Читать книгу Short Stories: Long Way Around the Short End - James Hill - Страница 6

Store Security

Hello. My name is Mitchell Deal, and I’m free again. That’s right. My six years in the navy are up, and I’m free to do what I want and go where I want again. And right now, I’m on I-10 in Florida hitchhiking to wherever.

The navy told me I could sign up again, but I told them thanks just the same, that I was tired of visiting the world and wanted to see more of my own country for a change. And they said to give them a call if I changed my mind. I said I would but knew I wouldn’t. I’ve always liked the ocean, but I also like solid ground, and it feels good to be standing on it once more.

You are probably wondering why I’m hitchhiking. Like so many of my shipmates, I squandered a lot of my money. But unlike some of them, I sent some home to my mother (she hasn’t been in the best of health lately). But knowing her, I think she has probably stuck it in the bank saving it for me.

Anyway, I have some money in my pocket and could have bought a bus ticket back to North Carolina. But I want to see the west for a change, and I better save what I have for the essentials, like food and shelter, until I find a job.

By the time the sun starts getting low in the sky, I haven’t caught a ride. People probably don’t know I was an enlisted man because so many people walk around with backpacks nowadays. Better be finding a place for the night.

I find a nice clearing far enough from the highway to build a small campfire. What? you ask yourself. Why not find a Motel 6 or an Econolodge? It’s not raining, it’s a warm night, and I have everything I need in my pack. As I said before, I need to pinch pennies where I can.

After my lean-to is tied off between two trees, I stake down the back portion and build a small fire. When my meal of sea rations is done, I unwrap my sleeping bag by the firelight, make sure the fire is smothered good, and prepare to turn in. I want to be up early and on the freeway by daybreak. That seems to be the best time to catch a ride: traffic’s not as bad and people aren’t afraid to slow down to pick you up.

I crawl into my bag and zip it all the way around and over my head, leaving just enough space where I can breathe. It’s a trick I learned in the Boy Scouts.

Many species of snake like to roam at night, hunting for food or whatever else snakes like to do. And since I’m not inside a tent and on the same level (the ground) as they are, I suggest you do what I just did, unless you want to wake up in the morning with a bedmate beside you.

* * * * *

As the third big rig comes up and passes by, I can hear it gear down, the sush of its air brakes, and see the flashers come on for the breakdown lane. I take off at a full jog, the pack bouncing up and down on my back like a bobber in a farm pond.

I don’t care what kind of conditioning training you’ve had or how good of shape you think you’re in, a twenty-five-mile hike the day before, a night’s sleep on hard ground, and a good jog with full pack the next morning will show there’s always room for improvement. I’m winded by the time I reach the cab. I grab the handrail and swing my weight onto the step. “Where you headed?” the driver yells through the window over the idling engine.

“No particular place.” I pant. “Just west.”

“I’ve got a drop in Oakboro, Texas. Is that far enough west for ya?”

Since we’re somewhere in Alabama, I say, “Sounds good to me.”

“Hop in.”

I pull the door open, and in the same motion, I slide one arm from underneath the strap, swinging the pack around as I slide in. It fits perfectly in the floorboard.

“Give yourself some room, and toss it in the sleeper. It’s a pretty good piece to Oakboro.”

I give it a toss.

“Name’s Jerry Albertson…yours?”

“Mitchell Deal.”

“Nice to meet you, Mitchell. I noticed your pack and the way you board a semi. You military?”

“Ex-navy two days ago.”

“No joke! I’m ex-marine many years ago.” The driver laughs. “I noticed you got a drawl. Where’s home?”

“North Carolina,” I tell him. “Little town outside of High Point.”

“I like North Carolina. The cities, towns, farms in the country, the mountains, Piedmont, and the coast…North Carolina has it all.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “You sound like a travel ad.”

“I was stationed at Camp Lejeune.”

“Nice,” I tell him. “I was at Jacksonville.”

Jerry laughs again. “Small world. I live just outside of Jacksonville.”

We talk about our experiences in the service, each surprised as to how much some things have changed and many have not. I ask him why he left, and he tells me his cousin got him into the trucking business. He asks me the same. I tell him I want to explore more of my country and less of the world.

“You going back home?”

“Oh, yeah. Soon as I get this wild hair plucked. Get some money in my pocket, get a car, and get back.”

He laughs. “You’ll get that hair plucked pretty quick in Oakboro. Don’t seem like much is happening there.”

We make three stops: one is to relieve ourselves, another is a delivery, and the last is for some of the finest Cajun cooking Louisiana has to offer.

We roll into Oakboro, Texas, by four that afternoon. Jerry pulls the rig over in front of the Oakboro Chamber of Commerce. “They’ll be able to help you with room and board. They might even know of some job openings.”

“Thanks, Mr. Albertson.”

“It was nice to make your acquaintance, Mitchell Deal.” He shakes my hand and hands me a card. “If you’re ever back down Jacksonville way, look me up. I’ll put you to work driving one of these babies.”

“Will do.” I smile at him.

I slide my arms through on my backpack and climb out. He gives two long pulls on the air horn and pulls away.

* * * * *

Inside the Chamber, a cute girl sits at a desk with a nameplate that reads “Gwynn.” I tell her my name, why I’m here, and what my situation is.

She gives me a big smile. “Have a seat, Mr. Deal. I may be able to help you.”

I take the one across from her, set the pack down beside me, and hand her my military ID. She pulls some papers from one drawer and takes a clipboard from another one.

“You may be in luck, Mitch…do they call you Mitch?”

I give her a smile. “You can.”

She smiles back. “Okay, Mitch. We have a nice boardinghouse just four blocks from here. Ask for Missus Jacobs.” She takes one of the papers and starts writing across its top. “And I hear Super Sale is hiring. They are always needing help.”

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

“Go down there, and speak to the manager. I know him personally. Tell him Gwendolyn Jones sent you. His name is Ed Snow. Super Sale is one block over and one block down from Missus Jacobs’s place. Everything is within walking distance.”

She’s done writing and slides the paper over to me with my ID. It’s a map of the town with the Chamber, the boardinghouse, and Super Sale highlighted. At the top, printed neatly is:

Missus Jacobs-Boarding

Super Sale-Ed Snow

Gwynn Jones 555-6656

I thank her for her time, and she hands me a card. “Let me know how things work out.”

I look at it. “This number isn’t the same as the one on the paper.”

“The one on the map is my personal number.” She grins.

* * * * *

I start down the four blocks toward Missus Jacobs’s place, observing while I’m walking. I don’t know how Oakboro got its name, but it wasn’t from the tree. There are none. No oaks, no acorns, no squirrels to collect them. This town was built in the parched prairie land of Texas. All I’ve seen so far are cactus plants, tumbleweed, and a few lizards scampering about.

I see a large, gray, two-story on down at the next corner. It has to be the one Gwynn was describing. When I get there, I see that it is and turn and go up the walkway. It’s a corner house on Main and Elm Streets.

What is it with all these tree names? Are they wishing for things that could have been had they built elsewhere? Personally, I like their situation better. Raking leaves each fall isn’t one of my favorite pastimes.

* * * * *

Missus Jacobs is a sweet, little old lady with a very large house. It is a stately version of a southern manor on the outside, but the inside has been remodeled, and everything is modernized.

And her rates, I feel, are very reasonable. “It’s twenty dollars a night or 140 a week, Mr. Deal, whichever is more convenient for you.”

“Weekly is better for me, Missus Jacobs.” I count out seven twenties and hand them to her.

“I serve breakfast at eight so people on the night shift won’t miss it, and dinner is served every evening at six.” She smiles at me. “Lunch is on you because people are in and out at that time.”

“That sounds good to me. I’ve been missing some home-cooked meals.” I smile back.

“Do you mind an upstairs room? I try to save the lower rooms for my older guests.”

“Upstairs is fine, Missus Jacobs.”

She pulls a key from a hook. “Your room is the second one on the left at the top of the staircase. There’s a TV, radio, phone, and shower in it.”

I take the key. “A shower sounds good right about now.”

In a little while, I’m back down and find Missus Jacobs in the parlor watching the local news.

“My, you clean up nice,” the old woman tells me.

“Thanks. I’m going to Super Sale to see about a job.”

“Well, you ought to get one there,” she says. “They’re always hiring.”

“That’s what Gwynn at the chamber said. She says it’s close.”

“It is. Go to the end of the block here on Elm. Go left and down a block. Super Sale will be on the right.”

I thank her, she wishes me good luck, and I’m out the door.

* * * * *

I don’t know if it’s because he knows Gwendolyn Jones or because he likes what he sees on my application or none of the above, but Ed Snow hires me on the spot. He says he needs stockers. I say stocking’s fine. What shift do I prefer? I tell him I like nights. Can I start tomorrow? Tomorrow’s fine.

“Good. Report to Frances Gould tomorrow night at eleven. She’s the night supervisor.”

“I’ll be here.”

He shakes my hand. “Remember, Mitchell, we work for you when you work for us.”

“I’ll remember that.”

* * * * *

By the third night, I’ve caught on to the system. I’m teamed with a kid fresh out of high school, and by the fifth night, we’ve doubled the output of the other four teams.

The kid’s name is Robbie Simms, and he plans to join the service. I think he kind of idolizes me because of the time I put in.

“I’m thinking about the army. What do you think, Mitch?”

“If you don’t like flying or care much for water, infantry is what I’d suggest.”

“Cool.” He looks at me dead serious. “Did you ever kill a man, Mitch?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No, kid. They taught me how, but there was no reason to do it when I was in.”

His eyes tell me I may have fallen a notch or two on the idol chart.

* * * * *

The sixth night is the first night I meet the chief of store security and loss prevention. Frances brings him to the back to meet Robbie and me.

“Sherm, I want you to meet my best man. This is Mitchell Deal and his sidekick Robbie. They are my Batman and Robin team. They get the job done. Mitchell, this is our head of store security, Sherman Wertzel.”

He gives an animallike grin and sticks out his hand. “You can call me Sherm, all my friends do.” His hand is cold and moist, and he tries to squeeze with force, but it doesn’t work; my hand is larger.

Has your sixth sense ever nudged you on the shoulder, bumped you in the back, trying to tell you something isn’t right with a situation or certain individual? Well, mine is shoving the hell out of me right now.

It’s not because the guy just looks creepy (though that’s certainly part of it), but he gives off a bad aura. Something in his manner screams warnings you are probably familiar with: “Beware of Dog,” “Do Not Feed the Bears,” “Killer on the Loose!”

Anyway, Frances goes on to say that Wertzel works five Super Sale stores in the region, that he usually works days, but that he’s brought in at any store on any shift whenever problems arise. She goes on to say that our shift has seen a marked increase in theft and shoplifting over the past quarter.

Wertzel shakes Robbie’s hand and turns to me. “I’ll be seeing you around, Deal Pickle.” He turns back around and follows Frances Gould to the front of the store.

I don’t think of Sherman Wertzel anymore that night, because I don’t see him anymore that night.

* * * * *

The next night is different: Wertzel is at the door to greet me when I come in to start my shift.

“What’s up, Deal Pickle?”

I’m guessing that’s his nickname for me.

“Wertzel,” I say back acknowledging him. I should have said “Weasel” because that’s exactly what he reminds me of. He’s a long, lean fellow with a pointed snout and shifty eyes that dart here and there and fur that grows from his shoulders up around his neck. All he needs now are whiskers growing from his nose and a tail hanging over his ass.

His eyes dart quickly to the right as a customer walks past. I figure he got those eyes from years of watching for shoplifters or looking over his shoulders and behind his back. And besides his eyes, his body seems to be in a constant fidget even when he’s standing still. “I might need your help tonight, Mitchell.”

“How’s that?”

I notice he’s wearing the same type of getup he wore last night: boots, patched jeans with a chain-link belt, and a Def Leppard sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Where all other store personnel are required to wear white Polo shirts and the red Super Sale smock with name badge, he’s allowed to wear this. I guess it’s a disguise to aid in his fight against shoplifting.

He keeps his hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he sometimes wears shades. He’s either playing the part of barroom bouncer or biker tough. Neither works because he’s too malnourished.

“I need you and your little buddy to watch out for thieves tonight while you’re working. This place is crawling with them.”

I glance at him sideways. “They pay me to stock merchandise, not collar shoplifters. We don’t have time to do both.”

He gives me a pleading look. “Help me out, man. You don’t have to do much. If you see anything suspicious, just get on the intercom and say, ‘Code six, aisle seven,’ and I’ll come running. Can you do that for me, Deal Pickle?”

“I’ll try, Sherm.”

“Good deal, ha ha, pardon the pun. I know you’re ex-military and probably familiar with recon. I can get you on with me. It would mean more money.”

“I’m happy doing what I’m doing right now,” I tell him. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

Most of our pallets are in the pet supplies section tonight. And since it’s in the rear corner of the store and since those items aren’t in high demand this time of the morning, I hardly see anybody else at all and no more of Sherman Wertzel.

I’m busy putting dog collars on pegs and dog toys in bins, and Robbie’s building a display of birdseed when we hear the first code six from somewhere else in the store.

* * * * *

Friday night is one I will never forget. It’s payday, I’m off the weekend, and I witness one of the most horrible sights I’ve ever seen.

It starts off fairly normal. Robbie and I are on the opposite side of the store working sporting goods and automotive. He’s doing fishing lures and trolling motors; I’m busy with motor oil and car batteries.

“That Wertzel is a strange one,” Robbie comments.

“He’s got one screw missing and two need tightening.”

Robbie laughs. “That’s a good one. The way his eyes move around give me the creeps, looks like a damn chameleon. And he has that nervous tic about him whether he’s walking or staying put.”

“Like a coked-up hamster on his treadmill wheel.”

He laughs again. “That be Sherm.”

We eventually move our way to the housewares section. Robbie is working on a pallet two aisles down, and I’m straightening up some brooms and mops on the aisle that backs up to the last one for snacks and candy.

That’s when I hear a “gotcha” on the other side. I walk to the end of my aisle and look down the other to see what’s going on. I see Wertzel there holding a boy who looks to be eight or nine by the wrist. He pulls one of those supersized candy bars from under the boy’s shirt and tosses it onto a shelf.

Still holding the boy by the hand, he says, “You don’t shoplift at Super Sale,” and in one quick motion, he whips out a survival knife from under his shirt and lops the kid’s forefinger off. It hits the hard floor and bounces once.

What the fuck?

For a moment, it seems the world has stood still.

The boy looks down at his finger on the floor in a state of silent shock. Sherman looks at it as a piece of debris that needs to be gotten off the floor, and I look at it in a state of disbelief with nausea developing in the pit of my stomach.

The move had been so brutal and swift in its ferocity, it takes a few seconds for the arterial blood flow and reaction to catch up. The blood starts first, spurting in beats; then, the boy’s eyes blink, and he screams out. Quickly, Wertzel picks the finger up, stuffs it in the kid’s shirt pocket, turns him, and sends him on his way.

Meanwhile, I go back around to my pallet and grab a mop handle off the top of it. I come back to Wertzel’s side with it an upright position, holding it in a way where it can be thrust or swung, depending on how it’s needed most.

He sees me coming and takes a step back. “Easy, navy boy. Don’t make me slice you, Deal Pickle.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask him, getting the handle in more of a swinging pose.

“You do your job, Aquaman, and let me do mine.”

I take my first swing at the psychopath. Keeping the knife out in front of him, Sherman ducks under and slides to the side, grabbing a box of candy bars and slinging them at me. I notice him looking toward the front of the store, and my eyes follow.

Here comes Frances with the boy, his hand wrapped in a large towel, jogging to keep up beside her. A hysterical woman (his mother I’m assuming) is trailing behind. Sherman quickly pockets his knife, and I slide the mop handle under the shelf.

The kid has quieted down now, but his mother has picked up on the wailing. Frances looks at Wertzel first. “Sherman, you need to come with me.” She looks at me. “Mitchell, you don’t look so well. Take a break.”

The four of them walk off leaving me alone. The queasiness is getting worse, so I decide to take her advice. On my way out, I catch Joe Simpson (another stocker) and ask him for a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke, but right now, I feel one is justified. Since we’re near the front door, Joe lights it for me so I don’t have to take his lighter with me. I hurry outside with the lit smoke.

I take a seat on the front bench and take three draws from the cigarette. That’s all it takes for the stomach acids to rise to the top. I go over to the huge trash bin, lift the top, and heave twice. I’m finishing the smoke when Frances comes out.

“What happened in there, Mitchell?”

“I’m not sure, really,” I answer, still in a state of disbelief. “What does Sherman and the kid say happened?”

“They say it was a horrible accident.”

Accident my ass.

“Mitchell, you still don’t look so good. Your face has a green complexion, and it’s your weekend off anyway. Why don’t you take rest of the night off?”

Not knowing what I might do to Sherman Wertzel if I see him anymore tonight, I decide to take her advice.

“I think I will…not feeling so hot right now.”

She claps me on the shoulder. “Try not to the think about it over the weekend. Get some rest and I’ll see you Monday night.”

* * * * *

On the early morning walk to the boardinghouse, I call the only number I know in Oakboro, Texas.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Gwynn. This is Mitchell Deal. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

She laughs. “I know your voice, Mitchell Deal. And no, I’m always early to rise. And I was wondering if you were ever going to call me.”

“I just got this cell phone, and I was waiting on payday.”

“What’s up?”

“Got off early and called to see if you wanted to get some breakfast.”

“I can always eat some breakfast. Are you at the boardinghouse?”

“Almost there. Just made the turn on Elm.”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

She’s there in ten, and I’m sitting on the front porch when she pulls up.

“Hop in. I know a good little place.”

In six minutes, we’re in a booth at the Oakboro Diner. “How did you manage to get off work early this morning?” she asks me, her big blue eyes gazing over the rim of her coffee cup.

“I wouldn’t want to make you sick before breakfast.”

“Ah, go on. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

So, I go on and tell her about the incident an hour before: everything that happened between Sherman, the boy, and me. When I’m done, her eyes are much bigger now.

“My God,” she says, “that’s the most horrible thing I’ve heard in a while…just took the boy’s hand and cut his finger off?”

“Lopped it right off,” I answer. “I thought he resembled a weasel, but now I’m thinking he’s a damn psychopath.”

She sets her coffee down. “His whole family is a little bit strange. He lives outside of town with his ma and pa. The parents only come to town about once a month for supplies, and they don’t interact much when they do. Sherman is the most talkative one. I hear his pa runs a cow burial service.”

It’s time for my eyes to widen. “Cow funerals…never heard of that before.”

“Me neither, not until I moved to Oakboro. But oil and cattle are big in Texas, and you have some wealthy eccentrics around here.”

“I guess something has to be done with the ones that don’t make it to the slaughterhouse. I hear cows are worshipped in India.”

“I’ve heard that too.” She grins. “Well, maybe they will do something with Sherman so you won’t have to.”

“I hope so.”

The waitress brings her food and my milk. My stomach doesn’t feel settled enough to layer it with greasy food.

“So what is Mitchell Deal going to do with a whole weekend off?”

“Last night was payday. I thought I might try to find some type of car today.”

Her eyes light up. “Let me take you.”

“You want to go car shopping?”

“Hey, when shopping’s involved, I’m in.”

I laugh. “Spoken like a true woman.”

* * * * *

Gwynn and I are sitting in the lobby of A-1 Car Sales waiting for a salesman to become available. “My dad used to tell me not to go car buying on a Saturday,” I say to break the silence.

“Why’s that?” she asks.

“He’d say that’s the last day of the week for the salesmen to get their lying done. Then they go ask for forgiveness on Sunday to start the week off fresh, until they start lying again on Monday.”

Gwynn laughs. “Sounds like your dad was a wise man.”

“Not so much book smart, but he was wise to the ways of the world.”

Soon, a salesman is free and comes walking over to us. “What can I do for such a nice-looking couple on such a fine day?”

Gwynn blushes, and I don’t tell him any different.

“I’m looking for a secondhand car,” I explain, “to get me back and forth to work. I want to pay cash, and the budget is low.”

This limits his options considerably, and he leads us to the rear portion of the used-car section. It doesn’t take me long to pick one out.

“I know she doesn’t look like much,” the salesman says, “but she runs like a charm.” He’s right. It’s an older model Chevy; the paint has faded, and rust is starting to appear in spots. But when he starts it up, the engine runs smooth, and the four-in-the-floor and nice stereo system are additional selling points.

The six-hundred-dollar price tag seals the deal. I’ve never cared much what a vehicle looks like, as long as it gets me to where I’m going. Dependability over beauty when it comes to a car for me.

* * * * *

On Monday night, imagine my surprise when Wertzel meets me at the time clock. He gestures with a finger pressed against his lips. “Mum’s the word, Deal Pickle. Come…I want to show you something.”

He leads me to a small room beside Layaway. Inside are a bank of security cameras, a small desk with two folding chairs, and two composition-size booklets lying on top. One of them is titled “Store Security: Procedures and Protocol,” and the other (somewhat thicker one) is labeled “Incident Reports.”

He takes me over to the last camera and hits a button that stops the current action. He pushes another, and the screen goes to rewind. He takes it back to early Saturday morning. The screen reappears with the date and time displayed in the top corner.

At first, it shows me working off the pallet in housewares, and then it scans over to the candy aisle. It shows a boy taking a candy bar from the end of the shelf and the upper shelf falling down upon his hand and something falling to the floor from underneath. Then, it shows Sherman coming up quickly and putting the object in the kid’s shirt pocket. By now, you can make out it’s a finger. He turns the boy and motions him toward the front of the store.

The screen goes blank. That’s it! There’s nothing more. It doesn’t show Sherman holding a knife or our confrontation with the mop handle and box of candy.

I don’t know how he did it, but I can smell a lawsuit coming down for Super Sale. I can’t believe what I’m seeing and tell him so.

“What is this bullshit, Sherman?”

He gives me a wicked weasel grin. “I don’t know what you thought you saw that night, but this is what happened. I was startled when you came at me with that broom handle.”

His mentioning of this tells me I’m not losing my mind.

“I know what I saw. Keep your distance from me from now on, Sherm,” I warn him before storming out of his office.

Instead of going back to the warehouse, I go up to the front office. Frances is at her desk doing paperwork.

She looks up. “Mitchell, it’s good to see you back. Are you feeling better?”

“I was until Wertzel replayed that video.”

“I know…such a tragic accident. But there is good news. They were able to reattach the boy’s finger.”

“What the video shows isn’t how I recall it at all,” I tell her.

She puts her pen down. “The mind can play tricks during a traumatic event. Sherman and the boy confirmed what the video shows.”

I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Super Sale could be wrongfully sued,” I try to explain.

“I’m glad you have the company’s interests at heart, Mitchell. But that’s why they carry good insurance, and the boy’s going to be fine. Oh, the company is having a safety seminar next week on the proper way to reposition shelving when stocking.”

What’s the use? “Well, I guess I’ll get to work.”

“Was there something you wanted to add, Mitchell?”

“I think it’s been covered.”

“Be safe out there,” she tells me as I pull the door closed.

* * * * *

Robbie is all wide-eyed when I come to the back. “Damn, Mitch, what happened Saturday night? After I finished my skid, I came to check on you. That’s when Frances told me you went home sick. Then later I hear you take off after Wertzel with a mop handle and something about a boy getting his finger cut off. It’s like WWIII has been going on around me, and I’m in a different world.”

“All I’ve got to say is watch that guy when you’re around him.”

“Don’t worry about that. I go out of my way to avoid him.”

I smile at Robbie and clap him on the shoulder. “Let’s go see what we have tonight.”

In the overstock room, we find many buggies of clothing that have not gone out. Usually, the day crew deals with clothing, but they have gotten far behind. Robbie and I volunteer for the assignment. It’s a change of pace. That’s where Frances finds us, in the men’s department, when she comes walking up with Sherman and another guy.

She introduces him to us as Dillard Stein, a new associate of Sherman Wertzel’s. “He will be assisting Mr. Wertzel in his duties.” The new guy sticks out his hand and speaks to Robbie and me both. His eyes seem to be in a constant state of amazement, and though he talks with a slow drawl, his mind wanders as he struggles to keep up with the words spoken.

I’m thinking he’s not the brightest bulb in the pack.

He’s a big guy: almost a head taller and probably eighty pounds heavier.

I’m thinking Dillard’s neck size and his IQ run pretty close in numbers.

I’m hoping he’s a nicer guy than Sherman Wertzel, but I’m afraid that’s why Sherman brought him on—he could be easily influenced.

Frances takes him away, and I look at Robbie and say, “Now there’s a crime-fighting duo, the Weasel and his cohort Dullard.”

Robbie laughs, and we get back to work.

* * * * *

Rest of the work week goes pretty smooth until Saturday night and Sunday morning. That’s when I have my second encounter with Sherman Wertzel.

Robbie and I are working soft drinks when I see him and Dillard escorting a man to the back, Dillard carrying two cans of tall beers. I recognize the guy. He’s a man I used to run into back when I was walking. I’ve always took him for being homeless, and I know he can’t speak because he writes on a piece of paper when he asks for something. I’m not sure if he can hear, but if he can’t, he reads lips well because he understands anything you say to him.

Sometimes when I would see him on the street, I would gesture for him to save his paper and hand him my spare change (or a few bucks) if I had it on me. He would always smile, nod his head, and shake my hand or pat my shoulder.

Poor guy probably wanted a drink for Sunday, and Sherman is taking him to the back to fill out an incident report. I don’t think anymore about it. When I get off, I will track him down and give him a drink.

At first break, I decide to go out on the loading dock for a Coke and a smoke. I bought a pack to repay Joe, and Gwynn likes an occasional cigarette. And since I keep them in my locker, the dock is closer.

As I’m sitting there smoking, I keep hearing low moans coming from the briar patch near the dumpster. At first, I’m thinking it’s a stray dog or some other animal. But the last one, the deeper one, sounds almost humanlike. I jump from the dock and go investigate.

Behind the dumpster at the edge of the brush, I can make out a form. As I get nearer, I can see it’s my street buddy. He’s been badly beaten. His face shows considerable damage, and blood has been streaked across his face. I know better than to ask him who did it because he can’t talk, and I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

It’s a fairly brisk night, and I motion to him that I will be back. I go to the break room and get a cup of hot coffee. Then, I stop by my locker for a sweater I keep in there. When I return, I help him sit up and help him get the sweater around him. I hand him the coffee, and he smiles. I tell him I will be back when I get off and give him a ride.

On our lunch break, Robbie is having a packed sandwich with chips; I’m having coffee, myself, with a honeybun. Sherman walks in the break room with his dog, Dillard, trailing behind. I motion for them to come over.

“Sherm,” I tell him, “a word of warning. You’ve got two strikes against you. On the third one, I take you out.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks casually.

“That homeless guy out back, he’s a friend of mine.”

He gives me a weasel grin. “You keep strange friends. And how do you propose to take me out, navy man?”

“I plan to kick your ass, break your leg, and report you to the authorities.”

Dillard’s brain catches up with his tongue. “You want to take it outside, Sailor Sam?” he chimes in.

I could splash hot coffee in his face, but I point my honeybun at him instead. “Listen, Dillard, Dullard, Dumbass, whatever you go by, don’t make me get up from here and stick your big head up your nasty ass.”

“And he can do it too,” Robbie jumps in. “The SEALs taught him.”

It’s either fight or flight now. Sherman grabs his partner’s arm and walks him out.

At the end of the shift, I pull my new old Chevy around to the back to give the street guy another cup of coffee, to give him a lift, and to get my sweater back. He’s gone, but he has my sweater hanging neatly from a branch. A note is stuck inside one pocket.

It reads: Thanks, my friend.

* * * * *

Gwynn has stopped by my room for a visit. She has my only chair, and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I tell her about the incident with the homeless guy.

“His name is Fred,” she informs me. “Poor man has been a fixture around Oakboro for years. What is Sherman’s problem?”

“Other than being a damn maniac and a psychopath, I really can’t say. I told him I would put a stop to it should I witness another assault.”

“You can’t afford to lose your job,” she says to me.

“Well, I can’t stand by and watch him cripple or kill someone.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s really that bad.”

* * * * *

The rest of the work week went without incident until my next payday. It was early Saturday morning when things went bad for Sherman Wertzel—his third strike.

It was our lunch break, and I happened to be sitting in my car eating a sandwich because I had forgotten and left it there. I hear a commotion coming from the front of the store, and I look down the parking lot to the main door. A young, blond-headed girl has run out and comes charging past me. Sherman comes running out in hot pursuit.

I hurry and gulp the last bite of my sandwich. Sherman is waving something over his head. It looks like a bra in one hand and a pair of panties in the other. “I’ll teach you to steal at Super Sale, missy,” he screams as he runs past me.

I can only imagine when he gets her back to the dressing rooms. I fire up the old Chevy and pull out slowly, trailing behind.

Looking back on it now, maybe I should have cut the headlights on, but the parking lot was well illuminated. Anyway, the horn doesn’t work, so when I get close to Wertzel, I rev the engine.

Thinking he will end the chase and turn around, I stop the car. But he doesn’t stop. In fact, he’s gaining on her.

Don’t ask me why he didn’t hear the motor. It’s a loud one. Maybe he was too focused on the prize ahead, and you know what they say about hindsight.

I rev the engine high this time and drop the clutch. The rear end fishtails slightly, and I catch Wertzel at a pretty good clip. The bumper of the big Chevy catches him about ass high and catapults him up and over. I hear a thump on top and watch him in the mirror as he plants face first into the pavement.

The bra lands on the back of his head. The panties are by his feet waving in the wind, waving good-bye to me as I keep driving.

* * * * *

A few towns over, I stop to get gas and survey the damage. The bumper, grill, and headlights are unscathed, the top sustaining a minimal dent.

I wonder if Sherm came out that good? Who cares?

After another hour of driving, I begin to hear a slight knocking in the engine. Somewhere near the state line, I find a used-car lot and pull in. After some haggling, I upgrade somewhat. I give the guy $300 with trade-in and hop in the Buick.

Maybe it will get me to High Point. If not, there’s always a bus or truck to get me there.

I wonder how the job market is fairing? Has manufacturing come back? I’m sure people still enjoy their fast food. I can always go back to Jacksonville and hire on with Jerry Albertson Trucking Company.

Who can say what my next job will be? But I’m pretty sure it won’t be in retail.