said in my nearly perfect French accent, complete with high pitched nasallyness.

“Whatever boys”, the boss said, “We leave tomorrow at 6.  Don’t be late or you don’t go.”

“A.M.?”, Boomer verified.

To us, there was only one way to be sure to not oversleep.  At 4:30 in the morning, Boomer asked if I wanted any more coffee.  I was getting kind of shaky, thinking maybe a better idea might have been to just set an alarm clock rather than the all-nighter route. “I don’t know, man.  You got any food or anything in here?”

“Do I have food?  Of course I have …,” Boomer started

“I mean anything besides Peanut-Butter/Apple-Butter sandwiches.”

“Oh.  Uh.  What's wrong with Peanut-Butter/Apple-Butter sandwiches?”

~~

“They no work here again still yet,” Renaud was explaining to Marilyn and Burt.

“Do you have any idea where they might have gone.  It is vitally important that we get in touch with them,” Burt said, hoping the Haitian could understand.

“They say they like Zombie Bar.  But Renaud not remember what name it,”

“Zombie bar,” Marilyn and Burt exchanged a confused glance.

“Not real zombies.  Renaud try to explain real zombies, but then break end before my story,”

Marilyn and Burt exchanged a confused glance.

“You see it all start when Renaud was a happy little boy in Haiti …” Renaud began, but when he said ‘Haiti’  It sounded like he was saying Hi-80.

Marilyn jumped in, “We really want to hear about your childhood in Haiti, Renaud.  But right now we have lost something and BoomCube can help us find it.  Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Oh Renaud,” Renaud said, remembering the Plaque, “Sometimes you mindless like real Zombie.  Maybe because Renaud almost turned into zombie by uncle-he, Renaud’s brain slow sometimes.  Cube was working on something to give zombie bar owner, Chico.”

“Chico’s?  Of course.  We’ll find them at Chico’s.  Thanks Renaud.  We will come back some time for that childhood story.  We swear,” They lied as they bolted for Marilyn’s car.  Marilyn liked to drive her man around.  It pleased her to have full control while Burt enjoyed a bracing jigger of Gin.

~~

“Nasty, Boomer,” I was disgusted by the horrible smell engulfing the crew truck.

“It wasn’t me,” Boomer said all innocent-like.  But I knew better.  An all nighter of Coffee and PBAB sandwiches had done their dirty work.  I was sure of it.

“It sure as fuckin’ shit I smell was you, mother fucker,” I mean I was really irritable. Cubey needs his rest.

“Pipe down back there,” shouted the crew chief.  He was such an asshole.  “That ain’t Boomer you smell.  That’s Perry.”

“Don’t you hate Perry’s wife,” I said, quoting my favorite line from Arthur.

“It means we’re about 10 clicks out.  You don’t like the smell now?  Wait ‘til we get there.  Hahahahahahahahahaha,” I mean I really hated the crew chief.

“Yeah, that was me,” Boomer admitted to me in a whisper.  Then we both laughed uncontrollably because the smell just kept getting worse as we approached the plant.  Also, we were hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

“Hey you got ‘Burt’,” I asked Boomer.  I had lost my lighter and I thought maybe a smoke would cover the smell of the rancid pig shit still 10 miles away.  Boomer handed me his dad’s lighter and I saw the date on the bottom.  As an Elvis fan, I recognized it instantly.  “Hey, did you see this Boomer,” I asked.

“Yeah.  The King’s Birthday in like 400 years from now,” He said.

“What’s it mean?”  I asked.

“I dunno.  I asked dad, but he says it’s not his lighter.  Maybe Elvis didn’t die.  Maybe he just went into the future.”  Boomer theorized

“I can buy that,” I said, exhaling the relatively tasty tobacco from my pig shit odor riddled lungs.

Based on a true story

“How do you lose a time machine?” Burt was trying to remain calm, upon hearing the unthinkable.  The time machine.  A gift from Herman.  He’d had it with him since the 1930’s.  Not that that mattered.  Burt was born in 1921.  The year was 1984.  Burt was 23 years old.  He’d done a lot of time traveling.

“You know that was one of the originals, right? It was the January 8^th ”, Burt Lamented.  How could Marilyn be so careless.  “You’ll be the ruin of me, woman,”  He said with a little bit of a grin as he pulled Marilyn close, moving her out of the way of his best friend, the bottle of Gin.

“Listen, when I saw Duvall coming, I panicked.  I’m pretty sure we can get it back.  I put it in your friend Boomer’s pocket,” Marilyn hoped.

“I hope so too,” Burt said, reading Marilyn’s emotion, “Want some gin?”

~~~

Herman Johnson was born in 2321.  He invented the time machine in 2361.  He did a double feedback loop trick on himself and created a couple of traveling companions that were also him at different ages.  Boy was he surprised by this every time he introduced himself to himself.  The original Herman Johnson had been injured in one of his first time travel experiments leaving him with a slight limp.  All the others had a surreal way of gliding when they walked.  Johnson was sure that it had something to do with dicking with the time/space continuum, but he really had no good explanation, so neither do I.

Once he perfected the machine, He waited for a year before doing anything.  Then he went back to each day after the invention (in reverse order) and grabbed the time machine off of the table.  That’s how he collected 365 of them.  Also, how the sperm whales went extinct. 

Next, he went back to himself at age 16 and explained how time travel worked to himself.  “Inside this here Zippo lighter is a time machine.  The date stamped on the bottom is the date this machine first left its own time.  The 16 year old Herman Johnson casually looked at the bottom of the Zippo to see the date “Jan 2, 2362”.  “Uh huh,” he said, hardly interested.  Old people gave him the creeps.  Especially old people that were him. 

“Anyway, this is the second copy of the original.  It’s yours.  There’s an instruction manual on a chip inside the lighter.  Do whatever you want, but kid …”

“Yeah,” young Johnson replied without looking up from the lighter.

“Go easy on the whales, would you,” Johnson looked serious.

“Whatever gramps,” insisted young Johnson.

When Marilyn lost Burt’s lighter, well she didn’t really lose it.  When she dropped it into Boomer’s sport jacket pocket to save herself from Robert Duvall, she was sure she was going to get it back.  She thought her friend Laura knew them pretty well.  Also, she was pretty sure Janer knew them so it seemed like a safe place for the time machine. At least, temporarily.

She had been so disoriented after coming back to 1984 that she was forgetting things.  And the headache.  Time travel had no ill effects for most, but for Marilyn, it was like getting really shitfaced – complete with hangover.  When she bolted the scene at the outdoor beer garden last-night she thought ditching the lighter was the safest course of action…  Now what would she do?  She had to face the music and tell Burt.  His lighter was one of the original time machines.  The story was that Richard had made several time machines, but only one worked.  He was never able to get any of the others to do anything but light cigarettes.  He did not know why.  That’s when he decided to just gather a few hundred of them from their past.  For some reason, the January time machines worked the best.  And the first 10 or so used way less whale oil than the later incarnations.  Any time machine after September was too expensive to even run.  But if you did use it, you were likely to get some nasty burns holding the thing during travel.  No matter how bad it got though, Every time machine, all the way to the despised December 31, 2362, always always lit a cigarette flawlessly.  That’s because they were Zippos as well as time machines.

~~~

Burt woke to the sound of frantic knocking at the front door.  Who the hell could that be?  What time is it anyway? Where am I?

Burt was at Dr Johnson’s house.  The year was 2012 and he was 52 years old.  Also, he was a hobo.  Johnson was his lifelong friend who had told him he’d be out of town a few days and asked Burt if he’d watch his place while he was gone.  Yeah, it was charity, Burt knew.  But he wasn’t going to pass up a chance to sleep inside.  He was so filthy though that he had slept at the kitchen table so as not to mess up any of Johnson’s nice stuff. 

Stretching his old bones and looking around, he saw that the table was now a slobbery greasy mess.  Great.  Burt was going to have to shower and clean his clothes or he wouldn’t be able to clean up the mess he’d made. 

Another frantic knock reminded him what woke him at this early hour. Burt had no intention of answering the door.  It wasn’t his door.  Besides, then he’d just have to clean off the door handle.

Then he heard it.  The voice he thought he’d never again hear.  The voice from his real childhood.  Marilyn’s voice.  “Rasson!  Let me in.  I know you’re in there.  Herman told me.”

Too surprised to be overcome by the emotion, Burt hobbled as fast as he could to get the door and see his wife.  He had to take a couple of breaks to get his wind back on the way.  He really was in sorry shape.

Opening the front door, Burt was stunned.  This must be some sort of trick.  This can’t be Marilyn.  She hasn’t aged at all in 20 years.  Oh wait - the time Machine.  Of course … No.  Wait,  There’s a little grey poking from under the nurse’s hat.  Maybe some light creases around her eyes.  Oh lord, she’s gorgeous.  Burt wanted to take some time to weep at the senseless loss.  As he scanned her from head to toe, his sense of dread and utter regret increased to unbearable levels.  Good thing the Dr’s liquor cabinet was well stocked.

“Gin?”  He asked, then immediately regretted it, seeing her frown.  How could he be so foolish.  She always drank vodka.  No wait.  Not at 8:30 in the morning.  “Sorry, I um …”

“Coffee would be great,” Marilyn said, always helpful.

“What are you reading?” Burt asked, pointing to the mystery novel Marilyn held, wanting to avoid whatever the point of the visit was.

“Never mind that.  You want some coffee?” Marilyn asked as she walked past him into the kitchen.  

“Ewww.  What happened in here?” she said upon seeing Burt’s mess.

“No coffee, hon.” Wow.  Old habits die hard, “I’ll just stick to my morning Gin,” I mean they really die hard.

“Yeah – you might need it.  I think Butch and J are going back,” Marilyn just wasn’t one for small talk.  Burt didn’t know what she was talking about.  “Going back” could only mean one thing, but it was forbidden after the thing with the cats.  Besides where would they get the whale fat?

“You know there’s a Chico’s in Japan,” Marilyn said, answering a bunch of Burt’s questions all at once.

~~~

“It will be good to get back there,” Butch was reminiscing as he drove Dr Johnson out to Chico’s west. They had just left the original Chico’s and had to meet Richard at the newer location. 

“We’ve got to make a quick stop in Japan first,” Dr Johnson said quietly, looking out the window, not wanting to see Butch’s reaction.  Butch didn’t say anything, but the Dr. swore he could hear Butch’s grip on the wheel tighten as he took in this news. 

“You sonofa …”  So they were really going to go to Japan to get the whale oil they needed for the trip to 1927.

“Butch.  It’s clean stuff.  Marilyn vouched for the guy we’re meeting.  She’s had him keeping the stuff over there for years.  It’s some of the good old stuff.  Japan is just the safest place to keep it.  You remember the Blubber raids of 1987, right?  We didn’t know how far it would go.  Marilyn took a few tons of the stuff from the warehouse and shipped it to our contact in Japan.”

“Not that son-of-a-bitch Takashi?”

“Of course.  Whatever went on between you two has nothing to do with what is going on now.  We need him and I don’t care what you think of him, he’s pretty good,” The Dr. could see that Butch was softening a little.  In this game you couldn’t keep everybody playing nice all the time, but there were some people you could always count on.  Butch knew Takashi was one of those people.

“Believe me, If I could think of any other way, we wouldn’t need to do any of this.  If you’ve got any ideas, I’m open.  How are your synthetic time machine juice experiments coming along?”

“Yeah, just twist the knife, doc.  Feels good,” Butch said.  He had been working on a safe alternative to blubber for fueling the time machines since the blubber raids and the Duvall trials.  So far the result had been a lot of dead kittens.  He had been working with a sharp kid from the veterinary school to see if they could find some sort of way to reverse the effects of the juice.  So far, no luck. 

“No, I guess it’s just real honest to goodness blubber for now.”

“Stop worrying Butch.  You know Takashi.  You remember how he was before you guys had your little falling out, right?”

“Yeah, pretty good,” Butch joked.  That’s better, thought the Dr.  If Butch Lightens up a little, maybe we can save Marv.  And Lenny. 

As Butch brought the old Buick to rest in the parking lot of Chico’s West, a voice from the back seat made both men start with shock and exasperation, “Hey mind if I come with you fellas?”

“Eek!” Both men shrieked as they turned to see a fully dressed Charlie McCarthy sitting between them.  He was, as always, dressed impeccably.  Black Tuxedo, top hat, monocle over his eye and everything.  He was missing a shoe though.

“No fucking way, monopoly guy!” Butch started, but he didn’t understand how dangerous Charlie could be.  Johnson had had a couple of close calls with the dummy and knew the inherent dangers of offending the soulless chunk of wood.  Placing his hand on Butch’s shoulder to get his attention,  Johnson said,  “Charlie,  do you have a spare set of clothes in Tokyo?”  Johnson’s play was that the teleporter did not allow clothing and Charlie always insisted on the finest dress.  It backfired on him a little though.

“Well, Johnson, I’m sure you know my cousin Mort.  He’s over there doing his one man show.  They love him over there.  I personally don’t get it.  But The Snerd is big in Japan.”

“So you don’t mind going back to 1927 dressed like a farmboy?”

“Oh you’re funny Johnson.  No I will not wear Morty’s clothes, but he begged me to visit him like 6 months ago and I left one of my wardrobes at his place.  I just need to call him and he can drop the suit off at Chico’s for me.   Besides, I’d love to see Edgar again,” Charlie said, taking an eyedropper and dripping a little water on his cheek so it would look like he was crying.

A Friendly Reminder (to myself)

Of how this started.  It is, after all, based on a true story.

http://journalstar.com/news/local/crime-and-courts/article_35a7db5a-190e-5a90-850a-b4a60cab1fdc.html

http://www.1011now.com/home/headlines/Man_Poisons_Kittens_With_Antifreeze_124782464.html

It's Chico, not Leonard

"Kid.  Kid.  Hey.  Kid!"

"Huh, what," I jumped out of my table saw daydream to see one of the owners trying to get my attention.  It usually took about 10 minutes at the saw before I was off in la la land, dreaming of bigger things.  Even though my fingers were a fraction of an inch from a steel blade spinning at 10 million rpms or whatever, cutting through wood like warm butter, I was bored.  I was thinking about Renaud and hoping he made it out of his uncle's evil clutches.  I still had about 90 minutes before lunch when I would seek him out and learn if he survived.  But right now Rick was bugging me about something.  As I gracefully hit the kill switch on the saw with my knee, holding the panel in place while the blade slowed to a stop, Rick waited impatiently, arms crossed.  

"What?" I asked, all professional and stuff.

"Follow me until I figure out what happens in this scene," Rick instructed.  The truth is he had no idea why he was stopping me from working to follow him.  Of course I was racking my brain trying to think if I'd done anything I could get into trouble for.  Are they firing people or something?  I just didn't know.  To this day I still don't know because I haven't written it yet.

Rick's Office was about 8 feet from my table saw so that's not where we were going.  What could this be?  I was getting really worried as I followed Rick out of the building and toward my car.  Oh crap, he's firing me for some reason and I still haven't finished my plaque for Chico.  Wait.  My lunch is still in the refrigerator.  I wonder if he'll let me go back and get it.  Where the hell is he going?  Because I was still drawing a blank as to the meaning of all of this, Rick kept walking past my car and toward the street.  It was a dead end street, lined on both sides by industrial businesses and ending at some foam rubber manufacturing plant or something.  As we walked toward the foam rubber plant, a few laborers from various buildings, stood around watching us, leaning on pipes or some sort of machines and stuff.  Finally I asked Rick where the hell he was taking me.

"Where the hell are you taking me, Rick?"

"Huh?  What?  Oh yeah, this is fine.  I need to ask you something?"

"Out here?  I mean, what's wrong with your office?"

"It could be bugged," Rick said, quickly shifting his eyes left and right.  His left and right, not mine.  

"Uh ... Right.  Ok, so I should probably get back.  Those panels aren't going to saw themselves," I was now wishing he was firing me because this was weird and creepy.

"Wow kid, you better get back to college, your English ..." As we stood facing each other in the middle of the street, I could see Rick was struggling to say something, but also those miscellaneous industrial worker guys were subtly inching toward the street trying to divine the meaning of this most unusual happenstance.

"Did the narrator just start using awkward funny words," Rick asked.

"Believe me.  He does that.  It'll stop in a minute," I convalesced.

"So anyway," Rick started with a whisper so faint I had to lean close to hear and got a big whiff of his coffee breath.  At least he didn’t have B.O.  A lot of the guys at the shop did. "It has come to my attention that you and BoomBoom know a, uh, friend of mine"

"No shit!?  Cool. Who?  And, uh it's 'Boomer'", So he wasn't going to fire me after all.  But what the hell? 

"Let me bum one of them smokes," sweat was now running from the left side (his left) of Rick's hairline and gathering at his brow.

Rick took a deep breath as he lit the cigarette and smoked about a third of it in one pull, "I just want to ask a couple of questions.  That's all"

"Fire away, Rick.  I mean ..."

"Ok, so - That kid you guys know.  The one who almost got killed in that fire downtown.  Where did you meet him?"

"Janer?  Well, I guess down in the old market.  They're always down there.  So?"

"And, um.  The guy that saved him.  The big kid.  You know him too?"

"Janer?  Yeah.  He doesn't talk much, but he seems mellow enough."

“So, um when’s the last time you’ve seen them?”

“Not since …” Now it was my turn to be evasive.  The last time I saw Janer was at the movie theatre.   I had inadvertently started a debate when I said I thought the best actor in the best movie was Robert Duvall in the Godfather.  J said Duvall was actually better in some movie I never heard of and then somehow, Janer disappeared.  We joked that they must have phoned home or something, but yeah it was weird.  Nobody had seen them since then.

“Since ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’,” Rick finished.

“How did you …”

“Did you and Boomboom meet a couple of girls downtown a few nights ago?” asked Rick, upping the creepy ante.

“It’s ‘Boomer’.  If you mean downtown ‘literally’ then yes we did.  Just this waitress girl Laura and her friend.”

“The friend.  Her name was Marilyn?”

“Yeah.  That’s the one you know?  Well we don’t really know her.  In fact she got up and left in a big hurry when …”

It didn’t really mean anything to me at the time, but now some things were starting to fall into place.  Boomer, Laura, Marilyn and I had been sitting at a table outside the dinner theatre.  We were all having a pretty good time people watching.  We’d make up imaginary conversations for people walking by or we’d say what we thought they were up to, etc. 

Then off in the distance I noticed a peculiar character.  So I pointed him out.  He was wearing shades, but it was nighttime.  He had on a close fitting sharkskin suit and was walking our direction in a hurry.  He looked just like Robert Duvall.  So nodding in his direction, I said, “Uh oh, looks like somebody’s in a hurry to deliver bad news to his boss,” referencing Duvall’s character in the infamous “Horse Head” scene from ‘The Godfather’. 

Just like that, Marilyn got up, threw some cash on the table and left.  We tried to stop her, but she was gone before we could see where she went.

Then this Duvall lookalike comes right up to our table, sniffs around for a second and turns and goes back in the direction he came from, talking into the inside of his wrist about something.

The three of us look around for a few seconds until I say, “Told ya.”

But now, with Rick asking me about ‘Rocky Horror’ and Marilyn, I wonder what is the connection with Marilyn, Janer and Robert Duvall.  I gotta get back inside and see what Boomer remembers about the other night. 

“You have something.  I need it back,” Rick was accusing me of something.

“No I don’t.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Na-Na, uh, I mean ‘Marilyn’ told me she gave something to you.”

“Na-Na?  Maybe she gave it to boomer.  She kept getting us confused.  She was all, ‘So boomcube, what is it that you do?’  she asked like 5 times.  Then she said she had ‘whale lag’.  She was totally bizarre.  And hot.  You know, for an old lady.

“Old?  She’s like 26,” Rick argued/confirmed.

“Well yeah.  26. That’s old to me.”

  

At this, Rick started staring off to the left, his left, trying to work out some puzzle.  Then, his features changed.  It looked like a wave passed through him, relaxing every muscle.  Also, I suddenly noticed he had a serious case of body odor going on. 

“What just happened Rick.  Also, you don’t smell good.”

 

“Who are you?”  Rick asked me.

“Alright.  I’m going back to work now,” I had had enough of this. 

As I turned to go, smelly Rick grabbed my arm, “Wait.  I’m just pulling your leg.  Of course I know you,” But he was now acting nervous,  “Huh-huh.  Just a little joke.  That’s all.  But yeah.  Probably you should get back to work.  And hey - Could we keep this little conversation between us, Boomcube?”

“Sure.  Yeah.  What conversation?  Ha-ha,” I decided I’d better get Boomer and my lunch and get the hell out of there.   Renaud’s story would have to wait because I was never going back to the little cabinet shop.

“What the hell, Cube,” Boomer asked as we pulled away from the shop for the last time ever.  Some flash of light caught my attention.  Boomer was lighting up a smoke with a fancy Zippo I’d never seen before.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I don’t know.  It might be my dad’s. I found it in his suit jacket pocket when I wore it the other night,” Boomer explained casually as he flipped it closed and threw it on the dashboard.

I grabbed it, inspecting it for a moment as Boomer waited for whatever story I had to tell about why we just quit our jobs.

“Your dad’s name isn’t ‘Burt’,” I said.

“No.  I think that’s my dad’s lighter’s name, though …”

"Ok, I'll buy that,"  I said as I tossed the time machine back to Boomer and recounted to him the strange behavior of Rick, the cabinet shop owner.

Adios Muchachos

"Just go, Richard.  Enjoy your night off.  I'll be fine until Penny gets here.  You know that."  It was strictly against hospital regulation for any of the nurse's stations to be covered by less than 2 people at any one time.  Even late into the night, when it was typically quiet.  Supposedly, if a patient needed some sort of immediate assistance, someone had to remain at the desk to monitor all the other lights and beepy things and stuff.  

This rule was routinely broken.  Marilyn had worked this same desk, same overnight shift for around 20 years.  She knew she could handle the shift alone.  In fact, the policy had only changed 3 years ago when there was an incident down on floor “C”.  Before that, Marilyn was alone for almost 15 years, 4 nights a week.  She never had any problems.  Plus she was able to catch up on her reading.  She could knock off up to 3 books a night if the sick people behaved themselves.  She was currently reading the latest in a series of crime novels.  “Wrong Way Murder” was the 5^th of the series of murder mysteries, cleverly named to approximate traffic sign instructions.  The Cover illustration of the books had the title as it might appear on a scary road sign. 

Penny was Penelope Jackson (She was not related to Dr Johnson).  She had just hired on about 3 months before.  This was her first nurse gig.  Sweet kid, Marilyn thought, if not a little goofy.  Marilyn always claimed to be a confirmed bachelorette, but that never stopped Penny from trying to set her up with her Dad’s old loser Army buddies. 

“I don’t have time for a fella,” Marilyn would always reason, talking like she was from the 1930’s or something, I have my books and my cats that take up all my time,” which kind of explained it all. 

Marilyn also had a secret.  The real reason she could never marry.  I can’t really say what it is right now because it’s a secret, but I can tell you that it involves Dr Johnson, Burt Rasson and Robert Duvall.  Yes, the movie actor.

Richard was also a new addition to the hospital staff.  His job was to stay at the nurse’s station until Penny got there.  He was not actually a nurse.  He was a somewhat distant relative of Dr Johnson.  Dr Johnson understood there were many times at night that Marilyn was alone, but once the Human/Cat/Frog man checked in, Johnson insisted that his distant "cousin", who had been looking for work, come and keep Marilyn company.

“My stars, Herman Johnson, that is about the most unnecessary thing you’ve ever done for me,” Marilyn protested.

“I’m doing it for me.  I have never seen anything like this Johnson case, and I don’t know what that kid is capable of.  I don’t know how much of his mind is still his.  Man, I’ve really got to stop stalling and get out there and find that guy who invented that anti-freeze stuff!”  Explained Mr. Windypants (Marilyn’s secret name for Johnson).

“Oh I get it.  You do know I’m a cat lady, right?  I think I can handle the college boy”, Marilyn reminded him.

“Well I’d rather not take any chances, Raspberry,” Johnson’s secret code name for Marilyn (Because she was actually married to Johnson’s lifelong friend, Burt Rasson.  Oh crap.  Well, that’s only part of the secret).

Penny had never been this late before.  At least not without a phone call.  Normally, Richard didn’t mind.  But he was supposed to meet his “girlfriend” for their 2 year “anniversary”.  Judging by the quote marks, it looks like Richard may have a secret or two as well. 

This night he was pacing like a caged animal, frequently glancing up at the wall clock like a caged animal that could tell time.  “Just go.  You’re driving me crazy,” Marilyn urged again, “Believe me, I can handle it.”

“Are you sure,” Richard’s eyed brightening.

“Have fun, and give ‘her’ my best,” Marilyn said.

“Why you gotta say it like that,” Richard queried, a little bruised by the sarcastic tone.

“Go!”  Marilyn insisted.

Richard was big into fitness so he always took the stairs instead of the elevator.  It’s strange then that he failed to notice the crumpled up, mutilated body of Penny at the bottom of the stairwell.  It was only because he was in such a hurry that he disregarded the crimson heap as some forgotten refuse from the lab.  “Not my problem tonight,” he thought as he nimbly leapt over the girl, the big iron door to the outside slamming behind him, shutting out the horrible noise of catlike wailing coming from somewhere in the ventilation system of the hospital.

“That can’t be good,” thought Marilyn at the sound of furball, scratching and mewing his way through ventilation just above her head.  She glanced up from, “Reduced Life Ahead,” in time to see the glowing red eyes of the evil fuzzy wittow kitty, glaring down at her.

“Let’s do this,” Marilyn calmly suggested, setting down her book as lightning struck in the distance signaling the beginning of the most violent storm in the history of ever.

“Ahhh maybe not.  This one looks ready,”  thought Furball and Lenny as Furball slowly backed from the vent grate, deep into the system, as quietly as possible.

“I can’t believe you’re afraid of a little old lady, Oh mighty Furball,”   Came Lenny’s mocking voice, now a constant companion inside Furball’s head.  Somehow, the lab “accident” enabled some sort of one sided psychic link between Furball and Lenny.  Furball had little control over his thoughts or actions anymore.  And the previously mild-mannered college boy was “One sick puppy,” as furball would have put it if Lenny would get out of his head.

“It’s no use,” realized little Charlie McCarthy.  The front door to Chico’s was simply too big for him to open.  He’d have to wait until some other sad sack came along and opened the door for him.  He better come soon, too.  It looks like one hell of a storm brewing to the southwest. Charlie was not in the mood to get wet. 

Then Charlie saw a figure approaching, but judging from that buttery smooth gait, it could only be the ever cheery, Herman Johnson.  No way he’d go to a place like Chico’s.

“Need a little hand there, Charlie,” As their comedy sketch usually began …

“Not in the mood tonight Doc, could you just let me in,” Charlie said to the continued utter fascination of Johnson.

“Have it your way, Mick,” conceded Johnson as he walked into Chico’s and immediately saw where he needed to go.  Charlie followed him in. All of the pouters in the room who had casually glanced to see who was coming had to do a double-take as they saw the impossible walking motion of Charlie McCarthy.

Charlie squeezed up to the bar next to a couple of sad-eyed regulars.  He said nothing.  He didn’t have to.  Chico brought him a tiny little beer and walked away without a word.  The whiners on either side of him resumed the defeated sunken posture thing, occasionally wiping at their eyes.

Johnson found Butch and nodded over to the “Cathy room.”  Since this was the original Chico’s, “The Cathy Room” was what used to serve as the private poker game room when it was Donny’s place.  It was now the only place in the joint where talking was tolerated.  The poker game kind of died out as soon as everybody realized they all had these very excellent long, sad poker faces.

“What do you want, Johnson?”  Butch was not real friendly. 

“I need you to come back with me,” Johnson started.

“What?  Back where,” Butch was confused.  What could this asshole need?  Johnson just looked back, watching Butch without saying anything.  Then Butch understood.

“No effing way, Herman.  Besides we don’t have any more of the …”

“I can get some.  Marilyn.  She still has some,”   Said the good Dr.

“Marilyn?  How?  I mean, I’m not going, but how did she get the stuff.  Not Japan!  No you can’t trust those guys.  It’ll be shit.  And it’ll get us – you killed.”

“I’ve got to try, Butch,” Dr Johnson getting a little misty.  Maybe this depressing place is getting to me, he thought.

“Well, where are you going anyway? Does Duvall know about this?”

“... And he doesn't have to either.  I'll tell you what.  I'll even let you pick the place if you come with me,” Johnson was playing a risky card.  Maybe he was in the right room.

“That’ll be 1927, of course.  Is Richard ready?” asked butch as he grabbed his hat and left the bar with Johnson.

The time machine was a handheld device that Dr Johnson’s only relative invented.  His name was Richard and he was from the distant future.  To fuel his device, he killed the last female Sperm whale on the planet effectively forcing the species extinct.  At the time, his reasoning was that if his device worked, he could go back to say, the 1970’s and get all the Sperm Whales he needed.  He was a scientist, not a historian.  Even though it was the future, there was still no lubricant/anti-freeze agent that came anywhere close to the stuff made naturally by sperm whales.  Not many people know this, but time travel generates a tremendous amount of friction.  Without the proper lube/cooling you’ll burn up in “No time” as the old time travel saying goes.

 

Since the United States banned “the killing of whales just so’s you can load their fat into your engine” in the 1970s, guys like Janer have been hording whale oil, using it only in time travel emergencies.  This was one such emergency.  True story.